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A Prisoner in
the Caucasus
by Lev Tolstoy
I.
An officer named Zhílin was serving in the army in the Caucasus.
One
day he received a letter from home. It was from his mother, who wrote:
"I
am getting old, and should like to see my dear son once more before I
die.
Come and say good-bye to me and bury me, and then, if God pleases,
return
to service again with my blessing. But I have found a girl for you, who
is
sensible and good and has some property. If you can love her, you might
marry
her and remain at home."
Zhílin thought it over. It was quite true, the old lady was
failing
fast and he might not have another chance to see her alive. He had
better
go, and, if the girl was nice, why not marry her? So he went to his
Colonel,
obtained leave of absence, said good-bye to his comrades, stood the
soldiers
four pailfuls of vodka as a farewell treat, and got ready to go.
It was a time of war in the Caucasus. The roads were not safe by night
or
day. If ever a Russian ventured to ride or walk any distance away from
his
fort, the Tartars killed him or carried him off to the hills. So it had
been
arranged that twice every week a body of soldiers should march from one
fortress
to the next to convoy travellers from point to point.
It was summer. At daybreak the baggage-train got ready under shelter of
the
fortress; the soldiers marched out; and all started along the road.
Zhílin
was on horseback, and a cart with his things went with the
baggage-train.
They had sixteen miles to go. The baggage-train moved slowly; sometimes
the
soldiers stopped, or perhaps a wheel would come off one of the carts,
or
a horse refuse to go on, and then everybody had to wait.
When by the sun it was already past noon, they had not gone half the
way.
It was dusty and hot, the sun was scorching and there was no shelter
anywhere:
a bare plain all round--not a tree, not a bush, by the road.
Zhílin
rode on in front, and stopped, waiting for the baggage to overtake him.
Then
he heard the signal-horn sounded behind him: the company had again
stopped.
So he began to think: "Hadn't I better ride on by myself? My horse is a
good
one: if the Tartars do attack me, I can gallop away. Perhaps, however,
it
would be wiser to wait."
As he sat considering, Kostílin, an officer carrying a gun, rode
up
to him and said: "Come along, Zhílin, let's go on by ourselves.
It's
dreadful; I am famished, and the heat is terrible. My shirt is wringing
wet."
Kostílin was a stout, heavy man, and the perspiration was
running
down his red face. Zhílin thought awhile, and then asked: "Is
your
gun loaded?"
"Yes it is."
"Well, then, let's go, but on condition that we keep together."
So they rode forward along the road across the plain, talking, but
keeping
a look-out on both sides. They could see afar all round. But after
crossing
the plain the road ran through a valley between two hills, and
Zhílin
said: "We had better climb that hill and have a look round, or the
Tartars
may be on us before we know it."
But Kostílin answered: "What's the use? Let us go on."
Zhílin, however, would not agree. "No," he said; "you can wait
here
if you like, but I'll go and look round." And he turned his horse to
the
left, up the hill. Zhílin's horse was a hunter, and carried him
up
the hillside as if it had wings. (He had bought it for a hundred
roubles
as a colt out of a herd, and had broken it in himself.) Hardly had he
reached
the top of the hill, when he saw some thirty Tartars not much more than
a
hundred yards ahead of him. As soon as he caught sight of them he
turned
round but the Tartars had also seen him, and rushed after him at full
gallop,
getting their guns out as they went. Down galloped Zhílin as
fast
as the horse's legs could go, shouting to Kostílin: "Get your
gun
ready!"
And, in thought, he said to his horse: "Get me well out of this, my
pet;
don't stumble, for if you do it's all up. Once I reach the gun, they
shan't
take me prisoner." But, instead of waiting, Kostílin, as soon as
he
caught sight of the Tartars, turned back towards the fortress at full
speed,
whipping his horse now on one side now on the other, and its switching
tail
was all that could be seen of him in the dust.
Zhílin saw it was a bad look-out; the gun was gone, and what
could
he do with nothing but his sword? He turned his horse towards the
escort,
thinking to escape, but there were six Tartars rushing to cut him off.
His
horse was a good one, but theirs were still better; and besides, they
were
across his path. He tried to rein in his horse and to turn another way,
but
it was going so fast it could not stop, and dashed on straight towards
the
Tartars. He saw a red-bearded Tartar on a grey horse, with his gun
raised,
come at him, yelling and showing his teeth.
"Ah," thought Zhílin, "I know you, devils that you are. If you
take
me alive, you'll put me in a pit and flog me. I will not be taken
alive!"
Zhílin, though not a big fellow, was brave. He drew his sword
and
dashed at the red-bearded Tartar thinking: "Either I'll ride him down,
or
disable him with my sword."
He was still a horse's length away from him, when he was fired at from
behind,
and his horse was hit. It fell to the ground with all its weight,
pinning
Zhílin to the earth.
He tried to rise, but two ill-savoured Tartars were already sitting on
him
and binding his hands behind his back. He made an effort and flung them
off,
but three others jumped from their horses and began beating his head
with
the butts of their guns. His eyes grew dim, and he fell back. The
Tartars
seized him, and, taking spare girths from their saddles, twisted his
hands
behind him and tied them with a Tartar knot. They knocked his cap off,
pulled
off his boots, searched him all over, tore his clothes, and took his
money
and his watch.
Zhílin looked round at his horse. There it lay on its side, poor
thing,
just as it had fallen; struggling, its legs in the air, unable to touch
the
ground. There was a hole in its head, and black blood was pouring out,
turning
the dust to mud for a couple of feet around.
One of the Tartars went up to the horse and began taking the saddle
off,
it still kicked, so he drew a dagger and cut its windpipe. A whistling
sound
came from its throat, the horse gave one plunge, and all was over.
The Tartars took the saddle and trappings. The red-bearded Tartar
mounted
his horse, and the others lifted Zhílin into the saddle behind
him.
To prevent his falling off, they strapped him to the Tartar's girdle;
and
then they all rode away to the hills.
So there sat Zhílin, swaying from side to side, his head
striking
against the Tartar's stinking back. He could see nothing but that
muscular
back and sinewy neck, with its closely shaven, bluish nape.
Zhílin's
head was wounded: the blood had dried over his eyes, and he could
neither
shift his position on the saddle nor wipe the blood off. His arms were
bound
so tightly that his collar-bones ached.
