A Hero of Our Time - Mikhail IUr'evich Lermontov [14]
“ ‘Would I be right in saying,’ I asked him, ‘that you have been transferred here from Russia?’
“ ‘Indeed, Mr. Staff Captain,’ he replied.
“I took him by the hand and said: ‘Very pleased, very pleased to meet you. You will find it somewhat tedious . . . but you and I will live together at ease. Yes, please, call me simply Maxim Maximych, and please—why this full uniform? Present yourself to me in your military cap.’
“They took him to his quarters and he settled at the fortress.”
“And what was his name?” I asked Maxim Maximych.
“His name was . . . Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. A wonderful fellow, I dare say. Only a little strange too. For example, he would spend the whole day hunting in a drizzling cold that would freeze and exhaust most others to the bone—but to him it was nothing. And then, at other times, he would be sitting in his room, and the wind would blow, and he’d swear to you that he was catching cold. A shutter would bang and he’d shiver and go pale. But I can attest that he would go out after wild boar, one on one. Sometimes whole hours would go by without a word from him, and then other times, he’d start telling a story, and immediately your belly would ache from laughing . . . Yes, he had a good deal of great oddities, and he must have been a rich man—he had so many expensive things!”
“Did he stay with you long?” I asked again.
“Almost a year. But that year is certainly memorable for me; he created a lot of trouble for me, but that is not why I mention it. It seems, in fact, that there is a type of person who is destined from birth to be subjected to various unusual things!”
“Unusual?” I exclaimed with a look of curiosity, helping him to more tea.
“Well, I’ll explain. About six versts from the fortress lived a peaceable prince.8 His young son, a boy of about fifteen, took to visiting us every day for one reason or another. Grigory Alexandrovich and I spoiled him, we did. And he was such a rascal, and nimble at whatever he did—whether he was picking up a hat at full gallop or firing a rifle. There was just one thing about him that was no good: he had a terrible weakness for money. Once, for a laugh, Grigory Alexandrovich promised him a gold piece if he would steal the best goat in his father’s herd. And what do you think? The very next night he dragged it in by its horns. But if we ever thought to tease him, his eyes would fill with blood, and he’d be at the ready with his dagger.
“‘Eh, Azamat, don’t lose your head now,’ I told him, ‘you’ll get it cut off!’
“Once the old prince himself came and invited us to a wedding. He was giving away his eldest daughter’s hand in marriage. Given I was his kunak,9 I couldn’t, you know, decline—he is a Tatar after all. So we went. We were met at the aul10 by a lot of dogs barking loudly. The women, having seen us, hid themselves. Those whose faces we could see were far from beautiful.
“ ‘I had a much higher opinion of Circassian women,’ said Grigory Alexandrovich.
“ ‘Wait a moment!’ I replied, laughing. I had something in mind.
“A crowd of people had gathered in the prince’s saklya. The Asiatics, you know, have a custom of inviting everyone and anyone to their weddings. They received us with every honor, and led us to their special rooms. I, however, did not forget to note where they put our horses—you know, in the event of unforeseen circumstances.”
“How do they celebrate weddings?” I asked the staff captain.
“Oh, in the usual way. At the beginning the Mullah reads them something from the Koran. Then he gives presents to the young couple and all their relatives. They eat, drink bouza and then they begin trick riding—and there’s always one, some dirty ragamuffin on a lousy and lame nag, who poses, plays the clown, and makes the