A Hero of Our Time [22]
-- I by the window, and he by the stove, in which a fire had been lighted because the day was damp and cold. We remained silent. What had we to talk about? He had already told me all that was of interest about himself and I had nothing to relate. I looked out of the window. Here and there, behind the trees, I caught glimpses of a number of poor, low houses straggling along the bank of the Terek, which flowed seaward in an ever-widening stream; farther off rose the dark-blue, jagged wall of the mountains, behind which Mount Kazbek gazed forth in his high- priest's hat of white. I took a mental farewell of them; I felt sorry to leave them. . .
Thus we sat for a considerable time. The sun was sinking behind the cold summits and a whitish mist was beginning to spread over the valleys, when the silence was broken by the jingling of the bell of a travelling-carriage and the shouting of drivers in the street. A few vehicles, accompanied by dirty Armenians, drove into the courtyard of the inn, and behind them came an empty travelling-carriage. Its light movement, comfortable arrangement, and elegant appearance gave it a kind of foreign stamp. Be- hind it walked a man with large moustaches. He was wearing a Hungarian jacket and was rather well dressed for a manservant. From the bold manner in which he shook the ashes out of his pipe and shouted at the coachman it was impossible to mistake his calling. He was obviously the spoiled servant of an indolent master -- something in the nature of a Russian Figaro.
"Tell me, my good man," I called to him out of the window. "What is it? -- Has the 'Ad- venture' arrived, eh?"
He gave me a rather insolent glance, straight- ened his cravat, and turned away. An Armenian, who was walking near him, smiled and answered for him that the "Adventure" had, in fact, arrived, and would start on the return journey the following morning.
"Thank heavens!" said Maksim Maksimych, who had come up to the window at that moment. "What a wonderful carriage!" he added; "probably it belongs to some official who is going to Tiflis for a judicial inquiry. You can see that he is unacquainted with our little mountains! No, my friend, you're not serious! They are not for the like of you; why, they would shake even an English carriage to bits! -- But who could it be? Let us go and find out."
We went out into the corridor, at the end of which there was an open door leading into a side room. The manservant and a driver were dragging portmanteaux into the room.
"I say, my man!" the staff-captain asked him: "Whose is that marvellous carriage? -- Eh? -- A beautiful carriage!"
Without turning round the manservant growled something to himself as he undid a portmanteau. Maksim Maksimych grew angry.
"I am speaking to you, my friend!" he said, touching the uncivil fellow on the shoulder.
"Whose carriage? -- My master's."
"And who is your master?"
"Pechorin --"
"What did you say? What? Pechorin? -- Great Heavens! . . . Did he not serve in the Caucasus?" exclaimed Maksim Maksimych, plucking me by the sleeve. His eyes were sparkling with joy.
"Yes, he served there, I think -- but I have not been with him long."
"Well! Just so! . . . Just so! . . . Grigori Aleksandrovich? . . . that is his name, of course? Your master and I were friends," he added, giving the manservant a friendly clap on the shoulder with such force as to cause him to stagger.
"Excuse me, sir, you are hindering me," said the latter, frowning.
"What a fellow you are, my friend! Why, don't you know, your master and I were bosom friends, and lived together? . . . But where has he put up?"
The servant intimated that Pechorin had stayed to take supper and pass the night at Colonel N----'s.
"But won't he be looking in here in the evening?" said Maksim Maksimych. "Or, you, my man, won't you be going over to him for something? . . . If you do, tell him that Maksim Maksimych is here; just say that -- he'll know! -- I'll give you half a ruble for a tip!"
The manservant made a scornful face on
Thus we sat for a considerable time. The sun was sinking behind the cold summits and a whitish mist was beginning to spread over the valleys, when the silence was broken by the jingling of the bell of a travelling-carriage and the shouting of drivers in the street. A few vehicles, accompanied by dirty Armenians, drove into the courtyard of the inn, and behind them came an empty travelling-carriage. Its light movement, comfortable arrangement, and elegant appearance gave it a kind of foreign stamp. Be- hind it walked a man with large moustaches. He was wearing a Hungarian jacket and was rather well dressed for a manservant. From the bold manner in which he shook the ashes out of his pipe and shouted at the coachman it was impossible to mistake his calling. He was obviously the spoiled servant of an indolent master -- something in the nature of a Russian Figaro.
"Tell me, my good man," I called to him out of the window. "What is it? -- Has the 'Ad- venture' arrived, eh?"
He gave me a rather insolent glance, straight- ened his cravat, and turned away. An Armenian, who was walking near him, smiled and answered for him that the "Adventure" had, in fact, arrived, and would start on the return journey the following morning.
"Thank heavens!" said Maksim Maksimych, who had come up to the window at that moment. "What a wonderful carriage!" he added; "probably it belongs to some official who is going to Tiflis for a judicial inquiry. You can see that he is unacquainted with our little mountains! No, my friend, you're not serious! They are not for the like of you; why, they would shake even an English carriage to bits! -- But who could it be? Let us go and find out."
We went out into the corridor, at the end of which there was an open door leading into a side room. The manservant and a driver were dragging portmanteaux into the room.
"I say, my man!" the staff-captain asked him: "Whose is that marvellous carriage? -- Eh? -- A beautiful carriage!"
Without turning round the manservant growled something to himself as he undid a portmanteau. Maksim Maksimych grew angry.
"I am speaking to you, my friend!" he said, touching the uncivil fellow on the shoulder.
"Whose carriage? -- My master's."
"And who is your master?"
"Pechorin --"
"What did you say? What? Pechorin? -- Great Heavens! . . . Did he not serve in the Caucasus?" exclaimed Maksim Maksimych, plucking me by the sleeve. His eyes were sparkling with joy.
"Yes, he served there, I think -- but I have not been with him long."
"Well! Just so! . . . Just so! . . . Grigori Aleksandrovich? . . . that is his name, of course? Your master and I were friends," he added, giving the manservant a friendly clap on the shoulder with such force as to cause him to stagger.
"Excuse me, sir, you are hindering me," said the latter, frowning.
"What a fellow you are, my friend! Why, don't you know, your master and I were bosom friends, and lived together? . . . But where has he put up?"
The servant intimated that Pechorin had stayed to take supper and pass the night at Colonel N----'s.
"But won't he be looking in here in the evening?" said Maksim Maksimych. "Or, you, my man, won't you be going over to him for something? . . . If you do, tell him that Maksim Maksimych is here; just say that -- he'll know! -- I'll give you half a ruble for a tip!"
The manservant made a scornful face on