The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Other Stories

The Prisoner of the Caucasus

(A TRUE STORY)

I

A GENTLEMAN WAS serving as an officer in the Caucasus. His name was Zhilin.

A letter once came for him from home. His old mother wrote to him: “I have grown old, and would like before I die to see my beloved son. Come to me to say farewell, bury me, and then with God’s help go back to the army. And I have found you a bride: intelligent, and nice, and there is property. If she is to your liking, perhaps you will marry her and stay for good.”

Zhilin fell to thinking: “And in actual fact the old woman’s doing poorly; I may not get to see her again. Why don’t I go; and if the bride is nice, I might just get married.”

He went to his colonel, obtained leave, said good-bye to his comrades, stood his soldiers to four buckets of vodka in farewell, and made ready to go.

There was war then in the Caucasus. There was no traveling the roads by day or by night. As soon as a Russian rode or walked out of a fortress, the Tartars either killed him or carried him off into the hills. And so it was arranged that twice a week an escort of soldiers would go from fortress to fortress. The soldiers went in front and behind, and people went in the middle.

It happened in the summer. At dawn the baggage trains assembled outside the fortress, the escorting soldiers came out, and they started down the road. Zhilin went on horseback, and the cart with his belongings went with the train.

There were sixteen miles to travel. The train went slowly; now the soldiers would stop, then a cart wheel would fall off or a horse would refuse to move, and they would all stand there waiting.

The sun had already passed noon, and the train had only gone half the way. Dust, heat, a scorching sun, and nowhere to take shelter. Bare steppe; not a tree, not a bush along the road.

Zhilin rode ahead, stopped, and waited while the train caught up. He heard them start blowing the horn behind, meaning they had stopped again. And Zhilin thought: “Why don’t I go on by myself, without the soldiers? I’ve got a good horse under me; if I come across Tartars, I can gallop away. Or maybe I shouldn’t? …”

He stood there pondering. Then another officer, Kostylin, with a gun, rode up to him on his horse and said:

“Let’s go on alone, Zhilin. I can’t stand it, I’m hungry, and it’s so hot. My shirt is soaking wet.” Kostylin was a heavy man, fat, all red, the sweat simply pouring off him. Zhilin thought a little and said:

“Is your gun loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s go then. Only let’s agree not to separate.”

And they went ahead down the road. They rode over the steppe, talking and looking to both sides. You could see a long way all around.

Just as the steppe ended, the road entered a pass between two hills, and Zhilin said:

“We ought to ride up the hill and look around, otherwise they may well jump us from behind it and we won’t see them.”

But Kostylin said:

“What’s the point of looking? Let’s go on.”

Zhilin did not listen to him.

“No,” he said, “you wait down here, and I’ll just have a look.”

And he sent his horse to the left, up the hill. The horse under Zhilin was a hunter (he had paid a hundred roubles for her when she was a filly in a herd and had broken her himself); she carried him up the steep slope as if on wings. He reached the crest, looked—in front of him, two hundred yards away, stood mounted Tartars, some thirty of them. He saw them and started to turn back; the Tartars also saw him and dashed towards him, drawing their guns from their cases as they rode. Zhilin went dashing down the slope as fast as his horse could carry him, shouting to Kostylin:

“Get your gun out!” and himself thinking about his horse: “Sweetheart, bring me through, don’t trip up, if you stumble, I’m lost. If I reach the gun, I won’t let them take me.”

But Kostylin, instead of waiting, cut and ran for the fortress as soon as he saw the Tartars. He lashed his horse now on one side, now on the other. All you could see through the dust was how the horse switched its tail.

Zhilin could see things were bad for him. The gun had ridden off; nothing could be done with a saber alone. He sent his horse back towards the soldiers, thinking to get away. He saw six of them rushing to cut him off. There was a good horse under him, but under them there were still better, and they were racing to cut him off. He began to rein in, meaning to turn back, but the horse was already making straight for them and there was no stopping her. He saw a red-bearded Tartar on a gray horse approaching him. He was shrieking, baring his teeth; his gun was at the ready.

“Well,” thought Zhilin, “I know you devils: if you take me alive, you’ll put me in a hole and whip me. You won’t get me alive.”

Zhilin, though not a big man, was bold. He snatched out his saber and sent his horse straight at the red Tartar: “Either trample him with my horse, or cut him down with my saber.”

But the horse did not carry Zhilin that far; he was fired at from behind and his horse was hit. The horse crashed to the ground at full speed, pinning down Zhilin’s leg.

He tried to get up, but two stinking Tartars were already sitting on him, twisting his arms behind his back. He tore loose, threw them off, but three more jumped from their horses and started hitting him on the head with the butts of their guns. His eyes went dim and he reeled. The Tartars seized him, took spare saddle girths, tied his arms behind his back with a Tartar knot, and dragged him to the saddle. They knocked his hat off, pulled off his boots, felt him all over, took his money, his watch, tore his clothes. Zhilin turned to look at his horse. She, the dear thing, lay on her side as she had fallen and only thrashed her legs—they could not find the ground. There was a hole in her head and dark blood was spurting from it; the dust was wet with it for two yards around.

One of the Tartars went to her and started to remove the saddle. She kept thrashing—he drew his dagger and slashed her throat. There was a whistling in her windpipe, the horse shuddered, and steam came out.

The Tartars removed the saddle, the bridle. The red-bearded Tartar mounted his horse, the others seated Zhilin behind him on the saddle, strapped him to the Tartar’s waist with a belt so that he would not fall off, and took him into the hills.

