I neither interrupted him nor listened.

An hour later it was already possible to continue our journey. The blizzard had died down and the sky cleared up, and we set out. On the road, however, I couldn't help directing the conversation back to Bela and Pechorin.

"Did you ever happen to hear what became of Kazbich?" I asked.

"Kazbich? Really, I don't know. I have heard that the Shapsugs[63] on the right flank of the line have a Kazbich, a daredevil fellow who wears a red beshmet , rides at a trot under our fire and bows with exaggerated politeness whenever a bullet whistles near him, but I doubt whether it's the same man."

Maksim Maksimich and I separated at Kobi, for I took the fast coach and he couldn't keep pace with me because of the heavy baggage. At the time we didn't think we'd ever meet again, yet we did, and if you wish, I'll tell you about it, but that is a story in itself... You must admit, however, that Maksim Maksimich is a man you can respect. If you do admit it, I'll be amply rewarded for my story, overlong though it may have been.

"After parting with Maksim Maksimich, I made good time through the Terek and Daryal gorges and had breakfast at Kazbek and tea at Lars, driving into Vladikavkaz by supper time. I won't bore you with descriptions of mountains, exclamations that mean nothing and canvases that convey nothing, especially to those who have never been in these places, nor with statistical observations which, I'm certain, no one would bother to read.

I stayed at an inn where all travelers stay and where, incidentally, there is no one to serve you a roast pheasant or a plate of cabbage soup, for the three veterans in charge are either so stupid or so drunk that there is nothing to be got from them.

I was told that I would have to stay there for another three days, because the "occasional" [okaziya , or detail] from Yekaterinograd[64] hadn't come in yet, and therefore couldn't set out on the return trip. What an occasion! But a bad pun is no consolation to a Russian and in order to while away the time I decided to write down Maksim Maksimich's story about Bela, quite unaware that it would turn out to be the first link in a long chain of tales[9]. So you see how an occurrence insignificant in itself may have serious consequences... But perhaps you don't know what an "occasional" is? It's an escort of half a company of infantry and a gun detailed to protect the caravans[65] crossing Kabarda from Vladikavkaz to Yekarerinograd.

The first day was very boring, but early the next morning a carriage drove into the yard. It was Maksim Maksimich! We greeted each other like old friends. I offered him the use of my room. He didn't stand on ceremony. He even clapped me on the shoulder, and his mouth twisted into what passed for a smile. An odd man!

Maksim Maksimich was well versed in the culinary arts and turned out a wonderful roast pheasant with an excellent pickled cucumber sauce. I must admit that without him I would've had only a cold snack. A bottle of Kakherian wine helped us overlook the modesty of the meal, which consisted of only one course. Afterwards we lit our pipes and settled down for a smoke, I near the window and he next to the stove where a fire was going, for the day was chilly and raw. We sat in silence-what was there to say?... He'd already told me all that was interesting about himself, and I had nothing to tell him. I looked out of the window. A long string of low houses, sprawling along the bank of the Terek, which here spreads wider and wider, was visible through the trees, while in the distance was the blue serrated wall of the mountains with Kazbek in its white cardinal's hat peeping over it. Mentally I was bidding them goodbye. I felt sorry to leave them...

We sat that way for a long time. The sun was setting behind the frigid peaks and a milky mist was spreading through the valleys when we heard the tinkling of bells and the shouting of drivers outside. Several carts with grimy Armenians drove into the courtyard, followed by an empty carriage whose lightness, comfort and elegance gave it a distinctly foreign air. Behind walked a man with a huge mustache wearing a braided jacket. He was rather well dressed for a manservant, but the way he knocked the ashes from his pipe and shouted at the coachman left no doubt as to his position. He was obviously the pampered servant of an indolent gentleman-something of a Russian Figaro[66]. "tell me, my good man," I called to him from the window, "is it the 'occasional'?" He looked at me rather insolently, straightened his neckerchief and turned away. An Armenian who'd been walking beside him smiled and replied for him that it was indeed the "occasional" and that it would set out on the return trip the next morning. "Thank God!" said Maksim Maksimich who had just come to the window. "A fine carriage!" he added. "Probably some official on his way to conduct a hearing in Tiflis. You can see he doesn't know our hills. No, my dear fellow, they're not for the likes of you. Even an English carriage wouldn't stand the jolting! I wonder who it is-let's find out..." We went into the hallway, at the far end of which a door was open into a side room. The valet and the driver were lugging in suitcases.

"Listen, friend," the captain asked the valet, "whose is that fine carriage, eh? A splendid carriage indeed!" The valet muttered something inaudible without turning and went on unstrapping a case. This was too much for Maksim Maksimich, who tapped the insolent fellow on the shoulder and said: "I'm talking to you, my man..."

"Whose carriage? My master's."

"And who is your master?"

"Pechorin."

"What did you say? Pechorin? Good God! Did he ever serve in the Caucasus?" Maksim Maksimich exclaimed, pulling at my sleeve. His eyes lit up with joy.

"I believe so... but I haven't been with him long."

"Well, well, there you are! Grigoriy Aleksandrovich is his name, isn't it? Your master and I used to know each other well," he added, with a friendly slap on the valet's shoulder that nearly made him lose his balance.

"Excuse me, sir, you are in my way," said the latter, frowning.

"What of it, man! Don't you know I'm an old friend of your master's, we lived together, too. Now, where can I find him?"

The servant announced that Pechorin had stayed behind to dine and spend the night with Colonel N-.

"He won't be here tonight?" said Maksim Maksimich. "Or perhaps you, my good man, will have some reason to see him? If you do, tell him Maksim Maksimich is here-you just tell him that and he'll know... I'll tip you eighty kopecks…"

The valet put on a superior air on hearing this modest offer, but nevertheless promised Maksim Maksimich to run his errand.

"He'll come at once, I'm sure!" Maksim Maksimich told me triumphantly. "I'll go out to the gates to meet him. Pity I don't know N-."

Maksim Maksimich sat down on a bench outside the gate and I went into my room. I must admit that I too awaited the appearance of this Pechorin with some eagerness, for though the captain's story had not given me too favorable a picture of the man, some of his traits nevertheless struck me as quite remarkable. In an hour one of the veterans brought in a steaming samovar and a teapot. "Maksim Maksimich, will you have some tea?" I called to him from the window.

"Thank you, I really don't care for any."

"You'd better have some. It's late already and getting chilly."