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DIE MÖRDER
La agricultura de plantación
En los países subdesarrollados coexisten dos tipos de agricultura opuesta, la agricultura tradicional de subsistencia y la agricultura capitalista de plantación.
Una plantación es, según la definió la OIT en 1958, una explotación agrícola, situada en una región tropical o subtropical, que emplea regularmente trabajadores asalariados y en la que, con fines comerciales, se cultivan o producen, en régimen de monocultivo, productos tropicales. Una plantación es, pues, una empresa de gran propiedad, explotación directa y altamente capitalizada, que utiliza todos los medios técnicos y científicos que pone a su alcance la revolución verde.
La gestión de una plantación es como la de una empresa dedicada a la producción y comercialización de cualquier producto. La mano de obra es asalariada, y con horario fijo, suele ser autóctona, excepto la dirección y los altos cuadros que tienden a ser foráneos.
En las grandes extensiones, a una plantación le resulta más económico trasladarse en el espacio, a costa de la sabana o del bosque tropical, que recuperará la fertilidad de la tierra cuando esta está agotada.
El monocultivo productivo hace depender el éxito de la empresa de los precios internacionales del cultivo. Como suelen ser muy variables se intenta obtener el máximo beneficio en el menor tiempo posible. Es una economía especulativa. El hundimiento de los precios de un producto supone la ruina de países enteros, de los que, además, huyen los capitales invertidos, ya que no son autóctonos.
Los productos más representativos en este tipo de agricultura son: el café, la caña de azúcar, el plátano, la hevea, el cacao, la nuez, el coco, los cacahuetes, el algodón, el tabaco, los agrios, el aceite de palma, la quina, las piñas y el té, pero puede haber muchos otros, como las fibras textiles, el yute o el cáñamo.
En la actualidad la plantación está perdiendo importancia como empresa de capital foráneo. Se recurre cada vez más a la compra y comercialización del producto, dejando la explotación en manos autóctonas. Esto tiene dos grandes riesgos para las sociedades de los países subdesarrollados: el abandono definitivo del policultivo de subsistencia, que proporciona productos propios de la dieta tradicional; y la creación de un proletariado rural sin recursos que desestructura las relaciones sociales tradicionales, y está a merced de la estabilidad de los precios en el mercado internacional. Pero además, son las empresas de los países ricos las que comercializan el producto; con un valor añadido mucho mayor, aprovechándose de las ventajas de las buenas cosechas, pero sin asumir los riesgos de la producción.
El hecho de que estos productos estén destinados al comercio internacional implica que han de pasar por un proceso de tratamiento industrial en los países de origen, que puede ir desde el empaquetado hasta la transformación en productos semielaborados. Estas fábricas suelen estar en manos de capital foráneo, mixto e incluso autóctono (que son las menos).
orisrael.org presenta de Waldo Wolff una magnifica carta abierta
Porisrael.org presenta de Waldo Wolff una magnifica carta abierta
Buenos Aires, Martes 13 de Setiembre de 2005.
A los atónitos pasivos de este mundo:
Con espanto, con bronca, con esperanza y con acción veo desde mi
escritorio a través de mi computadora incendiarse los templos judíos en
Cisjordania.
Con espanto porque el fuego me marca el poder de una civilización (si es
que se le puede llamar de esa manera) nihilista que hace un culto de la
destrucción y de la muerte.
Con espanto, porque ese país (Palestina), como otros de este estilo,
goza de un espacio en la ONU y sedes diplomáticas en el mundo entero.
Con espanto porque todavía no escuché una masiva condena internacional.
Con bronca porqué los medios internacionales no terminan de mostrar la
verdadera cara de estos símbolos.
Con bronca porque llaman “ocupación” a la acción Israelí y no llaman
“barbarie” a estos actos abominables. Pero llamaron “provocación” a la
caminata de SHARON por la explanada de Jerusalem.
Con Esperanza.
De que este fuego “caliente” un poco a aquellos que todavía están dormidos.
De que los judíos no sientan más culpa por existir y no le tengan que
dar explicaciones al mundo cada vez que hacen algo.
O Irán le dio explicaciones luego de condenar a Salman Rushdie a muerte
por escribir lo que pensaba.
