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 them?”
“What? I’ll order cartridges to be made of them.”
“You’d do better to give them to me.” He looked at me with surprise, muttered something through his teeth and started to rummage in a valise. He then pulled out a book of diaries and threw it with contempt onto the ground. Then there was a second, a third and a tenth, all given the same treatment. There was something puerile in his vexation. It incited amusement, but my compassion too . . .
“That’s the lot,” he said, “I congratulate you on your find . . .”
“And may I do what I like with them?”
“Publish them in the newspapers if you like. What business is it of mine?! . . . Who am I to him—some kind of friend, a relative? . . . True, we lived under one roof for a long while . . . But there’s many a person I have shared roofs with!”
I grabbed the papers and quickly took them away, fearing that the staff captain might regret it. Soon after that we were told that the Opportunity would set off an hour later. I ordered the horses harnessed. The staff captain came into my room just as I had put on my hat. He, it seemed, was not getting ready for the departure. He had a tense and cold look to him.
“And you, Maxim Maximych, are you not coming?”
“No, sir.”
“And why not?”
“Well, I still haven’t seen the commandant, and I need to hand over some State property . . .”
“But weren’t you just with him?”
“I was, of course,” he said, stumbling over his words, “he wasn’t at home . . . and I didn’t wait.”
I understood him. The poor old man, for perhaps the first time since his birth, had abandoned official business for personal necessity—in the parlance of paper-pushing people—and look how he was rewarded!
“It’s a real pity,” I said to him, “a real pity, Maxim Maximych, that we must part sooner than originally planned.”
“What do you need with the likes of an ill-educated old man running behind you! You young folk are fashionable and pompous: it’s all right when you’re here under Circassian bullet-fire . . . but meet you later, and you’re too ashamed to even hold out your hand to a person like me.”
“I don’t deserve these reproaches, Maxim Maximych.”
“No, I was just talking by the by, as it were; but, anyway, I wish you every happiness and pleasant travels.”
We said our
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 them?”
“What? I’ll order cartridges to be made of them.”
“You’d do better to give them to me.” He looked at me with surprise, muttered something through his teeth and started to rummage in a valise. He then pulled out a book of diaries and threw it with contempt onto the ground. Then there was a second, a third and a tenth, all given the same treatment. There was something puerile in his vexation. It incited amusement, but my compassion too . . .
“That’s the lot,” he said, “I congratulate you on your find . . .”
“And may I do what I like with them?”
“Publish them in the newspapers if you like. What business is it of mine?! . . . Who am I to him—some kind of friend, a relative? . . . True, we lived under one roof for a long while . . . But there’s many a person I have shared roofs with!”
I grabbed the papers and quickly took them away, fearing that the staff captain might regret it. Soon after that we were told that the Opportunity would set off an hour later. I ordered the horses harnessed. The staff captain came into my room just as I had put on my hat. He, it seemed, was not getting ready for the departure. He had a tense and cold look to him.
“And you, Maxim Maximych, are you not coming?”
“No, sir.”
“And why not?”
“Well, I still haven’t seen the commandant, and I need to hand over some State property . . .”
“But weren’t you just with him?”
“I was, of course,” he said, stumbling over his words, “he wasn’t at home . . . and I didn’t wait.”
I understood him. The poor old man, for perhaps the first time since his birth, had abandoned official business for personal necessity—in the parlance of paper-pushing people—and look how he was rewarded!
“It’s a real pity,” I said to him, “a real pity, Maxim Maximych, that we must part sooner than originally planned.”
“What do you need with the likes of an ill-educated old man running behind you! You young folk are fashionable and pompous: it’s all right when you’re here under Circassian bullet-fire . . . but meet you later, and you’re too ashamed to even hold out your hand to a person like me.”
“I don’t deserve these reproaches, Maxim Maximych.”
“No, I was just talking by the by, as it were; but, anyway, I wish you every happiness and pleasant travels.”
We said our
Similar Books