Zhilin sat behind the Tartar, swaying, his face knocking against the stinking Tartar back. All he saw in front of him was that robust Tartar back, a sinewy neck, and a shaved nape showing blue under the hat. Zhilin’s head was wounded, blood had clotted over his eyes. And he could neither straighten up on the horse nor wipe off the blood. His arms were twisted so much that it hurt his collarbone.

They rode for a long time from hill to hill, waded across a river, came out on a road, and descended into a hollow.

Zhilin wanted to make note of the road they took him by, but his eyes were covered with blood and he could not move.

Dusk was falling. They crossed another river, started climbing a rocky hill, there was a smell of smoke, a barking of dogs.

They arrived at an aoul.* The Tartars all got off their horses, Tartar children came, surrounded Zhilin, squealed joyfully, started throwing stones at him.

A Tartar chased the children away, took Zhilin off the horse, and called for a hired man. A Nogai came, high-cheekboned, in nothing but a shirt. The shirt was in tatters, his whole chest was bare. The Tartar gave him some order. The man brought shackles: two oak blocks fixed to two iron rings, one ring with a clasp and padlock.

They untied Zhilin’s arms, put the shackles on him, and led him to a shed, pushed him in and locked the door. Zhilin fell on dung. He lay there for a while, felt around in the darkness for a softer spot, and lay down.

II

ZHILIN HARDLY SLEPT all that night. The nights were short. He saw light through a chink. Zhilin got up, dug at the chink to make it bigger, and began to look.

Through the chink he could see a road going downhill, to the right a Tartar saklya, beside it two trees. A black dog was lying on the threshold, a goat with kids was walking about, the kids wagging their little tails. He saw a young Tartar woman coming from the bottom of the hill in a loose, bright-colored shirt, trousers, and boots, her head covered with a kaftan, and on her head a big tin jug of water. She walked, her back swaying, flexing, and led by the hand a little Tartar boy with a shaved head, in nothing but a shirt. The woman went into the saklya with the water, and yesterday’s Tartar with the red beard came out, in a silk beshmet, at his belt a silver dagger, with shoes on his bare feet. A tall, black lambskin hat was pushed back on his head. He came out, stretched, stroked his red beard. He stood for a while, said something to the man, and went somewhere.

Then two boys rode by to water their horses. The horses had wet muzzles. Other little boys with shaved heads ran out in nothing but shirts, without drawers, gathered in a bunch, went to the shed, took a twig and began to poke it through the chink. Zhilin hooted at them: the little boys shrieked and went dashing away, their bare knees gleaming.

Zhilin was thirsty, his throat was dry; he thought, “If only they’d come and look in on me.” He heard the shed being unlocked. The red Tartar came, and with him another man, smaller, darker. Bright black eyes, red cheeks, a small, trimmed beard; a merry face, always laughing. The dark one was still better dressed; his deep blue silk beshmet was trimmed with braid. The dagger at his waist was big, silver; his shoes were of red morocco, also trimmed with silver. And over his thin shoes there were other, thicker ones. His hat was tall, of white lambskin.

The red Tartar came in, said something that seemed like abuse, and stood there; he leaned against the doorpost and kept fidgeting with his dagger, looking sidelong at Zhilin from under his eyebrows like a wolf. And the dark one—he was brisk, lively, moving as if on springs—went straight up to Zhilin, squatted down, bared his teeth, patted him on the shoulder, started jabbering something very quickly in his own language, winked, clucked his tongue, and kept repeating: “Kood uruss! Kood uruss!”

Zhilin understood nothing and said:

“Drink, give me a drink of water!”

The dark one laughed.

“Kood uruss,” he kept jabbering in his own language.

Zhilin showed with his lips and hands that they should give him a drink.

The dark one understood, laughed, looked out the door, called someone:

“Dina!”

A girl came running, slight, thin, about thirteen years old, and her face resembling the dark one’s. It was clear she was his daughter. Her eyes were also black, bright, and her face was pretty. She was dressed in a long, dark blue shirt with wide sleeves and no belt. The hem, the bodice, and the sleeves were trimmed with red. Trousers on her legs, little shoes on her feet, and over the shoes other shoes with high heels; on her neck a necklace all of Russian fifty-kopeck coins. Her head uncovered, her braid black, and in the braid a ribbon and the ribbon hung with charms and a silver rouble.

Her father told her to do something. She ran off and came back bringing a little tin jug. She gave Zhilin the water and squatted on her heels herself, all doubled up so that her shoulders were lower than her knees. She sat, opened her eyes wide, and looked at Zhilin as he drank, as if he were some sort of animal.

Zhilin handed the jug back to her. She leaped away like a mountain goat. Even her father laughed. He sent her somewhere again. She took the jug, ran off, brought flatbread on a round board, and again sat doubled up, not taking her eyes off him—looking.

The Tartars left and locked the door again.

A short time later, the Nogai came to Zhilin and said:

“Aida, master, aida!”

He also did not know Russian. Zhilin understood only that he wanted him to go somewhere.

Zhilin went in his shackles, hobbling, unable to take a step, his feet turning aside all the time. Zhilin followed the Nogai out. He saw a Tartar village, some ten houses, and their church with a little tower. Three saddled horses were standing by one house. Some boys were holding them by the bridles. The dark Tartar sprang out of that house and waved his hand for Zhilin to come to him. He laughed, kept saying something in his own language, and went back indoors. Zhilin went into the house. The room was nice, the walls smoothly covered with clay. By the front wall lay multicolored feather beds, on the sides hung costly carpets; on the carpets—guns, pistols, sabers, all inlaid with silver. One wall had a small stove in it at floor level. The floor was earthen, clean, like a threshing floor, and the whole front corner was spread with felt; over the felt, carpets, and on the carpets, down pillows. And on the carpets sat Tartars in just their indoor shoes: the dark one, the red one, and three guests. They all had down pillows behind their backs, and before them, on a round board, millet pancakes, and melted cow’s butter in a bowl, and Tartar beer—bouza—in a little jug. They were eating with their hands, and their hands were all covered with butter.

