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    Hadji Murad
    Hadji Murad
    Hadji Murad
    Ebook191 pages2 hours

    Hadji Murad

    By Leo Tolstoy

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    First published in 1914 after Leo Tolstoy’s death, “Hadji Murad” was the author’s last novel. Drawing upon his own experiences fighting for the Russian army, historical archives, and the true story of the real-life Hadji Murad, the story is a narrative based on actual events that occurred during the Russian war with the Chechens during the 1850’s. “Hadji Murad” focuses on the life and struggles of its central character, a Chechen soldier who breaks ranks and flees to the side of the Russians in the hope that the Russians will help him free his family from the control of the Muslim religious leader Imam Shamil. Murad does not find the help he seeks though and is not trusted by many of the Russian military commanders, who view him as a potential spy. Frustrated by the lack of progress towards his goal, Murad eventually returns to try and rescue his imprisoned family himself with tragic consequences. “Hadji Murad” is the final masterpiece by a gifted writer which brilliantly examines the brutality and senselessness of war and contrasts it with the beauty of the human spirit and the importance of resistance in the face of injustice. This edition includes a biographical afterword and follows the translation of Aylmer Maude.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateFeb 8, 2019
    ISBN9781420960662
    Hadji Murad
    Author

    Leo Tolstoy

    Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) is the author of War and Peace, Anna Karenina, The Death of Ivan Ilyich, Family Happiness, and other classics of Russian literature.

