prompt:
Chapter: AFTER parting with Maksim Maksimych, I galloped briskly through the
gorges of the Terek and Darial, breakfasted in Kazbek, drank tea in
Lars, and arrived at Vladikavkaz in time for supper. I spare you a
description of the mountains, as well as exclamations which convey no
meaning, and word-paintings which convey no image--especially to
those who have never been in the Caucasus. I also omit statistical
observations, which I am quite sure nobody would read.

I put up at the inn which is frequented by all who travel in those
parts, and where, by the way, there is no one you can order to roast
your pheasant and cook your cabbage-soup, because the three veterans
who have charge of the inn are either so stupid, or so drunk, that it is
impossible to knock any sense at all out of them.

I was informed that I should have to stay there three days longer,
because the "Adventure" had not yet arrived from Ekaterinograd and
consequently could not start on the return journey. What a misadventure!
[18]... But a bad pun is no consolation to a Russian, and, for the sake
of something to occupy my thoughts, I took it into my head to write down
the story about Bela, which I had heard from Maksim Maksimych--never
imagining that it would be the first link in a long chain of novels: you
see how an insignificant event has sometimes dire results!... Perhaps,
however, you do not know what the "Adventure" is? It is a
convoy--composed of half a company of infantry, with a cannon--which
escorts baggage-trains through Kabardia from Vladikavkaz to
Ekaterinograd.

The first day I found the time hang on my hands dreadfully. Early next
morning a vehicle drove into the courtyard... Aha! Maksim Maksimych!...
We met like a couple of old friends. I offered to share my own room with
him, and he accepted my hospitality without standing upon ceremony; he
even clapped me on the shoulder and puckered up his mouth by way of a
smile--a queer fellow, that!...

Maksim Maksimych was profoundly versed in the culinary art. He roasted
the pheasant astonishingly well and basted it successfully with cucumber
sauce. I was obliged to acknowledge that, but for him, I should have had
to remain on a dry-food diet. A bottle of Kakhetian wine helped us to
forget the modest number of dishes--of which there was one, all told.
Then we lit our pipes, took our chairs, and sat down--I by the window,
and he by the stove, in which a fire had been lighted because the day
was damp and cold. We remained silent. What had we to talk about? He had
already told me all that was of interest about himself and I had nothing
to relate. I looked out of the window. Here and there, behind the trees,
I caught glimpses of a number of poor, low houses straggling along the
bank of the Terek, which flowed seaward in an ever-widening stream;
farther off rose the dark-blue, jagged wall of the mountains, behind
which Mount Kazbek gazed forth in his highpriest's hat of white. I took
a mental farewell of them; I felt sorry to leave them...

Thus we sat for a considerable time. The sun was sinking behind the cold
summits and a whitish mist was beginning to spread over the valleys,
when the silence was broken by the jingling of the bell of a
travelling-carriage and the shouting of drivers in the street. A few
vehicles, accompanied by dirty Armenians, drove into the courtyard of
the inn, and behind them came an empty travelling-carriage. Its light
movement, comfortable arrangement, and elegant appearance gave it a kind
of foreign stamp. Behind it walked a man with large moustaches. He was
wearing a Hungarian jacket and was rather well dressed for a manservant.
From the bold manner in which he shook the ashes out of his pipe and
shouted at the coachman it was impossible to mistake his calling. He was
obviously the spoiled servant of an indolent master--something in the
nature of a Russian Figaro.

"Tell me, my good man," I called to him out of the window. "What is
it?--Has the 'Adventure' arrived, eh?"

He gave me a rather insolent glance, straightened his cravat, and turned
away. An Armenian, who was walking near him, smiled and answered for
him that the "Adventure" had, in fact, arrived, and would start on the
return journey the following morning.

"Thank heavens!" said Maksim Maksimych, who had come up to the window at
that moment. "What a wonderful carriage!" he added; "probably it belongs
to some official who is going to Tiflis for a judicial inquiry. You can
see that he is unacquainted with our little mountains! No, my friend,
you're not serious! They are not for the like of you; why, they would
shake even an English carriage to bits!--But who could it be? Let us go
and find out."

We went out into the corridor, at the end of which there was an open
door leading into a side room. The manservant and a driver were dragging
portmanteaux into the room.

"I say, my man!" the staff-captain asked him: "Whose is that marvellous
carriage?--Eh?--A beautiful carriage!"

Without turning round the manservant growled something to himself as he
undid a portmanteau. Maksim Maksimych grew angry.

"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.

"Yes, he served there, I think--but I have not been with him long."

"Well! Just so!... Just so!... Grigori Aleksandrovich?... that is his
name, of course? Your master and I were friends," he added, giving the
manservant a friendly clap on the shoulder with such force as to cause
him to stagger.

"Excuse me, sir, you are hindering me," said the latter, frowning.

"What a fellow you are, my friend! Why, don't you know, your master and
I were bosom friends, and lived together?... But where has he put up?"

The servant intimated that Pechorin had stayed to take supper and pass
the night at Colonel N----'s.

"But won't he be looking in here in the evening?" said Maksim Maksimych.
"Or, you, my man, won't you be going over to him for something?... If
you do, tell him that Maksim Maksimych is here; just say that--he'll
know!--I'll give you half a ruble for a tip!"

