A Hero of Our Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

time.
    “Well . . . what?”
    “Yes! What awful rogues, these Asiatics! You think they’re urging those bullocks with what they’re saying? Devil knows what they’re crying out. The bulls, though, they understand them. You could yoke twenty to your cart even, and the bullocks still wouldn’t move as long as they cry out like that . . . Awful cheats! But what do you expect of them? . . . They love to make off with the money of passersby . . . the spoiled little swindlers! You’ll see, they have yet to ask you for vodka money. I know them, you see, and won’t have them lead me along!”
    “And have you served here long?”
    “I served here before under Alexei Petrovich,” he replied, assuming a dignified air. “When he arrived at the front I was a second lieutenant,” he added, “and under him I received two promotions for action against the mountain-dwellers.”
    “And now, you are . . . ?”
    “Now I consider myself to be in the battalion of the third line. And you, might I be so bold as to ask . . . ?”
    I told him.
    My conversation with the man ended, and we continued in silence one after the other. We found snow at the summit of the mountain. The sun set, and night followed day without interval, as is often the way in the south; but thanks to the tint of the snows we were easily able to make out the road, which continued up the mountain, though not as steeply as before. I gave orders to deposit my valise on the cart, exchange the bullocks for horses, and for the last time, I looked back down to see the valley. But a thick fog had covered it completely, having surged in waves up from the gorge, and not one sound from below could now fly up and reach our hearing. The Ossetians noisily clustered around me and requested something for vodka, but the staff captain shouted at them so menacingly that they ran off instantly.
    “What a people!” he said. “They can’t even name the word for bread in Russian, but they’ve learned to say ‘Officer, give us something for our vodka!’ I think even the Tatars are a better sort—at least they don’t drink . . .”
    One verst remained to the station. It was quiet all around us, so quiet that you could follow the flight of a mosquito by its buzzing. The deep gorge to our left was growing black; beyond it, the dark-blue summit of the mountain faced us, pitted with creases, covered in layers of snow, and silhouetted against a pale band of sky above the horizon, which was conserving the last reflection of the sunset. Stars began to sparkle in the dark sky, and strangely it seemed to me that they were a great deal higher than they are in the north. Bare, black rocks stuck out on both sides of the road; in some places shrubs peeped out from under the snow, but not one dry leaf stirred. It was cheering to hear the snorting of a tired troika 3 and the uneven rattling of a small Russian bell in the midst of this dead dream of nature.
    “Tomorrow will be glorious weather!” I said. The staff captain didn’t say a word and pointed his finger at the high mountain that was rising in front of us.
    “What is it?”
    “Gud Mountain.”
    “And what is that?”
    “See how it’s smoking.”
    And it was true, Gud Mountain was smoking. Light little currents of cloud were creeping down its slopes, and a black storm cloud sat at its summit, so black that it looked like a blot on the dark sky.
    We could just make out the posting house, the roofs of its surrounding saklyas, 4 and their welcoming little fires twinkling at us, when suddenly a damp, cold wind blew in, a droning sound started in the gorge, and a drizzle began. I barely managed to throw on my felt cloak 5 as snow began to pour down. I looked over at the staff captain in deference . . .
    “We’ll have to spend the night here,” he said with vexation. “You’ll never get across the mountain in this sort of snow-storm. Well? Have there been any avalanches on the Krestovaya?” he asked the cart driver.
    “No, there