    Read more from Leo Tolstoy

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    Reviews for Hadji Murad

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    • 5/5
      The master.
    • 4/5
      Hadji Murat is a really good story. Tolstoy seems to send a message about understanding other cultures, and decides to write about a non-Russian protagonist. You sympathize with Hadji and have a vested interest in the character by the end.
    • 5/5
      Hadji Murat is a remembered story: "an old story from the Caucasus, part of which I saw, part of which I heard from witnesses, and part of which I imagined to myself." The story depicts the life of soldiers, of nobility, of family life, of the politics of war and the larger-than-life character of Hadji Murat.Hadji Murat was a real Chechen leader and Tolstoy probably first heard of him while he was serving in the Caucasus, based on his own letters home to his brother. Although it is historical the story reads like a myth in spite of its realism. The primary theme is Murat's struggle to resist his enemies while remaining faithful to himself and his family. But there are many other ideas that can be found in the novel, such as determinism, the struggle between a Christian Russia and Muslim Chechnya, and the classic West versus East theme.The story is told in short chapters or vignettes that ultimately introduce dozens of characters from all levels of Russian and Chechen society. The first two pages of the story are like an overture that depicts the discovery of a thistle bloom in the field that will not "submit" and that reminds the narrator of his memory of the hero, Hadji Murat. The story as remembered begins with Murat and two of his followers fleeing from Shamil, the commander of the Caucasian separatists, who is at war with the Russians. They find refuge at the house of Sado, a loyal supporter of Murat. However, the local people learn of his presence and chase him out of the village.Murat decides to make contact with the Russians and sends his aide to them eliciting a promise to meet Murat. Arriving at the fortress of Vozdvizhenskaya, he joins the Russian forces, in hopes of drawing their support in order to overthrow Shamil and save his family. Before his arrival, a small skirmish occurs with some Chechens outside the fortress, and Petrukha Avdeyev, a young Russian soldier bleeds out in a local military hospital after being shot. There is a chapter-length aside about the childless Petrukha who volunteered as a conscript in place of his brother who had a family of his own. Petrukha's father regrets this because he was a dutiful worker compared to his complacent brother.While at Vozdvizhenskaya, Murat befriends Prince Semyon Vorontsov, his wife Maria and his son, and wins over the good will of the soldiers stationed there. They are at once in awe of his physique and reputation, and enjoy his company and find him honest and upright. The Vorontsovs give him a present of a watch which fascinates him.On the fifth day of Murat's stay, the governor-general's adjutant, Mikhail Loris-Melikov arrives with orders to write down Murat's story, and through this some of his history is told. He was born in the village of Tselmes and early on became close to the local khans due to his mother being the royal family's wet nurse. When he was fifteen some followers of Muridism came into his village calling for a holy war (ghazavat) against Russia. Murat declines at first but after a learned man is sent to explain how it will be run, he tentatively agrees. However, in their first confrontation, Shamil—then a lieutenant for the Muslims hostile to the Russians—embarrasses Murat when he goes to speak with the leader Gamzat. Gamzat eventually launches an attack on the capital of Khunzakh and kills the pro-Russian khans, taking control of this part of Dagestan. The slaughter of the khans throws Hadji and his brother against Gamzat, and they eventually succeed in tricking and killing him, causing his followers to flee. Unfortunately, Murat's brother is killed in the attempt and Shamil replaces Gazmat as leader. He calls on Murat to join his struggle, but Murat refuses because the blood of his brother and the khans are on Shamil.Once Murat has joined the Russians, who are aware of his position and bargaining ability, they find him the perfect tool for getting to Shamil. However, Vorontsov's plans are ruined by the War Minister, Chernyshov. A rival prince who is jealous of him, and Murat has to remain in the fortress because the Tsar is told he is possibly a spy. The story digresses into a depiction of the Tsar Nicholas I of Russia, which reveals his lethargic and bitter nature and his egotistical complacency, as well as his contempt towards women, his brother-in-law, Frederick William IV of Prussia, and Russian students.The Tsar orders an attack on the Chechens and Murat's remains in the fortress. Meanwhile, Murat's mother, wife and eldest son Yusuf, whom Shamil hold captive, are moved to a more defensible location. Realizing his position (neither trusted by the Russians to lead an army against Shamil, nor able to return to Shamil because he will be killed), Hadji Murat decides to flee the fortress to gather men to save his family.At this point the narrative jumps forward in time, to the arrival of a group of soldiers at the fortress bearing Murat's severed head. While Maria Dimitriyevna—the companion of one of the officers and a friend of Murat—comments on the cruelty of men during times of war calling them 'butchers', the soldiers then tell the story of Murat's death. The nightingales, which stopped singing during the battle, begin again and the narrator ends by recalling the thistle that had been the catalyst for his original remembrance of Hadji Murat.The story is filled with realistic details that bring the family of Murat and his comrades to life. His original decision to go over to the Russian side, while understandable, ultimately puts Murat in an untenable position. A scene between his son and Shamil, who his holding him captive, is both poignant and terrifying when Shamil tells the boy that he will slice off his head. The two cultures seem to be both very different yet similar. For example, the Tsar demonstrates condescension and enmity for his peers but this is also true of Shamil. The literary style of Tolstoy where every detail is important and the structure is held together by the mystical union of man and nature makes this short novel a major masterpiece.
    • 4/5
      I picked up this book at the library thinking, "Hey, Tolstoy! A book from the 1800s!" (for book bingo). But it's not! But, as a trade-off for being one of Tolstoy's last books, it does serve as my second book by an author over the age of 65. Which I'll happily take.

      This novella about a Chechen rebel is strangely relevant again. The things that I knew about Chechnya, present-day or in the time of this story, sum to approximately zero, so I spent a lot of time in the first dozen pages thumbing back and forth to the handy glossary in the back, which turned out to be a lot about clothes.

      The deeper you get into this story, the more its brilliance is revealed. All the characterizations of all the people involved in Murat's story, all of them acting along their personal, selfish interests. Whether or not their actions end up benefitting Murat, or Russia, or Chechnya, they are all, in the end, perfectly self-centered. Yet the story is somehow empathetic with each of the characters, even as it makes clear the sometimes disastrous effects of their selfishness.