De que los comunicadores comiencen a entender el problema del Islam, y
comprendan de que no es una cuestión judía solamente.
Y finalmente con acción.
Hasta cuando van a esperar para inundar de emails, llamados y cartas las
editoriales de los medios que contribuyen a afianzar la ignorancia de
los pueblos.
Cuantos más muertos inocentes tiene que haber para dejar de ser pasivos.
Cuando bendiga a mis hijos esta noche, les voy a contar que hay gente
quemando templos judíos. Y vamos a decir una bendición juntos. No por
los templos que no son otra cosa que edificios. Tampoco por las almas de
los piromaníacos, ya que no nos corresponde a nosotros rezar por ellos.
Si no por aquellos que siguen durmiendo, a pesar del calor del fuego.
“Lo peor no es la maldad de los malos, sino el silencio de los buenos”
Martín Luter King
Si hubiera un billón de judíos.
Hay grandes verdades que no aparecen en ningún diario pues hay tantos
intereses creados para ignorarlos. No es nada nuevo en nuestra historia
pero duele igual.
El semanario telavivense "Hair" publicó un artículo del escritor
palestino-israelí Anton Shamas, quien despliega una acostumbrada fluidez
idiomática.
"Señoras y Señores" -escribió Shamas- "la hora ha llegado, en este día
festivo, de admitir con todo candor, sin avergonzarse ni bajar la
mirada, que todo este asunto ha salido mal. La aventura sionista ha
terminado en un fracaso".
Esta muy bien que Shamas haya salido a decir eso. Porque un artículo
como ese, de la pluma de un intelectual árabe reconocido, ofrece una
oportunidad de plantear algunas verdades que uno dudaría de decir sin
tener un buen pretexto.
Shamas, amigo mío: El sionismo constituye el máximo éxito del siglo XX.
Cincuenta años después de la derrota de Hitler y del mufti de Jerusalem,
el sionismo florece en el corazón del Cercano Oriente, en un estado con
5 millones de judíos -judíos cuya supervivencia estuvo en duda por
momentos.
La lengua hebrea (una de las maravillas del sionismo) ha unido a sabras
y refugiados, sefaradim y judíos orientales.
En medio siglo, los sionistas, partiendo casi de la nada, hemos forjado
un estado que lanza sus propios satélites y suministra a la armada de
los Estados Unidos aviones sin piloto.
Exportamos programas de computación sofisticados y enseñamos a algunos
latinoamericanos a cultivar melones.
Cada mes, este estado exporta productos por valor de un billón de
dólares o más, a Europa occidental, a los Estados Unidos e incluso a
Japón; tiene una democracia ejemplar, en la cual los ministros temen al
ombudsman y los jueces temen solo a Dios.
Este estado ha creado un ejército considerado uno de los mejores del
mundo, hay muy poca delincuencia violenta, y en cambio hay muchos
excelentes conciertos.
Las personas de todas las religiones encuentran libertad de culto y los
no creyentes también son bienvenidos.
Un diez por ciento de los ciudadanos de este país son nuevos inmigrantes
y el 89% piensa que, a pesar de todas las dificultades, es un buen lugar
para vivir.
Es un país en el cual un Anton Shamas tiene la libertad de publicar, en
un día festivo, un ataque virulento contra todo aquello que los judíos
que vivimos en este país consideramos importante y respetable. Shamas
podría tal vez ser capaz de disculparnos por esto. Pero lo que no puede
tolerar es el hecho que, a la luz de los logros del sionismo, el fracaso
de los árabes aparece tan humillante y deprimente.
Cuántos palestinos hay, amigo mío? Un millón?, dos?, tres?. ¿Y cuantos
estados árabes hay alrededor? ¿veinte?. Veinte países de reyes y
dictadores, de terror y derramamiento de sangre.
No existe un solo país árabe democrático, uno con libertad de expresión
y derechos civiles.
Usted habla acerca del fracaso del Estado de Israel. Comparado con que?
Argelia? Egipto? Iraq?
Cuántos árabes viven entre el Océano Atlántico y el Golfo Pérsico?
Cien millones? doscientos millones? Y cuantos musulmanes hay? un billón ?