The manservant made a scornful face on hearing such a modest promise,
but he assured Maksim Maksimych that he would execute his commission.

"He'll be sure to come running up directly!" said Maksim Maksimych, with
an air of triumph. "I will go outside the gate and wait for him! Ah,
it's a pity I am not acquainted with Colonel N----!"

Maksim Maksimych sat down on a little bench outside the gate, and I
went to my room. 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?" I called out of the window.

"Thank you. I am not thirsty, somehow."

"Oh, do have some! It is late, you know, and cold!"

"No, thank you"...

"Well, just as you like!"

I began my tea alone. About ten minutes afterwards my old captain came
in.

"You are right, you know; it would be better to have a drop of tea--but
I was waiting for Pechorin. His man has been gone a long time now, but
evidently something has detained him."

The staff-captain hurriedly sipped a cup of tea, refused a second,
and went off again outside the gate--not without a certain amount of
disquietude. 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.

It was already late and dark when I opened the window again and began to
call Maksim Maksimych, saying that it was time to go to bed. He muttered
something through his teeth. I repeated my invitation--he made no
answer.

I left a candle on the stove-seat, and, wrapping myself up in my cloak,
I lay down on the couch and soon fell into slumber; and I would have
slept on quietly had not Maksim Maksimych awakened me as he came into
the room. It was then very late. He threw his pipe on the table, began
to walk up and down the room, and to rattle about at the stove. At last
he lay down, but for a long time he kept coughing, spitting, and tossing
about.

"The bugs are biting you, are they not?" I asked.

"Yes, that is it," he answered, with a heavy sigh.

I woke early the next morning, but Maksim Maksimych had anticipated me.
I found him sitting on the little bench at the gate.

"I have to go to the Commandant," he said, "so, if Pechorin comes,
please send for me."...

I gave my promise. He ran off as if his limbs had regained their
youthful strength and suppleness.

The morning was fresh and lovely. Golden clouds had massed themselves on
the mountaintops like a new range of aerial mountains. Before the gate
a wide square spread out; behind it the bazaar was seething with people,
the day being Sunday. Barefooted Ossete boys, carrying wallets of
honeycomb on their shoulders, were hovering around me. I cursed them;
I had other things to think of--I was beginning to share the worthy
staff-captain's uneasiness.

Before ten minutes had passed the man we were awaiting appeared at the
end of the square. He was walking with Colonel N., who accompanied him
as far as the inn, said good-bye to him, and then turned back to the
fortress. I immediately despatched one of the old soldiers for Maksim
Maksimych.

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. His shapely, slim figure and broad shoulders
gave evidence of a strong constitution, capable of enduring all the
hardships of a nomad life and changes of climates, and of resisting with
success both the demoralising effects of life in the Capital and the
tempests of the soul. His velvet overcoat, which was covered with dust,
was fastened by the two lower buttons only, and exposed to view linen of
dazzling whiteness, which proved that he had the habits of a gentleman.
His gloves, soiled by travel, seemed as though made expressly for
his small, aristocratic hand, and when he took one glove off I was
astonished at the thinness of his pale fingers. His gait was careless
and indolent, but I noticed that he did not swing his arms--a sure sign
of a certain secretiveness of character. These remarks, however, are the
result of my own observations, and I have not the least desire to make
you blindly believe in them. When he was in the act of seating himself
on the bench his upright figure bent as if there was not a single bone
in his back. The attitude of his whole body was expressive of a
certain nervous weakness; he looked, as he sat, like one of Balzac's
thirty-year-old coquettes resting in her downy arm-chair after a
fatiguing ball. From my first glance at his face I should not have
supposed his age to be more than twenty-three, though afterwards I should
have put it down as thirty. His smile had something of a child-like
quality. His skin possessed a kind of feminine delicacy. His fair hair,
naturally curly, most picturesquely outlined his pale and noble brow, on
which it was only after lengthy observation that traces could be noticed
of wrinkles, intersecting each other: probably they 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 third--a tenth
shared the same fate. There was something childish in his vexation, and
it struck me as ridiculous and pitiable...

"Here they are," he said. "I congratulate you on your find!"...

"And I may do anything I like with them?"

"Yes, print them in the newspapers, if you like. What is it to me? Am
I a friend or relation of his? It is true that for a long time we lived
under one roof... but aren't there plenty of people with whom I have
lived?"...

I seized the papers and lost no time in carrying them away, fearing that
the staff-captain might repent his action. Soon somebody came to tell
us that the "Adventure" would set off in an hour's time. I ordered the
horses to be put to.

I had already put my cap on when the staff-captain entered the room.
Apparently he had not got ready for departure. His manner was somewhat
cold and constrained.

"You are not going, then, Maksim Maksimych?"

"No, sir!"

"But why not?"

"Well, I have not seen the Commandant yet, and I have to deliver some
Government things."

"But you did go, you know."

"I did, of course," he stammered, "but he was not at home... and I did
not wait."

I understood. For the first time in his life, probably, the poor old man
had, to speak by the book, thrown aside official business 'for the sake
of his personal requirements'... and how he had been rewarded!

"I am very sorry, Maksim Maksimych, very sorry indeed," I said, "that we
must part sooner than necessary."

