"I really have nothing to tell, dear Maksim Maksimich. And I have to say goodbye now, for I must be off... In rather a hurry... It was kind of you not to have forgotten me," he added, taking the old man's hand.

The old man frowned. He was both grieved and hurt, though he did his best to conceal his feelings. "Forgotten!" he muttered. "No, I've forgotten nothing. Oh well, never mind... Only I didn't expect our meeting would be like this."

"Come, now," said Pechorin, embracing him in a friendly way. "I don't think I have changed. Ar any rate, it can't be helped. We all are destined to go our several ways. God knows whether we'll meet again." This he said as he climbed into the carriage and the coachman was already gathering up the reins.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" Maksim Maksimich suddenly shouted, holding the carriage door. "It completely slipped my mind... I still have your papers, Grigoriy Aleksandrovich... Been carrying them around with me... Thought I'd find you in Georgia, never dreaming the Lord would have us meet here... What do you want me to do with them?"

"Whatever you want," replied Pechorin. "Farewell!"

"So you are off to Persia... When do you expect to be back?" Maksim Maksimich shouted after him.

The carriage was already some distance off, but Pechorin waved in a way that could well be interpreted to mean: "I doubt whether I will return, nor is there any reason why I should!"

Long after the tinkling of the bell and the clatter of wheels against the flinty surface of the road had faded into the distance, the poor old fellow stood glued to the spot, lost in thought.

"Yes," he said at last, trying his best to preserve a nonchalant air though tears of disappointment still showed in his eyes, "we were friends, of course, but what's friendship nowadays? What am I to him? I'm neither rich nor titled, and besides, I'm much older. What a dandy his visit to St. Petersburg has made him! Look at that carriage, and the pile of luggage... and the haughty valet!" This he said with an ironic smile. "Tell me," he went on, turning to me, "what do you think of it all! What sort of a demon is driving him to Persia now? Ridiculous, isn't it? I knew all along, of course, that he was the flighty sort of fellow you can't count on. It's a pity though that he had to come to a bad end... but it couldn't be otherwise, as you can see. I've always said that nothing good will come of those who forget old friends." At that he turned away to conceal his agitation and began pacing up and down the courtyard beside his carriage, pretending to examine the wheels, while the tears kept filling up his eyes.

"Maksim Maksimich," said I, walking up to him. "What were the papers Pechorin left with you?"

"The Lord knows! Some notes or other. . ."

"What do you intend to do with them?"

"Eh? I'll have them made into cartridges."

"You'd do better to give them to me."

He looked at me in amazement, muttered something under his breath and began to rummage through his suitcase. He took out one notebook and threw it contemptuously on the ground. The second, the third and the tenth all shared the fate of the first. There was something childish about the old man's resentment, and I was both amused and sorry for him.

"That's the lot," he said. "I congratulate you on your find."

"And I may do whatever I want with them?"

"Print them in the newspapers if you like, what do I care? Yes, indeed, am I a friend of his or a relative? True, we shared the same roof for a long time, but then I've lived with all sorts of people."

I took the papers and carried them off before the captain could change his mind. Soon we were told that the "occasional" would set out in an hour, and I gave orders to harness the horses. The captain came into my room as I was putting on my hat. He showed no sign of preparing for the journey. There was a strained coldness about him.

"Aren't you coming, Maksim Maksimich?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I haven't seen the commandant, and I have to deliver some government property to him."

"But didn't you go to see him?"

"Yes, of course," he stammered, "but he wasn't in and I didn't wait for him."

I understood what he meant. For the first time in his life, perhaps, the poor old man had neglected his duties for his personal convenience, to put it in official language, and this had been his reward!

"I'm very sorry, Maksim Maksimich," I said, "very sorry indeed, that we have to part so soon."

"How can we ignorant old fogies keep up with you haughty young men of the world? Here, with Circassian bullets flying about, you put up with us somehow... but if we chanced to meet later on you'd be ashamed to shake hands with the likes of us."

"I haven't deserved this reproach, Maksim Maksimich."

"I'm just speaking at random, you know. Anyway, I wish you luck and a pleasant journey."

We separated rather coldly. Good Maksim Maksimich was now an obstinate, cantankerous captain. And why? Because Pechorin through absent-mindedness or for some other reason had merely extended his hand when his old friend wanted to fling himself into his embrace. It's sad to see a young man's finest hopes and dreams shattered, to see him lose the rosy illusions with which he viewed man's deeds and emotions, although there is still hope that he may exchange the old delusions for new ones no less transitory but also no less sweet. But what is there to exchange them for at Maksim Maksimich's age? Without wishing it, the heart would harden and the soul wither...

I set out alone.

Recently I learned that Pechorin had died while returning from Persia. This news pleased me very much, for it gave me the right to publish these notes, and I took advantage of the opportunity to sign my name to another man's work. God forbid that the reader should cast blame on me for such an innocent forgery!

Now I have to explain briefly what it was that prompted me to make public the innermost secrets of a man I never knew. It might've been understandable had I been his friend, for the perfidious indiscretion of the true friend is something everyone can understand. But I saw him only once, on my travels, and hence can't regard him with that inexplicable hatred which, concealed under the mask of friendship, only waits for death or misfortune to overtake the object of affection in order to bring down upon his head a hailstorm of arguments, advice, mockery and sympathy.

Reading over these notes, I became convinced that the man must've been sincere in so mercilessly laying bare his own weaknesses and vices. The story of a human soul, even the pettiest of souls, can hardly be less interesting and instructive than the story of a nation, especially if it is the result of the observation of a mature mind and written without the vain desire to evoke compassion or to amaze. One of the defects of Rousseau's[69] Confessions is that he read them to his friends.

Thus it was purely the desire to do some good that impelled me to publish excerpts from a journal which I just happened to acquire. Though I've changed all proper names, those mentioned in it will no doubt recognize themselves and perhaps find justification for deeds they have held against a man who is no longer of this world. For we nearly always forgive that which we understand.

I have included in this book only excerpts bearing on Pechorin's stay in the Caucasus. This still leaves me with a fat notebook in which he tells the story of his whole life. Some day it too will be submitted to public judgment. Now, however, I dare not take the responsibility upon myself for many important reasons.