Todos ellos le rezan al mismo Alá, en nombre del mismo profeta, Mahoma.
Y todos ellos no pueden resolver el problema de las cloacas de Gaza.
Durante 47 años se han estado preparando para la independencia palestina
y a pesar de ello, aún no recogen la basura en Jericó.
Con todo el petróleo de que disponen, no logran reunir la colaboración
necesaria para construir un hospital en Deir-el-Balah.
Y todas las canillas de oro en Arabia Saudita y los jacuzzi en Kuwait no
son suficientes para proveer agua potable para Jebelya.
En resumen, amigo mío, usted sabe muy bien que si casi un millón de
judíos viviera en Gaza, rodeado de 20 estados judíos, Gaza judía sería
un paraíso en la tierra.
Los trabajadores palestinos estarían haciendo cola en el paso de Erez,
mirando hacia Gaza, en busca de trabajo.
Si hubiera un billón de judíos creyentes en el mundo, los judíos de Gaza
no necesitarían la ayuda de las Naciones Unidas.
Los judíos del mundo habrían colaborado con los judios de Gaza y ya
haría tiempo que Gaza se habría convertido en la perla del Mediterráneo.
Iosef Lapid
The Project Gutenberg Etext of A Hero of Our Time, by Lermontov
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A HERO OF OUR TIME
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN OF M. Y. LERMONTOV
By J. H. WISDOM & MARR MURRAY
FOREWORD
THIS novel, known as one of the masterpieces of
Russian Literature, under the title "A Hero
of our Time," and already translated into at least
nine European languages, is now for the first time
placed before the general English Reader.
The work is of exceptional interest to the
student of English Literature, written as it was
under the profound influence of Byron and being
itself a study of the Byronic type of character.
The Translators have taken especial care to
preserve both the atmosphere of the story and the
poetic beauty with which the Poet-novelist imbued
his pages.
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
BOOK I. BELA
BOOK II. MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH
FOREWORD TO EXTRACTS FROM PECHORIN'S DIARY
BOOK III. TAMAN
BOOK IV. THE FATALIST
BOOK V. PRINCESS MARY
APPENDIX. THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
BOOK I BELA
THE HEART OF A RUSSIAN
CHAPTER I
I was travelling post from Tiflis.
All the luggage I had in my cart consisted of
one small portmanteau half filled with travelling-
notes on Georgia; of these the greater part has
been lost, fortunately for you; but the port-
manteau itself and the rest of its contents have
remained intact, fortunately for me.
As I entered the Koishaur Valley the sun was
disappearing behind the snow-clad ridge of the
mountains. In order to accomplish the ascent
of Mount Koishaur by nightfall, my driver, an
Ossete, urged on the horses indefatigably, singing
zealously the while at the top of his voice.
What a glorious place that valley is! On every
hand are inaccessible mountains, steep, yellow
slopes scored by water-channels, and reddish
rocks draped with green ivy and crowned with
clusters of plane-trees. Yonder, at an immense
height, is the golden fringe of the snow. Down
below rolls the River Aragva, which, after bursting
noisily forth from the dark and misty depths of
the gorge, with an unnamed stream clasped in its
embrace, stretches out like a thread of silver, its
waters glistening like a snake with flashing
scales.
Arrived at the foot of Mount Koishaur, we
stopped at a dukhan.[1] About a score of Georgians
and mountaineers were gathered there in a noisy
crowd, and, close by, a caravan of camels had
halted for the night. I was obliged to hire oxen
to drag my cart up that accursed mountain, as
it was now autumn and the roads were slippery
with ice. Besides, the mountain is about two
versts[2] in length.
[1] A retail shop and tavern combined.
[2] A verst is a measure of length, about 3500 English feet.
There was no help for it, so I hired six oxen and
a few Ossetes. One of the latter shouldered my
portmanteau, and the rest, shouting almost with
one voice, proceeded to help the oxen.
