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!'