      Such an absorbing read. A wonderful book.
    • 4/5
      Hadji Murad is a story difficult to interprete. Tolstoy seems to be taking shots at Czarism and Russian imperialism holding up for us with admiration Hadji Murad, a muslim and a Chechen repel commander. Bound by honor and duty and reverence for his religion. Yet there’s brutality on each side - maybe more a disillusionment attitude towards war of any kind seems to be preeminent in Tolstoy’s retelling of this story - a mixture of history and fiction, facts and myth.
    • 5/5
      The struggle to stay alive ... to exist. How strong the life force is in some people ... and what a waste to see such strength carelessly crushed.
    • 3/5
      This is my first immersion in Tolstoy. This is novella-length, and tells the true story of a Chechen leader who goes over to the Russian side and assists Nicholas II conquer the Caucasus in 1852. Tolstoy's focus, I believe, is to bring out the pointlessness of war, and the horrific, wasteful-on-a-grand scale Czarist policies of the time.By reputation, I understand Russian translates well into English, but this edition of this story is not a good example. I wouldn't say it's stilted, but it is quite stiff in places.There are interesting descriptions of the broad landscapes, and the broad designs of the rapacious Russian royalty. I doubt this is high in the Tolstoy canon. It probably doesn't deserve to be.
    • 4/5
      A fictionalized account of a real event that occurred during the Russian/Chechen conflict in the Caucasus in the late 1800's. Hadji Murad was a great chieftain, both feared and revered. He breaks with the Chechen leader, and attempts to negotiate with the Russians for assistance to rescue his family. As the political events play out, he is unable to trust either side, and is killed in a final battle. This book may initially be more difficult for many to appreciate than Anna Karenina or Resurrection. It contains Tartar words and descriptions of Chechen villages, dress, and customs that may be just as confusing as the details of the 19th century Russian court. Luckily, the persistent will discover that Hadji Murad also contains the key elements that make Tolstoy's longer works so enjoyable to read. It is his gift for realistic description and his omniscient narrator that make the characters come alive. Since the story of Hadji Murad is a true one, there are several characters that each play a smallish part, but each character is presented clearly and concisely, with insight that allows the reader to know them better than they know themselves. Recommended for fans of Tolstoy.
    • 1/5
      Hadji Murad is the last book written by Count Leo Tolstoy before his death. It's a sympathetic portrait of a real life Chechnyan Freedom Fighter going toe to toe with the Russian invaders (and his own tribal politics) circa 1850 in the Caucasus. It does not end well. The author begins the work with a little story about finding a brightly colored thistle in the fields, cut and broken by the reaper, but still standing proudly. It is the theme of the work - the individual standing upright and proud even under adversity. OK. So why did it leave me so cold? Maybe just that Hadji Murad is such a good and noble guy that he just ain't that interesting. And the comic set pieces about the Russian army in the fields - drinking, gambling, shuffling paperwork - seem rushed and formulaic and fails to engage. Usually Tolstoy is better at it than this. Perhaps we're meant to see the "Savage" tribesman as more civilized than the Western cultured Russians. OK. Tolstoy has written a lot of amazing books. He's entitled to take a Mulligan on this one. Read for a Book Circle.
    • 4/5
      Hadji Murat feels like an epic read in spite of its relative brevity.The story contains portents for our modern era especially in understanding historic grievances between the Caucasus and Russia, Islam and Christianity, which have survived the Communist Soviet era. This tale of power and brutality,subterfuge and corruption, personal and military loyalties divided or switched in unlikely and unholy alliances depending upon who needs what most and when, kidnappings, human shields, sham religiosity, and so on resonates strongly today only the cult of personality, with princes and tsars inspiring military loyalty, was stronger pre World War 1 than the nationhood which supercedes it today especially with the demises of dictatorship.Tolstoy even manages to throw in romantic interludes with the rugged and elegant rebel dangerously and familiarly attractive to the otherwise loyal concubines.Ultimately it is a personal story which ends in sheer futility and the lesson that nothing changes so long as bad and morally weak men can inspire loyalty to the death in return for power and influence.Although at times I found keeping up with the various factions a little difficult and re read many passages for clarification, the book had my attention throughout and what I believe was the desired effect.
