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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 awaiting 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?


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