"What should we rough old men be thinking of to run after you? You young
men are fashionable and proud: under the Circassian bullets you are
friendly enough with us... but when you meet us afterwards you are
ashamed even to give us your hand!"

"I have not deserved these reproaches, Maksim Maksimych."

"Well, but you know I'm quite right. However, I wish you all good luck
and a pleasant journey."

We took a rather cold farewell of each other. 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! Sad it is to see when a young man loses his best
hopes and dreams, when from before his eyes is withdrawn the rose-hued
veil through which he has looked upon the deeds and feelings of mankind;
although there is the hope that the old illusions will be replaced by
new ones, none the less evanescent, but, on the other hand, none the
less sweet. But wherewith can they be replaced when one is at the age
of Maksim Maksimych? Do what you will, the heart hardens and the soul
shrinks in upon itself.

I departed--alone.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Maxim Maximych and the unnamed narrator meet again. They share a room together, and Maxim Maximych makes the unnamed narrator, a sparse, but pleasant meal. After dinner, the two men sit in silence for a long time, finding nothing to discuss. In the silence, the unnamed narrator admires the landscape outside. He gives the mountains a "mental farewell" . The silence is eventually interrupted by the sound of a carriage. A well-dressed servant accompanies the magnificent carriage. He is rude, but that does not deter Maxim Maximych from communicating with him. After a few questions, Maxim Maximych discovers that Pechorin is the servant's master. Maxim Maximych is overwhelmed with joy at this finding and urges the servant to inform Pechorin of his presence. The servant reluctantly accepts the task. Maxim Maximych waits on the bench by the gate for the servant to come back with Pechorin. He stays outside for a long time, but no one comes. The old officer eventually gives up and comes inside to the room that he shares with the unnamed narrator. He tries to hide his hurt from the unnamed narrator, but his restlessness gives his feelings away. He "paced up and down the room, tinkered with the stove, and when he finally did go to bed, he coughed, spat and tossed and turned for a long time" . The next day, the unnamed narrator sees the servant and Pechorin and immediately sends someone to fetch Maxim Maximych. As the unnamed narrator waits for Maxim Maximych, he observes Pechorin from a distance and notes, "Though his hair was fair, his mustache and eyebrows were black. In a man this is as sure a sign of breeding as a black mane and tail are in a white horse" . The unnamed narrator jumps out of his thoughts when he sees that Pechorin is about to leave. He informs Pechorin that an old acquaintance, Maxim Maximych, is on the way. Maxim Maximych is seen running towards Pechorin soon after. Maxim Maximych is immediately disappointed by his interaction with Pechorin. Pechorin denies him an embrace and refuses pleas to dine together. Pechorin also rejects personal documents that Maxim Maximych held for him and informs Maxim Maximych that he is on his way to Persia. Before Maxim Maximych asks him when he plans to come back, Pechorin's carriage is already a great distance away. Pechorin hears Maxim Maximych's last question, nevertheless, and answers it with a hand gesture that signals that he plans to never come back to the Caucasus. The encounter devastates Maxim Maximych. The unnamed narrator sees "tears in his eyes" . Maxim Maximych oscillates between sadness and anger. When the unnamed narrator asks him about the documents that Pechorin refused to take, he throws the documents on the floor. The unnamed narrator takes the documents before Maxim Maximych has a change of mind. The unnamed narrator and Maxim Maximych part for good. Maxim Maximych has to stay behind to see the commandant, a duty he neglected in order to reach Pechorin in time. The unnamed narrator and Maxim Maximych part on less than agreeable terms. Maxim Maximych takes his disappointment not only on the documents, but also on the unnamed narrator. He accuses the unnamed narrator of being exactly like Pechorin when it comes to friendship. Maxim Maximych apologizes immediately, but the mood is already set.


prompt:
Chapter: 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. The driver stopped the tired
troika [21] at the gate of the only stone-built house that stood at the
entrance to the town. The sentry, a Cossack from the Black Sea, hearing
the jingle of the bell, cried out, sleepily, in his barbarous voice,
"Who goes there?" An under-officer of Cossacks and a headborough [22]
came out. I explained that I was an officer bound for the active-service
detachment on Government business, and I proceeded to demand official
quarters. The headborough conducted us round the town. Whatever hut we
drove up to we found to be occupied. The weather was cold; I had not
slept for three nights; I was tired out, and I began to lose my temper.

"Take me somewhere or other, you scoundrel!" I cried; "to the devil
himself, so long as there's a place to put up at!"

"There is one other lodging," answered the headborough, scratching his
head. "Only you won't like it, sir. It is uncanny!"

Failing to grasp the exact signification of the last phrase, I ordered
him to go on, and, after a lengthy peregrination through muddy byways,
at the sides of which I could see nothing but old fences, we drove up to
a small cabin, right on the shore of the sea.

The full moon was shining on the little reed-thatched roof and the white
walls of my new dwelling. In the courtyard, which was surrounded by a
wall of rubble-stone, there stood another miserable hovel, smaller and
older than the first and all askew. The shore descended precipitously
to the sea, almost from its very walls, and down below, with incessant
murmur, plashed the dark-blue waves. The moon gazed softly upon the
watery element, restless but obedient to it, and I was able by its light
to distinguish two ships lying at some distance from the shore, their
black rigging motionless and standing out, like cobwebs, against the
pale line of the horizon.