Following mine there came another cart, which
I was surprised to see four oxen pulling with the
greatest ease, notwithstanding that it was loaded
to the top. Behind it walked the owner, smoking
a little, silver-mounted Kabardian pipe. He was
wearing a shaggy Circassian cap and an officer's
overcoat without epaulettes, and he seemed to
be about fifty years of age. The swarthiness of
his complexion showed that his face had long
been acquainted with Transcaucasian suns, and
the premature greyness of his moustache was
out of keeping with his firm gait and robust
appearance. I went up to him and saluted. He
silently returned my greeting and emitted an
immense cloud of smoke.
"We are fellow-travellers, it appears."
Again he bowed silently.
"I suppose you are going to Stavropol?"
"Yes, sir, exactly -- with Government things."
"Can you tell me how it is that that heavily-
laden cart of yours is being drawn without any
difficulty by four oxen, whilst six cattle are
scarcely able to move mine, empty though it is,
and with all those Ossetes helping?"
He smiled slyly and threw me a meaning
glance.
"You have not been in the Caucasus long, I
should say?"
"About a year," I answered.
He smiled a second time.
"Well?"
"Just so, sir," he answered. "They're terrible
beasts, these Asiatics! You think that all that
shouting means that they are helping the oxen?
Why, the devil alone can make out what it is
they do shout. The oxen understand, though;
and if you were to yoke as many as twenty they
still wouldn't budge so long as the Ossetes
shouted in that way of theirs. . . . Awful
scoundrels! But what can you make of them?
They love extorting money from people who
happen to be travelling through here. The
rogues have been spoiled! You wait and see:
they will get a tip out of you as well as their hire.
I know them of 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 perceived on one side a
faint glimmer of light, and by its aid I was able
to find another opening by way of a door. And
here a by no means uninteresting picture was
revealed. The wide hut, the roof of which
rested on two smoke-grimed pillars, was full of
people. In the centre of the floor a small fire was
crackling, and the smoke, driven back by the wind
from an opening in the roof, was spreading
around in so thick a shroud that for a long time I
was unable to see about me. Seated by the fire
were two old women, a number of children and a
lank Georgian -- all of them in tatters. There
was no help for it! We took refuge by the fire
and lighted our pipes; and soon the teapot was
singing invitingly.
"Wretched people, these!" I said to the
staff-captain, indicating our dirty hosts, who were
silently gazing at us in a kind of torpor.
"And an utterly stupid people too!" he
replied. "Would you believe it, they are
absolutely ignorant and incapable of the slightest
civilisation! Why even our Kabardians or
Chechenes, robbers and ragamuffins though they
be, are regular dare-devils for all that. Whereas
these others have no liking for arms, and you'll
never see a decent dagger on one of them!
Ossetes all over!"
"You have been a long time in the Chechenes'
country?"
"Yes, I was quartered there for about ten
years along with my company in a fortress,
near Kamennyi Brod.[1] Do you know the
place?"
[1] Rocky Ford.
"I have heard the name."
"I can tell you, my boy, we had quite enough
of those dare-devil Chechenes. At the present
time, thank goodness, things are quieter; but in
the old days you had only to put a hundred
paces between you and the rampart and wherever
you went you would be sure to find a shaggy devil
lurking in wait for you. You had just to let your
thoughts wander and at any moment a lasso
would be round your neck or a bullet in the back
of your head! Brave fellows, though!" . . .
"You used to have many an adventure, I
dare say?" I said, spurred by curiosity.
"Of course! Many a one." . . .
Hereupon he began to tug at his left moustache,
let his head sink on to his breast, and became lost
in thought. I had a very great mind to extract
some little anecdote out of him -- a desire natural
to all who travel and make notes.
Meanwhile, tea was ready. I took two travel-
ling-tumblers out of my portmanteau, and,
filling one of them, set it before the staff-captain.
He sipped his tea and said, as if speaking to
himself, "Yes, many a one!" This exclamation
gave me great hopes. Your old Caucasian officer
loves, I know, to talk and yarn a bit; he so
rarely succeeds in getting a chance to do so. It
may be his fate to be quartered five years or so
with his company in some out-of-the-way place,
and during the whole of that time he will not
hear "good morning" from a soul (because the
sergeant says "good health"). And, indeed, he
would have good cause to wax loquacious --
with a wild and interesting people all around
him, danger to be faced every day, and many a
marvellous incident happening. It is in circum-
stances like this that we involuntarily complain
that so few of our countrymen take notes.
