A Hero of Our Time

by Mikhail Lermontov

"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 ...