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