    • 3/5
      Book Circle Reads 160TITLE: [HADJI MURAD]Author: [[LEO TOLSTOY]]Rating: 3* of fiveThe Publisher Says: In [Hadji Murat], Tolstoy recounts the extraordinary meeting of two polarized cultures--the refined, Europeanized court of the Russian tsar and the fierce Muslim chieftains of the Chechen hills. This brilliant, culturally resonant fiction was written towards the end of Tolstoy's life, but the conflict it describes has obvious, ironic parallels with current affairs today. It is 1852, and Hadji Murat, one of the most feared mountain chiefs, is the scourge of the Russian army. When he comes to surrender, the Russians are delighted. Or have they naively welcomed a double-agent into their midst? With its sardonic portraits--from the inscrutable Hadji Murat to the fat and bumbling tsar--Tolstoy's story is an astute and witty commentary on the nature of political relations and states at war. Leo Tolstoy is one of the world's greatest writers. Best known for his brilliantly crafted epic novels [War and Peace] and [Anna Karenina], he used his works to address the problems of Russian society, politics, and traditions.My Review: Flat prose exposing the bones of a story better told in the Wikipedia entry on Hadji Murad, the historical Avar leader.The story was among Tolstoy's papers at his death. Louise Shanks Maude, the wife of Tolstoy's good friend and primary translator of non-fiction Aylmer Maude, included Hadji Murad in their 21-volume Oxford University Press edition of the Collected Works of Tolstoy. The Maudes were Fenians, communal-living enthusiasts, and both came from English families firmly rooted in Russia. This constellation of characteristics made them uniquely sympathetic to Tolstoy's rather unusual social views.Louise Maude did no service to Tolstoy's memory by publishing this story after Tolstoy's death. His own attitude towards the work, based on his correspondence, seems to have focused more on finishing it and with it putting a flourish on his life-long argument with the deterministic world he saw about him. Tragedy being inevitable, Tolstoy takes the historical tale of Hadji Murad (known to him from his service to Russia in the Caucasus) and presents an honorable man's desperate struggle to escape the inescapable fate awaiting him: Death in the attempt to save his beloved family from death, which they will suffer anyway because of his foredoomed death attempting to save them from death.How Russian.There's a very involving tale here. What there isn't is a novel or novella of any satisfying substance. The story as it's published reads more like notes towards a novel. The action and the characters are crudely carved from Tolstoy's accustomed fine marble, but lack any fine detail and indeed are only partially revealed; most of the work needed to create a memorable character is left to the imagination of the reader. That it can be done at all is down to the artist's eye for good materials that Tolstoy possessed, refined by a long lifetime's work. What a pity that its audience isn't legally confined to Tolstoy scholars.
    • 4/5
      I found Hadji Murad to be reminiscent of some of the great American western movies of the mid-twentieth century, which made me wonder how many western authors and movie-makers had been influenced by this book. The book had many aspects of the American western including political intrigue, blood feuds, frontier skirmishes, and a woman who understands the horrors of war and violence much more than the men do.On the whole, I would say that this was a good read that was very interesting because of all of the aforementioned elements. On the other hand, I would not say that it is a great novel because it never really left me reconsidering or challenging preconceptions or even empathizing with others, which I believe are hallmarks of great literature. Instead, it was a very entertaining read that just never quite lived up to some of Tolstoy's other works.