The dark one jumped up, ordered Zhilin to be seated to the side, not on a carpet, but on the bare floor, went back to the carpet, and offered his guests pancakes and bouza. The man seated Zhilin in his place, took off his outer shoes, put them by the door next to where the other shoes stood, and sat down on the felt closer to the masters; he looked at them eating and wiped his watering mouth.

The Tartars finished eating the pancakes, and a Tartar woman came in wearing the same kind of shirt as the young one and trousers; her head was covered by a scarf. She took away the butter and pancakes, and brought a nice little basin and a jug with a narrow spout. The Tartars first washed their hands, then folded them, sat on their heels, blew in all directions, and recited prayers. They conversed in their own language. Then one of the Tartar guests turned to Zhilin and began speaking in Russian.

“You were captured by Kazi Muhammed,” he said, pointing to the red Tartar, “and he gave you to Abdul Murat,” he pointed to the dark one. “Abdul Murat is now your master.”

Zhilin was silent.

Abdul Murat began to speak, and he kept pointing to Zhilin, and laughing, and saying:

“Soldier uruss, kood uruss.”

The interpreter said:

“He tells you to write home a letter, to have ransom sent for you. When the money comes, he will let you go.”

Zhilin thought a moment and said:

“How much does he want as ransom?”

The Tartars talked it over, then the interpreter said:

“Three thousand coins.”

“No,” said Zhilin, “that I cannot pay.”

Abdul jumped up, started waving his arms, and said something to Zhilin—still thinking he could understand. The interpreter translated, saying:

“How much will you give?”

Zhilin thought a moment and said:

“Five hundred roubles.”

Here the Tartars began talking quickly, all at once. Abdul started shouting at the red one; he jabbered so that saliva sprayed from his mouth. But the red one only narrowed his eyes and clucked his tongue. They fell silent; the interpreter said:

“For the master five hundred roubles small ransom. He paid two hundred roubles for you himself. Kazi Muhammed owed him money. He took you for debt. Three thousand roubles, he cannot allow less. And if you do not write, in hole they put you, punish you with whip.”

“Eh,” Zhilin thought, “the more timid I am with them, the worse it gets.” He jumped to his feet and said:

“And you tell that dog that if he tries to scare me, I won’t give him a kopeck, and I won’t write at all. I was never afraid of you dogs and never will be!”

The interpreter translated, and again they all began talking at once.

They jabbered for a long time, then the dark one jumped up and went over to Zhilin.

“Uruss,” he said, “dzhigit uruss, dzhigit!” (“Dzhigit” means “fine fellow” in their language.) And he laughed. He said something to the interpreter, and the interpreter said:

“Give one thousand.”

Zhilin stood his ground.

“I won’t give more than five hundred roubles. And if you kill me, you won’t get anything.”

The Tartars talked for a while, sent the man somewhere, and kept glancing now at Zhilin, now at the door. The man came back, and behind him walked someone fat, barefoot, and in tatters. His feet were also shackled.

Zhilin gasped—he recognized Kostylin. He, too, had been captured. They were seated side by side; they began talking to each other, while the Tartars kept silent and looked on. Zhilin told what had happened to him; Kostylin told how his horse had stopped under him and his gun had misfired, and this same Abdul had caught up with him and taken him.

Abdul jumped up, pointed at Kostylin, and said something.

The interpreter translated that they both now had one master and that the one who paid the ransom first would be released first.

“See,” he said to Zhilin, “you keep getting angry, but your comrade is peaceable; he wrote a letter home, they will send five thousand coins. And he will be fed well and will not be harmed.”

Zhilin said:

“My comrade can do as he likes; he may be rich, but I am not rich. It will be as I said. Kill me if you wish, there won’t be any profit in it for you, but I won’t write more than five hundred roubles.”

Silence ensued. Suddenly Abdul jumped up, fetched a little chest, took out a pen, a scrap of paper, and ink, pushed them towards Zhilin, slapped him on the shoulder, and pointed: “Write.” He agreed to the five hundred roubles.

“Wait a minute,” Zhilin said to the translator, “tell him to feed us well, clothe and shoe us properly, and keep us together—it’ll be more cheerful for us—and remove these shackles.”

He looked at the master and laughed. The master laughed, too. He listened to it all and said:

“I’ll give them the best clothes: a cherkeska and boots fit for a wedding. I’ll feed them like princes. If they want to live together, let them live in the shed. But to remove the shackles is impossible—they’ll get away. I’ll only remove them at night.” He sprang over, patted Zhilin on the shoulder. “Yours kood, mine kood!”

Zhilin wrote the letter, but addressed it incorrectly so that it would not get there. He thought: “I’ll get away.”

Zhilin and Kostylin were taken to the shed, there they were given corn shucks, a pitcher of water, bread, two old cherkeskas, and some worn soldier’s boots. They must have pulled them off soldiers they had killed. For the night they removed the shackles and locked them in the shed.

III

ZHILIN AND HIS COMRADE LIVED like that for a whole month. The master kept laughing: “Yours, Ivan,¹ is kood—mine, Abdul, is kood.” He fed them poorly—all he gave them was unleavened bread made from millet, baked like flat cakes, or else just unbaked dough.

Kostylin wrote home once more, kept waiting for the money to be sent, and moped. He sat in the shed for whole days and counted the days until the letter would come, or else slept. And Zhilin knew that his letter would not get there, but he did not write any more.

