A Hero of Our Time [21]
to him, so what would have been the use? About three months later he was appointed to the E---- Regiment, and departed for Georgia. We have never met since. Yet, when I come to think of it, somebody told me not long ago that he had returned to Russia -- but it was not in the general orders for the corps. Besides, to the like of us news is late in coming."
Hereupon -- probably to drown sad memories -- he launched forth into a lengthy dissertation on the unpleasantness of learning news a year late.
I did not interrupt him, nor did I listen.
In an hour's time a chance of proceeding on our journey presented itself. The snowstorm subsided, the sky became clear, and we set off. On the way I involuntarily let the conversation turn on Bela and Pechorin.
"You have not heard what became of Kaz- bich?" I asked.
"Kazbich? In truth, I don't know. I have heard that with the Shapsugs, on our right flank, there is a certain Kazbich, a dare-devil fellow who rides about at a walking pace, in a red tunic, under our bullets, and bows politely whenever one hums near him -- but it can scarcely be the same person!" . . .
In Kobi, Maksim Maksimych and I parted company. I posted on, and he, on account of his heavy luggage, was unable to follow me. We had no expectation of ever meeting again, but meet we did, and, if you like, I will tell you how -- it is quite a history. . . You must acknowledge, though, that Maksim Maksimych is a man worthy of all respect. . . If you admit that, I shall be fully rewarded for my, perhaps, too lengthy story.
BOOK II MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH
AFTER parting with Maksim Maksimych, I galloped briskly through the gorges of the Terek and Darial, breakfasted in Kazbek, drank tea in Lars, and arrived at Vladikavkaz in time for supper. I spare you a description of the mountains, as well as exclamations which convey no meaning, and word-paintings which convey no image -- especially to those who have never been in the Caucasus. I also omit statistical observations, which I am quite sure nobody would read.
I put up at the inn which is frequented by all who travel in those parts, and where, by the way, there is no one you can order to roast your pheasant and cook your cabbage-soup, because the three veterans who have charge of the inn are either so stupid, or so drunk, that it is impossible to knock any sense at all out of them.
I was informed that I should have to stay there three days longer, because the "Adventure" had not yet arrived from Ekaterinograd and consequently could not start on the return journey. What a misadventure![1] . . . But a bad pun is no consolation to a Russian, and, for the sake of something to occupy my thoughts, I took it into my head to write down the story about Bela, which I had heard from Maksim Maksimych -- never imagining that it would be the first link in a long chain of novels: you see how an insignificant event has sometimes dire results! . . . Perhaps, however, you do not know what the "Adventure" is? It is a convoy -- composed of half a company of infantry, with a cannon -- which escorts baggage-trains through Kabardia from Vladikavkaz to Ekaterinograd.
[1] In Russian -- okaziya=occasion, adventure, etc.; chto za okaziya=how unfortunate!
The first day I found the time hang on my hands dreadfully. Early next morning a vehicle drove into the courtyard. . . Aha! Maksim Maksimych! . . . We met like a couple of old friends. I offered to share my own room with him, and he accepted my hospitality without standing upon ceremony; he even clapped me on the shoulder and puckered up his mouth by way of a smile -- a queer fellow, that! . . .
Maksim Maksimych was profoundly versed in the culinary art. He roasted the pheasant astonishingly well and basted it successfully with cucumber sauce. I was obliged to acknowledge that, but for him, I should have had to remain on a dry-food diet. A bottle of Kakhetian wine helped us to forget the modest number of dishes -- of which there was one, all told. Then we lit our pipes, took our chairs, and sat down
Hereupon -- probably to drown sad memories -- he launched forth into a lengthy dissertation on the unpleasantness of learning news a year late.
I did not interrupt him, nor did I listen.
In an hour's time a chance of proceeding on our journey presented itself. The snowstorm subsided, the sky became clear, and we set off. On the way I involuntarily let the conversation turn on Bela and Pechorin.
"You have not heard what became of Kaz- bich?" I asked.
"Kazbich? In truth, I don't know. I have heard that with the Shapsugs, on our right flank, there is a certain Kazbich, a dare-devil fellow who rides about at a walking pace, in a red tunic, under our bullets, and bows politely whenever one hums near him -- but it can scarcely be the same person!" . . .
In Kobi, Maksim Maksimych and I parted company. I posted on, and he, on account of his heavy luggage, was unable to follow me. We had no expectation of ever meeting again, but meet we did, and, if you like, I will tell you how -- it is quite a history. . . You must acknowledge, though, that Maksim Maksimych is a man worthy of all respect. . . If you admit that, I shall be fully rewarded for my, perhaps, too lengthy story.
BOOK II MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH
AFTER parting with Maksim Maksimych, I galloped briskly through the gorges of the Terek and Darial, breakfasted in Kazbek, drank tea in Lars, and arrived at Vladikavkaz in time for supper. I spare you a description of the mountains, as well as exclamations which convey no meaning, and word-paintings which convey no image -- especially to those who have never been in the Caucasus. I also omit statistical observations, which I am quite sure nobody would read.
I put up at the inn which is frequented by all who travel in those parts, and where, by the way, there is no one you can order to roast your pheasant and cook your cabbage-soup, because the three veterans who have charge of the inn are either so stupid, or so drunk, that it is impossible to knock any sense at all out of them.
I was informed that I should have to stay there three days longer, because the "Adventure" had not yet arrived from Ekaterinograd and consequently could not start on the return journey. What a misadventure![1] . . . But a bad pun is no consolation to a Russian, and, for the sake of something to occupy my thoughts, I took it into my head to write down the story about Bela, which I had heard from Maksim Maksimych -- never imagining that it would be the first link in a long chain of novels: you see how an insignificant event has sometimes dire results! . . . Perhaps, however, you do not know what the "Adventure" is? It is a convoy -- composed of half a company of infantry, with a cannon -- which escorts baggage-trains through Kabardia from Vladikavkaz to Ekaterinograd.
[1] In Russian -- okaziya=occasion, adventure, etc.; chto za okaziya=how unfortunate!
The first day I found the time hang on my hands dreadfully. Early next morning a vehicle drove into the courtyard. . . Aha! Maksim Maksimych! . . . We met like a couple of old friends. I offered to share my own room with him, and he accepted my hospitality without standing upon ceremony; he even clapped me on the shoulder and puckered up his mouth by way of a smile -- a queer fellow, that! . . .
Maksim Maksimych was profoundly versed in the culinary art. He roasted the pheasant astonishingly well and basted it successfully with cucumber sauce. I was obliged to acknowledge that, but for him, I should have had to remain on a dry-food diet. A bottle of Kakhetian wine helped us to forget the modest number of dishes -- of which there was one, all told. Then we lit our pipes, took our chairs, and sat down