A Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov Page A

which is especially appealing to society ladies.
    The horses were already harnessed; a small bell rang from time to time under the shaft-bow, and the lackey had already twice approached Pechorin with the report that everything was ready, and Maxim Maximych still hadn’t appeared. Fortunately, Pechorin was immersed in reverie, looking over at the blue teeth of the Caucasus, and it seems he was not hurrying in the least to take to the road. I walked up to him.
    “If you don’t mind waiting a little longer,” I said, “then you will have the pleasure of encountering an old friend . . .”
    “Yes, of course!” he quickly replied, “I was told yesterday—where is he after all?”
    I turned toward the square and saw Maxim Maximych running with all his might . . . A few minutes later, he was by our side. He could barely breathe. Sweat rolled in torrents down his face. Wet wisps of gray hair, which had broken loose from under his hat, were sticking to his forehead. His knees were shaking . . . He wanted to throw his arms around Pechorin’s neck, but the latter was rather cold, albeit giving a friendly smile, and extended his hand to him. The staff captain was stopped in his tracks, but soon greedily grasped the hand with both his hands. He still couldn’t speak.
    “How glad I am, dear Maxim Maximych! Well, how are you, sir?” said Pechorin.
    “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