Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 2 полностью

The inhabitants of the Kumúkh aoul, Tash-Kichu, which was friendly to the Russians, respected Hadji Murád greatly and had often come to the fort merely to look at the famous naïb. They had sent messengers to him three days previously to ask him to visit their mosque on the Friday. But the Kumúkh princes who lived in Tash-Kichu hated Hadji Murád because there was a blood-feud between them, and on hearing of this invitation they announced to the people that they would not allow him to enter the mosque. The people became excited and a fight occurred between them and the princes’ supporters. The Russian authorities pacified the mountaineers and sent word to Hadji Murád not to go to the mosque.

Hadji Murád did not go and everyone supposed that the matter was settled.

But at the very moment of his departure, when he came out into the porch before which the horses stood waiting, Arslán Khan, one of the Kumúkh princes and an acquaintance of Butler and the major, rode up to the house.

When he saw Hadji Murád he snatched a pistol from his belt and took aim, but before he could fire, Hadji Murád in spite of his lameness rushed down from the porch like a cat towards Arslán Khan who missed him.

Seizing Arslán Khan’s horse by the bridle with one hand, Hadji Murád drew his dagger with the other and shouted something to him in Tartar.

Butler and Eldár both ran at once towards the enemies and caught them by the arms. The major, who had heard the shot, also came out.

‘What do you mean by it, Arslán – starting such a nasty business on my premises?’ said he, when he heard what had happened. ‘It’s not right, friend! “To the foe in the field you need not yield!” – but to start this kind of slaughter in front of my house —’

Arslán Khan, a little man with black moustaches, got off his horse pale and trembling, looked angrily at Hadji Murád, and went into the house with the major. Hadji Murád, breathing heavily and smiling, returned to the horses.

‘Why did he want to kill him?’ Butler asked the interpreter.

‘He says it is a law of theirs,’ the interpreter translated Hadji Murád’s reply. ‘Arslán must avenge a relation’s blood and so he tried to kill him.’

‘And supposing he overtakes him on the road?’ asked Butler.

Hadji Murád smiled.

‘Well, if he kills me it will prove that such is Allah’s will.… Good-bye,’ he said again in Russian, taking his horse by the withers. Glancing round at everybody who had come out to see him off, his eyes rested kindly on Márya Dmítrievna.

‘Good-bye, my lass,’ said he to her. ‘I thank you.’

‘God help you – God help you to rescue your family!’ repeated Márya Dmítrievna.

He did not understand her words, but felt her sympathy for him and nodded to her.

‘Mind, don’t forget your kunák,’ said Butler.

‘Tell him I am his true friend and will never forget him,’ answered Hadji Murád to the interpreter, and in spite of his short leg he swung himself lightly and quickly into the high saddle, barely touching the stirrup, and automatically feeling for his dagger and adjusting his sword. Then, with that peculiarly proud look with which only a Caucasian hill-man sits his horse – as though he were one with it – he rode away from the major’s house. Khanéfi and Eldár also mounted and having taken a friendly leave of their hosts and of the officers, rode off at a trot, following their murshíd.

As usual after a departure, those who remained behind began to discuss those who had left.

‘Plucky fellow! He rushed at Arslán Khan like a wolf! His face quite changed!’

‘But he’ll be up to tricks – he’s a terrible rogue, I should say,’ remarked Petróvsky.

‘It’s a pity there aren’t more Russian rogues of such a kind!’ suddenly put in Márya Dmítrievna with vexation. ‘He has lived a week with us and we have seen nothing but good from him. He is courteous, wise, and just,’ she added.

‘How did you find that out?’

‘No matter, I did find it out!’

‘She’s quite smitten, and that’s a fact!’ said the major, who had just entered the room.

‘Well, and if I am smitten? What’s that to you? Why run him down if he’s a good man? Though he’s a Tartar he’s still a good man!’

‘Quite true, Márya Dmítrievna,’ said Butler, ‘and you’re quite right to take his part!’

XXI