They rode up and down hills for a long way. Then they reached a river
which
they forded, and came to a hard road leading across a valley.
Zhílin tried to see where they were going, but his eyelids were
stuck
together with blood, and he could not turn.
Twilight began to fall; they crossed another river and rode up a stony
hillside.
There was a smell of smoke here, and dogs were barking. They had
reached
an Aoul (a Tartar village). The Tartars got off their horses; Tartar
children
came and stood round Zhílin, shrieking with pleasure and
throwing
stones at him.
The Tartar drove the children away, took Zhílin off the horse,
and
called his man. A Nogáy [someone from a specific Tartar tribe]
with
high cheek-bones and nothing on but a shirt (and that so torn that his
breast
was all bare), answered the call. The Tartar gave him an order. He went
and
fetched shackles: two blocks of oak with iron rings attached, and a
clasp
and lock fixed to one of the rings.
They untied Zhílin's arms, fastened the shackles on his leg, and
dragged
him to a barn, where they pushed him in and locked the door.
Zhílin
fell on a heap of manure. He lay still awhile then groped about to find
a
soft place, and settled down.
II.
That night Zhílin hardly slept at all. It was the time of year
when
the nights are short, and daylight soon showed itself through a chink
in
the wall. He rose, scratched to make the chink bigger, and peeped out.
Through the hole he saw a road leading down-hill; to the right was a
Tartar
hut with two trees near it, a black dog lay on the threshold, and a
goat
and kids were moving about wagging their tails. Then he saw a young
Tartar
woman in a long, loose, bright-coloured gown, with trousers and high
boots
showing from under it. She had a coat thrown over her head, on which
she
carried a large metal jug filled with water. She was leading by the
hand
a small, closely-shaven Tartar boy, who wore nothing but a shirt; and
as
she went along balancing herself, the muscles of her back quivered.
This
woman carried the water into the hut, and, soon after, the red-bearded
Tartar
of yesterday came out dressed in a silk tunic, with a silver-hilted
dagger
hanging by his side, shoes on his bare feet, and a tall black sheepskin
cap
set far back on his head. He came out, stretched himself, and stroked
his
red beard. He stood awhile, gave an order to his servant, and went away.
Then two lads rode past from watering their horses. The horses' noses
were
wet. Some other closely-shaven boys ran out, without any trousers, and
wearing
nothing but their shirts. They crowded together, came to the barn,
picked
up a twig, and began pushing it in at the chink. Zhílin gave a
shout,
and the boys shrieked and scampered off, their little bare knees
gleaming
as they ran. Zhílin was very thirsty: his throat was parched,
and
he thought: "If only they would come and so much as look at me!"
Then he heard some one unlocking the barn. The red-bearded Tartar
entered,
and with him was another, smaller man, dark, with bright black eyes,
red
cheeks and a short beard. He had a merry face, and was always laughing.
This
man was even more richly dressed than the other. He wore a blue silk
tunic
trimmed with gold, a large silver dagger in his belt, red morocco
slippers
worked with silver, and over these a pair of thick shoes, and he had a
white
sheepskin cap on his head.
The red-bearded Tartar entered, muttered something as if he were
annoyed,
and stood leaning against the doorpost, playing with his dagger, and
glaring
askance at Zhílin, like a wolf. The dark one, quick and lively
and
moving as if on springs, came straight up to Zhílin, squatted
down
in front of him, slapped him on the shoulder, and began to talk very
fast
in his own language. His teeth showed, and he kept winking, clicking
his
tongue, and repeating, "Good Russ, good Russ."
Zhílin could not understand a word, but said, "Drink! give me
water
to drink!"
The dark man only laughed. "Good Russ," he said, and went on talking in
his
own tongue. Zhílin made signs with lips and hands that he wanted
something
to drink.
The dark man understood, and laughed. Then he looked out of the door,
and
called to some one: "Dina!"
A little girl came running in: she was about thirteen, slight, thin,
and
like the dark Tartar in the face. Evidently she was his daughter. She,
too, had
clear black eyes, and her face was good-looking. She had on a long blue
gown
with wide sleeves, and no girdle. The hem of her gown, the front, and
the
sleeves, were trimmed with red. She wore trousers and slippers, and
over
the slippers stouter shoes with high heels. Round her neck she had a
necklace
made of Russian silver coins. She was bareheaded, and her black hair
was
plaited with a ribbon and ornamented with gilt braid and silver coins.
Her father gave an order, and she ran away and returned with a metal
jug.
She handed the water to Zhílin and sat down, crouching so that
her
knees were as high as her head, and there she sat with wide open eyes
watching
Zhílin drink, as though he were a wild animal. When
Zhílin
handed the empty jug back to her, she gave such a sudden jump back,
like
a wild goat, that it made her father laugh. He sent her away for
something
else. She took the jug, ran out, and brought back some unleavened bread
on
a round board, and once more sat down, crouching, and looking on with
staring
eves. Then the Tartars went away and again locked the door.
After a while the Nogáy came and said: "Ayda, the master, Ayda!"
He,
too, knew no Russian. All Zhílin could make out was that he was
told
to go somewhere. Zhílin followed the Nógay, but limped,
for
the shackles dragged his feet so that he could hardly step at all. On
getting
out of the barn he saw a Tartar village of about ten houses, and a
Tartar
church [mosque] with a small tower [minaret]. Three horses stood
saddled before one of the houses;
little boys were holding them by the reins. The dark Tartar came out of
this
house, beckoning with his hand for Zhílin to follow him. Then he
laughed,
said something in his own language, and returned into the house.
Zhílin entered. The room was a good one: the walls smoothly
plastered
with clay. Near the front wall lay a pile of bright-coloured feather
beds;
the side walls were covered with rich carpets used as hangings, and on
these
were fastened guns, pistols and swords, all inlaid with silver. Close
to
one of the walls was a small stove on a level with the earthen floor.
The
floor itself was as clean as a thrashing-ground. A large space in one
corner
was spread over with felt, on which were rugs, and on these rugs were
cushions
stuffed with down. And on these cushions sat five Tartars, the dark
one,
the red-haired one, and three guests. They were wearing their indoor
slippers,
and each had a cushion behind his back. Before them were standing
millet
cakes on a round board, melted butter in a bowl and a jug of buza, or
Tartar
beer. They ate both cakes and butter with their hands.