"Would you care to put some rum in your
tea?" I said to my companion. "I have some
white rum with me -- from Tiflis; and the
weather is cold now."
"No, thank you, sir; I don't drink."
"Really?"
"Just so. I have sworn off drinking. Once,
you know, when I was a sub-lieutenant, some of
us had a drop too much. That very night there
was an alarm, and out we went to the front,
half seas over! We did catch it, I can tell you,
when Aleksei Petrovich came to hear about us!
Heaven save us, what a rage he was in! He was
within an ace of having us court-martialled.
That's just how things happen! You might
easily spend a whole year without seeing a soul;
but just go and have a drop and you're a lost
man!"
On hearing this I almost lost hope.
"Take the Circassians, now," he continued;
"once let them drink their fill of buza[1] at a
wedding or a funeral, and out will come their
knives. On one occasion I had some difficulty in
getting away with a whole skin, and yet it was at
the house of a 'friendly'[2] prince, where I was
a guest, that the affair happened."
[1] A kind of beer made from millet.
[2] i.e. acknowledging Russian supremacy.
"How was that?" I asked.
"Here, I'll tell you." . . .
He filled his pipe, drew in the smoke, and began
his story.
CHAPTER II
"YOU see, sir," said the staff-captain, "I
was quartered, at the time, with a com-
pany in a fortress beyond the Terek -- getting on
for five years ago now. One autumn day, a
transport arrived with provisions, in charge of
an officer, a young man of about twenty-five.
He reported himself to me in full uniform, and
announced that he had been ordered to remain
in the fortress with me. He was so very elegant,
his complexion so nice and white, his uniform so
brand new, that I immediately guessed that he
had not been long with our army in the Caucasus.
"'I suppose you have been transferred from
Russia?' I asked.
"'Exactly, captain,' he answered.
"I took him by the hand and said:
"'I'm delighted to see you -- delighted! It
will be a bit dull for you . . . but there, we will
live together like a couple of friends. But, please,
call me simply "Maksim Maksimych"; and, tell
me, what is this full uniform for? Just wear your
forage-cap whenever you come to me!'
"Quarters were assigned to him and he settled
down in the fortress."
"What was his name?" I asked Maksim
Maksimych.
"His name was Grigori Aleksandrovich Pe-
chorin. He was a splendid fellow, I can assure
you, but a little peculiar. Why, to give you an
instance, one time he would stay out hunting
the whole day, in the rain and cold; the others
would all be frozen through and tired out, but he
wouldn't mind either cold or fatigue. Then,
another time, he would be sitting in his own
room, and, if there was a breath of wind, he would
declare that he had caught cold; if the shutters
rattled against the window he would start and
turn pale: yet I myself have seen him attack a
boar single-handed. Often enough you couldn't
drag a word out of him for hours together; but
then, on the other hand, sometimes, when he
started telling stories, you would split your sides
with laughing. Yes, sir, a very eccentric man;
and he must have been wealthy too. What a
lot of expensive trinkets he had!" . . .
"Did he stay there long with you?" I went
on to ask.
"Yes, about a year. And, for that very reason,
it was a memorable year to me. He gave me a
great deal of trouble -- but there, let bygones be
bygones! . . . You see, it is true enough, there
are people like that, fated from birth to have all
sorts of strange things happening to them!"
"Strange?" I exclaimed, with an air of
curiosity, as I poured out some tea.
CHAPTER III
"WELL, then, I'll tell you," said Maksim
Maksimych. "About six versts from the
fortress there lived a certain 'friendly' prince.
His son, a brat of about fifteen, was accustomed
to ride over to visit us. Not a day passed but
he would come, now for one thing, now for
another. And, indeed, Grigori Aleksandrovich
and I spoiled him. What a dare-devil the boy
was! Up to anything, picking up a cap at full
gallop, or bringing things down with his gun!
He had one bad quality; he was terribly greedy
for money. Once, for the fun of the thing,
Grigori Aleksandrovich promised to give him a
ducat if he would steal the best he-goat from his
father's herd for him; and, what do you think?
The very next night he came lugging it in by the
horns! At times we used to take it into our heads
to tease him, and then his eyes would become
bloodshot and his hand would fly to his dagger
immediately.
