by Leo Tolstoy
‘Who is he?’ asked the old man, pointing to the newcomer.
‘My murid. Eldár is his name,’ said Hadji Murád.
‘That is well,’ said the old man, and motioned Eldár to a place on a piece of felt beside Hadji Murád. Eldár sat down, crossing his legs and fixing his fine ram-like eyes on the old man who, having now started talking, was telling how their brave fellows had caught two Russian soldiers the week before and had killed one and sent the other to Shamil in Vedén.
Hadji Murád heard him absently, looking at the door and listening to the sounds outside. Under the penthouse steps were heard, the door creaked, and Sado, the master of the house, came in. He was a man of about forty, with a small beard, long nose, and eyes as black, though not as glittering, as those of his fifteen-year-old son who had run to call him home and who now entered with his father and sat down by the door. The master of the house took off his wooden slippers at the door, and pushing his old and much-worn cap to the back of his head (which had remained unshaved so long that it was beginning to be overgrown with black hair), at once squatted down in front of Hadji Murád.
He too lifted his hands palms upwards, as the old man had done, repeated a prayer, and then stroked his face downwards. Only after that did he begin to speak. He told how an order had come from Shamil to seize Hadji Murád alive or dead, that Shamil’s envoys had left only the day before, that the people were afraid to disobey Shamil’s orders, and that therefore it was necessary to be careful.
‘In my house,’ said Sado, ‘no one shall injure my kunák while I live, but how will it be in the open fields?… We must think it over.’
Hadji Murád listened with attention and nodded approvingly. When Sado had finished he said:
‘Very well. Now we must send a man with a letter to the Russians. My murid will go but he will need a guide.’
‘I will send brother Bata,’ said Sado. ‘Go and call Bata,’ he added, turning to his son.
The boy instantly bounded to his nimble feet as if he were on springs, and swinging his arms, rapidly left the sáklya. Some ten minutes later he returned with a sinewy, short-legged Chechen, burnt almost black by the sun, wearing a worn and tattered yellow Circassian coat with frayed sleeves, and crumpled black leggings.
Hadji Murád greeted the newcomer, and again without wasting a single word, immediately asked:
‘Canst thou conduct my murid to the Russians?’
‘I can,’ gaily replied Bata. ‘I can certainly do it. There is not another Chechen who would pass as I can. Another might agree to go and might promise anything, but would do nothing; but I can do it!’
‘All right,’ said Hadji Murád. ‘Thou shalt receive three for thy trouble,’ and he held up three fingers.
Bata nodded to show that he understood, and added that it was not money he prized, but that he was ready to serve Hadji Murád for the honour alone. Everyone in the mountains knew Hadji Murád, and how he slew the Russian swine.
‘Very well.… A rope should be long but a speech short,’ said Hadji Murád.
‘Well then I’ll hold my tongue,’ said Bata.
‘Where the river Argun bends by the cliff,’ said Hadji Murád, ‘there are two stacks in a glade in the forest – thou knowest?’
‘I know.’
‘There my four horsemen are waiting for me,’ said Hadji Murád.
‘Aye,’ answered Bata, nodding.
‘Ask for Khan Mahomá. He knows what to do and what to say. Canst thou lead him to the Russian commander, Prince Vorontsóv?’
‘Yes, I’ll take him.’
‘Canst thou take him and bring him back again?’
‘I can.’
‘Then take him there and return to the wood. I shall be there too.’
‘I will do it all,’ said Bata, rising, and putting his hands on his heart he went out.
Hadji Murád turned to his host.
‘A man must also be sent to Chekhi,’ he began, and took hold of one of the cartridge pouches of his Circassian coat, but let his hand drop immediately and became silent on seeing two women enter the sáklya.
One was Sado’s wife – the thin middle-aged woman who had arranged the cushions. The other was quite a young girl, wearing red trousers and a green beshmét. A necklace of silver coins covered the whole front of her dress, and at the end of the short but thick plait of hard black hair that hung between her thin shoulder-blades a silver ruble was suspended. Her eyes, as sloe-black as those of her father and brother, sparkled brightly in her young face which tried to be stern. She did not look at the visitors, but evidently felt their presence.
