Through Russia | Page 3

copies of it. Among other things, this requires that
you do not remove, alter or modify the etext or this "small print!"
statement. You may however, if you wish, distribute this etext in
machine readable binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- cessing or
hypertext software, but only so long as *EITHER*:
[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and does *not*
contain characters other than those intended by the author of the work,
although tilde (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may be used
to convey punctuation intended by the author, and additional characters
may be used to indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at no expense into
plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent form by the program that displays
the etext (as is the case, for instance, with most word processors); OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at no additional
cost, fee or expense, a copy of the etext in its original plain ASCII form
(or in EBCDIC or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this "Small
Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the net profits
you derive calculated using the method you already use to calculate
your applicable taxes. If you don't derive profits, no royalty is due.
Royalties are payable to "Project Gutenberg
Association/Carnegie-Mellon University" within the 60 days following
each date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) your annual
(or equivalent periodic) tax return.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU
DON'T HAVE TO?
The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, scanning
machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty free copyright
licenses, and every other sort of contribution you can think of. Money

should be paid to "Project Gutenberg Association / Carnegie-Mellon
University".
*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN
ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*

E-text prepared by Martin Adamson -
[email protected]

Translated by CJ Hogarth

CONTENTS
THE BIRTH OF A MAN THE ICEBREAKER GUBIN NILUSHKA
THE CEMETERY ON A RIVER STEAMER A WOMAN IN A
MOUNTAIN DEFILE KALININ THE DEAD MAN

THE BIRTH OF A MAN
The year was the year '92-- the year of leanness--the scene a spot
between Sukhum and Otchenchiri, on the river Kodor, a spot so near to
the sea that amid the joyous babble of a sparkling rivulet the ocean's
deep-voiced thunder was plainly distinguishable.
Also, the season being autumn, leaves of wild laurel were glistening
and gyrating on the white foam of the Kodor like a quantity of
mercurial salmon fry. And as I sat on some rocks overlooking the river
there occurred to me the thought that, as likely as not, the cause of the
gulls' and cormorants' fretful cries where the surf lay moaning behind a
belt of trees to the right was that, like myself, they kept mistaking the
leaves for fish, and as often finding themselves disappointed.
Over my head hung chestnut trees decked with gold; at my feet lay a
mass of chestnut leaves which resembled the amputated palms of
human hands; on the opposite bank, where there waved, tanglewise, the
stripped branches of a hornbeam, an orange-tinted woodpecker was
darting to and fro, as though caught in the mesh of foliage, and, in
company with a troupe of nimble titmice and blue tree-creepers
(visitors from the far-distant North), tapping the bark of the stem with a
black beak, and hunting for insects.

To the left, the tops of the mountains hung fringed with dense, fleecy
clouds of the kind which presages rain; and these clouds were sending
their shadows gliding over slopes green and overgrown with boxwood
and that peculiar species of hollow beech-stump which once came near
to effecting the downfall of Pompey's host, through depriving his
iron-built legions of the use of their legs as they revelled in the
intoxicating sweetness of the " mead " or honey which wild bees make
from the blossoms of the laurel and the azalea, and travellers still gather
from those hollow stems to knead into lavashi or thin cakes of millet
flour.
On the present occasion I too (after suffering sundry stings from
infuriated bees) was thus engaged as I sat on the rocks beneath the
chestnuts. Dipping morsels of bread into a potful of honey, I was
munching them for breakfast, and enjoying, at the same time, the
indolent beams of the moribund autumn sun.
In the fall of the year the Caucasus resembles a gorgeous cathedral built
by great craftsmen (always great craftsmen are great sinners) to conceal
their past from the prying eyes of conscience. Which cathedral is a sort
of intangible edifice of gold and turquoise and emerald, and