"There are vessels in the harbour," I said to myself. "To-morrow I will
set out for Gelenjik."

I had with me, in the capacity of soldier-servant, a Cossack of the
frontier army. Ordering him to take down the portmanteau and dismiss
the driver, I began to call the master of the house. No answer! I
knocked--all was silent within!... What could it mean? At length a boy
of about fourteen crept out from the hall.

"Where is the master?"

"There isn't one."

"What! No master?"

"None!"

"And the mistress?"

"She has gone off to the village."

"Who will open the door for me, then?" I said, giving it a kick.

The door opened of its own accord, and a breath of moisture-laden air
was wafted from the hut. I struck a lucifer match and held it to the
boy's face. It lit up two white eyes. He was totally blind, obviously so
from birth. He stood stock-still before me, and I began to examine his
features.

I confess that I have a violent prejudice against all blind, one-eyed,
deaf, dumb, legless, armless, hunchbacked, and such-like people. I have
observed that there is always a certain strange connection between a
man's exterior and his soul; as, if when the body loses a limb, the soul
also loses some power of feeling.

And so I began to examine the blind boy's face. But what could be read
upon a face from which the eyes are missing?... For a long time I gazed
at him with involuntary compassion, when suddenly a scarcely perceptible
smile flitted over his thin lips, producing, I know not why, a most
unpleasant impression upon me. I began to feel a suspicion that the
blind boy was not so blind as he appeared to be. In vain I endeavoured
to convince myself that it was impossible to counterfeit cataracts; and
besides, what reason could there be for doing such a thing? But I could
not help my suspicions. I am easily swayed by prejudice...

"You are the master's son?" I asked at length.

"No."

"Who are you, then?"

"An orphan--a poor boy."

"Has the mistress any children?"

"No, her daughter ran away and crossed the sea with a Tartar."

"What sort of a Tartar?"

"The devil only knows! A Crimean Tartar, a boatman from Kerch."

I entered the hut. Its whole furniture consisted of two benches and a
table, together with an enormous chest beside the stove. There was not
a single ikon to be seen on the wall--a bad sign! The sea-wind burst
in through the broken window-pane. I drew a wax candle-end from my
portmanteau, lit it, and began to put my things out. My sabre and gun
I placed in a corner, my pistols I laid on the table. I spread my felt
cloak out on one bench, and the Cossack his on the other. In ten minutes
the latter was snoring, but I could not go to sleep--the image of the
boy with the white eyes kept hovering before me in the dark.

About an hour passed thus. The moon shone in at the window and its rays
played along the earthen floor of the hut. Suddenly a shadow flitted
across the bright strip of moonshine which intersected the floor. I
raised myself up a little and glanced out of the window. Again somebody
ran by it and disappeared--goodness knows where! It seemed impossible
for anyone to descend the steep cliff overhanging the shore, but that
was the only thing that could have happened. I rose, threw on my tunic,
girded on a dagger, and with the utmost quietness went out of the hut.
The blind boy was coming towards me. I hid by the fence, and he passed
by me with a sure but cautious step. He was carrying a parcel under
his arm. He turned towards the harbour and began to descend a steep and
narrow path.

"On that day the dumb will cry out and the blind will see," I said to
myself, following him just close enough to keep him in sight.

Meanwhile the moon was becoming overcast by clouds and a mist had risen
upon the sea. The lantern alight in the stern of a ship close at hand
was scarcely visible through the mist, and by the shore there glimmered
the foam of the waves, which every moment threatened to submerge it.
Descending with difficulty, I stole along the steep declivity, and all
at once I saw the blind boy come to a standstill and then turn down to
the right. He walked so close to the water's edge that it seemed as if
the waves would straightway seize him and carry him off. But, judging by
the confidence with which he stepped from rock to rock and avoided the
water-channels, this was evidently not the first time that he had made
that journey. Finally he stopped, as though listening for something,
squatted down upon the ground, and laid the parcel beside him.
Concealing myself behind a projecting rock on the shore, I kept watch
on his movements. After a few minutes a white figure made its appearance
from the opposite direction. It came up to the blind boy and sat down
beside him. At times the wind wafted their conversation to me.

"Well?" said a woman's voice. "The storm is violent; Yanko will not be
here."

"Yanko is not afraid of the storm!" the other replied.

"The mist is thickening," rejoined the woman's voice, sadness in its
tone.

"In the mist it is all the easier to slip past the guardships," was the
answer.

"And if he is drowned?"

"Well, what then? On Sunday you won't have a new ribbon to go to church
in."

An interval of silence followed. One thing, however, struck me--in
talking to me the blind boy spoke in the Little Russian dialect, but now
he was expressing himself in pure Russian.

"You see, I am right!" the blind boy went on, clapping his hands. "Yanko
is not afraid of sea, nor winds, nor mist, nor coastguards! Just listen!
That is not the water plashing, you can't deceive me--it is his long
oars."

The woman sprang up and began anxiously to gaze into the distance.

"You are raving!" she said. "I cannot see anything."