Sado’s wife brought in a low round table on which stood tea, pancakes in butter, cheese, churek (that is, thinly rolled out bread), and honey. The girl carried a basin, a ewer, and a towel.
Sado and Hadji Murád kept silent as long as the women, with their coin ornaments tinkling, moved softly about in their red soft-soled slippers, setting out before the visitors the things they had brought. Eldár sat motionless as a statue, his ram-like eyes fixed on his crossed legs, all the time the women were in the sáklya. Only after they had gone and their soft footsteps could no longer be heard behind the door, did he give a sigh of relief.
Hadji Murád having pulled out a bullet from one of the cartridge-pouches of his Circassian coat, and having taken out a rolled-up note that lay beneath it, held it out, saying:
‘To be handed to my son.’
‘Where must the answer be sent?’
‘To thee; and thou must forward it to me.’
‘It shall be done,’ said Sado, and placed the note in a cartridge-pocket of his own coat. Then he took up the metal ewer and moved the basin towards Hadji Murád.
Hadji Murád turned up the sleeves of his beshmét on his white muscular arms, held out his hands under the clear cold water which Sado poured from the ewer, and having wiped them on a clean unbleached towel, turned to the table. Eldár did the same. While the visitors ate, Sado sat opposite and thanked them several times for their visit. The boy sat by the door never taking his sparkling eyes off Hadji Murád’s face, and smiled as if in confirmation of his father’s words.
Though he had eaten nothing for more than twenty-four hours Hadji Murád ate only a little bread and cheese; then, drawing out a small knife from under his dagger, he spread some honey on a piece of bread.
‘Our honey is good,’ said the old man, evidently pleased to see Hadji Murád eating his honey. ‘This year, above all other years, it is plentiful and good.’
‘I thank thee,’ said Hadji Murád and turned from the table. Eldár would have liked to go on eating but he followed his leader’s example, and having moved away from the table, handed him the ewer and basin.
Sado knew that he was risking his life by receiving such a guest in his house, for after his quarrel with Shamil the latter had issued a proclamation to all the inhabitants of Chechnya forbidding them to receive Hadji Murád on pain of death. He knew that the inhabitants of the aoul might at any moment become aware of Hadji Murád’s presence in his house and might demand his surrender. But this not only did not frighten Sado, it even gave him pleasure: he considered it his duty to protect his guest though it should cost him his life, and he was proud and pleased with himself because he was doing his duty.
‘Whilst thou art in my house and my head is on my shoulders no one shall harm thee,’ he repeated to Hadji Murád.
Hadji Murád looked into his glittering eyes and understanding that this was true, said with some solemnity –
‘Mayest thou receive joy and life!’
Sado silently laid his hand on his heart in token of thanks for these kind words.
Having closed the shutters of the sáklya and laid some sticks in the fireplace, Sado, in an exceptionally bright and animated mood, left the room and went into that part of his sáklya where his family all lived. The women had not yet gone to sleep, and were talking about the dangerous visitors who were spending the night in their guest-chamber.
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II
AT Vozdvízhensk, the advanced fort situated some ten miles from the aoul in which Hadji Murád was spending the night, three soldiers and a non-commissioned officer left the fort and went beyond the Shahgirínsk Gate. The soldiers, dressed as Caucasian soldiers used to be in those days, wore sheepskin coats and caps, and boots that reached above their knees, and they carried their cloaks tightly rolled up and fastened across their shoulders. Shouldering arms, they first went some five hundred paces along the road and then turned off it and went some twenty paces to the right – the dead leaves rustling under their boots – till they reached the blackened trunk of a broken plane tree just visible through the darkness. There they stopped. It was at this plane tree that an ambush party was usually placed.
The bright stars, that had seemed to be running along the tree-tops while the soldiers were walking through the forest, now stood still, shining brightly between the bare branches of the trees.
‘A good job it’s dry,’ said the non-commissioned officer Panóv, bringing down his long gun and bayonet with a clang from his shoulder and placing it against the plane tree.
