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Updated: June 26, 2025
In vain Pechorin kissed her cold lips it was impossible to bring her to. "Pechorin mounted; I lifted Bela from the ground and somehow managed to place her before him on his saddle; he put his arm round her and we rode back. "'Look here, Maksim Maksimych, said Grigori Aleksandrovich, after a few moments of silence. 'We will never bring her in alive like this.
The kind-hearted Maksim Maksimych had become the obstinate, cantankerous staff-captain! And why? Because Pechorin, through absent-mindedness or from some other cause, had extended his hand to him when Maksim Maksimych was going to throw himself on his neck!
"Listen here, then: Grushnitski in particular is angry with him therefore to Grushnitski falls the chief part. He will pick a quarrel over some silly trifle or other, and will challenge Pechorin to a duel... Wait a bit; here is where the joke comes in... He will challenge him to a duel; very well!
When the wound was bound up again she grew quiet for a moment and begged Pechorin to kiss her. He fell on his knees beside the bed, raised her head from the pillow, and pressed his lips to hers which were growing cold. She threw her trembling arms closely round his neck, as if with that kiss she wished to yield up her soul to him. No, she did well to die!
I said as much to Pechorin afterwards, but he only answered that a wild Circassian girl ought to consider herself fortunate in having such a charming husband as himself because, according to their ideas, he really was her husband and that Kazbich was a scoundrel, and ought to be punished. Judge for yourself, what could I say to that?... At the time, however, I knew nothing of their conspiracy.
"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!"
"'Listen, my dear, good Bela! continued Pechorin. 'You see how I love you. I am ready to give up everything to make you cheerful once more. I want you to be happy, and, if you are going to be sad again, I shall die. Tell me, you will be more cheerful? "She fell into thought, her black eyes still fixed upon him. Then she smiled graciously and nodded her head in token of acquiescence.
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.
Bazarov is the incarnation of the Lucifer type that recurs again and again in Russian history and fiction, in sharp contrast to the meek, humble type of Ivan Durak. Lermontov's Pechorin was in some respects an anticipation of Bazarov; so were the many Russian rebels.
"I am speaking to you, my friend!" he said, touching the uncivil fellow on the shoulder. "Whose carriage? My master's." "And who is your master?" "Pechorin " "What did you say? What? Pechorin? Great Heavens!... Did he not serve in the Caucasus?" exclaimed Maksim Maksimych, plucking me by the sleeve. His eyes were sparkling with joy.
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