Russian Classics Ultimate Collection: Novels, Short Stories, Plays, Folk Tales & Legends. Максим ГорькийЧитать онлайн книгу.
showed up more distinctly in moments of anger or mental disturbance. Notwithstanding the light colour of his hair, his moustaches and eyebrows were black—a sign of breeding in a man, just as a black mane and a black tail in a white horse. To complete the portrait, I will add that he had a slightly turned-up nose, teeth of dazzling whiteness, and brown eyes—I must say a few words more about his eyes.
In the first place, they never laughed when he laughed. Have you not happened, yourself, to notice the same peculiarity in certain people?... It is a sign either of an evil disposition or of deep and constant grief. From behind his half-lowered eyelashes they shone with a kind of phosphorescent gleam—if I may so express myself—which was not the reflection of a fervid soul or of a playful fancy, but a glitter like to that of smooth steel, blinding but cold. His glance—brief, but piercing and heavy—left the unpleasant impression of an indiscreet question and might have seemed insolent had it not been so unconcernedly tranquil.
It may be that all these remarks came into my mind only after I had known some details of his life, and it may be, too, that his appearance would have produced an entirely different impression upon another; but, as you will not hear of him from anyone except myself, you will have to rest content, nolens volens, with the description I have given. In conclusion, I will say that, speaking generally, he was a very good-looking man, and had one of those original types of countenance which are particularly pleasing to women.
The horses were already put to; now and then the bell jingled on the shaft-bow; 19 and the manservant had twice gone up to Pechorin with the announcement that everything was ready, but still there was no sign of Maksim Maksimych. Fortunately Pechorin was sunk in thought as he gazed at the jagged, blue peaks of the Caucasus, and was apparently by no means in a hurry for the road.
I went up to him.
“If you care to wait a little longer,” I said, “you will have the pleasure of meeting an old friend.”
“Oh, exactly!” he answered quickly. “They told me so yesterday. Where is he, though?”
I looked in the direction of the square and there I descried Maksim Maksimych running as hard as he could. In a few moments he was beside us. He was scarcely able to breathe; perspiration was rolling in large drops from his face; wet tufts of grey hair, escaping from under his cap, were glued to his forehead; his knees were shaking... He was about to throw himself on Pechorin’s neck, but the latter, rather coldly, though with a smile of welcome, stretched out his hand to him. For a moment the staff-captain was petrified, but then eagerly seized Pechorin’s hand in both his own. He was still unable to speak.
“How glad I am to see you, my dear Maksim Maksimych! Well, how are you?” said Pechorin.
“And... thou... you?” 20 murmured the old man, with tears in his eyes. “What an age it is since I have seen you!... But where are you off to?”...
“I am going to Persia—and farther.”...
“But surely not immediately?... Wait a little, my dear fellow!... Surely we are not going to part at once?... What a long time it is since we have seen each other!”...
“It is time for me to go, Maksim Maksimych,” was the reply.
“Good heavens, good heavens! But where are you going to in such a hurry? There was so much I should have liked to tell you! So much to question you about!... Well, what of yourself? Have you retired?... What?... How have you been getting along?”
“Getting bored!” answered Pechorin, smiling.
“You remember the life we led in the fortress? A splendid country for hunting! You were awfully fond of shooting, you know!... And Bela?”...
Pechorin turned just the slightest bit pale and averted his head.
“Yes, I remember!” he said, almost immediately forcing a yawn.
Maksim Maksimych began to beg him to stay with him for a couple of hours or so longer.
“We will have a splendid dinner,” he said. “I have two pheasants; and the Kakhetian wine is excellent here... not what it is in Georgia, of course, but still of the best sort... We will have a talk... You will tell me about your life in Petersburg... Eh?”...
“In truth, there’s nothing for me to tell, dear Maksim Maksimych... However, good-bye, it is time for me to be off... I am in a hurry... I thank you for not having forgotten me,” he added, taking him by the hand.
The old man knit his brows. He was grieved and angry, although he tried to hide his feelings.
“Forget!” he growled. “I have not forgotten anything... Well, God be with you!... It is not like this that I thought we should meet.”
“Come! That will do, that will do!” said Pechorin, giving him a friendly embrace. “Is it possible that I am not the same as I used to be?... What can we do? Everyone must go his own way... Are we ever going to meet again?—God only knows!”
While saying this he had taken his seat in the carriage, and the coachman was already gathering up the reins.
“Wait, wait!” cried Maksim Maksimych suddenly, holding on to the carriage door. “I was nearly forgetting altogether. Your papers were left with me, Grigori Aleksandrovich... I drag them about everywhere I go... I thought I should find you in Georgia, but this is where it has pleased Heaven that we should meet. What’s to be done with them?”...
“Whatever you like!” answered Pechorin. “Good-bye.”...
“So you are off to Persia?... But when will you return?” Maksim Maksimych cried after him.
By this time the carriage was a long way off, but Pechorin made a sign with his hand which might be interpreted as meaning:
“It is doubtful whether I shall return, and there is no reason, either, why I should!”
The jingle of the bell and the clatter of the wheels along the flinty road had long ceased to be audible, but the poor old man still remained standing in the same place, deep in thought.
“Yes,” he said at length, endeavouring to assume an air of indifference, although from time to time a tear of vexation glistened on his eyelashes. “Of course we were friends—well, but what are friends nowadays?... What could I be to him? I’m not rich; I’ve no rank; and, moreover, I’m not at all his match in years!—See what a dandy he has become since he has been staying in Petersburg again!... What a carriage!... What a quantity of luggage!... And such a haughty manservant too!”...
These words were pronounced with an ironical smile.
“Tell me,” he continued, turning to me, “what do you think of it? Come, what the devil is he off to Persia for now?... Good Lord, it is ridiculous—ridiculous!... But I always knew that he was a fickle man, and one you could never rely on!... But, indeed, it is a pity that he should come to a bad end... yet it can’t be otherwise!... I always did say that there is no good to be got out of a man who forgets his old friends!”...
Hereupon he turned away in order to hide his agitation and proceeded to walk about the courtyard, around his cart, pretending to be examining the wheels, whilst his eyes kept filling with tears every moment.
“Maksim Maksimych,” I said, going up to him, “what papers are these that Pechorin left you?”
“Goodness knows! Notes of some sort”...
“What will you do with them?”
“What? I’ll have cartridges made of them.”
“Hand them over to me instead.”
He looked at me in surprise, growled something through his teeth, and began to rummage in his portmanteau. Out he drew a writing-book and threw it contemptuously on the ground; then a second—a