A Hero of Our Time - Mikhail IUr'evich Lermontov [32]
The lackey assumed a contemptuous demeanor hearing such a modest pledge, but assured Maxim Maximych that he would fulfill his instructions.
“He’ll come running, you’ll see!” Maxim Maximych told me with a triumphant air, “I’ll go to the gate and wait for him . . . Eh! It’s a shame that I’m not acquainted with N____ . . .”
Maxim Maximych sat in front of the gate on a bench, and I went back to my room. I’ll admit I also awaited the appearance of this Pechorin with a certain amount of impatience, though from the staff captain’s tale I had formed an opinion of him that wasn’t very favorable. But several features of his character seemed remarkable to me. After an hour, one of the veterans brought a boiling samovar and a teapot.
“Maxim Maximych, would you like some tea?” I called to him through the window.
“I thank you, but I don’t really want any.”
“Come now, have some! Look here, it’s late already, and cold.”
“No, it’s fine, thank you.”
“As you like!”
I started drinking my tea alone, and about ten minutes later my old friend came in.
“Indeed, you’re right—it’s a good idea to have some tea. I just kept waiting . . . his man went to get him a while ago, and it seems something has kept them.”
He quickly drank down a teacup, refused a second and went out again to the gate in some agitation. Clearly the old man was distressed at Pechorin’s negligence, not least because he had recently told me about his friendship with Pechorin, and an hour or so ago he had been sure that Pechorin would come running at the mention of his name.
It was already late and dark when I opened the window again and started calling to Maxim Maximych, saying that it was time to retire. He muttered something between his teeth. I repeated my call and he didn’t reply.
I lay on the divan, wrapped in a greatcoat, and soon dozed off, leaving a candle on the stove-bench. And I would have slept soundly if it had not been for Maxim Maximych, who entered the room when it was already very late and awakened me. He threw his pipe on the table, and started to walk up and down the room, throwing logs into the stove, and finally he lay down, but coughed for a long time, spat a few times, tossed around . . .
“Have you got fleas perhaps?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s fleas,” he replied, exhaling heavily.
I woke early the next morning. But Maxim Maximych had anticipated me. I found him by the gate, sitting on the bench.
“I have to go to the commandant,” he said, “so please, if Pechorin arrives, send someone to get me . . .”
I promised. He ran off . . . as though his limbs had been newly endowed with youthful energy and flexibility.
The morning was cooler, but beautiful. Golden clouds towered over the hills: another row of mountains, made of air. A wide square extended in front of the gate, beyond which a bazaar seethed with people, since it was Sunday. Barefoot Ossetian boys carrying sacks of honeycombs circled around me again and again. I chased them off. I didn’t want anything from them, and I was starting to share the anxieties of the good staff captain.
Not ten minutes had passed before the person we had been waiting for appeared at one end of the square. He was walking with Colonel N——, who led him to the inn, said farewell and turned back to his fort. I immediately sent one of the veterans to get Maxim Maximych.
Pechorin’s lackey came out to meet his master and reported that they were harnessing the horses. He then gave him a box of cigars and, having received several orders, went off to take care of things. Pechorin lit a cigar, yawned a couple of times and sat on the bench on the other side of the gate. Now, I must paint a portrait of him for you.
He was of medium height and well-proportioned; his slim waist and broad shoulders indicated a strong physique, capable of withstanding all the hardships of a life wandering through varying climes, and which was neither defeated by the debauchery of life in the capital, nor by storms of the soul. His dusty velvet frock coat, fastened