A Hero of our time / Герой нашего времени. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Михаил Лермонтов
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said Azamat, his voice firm now. ‘You see I am ready to do anything. I could steal my sister for you if you want. How she can dance and sing! And her gold embroidery is something wonderful!
The Turkish Padishah himself never had a wife like her. If you want her, wait for me tomorrow night in the gorge where the stream flows. I’ll go by with her on the way to the next village – and she’ll be yours. Isn’t Bela worth your steed?’
“For a long, long time Kazbich was silent. At last instead of replying, he began softly singing an old song:
‘Many fair maids in this village of mine,
Their eyes are dark pools where the stars seem to shine.
Sweet flits the time making love to a maid,
Sweeter’s the freedom of any young blade.
Wives by the dozen are purchased with gold,
But a spirited steed is worth riches untold;
Swift o’er the plains like a whirlwind he flies,
Never betrays you, and never tells lies.’
“In vain Azamat pleaded with him; he tried tears, flattery, and profanity, until finally Kazbich lost patience with him: ‘Get away with you, boy! Are you crazy? You could never ride my horse! He’d throw you after the first three paces and you’d smash your head against a rock.’
“‘Me?’ Azamat screamed in a fury, and his child’s dagger rang against the coat of mail. A strong arm flung him back and he fell against the corral fence so violently that it shook. ‘Now the fun will begin,’ thought I and dashed into the stable, bridled our horses and led them to the yard at the back. Two minutes later a terrific uproar broke out in the hut. This is what happened: Azamat ran into the hut in a torn shirt shouting that Kazbich had tried to kill him. Everybody rushed out and went for their rifles – and the fun was on! There was screaming and shouting and shots were fired, but Kazbich was already on his horse spinning around like a demon in the midst of the crowd swinging away with his saber. ‘It’d be big trouble to get mixed up in this,’ said I to Grigoriy Aleksandrovich as I caught him by the arm. ‘Hadn’t we better scram as fast as we can?’
“‘Let’s wait a bit and see how it ends.’
“‘It’s sure to end badly – that’s what always happens with these Asiatics, as soon as they have enough drink they go slashing each other.’ We got on our horses and rode home.
“What happened to Kazbich?” I asked impatiently.
“What can happen to these people?” replied the captain, finishing his glass of tea. “He got away, of course.”
“Not even wounded, was he?” I asked.
“The Lord only knows. They’re tough, the bandits! I have seen some of them in engagements; a man may be cut to ribbons with bayonets and still he will continue brandishing his saber.” After a brief silence the captain went on, stamping his foot: “There is one thing I’ll never forgive myself for. When we got back to the fort, the devil prompted me to tell Pechorin what I had overheard behind the fence. He laughed – the fox – though; he was already cooking up a scheme.”
“What was it? I’d like to hear it.”
“I suppose I’ll have to tell you. Since I’ve begun telling the story, I might as well finish.
“Some four days later, Azamat rode up to the fort. As usual, he went in to see Grigoriy Aleksandrovich, who always had some tidbits for him. I was there too. The talk turned to horses, and Pechorin began to praise Kazbich’s horse; as spirited and graceful as a chamois the steed was, and, as Pechorin put it, there simply was no other horse like it in all the world.
“The Tatar boy’s eyes lit up, but Pechorin pretended not to notice it; I tried to change the subject, but at once he brought it back to Kazbich’s horse. This happened each time Azamat came. About three weeks later I noticed that Azamat was growing pale and wasting away as they do from love in novels. What was it all about?
“You see, I got the whole story later. Pechorin egged him on to a point where the lad was simply desperate. Finally he put it point-blank: ‘I can see, Azamat, that you want that horse very badly. Yet you have as little chance of getting it as of seeing the back of your own head. Now tell me what would you give if someone were to present it to you?’
“‘Anything he asks,’ replied Azamat.
“‘In that case I’ll get the horse for you, but on one condition… Swear you will carry it out?’
“‘I swear… And you must swear too!’
“‘Good! I swear you’ll get the horse, only you have to give me your sister Bela in exchange. Karagyoz will be the bride money! I hope the bargain suits you.’
“Azamar was silent.
“‘You don’t want to? As you wish. I thought you were a man, but I see you’re still a child: you’re too young to ride in the saddle.’
“Azamat flared up. ‘What about my father?’ he asked.
“‘Doesn’t he ever go away anywhere?’
“‘That’s true, he does… .’
“‘So you agree?’
“‘I agree,’ whispered Azamat, pale as death itself. ‘When?’
“‘The next time Kazbich comes here; he has promised to bring a dozen sheep. The rest is my affair. You take care of your end of the bargain, Azamar!’
“So they arranged the whole business, and I must say it was a rotten business indeed. Later I said so to Pechorin, but he only replied that the primitive Circassian girl ought to be happy to have such a fine husband as himself, for, after all, everybody would regard him as her husband, and that Kazbich was a bandit who should be punished anyway. Judge for yourself, what could I say against this? But at the time I knew nothing about the conspiracy. So one day Kazbich came asking whether we wanted sheep and honey, and I told him to bring some the day after. ‘Azamat,’ Grigoriy Aleksandrovich said to the lad, ‘tomorrow Karagyoz will be in my hands. If Bela is not here tonight you will not see the horse…’
“‘Good!’ said Azamat and galloped back to his village. In the evening Grigoriy Aleksandrovich armed himself and rode out of the fort. How they managed everything, I don’t know – but at night they both returned and the sentry saw a woman lying across Azamat’s saddle with hands and feet tied and head wrapped in a veil.”
“And the horse?” I asked the captain.
“Just a moment. Early the next morning Kazbich came, driving along the dozen sheep he wanted to sell. Tying his horse to a fence, he came to see me and I regaled him with tea, for, scoundrel though he was, he nevertheless was a kunak of mine.
“We began to chat about this and that. Suddenly I saw Kazbich jump – his face twisted and he dashed for the window, but it unfortunately opened to the backyard. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked.
“‘my horse… horse!’ he said, shaking all over.
“And true enough I heard the beat of hoofs. ‘Some Cossack must have arrived.’
“‘No! Urus yaman, yaman,’4 he cried and dashed out like a wild panther. In two strides he was in the courtyard; at the gates of the fort a sentry barred his way with a musket, but he leaped over the weapon and began running down the road. In the distance a cloud of dust whirled – it was Azamat urging on the spirited Karagyoz. Kazbich drew his pistol from its canvas bag and fired as he ran. For a minute he stood motionless until he was certain he had missed. Then he screamed, dashed the gun to pieces against the stones, and rolled on the ground crying like a baby… People from the fort gathered around him – but he did not see anyone, and after standing about for a while talking it over they all went back. I had the money for the sheep placed next to him, but he did not touch it; he only
A bad, bad Russian!