I confess that, much as I tried to make out in the distance something
resembling a boat, my efforts were unsuccessful. About ten minutes
passed thus, when a black speck appeared between the mountains of the
waves! At one time it grew larger, at another smaller. Slowly rising
upon the crests of the waves and swiftly descending from them, the boat
drew near to the shore.

"He must be a brave sailor," I thought, "to have determined to cross
the twenty versts of strait on a night like this, and he must have had a
weighty reason for doing so."

Reflecting thus, I gazed with an involuntary beating of the heart at
the poor boat. It dived like a duck, and then, with rapidly swinging
oars--like wings--it sprang forth from the abyss amid the splashes of
the foam. "Ah!" I thought, "it will be dashed against the shore with all
its force and broken to pieces!" But it turned aside adroitly and leaped
unharmed into a little creek. Out of it stepped a man of medium height,
wearing a Tartar sheepskin cap. He waved his hand, and all three set to
work to drag something out of the boat. The cargo was so large that, to
this day, I cannot understand how it was that the boat did not sink.

Each of them shouldered a bundle, and they set off along the shore, and
I soon lost sight of them. I had to return home; but I confess I was
rendered uneasy by all these strange happenings, and I found it hard to
await the morning.

My Cossack was very much astonished when, on waking up, he saw me fully
dressed. I did not, however, tell him the reason. For some time I stood
at the window, gazing admiringly at the blue sky all studded with wisps
of cloud, and at the distant shore of the Crimea, stretching out in a
lilac-coloured streak and ending in a cliff, on the summit of which the
white tower of the lighthouse was gleaming. Then I betook myself to the
fortress, Phanagoriya, in order to ascertain from the Commandant at what
hour I should depart for Gelenjik.

But the Commandant, alas! could not give me any definite information.
The vessels lying in the harbour were all either guard-ships or
merchant-vessels which had not yet even begun to take in lading.

"Maybe in about three or four days' time a mail-boat will come in," said
the Commandant, "and then we shall see."

I returned home sulky and wrathful. My Cossack met me at the door with a
frightened countenance.

"Things are looking bad, sir!" he said.

"Yes, my friend; goodness only knows when we shall get away!"

Hereupon he became still more uneasy, and, bending towards me, he said
in a whisper:

"It is uncanny here! I met an under-officer from the Black Sea
to-day--he's an acquaintance of mine--he was in my detachment last year.
When I told him where we were staying, he said, 'That place is uncanny,
old fellow; they're wicked people there!'... And, indeed, what sort of
a blind boy is that? He goes everywhere alone, to fetch water and to buy
bread at the bazaar. It is evident they have become accustomed to that
sort of thing here."

"Well, what then? Tell me, though, has the mistress of the place put in
an appearance?"

"During your absence to-day, an old woman and her daughter arrived."

"What daughter? She has no daughter!"

"Goodness knows who it can be if it isn't her daughter; but the old
woman is sitting over there in the hut now."

I entered the hovel. A blazing fire was burning in the stove, and they
were cooking a dinner which struck me as being a rather luxurious one
for poor people. To all my questions the old woman replied that she was
deaf and could not hear me. There was nothing to be got out of her. I
turned to the blind boy who was sitting in front of the stove, putting
twigs into the fire.

"Now, then, you little blind devil," I said, taking him by the ear.
"Tell me, where were you roaming with the bundle last night, eh?"

The blind boy suddenly burst out weeping, shrieking and wailing.

"Where did I go? I did not go anywhere... With the bundle?... What
bundle?"

This time the old woman heard, and she began to mutter:

"Hark at them plotting, and against a poor boy too! What are you
touching him for? What has he done to you?"

I had enough of it, and went out, firmly resolved to find the key to the
riddle.

I wrapped myself up in my felt cloak and, sitting down on a rock by the
fence, gazed into the distance. Before me stretched the sea, agitated
by the storm of the previous night, and its monotonous roar, like the
murmur of a town over which slumber is beginning to creep, recalled
bygone years to my mind, and transported my thoughts northward to our
cold Capital. Agitated by my recollections, I became oblivious of my
surroundings.

About an hour passed thus, perhaps even longer. Suddenly something
resembling a song struck upon my ear. It was a song, and the voice was a
woman's, young and fresh--but, where was it coming from?... I listened;
it was a harmonious melody--now long-drawnout and plaintive, now swift
and lively. I looked around me--there was nobody to be seen. I listened
again--the sounds seemed to be falling from the sky. I raised my eyes.
On the roof of my cabin was standing a young girl in a striped dress
and with her hair hanging loose--a regular water-nymph. Shading her eyes
from the sun's rays with the palm of her hand, she was gazing intently
into the distance. At one time, she would laugh and talk to herself, at
another, she would strike up her song anew.

I have retained that song in my memory, word for word:

     At their own free will

     They seem to wander

     O'er the green sea yonder,

     Those ships, as still

     They are onward going,

     With white sails flowing.

     And among those ships

     My eye can mark

     My own dear barque:

     By two oars guided

     (All unprovided

     With sails) it slips.

     The storm-wind raves:

     And the old ships--see!

     With wings spread free,

     Over the waves

     They scatter and flee!

     The sea I will hail

     With obeisance deep:

     "Thou base one, hark!

