by Leo Tolstoy
Then Hadji Murád questioned them about the road, and when Khan Mahomá assured him that he knew the way well and would conduct him straight to the spot, Hadji Murád took out some money and gave Bata the promised three rubles. Then he ordered his men to take out of the saddle-bags his gold-ornamented weapons and his turban, and to clean themselves up so as to look well when they arrived among the Russians.
While they cleaned their weapons, harness, and horses, the stars faded away, it became quite light, and an early morning breeze sprang up.
V
EARLY in the morning, while it was still dark, two companies carrying axes and commanded by Poltorátsky marched six miles beyond the Shahgirínsk Gate, and having thrown out a line of sharpshooters set to work to fell trees as soon as the day broke. Towards eight o’clock the mist which had mingled with the perfumed smoke of the hissing and crackling damp green branches on the bonfires began to rise and the wood-fellers – who till then had not seen five paces off but had only heard one another – began to see both the bonfires and the road through the forest, blocked with fallen trees. The sun now appeared like a bright spot in the fog and now again was hidden.
In the glade, some way from the road, Poltorátsky, his subaltern Tíkhonov, two officers of the Third Company, and Baron Freze, an ex-officer of the Guards and a fellow-student of Poltorátsky’s at the Cadet College, who had been reduced to the ranks for fighting a duel, were sitting on drums. Bits of paper that had contained food, cigarette stumps, and empty bottles, lay scattered around them. The officers had had some vodka and were now eating, and drinking porter. A drummer was uncorking their third bottle.
Poltorátsky, although he had not had enough sleep, was in that peculiar state of elation and kindly careless gaiety which he always felt when he found himself among his soldiers and with his comrades where there was a possibility of danger.
The officers were carrying on an animated conversation, the subject of which was the latest news: the death of General Sleptsóv. None of them saw in this death that most important moment of a life, its termination and return to the source whence it sprang – they saw in it only the valour of a gallant officer who rushed at the mountaineers sword in hand and hacked them desperately.
Though all of them – and especially those who had been in action – knew and could not help knowing that in those days in the Caucasus, and in fact anywhere and at any time, such hand-to-hand hacking as is always imagined and described never occurs (or if hacking with swords and bayonets ever does occur, it is only those who are running away that get hacked), that fiction of hand-to-hand fighting endowed them with the calm pride and cheerfulness with which they sat on the drums – some with a jaunty air, others on the contrary in a very modest pose, and drank and joked without troubling about death, which might overtake them at any moment as it had overtaken Sleptsóv. And in the midst of their talk, as if to confirm their expectations, they heard to the left of the road the pleasant stirring sound of a rifle-shot; and a bullet, merrily whistling somewhere in the misty air, flew past and crashed into a tree.
‘Hullo!’ exclaimed Poltorátsky in a merry voice; ‘why that’s at our line.… There now, Kóstya,’ and he turned to Freze, ‘now’s your chance. Go back to the company. I will lead the whole company to support the cordon and we’ll arrange a battle that will be simply delightful … and then we’ll make a report.’
Freze jumped to his feet and went at a quick pace towards the smoke-enveloped spot where he had left his company.
Poltorátsky’s little Kabardá dapple-bay was brought to him, and he mounted and drew up his company and led it in the direction whence the shots were fired. The outposts stood on the skirts of the forest in front of the bare descending slope of a ravine. The wind was blowing in the direction of the forest, and not only was it possible to see the slope of the ravine, but the opposite side of it was also distinctly visible. When Poltorátsky rode up to the line the sun came out from behind the mist, and on the other side of the ravine, by the outskirts of a young forest, a few horsemen could be seen at a distance of a quarter of a mile. These were the Chechens who had pursued Hadji Murád and wanted to see him meet the Russians. One of them fired at the line. Several soldiers fired back. The Chechens retreated and the firing ceased.
But when Poltorátsky and his company came up he nevertheless gave orders to fire, and scarcely had the word been passed than along the whole line of sharpshooters the incessant, merry, stirring rattle of our rifles began, accompanied by pretty dissolving cloudlets of smoke. The soldiers, pleased to have some distraction, hastened to load and fired shot after shot. The Chechens evidently caught the feeling of excitement, and leaping forward one after another fired a few shots at our men. One of these shots wounded a soldier. It was that same Avdéev who had lain in ambush the night before.
