Chapter IV: Act II: , Scene 1. Fámusov and Servant

_Fámusov._ Petrúshka, your caftan is eternally patched up or torn at the elbow! Fetch down the almanac. Look there; don’t read like a sexton, but with feeling, with understanding, with rests. Hold on! Write down on the memorandum, against next week: “I ’m invited to Praskóvya Fédorovna on Tuesday for trout.” How wonderful this world is made! Your brain is in a whirl when you philosophise about it! Now you take care of yourself, and now it is a dinner; you eat three hours, and it will not be digested in three days. Oh, make a note for the same day--no, no! “For Thursday I am called to a funeral.” O human race! It has slipped my mind that we all shall have to get into that box where one can neither stand up nor sit. Here is an example of a praiseworthy life: the defunct was an honourable chamberlain, he held a key, and has managed to obtain a key for his son; he was rich, and married to a rich woman; he married off his children and grandchildren; he has passed away, and all mention him with regret: “Maksím Petróvich, peace to his ashes!” Write down, on Thursday, while you are about it, or may be, on Friday, or Saturday: “I am to be godfather at the doctor’s widow.” The child is not yet born, but, if my calculation is right, will be.

SCENE 2. FÁMUSOV, SERVANT, AND CHÁTSKI

_Fámusov._ Ah, Aleksándr Andréich, come nearer, take a seat!

_Chátski._ You are busy?

_Fámusov_ (_to the servant_). Go! (_Servant exit._) Yes, I have been entering various memoranda on business matters, not to forget them by any chance.

_Chátski._ You look disconcerted. Tell me, why? Is my arrival untimely? Has, perchance, some sorrow come to Sophia Pávlovna? There is disquiet in your face and movements.

_Fámusov._ What a riddle you have propounded, my friend! Not joyful! You would not expect me, at my age, to dance a jig.

_Chátski._ Nobody asks you to. I just asked two words about Sophia Pávlovna, fearing that she might be ill.

_Fámusov._ Pshaw, the Lord spare us! Five thousand times he repeats one and the same thing: now it is, there is no one fairer in the world than Sophia Pávlovna, now, Sophia Pávlovna is ill. Tell me, have you taken a liking to her? You have raced through the whole world,--don’t you want to get married?

_Chátski._ What is that to you?

_Fámusov._ It would not be bad to ask of me: I am, so to say, a near relative of hers; at least, they have not in vain been calling me her father.

_Chátski._ Suppose I should sue for her hand, what would you say?

_Fámusov._ I should say: First, do not make a fool of yourself, do not, my friend, neglect your estate; but above all, take a government position.

_Chátski._ I should gladly serve, but I hate to be subservient.

_Fámusov._ That ’s it! You are all a haughty lot! Ask how your fathers have done! Learn from your elders. Let us take, for example, my deceased uncle, Maksím Petróvich: he used to dine not upon silver, but upon gold; a hundred servants were at his beck; he was all covered with decorations; he travelled all the time in a procession, was all the time at Court, and at what Court! It was not then as now: he served under Empress Catherine! In those days there was some weight in dignity: bow all you please to them, they would not nod their heads. A dignitary was not an ordinary mortal: he drank and ate quite differently. And my uncle,--what is your prince, your count? He had such a serious look, such haughty mien,--but when it was necessary to be subservient, he knew how to limber up his joints. Once he by chance made a misstep during audience at Court: he fell, and almost hurt his occiput. The old man groaned,--his hoarse voice provoked her Majesty’s smile, she deigned to laugh. What did he do? He rose, arranged his clothes, wanted to make a bow, and fell down again, but this time on purpose. The laughter was louder than before,--he repeated his feat. Well, how is that according to your ideas? According to ours, he was shrewd: he fell down in pain, he rose quite well. Who was oftenest invited to whist? Who heard a kind word at Court? Maksím Petróvich! Who was honoured above all others at Court? Maksím Petróvich! That ’s no trifle! Who conferred ranks, and gave pensions? Maksím Petróvich! Ah, you of to-day are what?