"'You'll be losing your life if you are not
careful, Azamat,' I would say to him. 'That hot
head of yours will get you into trouble.'
"On one occasion, the old prince himself
came to invite us to the wedding of his eldest
daughter; and, as we were guest-friends with
him, it was impossible to decline, Tartar though
he was. We set off. In the village we were met
by a number of dogs, all barking loudly. The
women, when they saw us coming, hid them-
selves, but those whose faces we were able to
get a view of were far from being beauties.
"'I had a much better opinion of the Cir-
cassian women,' remarked Grigori Aleksandrovich.
"'Wait a bit!' I answered, with a smile; I
had my own views on the subject.
"A number of people had already gathered at
the prince's hut. It is the custom of the Asiatics,
you know, to invite all and sundry to a wedding.
We were received with every mark of honour
and conducted to the guest-chamber. All the
same, I did not forget quietly to mark where
our horses were put, in case anything unforeseen
should happen."
"How are weddings celebrated amongst
them?" I asked the staff-captain.
"Oh, in the usual way. First of all, the
Mullah reads them something out of the Koran;
then gifts are bestowed upon the young couple
and all their relations; the next thing is eating
and drinking of buza, then the dance on horse-
back; and there is always some ragamuffin,
bedaubed with grease, bestriding a wretched,
lame jade, and grimacing, buffooning, and making
the worshipful company laugh. Finally, when
darkness falls, they proceed to hold what we
should call a ball in the guest-chamber. A poor,
old greybeard strums on a three-stringed in-
strument -- I forget what they call it, but
anyhow, it is something in the nature of our
balalaika.[1] The girls and young children set
themselves in two ranks, one opposite the other,
and clap their hands and sing. Then a girl and
a man come out into the centre and begin to
chant verses to each other -- whatever comes into
their heads -- and the rest join in as a chorus.
Pechorin and I sat in the place of honour. All
at once up came our host's youngest daughter,
a girl of about sixteen, and chanted to Pechorin
-- how shall I put it? -- something in the nature
of a compliment." . . .
[1] A kind of two-stringed or three-stringed guitar.
"What was it she sang -- do you remember?"
"It went like this, I fancy: 'Handsome, they
say, are our young horsemen, and the tunics they
wear are garnished with silver; but handsomer still
is the young Russian officer, and the lace on his
tunic is wrought of gold. Like a poplar amongst
them he stands, but in gardens of ours such trees
will grow not nor bloom!'
"Pechorin rose, bowed to her, put his hand
to his forehead and heart, and asked me to
answer her. I know their language well, and I
translated his reply.
"When she had left us I whispered to Grigori
Aleksandrovich:
"'Well, now, what do you think of her?'
"'Charming!' he replied. 'What is her
name?'
"'Her name is Bela,' I answered.
"And a beautiful girl she was indeed; her
figure was tall and slender, her eyes black as those
of a mountain chamois, and they fairly looked
into your soul. Pechorin, deep in thought, kept
his gaze fixed upon her, and she, for her part, stole
glances at him often enough from under her
lashes. Pechorin, however, was not the only
one who was admiring the pretty princess;
another pair of eyes, fixed and fiery, were gazing
at her from the corner of the room. I took
a good look at their owner, and recognised my
old acquaintance Kazbich, who, you must know,
was neither exactly 'friendly' nor yet the other
thing. He was an object of much suspicion,
although he had never actually been caught at
any knavery. He used to bring rams to our
fortress and sell them cheaply; only he never
would haggle; whatever he demanded at first
you had to give. He would have his throat cut
rather than come down in price. He had the
reputation of being fond of roaming on the far
side of the Kuban with the Abreks; and, to tell
the truth, he had a regular thief's visage. A
little, wizened, broad-shouldered fellow he was --
but smart, I can tell you, smart as the very
devil! His tunic was always worn out and
patched, but his weapons were mounted in silver.