When his comrades approached him he was lying prone, holding his wounded stomach with both hands, and rocking himself with a rhythmic motion moaned softly. He belonged to Poltorátsky’s company, and Poltorátsky, seeing a group of soldiers collected, rode up to them.
‘What is it, lad? Been hit?’ said Poltorátsky. ‘Where?’
Avdéev did not answer.
‘I was just going to load, your honour, when I heard a click,’ said a soldier who had been with Avdéev; ‘and I look and see he’s dropped his gun.’
‘Tut, tut, tut!’ Poltorátsky clicked his tongue. ‘Does it hurt much, Avdéev?’
‘It doesn’t hurt but it stops me walking. A drop of vodka now, your honour!’
Some vodka (or rather the spirit drunk by the soldiers in the Caucasus) was found, and Panóv, severely frowning, brought Avdéev a can-lid full. Avdéev tried to drink it but immediately handed back the lid.
‘My soul turns against it,’ he said. ‘Drink it yourself.’
Panóv drank up the spirit.
Avdéev raised himself but sank back at once. They spread out a cloak and laid him on it.
‘Your honour, the Colonel is coming,’ said the sergeant-major to Poltorátsky.
‘All right. Then will you see to him?’ said Poltorátsky, and flourishing his whip he rode at a fast trot to meet Vorontsóv.
Vorontsóv was riding his thoroughbred English chestnut gelding, and was accompanied by the adjutant, a Cossack, and a Chechen interpreter.
‘What’s happening here?’ asked Vorontsóv.
‘Why, a skirmishing party attacked our advanced line,’ Poltorátsky answered.
‘Come, come – you arranged the whole thing yourself!’
‘Oh no, Prince, not I,’ said Poltorátsky with a smile; ‘they pushed forward of their own accord.’
‘I hear a soldier has been wounded?’
‘Yes, it’s a great pity. He’s a good soldier.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously, I believe … in the stomach.’
‘And do you know where I am going?’ Vorontsóv asked.
‘I don’t.’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘No.’
‘Hadji Murád has surrendered and we are now going to meet him.’
‘You don’t mean to say so?’
‘His envoy came to me yesterday,’ said Vorontsóv, with difficulty repressing a smile of pleasure. ‘He will be waiting for me at the Shalín glade in a few minutes. Place sharpshooters as far as the glade, and then come and join me.’
‘I understand,’ said Poltorátsky, lifting his hand to his cap, and rode back to his company. He led the sharpshooters to the right himself, and ordered the sergeant-major to do the same on the left side.
The wounded Avdéev had meanwhile been taken back to the fort by some of the soldiers.
On his way back to rejoin Vorontsóv, Poltorátsky noticed behind him several horsemen who were overtaking him. In front on a white-maned horse rode a man of imposing appearance. He wore a turban and carried weapons with gold ornaments. This man was Hadji Murád. He approached Poltorátsky and said something to him in Tartar. Raising his eyebrows,
Poltorátsky made a gesture with his arms to show that he did not understand, and smiled. Hadji Murád gave him smile for smile, and that smile struck Poltorátsky by its childlike kindliness. Poltorátsky had never expected to see the terrible mountain chief look like that. He had expected to see a morose, hard-featured man, and here was a vivacious person whose smile was so kindly that Poltorátsky felt as if he were an old acquaintance. He had only one peculiarity: his eyes, set wide apart, which gazed from under their black brows calmly, attentively, and penetratingly into the eyes of others.