“Where could my mother get so much money to pay for me?” he thought. “She’s lived mostly on what I send her. If she scraped up five hundred roubles, it would be the ruin of her. God willing, I’ll get out of it myself.”

He kept looking out, figuring out how he could escape. He walked about the aoul whistling, or sat doing some handiwork, fashioning dolls out of clay or weaving baskets from twigs. Zhilin was good at all sorts of handiwork.

Once he made a doll with a nose, arms, legs, and a Tartar shirt, and put the doll on the roof.

The Tartar women went for water. The master’s daughter, Dina, saw the doll, called the women. They put their jugs down, looked, laughed. Zhilin took the doll down and gave it to them. They laughed but did not dare to take it. He left the doll, went into the shed, and watched what would happen.

Dina ran up, looked around, snatched the doll, and ran away.

The next day, at dawn, he saw Dina come out to the porch with the doll. She had dressed it in some scraps of red cloth and rocked it like a baby, singing something in her language. The old woman came out, scolded her, snatched the doll away, smashed it, and sent Dina somewhere to work.

Zhilin made another doll, still better, and gave it to Dina. Once Dina brought a little jug, set it down, squatted and looked at him, laughing and pointing to the jug.

“What’s she so glad for?” Zhilin thought. He took the jug and began to drink. He thought it was water, but it was milk. He drank the milk.

“Good,” he said.

How glad Dina was!

“Good, Ivan, good!” and she jumped up, clapped her hands, snatched up the pitcher, and ran away.

And after that she began to bring him milk every day on the sly. And then Tartars also made cheese cakes of goat’s milk and dried them on the rooftops—so she secretly brought him these cheese cakes. And then the master also once slaughtered a sheep, so she brought him a piece of mutton in her sleeve. She dropped the things and ran away.

Once there was a big thunderstorm, and the rain poured down in buckets for a whole hour. All the rivers became muddy; where there had been a ford, the water was now seven feet deep, overturning stones. Streams flowed everywhere, the hills resounded with their noise. Once the thunderstorm passed, streams ran everywhere through the village. Zhilin talked the master into giving him a penknife, carved a shaft, some little planks, put blades on a wheel, and to the two sides of the wheel attached dolls.

The girls brought him some rags, and he dressed the dolls: one was a man, the other a woman. He tied them on and set the wheel in the stream. The wheel turned, and the dolls jumped.

The whole village gathered: boys, girls, women; the men came, too, clucking their tongues:

“Ai, uruss! Ai, Ivan!”

Abdul had a broken Russian watch. He called Zhilin, showed it to him, clucked his tongue. Zhilin said:

“Here, I’ll fix it.”

He took it, dismantled it with the penknife, laid out the parts; put them together again, gave it back. The watch worked.

The master was delighted, brought him his old beshmet, all in tatters, and gave it to him. He had no choice but to take it—at least it was good for covering himself at night.

After that the rumor went around that Zhilin was a master craftsman. People started coming to him from far-off villages: one to have the lock of a musket or a pistol fixed, another a watch. The master brought him tools: pincers, and gimlets, and a file.

Once a Tartar fell ill. They came to Zhilin:

“Go, treat him.”

Zhilin knew nothing about treating ailments. He went, looked, thought: “Maybe he’ll just get well by himself.” He went to the shed, took some water, some sand, stirred it. In front of the Tartars, he whispered over the water and gave it to the sick man to drink. Luckily for him, the Tartar recovered. Zhilin began to understand their language a little. And those Tartars who got used to him would call out “Ivan! Ivan!” when they needed him, but some still looked askance at him, as at a beast.

The red Tartar did not like Zhilin. When he saw him, he frowned and turned away or swore at him. There was also an old man there. He did not live in the aoul, but came from the foot of the hill. Zhilin saw him only when he came to the mosque to pray to God. He was small, there was a white towel wrapped around his hat, his beard and mustaches—white as down—were trimmed, and his face was wrinkled and red as brick. His nose was hooked like a hawk’s beak, his eyes were gray, angry, and he had no teeth, only two fangs. He used to walk in his turban, propped on a crutch, looking about like a wolf. He would see Zhilin, snort, and turn away.

Once Zhilin went down the hill to see where the old man lived. He went along the path, saw a little garden with a stone wall, behind the wall—cherry trees, peach trees, and a hut with a flat roof. He went closer; he saw beehives plaited from straw standing there, and bees flying, buzzing. And the old man was on his knees doing something by a beehive. Zhilin stepped up on something in order to see and his shackles clanked. The old man turned around—shrieked, snatched the pistol from his belt, fired at Zhilin. Zhilin barely managed to huddle behind a rock.

The old man went to Zhilin’s master to complain. The master summoned Zhilin, laughed, and asked:

“Why did you go to see the old man?”

“I didn’t do anything bad,” said Zhilin. “I just wanted to see how he lived.”

The master translated. And the old man got angry, hissed, jabbered something, his fangs stuck out, he waved his arms at Zhilin.

Zhilin did not understand it all, but he understood that the old man was telling the master to kill the Russians and not keep them in the aoul. The old man left.

Zhilin asked the master who the old man was. The master said:

“He’s a big man! He was the foremost dzhigit, he killed a lot of Russians, he was rich. He had three wives and eight sons. They all lived in one village. The Russians came, destroyed the village, and killed seven of his sons. The one remaining son went over to the Russians. The old man also went over to the Russians. He lived with them for three months, found his son, killed him with his own hands, and escaped. After that he stopped making war and went to Mecca to pray to God. That’s why he has a turban. A man who has been to Mecca is called a hadji and wears a turban. He doesn’t like your people. He tells me to kill you; but I cannot kill you—I paid money for you; and besides, I’ve come to like you, Ivan; not only not kill, I wouldn’t even let you go if I hadn’t given my word.” He laughed and kept repeating in Russian: “Yours, Ivan, is kood—mine, Abdul, is kood!”