The dark man jumped up and ordered Zhílin to be placed on one
side,
not on the carpet but on the bare ground, then he sat down on the
carpet
again, and offered millet cakes and buza to his guests. The servant
made
Zhílin sit down, after which he took off his own overshoes, put
them
by the door where the other shoes were standing, and sat down nearer to
his
masters on the felt, watching them as they ate, and licking his lips.
The Tartars ate as much as they wanted, and a woman dressed in the same
way
as the girl--in a long gown and trousers, with a kerchief on her
head--came
and took away what was left, and brought a handsome basin, and an ewer
with
a narrow spout. The Tartars washed their hands, folded them, went down
on
their knees, blew to the four quarters, and said their prayers. After
they
had talked for a while, one of the guests turned to Zhílin and
began
to speak in Russian.
"You were captured by Kazi-Mohammed," he said, and pointed at the
red-bearded
Tartar. "And Kazi-Mohammed has given you to Abdul Murat," pointing at
the
dark one. "Abdul Murat is now your master."
Zhílin was silent. Then Abdul Murat began to talk, laughing,
pointing
to Zhílin, and repeating, "Soldier Russ, good Russ."
The interpreter said, "He orders you to write home and tell them to
send
a ransom, and as soon as the money comes he will set you free."
Zhílin thought for a moment, and said, "How much ransom does he
want?"
The Tartars talked awhile, and then the interpreter said, "Three
thousand
roubles."
"No," said Zhílin, "I can't pay so much."
Abdul jumped up and, waving his arms, talked to Zhílin,
thinking,
as before, that he would understand. The interpreter translated: "How
much
will you give?"
Zhílin considered, and said, "Five hundred roubles." At this the
Tartars
began speaking very quickly, all together. Abdul began to shout at the
red-bearded
one, and jabbered so fast that the spittle spurted out of his mouth.
The
red-bearded one only screwed up his eyes and clicked his tongue.
They quietened down after a while, and the interpreter said, "Five
hundred
roubles is not enough for the master. He paid two hundred for you
himself. Kazi- Mohammed was in debt to him, and he took you in
payment. Three thousand
roubles! Less than that won't do. If you refuse to write, you will be
put
into a pit and flogged with a whip!"
"Eh!" thought Zhílin, "the more one fears them the worse it will
be."
So he sprang to his feet, and said, "You tell that dog that if he tries
to
frighten me I will not write at all, and he will get nothing. I never
was
afraid of you dogs, and never will be!" The interpreter translated, and
again
they all began to talk at once.
They jabbered for a long time, and then the dark man jumped up, came to
Zhílin,
and said: "Dzhigit Russ, dzhigit Russ!" (Dzhigit in their language
means
"brave.") And he laughed, and said something to the interpreter, who
translated:
"One thousand roubles will satisfy him."
Zhílin stuck to it: "I will not give more than five hundred. And
if
you kill me you'll get nothing at all." The Tartars talked awhile, then
sent
the servant out to fetch something, and kept looking, now at
Zhílin,
now at the door. The servant returned, followed by a stout,
bare-footed,
tattered man, who also had his leg shackled.
Zhílin gasped with surprise: it was Kostílin. He, too,
had
been taken. They were put side by side, and began to tell each other
what
had occurred. While they talked, the Tartars looked on in silence.
Zhílin
related what had happened to him; and Kostílin told how his
horse
had stopped, his gun missed fire, and this same Abdul had overtaken and
captured
him. Abdul jumped up, pointed to Kostílin, and said something.
The
interpreter translated that they both now belonged to one master, and
the
one who first paid the ransom would be set free first.
"There now," he said to Zhílin, "you get angry, but your comrade
here
is gentle; he has written home, and they will send five thousand
roubles.
So he will be well fed and well treated."
Zhílin replied: "My comrade can do as he likes; maybe he is
rich,
I am not. It must be as I said. Kill me, if you like--you will gain
nothing
by it; but I will not write for more than five hundred roubles." They
were
silent. Suddenly up sprang Abdul, brought a little box, took out a pen,
ink,
and a bit of paper, gave them to Zhílin, slapped him on the
shoulder,
and made a sign that he should write. He had agreed to take five
hundred
roubles.
"Wait a bit!" said Zhílin to the interpreter; "tell him that he
must
feed us properly, give us proper clothes and boots, and let us be
together.
It will be more cheerful for us. And he must have these shackles taken
off
our feet," and Zhílin looked at his master and laughed.
The master also laughed, heard the interpreter, and said: "I will give
them
the best of clothes: a cloak and boots fit to be married in. I will
feed
them like princes; and if they like they can live together in the barn.
But
I can't take off the shackles, or they will run away. They shall be
taken
off, however, at night." And he jumped up and slapped Zhílin on
the
shoulder, exclaiming: "You good, I good!"
Zhílin wrote the letter, but addressed it wrongly, so that it
should
not reach its destination, thinking to himself: "I'll run away!"
Zhílin
and Kostílin were taken back to the barn and given some maize
straw,
a jug of water, some bread, two old cloaks, and some worn-out military
boots--evidently
taken from the corpses of Russian soldiers. At night their shackles
were
taken off their feet, and they were locked up in the barn.
III.
Zhílin and his friend lived in this way for a whole month. The
master
always laughed and said: "You, Iván, good! I, Abdul, good!" But
he
fed them badly, giving them nothing but unleavened bread of
millet-flour baked
into flat cakes, or sometimes only unbaked dough.
Kostílin wrote home a second time, and did nothing but mope and
wait
for the money to arrive. He would sit for days in the barn sleeping,
or counting the days till a letter could come. Zhílin knew his
letter
would reach no one, and he did not write another. He thought: "Where
could
my mother get enough money to ransom me? As it is she lived chiefly on
what
I sent her. If she had to raise five hundred roubles, she would be
quite
ruined. With God's help I'll manage to escape!"