    Book preview

    Hadji Murad - Leo Tolstoy

    cover.jpg

    HADJI MURÁD

    By LEO TOLSTOY

    Translated by AYLMER MAUDE

    Hadji Murád

    By Leo Tolstoy

    Translated by Aylmer Maude

    Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-6121-8

    eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-6066-2

    This edition copyright © 2018. Digireads.com Publishing.

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

    Cover Image: a detail of The Cossack (oil on panel), by Alfred von Wierusz-Kowalski (1849-1915) / Private Collection / Photo © Christie’s Images / Bridgeman Images.

    Please visit www.digireads.com

    CONTENTS

    Chapter I

    Chapter II

    Chapter III

    Chapter IV

    Chapter V

    Chapter VI

    Chapter VII

    Chapter VIII

    Chapter IX

    Chapter X

    Chapter XI

    Chapter XII

    Chapter XIII

    Chapter XIV

    Chapter XV

    Chapter XVI

    Chapter XVII

    Chapter XVIII

    Chapter XIX

    Chapter XX

    Chapter XXI

    Chapter XXII

    Chapter XXIII

    Chapter XXIV

    Chapter XXV

    Biographical Afterword

    Chapter I

    I was returning home by the fields. It was midsummer, the hay harvest was over and they were just beginning to reap the rye. At that season of the year there is a delightful variety of flowers—red, white, and pink scented tufty clover; milk-white ox-eye daisies with their bright yellow centers and pleasant spicy smell; yellow honey-scented rape blossoms; tall campanulas with white and lilac bells, tulip-shaped; creeping vetch; yellow, red, and pink scabious; faintly scented, neatly arranged purple plantains with blossoms slightly tinged with pink; cornflowers, the newly opened blossoms bright blue in the sunshine but growing paler and redder towards evening or when growing old; and delicate almond-scented dodder flowers that withered quickly. I gathered myself a large nosegay and was going home when I noticed in a ditch, in full bloom, a beautiful thistle plant of the crimson variety, which in our neighborhood they call Tartar and carefully avoid when mowing—or, if they do happen to cut it down, throw out from among the grass for fear of pricking their hands. Thinking to pick this thistle and put it in the center of my nosegay, I climbed down into the ditch, and after driving away a velvety bumble-bee that had penetrated deep into one of the flowers and had there fallen sweetly asleep, I set to work to pluck the flower. But this proved a very difficult task. Not only did the stalk prick on every side—even through the handkerchief I wrapped round my hand—but it was so tough that I had to struggle with it for nearly five minutes, breaking the fibers one by one; and when I had at last plucked it, the stalk was all frayed and the flower itself no longer seemed so fresh and beautiful. Moreover, owing to a coarseness and stiffness, it did not seem in place among the delicate blossoms of my nosegay. I threw it away feeling sorry to have vainly destroyed a flower that looked beautiful in its proper place.

    But what energy and tenacity! With what determination it defended itself, and how dearly it sold its life! thought I, remembering the effort it had cost me to pluck the flower. The way home led across black-earth fields that had just been ploughed up. I ascended the dusty path. The ploughed field belonged to a landed proprietor and was so large that on both sides and before me to the top of the hill nothing was visible but evenly furrowed and moist earth. The land was well tilled and nowhere was there a blade of grass or any kind of plant to be seen, it was all black. Ah, what a destructive creature is man… How many different plant-lives he destroys to support his own existence! thought I, involuntarily looking around for some living thing in this lifeless black field. In front of me to the right of the road I saw some kind of little clump, and drawing nearer I found it was the same kind of thistle as that which I had vainly plucked and thrown away. This Tartar plant had three branches. One was broken and stuck out like the stump of a mutilated arm. Each of the other two bore a flower, once red but now blackened. One stalk was broken, and half of it hung down with a soiled flower at its tip. The other, though also soiled with black mud, still stood erect. Evidently a cartwheel had passed over the plant but it had risen again, and that was why, though erect, it stood twisted to one side, as if a piece of its body had been torn from it, its bowels drawn out, an arm torn off, and one of its eyes plucked out. Yet it stood firm and did not surrender to man who had destroyed all its brothers around it…

    What vitality! I thought. Man has conquered everything and destroyed millions of plants, yet this one won’t submit. And I remembered a Caucasian episode of years ago, which I had partly seen myself, partly heard of from eye-witnesses, and in part imagined.

