“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?”