“AS things fell out, however,” continued Maksim Maksimych, “I was right, you see. The presents produced only half an effect. She became more gracious more trustful—but that was all. Pechorin accordingly determined upon a last expedient. One morning he ordered his horse to be saddled, dressed himself as a Circassian, armed himself, and went into her room.

“‘Bela,’ he said. ‘You know how I love you. I decided to carry you off, thinking that when you grew to know me you would give me your love. I was mistaken. Farewell! Remain absolute mistress of all I possess. Return to your father if you like—you are free. I have acted wrongfully towards you, and I must punish myself. Farewell! I am going. Whither?—How should I know? Perchance I shall not have long to court the bullet or the sabre-stroke. Then remember me and forgive.’

“He turned away, and stretched out his hand to her in farewell. She did not take his hand, but remained silent. But I, standing there behind the door, was able through a chink to observe her countenance, and I felt sorry for her—such a deathly pallor shrouded that charming little face! Hearing no answer, Pechorin took a few steps towards the door. He was trembling, and—shall I tell you?—I think that he was in a state to perform in very fact what he had been saying in jest! He was just that sort of man, Heaven knows!

“He had scarcely touched the door, however, when Bela sprang to her feet, burst out sobbing, and threw herself on his neck! Would you believe it? I, standing there behind the door, fell to weeping too, that is to say, you know, not exactly weeping—but just—well, something foolish!”

The staff-captain became silent.

“Yes, I confess,” he said after a while, tugging at his moustache, “I felt hurt that not one woman had ever loved me like that.”

“Was their happiness lasting?” I asked.

“Yes, she admitted that, from the day she had first cast eyes on Pechorin, she had often dreamed of him, and that no other man had ever produced such an impression upon her. Yes, they were happy!”

“How tiresome!” I exclaimed, involuntarily.

In point of fact, I had been expecting a tragic ending—when, lo! he must needs disappoint my hopes in such an unexpected manner!...

“Is it possible, though,” I continued, “that her father did not guess that she was with you in the fortress?”

“Well, you must know, he seems to have had his suspicions. After a few days, we learned that the old man had been murdered. This is how it happened.”...

My attention was aroused anew.

“I must tell you that Kazbich imagined that the horse had been stolen by Azamat with his father’s consent; at any rate, that is what I suppose. So, one day, Kazbich went and waited by the roadside, about three versts beyond the village. The old man was returning from one of his futile searches for his daughter; his retainers were lagging behind. It was dusk. Deep in thought, he was riding at a walking pace when, suddenly, Kazbich darted out like a cat from behind a bush, sprang up behind him on the horse, flung him to the ground with a thrust of his dagger, seized the bridle and was off. A few of the retainers saw the whole affair from the hill; they dashed off in pursuit of Kazbich, but failed to overtake him.”

“He requited himself for the loss of his horse, and took his revenge at the same time,” I said, with a view to evoking my companion’s opinion.

“Of course, from their point of view,” said the staff-captain, “he was perfectly right.”

I was involuntarily struck by the aptitude which the Russian displays for accommodating himself to the customs of the people in whose midst he happens to be living. I know not whether this mental quality is deserving of censure or commendation, but it proves the incredible pliancy of his mind and the presence of that clear common sense which pardons evil wherever it sees that evil is inevitable or impossible of annihilation.