Suddenly it was as though the sun had shone into his soul. He heard
Russian being spoken, and also heard the rapid smooth flow of the
Térek, and a few steps farther in front of him saw the brown moving
surface of the river, with the dim-coloured wet sand of its banks and
shallows, the distant steppe, the cordon watch-tower outlined above the
water, a saddled and hobbled horse among the brambles, and then the
mountains opening out before him. The red sun appeared for an instant
from under a cloud and its last rays glittered brightly along the river
over the reeds, on the watch-tower, and on a group of Cossacks, among
whom Lukáshka’s vigorous figure attracted Olénin’s involuntary
attention.
Olénin felt that he was again, without any apparent cause, perfectly
happy. He had come upon the Nízhni-Protótsk post on the Térek, opposite
a pro-Russian Tartar village on the other side of the river. He
accosted the Cossacks, but not finding as yet any excuse for doing
anyone a kindness, he entered the hut; nor in the hut did he find any
such opportunity. The Cossacks received him coldly. On entering the mud
hut he lit a cigarette. The Cossacks paid little attention to him,
first because he was smoking a cigarette, and secondly because they had
something else to divert them that evening. Some hostile Chéchens,
relatives of the _abrek_ who had been killed, had come from the hills
with a scout to ransom the body; and the Cossacks were waiting for
their Commanding Officer’s arrival from the village. The dead man’s
brother, tall and well shaped with a short cropped beard which was dyed
red, despite his very tattered coat and cap was calm and majestic as a
king. His face was very like that of the dead _abrek_. He did not deign
to look at anyone, and never once glanced at the dead body, but sitting
on his heels in the shade he spat as he smoked his short pipe, and
occasionally uttered some few guttural sounds of command, which were
respectfully listened to by his companion. He was evidently a brave who
had met Russians more than once before in quite other circumstances,
and nothing about them could astonish or even interest him. Olénin was
about to approach the dead body and had begun to look at it when the
brother, looking up at him from under his brows with calm contempt,
said something sharply and angrily. The scout hastened to cover the
dead man’s face with his coat. Olénin was struck by the dignified and
stern expression of the brave’s face. He began to speak to him, asking
from what village he came, but the Chéchen, scarcely giving him a
glance, spat contemptuously and turned away. Olénin was so surprised at
the Chéchen not being interested in him that he could only put it down
to the man’s stupidity or ignorance of Russian; so he turned to the
scout, who also acted as interpreter. The scout was as ragged as the
other, but instead of being red-haired he was black-haired, restless,
with extremely white gleaming teeth and sparkling black eyes. The scout
willingly entered into conversation and asked for a cigarette.
“There were five brothers,” began the scout in his broken Russian.
“This is the third brother the Russians have killed, only two are left.
He is a brave, a great brave!” he said, pointing to the Chéchen. “When
they killed Ahmet Khan (the dead brave) this one was sitting on the
opposite bank among the reeds. He saw it all. Saw him laid in the skiff
and brought to the bank. He sat there till the night and wished to kill
the old man, but the others would not let him.”
Lukáshka went up to the speaker, and sat down. “Of what village?” asked
he.
“From there in the hills,” replied the scout, pointing to the misty
bluish gorge beyond the Térek. “Do you know Suuk-su? It is about eight
miles beyond that.”
“Do you know Giréy Khan in Suuk-su?” asked Lukáshka, evidently proud of
the acquaintance. “He is my _kunak_.”
“He is my neighbour,” answered the scout.
“He’s a trump!” and Lukáshka, evidently much interested, began talking
to the scout in Tartar.
Presently a Cossack captain, with the head of the village, arrived on
horseback with a suite of two Cossacks. The captain—one of the new type
of Cossack officers—wished the Cossacks “Good health,” but no one
shouted in reply, “Hail! Good health to your honour,” as is customary
in the Russian Army, and only a few replied with a bow. Some, and among
them Lukáshka, rose and stood erect. The corporal replied that all was
well at the outposts. All this seemed ridiculous: it was as if these
Cossacks were playing at being soldiers. But these formalities soon
gave place to ordinary ways of behaviour, and the captain, who was a
smart Cossack just like the others, began speaking fluently in Tartar
to the interpreter. They filled in some document, gave it to the scout,
and received from him some money. Then they approached the body.
