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"'True! I said, and we put our horses to a full gallop." "A CROWD was awaiting us at the fortress gate. Carefully we carried the wounded girl to Pechorin's quarters, and then we sent for the doctor. The latter was drunk, but he came, examined the wound, and announced that she could not live more than a day. He was mistaken, though." "She recovered?"
I confess that I also was awaiting this Pechorin's appearance with a certain amount of impatience although, from the staff-captain's story, I had formed a by no means favourable idea of him. Still, certain traits in his character struck me as remarkable. In an hour's time one of the old soldiers brought a steaming samovar and a teapot. "Won't you have some tea, Maksim Maksimych?"
Possibly some readers would like to know my own opinion of Pechorin's character. My answer is: the title of this book. "But that is malicious irony!" they will say... I know not. TAMAN is the nastiest little hole of all the seaports of Russia. I was all but starved there, to say nothing of having a narrow escape of being drowned. I arrived late at night by the post-car.
It was obvious that the old man was mortified by Pechorin's neglect, the more so because a short time previously he had been telling me of their friendship, and up to an hour ago had been convinced that Pechorin would come running up immediately on hearing his name.
I asked the staff-captain, seizing him by the arm, and involuntarily rejoicing. "No," he replied, "but the doctor was so far mistaken that she lived two days longer." "Explain, though, how Kazbich made off with her!" "It was like this: in spite of Pechorin's prohibition, she went out of the fortress and down to the river.
I have inserted in this book only those portions of the diary which refer to Pechorin's sojourn in the Caucasus. There still remains in my hands a thick writing-book in which he tells the story of his whole life. Some time or other that, too, will present itself before the tribunal of the world, but, for many and weighty reasons, I do not venture to take such a responsibility upon myself now.
Pechorin's manservant went out to meet him and informed him that they were going to put to at once; he handed him a box of cigars, received a few orders, and went off about his business. His master lit a cigar, yawned once or twice, and sat down on the bench on the other side of the gate. I must now draw his portrait for you. He was of medium height.
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 staffcaptain 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?" 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?"...
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