So he kept on the look-out, planning how to run away. He would walk
about
the Aoul whistling; or would sit working, modelling dolls of clay, or
weaving
baskets out of twigs: for Zhílin was clever with his hands. Once
he
modelled a doll with a nose and hands and feet and with a Tartar gown
on,
and put it up on the roof. When the Tartar women came out to fetch
water,
the master's daughter, Dina, saw the doll and called the women, who put
down
their jugs and stood looking and laughing. Zhílin took down the
doll
and held it out to them. They laughed, but dared not take it. He put
down
the doll and went into the barn, waiting to see what would happen.
Dina ran up to the doll, looked round, seized it, and ran away. In the
morning,
at daybreak, he looked out. Dina came out of the house and sat down on
the
threshold with the doll, which she had dressed up in bits of red stuff,
and
she rocked it like a baby, singing a Tartar lullaby. An old woman came
out
and scolded her, and snatching the doll away she broke it to bits, and
sent
Dina about her business. But Zhílin made another doll, better
than
the first, and gave it to Dina. Once Dina brought a little jug, put it
on
the ground, sat down gazing at him, and laughed, pointing to the jug.
"What pleases her so?" wondered Zhílin. He took the jug thinking
it
was water, but it turned out to be milk. He drank the milk and said:
"That's
good!"
How pleased Dina was! "Good, Iván, good!" said she, and she
jumped
up and clapped her hands. Then, seizing the jug, she ran away. After
that,
she stealthily brought him some milk every day. The Tartars make a kind
of
cheese out of goat's milk, which they dry on the roofs of their houses;
and
sometimes, on the sly, she brought him some of this cheese. And once,
when
Abdul had killed a sheep she brought Zhílin a bit of mutton in
her
sleeve. She would just throw the things down and run away.
One day there was a heavy storm, and the rain fell in torrents for a
whole
hour. All the streams became turbid. At the ford, the water rose till
it
was seven feet high, and the current was so strong that it rolled the
stones
about. Rivulets flowed everywhere, and the rumbling in the hills never
ceased.
When the storm was over, the water ran in streams down the village
street.
Zhílin got his master to lend him a knife, and with it he shaped
a
small cylinder, and cutting some little boards, he made a wheel to
which
he fixed two dolls, one on each side. The little girls brought him some
bits
of stuff, and he dressed the dolls, one as a peasant, the other as a
peasant
woman. Then he fastened them in their places, and set the wheel so that
the
stream should work it. The wheel began to turn and the dolls danced.
The whole village collected round. Little boys and girls, Tartar men
and
women, all came and clicked their tongues. "Ah, Russ! Ah, Iván!"
Abdul
had a Russian clock, which was broken. He called Zhílin and
showed
it to him, clicking his tongue.
"Give it to me, I'll mend it for you," said Zhílin. He took it
apart
with the knife, sorted the pieces, and put them together again, so that
the
clock worked. The master was delighted, and made him a present of
one of his old tunics which was all in holes. Zhílin had to
accept
it. He could, at any rate, use it as a coverlet at night.
After that Zhílin's fame spread; Tartars came from distant
villages,
bringing him now the lock of a gun or of a pistol, now a watch, to
mend.
His master gave him some tools--incers, gimlets, and a file. One day a
Tartar
fell ill, and they came to Zhílin saying, "Come and heal him!"
Zhílin
knew nothing about doctoring, but he went to look, and thought to
himself,
"Perhaps he will get well anyway." He returned to the barn, mixed some
water
with sand, and then in the presence of the Tartars whispered some words
over
it and gave it to the sick man to drink. Luckily for him, the Tartar
recovered.
Zhílin began to pick up their language a little, and some of the
Tartars
grew familiar with him. When they wanted him, they would call:
"Iván!
Iván!" Others, however, still looked at him askance, as at a
wild
beast. The red-bearded Tartar disliked Zhílin. Whenever he saw
him
he frowned and turned away, or swore at him. There was also an old man
there
who did not live in the Aoul, but used to come up from the foot of the
hill.
Zhílin only saw him when he passed on his way to the Mosque. He
was
short, and had a white cloth wound round his hat. His beard and
moustaches
were clipped, and white as snow; and his face was wrinkled and
brick-red.
His nose was hooked like a hawk's, his grey eyes looked cruel, and he
had
no teeth except two tusks. He would pass, with his turban on his head,
leaning
on his staff, and glaring round him like a wolf. If he saw
Zhílin
he would snort with anger and turn away.
Once Zhílin descended the hill to see where the old man lived.
He
went down along the pathway and came to a little garden surrounded by a
stone
wall, and behind the wall he saw cherry and apricot trees, and a hut
with
a flat roof. He came closer, and saw hives made of plaited straw, and
bees
flying about and humming. The old man was kneeling, busy doing
something
with a hive. Zhílin stretched to look, and his shackles rattled.
The
old man turned round, and, giving a yell, snatched a pistol from his
belt
and shot at Zhílin, who just managed to shelter himself behind
the
stone wall. The old man went to Zhílin's master to complain. The
master
called Zhílin, and said with a laugh, "Why did you go to the old
man's
house?"
"I did him no harm," replied Zhílin. "I only wanted to see how
he
lived." The master repeated what Zhílin said. But the old man
was
in a rage; he hissed and jabbered, showing his tusks, and shaking his
fists
at Zhílin. Zhílin could not understand all, but he
gathered
that the old man was telling Abdul he ought not to keep Russians in the
Aoul,
but ought to kill them. At last the old man went away. Zhílin
asked
the master who the old man was.
"He is a great man!" said the master. "He was the bravest of our
fellows;
he killed many Russians and was at one time very rich. He had three
wives
and eight sons, and they all lived in one village. Then the Russians
came
and destroyed the village, and killed seven of his sons. Only one son
was
left, and he gave himself up to the Russians. The old man also went and
gave
himself up, and lived among the Russians for three months. At the end
of
that time he found his son, killed him with his own hands, and then
escaped.
After that he left off fighting, and went to Mecca to pray to God; that
is
why he wears a turban. One who has been to Mecca is called 'Hadji,'
and
wears a turban. He does not like you fellows. He tells me to kill you.
But
I can't kill you. I have paid money for you and, besides, I have grown
fond
of you, Iván. Far from killing you, I would not even let you go
if
I had not promised." And he laughed, saying in Russian, "You,
Iván,
good; I, Abdul, good!"
IV.