IV

ZHILIN LIVED like that for a month. By day he went about the aoul or did handiwork, and when night came and the aoul grew quiet, he dug in his shed. It was hard digging because of the stones, but he worked at the stones with the file and dug a hole under the wall big enough to get through. “I only need to know exactly where I am,” he thought, “and in what direction to go. But the Tartars won’t tell me.”

So he chose a time when the master was away. After dinner, he went to the hill outside the aoul—he wanted to look around from there. But as the master was leaving, he told his son to follow Zhilin and not let him out of his sight. The boy ran after Zhilin and shouted:

“Don’t go! Father told you no. I’ll call people right now!”

Zhilin started persuading him.

“I won’t go far,” he said. “I’ll just go up that hill: I need to find an herb—to treat your people. Come with me; I won’t run away with shackles on me. And tomorrow I’ll make you a bow and arrow.”

The boy was persuaded; they went. The hill was not far by the look of it, but with shackles it was difficult; he walked, walked, and barely made it to the top. Zhilin sat down and began looking the place over. To the south, beyond the hill, he could see a hollow, a herd of horses moving about, and in the lowland another aoul. Next to the aoul, another hill, steeper yet; and beyond that hill—another. Between the hills a forest showed blue, and then more hills rising higher and higher. And above them all, white as sugar, stood the snow-covered mountains. And one snowy mountain stood higher than all the others, like a hat. To sunrise and to sunset—ever the same mountains; aouls smoked here and there in the hollows. “Well,” he thought, “that’s all their side.” He began looking in the Russian direction: at his feet was the river, his aoul, the kitchen gardens around it. By the river, like little dolls, he could see women sitting, rinsing. Beyond the aoul a lower hill, and after it two more hills covered with forest; and between the two hills, a level space showed blue, and far, far away over this level space, something like smoke was drifting. Zhilin began to recall where the sun had risen and set when he was living at home in the fortress. He saw: our fortress must be exactly in that valley. There, between those two hills, he would have to make his escape.

The sun was setting. The snowy mountains were going from white to scarlet; it grew dark in the black hills; steam rose from the hollows, and that same valley where our fortress must be burned like fire in the setting sun. Zhilin began to peer—something was hovering there in the valley, like the smoke of chimneys. And he fancied to himself that it was from that same Russian fortress.

It was already late. The mullah was calling. They were driving the herd—the cows were lowing. The boy kept urging him: “Let’s go.” But Zhilin did not want to leave.

They returned home. “Well,” thought Zhilin, “now I know the place; I must make my escape.” He wanted to escape that same night. The nights were dark—the moon was on the wane. Unfortunately, the men returned in the evening. They usually came back driving cattle with them and in cheerful spirits. But this time they drove nothing, but brought a slain man across a saddle, the red one’s brother. They came back angry; they all prepared the funeral. Zhilin also came out to watch. They wrapped the dead man in linen, without a coffin, took him outside the village, laid him on the grass under the plane trees. A mullah came, the old men gathered, wrapped towels around their hats, took their shoes off, and sat on their heels in a row before the dead man.

The mullah in front, three old men in turbans behind him in a row, and behind them more Tartars. They sat looking down, silent. They were silent for a long time. The mullah raised his head and said:

“Allah!” (that is, God). He said this one word, and again they looked down and were silent for a long time; they sat and did not move. Again the mullah raised his head:

“Allah!” and they all said, “Allah!” and again fell silent. The dead man did not stir, and they sat as if dead. None of them stirred. The only sound to be heard was that of the leaves of the plane trees turning in the wind. Then the mullah recited a prayer, they all rose, picked up the dead man, and carried him. They brought him to a hole in the ground. The hole was not an ordinary one, but dug out underneath like a cellar. They took the dead man under the arms and legs, bent him double, lowered him down carefully, tucked him under the ground in a sitting position, and folded his arms over his stomach.

The Nogai brought some green rushes, they stuffed them into the hole, quickly filled it with earth, levelled it, and placed a vertical stone at the dead man’s head. They trampled down the earth, and again sat in a row before the grave. They were silent for a long time.

“Allah! Allah! Allah!” They sighed and stood up.

The red one gave money to the old men, then stood up, took a whip, struck himself three times on the forehead, and went home.

In the morning, Zhilin saw the red one leading a mare outside the village and three men following him. They went out of the village, the red one took off his beshmet, rolled up his sleeves—such enormous arms he had—drew his dagger, and sharpened it on a whetstone. The men pulled the mare’s head up, the red one came over, cut her throat, laid the mare down, and began to skin her, ripping the skin off with his fists. Women and girls came and started washing the guts and the inside. Then they cut the mare up and took the pieces to the cottage. And the whole village gathered at the red one’s to commemorate the dead man.

For three days they ate the mare and drank bouza, commemorating the dead man. All the Tartars were at home. On the fourth day, at dinnertime, Zhilin saw that they were preparing to go somewhere. They brought horses, made ready, and left, some ten men, including the red one. Only Abdul stayed home. The moon was newborn, the nights were still dark.

“Well,” thought Zhilin, “tonight we must escape,” and he said so to Kostylin. But Kostylin grew timid.

“How can we escape? We don’t even know the way.”

“I know the way.”

“But we won’t make it in one night.”