_Chátski._ Truly, the world has grown more stupid--you may say so with a sigh! When we compare the present age with the one that ’s past, though the tradition is living, it is hard to believe: he was most famous whose neck was oftenest bent, and the brow took by assault in peace, not war; they mercilessly knocked their brows against the floor. He who needed it, took delight in grovelling in the dust; those who stood higher wove flattery like lace,--it was a sincere age of submission and terror! Under the mask of zeal for the Tsar--(I am not talking of your uncle: we will not disturb his ashes). But now, who would, even in the most ardent servility, undertake to amuse the people, and boldly to sacrifice his occiput? Though then, many an equal of his, or some old man who was falling to pieces in his ancient hide, seeing his capers, probably remarked: “Oh, if I could do the same!” There are even now some servile souls, but nowadays ridicule terrifies them and shame holds them in check. Kings, with good reason, are slow to favour them.

_Fámusov._ My God, he is a carbonaro!

_Chátski._ No, this is a different world!

_Fámusov._ Dangerous man!

_Chátski._ Everybody breathes more freely, and nobody hastens to inscribe himself in the army of fools.

_Fámusov._ How he talks! And he talks as he writes.

_Chátski._ To yawn at the ceiling in the house of your patrons, to make your appearance and sit in silence, to courtesy, dine, fetch a chair, lift up a handkerchief--

_Fámusov._ He wants to preach liberty!

_Chátski._ Who travels, who lives in the village--

_Fámusov._ He does not acknowledge the authorities!

_Chátski._ Who serves his office and not men--

_Fámusov._ I should most severely forbid such gentlemen to get within a gunshot of the capitals!

_Chátski._ I will not give you any rest!

_Fámusov._ My patience is all exhausted, I have had enough!

_Chátski._ I have unmercifully scolded your age; I leave it to you to reject part of it in favour of our times: I shall not contradict.

_Fámusov._ I do not wish to know you! I despise debauch!

_Chátski._ I have had my say.

_Fámusov._ Very well, I close my ears!

_Chátski._ What for? I shall not insult them.

_Fámusov_ (_rapidly_). Such are the people that race the world and waste their time. When they return, what order can you expect of them?

_Chátski._ I am done.

_Fámusov._ Please, spare me!

_Chátski._ It is not my desire to continue the dispute.

_Fámusov._ At least leave my soul to repentance.

SCENE 3. THE SAME AND SERVANT

_Servant._ Colonel Skalozúb!

_Fámusov_ (_not seeing or hearing him_). You ’ll be court-martialled yet! They ’ll give you to drink.

_Chátski._ You have a guest.

_Fámusov._ I do not hear! You ’ll be court-martialled!

_Chátski._ Your servant is reporting to you.

_Fámusov._ I do not hear! You ’ll be court-martialled, court-martialled, I say!

_Chátski._ Just turn around, you are addressed.

_Fámusov_ (_turning around_). Oh, rebellion! I am expecting nothing but Sodom!

_Servant._ Colonel Skalozúb! Shall he be received?

_Fámusov_ (_rising_). Asses! Shall I repeat it a hundred times? Receive him, call him, ask him in, tell him I am at home, that I am glad. Begone, be in a hurry! (_Exit Servant._) Please, sir, be careful in his presence; he is a distinguished gentleman, of solid habits, and he has no end of decorations; his rank is enviable, considering his age; ’t is but a question of a short time when he will be general!

SCENE 5. CHÁTSKI, FÁMUSOV, SKALOZÚB

_Fámusov._ Sergyéy Sergyéich, come here, near us! ’T is warmer here, come here! I ’ll open the register at once.

_Skalozúb_ (_in a heavy bass_). Why should you trouble yourself? As an honourable officer I can’t permit that.

_Fámusov._ Why should I not take a step for a friend? Dear Sergyéy Sergyéich, put down your hat, take off your sword. Here is a sofa: make yourself comfortable.

_Skalozúb._ I do not care where, so I am seated.

(_All three sit down, Chátski at some distance._)

_Fámusov._ O friend, not to forget: let us figure out our relationship--there is no inheritance to be divided here. Do you know--I used to know, thanks to what your cousin told me--how Nastásya Nikoláevna is related to you?

