and cold!"
"No, thank you" . . .
"Well, just as you like!"
I began my tea alone. About ten minutes
afterwards my old captain came in.
"You are right, you know; it would be better
to have a drop of tea -- but I was
waiting for
Pechorin. His man has been gone a long time
now, but
evidently something has detained
him."
The staff-captain
hurriedly sipped a cup of
tea, refused a second, and went off again outside
the gate -- not without a certain
amount of dis-
quietude. It was
obvious that the old man was
mortified by Pechorin's
neglect, the more so
because a short time
previously he had been
telling me of their friendship, and up to an hour
ago had been convinced that Pechorin would
come
running up immediately on
hearing his
name.
It was already late and dark when I opened
the window again and began to call Maksim
Maksimych,
saying that it was time to go to
bed. He muttered something through his
teeth. I
repeated my
invitation -- he made no
answer.
I left a candle on the stove-seat, and, wrapping
myself up in my cloak, I lay down on the couch
and soon fell into
slumber; and I would have
slept on quietly had not Maksim Maksimych
awakened me as he came into the room. It was
then very late. He threw his pipe on the table,
began to walk up and down the room, and to
rattle about at the stove. At last he lay down,
but for a long time he kept coughing, spitting,
and tossing about.
"The bugs are
biting you, are they not?"
I asked.
"Yes, that is it," he answered, with a heavy
sigh.
I woke early the next morning, but Maksim
Maksimych had anticipated me. I found him
sitting on the little bench at the gate.
"I have to go to the Commandant," he
said, "so, if Pechorin comes, please send for
me." . . .
I gave my promise. He ran off as if his limbs
had regained their
youthful strength and supple-
ness.
The morning was fresh and lovely. Golden
clouds had massed themselves on the mountain-
tops like a new range of
aerial mountains. Before
the gate a wide square spread out; behind it the
bazaar was seething with people, the day being
Sunday. Barefooted Ossete boys, carrying
wallets of
honeycomb on their shoulders, were
hovering around me. I cursed them; I had
other things to think of -- I was
beginning to
share the
worthy staff-captain's uneasiness.
Before ten minutes had passed the man we
were a
waiting appeared at the end of the square.
He was walking with Colonel N., who accom-
panied him as far as the inn, said good-bye to him,
and then turned back to the
fortress. I im-
mediately despatched one of the old soldiers for
Maksim Maksimych.
Pechorin's manservant went out to meet him
and informed him that they were going to put to
at once; he handed him a box of cigars, received
a few orders, and went off about his business. His
master lit a cigar, yawned once or twice, and sat
down on the bench on the other side of the gate.
I must now draw his
portrait for you.
He was of
mediumheight. His shapely, slim
figure and broad shoulders gave evidence of a
strong
constitution,
capable of
enduring all the
hardships of a nomad life and changes of climates,
and of resisting with success both the demoral-
ising effects of life in the Capital and the
tempests of the soul. His
velvetovercoat, which
was covered with dust, was fastened by the
two lower buttons only, and exposed to view
linen of dazzling whiteness, which proved that
he had the habits of a gentleman. His gloves,
soiled by travel, seemed as though made ex-
pressly for his small,
aristocratic hand, and when
he took one glove off I was astonished at the
thinness of his pale fingers. His gait was care-
less and indolent, but I noticed that he did not
swing his arms -- a sure sign of a certain secretive-
ness of
character. These remarks, however, are
the result of my own observations, and I have not
the least desire to make you
blindly believe in
them. When he was in the act of seating himself
on the bench his
upright figure bent as if there
was not a single bone in his back. The attitude
of his whole body was
expressive of a certain
nervous
weakness; he looked, as he sat, like one
of Balzac's thirty-year-old coquettes resting in
her downy arm-chair after a fatiguing ball.
From my first glance at his face I should not
have
supposed his age to be more than twenty-
three, though afterwards I should have put it
down as thirty. His smile had something of a
child-like quality. His skin possessed a kind of
feminine
delicacy. His fair hair, naturally curly,
most picturesquely outlined his pale and noble
brow, on which it was only after lengthy observa-
tion that traces could be noticed of wrinkles,
intersecting each other: probably they showed
up more
distinctly in moments of anger or
mental
disturbance. Notwithstanding the light
colour of his hair, his moustaches and eyebrows
were black -- a sign of
breeding in a man, just as
a black mane and a black tail in a white horse.
To complete the
portrait, I will add that he had
a
slightly turned-up nose, teeth of dazzling
whiteness, and brown eyes -- I must say a few
words more about his eyes.
In the first place, they never laughed when he
laughed. Have you not happened, yourself, to
notice the same
peculiarity in certain people? . . .
It is a sign either of an evil
disposition or of deep
and
constant grief. From behind his half-
lowered eyelashes they shone with a kind of
phosphorescent gleam -- if I may so express my-
self -- which was not the
reflection of a fervid
soul or of a
playful fancy, but a
glitter like to
that of smooth steel, blinding but cold. His
glance -- brief, but
piercing and heavy -- left the
unpleasant
impression of an indiscreet question
and might have seemed
insolent had it not been
so unconcernedly tranquil.
It may be that all these remarks came into my
mind only after I had known some details of his
life, and it may be, too, that his appearance
would have produced an entirely different im-
pression upon another; but, as you will not hear
of him from anyone except myself, you will have
to rest content, nolens volens, with the descrip-
tion I have given. In
conclusion, I will say that,
speaking generally, he was a very good-looking
man, and had one of those original types of
countenance which are particularly
pleasing to
women.
The horses were already put to; now and then
the bell jingled on the shaft-bow;[1] and the
manservant had twice gone up to Pechorin with
the
announcement that everything was ready,
but still there was no sign of Maksim Maksimych.
Fortunately Pechorin was sunk in thought as he
gazed at the jagged, blue peaks of the Caucasus,
and was
apparently by no means in a hurry for
the road.
[1] The duga.
I went up to him.
"If you care to wait a little longer," I said,
"you will have the pleasure of meeting an old
friend."
"Oh, exactly!" he answered quickly. "They
told me so
yesterday. Where is he, though?"
I looked in the direction of the square and
there I descried Maksim Maksimych
running as
hard as he could. In a few moments he was
beside us. He was scarcely able to breathe;
perspiration was rolling in large drops from his
face; wet tufts of grey hair, escaping from
under his cap, were glued to his
forehead; his
knees were shaking. . . He was about to throw
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?