A Hero of Our Time - Mikhail IUr'evich Lermontov [34]
“And you? And you . . . sir?” muttered the old man with tears in his eyes, “how many years it’s been . . . how many days . . . where are you going?”
“I am going to Persia, and beyond . . .”
“But not at this moment? . . . Come now, wait, my very dear friend! . . . Don’t tell me we’re to part now? . . . How long it has been since we last saw each other . . .”
“I must go, Maxim Maximych,” was the answer.
“Good God! Good God! Where are you going in such a rush? . . . I have so many things I’d like to tell you . . . so much to find out . . . But tell me—have you retired? . . . How are things? . . . What have you been doing?”
“Tedium!” Pechorin replied, smiling.
“And do you remember our days at the fortress? . . . Glorious countryside for hunting! . . . You were an ardent hunter . . . and Bela?”
Pechorin went slightly pale, and turned away . . .
“Yes, I remember!” he said, forcing a yawn almost immediately . . .
Maxim Maximych started to prevail upon him to remain for another couple of hours.
“We will have a splendid dinner,” he said, “I have two pheasants, and the Kakhetian wine here is excellent . . . well, it goes without saying that it’s not the same as the one you find in Georgia, but it’s a fine variety . . . We can talk . . . You can tell me about your life in Petersburg . . . Eh?”
“Really, I have nothing to tell, my dear Maxim Maximych . . . And farewell, it’s time I leave . . . I’m in a hurry . . . Thank you for not having forgotten . . .” he added, taking him by the hand.
The old man crossed his brows . . . He was sad and angry, though he tried to hide it.
“Forgotten!” he muttered, “I haven’t forgotten a thing . . . Well, godspeed . . . but this is not how I imagined our reunion . . .”
“Come, come!” said Pechorin, embracing him amiably, “have I changed so much? . . . What’s to be done? . . . To each his own path . . . May we meet again—God willing . . . !” And having said that, he seated himself in his carriage as the coachman began to gather up the reins.
“Wait! Wait” cried Maxim Maximych suddenly, grabbing at the doors of the carriage, “I completely forgot . . . I have, in my possession, your papers, Grigory Alexandrovich . . . I carry them with me . . . thinking I would find you in Georgia, and here God has granted us a meeting . . . What shall I do with them?”
“Whatever you like!” responded Pechorin, “Farewell . . .”
“So, you’re off to Persia . . . And when will you return?” Maxim Maximych cried in pursuit.
The carriage was already far off, but Pechorin made a gesture with his hand that could be translated as saying: It’s unlikely! What for, anyway?
The sounds of the small bells and the clattering of the wheels on the stony road had long fallen silent while the poor old man still stood in place, deep in thought.
“Yes,” he said at last, attempting to adopt an indifferent air, though the tears of vexation occasionally glittered on his eyelashes, “of course, we were friends—but, then, what are friends in this day and age? Who am I to him? I am not rich, not a person of rank, yes, and I don’t match him in age . . . Just look at what a dandy he has made of himself, since he visited Petersburg again . . . And what a carriage! . . . How much luggage! . . . And such a proud lackey!”
These words were enunciated with an ironic smile.
“So tell me,” he continued, addressing himself to me. “What do you think of all this? . . . What kind of demon is driving him to Persia? . . . Droll, oh Lord, it’s droll . . . Yes, I always knew that he was a fickle friend, on whom you couldn’t depend . . . And, really, it’s a shame, he shall come to a bad end . . . there’s no escaping it! . . . I always said that those who forget their old friends are no good!”
At that he turned around, in order to hide his emotion, and went off to pace in the courtyard by his cart, as though he was inspecting the wheels, his eyes filling with tears over and over again.
“Maxim Maximych,” I said, walking up to him, “and what are these papers that Pechorin has left with you?”
“God knows! Notes of some kind . . .”
“What will you do with