_Skalozúb._ Beg your pardon, I do not know: we did not serve together.

_Fámusov._ Sergyéy Sergyéich, do you say that? I am ready to get down on my knees before a relative of mine, wherever I may find him, though he be at the bottom of the sea. I seldom have subordinates who are not my relatives: they are nearly all my sister’s children, or some near relative’s; Molchálin only is not of my family, and for the reason that he knows about affairs. How can one help thinking of his family, when there is a chance for promotion or for decoration? Yet, your cousin told me that through you he has had many advantages in his service.

_Skalozúb._ Cousin and I distinguished ourselves in 1813 in the thirtieth of the Chasseurs, and later in the forty-fifth.

_Fámusov._ How fortunate is he who has such a son! He has, I believe, a decoration in the buttonhole?

_Skalozúb._ For August third. We stuck to a trench. He received his in the buttonhole, I--around my neck.

_Fámusov._ A lovely man! A fine fellow to look at! A splendid man is your cousin!

_Skalozúb._ He ’s chock-full of new-fangled rules. He was to get a higher rank, when he left the service, and began to read books in his village.

_Fámusov._ Strange youth! To read, and then--look out! You have acted as is proper: you have long been colonel, though you serve but shortly.

_Skalozúb._ I am sufficiently fortunate in my colleagues. Vacancies have been open just at the right time: some older ones have been retired, and others have been killed off.

_Fámusov._ Yes, if God wants to show one His favour, He advances him!

_Skalozúb._ Some are luckier than I. Not to go farther, I ’ll mention our brigadier-general in the fifteenth division.

_Fámusov._ But, I pray, you are lacking nothing.

_Skalozúb._ I can’t complain,--I have not been overlooked; yet, I have been two years with the same regiment.

_Fámusov._ Oh, you are after the rank of general! Still, in many other things you have left others far behind.

_Skalozúb._ No, there are older ones than I in the army: I have been serving since eighty-nine. Yes, there are many channels through which one may get promotion; I judge of them like a real philosopher: all I care for is the rank of general.

_Fámusov._ You judge excellently. God grant you health and the rank of general--and, why delay it longer?--it would be time to begin talking of a Mrs. Skalozúb.

_Skalozúb._ Get married? I am not disinclined.

_Fámusov._ Well! One has a sister, another a niece, a daughter. In Moscow there is no lack of prospective brides: they breed each year! My friend, confess, it would be hard to find another capital like Moscow.

_Skalozúb._ Distances of enormous proportion!

_Fámusov._ There are good taste, my friend, and excellent manners, and for everything there are laws. There, for example, it is an old custom with us that the son is honoured according to his father: let him be a worthless chap, but let him have two thousand peasants to his name, and he will be an eligible bridegroom; another may be much more agile, full of all kinds of pride, let him pass for a clever fellow,--yet he will not be a member of our families, nor need you wonder at this, for it is only here that we still respect noble birth. Nor is this all! Take our hospitable bread and salt: anyone who may wish to call on us is welcome! The door is open for invited and uninvited guests, especially if they be foreigners. It makes no difference to us whether they be honourable or dishonest men: dinner is prepared for all alike. On all the Muscovites, if you please, there is a special stamp. Just look at our youths, our sons, and grandchildren: we lecture them, but look close at them, and you will find that at fifteen years they are ready to teach their teachers! And our old men? When a notion strikes them, and they discuss affairs,--each word they say is a sentence passed. They are important men, and care not a fig for anyone. Should someone hear their discussions about the Government, there would be trouble! Not that they introduce innovations--never! The Lord preserve us, no! They simply find fault with this and that, and oftenest with nothing at all: they quarrel, make a noise, and go each one to his home. They are true ex-chancellors as regards their brains! I will tell you this much: evidently time has not been propitious, but no affair will be decided without them.

