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head of yours will get you into trouble.'

"On one occasion, the old prince himself
came to invite us to the wedding of his eldest

daughter; and, as we were guest-friends with
him, it was impossible to decline, Tartar though

he was. We set off. In the village we were met
by a number of dogs, all barking loudly. The

women, when they saw us coming, hid them-
selves, but those whose faces we were able to

get a view of were far from being beauties.
"'I had a much better opinion of the Cir-

cassian women,' remarked Grigori Aleksandrovich.
"'Wait a bit!' I answered, with a smile; I

had my own views on the subject.
"A number of people had already gathered at

the prince's hut. It is the custom of the Asiatics,
you know, to invite all and sundry to a wedding.

We were received with every mark of honour
and conducted to the guest-chamber. All the

same, I did not forget quietly to mark where
our horses were put, in case anything unforeseen

should happen."
"How are weddings celebrated amongst

them?" I asked the staff-captain.
"Oh, in the usual way. First of all, the

Mullah reads them something out of the Koran;
then gifts are bestowed upon the young couple

and all their relations; the next thing is eating
and drinking of buza, then the dance on horse-

back; and there is always some ragamuffin,
bedaubed with grease, bestriding a wretched,

lame jade, and grimacing, buffooning, and making
the worshipful company laugh. Finally, when

darkness falls, they proceed to hold what we
should call a ball in the guest-chamber. A poor,

old greybeard strums on a three-stringed in-
strument -- I forget what they call it, but

anyhow, it is something in the nature of our
balalaika.[1] The girls and young children set

themselves in two ranks, one opposite the other,
and clap their hands and sing. Then a girl and

a man come out into the centre and begin to
chant verses to each other -- whatever comes into

their heads -- and the rest join in as a chorus.
Pechorin and I sat in the place of honour. All

at once up came our host's youngest daughter,
a girl of about sixteen, and chanted to Pechorin

-- how shall I put it? -- something in the nature
of a compliment." . . .

[1] A kind of two-stringed or three-stringed guitar.
"What was it she sang -- do you remember?"

"It went like this, I fancy: 'Handsome, they
say, are our young horsemen, and the tunics they

wear are garnished with silver; but handsomer still
is the young Russian officer, and the lace on his

tunic is wrought of gold. Like a poplar amongst
them he stands, but in gardens of ours such trees

will grow not nor bloom!'
"Pechorin rose, bowed to her, put his hand

to his forehead and heart, and asked me to
answer her. I know their language well, and I

translated his reply.
"When she had left us I whispered to Grigori

Aleksandrovich:
"'Well, now, what do you think of her?'

"'Charming!' he replied. 'What is her
name?'

"'Her name is Bela,' I answered.
"And a beautiful girl she was indeed; her

figure was tall and slender, her eyes black as those
of a mountain chamois, and they fairly looked

into your soul. Pechorin, deep in thought, kept
his gaze fixed upon her, and she, for her part, stole

glances at him often enough from under her
lashes. Pechorin, however, was not the only

one who was admiring the pretty princess;
another pair of eyes, fixed and fiery, were gazing

at her from the corner of the room. I took
a good look at their owner, and recognised my

old acquaintance Kazbich, who, you must know,
was neither exactly 'friendly' nor yet the other

thing. He was an object of much suspicion,
although he had never actually been caught at

any knavery. He used to bring rams to our
fortress and sell them cheaply; only he never

would haggle; whatever he demanded at first
you had to give. He would have his throat cut

rather than come down in price. He had the
reputation of being fond of roaming on the far

side of the Kuban with the Abreks; and, to tell
the truth, he had a regular thief's visage. A

little, wizened, broad-shouldered fellow he was --
but smart, I can tell you, smart as the very

devil! His tunic was always worn out and
patched, but his weapons were mounted in silver.

His horse was renowned throughout Kabardia --
and, indeed, a better one it would be impossible

to imagine! Not without good reason did all
the other horsemen envy Kazbich, and on more

than one occasion they had attempted to steal
the horse, but they had never succeeded. I

seem to see the animal before me now -- black as
coal, with legs like bow-strings and eyes as fine

as Bela's! How strong he was too! He would
gallop as much as fifty versts at a stretch! And

he was well trained besides -- he would trot
behind his master like a dog, and actually knew

his voice! Kazbich never used to tether him
either -- just the very horse for a robber! . . .