     Thou must not fail

     My little barque

     From harm to keep!"

     For lo! 'tis bearing

     Most precious gear,

     And brave and daring

     The arms that steer

     Within the dark

     My little barque.

Involuntarily the thought occurred to me that I had heard the same voice
the night before. I reflected for a moment, and when I looked up at the
roof again there was no girl to be seen. Suddenly she darted past me,
with another song on her lips, and, snapping her fingers, she ran up
to the old woman. Thereupon a quarrel arose between them. The old
woman grew angry, and the girl laughed loudly. And then I saw my Undine
running and gambolling again. She came up to where I was, stopped, and
gazed fixedly into my face as if surprised at my presence. Then she
turned carelessly away and went quietly towards the harbour. But this
was not all. The whole day she kept hovering around my lodging, singing
and gambolling without a moment's interruption. Strange creature! There
was not the slightest sign of insanity in her face; on the contrary, her
eyes, which were continually resting upon me, were bright and piercing.
Moreover, they seemed to be endowed with a certain magnetic power, and
each time they looked at me they appeared to be expecting a question.
But I had only to open my lips to speak, and away she would run, with a
sly smile.

Certainly never before had I seen a woman like her. She was by no means
beautiful; but, as in other matters, I have my own prepossessions on the
subject of beauty. There was a good deal of breeding in her... Breeding
in women, as in horses, is a great thing: a discovery, the credit of
which belongs to young France. It--that is to say, breeding, not young
France--is chiefly to be detected in the gait, in the hands and feet;
the nose, in particular, is of the greatest significance. In Russia a
straight nose is rarer than a small foot.

My songstress appeared to be not more than eighteen years of age. The
unusual suppleness of her figure, the characteristic and original way
she had of inclining her head, her long, light-brown hair, the golden
sheen of her slightly sunburnt neck and shoulders, and especially her
straight nose--all these held me fascinated. Although in her sidelong
glances I could read a certain wildness and disdain, although in
her smile there was a certain vagueness, yet--such is the force of
predilections--that straight nose of hers drove me crazy. I fancied
that I had found Goethe's Mignon--that queer creature of his German
imagination. And, indeed, there was a good deal of similarity between
them; the same rapid transitions from the utmost restlessness to
complete immobility, the same enigmatical speeches, the same gambols,
the same strange songs.

Towards evening I stopped her at the door and entered into the following
conversation with her.

"Tell me, my beauty," I asked, "what were you doing on the roof to-day?"

"I was looking to see from what direction the wind was blowing."

"What did you want to know for?"

"Whence the wind blows comes happiness."

"Well? Were you invoking happiness with your song?"

"Where there is singing there is also happiness."

"But what if your song were to bring you sorrow?"

"Well, what then? Where things won't be better, they will be worse; and
from bad to good again is not far."

"And who taught you that song?"

"Nobody taught me; it comes into my head and I sing; whoever is to
hear it, he will hear it, and whoever ought not to hear it, he will not
understand it."

"What is your name, my songstress?"

"He who baptized me knows."

"And who baptized you?"

"How should I know?"

"What a secretive girl you are! But look here, I have learned something
about you"--she neither changed countenance nor moved her lips, as
though my discovery was of no concern to her--"I have learned that you
went to the shore last night."

And, thereupon, I very gravely retailed to her all that I had seen,
thinking that I should embarrass her. Not a bit of it! She burst out
laughing heartily.

"You have seen much, but know little; and what you do know, see that you
keep it under lock and key."

"But supposing, now, I was to take it into my head to inform the
Commandant?" and here I assumed a very serious, not to say stern,
demeanour.

She gave a sudden spring, began to sing, and hid herself like a bird
frightened out of a thicket. My last words were altogether out of place.
I had no suspicion then how momentous they were, but afterwards I had
occasion to rue them.

As soon as the dusk of evening fell, I ordered the Cossack to heat the
teapot, campaign fashion. I lighted a candle and sat down by the table,
smoking my travelling-pipe. I was just about to finish my second tumbler
of tea when suddenly the door creaked and I heard behind me the sound of
footsteps and the light rustle of a dress. I started and turned round.

It was she--my Undine. Softly and without saying a word she sat down
opposite to me and fixed her eyes upon me. Her glance seemed wondrously
tender, I know not why; it reminded me of one of those glances which,
in years gone by, so despotically played with my life. She seemed to be
waiting for a question, but I kept silence, filled with an inexplicable
sense of embarrassment. Mental agitation was evinced by the dull
pallor which overspread her countenance; her hand, which I noticed was
trembling slightly, moved aimlessly about the table. At one time her
breast heaved, and at another she seemed to be holding her breath. This
little comedy was beginning to pall upon me, and I was about to break
the silence in a most prosaic manner, that is, by offering her a glass
of tea; when suddenly, springing up, she threw her arms around my neck,
and I felt her moist, fiery lips pressed upon mine. Darkness came before
my eyes, my head began to swim. I embraced her with the whole strength
of youthful passion. But, like a snake, she glided from between my arms,
whispering in my ear as she did so:

"To-night, when everyone is asleep, go out to the shore."

Like an arrow she sprang from the room.

In the hall she upset the teapot and a candle which was standing on the
floor.