And the ladies? Let anyone try and get the better of them! They are judges in all things and everywhere,--there are no judges over them. When they rise in common riot at the cards,--then God grant us patience! Remember, I have myself been married! Order them to command an army! Send them to take their seats in the Senate! Irína Vlásevna! Lukórya Aleksyéevna! Tatyána Yúrevna! Pulkhériya Andréevna! And he who has seen their daughters will only hang his head! His Majesty the Prussian King was here: he admired beyond measure the Moscow maidens,--their mannerliness, not their faces! And forsooth! Can one be brought up better! They know how to primp themselves in taffeta, velvet, and dimity; they never say a word simply, but always with a grimace. They sing French romances, and strike the upper notes. They cling to the military,--because they are patriots. I must say emphatically: you will scarcely find another such a capital as Moscow!

_Skalozúb._ In my opinion, the conflagration has done much for its embellishment.

_Fámusov._ You have no cause for complaint: since then our roads, our sidewalks, houses, and all creak in a new fashion.

_Chátski._ The houses are new, but the prejudices old. Rejoice: neither years, nor fashion, nor conflagrations will annihilate them.

_Fámusov_ (_to Chátski_). Sir, tie a knot for memory’s sake! I asked you to keep quiet,--’t is but a small service. (_To Skalozúb._) Permit me, sir, to acquaint you with Chátski, a friend of mine, the son of the late Andréy Ilích! He does not serve, that is, he sees no advantage in it; he would make a good official, if he only wished so. ’T is a pity, a great pity: he is a young man with a head, and he writes and translates beautifully. One can’t help regretting----

_Chátski._ Can you not regret someone else? Even your praises anger me!

_Fámusov._ Not I alone,--everybody judges you thus.

_Chátski._ Who are the judges? They being old, their hostility against a free life cannot be assuaged: they draw their judgments from forgotten gazettes of the days of Ochákov and the conquest of the Crimea. Ever ready to chide, they eternally sing one and the same song, and do not notice that the older they grow, the worse they become. Where, show us, are the fathers of the fatherland whom we are to assume as our models? Perchance they are those who by robbery have grown rich, who find protection against the courts in their friends and families, and who erect magnificent palaces, where they indulge in banquets and lavishness, and where the foreign clients will not efface the meanest features of their former lives? Pray, whose mouth has in Moscow not been closed by dinners, suppers, and dances? Is it, perhaps, he to whom you took me still in my swaddling clothes, for some incomprehensible purpose, to make obeisances,--that Nestor of noble scoundrels, who was surrounded by a crowd of servants? They bestirred themselves for him, and in houses of wine and brawls more than once had saved his honour and his life,--and he suddenly exchanged three hounds for them. Or that other man who, to please his fancy, brought together in many waggons to an enforced ballet the children who had been torn away from their parents? Himself merged in contemplation of Zephyrs and Cupids, he caused all Moscow to admire their beauty; but he did not with all that appease his creditors: the Cupids and Zephyrs were all sold one by one.

These are the men who have lived to have grey hair! It is these that you wish us to respect in the wilderness! These are our austere arbiters and judges! Let now one among us young men be found who is an enemy of servility, who seeks neither a place, nor a promotion, who, thirsting for knowledge, bends his mind to the sciences, or into whose soul God Himself has implanted a fire for the high and beautiful creative arts,--they at once cry: murder! fire! and you at once pass for a dangerous dreamer. The uniform, nothing but the uniform! In their former existence their beautiful gold-laced uniforms had cloaked their pusillanimity and poverty of intelligence,--so they wish us Godspeed upon their own path. And their wives and daughters have the same passion for the uniforms. Is it long since I, sharing that weakness for it, have renounced it? Now I shall never again be prone to such childishness. But who would then not have been carried away together with all? When someone of the Guards or from the Court came here for a time, the women cried “Hurrah!” and threw their bonnets in the air.

_Fámusov_ (_aside_). He will get me into trouble yet! (_Aloud._) Sergyéy Sergyéich, I shall wait for you in the study. (_Exit._)

Aleksándr Aleksándrovich Bestúzhev (pseud. Marlínski). (1797-1837.)