Hadji Murád’s suite consisted of five men, among them Khan Mahomá, who had been to see Prince Vorontsóv that night. He was a rosy, round-faced fellow with black lashless eyes and a beaming expression, full of the joy of life. Then there was the Avar Khanéfi, a thick-set, hairy man, whose eyebrows met. He was in charge of all Hadji Murád’s property and led a stud-bred horse which carried tightly packed saddle-bags. Two men of the suite were particularly striking. The first was a Lesghian: a youth, broad-shouldered but with a waist as slim as a woman’s, beautiful ram-like eyes, and the beginnings of a brown beard. This was Eldár. The other, Gamzálo, was a Chechen with a short red beard and no eyebrows or eyelashes; he was blind in one eye and had a scar across his nose and face. Poltorátsky pointed out Vorontsóv, who had just appeared on the road. Hadji Murád rode to meet him, and putting his right hand on his heart said something in Tartar and stopped. The Chechen interpreter translated.
‘He says, “I surrender myself to the will of the Russian Tsar. I wish to serve him,” he says. “I wished to do so long ago but Shamil would not let me.’ ”
Having heard what the interpreter said, Vorontsóv stretched out his hand in its wash-leather glove to Hadji Murád. Hadji Murád looked at it hesitatingly for a moment and then pressed it firmly, again saying something and looking first at the interpreter and then at Vorontsóv.
‘He says he did not wish to surrender to anyone but you, as you are the son of the Sirdar and he respects you much.’
Vorontsóv nodded to express his thanks. Hadji Murád again said something, pointing to his suite.
‘He says that these men, his henchmen, will serve the Russians as well as he.’
Vorontsóv turned towards them and nodded to them too. The merry, black-eyed, lashless Chechen, Khan Mahomá, also nodded and said something which was probably amusing, for the hairy Avar drew his lips into a smile, showing his ivory-white teeth. But the red-haired Gamzálo’s one red eye just glanced at Vorontsóv and then was again fixed on the ears of his horse.
When Vorontsóv and Hadji Murád with their retinues rode back to the fort, the soldiers released from the lines gathered in groups and made their own comments.
‘What a lot of men that damned fellow has destroyed! And now see what a fuss they will make of him!’
‘Naturally. He was Shamil’s right hand, and now – no fear!’
‘Still there’s no denying it! he’s a fine fellow – a regular dzhigít!’
‘And the red one! He squints at you like a beast!’
‘Ugh! He must be a hound!’
They had all specially noticed the red one. Where the wood-felling was going on the soldiers nearest to the road ran out to look. Their officer shouted to them, but Vorontsóv stopped him.
‘Let them have a look at their old friend.’
‘You know who that is?’ he added, turning to the nearest soldier, and speaking the words slowly with his English accent.
‘No, your Excellency.’
‘Hadji Murád.… Heard of him?’
‘How could we help it, your Excellency? We’ve beaten him many a time!’
‘Yes, and we’ve had it hot from him too.’
‘Yes, that’s true, your Excellency,’ answered the soldier, pleased to be talking with his chief.
Hadji Murád understood that they were speaking about him, and smiled brightly with his eyes.
Vorontsóv returned to the fort in a very cheerful mood.
VI
YOUNG Vorontsóv was much pleased that it was he, and no one else, who had succeeded in winning over and receiving Hadji Murád – next to Shamil Russia’s chief and most active enemy. There was only one unpleasant thing about it: General Meller-Zakomélsky was in command of the army at Vozdvízhensk, and the whole affair ought to have been carried out through him. As Vorontsóv had done everything himself without reporting it there might be some unpleasantness, and this thought rather interfered with his satisfaction. On reaching his house he entrusted Hadji Murád’s henchmen to the regimental adjutant and himself showed Hadji Murád into the house.
Princess Márya Vasílevna, elegantly dressed and smiling, and her little son, a handsome curly-headed child of six, met Hadji Murád in the drawing-room. The latter placed his hands on his heart, and through the interpreter – who had entered with him – said with solemnity that he regarded himself as the prince’s kunák, since the prince had brought him into his own house; and that a kunák’s whole family was as sacred as the kunák himself.
Hadji Murád’s appearance and manners pleased Márya Vasílevna, and the fact that he flushed when she held out her large white hand to him inclined her still more in his favour. She invited him to sit down, and having asked him whether he drank coffee, had some served. He, however, declined it when it came. He understood a little Russian but could not speak it. When something was said which he could not understand he smiled, and his smile pleased Márya Vasílevna just as it had pleased Poltorátsky. The curly-haired, keen-eyed little boy (whom his mother called Búlka) standing beside her did not take his eyes off Hadji Murád, whom he had always heard spoken of as a great warrior.