Zhílin lived in this way for a month. During the day he
sauntered
about the Aoul or busied himself with some handicraft, but at night,
when
all was silent in the Aoul, he dug at the floor of the barn. It was no
easy
task digging, because of the stones; but he worked away at them with
his
file, and at last had made a hole under the wall large enough to get
through.
"If only I could get to know the lay of the land,' thought he, 'and
which
way to go! But none of the Tartars will tell me."
So he chose a day when the master was away from home, and set off after
dinner
to climb the hill beyond the village, and to look around. But before
leaving
home the master always gave orders to his son to watch Zhílin,
and
not to lose sight of him. So the lad ran after Zhílin, shouting:
"Don't
go! Father does not allow it. I'll call the neighbours if you won't
come
back." Zhílin tried to persuade him, and said: "I'm not going
far;
I only want to climb that hill. I want to find a herb--to cure sick
people
with. You come with me if you like. How can I run away with these
shackles
on? To-morrow I'll make a bow and arrows for you."
So he persuaded the lad, and they went. To look at the hill, it did not
seem
far to the top; but it was hard walking with shackles on his leg.
Zhílin
went on and on, but it was all he could do to reach the top. There he
sat
down and noted how the land lay. To the south, beyond the barn, was a
valley
in which a herd of horses was pasturing and at the bottom of the valley
one
could see another Aoul. Beyond that was a still steeper hill, and
another
hill beyond that. Between the hills, in the blue distance, were
forests,
and still further off were mountains, rising higher and higher. The
highest
of them were covered with snow, white as sugar; and one snowy peak
towered
above all the rest. To the east and to the west were other such hills,
and
here and there smoke rose from Aouls in the ravines. "Ah," thought he,
"all
that is Tartar country." And he turned towards the Russian side. At his
feet
he saw a river, and the Aoul he lived in, surrounded by little gardens.
He
could see women, like tiny dolls, sitting by the river rinsing clothes.
Beyond
the Aoul was a hill, lower than the one to the south, and beyond it two
other
hills well wooded; and between these, a smooth bluish plain, and far,
far
across the plain something that looked like a cloud of smoke.
Zhílin
tried to remember where the sun used to rise and set when he was living
in
the fort, and he saw that there was no mistake: the Russian fort must
be
in that plain. Between those two hills he would have to make his way
when
he escaped. The sun was beginning to set. The white, snowy mountains
turned
red, and the dark hills turned darker; mists rose from the ravine, and
the
valley, where he supposed the Russian fort to be, seemed on fire with
the
sunset glow. Zhílin looked carefully. Something seemed to be
quivering
in the valley like smoke from a chimney, and he felt sure the Russian
fortress
was there.
It had grown late. The Mullah's cry was heard. The herds were being
driven
home, the cows were lowing, and the lad kept saying, "Come home!" But
Zhílin
did not feel inclined to go away. At last, however, they went back.
"Well,"
thought Zhílin, "now that I know the way, it is time to escape."
He
thought of running away that night. The nights were dark--the moon had
waned.
But as ill-luck would have it, the Tartars returned home that evening.
They
generally came back driving cattle before them and in good spirits. But
this
time they had no cattle. All they brought home was the dead body of a
Tartar--the
red one's brother--who had been killed. They came back looking sullen,
and
they all gathered together for the burial. Zhílin also came out
to
see it.
They wrapped the body in a piece of linen, without any coffin, and
carried
it out of the village, and laid it on the grass under some plane-trees.
The
Mullah and the old men came. They wound clothes round their caps, took
off
their shoes, and squatted on their heels, side by side, near the
corpse.
The Mullah was in front: behind him in a row were three old men in
turbans,
and behind them again the other Tartars. All cast down their eyes and
sat
in silence. This continued a long time, until the Mullah raised his
head
and said: "Allah!" (which means God). He said that one word, and they
all
cast down their eyes again, and were again silent for a long time. They
sat
quite still, not moving or making any sound. Again the Mullah lifted
his
head and said, "Allah!" and they all repeated: "Allah! Allah!" and were
again
silent.
The dead body lay immovable on the grass, and they sat as still as if
they
too were dead. Not one of them moved. There was no sound but that of
the
leaves of the plane-trees stirring in the breeze. Then the Mullah
repeated
a prayer, and they all rose. They lifted the body and carried it in
their
arms to a hole in the ground. It was not an ordinary hole, but was
hollowed
out under the ground like a vault. They took the body under the arms
and
by the legs, bent it, and let it gently down, pushing it under the
earth
in a sitting posture, with the hands folded in front. The Nogáy
brought
some green rushes, which they stuffed into the hole, and, quickly
covering
it with earth, they smoothed the ground, and set an upright stone at
the
head of the grave. Then they trod the earth down, and again sat in a
row
before the grave, keeping silence for a long time.
At last they rose, said "Allah! Allah! Allah!" and sighed. The
red-bearded
Tartar gave money to the old men; then he too rose, took a whip, struck
himself
with it three times on the forehead, and went home. The next morning
Zhílin
saw the red Tartar, followed by three others, leading a mare out of the
village.
When they were beyond the village, the red-bearded Tartar took off his
tunic
and turned up his sleeves, showing his stout arms. Then he drew a
dagger
and sharpened it on a whetstone. The other Tartars raised the mare's
head,
and he cut her throat, threw her down and began skinning her, loosening
the
hide with his big hands. Women and girls came and began to wash the
entrails
and the inwards. The mare was cut up, the pieces taken into the hut,
and
the whole village collected at the red Tartar's hut for a funeral feast.
For three days they went on eating the flesh of the mare, drinking
buza,
and praying for the dead man. All the Tartars were at home. On the
fourth
day at dinner-time Zhílin saw them preparing to go away. Horses
were
brought out, they got ready, and some ten of them (the red one among
them)
rode away; but Abdul stayed at home. It was new moon, and the nights
were
still dark. "Ah!" thought Zhílin, "tonight is the time to
escape."
And he told Kostílin; but Kostílin's heart failed him.
"How can we escape?" he said. "We don't even know the way."
"I know the way," said Zhílin.
"Even if you do," said Kostílin, "we can't reach the fort in one
night."
"If we can't," said Zhílin, "we'll sleep in the forest. See
here,
I have saved some cheeses. What's the good of sitting and moping here?
