"Oh,in the usual way.First of all,the Mullah reads them something out of the Koran;then gifts are bestowed upon the young couple and all their relations;the next thing is eating and drinking of buza,then the dance on horse-back;and there is always some ragamuffin,bedaubed with grease,bestriding a wretched,lame jade,and grimacing,buffooning,and ****** the worshipful company laugh.Finally,when darkness falls,they proceed to hold what we should call a ball in the guest-chamber.A poor,old greybeard strums on a three-stringed in-strument --I forget what they call it,but anyhow,it is something in the nature of our balalaika.The girls and young children set themselves in two ranks,one opposite the other,and clap their hands and sing.Then a girl and a man come out into the centre and begin to chant verses to each other --whatever comes into their heads --and the rest join in as a chorus.
Pechorin and I sat in the place of honour.All at once up came our host's youngest daughter,a girl of about sixteen,and chanted to Pechorin --how shall I put it?--something in the nature of a compliment."...
A kind of two-stringed or three-stringed guitar.
"What was it she sang --do you remember?""It went like this,I fancy:'Handsome,they say,are our young horsemen,and the tunics they wear are garnished with silver;but handsomer still is the young Russian officer,and the lace on his tunic is wrought of gold.Like a poplar amongst them he stands,but in gardens of ours such trees will grow not nor bloom!'
"Pechorin rose,bowed to her,put his hand to his forehead and heart,and asked me to answer her.I know their language well,and Itranslated his reply.
"When she had left us I whispered to Grigori Aleksandrovich:
"'Well,now,what do you think of her?'
"'Charming!'he replied.'What is her name?'
"'Her name is Bela,'I answered.
"And a beautiful girl she was indeed;her figure was tall and slender,her eyes black as those of a mountain chamois,and they fairly looked into your soul.Pechorin,deep in thought,kept his gaze fixed upon her,and she,for her part,stole glances at him often enough from under her lashes.Pechorin,however,was not the only one who was admiring the pretty princess;another pair of eyes,fixed and fiery,were gazing at her from the corner of the room.I took a good look at their owner,and recognised my old acquaintance Kazbich,who,you must know,was neither exactly 'friendly'nor yet the other thing.He was an object of much suspicion,although he had never actually been caught at any knavery.He used to bring rams to our fortress and sell them cheaply;only he never would haggle;whatever he demanded at first you had to give.He would have his throat cut rather than come down in price.He had the reputation of being fond of roaming on the far side of the Kuban with the Abreks;and,to tell the truth,he had a regular thief's visage.Alittle,wizened,broad-shouldered fellow he was --but smart,I can tell you,smart as the very devil!His tunic was always worn out and patched,but his weapons were mounted in silver.
His horse was renowned throughout Kabardia --and,indeed,a better one it would be impossible to imagine!Not without good reason did all the other horsemen envy Kazbich,and on more than one occasion they had attempted to steal the horse,but they had never succeeded.Iseem to see the animal before me now --black as coal,with legs like bow-strings and eyes as fine as Bela's!How strong he was too!He would gallop as much as fifty versts at a stretch!And he was well trained besides --he would trot behind his master like a dog,and actually knew his voice!Kazbich never used to tether him either --just the very horse for a robber!...
"On that evening Kazbich was more sullen than ever,and I noticed that he was wearing a coat of mail under his tunic.'He hasn't got that coat of mail on for nothing,'I thought.
'He has some plot in his head,I'll be bound!'
"It grew oppressively hot in the hut,and Iwent out into the air to cool myself.Night had fallen upon the mountains,and a mist was beginning to creep along the gorges.
"It occurred to me to pop in under the shed where our horses were standing,to see whether they had their fodder;and,besides,it is never any harm to take precautions.My horse was a splendid one too,and more than one Kabardian had already cast fond glances at it,repeating at the same time:'Yakshi tkhe chok yakshi.'
"Good --very good."
"I stole along the fence.Suddenly I heard voices,one of which I immediately recognised.
It was that of the young pickle,Azamat,our host's son.The other person spoke less and in a quieter tone.
"'What are they discussing there?'I won-dered.'Surely it can't be my horse!'Isquatted down beside the fence and proceeded to play the eavesdropper,trying not to let slip a single word.At times the noise of songs and the buzz of voices,escaping from the hut,drowned the conversation which I was finding interesting.
"'That's a splendid horse of yours,'Azamat was saying.'If I were master of a house of my own and had a stud of three hundred mares,Iwould give half of it for your galloper,Kazbich!'
"'Aha!Kazbich!'I said to myself,and Icalled to mind the coat of mail.