Leaving Hadji Murád with his wife, Vorontsóv went to his office to do what was necessary about reporting the fact of Hadji Murád’s having come over to the Russians. When he had written a report to the general in command of the left flank – General Kozlóvsky – at Grózny, and a letter to his father, Vorontsóv hurried home, afraid that his wife might be vexed with him for forcing on her this terrible stranger, who had to be treated in such a way that he should not take offence, and yet not too kindly. But his fears were needless. Hadji Murád was sitting in an arm-chair with little Búlka, Vorontsóv’s stepson, on his knee, and with bent head was listening attentively to the interpreter who was translating to him the words of the laughing Márya Vasílevna. Márya Vasílevna was telling him that if every time a kunák admired anything of his he made him a present of it, he would soon have to go about like Adam.…
When the prince entered, Hadji Murád rose at once and, surprising and offending Búlka by putting him off his knee, changed the playful expression of his face to a stern and serious one. He only sat down again when Vorontsóv had himself taken a seat.
Continuing the conversation he answered Márya Vasílevna by telling her that it was a law among his people that anything your kunák admired must be presented to him.
‘Thy son, kunák!’ he said in Russian, patting the curly head of the boy who had again climbed on his knee.
‘He is delightful, your brigand!’ said Márya Vasílevna to her husband in French. ‘Búlka has been admiring his dagger, and he has given it to him.’
Búlka showed the dagger to his father. ‘C’est un objet de prix!’3 added she.
‘Il faudra trouver l’occasion de lui faire cadeau,’4 said Vorontsóv.
Hadji Murád, his eyes turned down, sat stroking the boy’s curly hair and saying: ‘Dzhigít, dzhigít!’
‘A beautiful, beautiful dagger,’ said Vorontsóv, half drawing out the sharpened blade which had a ridge down the centre. ‘I thank thee!’
‘Ask him what I can do for him,’ he said to the interpreter.
The interpreter translated, and Hadji Murád at once replied that he wanted nothing but that he begged to be taken to a place where he could say his prayers.
Vorontsóv called his valet and told him to do what Hadji Murád desired.
As soon as Hadji Murád was alone
in the room allotted to him his face altered. The pleased expression, now kindly and now stately, vanished, and a look of anxiety showed itself. Vorontsóv had received him far better than Hadji Murád had expected. But the better the reception the less did Hadji Murád trust Vorontsóv and his officers. He feared everything: that he might be seized, chained, and sent to Siberia, or simply killed; and therefore he was on his guard. He asked Eldár, when the latter entered his room, where his murids had been put and whether their arms had been taken from them, and where the horses were. Eldár reported that the horses were in the prince’s stables; that the men had been placed in a barn; that they retained their arms, and that the interpreter was giving them food and tea.
Hadji Murád shook his head in doubt, and after undressing said his prayers and told Eldár to bring him his silver dagger. He then dressed, and having fastened his belt sat down on the divan with his legs tucked under him, to await what might befall him.
At four in the afternoon the interpreter came to call him to dine with the prince.
At dinner he hardly ate anything except some pilau, to which he helped himself from the very part of the dish from which Márya Vasílevna had helped herself.
‘He is afraid we shall poison him,’ Márya Vasílevna remarked to her husband. ‘He has helped himself from the place where I took my helping.’ Then instantly turning to Hadji Murád she asked him through the interpreter when he would pray again. Hadji Murád lifted five fingers and pointed to the sun. ‘Then it will soon be time,’ and Vorontsóv drew out his watch and pressed a spring. The watch struck four and one quarter. This evidently surprised Hadji Murád, and he asked to hear it again and to be allowed to look at the watch.
‘Voilá l’occasion! Donnez-lui la montre,’5 said the princess to her husband.
Vorontsóv at once offered the watch to Hadji Murád.
The latter placed his hand on his breast and took the watch. He touched the spring several times, listened, and nodded his head approvingly.