His horse was renowned throughout Kabardia --
and, indeed, a better one it would be impossible
to imagine! Not without good reason did all
the other horsemen envy Kazbich, and on more
than one occasion they had attempted to steal
the horse, but they had never succeeded. I
seem to see the animal before me now -- black as
coal, with legs like bow-strings and eyes as fine
as Bela's! How strong he was too! He would
gallop as much as fifty versts at a stretch! And
he was well trained besides -- he would trot
behind his master like a dog, and actually knew
his voice! Kazbich never used to tether him
either -- just the very horse for a robber! . . .
"On that evening Kazbich was more sullen
than ever, and I noticed that he was wearing a
coat of mail under his tunic. 'He hasn't got
that coat of mail on for nothing,' I thought.
'He has some plot in his head, I'll be bound!'
"It grew oppressively hot in the hut, and I
went out into the air to cool myself. Night had
fallen upon the mountains, and a mist was
beginning to creep along the gorges.
"It occurred to me to pop in under the shed
where our horses were standing, to see whether
they had their fodder; and, besides, it is never
any harm to take precautions. My horse was
a splendid one too, and more than one Kabardian
had already cast fond glances at it, repeating at
the same time: 'Yakshi tkhe chok yakshi.'[1]
[1] "Good -- very good."
"I stole along the fence. Suddenly I heard
voices, one of which I immediately recognised.
It was that of the young pickle, Azamat, our
host's son. The other person spoke less and in a
quieter tone.
"'What are they discussing there?' I won-
dered. 'Surely it can't be my horse!' I
squatted down beside the fence and proceeded
to play the eavesdropper, trying not to let slip a
single word. At times the noise of songs and the
buzz of voices, escaping from the hut, drowned
the conversation which I was finding interesting.
"'That's a splendid horse of yours,' Azamat
was saying. 'If I were master of a house of my
own and had a stud of three hundred mares, I
would give half of it for your galloper,
Kazbich!'
"'Aha! Kazbich!' I said to myself, and I
called to mind the coat of mail.
"'Yes,' replied Kazbich, after an interval of
silence. 'There is not such another to be found
in all Kabardia. Once -- it was on the other side
of the Terek -- I had ridden with the Abreks to
seize the Russian herds. We had no luck, so we
scattered in different directions. Four Cossacks
dashed after me. I could actually hear the cries
of the giaours behind me, and in front of me
there was a dense forest. I crouched down in the
saddle, committed myself to Allah, and, for
the first time in my life, insulted my horse with
a blow of the whip. Like a bird, he plunged
among the branches; the sharp thorns tore my
clothing, the dead boughs of the cork-elms struck
against my face! My horse leaped over tree-
trunks and burst his way through bushes with his
chest! It would have been better for me to
have abandoned him at the outskirts of the
forest and concealed myself in it afoot, but it
was a pity to part with him -- and the Prophet
rewarded me. A few bullets whistled over my
head. I could now hear the Cossacks, who had
dismounted, running upon my tracks. Suddenly
a deep gully opened before me. My galloper
took thought -- and leaped. His hind hoofs
slipped back off the opposite bank, and he re-
mained hanging by his fore-feet. I dropped
the bridle and threw myself into the hollow,
thereby saving my horse, which jumped out.
The Cossacks saw the whole scene, only not one
of them got down to search for me, thinking
probably that I had mortally injured myself;
and I heard them rushing to catch my horse. My
heart bled within me. I crept along the hollow
through the thick grass -- then I looked around:
it was the end of the forest. A few Cossacks were
riding out from it on to the clearing, and there
was my Karagyoz[1] galloping straight towards
them. With a shout they all dashed forward.
For a long, long time they pursued him, and one
of them, in particular, was once or twice almost
successful in throwing a lasso over his neck.
[1] Turkish for "Black-eye."
I trembled, dropped my eyes, and began to pray.
After a few moments I looked up again, and there
was my Karagyoz flying along, his tail waving --
free as the wind; and the giaours, on their jaded
horses, were trailing along far behind, one after
another, across the steppe. Wallah! It is true --
really true! Till late at night I lay in the hollow.
Suddenly -- what do you think, Azamat? I heard
in the darkness a horse trotting along the bank
of the hollow, snorting, neighing, and beating
the ground with his hoofs. I recognised my
Karagyoz's voice; 'twas he, my comrade!" . . .
Since that time we have never been parted!'
"And I could hear him patting his galloper's
sleek neck with his hand, as he called him various
fond names.