If
they send your ransom--well and good; but suppose they don't manage to
collect
it? The Tartars are angry now, because the Russians have killed one of
their
men. They are talking of killing us."
Kostílin thought it over. "Well, let's go," said he.
V.
Zhílin crept into the hole, widened it so that Kostílin
might
also get through, and then they both sat waiting till all should be
quiet
in the Aoul. As soon as all was quiet, Zhílin crept under the
wall,
got out, and whispered to Kostílin, "Come!" Kostílin
crept
out, but in so doing he caught a stone with his foot and made a noise.
The
master had a very vicious watch-dog, a spotted one called Oulyashin.
Zhílin
had been careful to feed him for some time before. Oulyashin heard the
noise
and began to bark and jump, and the other dogs did the same.
Zhílin
gave a slight whistle, and threw him a bit of cheese. Oulyashin knew
Zhílin,
wagged his tail, and stopped barking.
But the master had heard the dog, and shouted to him from his hut,
"Hayt,
hayt, Oulyashin!" Zhílin, however, scratched Oulyashin behind
the
ears, and the dog was quiet, and rubbed against his legs, wagging his
tail.
They sat hidden behind a corner for awhile. All became silent again,
only
a sheep coughed inside a shed, and the water rippled over the stones in
the
hollow. It was dark, the stars were high overhead, and the new moon
showed
red as it set, horns upward, behind the hill. In the valleys the fog
was
white as milk.
Zhílin rose and said to his companion, "Well, friend, come
along!"
They started; but they had only gone a few steps when they heard the
Mullah
crying from the roof, "Allah, Beshmillah! Ilrahman!" That meant that
the
people would be going to the Mosque. So they sat down again, hiding
behind
a wall, and waited a long time till the people had passed. At last all
was
quiet again.
"Now then! May God be with us!" They crossed themselves, and started
once
more. They passed through a yard and went down the hillside to the
river,
crossed the river, and went along the valley. The mist was thick, but
only
near the ground; overhead the stars shone quite brightly. Zhílin
directed
their course by the stars. It was cool in the mist, and easy walking,
only
their boots were uncomfortable, being worn out and trodden down.
Zhílin
took his off, threw them away, and went barefoot, jumping from stone to
stone,
and guiding his course by the stars. Kostílin began to lag
behind.
"Walk slower," he said, "these confounded boots have quite blistered my
feet."
"Take them off!" said Zhílin. "It will be easier walking without
them."
Kostílin went barefoot, but got on still worse. The stones cut
his
feet and he kept lagging behind. Zhílin said: "If your feet get
cut,
they'll heal again; but if the Tartars catch us and kill us, it will be
worse!"
Kostílin did not reply, but went on, groaning all the time.
Their
way lay through the valley for a long time. Then, to the right, they
heard
dogs barking. Zhílin stopped, looked about, and began climbing
the
hill feeling with his hands.
"Ah!" said he, "we have gone wrong, and have come too far to the right.
Here
is another Aoul, one I saw from the hill. We must turn back and go up
that
hill to the left. There must be a wood there."
But Kostílin said: "Wait a minute! Let me get breath. My feet
are
all cut and bleeding."
"Never mind, friend! They'll heal again. You should spring more
lightly.
Like this!" And Zhílin ran back and turned to the left up the
hill
towards the wood. Kostílin still lagged behind, and groaned.
Zhílin
only said "Hush!" and went on and on. They went up the hill and found a
wood
as Zhílin had said. They entered the wood and forced their way
through
the brambles, which tore their clothes. At last they came to a path and
followed
it.
"Stop!" They heard the tramp of hoofs on the path, and waited,
listening.
It sounded like the tramping of a horse's feet, but then ceased. They
moved
on, and again they heard the tramping. When they paused, it also
stopped.
Zhílin crept nearer to it, and saw something standing on the
path
where it was not quite so dark. It looked like a horse, and yet not
quite
like one, and on it was something queer, not like a man. He heard it
snorting.
"What can it be?" Zhílin gave a low whistle, and off it dashed
from
the path into the thicket, and the woods were filled with the noise of
crackling,
as if a hurricane were sweeping through, breaking the branches.
Kostílin was so frightened that he sank to the ground. But
Zhílin
laughed and said: "It's a stag. Don't you hear him breaking the
branches
with his antlers? We were afraid of him, and he is afraid of us." They
went
on. The Great Bear was already setting. It was near morning, and they
did
not know whether they were going the right way or not. Zhílin
thought
it was the way he had been brought by the Tartars, and that they were
still
some seven miles from the Russian fort; but he had nothing certain to
go
by, and at night one easily mistakes the way. After a time they came to
a
clearing.
Kostílin sat down and said: "Do as you like, I can go no
farther!
My feet won't carry me." Zhílin tried to persuade him. "No I
shall
never get there, I can't!"
Zhílin grew angry, and spoke roughly to him. "Well, then, I
shall
go on alone. Good-bye!" Kostílin jumped up and followed. They
went
another three miles. The mist in the wood had settled down still more
densely;
they could not see a yard before them, and the stars had grown dim.
Suddenly
they heard the sound of a horse's hoofs in front of them. They heard
its
shoes strike the stones. Zhílin lay down flat, and listened with
his
ear to the ground. "Yes, so it is! A horseman is coming towards us."
They ran off the path, crouched among the bushes and waited.
Zhílin
crept to the road, looked, and saw a Tartar on horseback driving a cow
and
humming to himself. The Tartar rode past. Zhílin returned to
Kostílin.
"God has led him past us; get up and let's go on!"
Kostílin tried to rise, but fell back again. "I can't; on my
word
I can't! I have no strength left." He was heavy and stout, and had been
perspiring
freely. Chilled by the mist, and with his feet all bleeding, he had
grown
quite limp. Zhílin tried to lift him, when suddenly
Kostílin
screamed out: "Oh, how it hurts!"
Zhílin's heart sank. "What are you shouting for? The Tartar is
still
near; he'll have heard you!" And he thought to himself, "He is really
quite
done up. What am I to do with him? It won't do to desert a comrade."
"Well, then, get up, and climb up on my back. I'll carry you if you
really
can't walk." He helped Kostílin up, and put his arms under his
thighs.