"On that evening Kazbich was more sullen
than ever, and I noticed that he was wearing a

coat of mail under his tunic. 'He hasn't got
that coat of mail on for nothing,' I thought.

'He has some plot in his head, I'll be bound!'
"It grew oppressively hot in the hut, and I

went out into the air to cool myself. Night had
fallen upon the mountains, and a mist was

beginning to creep along the gorges.
"It occurred to me to pop in under the shed

where our horses were standing, to see whether
they had their fodder; and, besides, it is never

any harm to take precautions. My horse was
a splendid one too, and more than one Kabardian

had already cast fond glances at it, repeating at
the same time: 'Yakshi tkhe chok yakshi.'[1]

[1] "Good -- very good."
"I stole along the fence. Suddenly I heard

voices, one of which I immediately recognised.
It was that of the young pickle, Azamat, our

host's son. The other person spoke less and in a
quieter tone.

"'What are they discussing there?' I won-
dered. 'Surely it can't be my horse!' I

squatted down beside the fence and proceeded
to play the eavesdropper, trying not to let slip a

single word. At times the noise of songs and the
buzz of voices, escaping from the hut, drowned

the conversation which I was finding interesting.
"'That's a splendid horse of yours,' Azamat

was saying. 'If I were master of a house of my
own and had a stud of three hundred mares, I

would give half of it for your galloper,
Kazbich!'

"'Aha! Kazbich!' I said to myself, and I
called to mind the coat of mail.

"'Yes,' replied Kazbich, after an interval of
silence. 'There is not such another to be found

in all Kabardia. Once -- it was on the other side
of the Terek -- I had ridden with the Abreks to

seize the Russian herds. We had no luck, so we
scattered in different directions. Four Cossacks

dashed after me. I could actually hear the cries
of the giaours behind me, and in front of me

there was a dense forest. I crouched down in the
saddle, committed myself to Allah, and, for

the first time in my life, insulted my horse with
a blow of the whip. Like a bird, he plunged

among the branches; the sharp thorns tore my
clothing, the dead boughs of the cork-elms struck

against my face! My horse leaped over tree-
trunks and burst his way through bushes with his

chest! It would have been better for me to
have abandoned him at the outskirts of the

forest and concealed myself in it afoot, but it
was a pity to part with him -- and the Prophet

rewarded me. A few bullets whistled over my
head. I could now hear the Cossacks, who had

dismounted, running upon my tracks. Suddenly
a deep gully opened before me. My galloper

took thought -- and leaped. His hind hoofs
slipped back off the opposite bank, and he re-

mained hanging by his fore-feet. I dropped
the bridle and threw myself into the hollow,

thereby saving my horse, which jumped out.
The Cossacks saw the whole scene, only not one

of them got down to search for me, thinking
probably that I had mortally injured myself;

and I heard them rushing to catch my horse. My
heart bled within me. I crept along the hollow

through the thick grass -- then I looked around:
it was the end of the forest. A few Cossacks were

riding out from it on to the clearing, and there
was my Karagyoz[1] galloping straight towards

them. With a shout they all dashed forward.
For a long, long time they pursued him, and one

of them, in particular, was once or twice almost
successful in throwing a lasso over his neck.

[1] Turkish for "Black-eye."
I trembled, dropped my eyes, and began to pray.

After a few moments I looked up again, and there
was my Karagyoz flying along, his tail waving --

free as the wind; and the giaours, on their jaded
horses, were trailing along far behind, one after

another, across the steppe. Wallah! It is true --
really true! Till late at night I lay in the hollow.

Suddenly -- what do you think, Azamat? I heard
in the darkness a horse trotting along the bank

of the hollow, snorting, neighing, and beating
the ground with his hoofs. I recognised my

Karagyoz's voice; 'twas he, my comrade!" . . .
Since that time we have never been parted!'



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