"No, thank you …"

"Well, as you wish!" I said and sat down to tea alone. In ten minutes or so the old man came in. "I suppose you are right," he said. "Better have some tea... You see, I was waiting. His man has been gone a long time-looks as if something has detained him."

He hastily gulped down a cup of tea, refused a second, and went back to the gate, obviously upset. It was clear that the old man was hurt by Pechorin's unconcern, all the more so since he had spoken to me so recently about their friendship, and only an hour before had been certain that Pechorin would come running as soon as he heard his name.

It was late and dark when I again opened the window and called to remind Maksim Maksimich that it was time to go to bed. He muttered something in reply and I urged him again to come in, but he didn't answer.

Leaving a candle on the bench, I lay down on the couch, wrapped myself in my overcoat and was soon asleep. I would have slept peacefully all night had not Maksim Maksimich awakened me when he came in very late. He threw his pipe on the table, began pacing up and down the room, then fussed with the stove. Finally he lay down, coughing, spitting, and tossing about for a long time.

"Bedbugs bothering you?" I asked.

"Yes, bedbugs," he replied with a heavy sigh.

I woke up early next morning, but Maksim Maksimich had already got up. I found him sitting on the bench at the gate. "I've got to see the commandant," he said, "so if Pechorin comes will you please send for me?"

I promised to do so. He ran off as if his legs had regained the strength and agility of youth.

It was a fresh, fine morning. Golden clouds piled up on the mountains in a phantom range of summits. In front of the gates was a broad square, and beyond it the market place was seething with people, for it was Sunday. Bare-footed Ossetian boys, birchbark[67] baskets laden with honeycombs strapped to their backs, crowded around me, but I drove them away for I was too preoccupied to give them much thought. The good captain's anxiety was beginning to claim me too.

Ten minutes had not passed when the man for whom we had been waiting appeared at the far end of the square. With him was Colonel N-, who left him at the inn and turned back towards the fort. I immediately sent one of the veterans for Maksim Maksimich.

Pechorin was met by his valet who reported that the horses would be harnessed in a moment, handed him a box of cigars, and, having received a few instructions, went off to carry them out. His master lit a cigar, yawned once or twice and sat down on a bench on the other side of the gate. Now I would like to draw you his portrait.

He was of medium height. His erect, lithe figure and broad shoulders suggested a strong physique equal to all the hardships of the road and variations of climate, unweakened by either the dissolute life of the capital or emotional storms. His dusty velvet coat was open except for the last two buttons, revealing an expanse of dazzlingly white shirt that betrayed the habits of a gentleman. His soiled gloves seemed to have been made for his small, aristocratic hands, and when he pulled off a glove, I was amazed at the slenderness of his white fingers. His walk was careless and indolent, but I noticed he didn't swing his arms-a sure sign of a certain reticence of character. But these are my personal opinions based on my own observations, and I can't compel you to accept them blindly. When he sank down on the bench his straight frame sagged as if he hadn't a bone in his back. His whole posture now betrayed some nervous weakness. He sat as the thirty-year-old coquette[68] in balzac's book might sit in a cushioned easy chair after an exhausting ball. At first glance I wouldn't have thought him more[28] than twenty-three years old, though later I was ready to admit he looked thirty. There was something childlike in his smile. His skin was as delicate as a woman's, and his naturally curly fair hair made a pleasing frame for his pale, noble brow on which only careful scrutiny could disclose a fine network of wrinkles that probably were a good deal more in evidence at times of anger or spiritual anxiety. In spite of his light hair, his mustache and eyebrows were black-as much a sign of pedigree in a man as a black mane and tail are in a white horse. To complete the portrait, I will say that he had a slightly turned-up nose and that his teeth were dazzlingly white and his eyes hazel-but about his eyes I must say a few more words.

Firstly, they didn't laugh when he did. Have you ever had opportunity to observe this peculiarity in some people? It's a sign either of evil nature or of deep constant sadness. They shone with a phosphorescent glow, if one may so put it, under half-closed eyelids. It was no reflection of spiritual warmth or fertile imagination. It was the flash of smooth steel, blinding but cold. His glance was brief but piercing and oppressive, it had the disturbing effect of an indiscreet question, and might have seemed audacious had it not been so calmly casual. Perhaps all these observations came to my mind only because I happened to know some details about his life, and another person might've obtained an entirely different impression, but since you won't learn about him from anyone else, you'll have to be satisfied with this portrayal. I must say in conclusion that, on the whole, he was handsome indeed and had one of those unusual faces that are particularly pleasing to society ladies.

The horses were harnessed, the bell attached to the shaft bow tinkled, and the valet had already reported twice to Pechorin that the carriage was waiting. But still there was no sign of Maksim Maksimich. Luckily Pechorin was deep in thought. He stared at the blue jagged ridge of the Caucasus, apparently in no hurry to be on his way. I crossed over to him. "If you would care to wait a while," I said, "you will have the pleasure of meeting an old friend…"

"Ah, that's right!" he replied quickly. "I was told about him yesterday. But where is he?" I looked out over the square and saw Maksim Maksimich running towards us for all he was worth... In a few minutes he had reached us. He could barely catch his breath, beads of perspiration rolled down his face, damp strands of gray hair that had escaped from under his cap stuck to his forehead, and his knees shook. He was about to throw his arms around Pechorin's neck, but the latter extended his hand rather coldly, though his smile was pleasant enough. For a moment the captain was taken aback, then he eagerly gripped the hand with both of his. He was still unable to speak.

"This is a pleasure, dear Maksim Maksimich. How are you?" said Pechorin.

"And thou?…And you?…" faltered the old man, tears welling up in his eyes. "It's a long time... a very long time... But where are you off to?"

"On my way to Persia... and then farther…"

"Not immediately, I hope? Won't you stay awhile, my dear man? We haven't seen each other for so long..."

"I must go, Maksim Maksimich," was the reply.

"My God, what's the hurry? I have so much to tell you and so many questions to ask... How are things, anyway? Retired, eh? What have you been doing?"

"I've been bored stiff," replied Pechorin, smiling.

"Remember our life in the fort? Wonderful hunting country, wasn't it? How you loved to hunt! Remember Bela?"

Pechorin turned white a little and turned away.

"Yes, I remember," he said, deliberately yawning almost in the same breath.

Maksim Maksimich urged him to stay on for another hour or two. "We'll have a fine dinner," he said. "I have two pheasants and the Kakhetian here is excellent... not the same as in Georgia, of course, but the best to be had here. And we could talk... you'll tell me about your stay in St. Petersburg, won't you?"