“If we don’t, we’ll spend the night in the forest. See, I’ve stored up some flatbread. Why do you want to sit here? It’s fine if they send the money, but what if they don’t raise enough? The Tartars are angry now, because one of them was killed by the Russians. There’s talk about wanting to kill us.”

Kostylin thought and thought.

“Well, let’s go.”

V

ZHILIN GOT into the hole and dug it wider, so that Kostylin could get through; and they sat and waited until the aoul quieted down.

As soon as the people in the aoul became quiet, Zhilin crawled under the wall and got out. He whispered to Kostylin: “Crawl through.” Kostylin started crawling; his foot struck a stone and made a noise. The master had a watchdog—speckled and extremely vicious; his name was Ulyashin. Zhilin had been taming him with food beforehand. Ulyashin heard the noise, started barking, and came flying, with other dogs behind him. Zhilin whistled softly, flung him a piece of flatbread—Ulyashin recognized him, wagged his tail, and stopped barking.

The master heard him and started hushing from the saklya: “Hush! Hush! Ulyashin!”

Zhilin scratched Ulyashin behind the ears. The dog became quiet, rubbed against his legs, wagged his tail.

They went on sitting around the corner. Everything grew quiet; the only sounds were of sheep coughing in the barn and water running over pebbles below. It was dark; the stars were high in the sky; over the hill the young moon reddened, its sharp horns turned upwards. In the hollows the mist was white as milk.

Zhilin stood up and said to his comrade:

“Well, brother, aida!”

They set off; they had only gone a few steps when they heard a mullah singing on the roof: “Allah! Bismillah! Al-rahman!”² It meant people would be going to the mosque. They sat down again, hiding by the wall. They sat for a long time, waiting while the people passed by. Again it grew quiet.

“Well, God help us!” They crossed themselves and went. They went through the yard, down the steep slope to the river, crossed the river, went along the hollow. The mist was dense but low-lying, and over their heads the stars were clearly visible. Zhilin could tell by the stars which way to go. The mist was cool and made it easy to walk, only their boots were worn and uncomfortable. Zhilin took his off, abandoned them, and went barefoot. He hopped from stone to stone and kept glancing at the stars. Kostylin began to fall behind.

“Slow down,” he said. “Curse these boots, my feet are all sore.”

“Take them off, it’ll be easier.”

Kostylin went barefoot—that was still worse; he cut his feet on the stones and kept falling behind. Zhilin said to him:

“If you scrape your feet, they’ll heal; if they catch up with us, they’ll kill us—that’s worse.”

Kostylin said nothing; he walked on and kept groaning. They went through the hollow for a long time. They heard dogs barking to the right. Zhilin stopped, looked around, climbed the hill, feeling with his hands.

“Eh,” he said, “we made a mistake, went too far right. There’s another aoul here, I saw it from the hill; we’ll have to go back and to the left up the hill. There should be a forest.”

But Kostylin said:

“Wait a little at least, give me a breather—my feet are all bloody.”

“Eh, brother, they’ll heal. Hop lighter, like this!”

And Zhilin ran back, to the left, up the hill, to the forest. Kostylin kept falling behind and moaning. Zhilin shushed at him and kept going.

They climbed the hill. There it was—the forest. They went into the forest—thorns tore the remains of their clothes. They came upon a path in the forest. They took it.

“Stop!” There was a tramp of hooves on the road. They stopped, listened. It tramped like a horse and stopped. They set off—it tramped again. They stopped—it stopped. Zhilin crept out, looked at the path where it was lighter—something was standing there. A horse or not a horse, and on the horse something strange, not like a man. It snorted—he heard it. “What a wonder!” Zhilin whistled softly—it shot off the road into the forest and went crashing through the forest like a storm, breaking branches.

Kostylin simply collapsed from fear. But Zhilin laughed and said:

“It was a stag. Hear his antlers breaking through the forest? We’re afraid of him, and he’s afraid of us.”

They went on. The Seven Sisters had begun to set, morning was not far off. Whether this was the way to go or not, they did not know. It seemed to Zhilin that he had been taken down this road and that they had some seven miles more to go, but there was no sure sign, and it was night—he could not tell. They came to a clearing. Kostylin sat down and said:

“As you like, but I won’t make it: my feet won’t walk.

Zhilin started persuading him.

“No,” he said, “I won’t make it, I can’t.”

Zhilin got angry, spat, swore at him.

“I’ll go alone then. Good-bye!”

Kostylin jumped up and went on. They walked for about three miles. The mist was still denser in the forest, you could see nothing in front of you, and the stars were barely visible.

Suddenly they heard a horse tramping ahead of them. They could hear it strike the stones with its shoes. Zhilin lay on his stomach and began listening to the ground.

“It’s so—there’s a horseman coming here, towards us.”

They ran off the road, sat in the bushes, and waited. Zhilin crept out to the road, looked—there was a mounted Tartar coming, driving a cow, and muttering something to himself under his breath. The Tartar rode by. Zhilin went back to Kostylin.

“Well, God spared us—get up, let’s go.”

Kostylin started to get up and fell.

“I can’t—by God, I can’t; I’ve got no strength.”

He was a heavy, plump man; he broke into a sweat; and the cold mist enveloped him in the forest, and his feet were scraped—he went limp. Zhilin started forcing him to get up. Kostylin screamed:

“Ow, that hurts!”

Zhilin froze.

“What are you shouting for? That Tartar’s close by, he’ll hear you.” And he thought: “He really has grown weak; what am I going to do with him? It’s no good to abandon a comrade.”

“Well,” he said, “get up, and I’ll carry you on my back, since you can’t walk.”