The three soldiers did the same.
‘Sure enough I’ve lost it!’ muttered Panóv crossly. ‘Must have left it behind or I’ve dropped it on the way.’
‘What are you looking for?’ asked one of the soldiers in a bright, cheerful voice.
‘The bowl of my pipe. Where the devil has it got to?’
‘Have you got the stem?’ asked the cheerful voice.
‘Here it is.’
‘Then why not stick it straight into the ground?’
‘Not worth bothering!’
‘We’ll manage that in a minute.’
Smoking in ambush was forbidden, but this ambush hardly deserved the name. It was rather an outpost to prevent the mountaineers from bringing up a cannon unobserved and firing at the fort as they used to. Panóv did not consider it necessary to forgo the pleasure of smoking, and therefore accepted the cheerful soldier’s offer. The latter took a knife from his pocket and made a small round hole in the ground. Having smoothed it, he adjusted the pipe-stem to it, then filled the hole with tobacco and pressed it down, and the pipe was ready. A sulphur match flared and for a moment lit up the broad-cheeked face of the soldier who lay on his stomach, the air whistled in the stem, and Panóv smelt the pleasant odour of burning tobacco.
‘Fixed it up?’ said he, rising to his feet.
‘Why, of course!’
‘What a smart chap you are, Avdéev!… As wise as a judge! Now then, lad.’
Avdéev rolled over on his side to make room for Panóv, letting smoke escape from his mouth.
Panóv lay down prone, and after wiping the mouthpiece with his sleeve, began to inhale.
When they had had their smoke the soldiers began to talk.
‘They say the commander has had his fingers in the cashbox again,’ remarked one of them in a lazy voice. ‘He lost at cards, you see.’
‘He’ll pay it back again,’ said Panóv.
‘Of course he will! He’s a good officer,’ assented Avdéev.
‘Good! good!’ gloomily repeated the man who had started the conversation. ‘In my opinion the company ought to speak to him. “If you’ve taken the money, tell us how much and when you’ll repay it.’ ”
‘That will be as the company decides,’ said Panóv, tearing himself away from the pipe.
‘Of course. “The community is a strong man,” ’ assented Avdéev, quoting a proverb.
‘There will be oats to buy and boots to get towards spring. The money will be wanted, and what shall we do if he’s pocketed it?’ insisted the dissatisfied one.
‘I tell you it will be as the company wishes,’ repeated Panóv. ‘It’s not the first time: he takes it and gives it back.’
In the Caucasus in those days each company chose men to manage its own commissariat. They received 6 rubles 50 kopeks1 a month per man from the treasury, and catered for the company. They planted cabbages, made hay, had their own carts, and prided themselves on their well-fed horses. The company’s money was kept in a chest of which the commander had the key, and it often happened that he borrowed from the chest. This had just happened again, and the soldiers were talking about it. The morose soldier, Nikítin, wished to demand an account from the commander, while Panóv and Avdéev considered that unnecessary.
After Panóv, Nikítin had a smoke, and then spreading his cloak on the ground sat down on it leaning against the trunk of the plane tree. The soldiers were silent. Far above their heads the crowns of the trees rustled in the wind and suddenly, above this incessant low rustling, rose the howling, whining, weeping, and chuckling of jackals.
‘Just listen to those accursed creatures – how they caterwaul!’
‘They’re laughing at you because your mouth’s all on one side,’ remarked the high voice of the third soldier, an Ukrainian.
All was silent again, except for the wind that swayed the branches, now revealing and now hiding the stars.
‘I say, Panóv,’ suddenly asked the cheerful Avdéev, ‘do you ever feel dull?’
‘Dull, why?’ replied Panóv reluctantly.
‘Well, I do.… I feel so dull sometimes that I don’t know what I might not be ready to do to myself.’
‘There now!’ was all Panóv replied.
‘That time when I drank all the money it was from dullness. It took hold of me … took hold of me till I thought to myself, “I’ll just get blind drunk!’ ”
‘But sometimes drinking makes it still worse.’
‘Yes, that’s happened to me too. But what is a man to do with himself?’