Bestúzhev was one of three brothers who took part in the Decembrist
uprising. He had received a brilliant education at home, which, thanks
to the industry of his highly cultivated father, was a museum in
miniature. He turned his attention to literature in 1819, through his
friend Rylyéev joined the December conspiracy, and was banished for
only a few years to Siberia, because he had voluntarily surrendered
himself. He was possessed of an unusually ardent nature, which led him
to engage in most extravagant love affairs, with always a duel in
prospect, and his many novels, with their transcendental Romanticism
and perfervid diction, are only the expression of his inner
experiences. He died in the Caucasus, in an engagement with the
mountaineers, but his body was not recovered. He was, in his day, the
most popular novelist, whom even Púshkin greatly admired, and several
of his works have been translated into many languages, among them also
into Georgian. His _Ammalát Bek_ was translated into English by Thomas
B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, vol. liii., 1843; also
_The Tartar Chief; or, A Russian Colonel’s Head for Dowry_, from the
Russian of Marlinsky, by G. C. Hebbe, LLD., New York, 1846.

FROM “AMMALÁT BEK”

For some time past, the mountaineers had fallen in considerable numbers only on Christian villages, for in the stanítsas[5] the resistance had cost them very dear. For the plundering of houses they approached boldly yet cunningly the Russian frontier, and on such occasions they frequently escaped a battle. The bravest Uzdéns desire to meet with these affairs that they may acquire fame, which they value even more than plunder.

In the autumn of the year 1810, the Kabardinians and Chechenians, encouraged by the absence of the commander-in-chief, assembled to the number of fifteen hundred men to make an attack upon one of the villages beyond the Térek, to seize it, carry off prisoners, and take the droves of horses. The leader of the Kabardinians was the Prince Dzhembulát. Ammalát Bek, who had arrived with a letter from Sultan Akhmét Khan, was received with delight. They did not, indeed, assign him the command of any division; but this arose from the circumstance that with them there is no order of battle or gradation of command; an active horse and individual courage secures the most distinguished place in action. At first they deliberate how best to begin the attack,--how to repel the enemy; but afterwards they pay no attention to plan or order, and chance decides the affair.

Having sent messengers to summon the neighbouring Uzdéns, Dzhembulát fixed on a place of general assembling; and immediately, on a signal agreed on, from every height spread the cry: “Garáy, garáy!” (alarm), and in one hour the Chechenians and Kabardinians were assembling from all sides. To avoid treason, no one but the leader knew where the night-camp was to be, from which they were to cross the river. They were divided into small bands, and were to go by almost invisible paths to the peaceful village, where they were to conceal themselves till night. By twilight, all the divisions were already mustered.

As they arrived, they were received by their countrymen with frank embraces; but Dzhembulát, not trusting to this, guarded the village with sentinels, and proclaimed to the inhabitants that whoever attempted to desert to the Russians should be cut to pieces. The greater part of the Uzdéns took up their quarters in the sáklas of their kunáks or relations; but Dzhembulát and Ammalát, with the best of the cavaliers, slept in the open air around a fire, when they had refreshed their jaded horses. Dzhembulát, wrapped in his búrka, was considering, with folded arms, the plan of the expedition; but the thoughts of Ammalát were far from the battlefield: they were flying, eagle-winged, to the mountains of Avár, and bitterly, bitterly, did he feel his separation. The sound of an instrument, the mountain balaláyka, accompanying a slow air, recalled him from his reverie; and a Kabardinian sang an ancient song.

“On Kazbék the clouds are meeting,
Like the mountain eagle-flock;
Up to them, along the rock,
Dash the wild Uzdéns retreating;
Onward faster, faster fleeting,
Routed by the Russian brood,
Foameth all their track with blood.

“Fast behind the regiments yelling,
Lance and bayonet raging hot,
And the seed of death their shot.
On the mail the sabre knelling,
Gallop, steed! for far thy dwelling,--
See! they fall,--but distant still
Is the forest of the hill!

“Russian shot our hearts is rending,
Falls the Moollah on his knee,
To the Lord of Light bows he,
To the Prophet he is bending;
Like a shaft his prayer ascending,
Upward flies to Allah’s throne--
Il-Allah! Oh, save thine own!