He hoisted Kostylin onto his back, held him under the thighs, went out to the road, and lugged him on.

“Only for Christ’s sake don’t squeeze my throat,” he said. “Hold me by the shoulders.”

It was heavy for Zhilin, his feet were also bloody, and he was tired. He kept bending over, adjusting, tossing Kostylin to get him higher, humping him down the road.

Evidently the Tartar had heard Kostylin scream. Zhilin heard someone coming behind them, calling out in his own language. Zhilin rushed into the bushes. The Tartar snatched his gun, fired and missed, shrieked in his own language, and galloped off down the road.

“Well,” said Zhilin, “we’re done for, brother! That dog will gather the Tartars now and come after us. Unless we can make a couple of miles, we’re done for.” And he thought about Kostylin: “What the devil made me take this block of wood with me? Alone I’d have gotten away long ago.”

Kostylin said:

“Go alone. Why should you perish because of me?”

“No, I won’t, it’s no good to abandon a comrade.”

He picked him up on his shoulders again and trudged on. He went like that for half a mile. It was all forest and no way out to be seen. The mist was beginning to disperse, and clouds seemed to be gathering; the stars were no longer visible. Zhilin was exhausted.

He came to a little spring by the roadside set with stones. He stopped and put Kostylin down.

“Let me rest and have a drink,” he said. “We can eat some flatbread. It mustn’t be far now.”

He had just lain down to drink when he heard a tramping behind them. They rushed to the right, into the bushes, down a slope, and lay flat.

They heard Tartar voices; the Tartars stopped at the very place where they had turned off the road. They talked, then began siccing, as if they were setting on dogs. They listened—something was crashing through the bushes, some unfamiliar dog was coming straight for them. It stopped and began to bark.

The Tartars, also unfamiliar, rode down on them; they seized them, bound them, put them on horses, and rode back.

They rode for two miles, met the master Abdul with two more Tartars. They talked for a while, put them on his horses, and went back to their aoul.

Abdul no longer laughed or said anything to them.

They were brought to the aoul at dawn and set down in the street. Children came running. They hit them with stones, with whips, and shrieked.

The Tartars gathered in a circle; the old man from the foot of the hill also came. They started talking. Zhilin heard that they were deciding what to do with them. Some said they should be sent further into the hills, but the old man said: “They must be killed.” Abdul protested, he said: “I gave money for them; I’ll take ransom for them.” But the old man said: “They won’t pay anything, they’ll only cause trouble. And it’s a sin to feed Russians. Kill them and be done with it.”

They dispersed. The master went up to Zhilin and started speaking to him:

“If the ransom is not sent to me within two weeks,” he said, “I’ll flog you to death. And if you try to escape again, I’ll kill you like a dog. Write a letter, a nice, good letter!”

They were brought paper, they wrote letters. Shackles were put on them, and they were taken behind the mosque. There was a hole there twelve feet deep, and they were put into that hole.

VI

THEIR LIFE BECAME quite wretched. Their shackles were not removed, and they were not allowed to see the light of day. Unbaked dough was thrown to them, as to dogs, and water was lowered to them in a jug. The hole was stinking, stuffy, damp. Kostylin became quite ill, swollen, and ached all over; he groaned all the time, or slept. Zhilin also became dejected, he saw things were bad. And he did not know how to get out of it.

He started to dig, but there was nowhere to throw the dirt; the master saw it and threatened to kill him.

Once he was sitting on his haunches in the hole, thinking about the free life and feeling dull. Suddenly a flatbread fell right into his lap, then another, and cherries came pouring down. He looked up. Dina was there. She looked at him, laughed, and ran away. Zhilin thought: “Maybe Dina will help me?”

He cleared a little space in the hole, picked out some clay, and started fashioning dolls. He made people, horses, dogs; he thought, “When Dina comes, I’ll toss them to her.”

Only the next day there was no Dina. But Zhilin heard horses stamping, people riding by, and the Tartars gathered at the mosque, argued, shouted, and mentioned the Russians. And he heard the old man’s voice. He could not make it out properly, but he guessed that the Russians had come close, and the Tartars were afraid they would enter the aoul and did not know what to do with the prisoners.

They talked it over and left. Suddenly he heard something rustling above. He saw Dina squatting there, her knees higher than her head, her necklace hanging down, dangling over the hole. Her eyes glittered like stars; she took two cheese flatbreads from her sleeve and threw them to him. Zhilin took them and said:

“Where have you been so long? I’ve made a whole lot of toys for you. Here, take them!” He began tossing them to her one by one. But she shook her head and did not look at them.

“Don’t,” she said. She sat silently for a while, and then said: “Ivan! They want to kill you.” And she put her hands to her throat.

“Who wants to kill me?”

“My father. The old men are telling him to. And I feel sorry for you.”

Zhilin said:

“If you feel sorry for me, bring me a long stick.”

She shook her head—meaning “impossible.” He put his hands together, begging her:

“Dina, please! Dinushka, bring it!”

“Impossible,” she said, “they’ll see me, everybody’s at home,” and she left.

Zhilin sat there in the evening, thinking: “What’s going to happen?” He kept looking up. He could see the stars, but the moon had not risen yet. A mullah called, everything became quiet. Zhilin had already begun to doze off, thinking, “The girl’s afraid.”

Suddenly clay poured down on his head; he looked up—there was a long pole poking at the edge of the hole. It poked and then began to descend, moving slowly down into the hole. Zhilin was overjoyed, seized it with his hand, pulled it down. It was a sturdy pole. He had seen it before on the master’s roof.