‘But what makes you feel so dull?’
‘What, me?… Why, it’s the longing for home.’
‘Is yours a wealthy home then?’
‘No; we weren’t wealthy, but things went properly – we lived well.’ And Avdéev began to relate what he had already told Panóv many times.
‘You see, I went as a soldier of my own free will, instead of my brother,’ he said. ‘He has children. They were five in the family and I had only just married. Mother began begging me to go. So I thought, “Well, maybe they will remember what I’ve done.” So I went to our proprietor … he was a good master and he said, “You’re a fine fellow, go!” So I went instead of my brother.’
‘Well, that was right,’ said Panóv.
‘And yet, will you believe me, Panóv, it’s chiefly because of that that I feel so dull now? “Why did you go instead of your brother?” I say to myself. “He’s living like a king now over there, while you have to suffer here”; and the more I think of it the worse I feel.… It seems just a piece of ill-luck!’
Avdéev was silent.
‘Perhaps we’d better have another smoke,’ said he after a pause.
‘Well then, fix it up!’
But the soldiers were not to have their smoke. Hardly had Avdéev risen to fix the pipe-stem in its place when above the rustling of the trees they heard footsteps along the road. Panóv took his gun and pushed Nikítin with his foot.
Nikítin rose and picked up his cloak.
The third soldier, Bondarénko, rose also, and said:
‘And I have dreamt such a dream, mates.…’
‘Sh!’ said Avdéev, and the soldiers held their breath, listening. The footsteps of men in soft-soled boots were heard approaching. The fallen leaves and dry twigs could be heard rustling clearer and clearer through the darkness. Then came the peculiar guttural tones of Chechen voices. The soldiers could now not only hear men approaching, but could see two shadows passing through a clear space between the trees; one shadow taller than the other. When these shadows had come in line with the soldiers, Panóv, gun in hand, stepped out on to the road, followed by his comrades.
‘Who goes there?’ cried he.
‘Me, friendly Chechen,’ said the shorter one. This was Bata. ‘Gun, yok!… sword, yok!’ said he, pointing to himself. ‘Prince, want!’
The taller one stood silent beside his comrade. He too was unarmed.
‘He means he’s a scout, and wants the Colonel,’ explained Panóv to his comrades.
‘Prince Vorontsóv … much want! Big business!’ said Bata.
‘All right, all right! We’ll take you to him,’ said Panóv. ‘I say, you’d better take them,’ said he to Avdéev, ‘you and Bondarénko; and when you’ve given them up to the officer on duty come back again. Mind,’ he added, ‘be careful to make them keep in front of you!’
‘And what of this?’ said Avdéev, moving his gun and bayonet as though stabbing someone. ‘I’d just give a dig, and let the steam out of him!’
‘What’ll he be worth when you’ve stuck him?’ remarked Bondarénko.
‘Now, march!’
When the steps of the two soldiers conducting the scouts could no longer be heard, Panóv and Nikítin returned to their post.
‘What the devil brings them here at night?’ said Nikítin.
‘Seems it’s necessary,’ said Panóv. ‘But it’s getting chilly,’ he added, and unrolling his cloak he put it on and sat down by the tree.
About two hours later Avdéev and Bondarénko returned.
‘Well, have you handed them over?’
‘Yes. They weren’t yet asleep at the colonel’s – they were taken straight in to him. And do you know, mates, those shaven-headed lads are fine!’ continued Avdéev. ‘Yes, really. What a talk I had with them!’
‘Of course you’d talk,’ remarked Nikítin disapprovingly.
‘Really they’re just like Russians. One of them is married. “Molly,” says I, “bar?” “Bar,” he says. Bondarénko, didn’t I say “bar?” “Many bar?” “A couple,” says he. A couple! Such a good talk we had! Such nice fellows!’
‘Nice, indeed!’ said Nikitin. ‘If you met him alone he’d soon let the guts out of you.’
‘It will be getting light before long,’ said Panóv.
‘Yes, the stars are beginning to go out,’ said Avdéev, sitting down and making himself comfortable.
And the soldiers were silent again.