“Ah, despair!--What crash like thunder!
Lo! a sign from heaven above!
Lo! the forest seems to move,
Crashes, murmurs, bursts asunder!
Lower, nearer, wonder! wonder!
Safe once more the Moslem bold
In their forest mountain-hold!”

“So it was in old times,” said Dzhembulát, with a smile, “when our men trusted more to prayer, and God oftener listened to them; but now, my friends, there is a better hope,--your valour! _Our_ omens are in the scabbards of our sabres, and we must show that we are not ashamed of them. Hark ye, Ammalát,” he continued, twisting his moustache, “I will not conceal from you that the affair may be warm. I have just heard that Colonel K---- has collected his division; but where he is, or how many troops he has, nobody knows.”

“The more Russians there are the better,” replied Ammalát, quietly; “the fewer mistakes will be made.”

“And the heavier will be the plunder.”

“I care not for that. I seek revenge and glory.”

“Glory is a good bird, when she lays a golden egg; but he that returns with his toróks (straps behind the saddle) empty, is ashamed to appear before his wife. Winter is near, and we must provide our households at the expense of the Russians, that we may feast our friends and allies. Choose your station, Ammalát Bek. Do you prefer to advance in front to carry off the flocks, or will you remain with me in the rear? I and the Abréks will march at a foot’s pace to restrain the pursuers.”

“That is what I also intend. I will be where the greatest peril is. But what are the Abréks, Dzhembulát?”

“It is not easy to explain. You sometimes see several of our boldest cavaliers take an oath, binding them for two or three years, or as long as they like, never to mingle in games or gaieties, never to spare their lives in battle, to give no quarter, never to pardon the least offence in a brother or a friend, to seize the goods of others without fear or scruple,--in a word, to be the foes of all mankind, strangers in their family, men whom any person may slay if he can; in the village they are dangerous neighbours, and in meeting them you must keep your hand on the trigger; but in war one can trust them.”

“For what motive, or reason, can the Uzdéns make such an engagement?”

“Some simply to show their courage, others from poverty, a third class from some misfortune. See, for instance, yonder tall Kabardinian; he has sworn to be an Abrék for five years, since his mistress died of the smallpox. Since that year it would be as well to make acquaintance with a tiger as with him. He has already been wounded three times for blood vengeance; but he cares not for that.”

“Strange custom! How will he return from the life of an Abrék to a peaceable existence?”

“What is there strange in this? The past glides from him as water from the wild-duck. His neighbours will be delighted when he has finished his term of brigandage. And he, after putting off Abrékism, as a serpent sheds his skin, will become gentle as a lamb. Among us, none but the avenger of blood remembers yesterday. But the night is darkening. The mists are spreading over Térek. It is time for the work.”

Dzhembulát whistled, and his whistle was repeated to all the outposts of the camp. In a moment the whole band was assembled. Several Uzdéns joined from the neighbouring friendly villages. After a short discussion as to the passage of the river, the band moved in silence to the bank. Ammalát Bek could not but admire the stillness, not only of the riders, but of their horses; not one of them neighed or snorted, and they seemed to place their feet on the ground with caution.

They marched like a voiceless cloud, and soon they reached the bank of Térek, which, making a winding at this spot, formed a promontory, and from it to the opposite shore extended a pebbly shoal. The water over this bank was shallow and fordable; nevertheless, a part of the detachment left the shore higher up, in order to swim past the Cossacks, and, diverting their attention from the principal passage, to cover the fording party. Those who had confidence in their horses leaped unhesitatingly from the bank, while others tied to each fore-foot of their steeds a pair of small skins, inflated with air like bladders: the current bore them on, and each landed wherever he found a convenient spot.

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Daybreak appeared; the fog began to separate, and discovered a picture at once magnificent and terrible. The principal band of foragers dragged the prisoners after it,--some were at the stirrup, others behind the saddle, with their arms tied at their backs. Tears, and groans, and cries of despair were stifled by the threats or frantic cries of joy of the victors. Loaded with plunder, impeded by the flocks and horned cattle, they advanced slowly towards the Térek. The princes and best cavaliers, in mail-coats and casques glittering like water, galloped round the dense mass, as lightning flashes round a living cloud.