"Little devil!" cried the Cossack, who had taken up his position on the
straw and had contemplated warming himself with the remains of the tea.

It was only then that I recovered my senses.

In about two hours' time, when all had grown silent in the harbour, I
awakened my Cossack.

"If I fire a pistol," I said, "run to the shore."

He stared open-eyed and answered mechanically:

"Very well, sir."

I stuffed a pistol in my belt and went out. She was waiting for me
at the edge of the cliff. Her attire was more than light, and a small
kerchief girded her supple waist.

"Follow me!" she said, taking me by the hand, and we began to descend.

I cannot understand how it was that I did not break my neck. Down below
we turned to the right and proceeded to take the path along which I had
followed the blind boy the evening before. The moon had not yet risen,
and only two little stars, like two guardian lighthouses, were twinkling
in the dark-blue vault of heaven. The heavy waves, with measured and
even motion, rolled one after the other, scarcely lifting the solitary
boat which was moored to the shore.

"Let us get into the boat," said my companion.

I hesitated. I am no lover of sentimental trips on the sea; but this was
not the time to draw back. She leaped into the boat, and I after her;
and I had not time to recover my wits before I observed that we were
adrift.

"What is the meaning of this?" I said angrily.

"It means," she answered, seating me on the bench and throwing her arms
around my waist, "it means that I love you!"...

Her cheek was pressed close to mine, and I felt her burning breath upon
my face. Suddenly something fell noisily into the water. I clutched at
my belt--my pistol was gone! Ah, now a terrible suspicion crept into
my soul, and the blood rushed to my head! I looked round. We were about
fifty fathoms from the shore, and I could not swim a stroke! I tried
to thrust her away from me, but she clung like a cat to my clothes,
and suddenly a violent wrench all but threw me into the sea. The boat
rocked, but I righted myself, and a desperate struggle began.

Fury lent me strength, but I soon found that I was no match for my
opponent in point of agility...

"What do you want?" I cried, firmly squeezing her little hands.

Her fingers crunched, but her serpent-like nature bore up against the
torture, and she did not utter a cry.

"You saw us," she answered. "You will tell on us."

And, with a supernatural effort, she flung me on to the side of the
boat; we both hung half overboard; her hair touched the water. The
decisive moment had come. I planted my knee against the bottom of the
boat, caught her by the tresses with one hand and by the throat with the
other; she let go my clothes, and, in an instant, I had thrown her into
the waves.

It was now rather dark; once or twice her head appeared for an instant
amidst the sea foam, and I saw no more of her.

I found the half of an old oar at the bottom of the boat, and somehow or
other, after lengthy efforts, I made fast to the harbour. Making my way
along the shore towards my hut, I involuntarily gazed in the direction
of the spot where, on the previous night, the blind boy had awaited the
nocturnal mariner. The moon was already rolling through the sky, and it
seemed to me that somebody in white was sitting on the shore. Spurred by
curiosity, I crept up and crouched down in the grass on the top of the
cliff. By thrusting my head out a little way I was able to get a good
view of everything that was happening down below, and I was not very
much astonished, but almost rejoiced, when I recognised my water-nymph.
She was wringing the seafoam from her long hair. Her wet garment
outlined her supple figure and her high bosom.

Soon a boat appeared in the distance; it drew near rapidly; and, as on
the night before, a man in a Tartar cap stepped out of it, but he now
had his hair cropped round in the Cossack fashion, and a large knife was
sticking out behind his leather belt.

"Yanko," the girl said, "all is lost!"

Then their conversation continued, but so softly that I could not catch
a word of it.

"But where is the blind boy?" said Yanko at last, raising his voice.

"I have told him to come," was the reply.

After a few minutes the blind boy appeared, dragging on his back a sack,
which they placed in the boat.

"Listen!" said Yanko to the blind boy. "Guard that place! You know where
I mean? There are valuable goods there. Tell"--I could not catch the
name--"that I am no longer his servant. Things have gone badly. He will
see me no more. It is dangerous now. I will go seek work in another
place, and he will never be able to find another dare-devil like me.
Tell him also that if he had paid me a little better for my labours, I
would not have forsaken him. For me there is a way anywhere, if only the
wind blows and the sea roars."

After a short silence Yanko continued.

"She is coming with me. It is impossible for her to remain here. Tell
the old woman that it is time for her to die; she has been here a long
time, and the line must be drawn somewhere. As for us, she will never
see us any more."

"And I?" said the blind boy in a plaintive voice.

"What use have I for you?" was the answer.

In the meantime my Undine had sprung into the boat. She beckoned to her
companion with her hand. He placed something in the blind boy's hand and
added:

"There, buy yourself some gingerbreads."

"Is this all?" said the blind boy.

"Well, here is some more."

The money fell and jingled as it struck the rock.

The blind boy did not pick it up. Yanko took his seat in the boat; the
wind was blowing from the shore; they hoisted the little sail and sped
rapidly away. For a long time the white sail gleamed in the moonlight
amid the dark waves. Still the blind boy remained seated upon the shore,
and then I heard something which sounded like sobbing. The blind boy
was, in fact, weeping, and for a long, long time his tears flowed... I
grew heavy-hearted. For what reason should fate have thrown me into the
peaceful circle of honourable smugglers? Like a stone cast into a smooth
well, I had disturbed their quietude, and I barely escaped going to the
bottom like a stone.