He looked up: stars glittered high in the sky; and just over the hole Dina’s eyes gleamed like a cat’s. She bent down, her face at the edge of the hole, whispering:

“Ivan! Ivan!” and she waved her hands before her face, meaning “quiet.”

“What?” said Zhilin.

“Everybody’s gone, there are only two at home.”

Zhilin said:

“Well, come on, Kostylin, let’s give it a last try. I’ll help you up.”

Kostylin would not even hear of it.

“No,” he said, “it looks like I’m not going to get out of here. Where will I go, if I don’t even have strength enough to turn around?”

“Well, good-bye, then, and don’t think ill of me.” He and Kostylin kissed each other.

He grasped the pole, told Dina to hold it, and climbed up. Twice he fell off—the shackles hindered him. Kostylin supported him, and he somehow managed to climb to the top. Dina took his shirt in her little hands, tugged him with all her might, and laughed.

Zhilin pulled the pole out and said:

“Put it back in place, Dina. If they find it missing, they’ll beat you.”

She dragged the pole off, and Zhilin went down the hill. He came to the bottom, picked up a sharp stone, and began prying the lock from the shackles. But the lock was strong, he could not knock it off, and it was awkward work. He heard someone running down the hill, leaping lightly. He thought, “It must be Dina again.” Dina came running, took the stone, and said:

“Let me.”

She knelt down and began prying at the lock. Her arms were thin as twigs, she was not strong enough. She threw down the stone and started to cry. Zhilin set to work on the lock again, and Dina squatted next to him, holding him by the shoulder. Zhilin looked around, he saw a red glow lighting up to the left, beyond the hill, the moon was rising. “Well,” he thought, “I’ll have to go through the hollow and reach the forest before the moon rises.” He got up and threw the stone away. Even with the shackles, he had to go.

“Good-bye, Dinushka,” he said. “I’ll remember you all my life.”

Dina held him, feeling with her hands for where to put the flatbread. He took the flatbread.

“Thank you,” he said, “clever girl. Who’ll make dolls for you when I’m gone?” And he stroked her head.

Dina burst into tears, covered her face with her hands, and ran up the hill, leaping like a goat. All you could hear were the trinkets in her braid clinking against her back.

Zhilin crossed himself, put his hand on the lock of the shackles so that it would not clank, and walked down the road, dragging his foot. He kept glancing at the glow of the rising moon. He recognized the road. Going straight, it would be about five miles. He only had to reach the forest before the moon rose high. He crossed the river; the light beyond the hill grew paler. He walked down the hollow, glancing all the time: the moon was not yet visible. Now the glow brightened and on one side of the hollow it became lighter and lighter. The shade moved towards the hill, coming closer and closer to him.

Zhilin went on, always keeping to the shade. He was hurrying, but the moon was coming out still more quickly; the tops of the trees to the right were already lit up. He was very near the forest. The moon came from behind the hills—all was white, as bright as daytime. Every little leaf on the trees was visible. It was still and bright over all the hills, as though everything had died out. The only noise was the stream burbling below.

He reached the forest without meeting anyone. Zhilin chose a darker spot in the forest and sat down to rest.

He rested and ate a flatbread. He found a stone and tried to knock the shackles off again. He hurt his hands, but did not succeed. He got up and went along the road. He walked a mile and was totally exhausted—his legs hurt. He took some ten steps and stopped. “No help for it,” he thought, “I’ll drag on as long as I have strength. If I sit down, I’ll never get up. I can’t reach the fortress. When it gets light, I’ll lie down in the forest, spend the day, and go on again at night.”

He walked all night. He only happened upon two Tartar horsemen, but Zhilin heard them from far off and hid behind a tree.

The moon had already begun to grow pale, dew fell, dawn was near, and Zhilin had not yet reached the end of the forest. “Well,” he thought, “I’ll go thirty steps more, turn off into the forest, and sit down.” He went thirty steps and saw that the forest was ending. He came out to the edge—it was quite light; the steppe spread before his eyes, and he could see the fortress, and to the left, quite close, at the foot of a hill, there were fires burning, dying out, smoke was spreading, there were people by the fires.

He looked more closely, he saw guns gleaming, there were Cossacks, soldiers.

Zhilin was overjoyed. He gathered his last strength and started down the hill. He thought, “God forbid a Tartar horseman should see me here in the open field; it’s close, but I won’t get away.”

He had only just thought it—he looked: to the left stood three Tartars, some hundred yards away. They saw him and started towards him. His heart sank. He waved his arms, cried out with all his might:

“Brothers! Help! Brothers!”

Our men heard him. The Cossacks leaped on their horses. They started towards him, to cut off the Tartars.

The Cossacks were far away, and the Tartars were close. Zhilin gathered his last strength, held up the shackles with his hand, and ran towards the Cossacks, beside himself, crossing himself, shouting:

“Brothers! Brothers! Brothers!”

There were some fifteen Cossacks.

The Tartars became frightened. They began to stop before they reached him. And Zhilin went running to the Cossacks.

The Cossacks surrounded him, asked him who he was, what he was, where from? But Zhilin was beside himself, he wept and kept repeating:

“Brothers! Brothers!”

The soldiers ran out to them, surrounded Zhilin; one brought him bread, another kasha, another vodka; another covered him with an overcoat, yet another broke his shackles.

The officers recognized him and took him to the fortress. The soldiers were glad, comrades gathered around Zhilin.

Zhilin told them how it had all happened to him, and said:

“That’s my going home and getting married for you! No, it’s clearly not my fate.”

And he stayed to serve in the Caucasus. And Kostylin was ransomed for five thousand only after another month. He was brought back barely alive.

1872

* See glossary of Caucasian mountaineer words following Hadji Murat.