In the distance were galloping up from every point the Cossacks of the Line; they ambushed behind the shrubs and straggling oak-trees, and soon began an irregular fire with the brigands who were sent against them. In the meantime, the foremost had driven across the river a portion of the flocks, when a cloud of dust, and the tramp of the cavalry, announced the approaching storm.

About six hundred mountaineers, commanded by Dzhembulát and Ammalát, turned their horses to repulse the attack, and give time to the rest to escape by the river. Without order, but with wild cries and shouts, they dashed forward to meet the Cossacks; but not a single gun was taken from its belt, not a single sabre glimmered in the air: a Circassian waits till the last moment before he seizes his weapons. And thus, having galloped to the distance of twenty paces, they levelled their guns, fired at full speed, threw their fire-arms over their backs, and drew their sabres; but the Cossacks of the Line, having replied with a volley, began to fly, and the mountaineers, heated by the chase, fell into a stratagem which they often employ themselves.

The Cossacks had led them up to the Chasseurs of the brave forty-third regiment, who were concealed at the edge of the forest. Suddenly, as if the little squares had started out of the earth, the bayonets were levelled, and the fire poured on them, taking them in flank. It was in vain that the mountaineers, dismounting from their horses, essayed to occupy the underwood and attack the Russians from the rear; the artillery came up and decided the affair. The experienced Colonel Kortsarév, the dread of the Chechenians, the man whose bravery they feared and whose honesty and disinterestedness they respected, directed the movements of the troops, and success could not be doubtful. The cannon dispersed the crowds of brigands, and their grape flew after the flying.

The defeat was terrible; two guns, dashing at a gallop to the promontory, not far from which the Circassians were throwing themselves into the river, enfiladed the stream; with a rushing sound, the shot flew over the foaming waves, and at each fire some of the horses might be seen to turn over with their feet in the air, drowning their riders. It was sad to see how the wounded clutched at the tails and bridles of the horses of their companions, sinking them without saving themselves,--how the exhausted struggled against the scarped bank, endeavouring to clamber up, fell back, and were borne away and engulfed by the furious current. The corpses of the slain were whirled away, mingled with the dying, and streaks of blood curled and writhed like serpents on the foam. The smoke floated along the Térek, far in the distance, and the snowy peaks of the Caucasus, crowned with mist, bounded the field of battle.

Dzhembulát and Ammalát Bek fought desperately,--twenty times did they rush to the attack, twenty times were they repulsed; wearied, but not conquered, with a hundred brigands they swam the river, dismounted, attached their horses to each other by the bridle, and began a warm fire from the other side of the river, to cover their surviving comrades. Intent upon this, they remarked, too late, that the Cossacks were passing the river above them; with a shout, the Russians leaped upon the bank, and surrounded them in a moment. Their fate was inevitable.

“Well, Dzhembulát,” said the Bek to the Kabardinian, “our lot is finished. Do you what you will: but for me, I will not render myself a prisoner alive. ’T is better to die by a ball than by a shameful cord!”

“Do you think,” answered Dzhembulát, “that my arms were made for a chain? Allah keep me from such a blot! The Russians may take my body, but not my soul. Never, never! Brethren, comrades!” he cried to the others, “fortune has betrayed us, but the steel will not. Let us sell our lives dearly to the Giaour. The victor is not he who keeps the field, but he who has the glory; and the glory is his who prefers death to slavery!”

“Let us die, let us die, but let us die gloriously!” cried all, piercing with their daggers the sides of their horses, that the enemy might not take them, and then piling up the dead bodies of their steeds, they lay down behind the heap, preparing to meet the attack with lead and steel.

Well aware of the obstinate resistance they were about to encounter, the Cossacks stopped, and made ready for the charge. The shot from the opposite bank sometimes fell in the midst of the brave mountaineers, sometimes a grenade exploded, covering them with earth and fragments; but they showed no confusion, they started not, nor blenched; and, after the custom of their country, began to sing, with a melancholy yet threatening voice, the death-song, replying alternately stanza for stanza.