I returned home. In the hall the burnt-out candle was spluttering on
a wooden platter, and my Cossack, contrary to orders, was fast asleep,
with his gun held in both hands. I left him at rest, took the candle,
and entered the hut. Alas! my cashbox, my sabre with the silver chasing,
my Daghestan dagger--the gift of a friend--all had vanished! It was
then that I guessed what articles the cursed blind boy had been dragging
along. Roughly shaking the Cossack, I woke him up, rated him, and lost
my temper. But what was the good of that? And would it not have been
ridiculous to complain to the authorities that I had been robbed by a
blind boy and all but drowned by an eighteen-year-old girl?

Thank heaven an opportunity of getting away presented itself in the
morning, and I left Taman.

What became of the old woman and the poor blind boy I know not.
And, besides, what are the joys and sorrows of mankind to me--me, a
travelling officer, and one, moreover, with an order for post-horses on
Government business?

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Foreword The Foreword states that the next few stories are taken directly from Pechorin's journal. The Foreword is also the last time the unnamed narrator appears in the novel. The unnamed narrator explains his reasons for publishing contents from Pechorin's personal documents and informs readers that he has kept everything intact except names. He expresses his admiration for Pechorin's brutal honesty in these documents. He believes that this honesty is beneficial for not only society, but for the people who knew Pechorin. The unnamed narrator also informs readers that Pechorin died on his way back from Persia and that he is only publishing information that pertains to Pechorin's time in the Caucasus. He will publish the rest of Pechorin's personal documents at an unknown time in the future. Taman This is the first story told from Pechorin's perspective. Pechorin recounts his time in Taman, a coastal village in the Caucasus. After a long journey, Pechorin endeavors to find shelter in Taman. Everywhere is booked, and he takes his frustrations out on his guide, a Cossack corporal. Pechorin shouts at him and asks to be taken anywhere. The corporal leads Pechorin through seedy parts of the town. They finally stop at a small hut on the edge of a cliff. A blind boy is the only person present to greet them. Pechorin, being prejudiced towards disabled people, immediately finds the blind boy suspicious. When Pechorin enters his abode, he feels even more alarmed. The place has a broken window and no furniture. Finding his abode and the blind boy suspicious, Pechorin does not go to sleep even though his Cossack companion is fast asleep. Pechorin's suspicions pay off. In the middle of the night, Pechorin sees a shadow through his window. He investigates the shadow and realizes that the shadow is the blind boy. Pechorin allows his curiosity to get the best of him and follows the young boy. Pechorin is immediately amazed by the blind boy's ability to navigate the dangerous terrain to the beach, and his suspicions towards the young boy grow even more. At the beach, Pechorin hears the blind boy conversing with a young woman. He hears part of their conversation. They are waiting for someone. A mysterious boat soon surfaces. A mysterious figure, to which the woman and the blind boy refer as 'Yanko', comes on shore. Yanko, the blind boy, and the young woman take materials off of the boat. Pechorin is not able to identify the materials, but sees that they are heavy. Pechorin "can't think why the boat hadn't sunk" . The next day, Pechorin confronts the blind boy and the master of the hut, who is now present. The master of the hut, an old woman, pretends to be deaf. The blind boy pretends to be ignorant. This frustrates Pechorin. He starts yelling at the boy. The old woman gives up her act and chastises Pechorin for his behavior. After this encounter, Pechorin hears singing. The sound comes from the young woman who he had seen on the beach the night before. She is seated on the roof of the hut. She is a sprightly figure. She jumps all over the place. He thinks of her as a "mermaid" and "my undine" and tries to converse with her, but her responses give him little to no information . He tells her that he saw what transpired the night before. She is unfazed by it. She tells him that he might have seen what transpired, but he has no idea what it all means. Seeing how unfazed she is by his admission, Pechorin threatens to go to the authority. The young woman continues singing and making sprightly movements after Pechorin threatens her. Later in the day, the young woman approaches Pechorin. She kisses him and tells him to meet her on the beach in the middle of the night. Pechorin, a few hours later, goes out to meet her, but not before warning his Cossack companion to come to his aid if a pistol is heard. The companion agrees to be on the alert. When Pechorin encounters the young woman on the shore, she entices him onto a boat. They go far out to sea. There, she tells him that she loves him, kisses him again, and then attempts to throw him overboard. Pechorin struggles, but eventually throws the young woman into the water. Pechorin sees the young woman again. As he makes his "way back to the hut along the shore," he sees a figure where the blind boy had ventured the night before . Pechorin realizes quickly that it is the young woman. He is somewhat relieved that she survived and creeps into the area to spy on her. He witnesses the young woman and Yanko escaping. They leave behind the old woman and the blind boy. The blind boy is devastated. "He cried and cried" . Pechorin feels sad that he caused chaos in these smugglers' lives. He does not report any of the incidents to the authorities because he does not want to reveal to them that a young woman and a blind boy had outsmarted him. The blind boy had apparently made away with some of Pechorin's possessions. The Cossack companion had been utterly useless. Pechorin leaves Taman the next morning.