    The episode, as it has taken shape in my memory and imagination, was as follows.

    * * *

    It happened towards the end of 1851.

    On a cold November evening Hadji Murád rode into Makhmet, a hostile Chechen aoul that lay some fifteen miles from Russian territory and was filled with the scented smoke of burning kizyák. The strained chant of the muezzin had just ceased, and though the clear mountain air, impregnated with kizyák smoke, above the lowing of the cattle and the bleating of the sheep that were dispersing among the sáklyas (which were crowded together like the cells of honeycomb), could be clearly heard the guttural voices of disputing men, and sounds of women’s and children’s voices rising from near the fountain below.

    This Hadji Murád was Shamil’s naïb, famous for his exploits, who used never to ride out without his banner and some dozens of murids, who caracoled and showed off before him. Now wrapped in a hood and búrka, from under which protruded a rifle, he rode, a fugitive with one murid only, trying to attract as little attention as possible and peering with his quick black eyes into the faces of those he met on his way.

    When he entered the aoul, instead of riding up the road leading to the open square, he turned to the left into a narrow side street, and on reaching the second sáklya, which was cut into the hill side, he stopped and looked round. There was no one under the penthouse in front, but on the roof of the sáklya itself, behind the freshly plastered clay chimney, lay a man covered with a sheepskin. Hadji Murád touched him with the handle of his leather-plaited whip and clicked his tongue, and an old man, wearing a greasy old beshmét and a nightcap, rose from under the sheepskin. His moist red eyelids had no lashes, and he blinked to get them unstuck. Hadji Murád, repeating the customary "Selaam aleikum! uncovered his face. Aleikum, selaam!" said the old man, recognizing him, and smiling with his toothless mouth. And raising himself on his thin legs he began thrusting his feet into the wooden-heeled slippers that stood by the chimney. Then he leisurely slipped his arms into the sleeves of his crumpled sheepskin, and going to the ladder that leant against the roof he descended backwards, while he dressed and as he climbed down he kept shaking his head on its thin, shrivelled sunburnt neck and mumbling something with his toothless mouth. As soon as he reached the ground he hospitably seized Hadji Murád’s bridle and right stirrup; but the strong active murid had quickly dismounted and motioning the old man aside, took his place. Hadji Murád also dismounted, and walking with a slight limp, entered under the penthouse. A boy of fifteen, coming quickly out of the door, met him and wonderingly fixed his sparkling eyes, black as ripe sloes, on the new arrivals.

    Run to the mosque and call your father, ordered the old man as he hurried forward to open the thin, creaking door into the sáklya.

    As Hadji Murád entered the outer door, a slight, spare, middle-aged woman in a yellow smock, red beshmét, and wide blue trousers came through an inner door carrying cushions.

    May thy coming bring happiness! said she, and bending nearly double began arranging the cushions along the front wall for the guest to sit on.

    May thy sons live! answered Hadji Murád, taking off his búrka, his rifle, and his sword, and handing them to the old man who carefully hung the rifle and sword on a nail beside the weapons of the master of the house, which were suspended between two large basins that glittered against the clean clay-plastered and carefully whitewashed wall.

    Hadji Murád adjusted the pistol at his back, came up to the cushions, and wrapping his Circassian coat closer round him, sat down. The old man squatted on his bare heels beside him, closed his eyes, and lifted his hands palms upwards. Hadji Murád did the same; then after repeating a prayer they both stroked their faces, passing their hands downwards till the palms joined at the end of their beards.

    "Ne habar? (Is there anything new?") asked Hadji Murád, addressing the old man.

    "Habar yok (Nothing new), replied the old man, looking with his lifeless red eyes not at Hadji Murád’s face but at his breast. I live at the apiary and have only today come to see my son… He knows."