DEATH-SONG

_Chorus_

“Fame to us, death to you,
Alla-ha, Alla-hu!”

_Semichorus_

“Weep, O ye maidens, on mountain and valley,
Lift the dirge for the souls of the brave!
We have fired our last bullet, have made our last rally,
And Caucasus gives us a grave.
Here the soft pipe no more shall invite us to slumber,--
The thunder our lullaby sings;
Our eyes not the maiden’s dark tresses shall cumber,
Them the raven shall shade with his wings!
Forget, O my children, your father’s stern duty,--
No more shall he bring ye the Muscovite booty!”

_Second Semichorus_

“Weep not, ye maidens! Your sisters in splendour,
The Houris, they bend from the sky,
They fix on the brave their sun-glance deep and tender,
And to Paradise bear him on high!
In your feast-cup, my brethren, forget not our story:
The death of the Free is the noblest of glory!”

_First Semichorus_

“Roar, winter torrent, and sullenly dash!
But where is the brave one,--the swift lightning-flash?
Soft star of my soul, my mother,
Sleep, the fire let ashes smother;
Gaze no more, thine eyes are weary,
Sit not by the threshold stone;
Gaze not through the night-fog dreary,
Eat thine evening meal alone,
Seek him not, O mother, weeping,
By the cliff and by the ford!
On a bed of dust he ’s sleeping,--
Broken is both heart and sword!”

_Second Semichorus_

“Mother, weep not! with thy love burning:
This heart of mine beats full and free,
And to lion-blood is turning
That soft milk I drew from thee;
And our liberty from danger
Thy brave son has guarded well;
Battling with the Christian stranger,
Called by Azrael, he fell;
From my blood fresh odours breathing,
Fadeless flowers shall drink the dew;
To my children fame bequeathing,
Brethren, and revenge to you!”

_Chorus_

“Pray, my brethren, ere we part:
Clutch the steel with hate and wrath!
Break it in the Russian’s heart,--
O’er corses lies the brave man’s path!
Fame to us, death to you,
Alla-ha, Alla-hu!”

Struck by a certain involuntary awe, the Chasseurs and Cossacks listened in silence to the stern sounds of this song; but at last a loud _hurrah_ resounded from both sides. The Circassians, with a shout, fired their guns for the last time, and breaking them against the stones, they threw themselves dagger in hand, upon the Russians. The Abréks in order that their line might not be broken, bound themselves to each other with their girdles, and hurled themselves into the mêlée. Quarter was neither asked nor given: all fell before the bayonets of the Russians.

“Forward! Follow me, Ammalát Bek,” cried Dzhembulát, with fury, rushing into the combat which was to be his last: “Forward! For us death is liberty!”

But Ammalát heard not his call: a blow from a musket on the back of the head stretched him on the earth, already sown with corpses and covered with blood.

--Transl. by Thomas B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine,
vol. liii. (1843).

[5] Cossack villages.

Iván Ivánovich Lazhéchnikov. (1794-1869.)

Lazhéchnikov was the most famous of Russian novelists before Gógol.
His father was a rich grain and salt merchant in the city of Kolómna,
and he spared no money for the education of his son. At sixteen years
Lazhéchnikov wrote his _Thoughts in Imitation of La Bruyère_, which
was published in The Messenger of Europe. His father having lost all
his property, he accepted a government position, but in 1812 joined
the army and with it went through the whole French campaign. In 1819
appeared his _Campaign Memoirs of a Russian Officer_, which are full
of youthful ardour, patriotism, and a consciousness of the European
importance of Russia. Having attracted the attention of the Court, he
received various appointments, but again left the service in 1826. He
then wrote his three great novels on which his reputation rests,
namely, _The Last Noviks_, _The Ice House_, and _The Heretic_. His
later stories did not sustain his fame.

In English has appeared _The Heretic_, translated from the Russian of
Lajetchnikoff, by Thomas B. Shaw (in three volumes), Edinburgh and
London, 1844, and again, under the title _The Heretic and the Maid of
Moscow, a Romance of Russia_, by Thos. B. Shaw, London, 1849.

THE HERETIC