A Hero of Our Time [14]
Krestov -- two versts in two hours! Meanwhile the clouds had descended, hail and snow fell; the wind, burst- ing into the ravines, howled and whistled like Nightingale the Robber.[1] Soon the stone cross was hidden in the mist, the billows of which, in ever denser and more compact masses, rushed in from the east. . .
[1] A legendary Russian hero whose whistling knocked people down.
Concerning that stone cross, by the way, there exists the strange, but widespread, tradition that it had been set up by the Emperor Peter the First when travelling through the Caucasus. In the first place, however, the Emperor went no farther than Daghestan; and, in the second place, there is an inscription in large letters on the cross itself, to the effect that it had been erected by order of General Ermolov, and that too in the year 1824. Nevertheless, the tradition has taken such firm root, in spite of the inscription, that really you do not know what to believe; the more so, as it is not the custom to believe inscriptions.
To reach the station Kobi, we still had to descend about five versts, across ice-covered rocks and plashy snow. The horses were exhausted; we were freezing; the snowstorm droned with ever- increasing violence, exactly like the storms of our own northern land, only its wild melodies were sadder and more melancholy.
"O Exile," I thought, "thou art weeping for thy wide, free steppes! There mayest thou unfold thy cold wings, but here thou art stifled and confined, like an eagle beating his wings, with a shriek, against the grating of his iron cage!"
"A bad look out," said the staff-captain. "Look! There's nothing to be seen all round but mist and snow. At any moment we may tumble into an abyss or stick fast in a cleft; and a little lower down, I dare say, the Baidara has risen so high that there is no getting across it. Oh, this Asia, I know it! Like people, like rivers! There's no trusting them at all!"
The drivers, shouting and cursing, belaboured the horses, which snorted, resisted obstinately, and refused to budge on any account, notwith- standing the eloquence of the whips.
"Your honour," one of the drivers said to me at length, "you see, we will never reach Kobi to-day. Won't you give orders to turn to the left while we can? There is something black yonder on the slope -- probably huts. Travellers always stop there in bad weather, sir. They say," he added, pointing to the Ossetes, "that they will lead us there if you will give them a tip."
"I know that, my friend, I know that without your telling me," said the staff-captain. "Oh, these beasts! They are delighted to seize any pretext for extorting a tip!"
"You must confess, however," I said, "that we should be worse off without them."
"Just so, just so," he growled to himself. "I know them well -- these guides! They scent out by instinct a chance of taking advantage of people. As if it was impossible to find the way without them!"
Accordingly we turned aside to the left, and, somehow or other, after a good deal of trouble, made our way to the wretched shelter, which consisted of two huts built of stone slabs and rubble, surrounded by a wall of the same material. Our ragged hosts received us with alacrity. I learned afterwards that the Govern- ment supplies them with money and food upon condition that they put up travellers who are overtaken by storm.
CHAPTER VIII
"ALL is for the best," I said, sitting down close by the fire. "Now you will finish telling me your story about Bela. I am certain that what you have already told me was not the end of it."
"Why are you so certain?" answered the staff-captain, winking and smiling slyly.
"Because things don't happen like that. A story with such an unusual beginning must also have an unusual ending."
"You have guessed, of course" . . .
"I am very glad to hear it."
"It is all very well for you to be glad, but, indeed, it makes me sad when I think of it. Bela was a splendid girl. In the end I grew accustomed to her just as if she had been my own daughter,
[1] A legendary Russian hero whose whistling knocked people down.
Concerning that stone cross, by the way, there exists the strange, but widespread, tradition that it had been set up by the Emperor Peter the First when travelling through the Caucasus. In the first place, however, the Emperor went no farther than Daghestan; and, in the second place, there is an inscription in large letters on the cross itself, to the effect that it had been erected by order of General Ermolov, and that too in the year 1824. Nevertheless, the tradition has taken such firm root, in spite of the inscription, that really you do not know what to believe; the more so, as it is not the custom to believe inscriptions.
To reach the station Kobi, we still had to descend about five versts, across ice-covered rocks and plashy snow. The horses were exhausted; we were freezing; the snowstorm droned with ever- increasing violence, exactly like the storms of our own northern land, only its wild melodies were sadder and more melancholy.
"O Exile," I thought, "thou art weeping for thy wide, free steppes! There mayest thou unfold thy cold wings, but here thou art stifled and confined, like an eagle beating his wings, with a shriek, against the grating of his iron cage!"
"A bad look out," said the staff-captain. "Look! There's nothing to be seen all round but mist and snow. At any moment we may tumble into an abyss or stick fast in a cleft; and a little lower down, I dare say, the Baidara has risen so high that there is no getting across it. Oh, this Asia, I know it! Like people, like rivers! There's no trusting them at all!"
The drivers, shouting and cursing, belaboured the horses, which snorted, resisted obstinately, and refused to budge on any account, notwith- standing the eloquence of the whips.
"Your honour," one of the drivers said to me at length, "you see, we will never reach Kobi to-day. Won't you give orders to turn to the left while we can? There is something black yonder on the slope -- probably huts. Travellers always stop there in bad weather, sir. They say," he added, pointing to the Ossetes, "that they will lead us there if you will give them a tip."
"I know that, my friend, I know that without your telling me," said the staff-captain. "Oh, these beasts! They are delighted to seize any pretext for extorting a tip!"
"You must confess, however," I said, "that we should be worse off without them."
"Just so, just so," he growled to himself. "I know them well -- these guides! They scent out by instinct a chance of taking advantage of people. As if it was impossible to find the way without them!"
Accordingly we turned aside to the left, and, somehow or other, after a good deal of trouble, made our way to the wretched shelter, which consisted of two huts built of stone slabs and rubble, surrounded by a wall of the same material. Our ragged hosts received us with alacrity. I learned afterwards that the Govern- ment supplies them with money and food upon condition that they put up travellers who are overtaken by storm.
CHAPTER VIII
"ALL is for the best," I said, sitting down close by the fire. "Now you will finish telling me your story about Bela. I am certain that what you have already told me was not the end of it."
"Why are you so certain?" answered the staff-captain, winking and smiling slyly.
"Because things don't happen like that. A story with such an unusual beginning must also have an unusual ending."
"You have guessed, of course" . . .
"I am very glad to hear it."
"It is all very well for you to be glad, but, indeed, it makes me sad when I think of it. Bela was a splendid girl. In the end I grew accustomed to her just as if she had been my own daughter,