A Hero of Our Time | Page 4

old, they can't get round me!"
"You have been serving here a long time?"
"Yes, I was here under Aleksei Petrovich,"[1] he answered, assuming an air of dignity. "I was a sub-lieutenant when he came to the Line; and I was promoted twice, during his command, on account of actions against the mountaineers."
[1] Ermolov, i.e. General Ermolov. Russians have three names -- Christian name, patronymic and surname. They are addressed by the first two only. The surname of Maksim Maksimych (colloquial for Maksimovich) is not mentioned.
"And now --?"
"Now I'm in the third battalion of the Line. And you yourself?"
I told him.
With this the conversation ended, and we con- tinued to walk in silence, side by side. On the summit of the mountain we found snow. The sun set, and -- as usually is the case in the south -- night followed upon the day without any interval of twilight. Thanks, however, to the sheen of the snow, we were able easily to dis- tinguish the road, which still went up the moun- tain-side, though not so steeply as before. I ordered the Ossetes to put my portmanteau into the cart, and to replace the oxen by horses. Then for the last time I gazed down upon the valley; but the thick mist which had gushed in billows from the gorges veiled it completely, and not a single sound now floated up to our ears from below. The Ossetes surrounded me clamor- ously and demanded tips; but the staff-captain shouted so menacingly at them that they dis- persed in a moment.
"What a people they are!" he said. "They don't even know the Russian for 'bread,' but they have mastered the phrase 'Officer, give us a tip!' In my opinion, the very Tartars are better, they are no drunkards, anyhow." . . .
We were now within a verst or so of the Station. Around us all was still, so still, indeed, that it was possible to follow the flight of a gnat by the buzzing of its wings. On our left loomed the gorge, deep and black. Behind it and in front of us rose the dark-blue summits of the mountains, all trenched with furrows and covered with layers of snow, and standing out against the pale horizon, which still retained the last reflec- tions of the evening glow. The stars twinkled out in the dark sky, and in some strange way it seemed to me that they were much higher than in our own north country. On both sides of the road bare, black rocks jutted out; here and there shrubs peeped forth from under the snow; but not a single withered leaf stirred, and amid that dead sleep of nature it was cheering to hear the snorting of the three tired post-horses and the irregular tinkling of the Russian bell.[1]
[1] The bell on the duga, a wooden arch joining the shafts of a Russian conveyance over the horse's neck.
"We will have glorious weather to-morrow," I said.
The staff-captain answered not a word, but pointed with his finger to a lofty mountain which rose directly opposite us.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Mount Gut."
"Well, what then?"
"Don't you see how it is smoking?"
True enough, smoke was rising from Mount Gut. Over its sides gentle cloud-currents were creeping, and on the summit rested one cloud of such dense blackness that it appeared like a blot upon the dark sky.
By this time we were able to make out the Post Station and the roofs of the huts surrounding it; the welcoming lights were twinkling before us, when suddenly a damp and chilly wind arose, the gorge rumbled, and a drizzling rain fell. I had scarcely time to throw my felt cloak round me when down came the snow. I looked at the staff-captain with profound respect.
"We shall have to pass the night here," he said, vexation in his tone. "There's no crossing the mountains in such a blizzard. -- I say, have there been any avalanches on Mount Krestov?" he inquired of the driver.
"No, sir," the Ossete answered; "but there are a great many threatening to fall -- a great many."
Owing to the lack of a travellers' room in the Station, we were assigned a night's lodging in a smoky hut. I invited my fellow-traveller to drink a tumbler of tea with me, as I had brought my cast-iron teapot -- my only solace during my travels in the Caucasus.
One side of the hut was stuck against the cliff, and three wet and slippery steps led up to the door. I groped my way in and stumbled up against a cow (with these people the cow-house supplies the place of a servant's room). I did not know which way to turn -- sheep were bleating on the one hand and a dog growling on the other. Fortunately, however, I