A Hero of Our Time [25]
himself on Pechorin's neck, but the latter, rather coldly, though with a smile of welcome, stretched out his hand to him. For a moment the staff- captain was petrified, but then eagerly seized Pechorin's hand in both his own. He was still unable to speak.
"How glad I am to see you, my dear Maksim Maksimych! Well, how are you?" said Pechorin.
"And . . . thou . . . you?"[1] murmured the old man, with tears in his eyes. "What an age it is since I have seen you! . . . But where are you off to?" . . .
[1] "Thou" is the form of address used in speaking to an intimate friend, etc. Pechorin had used the more formal "you."
"I am going to Persia -- and farther." . . .
"But surely not immediately? . . . Wait a little, my dear fellow! . . . Surely we are not going to part at once? . . . What a long time it is since we have seen each other!" . . .
"It is time for me to go, Maksim Maksimych," was the reply.
"Good heavens, good heavens! But where are you going to in such a hurry? There was so much I should have liked to tell you! So much to question you about! . . . Well, what of your- self? Have you retired? . . . What? . . . How have you been getting along?"
"Getting bored!" answered Pechorin, smiling.
"You remember the life we led in the fortress? A splendid country for hunting! You were awfully fond of shooting, you know! . . . And Bela?" . . .
Pechorin turned just the slightest bit pale and averted his head.
"Yes, I remember!" he said, almost im- mediately forcing a yawn.
Maksim Maksimych began to beg him to stay with him for a couple of hours or so longer.
"We will have a splendid dinner," he said. "I have two pheasants; and the Kakhetian wine is excellent here . . . not what it is in Georgia, of course, but still of the best sort. . . We will have a talk. . . You will tell me about your life in Petersburg. . . Eh?" . . .
"In truth, there's nothing for me to tell, dear Maksim Maksimych. . . However, good-bye, it is time for me to be off. . . I am in a hurry. . . I thank you for not having forgotten me," he added, taking him by the hand.
The old man knit his brows. He was grieved and angry, although he tried to hide his feelings.
"Forget!" he growled. "I have not for- gotten anything. . . Well, God be with you! . . . It is not like this that I thought we should meet."
"Come! That will do, that will do!" said Pechorin, giving him a friendly embrace. "Is it possible that I am not the same as I used to be? . . . What can we do? Everyone must go his own way. . . Are we ever going to meet again? -- God only knows!"
While saying this he had taken his seat in the carriage, and the coachman was already gathering up the reins.
"Wait, wait!" cried Maksim Maksimych suddenly, holding on to the carriage door. "I was nearly forgetting altogether. Your papers were left with me, Grigori Aleksandrovich. . . I drag them about everywhere I go. . . I thought I should find you in Georgia, but this is where it has pleased Heaven that we should meet. What's to be done with them?" . . .
"Whatever you like!" answered Pechorin. "Good-bye." . . .
"So you are off to Persia? . . . But when will you return?" Maksim Maksimych cried after him.
By this time the carriage was a long way off, but Pechorin made a sign with his hand which might be interpreted as meaning:
"It is doubtful whether I shall return, and there is no reason, either, why I should!"
The jingle of the bell and the clatter of the wheels along the flinty road had long ceased to be audible, but the poor old man still remained standing in the same place, deep in thought.
"Yes," he said at length, endeavouring to assume an air of indifference, although from time to time a tear of vexation glistened on his eyelashes. "Of course we were friends -- well, but what are friends nowadays? . . . What could I be to him? I'm not rich; I've no rank; and, moreover, I'm not at all his match in years! -- See what a dandy he has become since he has been staying in Petersburg again! . . . What a carriage!
"How glad I am to see you, my dear Maksim Maksimych! Well, how are you?" said Pechorin.
"And . . . thou . . . you?"[1] murmured the old man, with tears in his eyes. "What an age it is since I have seen you! . . . But where are you off to?" . . .
[1] "Thou" is the form of address used in speaking to an intimate friend, etc. Pechorin had used the more formal "you."
"I am going to Persia -- and farther." . . .
"But surely not immediately? . . . Wait a little, my dear fellow! . . . Surely we are not going to part at once? . . . What a long time it is since we have seen each other!" . . .
"It is time for me to go, Maksim Maksimych," was the reply.
"Good heavens, good heavens! But where are you going to in such a hurry? There was so much I should have liked to tell you! So much to question you about! . . . Well, what of your- self? Have you retired? . . . What? . . . How have you been getting along?"
"Getting bored!" answered Pechorin, smiling.
"You remember the life we led in the fortress? A splendid country for hunting! You were awfully fond of shooting, you know! . . . And Bela?" . . .
Pechorin turned just the slightest bit pale and averted his head.
"Yes, I remember!" he said, almost im- mediately forcing a yawn.
Maksim Maksimych began to beg him to stay with him for a couple of hours or so longer.
"We will have a splendid dinner," he said. "I have two pheasants; and the Kakhetian wine is excellent here . . . not what it is in Georgia, of course, but still of the best sort. . . We will have a talk. . . You will tell me about your life in Petersburg. . . Eh?" . . .
"In truth, there's nothing for me to tell, dear Maksim Maksimych. . . However, good-bye, it is time for me to be off. . . I am in a hurry. . . I thank you for not having forgotten me," he added, taking him by the hand.
The old man knit his brows. He was grieved and angry, although he tried to hide his feelings.
"Forget!" he growled. "I have not for- gotten anything. . . Well, God be with you! . . . It is not like this that I thought we should meet."
"Come! That will do, that will do!" said Pechorin, giving him a friendly embrace. "Is it possible that I am not the same as I used to be? . . . What can we do? Everyone must go his own way. . . Are we ever going to meet again? -- God only knows!"
While saying this he had taken his seat in the carriage, and the coachman was already gathering up the reins.
"Wait, wait!" cried Maksim Maksimych suddenly, holding on to the carriage door. "I was nearly forgetting altogether. Your papers were left with me, Grigori Aleksandrovich. . . I drag them about everywhere I go. . . I thought I should find you in Georgia, but this is where it has pleased Heaven that we should meet. What's to be done with them?" . . .
"Whatever you like!" answered Pechorin. "Good-bye." . . .
"So you are off to Persia? . . . But when will you return?" Maksim Maksimych cried after him.
By this time the carriage was a long way off, but Pechorin made a sign with his hand which might be interpreted as meaning:
"It is doubtful whether I shall return, and there is no reason, either, why I should!"
The jingle of the bell and the clatter of the wheels along the flinty road had long ceased to be audible, but the poor old man still remained standing in the same place, deep in thought.
"Yes," he said at length, endeavouring to assume an air of indifference, although from time to time a tear of vexation glistened on his eyelashes. "Of course we were friends -- well, but what are friends nowadays? . . . What could I be to him? I'm not rich; I've no rank; and, moreover, I'm not at all his match in years! -- See what a dandy he has become since he has been staying in Petersburg again! . . . What a carriage!