    Hadji Murád, understanding that the old man did not wish to say what he knew and what Hadji Murád wanted to know, slightly nodded his head and asked no more questions.

    There is no good news, said the old man. "The only news is that the hares keep discussing how to drive away the eagles, and the eagles tear first one and then another of them. The other day the Russian dogs burnt the hay in the Mitchit aoul… May their faces be torn!" he added hoarsely and angrily.

    Hadji Murád’s murid entered the room, his strong legs striding softly over the earthen floor. Retaining only his dagger and pistol, he took off his búrka, rifle, and sword as Hadji Murád had done, and hung them up on the same nails as his leader’s weapons.

    Who is he? asked the old man, pointing to the newcomer.

    "My murid. Eldár is his name," said Hadji Murád.

    That is well, said the old man, and motioned Eldár to a place on a piece of felt beside Hadji Murád. Eldár sat down, crossing his legs and fixing his fine ram-like eyes on the old man who, having now started talking, was telling how their brave fellows had caught two Russian soldiers the week before and had killed one and sent the other to Shamil in Vedén.

    Hadji Murád heard him absently, looking at the door and listening to the sounds outside. Under the penthouse steps were heard, the door creaked, and Sado, the master of the house, came in. He was a man of about forty, with a small beard, long nose, and eyes as black, though not as glittering, as those of his fifteen-year-old son who had run to call him home and who now entered with his father and sat down by the door. The master of the house took off his wooden slippers at the door, and pushing his old and much-worn cap to the back of his head (which had remained unshaved so long that it was beginning to be overgrown with black hair), at once squatted down in front of Hadji Murád.

    He too lifted his palms upwards, as the old man had done, repeated a prayer, and then stroked his face downwards. Only after that did he begin to speak. He told how an order had come from Shamil to seize Hadji Murád alive or dead, that Shamil’s envoys had left only the day before, that the people were afraid to disobey Shamil’s orders, and that therefore it was necessary to be careful.

    In my house, said Sado, "no one shall injure my kunák while I live, but how will it be in the open fields?… We must think it over."

    Hadji Murád listened with attention and nodded approvingly. When Sado had finished he said:

    "Very well. Now we must send a man with a letter to the Russians. My murid will go but he will need a guide."

    I will send brother Bata, said Sado. Go and call Bata, he added, turning to his son.

    The boy instantly bounded to his nimble feet as if he were on springs, and swinging his arms, rapidly left the sáklya. Some ten minutes later he returned with a sinewy, short-legged Chechen, burnt almost black by the sun, wearing a worn and tattered yellow Circassian coat with frayed sleeves, and crumpled black leggings.

    Hadji Murád greeted the newcomer, and again without wasting a single word, immediately asked:

    "Canst thou conduct my murid to the Russians?"

    I can, gaily replied Bata. I can certainly do it. There is not another Chechen who would pass as I can. Another might agree to go and might promise anything, but would do nothing; but I can do it!

    All right, said Hadji Murád. Thou shalt receive three for thy trouble, and he held up three fingers.

    Bata nodded to show that he understood, and added that it was not money he prized, but that he was ready to serve Hadji Murád for the honor alone. Every one in the mountains knew Hadji Murád, and how he slew the Russian swine.

    Very well… A rope should be long but a speech short, said Hadji Murád.

    Well then I’ll hold my tongue, said Bata.

    Where the river Argun bends by the cliff, said Hadji Murád, there are two stacks in a glade in the forest—thou knowest?

    I know.

    There my four horsemen are waiting for me, said Hadji Murád.

    Aye, answered Bata, nodding.

    Ask for Khan Mahomá. He knows what to do and what to say. Canst thou lead him to the Russian Commander, Prince Vorontsóv?

    Yes, I’ll take him.

    Canst thou take him and bring him back again?

    "I

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