A Hero of our time / Герой нашего времени. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Михаил Лермонтов
room. Before going in, though, I took care to remember where they put our horses – just in case, you know.”
“How do they celebrate weddings?” I asked the captain.
“Oh, in the usual way. First the mullah reads them something from the Koran, then presents are given to the newlyweds and all their relatives. They eat, and drink booza, until finally the horsemanship display begins, and there is always some kind of filthy clown dressed in rags riding a mangy lame nag playing the fool to amuse the company.
Later, when it grows dark, what we would call a ball begins in the best room. Some miserable old man strums away on a three-stringed… can’t remember what they call it… something like our balalaika. The girls and young men line up in two rows facing each other, clap their hands and sing. Then one of the girls and a man step into the center and begin to chant verses to each other, improvising as they go, while the rest pick up the refrain. Pechorin and I occupied the place of honor, and as we sat there the host’s younger daughter, a girl of sixteen or so, came up to him and sang to him… what should I call it… a sort of compliment.”
“You don’t remember what she sang by any chance?”
“Yes, I think it went something like this: ‘Our young horsemen are strong and their caftan robes are encrusted with silver, but the young Russian officer is even stronger still and his epaulets are of gold. He is like a poplar among the others, yet he shall neither grow nor bloom in our orchard.’ Pechorin rose, bowed to her, pressing his hand to his forehead and heart, and asked me to reply to her. Knowing their language well I translated his reply.
“When she walked away I whispered to him: ‘Well, what do you think of her?’
“‘Exquisite,’ replied he. ‘What is her name?’ ‘Her name is Bela,’ i replied.
“And indeed, she was beautiful: tall, slim, and her eyes as black as a gazelle’s looked right into your soul. Pechorin grew thoughtful and did not take his eyes off her, and she frequently stole a glance at him. But Pechorin was not the only one who admired the pretty princess: from a corner of the room another pair of eyes, fixed and flaming, stared at her. I looked closer and recognized somebody I knew, Kazbich. He was a man you couldn’t say was loyal, though there was nothing to show he was hostile towards us. There were a good many suspicions but he had never been caught at any tricks. Occasionally he brought sheep to us at the fort and sold them cheap, but he never bargained: you had to pay him what he asked – he would never cut a price even if his life depended on it. It was said of him that he’d ride out beyond the Kuban River with the bandits, and to tell the truth, he did look like a guerrilla: he was short, wiry and broad-shouldered. And nimble he was, as clever as the devil! The embroidered shirt he wore was always torn and patched, but his weapons were ornamented with silver. As for his horse, it was famous in all Kabarda, and indeed, you couldn’t think of a better horse. The horsemen all around had very good reason to be jealous, and time and again they tried to steal the animal, but never could. I can still see the horse as if he were before me now: as black as tar, with legs like taut violin strings and eyes no less beautiful than Bela’s. He was a strong animal too, could gallop thirty miles at a stretch, and as for training, he would follow his master like a dog and always came when he called him. Kazbich never bothered to tie up the animal. A regular bandit horse!
“That evening Kazbich was gloomier than I had ever seen him, and I noticed that he had a coat of mail under his shirt. ‘there must be a reason for the armor,’ thought I. ‘He is evidently plotting something.’
“It was stuffy indoors, so I stepped out into the fresh air. The night was settling on the hills and the mist was beginning to weave in and out among the gorges.
“It occurred to me to look into the shelter where our horses stood and see whether they were being fed, and besides, caution never hurt anything. After all, I had a fine horse and a good many Kabardians had cast fond glances at him and said: ‘Yakshi tkhe, chek yakshi!’3
“I was picking my way along the fence when suddenly I heard voices. One of the speakers I recognized right away: it was that good-for-nothing Azamat, our host’s son. The other spoke more slowly and quietly. ‘I wonder what they’re up to,’ thought I. ‘I hope it’s not about my horse.’ I dropped down behind the fence and cocked my ears, trying not to miss a word. It was impossible to hear everything, for now and then the singing and the hum of voices from the hut drowned out the conversation I was so interested to hear.
“‘That’s a fine horse you have,’ Azamat was saying. ‘Were I the master of my house and the owner of a herd of three hundred mares, I’d give half of them for your horse, Kazbich!’
“‘So it’s Kazbich,’ I thought and remembered the coat of mail.
“‘You’re right,’ Kazbich replied after a momentary silence, ‘you won’t find another like him in all Kabarda. Once, beyond the Terek it was, I rode with the guerrillas to pick up some Russian horses. We were unlucky though, and had to scatter. Four Cossacks came after me – I could already hear the infidels shouting behind me, and ahead of me was a thicket. I bent low in the saddle, trusted myself to Allah and for the first time in my life insulted the horse by striking him. Like a bird he flew between the branches, the thorns tore my clothes, and the dry elm twigs lashed my face. The horse leapt over tree stumps and crashed through the brush. It would have been better for me to slip off him in some glade and take cover in the woods on foot, but I couldn’t bear to part with him, so I held on, and the Prophet rewarded me. Some bullets whistled past overhead! I could hear the Cossacks, now dismounted, running along on my trail… Suddenly a deep gully opened up in front – my horse hesitated for a moment, and then jumped. But on the other side his hind legs slipped off the sheer edge and he was left holding on by the forelegs. I dropped the reins and slipped into the gully. This saved the horse, who managed to pull himself up. The Cossacks saw all this, but none of them came down into the ravine to look for me – they probably gave me up for dead. Then I heard them going after my horse. My heart bled as I crawled through the thick grass of the gully until I was out of the woods. Now I saw some Cossacks riding out from the thicket into the open and my Karagyoz galloping straight at them. With a shout they made a dash for him. They chased him for a long time. One of them almost got a lasso around his neck once or twice – I trembled, turned away and began praying. Looking up a few moments later I saw my Karagyoz flying free as the wind, his tail streaming while the infidels trailed far behind in the plain on their exhausted horses. I swear by Allah this is the truth, the truest truth! I sat in my gully until far into the night. And what do you think happened, Azamat? Suddenly through the darkness I heard a horse running along the edge of the gully, snorting, neighing and stamping his hoofs – I recognized the voice of my Karagyoz, for it was he, my comrade! Since then we have never separated.’
“You could hear the man patting the smooth neck of the horse and whispering to him all kinds of pet names.
“‘Had I a herd of a thousand mares,’ said Azamat, ‘I would give it to you for your Karagyoz.’
“‘Iok, No, I wouldn’t take it,’ replied Kazbich indifferently.
“‘Listen, Kazbich,’ Azamat coaxed him. ‘You are a good man and a brave warrior; my father fears the Russians and doesn’t let me go into the mountains. Give me your horse and I’ll do anything you want, I’ll steal for you my father’s best musket or sword, whatever you wish – and his saber is a real Gurda. Lay the blade against your hand and it will cut deep into the flesh. Mail like yours won’t stop it.’
“Kazbich was silent.
“‘When I first saw your horse,’ Azamat went on, ‘prancing under you, his nostrils open wide and sparks flying under his hoofs, something strange happened in my soul, and I lost interest in everything. I have nothing but contempt now for my father’s best horses, I’m ashamed to be seen riding them, and I have been sick at heart. In my misery I’ve spent days on end sitting on a hill, thinking of nothing but your fleet-footed Karagyoz with his proud stride and sleek back as straight as an arrow, his blazing eyes looking into mine as if he wanted to speak to me. I’ll die, Kazbich, if you will not sell
Good horse, excellent!