So the matter was settled. He received one-third of his annuity in advance, and left the King’s dominions. It was only a quarter of an hour by rail; and he emigrated, and settled just across the frontier, where he bought a bit of land, started market-gardening, and now lives comfortably. He always goes at the proper time to draw his pension. Having received it, he goes to the gaming tables, stakes two or three francs, sometimes wins and sometimes loses, and then returns home. He lives peaceably and well.
It is a good thing that he did not commit his crime in a country where they do not grudge expense to cut a man’s head off, or to keeping him in prison for life.
HADJI MURÁD
A LIST OF TARTAR WORDS USED IN
‘HADJI MURÁD’
THROUGHOUT this edition I have tried to avoid the use of Russian words, employing their English equivalents wherever possible. In the following story, however, Tolstoy makes use of a number of Tartar words which he does not translate. As there are generally no one- or two-word equivalents for them in English, it would be difficult to avoid following his example and retaining these Tartar words. I have therefore done so, and the reader should refer to the following alphabetical list when he encounters one of them that needs explanation.
AYLMER MAUDE.
A Tartar village.
Have.
A Tartar undergarment with sleeves.
A long round felt cape.
The same as a
among the Red Indians, but the word is inseparably connected with the idea of skilful horsemanship.
Holy War against the infidels.
The leader in the Holy War, uniting in himself supreme spiritual and temporal power.
Khan’s wife.
A fuel made of straw and manure.
A sworn friend, an adopted brother.
A disciple or follower: ‘One who desires’ to find the way in Muridism.
Almost identical with Sufism.
‘One who shows’ the way in Muridism.
A Tartar lieutenant or governor.
An Oriental dish, prepared with rice and mutton or chicken.
A Caucasian house, clay-plastered and often built of earth.
The written Mohammedan law.
‘The Path’ leading to the higher life.
No, not.
I
I WAS returning home by the fields. It was midsummer, the hay harvest was over and they were just beginning to reap the rye. At that season of the year there is a delightful variety of flowers – red, white, and pink scented tufty clover; milk-white ox-eye daisies with their bright yellow centres and pleasant spicy smell; yellow honey-scented rape blossoms; tall campanulas with white and lilac bells, tulip-shaped; creeping vetch; yellow, red, and pink scabious; faintly scented, neatly arranged purple plantains with blossoms slightly tinged with pink; cornflowers, the newly opened blossoms bright blue in the sunshine but growing paler and redder towards evening or when growing old; and delicate almond-scented dodder flowers that withered quickly. I gathered myself a large nosegay and was going home when I noticed in a ditch, in full bloom, a beautiful thistle plant of the crimson variety, which in our neighbourhood they call ‘Tartar’ and carefully avoid when mowing – or, if they do happen to cut it down, throw out from among the grass for fear of pricking their hands. Thinking to pick this thistle and put it in the centre of my nosegay, I climbed down into the ditch, and after driving away a velvety humble-bee that had penetrated deep into one of the flowers and had there fallen sweetly asleep, I set to work to pluck the flower. But this proved a very difficult task. Not only did the stalk prick on every side – even through the handkerchief I wrapped round my hand – but it was so tough that I had to struggle with it for nearly five minutes, breaking the fibres one by one; and when I had at last plucked it, the stalk was all frayed and the flower itself no longer seemed so fresh and beautiful. Moreover, owing to its coarseness and stiffness, it did not seem in place among the delicate blossoms of my nosegay. I threw it away feeling sorry to have vainly destroyed a flower that looked beautiful in its proper place.