Then he went out on to the path, carrying him. "Only, for the love of
heaven,"
said Zhílin, "don't throttle me with your hands! Hold on to my
shoulders."
Zhílin found his load heavy; his feet, too, were bleeding, and
he
was tired out. Now and then he stooped to balance Kostílin
better,
jerking him up so that he should sit higher, and then went on again.
The Tartar must, however, really have heard Kostílin scream.
Zhílin
suddenly heard some one galloping behind and shouting in the Tartar
tongue.
He darted in among the bushes. The Tartar seized his gun and fired, but
did
not hit them, shouted in his own language, and galloped off along the
road.
"Well, now we are lost, friend!" said Zhílin. "That dog will
gather
the Tartars together to hunt us down. Unless we can get a couple of
miles
away from here we are lost!" And he thought to himself, "Why the devil
did
I saddle myself with this block? I should have got away long ago had I
been
alone."
"Go on alone," said Kostílin. "Why should you perish because of
me?"
"No I won't go. It won't do to desert a comrade." Again he took
Kostílin
on his shoulders and staggered on. They went on in that way for another
half-mile
or more. They were still in the forest, and could not see the end of
it.
But the mist was already dispersing, and clouds seemed to be gathering,
the
stars were no longer to be seen. Zhílin was quite done up. They
came
to a spring walled in with stones by the side of the path.
Zhílin
stopped and set Kostílin down.
"Let me have a rest and a drink," said he, "and let us eat some of the
cheese.
It can't be much farther now." But hardly had he lain down to get a
drink,
when he heard the sound of horses' feet behind him. Again they darted
to
the right among the bushes, and lay down under a steep slope. They
heard
Tartar voices. The Tartars stopped at the very spot where they had
turned
off the path. The Tartars talked a bit, and then seemed to be setting a
dog
on the scent. There was a sound of crackling twigs, and a strange dog
appeared
from behind the bushes. It stopped, and began to bark. Then the
Tartars,
also strangers, came climbing down, seized Zhílin and
Kostílin,
bound them, put them on horses, and rode away with them.
When they had ridden about two miles, they met Abdul, their owner, with
two
other Tartars following him. After talking with the strangers, he put
Zhílin
and Kostílin on two of his own horses and took them back to the
Aoul.
Abdul did not laugh now, and did not say a word to them. They were back
at
the Aoul by daybreak, and were set down in the street. The children
came
crowding round, throwing stones, shrieking, and beating them with
whips.
The Tartars gathered together in a circle, and the old man from the
foot
of the hill was also there. They began discussing, and Zhílin
heard
them considering what should be done with him and Kostílin. Some
said
they ought to be sent farther into the mountains; but the old man said:
"They
must be killed!"
Abdul disputed with him, saying: "I gave money for them, and I must get
ransom
for them." But the old man said: "They will pay you nothing, but will
only
bring misfortune. It is a sin to feed Russians. Kill them, and have
done
with it!"
They dispersed. When they had gone, the master came up to Zhílin
and
said: "If the money for your ransom is not sent within a fortnight, I
will
flog you; and if you try to run away again, I'll kill you like a dog!
Write
a letter, and write properly!" Paper was brought to them, and they
wrote
the letters. Shackles were put on their feet, and they were taken
behind
the Mosque to a deep pit about twelve feet square, into which they were
let
down.
VI.
Life was now very hard for them. Their shackles were never taken off,
and
they were not let out into the fresh air. Unbaked dough was thrown to
them
as if they were dogs, and water was let down in a can. It was wet and
close
in the pit, and there was a horrible stench. Kostílin grew quite
ill,
his body became swollen and he ached all over, and moaned or slept all
the
time. Zhílin, too, grew downcast; he saw it was a bad look-out,
and
could think of no way of escape.
He tried to make a tunnel, but there was nowhere to put the earth. His
master
noticed it, and threatened to kill him. He was sitting on the floor of
the
pit one day, thinking of freedom and feeling very downhearted, when
suddenly
a cake fell into his lap, then another, and then a shower of cherries.
He
looked up, and there was Dina. She looked at him, laughed, and ran
away.
And Zhílin thought: "Might not Dina help me?"
He cleared out a little place in the pit, scraped up some clay, and
began
modelling toys. He made men, horses, and dogs, thinking, "When Dina
comes
I'll throw them up to her." But Dina did not come next day.
Zhílin
heard the tramp of horses; some men rode past, and the Tartars gathered
in
council near the Mosque. They shouted and argued; the word 'Russians'
was
repeated several times. He could hear the voice of the old man. Though
he
could not distinguish what was said, he guessed that Russian troops
were
somewhere near, and that the Tartars, afraid they might come into the
Aoul,
did not know what to do with their prisoners.
After talking awhile, they went away. Suddenly he heard a rustling
overhead,
and saw Dina crouching at the edge of the pit, her knees higher than
her
head, and bending over so that the coins of her plait dangled above the
pit.
Her eyes gleamed like stars. She drew two cheeses out of her sleeve and
threw
them to him. Zhílin took them and said, "Why did you not come
before?
I have made some toys for you. Here, catch!" And he began throwing the
toys
up, one by one.
But she shook her head and would not look at them. "I don't want any,"
she
said. She sat silent for awhile, and then went on, "Iván, they
want
to kill you!" And she pointed to her own throat.
"Who wants to kill me?"
"Father; the old men say he must. But I am sorry for you!"
Zhílin answered: "Well, if you are sorry for me, bring me a long
pole."
She shook her head, as much as to say, "I can't!"
He clasped his hands and prayed her: "Dina, please do! Dear Dina, I beg
of
you!"
"I can't!" she said, "they would see me bringing it. They're all at
home."
And she went away. So when evening came Zhílin still sat looking
up
now and then, and wondering what would happen. The stars were there,
but
the moon had not yet risen. The Mullah's voice was heard; then all was
silent.
Zhílin was beginning to doze, thinking: "The girl will be afraid
to
do it!"
Suddenly he felt clay falling on his head. He looked up, and saw a long
pole
poking into the opposite wall of the pit. It kept poking about for a
time,
and then it came down, sliding into the pit. Zhílin was glad
indeed.
