"You see what they're like!" he grumbled. "They don't know enough Russian to ask for a piece of bread, but they've learned to beg for tips: 'Officer, give me money for vodka!' Even the Tatars[23] are better-at least, they don't drink alcohol...."
About a mile remained to the stage coach station. It was quiet all around, so quiet that you could trace the flight of a mosquito by its buzz. A deep gorge yawned black to the left. Beyond it and ahead of us the dark blue mountain peaks wrinkled with gorges and gullies and topped by layers of snow loomed against the pale horizon that still retained the last glimmer of twilight. Stars began to twinkle in the dark sky, and, strangely enough, it seemed that they were far higher here than in our northern sky in Russia. On both sides of the road naked black boulders jutted up from the ground, and here and there some shrubs peeped from under the snow. Not a single dead leaf rustled, and it was pleasant to hear in the midst of this lifeless sleepiness of nature the snorting of the tired stage coach horses and the uneven tinkling of the Russian carriage bells.
"Tomorrow will be a fine day," I observed, but the captain did not reply. Instead he pointed to a tall mountain rising directly ahead of us.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Mount Gud."
"Yes?"
"See how it smokes?"
Indeed, Mount Gud was smoking. Light wisps of mist crept along its sides while a black cloud rested on the summit, so black that it stood out as a blotch even against the dark sky.
We could already make out the stage coach station and the roofs of the huts around it, and welcoming lights were dancing ahead when the gusts of cold raw wind came whistling down the gorge and it began to drizzle. Barely had I thrown a felt cape over my shoulders than the snow came. I looked at the captain with respect now...
"We'll have to stay here overnight," he said, annoyed. "You can't get through the hills in a blizzard like this. Seen any avalanches on Cross Mountain?" he asked a coachman.
"No, sir," the Ossetian replied. "But there's a lot just waiting to come down."
As there was no room for travelers at the inn, we were given a place to stay in a smoky hut. I invited my fellow traveler to join me for tea, since I had with me a cast-iron tea-kettle-my sole comfort on my Caucasian travels.
The hut was built against a cliff. Three wet, slippery steps led up to the door. I groped my way in and stumbled upon a cow, for these people have a cow shed for an entry room. I couldn't figure out where to go. On one side sheep were bleating and on the other a dog growled. Fortunately a glimmer of light showed through the gloom and guided me to another opening that looked like a door. Here a rather interesting scene confronted me: the spacious hut with a roof supported by two smoke-blackened posts was full of people. A fire built on the bare earth crackled in the middle, and the smoke, forced back by the wind through the opening in the roof, hung so thick that it took some time before I could see anything around me. By the fire sat two old women, a swarm of children and a lean Georgian man, all of them dressed in rags. There was nothing to do but to make ourselves comfortable by the fire and light up our pipes, and soon the tea-kettle was singing happily.
"Pitiable creatures!" I observed to the captain, nodding toward our grimy hosts who stared at us silently with something like stupid shock.
"A dull-witted people," he replied. "Believe me, they can't do anything, nor can they learn anything either. Our Kabardians[15] or Chechens[15] might be bums and tramps, but at least they're brave fighters. However, these guys take no interest in weapons or war: you won't find a decent knife on a single one of them. But what can you expect from Ossetians!"
"Were you long in the Chechen region?"
"Quite a while-ten years stationed at a fort with a company, out by the Stone Ford[24]. You know the place?"
"Heard of it."
"Yes, sir, we had enough of those gangs[22] - now, thank God, things are quieter, but there was a time when you didn't dare go out a hundred paces beyond the rampart without some hairy devil stalking you, ready to put a noose around your neck or a bullet through the back of your head the minute he caught you napping. But they were brave men anyway."
"You must have had a whole lot of adventures?" I asked, with burning curiosity.
"Aye, many indeed…"
He began to pull at the left tip of his mustache, his head drooped, and he sank into deep thought. I very badly wanted to get some sort of tale out of him-a desire that is natural to anyone who travels about taking notes. In the meantime the tea came to the boil. I dug out two travelers' glasses from my suitcase, poured out tea and placed one before the captain. He took a sip and muttered as if to himself: "Yes, many indeed!" The exclamation raised my hopes, for I knew that Caucasian old-timers like to talk and tell a story: they seldom have a chance to do so, for a man may be stationed a full five years with a company somewhere in the back woods without anyone to greet him with a "Hello" (his sergeant always says, "Good morning, sir.") And there is so much to talk about: the wild, strange people all around, the constant dangers, and the remarkable adventures-one can't help thinking it sad that we write down so little of it.
"Like to add a little rum?" I asked. "I have some white rum from Tiflis, it'll warm you up in this cold."
"No, thanks, I don't drink."
"How come?"
"Well... swore off the stuff. Once when I was still a second lieutenant we went on a brief spree, you know how it is, and that very night there was an alert. So we showed up before the ranks a little bit high, and there was hell to pay when old Yermolov found out. Lord preserve me from seeing a man as furious as he was. We escaped being court-martialed by a whisker. That's the way it is: sometimes you spend a whole year without seeing anyone, and if you get drunk you've had it."
On hearing this I nearly lost hope.
"Take even the Circassians," he went on, "as soon as they drink their fill of booza[25] at a wedding or a funeral the knife fight begins. Once[26] i barely managed to escape alive although I was the guest of a neutral[27] prince."
"How did it happen?"
"Well," he filled and lit his pipe, took a long pull on it, and began the story, "you see, I was stationed at the time at a fort beyond the Terek with a company-that was nearly five years back. Once in the fall a supply convoy came up, and with it an officer[21], a young man of about twenty-five[28]. he reported to me in full dress uniform and announced that he had been ordered to join me at the fort. He was so slim and white, and so fashionably dressed up that I could tell at once that he was a newcomer to the Caucasus. 'You must've been transferred here from Russia?' I asked him. 'Yes, sir,' he replied. I took his hand and said: 'Glad to have you here, very glad. It'll be a bit dull for you... but we'll get along real good, I'm sure, us two. Just call me Maksim Maksimich[29], if you like, and, another thing-please don't bother wearing full dress uniform. Just come around in your service cap[30].' he was shown his quarters and he settled down in the fort."
23
also spelled Tartars, descendents of invaders from Central Asia, but essentially at this point any Muslims who speak Turkish languages. Remember the Circassians don't speak a Turkic dialect, but a rare Indo-European one.
25
or
28
the age is of interest since he insults the young cadet, who was about 21, a few years before, in "Princess Mary," and because a psychoanalytic interpretation of Pechorin's personality indicates narcissism and inordinate concern about his appearance and being an adult, or at least so say some experts.
29
short for Maksim Maksimovich, and pronounced like "Mack-SEE-much" according to Nabokov. We have changed the name throughout from Parker's "Maksimych."
30
"white army caps": an ordinary informal, fatigue uniform cap that would, however, be worn by an officer demoted in rank, such as a political exile or one who had killed another in a duel. (Cornwell notes the undertext of political exile in this locale through the book.) Regular Army epaulets indicate a lesser grade than a royal Guards officer from the capital. A cadet might wear an army overcoat to pretend he had been in a duel and so reduced in rank.