“Which of you is Luke Gavrílov?” asked the captain.
Lukáshka took off his cap and came forward.
“I have reported your exploit to the Commander. I don’t know what will
come of it. I have recommended you for a cross; you’re too young to be
made a sergeant. Can you read?”
“I can’t.”
“But what a fine fellow to look at!” said the captain, again playing
the commander. “Put on your cap. Which of the Gavrílovs does he come
of? ... the Broad, eh?”
“His nephew,” replied the corporal.
“I know, I know. Well, lend a hand, help them,” he said, turning to the
Cossacks.
Lukáshka’s face shone with joy and seemed handsomer than usual. He
moved away from the corporal, and having put on his cap sat down beside
Olénin.
When the body had been carried to the skiff the brother Chéchen
descended to the bank. The Cossacks involuntarily stepped aside to let
him pass. He jumped into the boat and pushed off from the bank with his
powerful leg, and now, as Olénin noticed, for the first time threw a
rapid glance at all the Cossacks and then abruptly asked his companion
a question. The latter answered something and pointed to Lukáshka. The
Chéchen looked at him and, turning slowly away, gazed at the opposite
bank. That look expressed not hatred but cold contempt. He again made
some remark.
“What is he saying?” Olénin asked of the fidgety scout.
“Yours kill ours, ours slay yours. It’s always the same,” replied the
scout, evidently inventing, and he smiled, showing his white teeth, as
he jumped into the skiff.
The dead man’s brother sat motionless, gazing at the opposite bank. He
was so full of hatred and contempt that there was nothing on this side
of the river that moved his curiosity. The scout, standing up at one
end of the skiff and dipping his paddle now on one side now on the
other, steered skilfully while talking incessantly. The skiff became
smaller and smaller as it moved obliquely across the stream, the voices
became scarcely audible, and at last, still within sight, they landed
on the opposite bank where their horses stood waiting. There they
lifted out the corpse and (though the horse shied) laid it across one
of the saddles, mounted, and rode at a foot-pace along the road past a
Tartar village from which a crowd came out to look at them. The
Cossacks on the Russian side of the river were highly satisfied and
jovial. Laughter and jokes were heard on all sides. The captain and the
head of the village entered the mud hut to regale themselves. Lukáshka,
vainly striving to impart a sedate expression to his merry face, sat
down with his elbows on his knees beside Olénin and whittled away at a
stick.
“Why do you smoke?” he said with assumed curiosity. “Is it good?”
He evidently spoke because he noticed Olénin felt ill at ease and
isolated among the Cossacks.
“It’s just a habit,” answered Olénin. “Why?”
“H’m, if one of us were to smoke there would be a row! Look there now,
the mountains are not far off,” continued Lukáshka, “yet you can’t get
there! How will you get back alone? It’s getting dark. I’ll take you,
if you like. You ask the corporal to give me leave.”
“What a fine fellow!” thought Olénin, looking at the Cossack’s bright
face. He remembered Maryánka and the kiss he had heard by the gate, and
he was sorry for Lukáshka and his want of culture. “What confusion it
is,” he thought. “A man kills another and is happy and satisfied with
himself as if he had done something excellent. Can it be that nothing
tells him that it is not a reason for any rejoicing, and that happiness
lies not in killing, but in sacrificing oneself?”
“Well, you had better not meet him again now, mate!” said one of the
Cossacks who had seen the skiff off, addressing Lukáshka. “Did you hear
him asking about you?”
Lukáshka raised his head.
“My godson?” said Lukáshka, meaning by that word the dead Chéchen.
“Your godson won’t rise, but the red one is the godson’s brother!”
“Let him thank God that he got off whole himself,” replied Lukáshka.
“What are you glad about?” asked Olénin. “Supposing your brother had
been killed; would you be glad?”
The Cossack looked at Olénin with laughing eyes. He seemed to have
understood all that Olénin wished to say to him, but to be above such
considerations.
“Well, that happens too! Don’t our fellows get killed sometimes?”