He took hold of it and lowered it. It was a strong pole, one that he
had
seen before on the roof of his master's hut. He looked up. The stars
were
shining high in the sky, and just above the pit Dina's eyes gleamed in
the
dark like a cat's. She stooped with her face close to the edge of the
pit,
and whispered, "Iván! Iván!" waving her hand in front of
her
face to show that he should speak low.
"What?" said Zhílin.
"All but two have gone away."
Then Zhílin said, "Well, Kostílin, come; let us have one
last
try; I'll help you up."
But Kostílin would not hear of it. "No," said he, "It's clear I
can't
get away from here. How can I go, when I have hardly strength to turn
round?"
"Well, good-bye, then! Don't think ill of me!" and they kissed each
other.
Zhílin seized the pole, told Dina to hold on, and began to
climb.
He slipped once or twice; the shackles hindered him. Kostílin
helped
him, and he managed to get to the top. Dina with her little hands,
pulled
with all her might at his shirt, laughing. Zhílin drew out the
pole
and said, "Put it back in its place, Dina, or they'll notice, and you
will
be beaten."
She dragged the pole away, and Zhílin went down the hill. When
he
had gone down the steep incline, he took a sharp stone and tried to
wrench
the lock off the shackles. But it was a strong lock and he could not
manage
to break it, and besides, it was difficult to get at. Then he heard
some
one running down the hill, springing lightly. He thought: "Surely,
that's
Dina again."
Dina came, took a stone and said, "Let me try." She knelt down and
tried
to wrench the lock off, but her little hands were as slender as little
twigs,
and she had not the strength. She threw the stone away and began to
cry.
Then Zhílin set to work again at the lock, and Dina squatted
beside
him with her hand on his shoulder.
Zhílin looked round and saw a red light to the left behind the
hill.
The moon was just rising. "Ah!" he thought, "before the moon has risen
I
must have passed the valley and be in the forest." So he rose and threw
away
the stone. Shackles or no, he must go on. "Good-bye, Dina dear!" he
said.
"I shall never forget you!" Dina seized hold of him and felt about with
her
hands for a place to put some cheeses she had brought. He took them
from
her.
"Thank you, my little one. Who will make dolls for you when I am gone?"
And
he stroked her head. Dina burst into tears hiding her face in her
hands.
Then she ran up the hill like a young goat, the coins in her plait
clinking
against her back.
Zhílin crossed himself, took the lock of his shackles in his
hand to
prevent its clattering, and went along the road, dragging his shackled
leg,
and looking towards the place where the moon was about to rise. He now
knew
the way. If he went straight he would have to walk nearly six miles. If
only
he could reach the wood before the moon had quite risen! He crossed the
river;
the light behind the hill was growing whiter. Still looking at it, he
went
along the valley. The moon was not yet visible. The light became
brighter,
and one side of the valley was growing lighter and lighter, and shadows
were
drawing in towards the foot of the hill, creeping nearer and nearer to
him.
Zhílin went on, keeping in the shade. He was hurrying, but the
moon
was moving still faster; the tops of the hills on the right were
already
lit up. As he got near the wood the white moon appeared from behind the
hills,
and it became light as day. One could see all the leaves on the trees.
It
was light on the hill, but silent, as if nothing were alive; no sound
could
be heard but the gurgling of the river below. Zhílin reached the
wood
without meeting any one, chose a dark spot, and sat down to rest.
He rested and ate one of the cheeses. Then he found a stone and set to
work
again to knock off the shackles. He knocked his hands sore, but could
not
break the lock. He rose and went along the road. After walking the
greater
part of a mile he was quite done up, and his feet were aching. He had
to
stop every ten steps. "There is nothing else for it," thought he. "I
must
drag on as long as I have any strength left. If I sit down, I shan't be
able
to rise again. I can't reach the fortress; but when day breaks I'll lie
down
in the forest, remain there all day, and go on again at night." He went
on
all night. Two Tartars on horseback passed him; but he heard them a
long
way off, and hid behind a tree.
The moon began to grow paler, the dew to fall. It was getting near
dawn,
and Zhílin had not reached the end of the forest. "Well,"
thought
he, "I'll walk another thirty steps, and then turn in among the trees
and
sit down." He walked another thirty steps, and saw that he was at the
end
of the forest. He went to the edge; it was now quite light, and
straight
before him was the plain and the fortress. To the left, quite close at
the
foot of the slope, a fire was dying out, and the smoke from it spread
round.
There were men gathered about the fire.
He looked intently, and saw guns glistening. They were
soldiers--Cossacks!
Zhílin was filled with joy. He collected his remaining strength
and
set off down the hill, saying to himself: "God forbid that any mounted
Tartar
should see me now, in the open field! Near as I am, I could not get
there
in time."
Hardly had he said this when, a couple of hundred yards off, on a
hillock
to the left, he saw three Tartars. They saw him also and made a rush.
His
heart sank. He waved his hands, and shouted with all his might,
"Brothers,
brothers! Help!"
The Cossacks heard him, and a party of them on horseback darted to cut
across
the Tartars' path. The Cossacks were far and the Tartars were near; but
Zhílin,
too, made a last effort. Lifting the shackles with his hand, he ran
towards
the Cossacks, hardly knowing what he was doing, crossing himself and
shouting,
"Brothers! Brothers! Brothers!"
There were some fifteen Cossacks. The Tartars were frightened, and
stopped
before reaching him. Zhilin staggered up to the Cossacks. They
surrounded
him and began questioning him. "Who are you? What are you? Where from?"
But
Zhílin was quite beside himself, and could only weep and repeat,
"Brothers!
Brothers!"
Then the soldiers came running up and crowded round Zhílin--one
giving
him bread, another buckwheat, a third vódka: one wrapping a
cloak
round him, another breaking his shackles. The officers recognized him,
and
rode with him to the fortress. The soldiers were glad to see him back,
and
his comrades all gathered round him. Zhílin told them all that
had
happened to him.
"That's the way I went home and got married!" said he. "No. It seems
plain
that fate was against it!" So he went on serving in the Caucasus. A
month
passed before Kostílin was released, after paying five thousand
roubles
ransom. He was almost dead when they brought him back.
(Written in 1870)
Source: Twenty-Three Tales by
Lev
Tolstoy; translated by L. and A. Maude. Originally published by Funk
&
Wagnalls Co. (New York, 1907).