"'If I had a stud of a thousand mares,' said
Azamat, 'I would give it all for your Karagyoz!'
"'Yok![1] I would not take it!' said Kazbich
indifferently.
[1] "No!"
"'Listen, Kazbich,' said Azamat, trying to
ingratiate himself with him. 'You are a kind-
hearted man, you are a brave horseman, but my
father is afraid of the Russians and will not
allow me to go on the mountains. Give me
your horse, and I will do anything you wish. I
will steal my father's best rifle for you, or his
sabre -- just as you like -- and his sabre is a genuine
Gurda;[1] you have only to lay the edge against
your hand, and it will cut you; a coat of mail
like yours is nothing against it.'
[1] A particular kind of ancient and valued sabre.
"Kazbich remained silent.
"'The first time I saw your horse,' continued
Azamat, 'when he was wheeling and leaping
under you, his nostrils distended, and the flints
flying in showers from under his hoofs, something
I could not understand took place within my
soul; and since that time I have been weary of
everything. I have looked with disdain on my
father's best gallopers; I have been ashamed
to be seen on them, and yearning has taken pos-
session of me. In my anguish I have spent whole
days on the cliffs, and, every minute, my thoughts
have kept turning to your black galloper with his
graceful gait and his sleek back, straight as an
arrow. With his keen, bright eyes he has looked
into mine as if about to speak! . . . I shall die,
Kazbich, if you will not sell him to me!' said
Azamat, with trembling voice.
"I could hear him burst out weeping, and I
must tell you that Azamat was a very stubborn
lad, and that not for anything could tears be
wrung from him, even when he was a little
younger.
"In answer to his tears, I could hear some-
thing like a laugh.
"'Listen,' said Azamat in a firm voice.
'You see, I am making up my mind for anything.
If you like, I will steal my sister for you! How
she dances! How she sings! And the way she
embroiders with gold -- marvellous! Not even a
Turkish Padishah[1] has had a wife like her! . . .
Shall I? Wait for me to-morrow night, yonder,
in the gorge where the torrent flows; I will go
by with her to the neighbouring village -- and she
is yours. Surely Bela is worth your galloper!'
[1] King -- a title of the Sultan of Turkey.
"Kazbich remained silent for a long, long
time. At length, instead of answering, he struck
up in an undertone the ancient song:
"Many a beauty among us dwells
From whose eyes' dark depths the starlight wells,
'Tis an envied lot and sweet, to hold
Their love; but brighter is freedom bold.
Four wives are yours if you pay the gold;
But a mettlesome steed is of price untold;
The whirlwind itself on the steppe is less fleet;
He knows no treachery -- no deceit."[2]
[2] I beg my readers' pardon for having versified Kazbich's
song, which, of course, as I heard it, was in prose; but habit is
second nature. (Author's note.)
"In vain Azamat entreated him to consent.
He wept, coaxed, and swore to him. Finally,
Kazbich interrupted him impatiently:
"'Begone, you crazy brat! How should
you think to ride on my horse? In three steps
you would be thrown and your neck broken on
the stones!'
"'I?' cried Azamat in a fury, and the blade
of the child's dagger rang against the coat of
mail. A powerful arm thrust him away, and he
struck the wattle fence with such violence that
it rocked.
"'Now we'll see some fun!' I thought to
myself.
"I rushed into the stable, bridled our horses
and led them out into the back courtyard. In
a couple of minutes there was a terrible uproar
in the hut. What had happened was this:
Azamat had rushed in, with his tunic torn,
saying that Kazbich was going to murder him. All
sprang out, seized their guns, and the fun began!
Noise -- shouts -- shots! But by this time Kazbich
was in the saddle, and, wheeling among the crowd
along the street, defended himself like a madman,
brandishing his sabre.
"'It is a bad thing to interfere in other
people's quarrels,' I said to Grigori Aleksandro-
vich, taking him by the arm. 'Wouldn't it be
better for us to clear off without loss of time?'
"'Wait, though, and see how it will end!'
"'Oh, as to that, it will be sure enough to
end badly; it is always so with these Asiatics.
Once let them get drunk on buza, and there's
certain to be bloodshed.'
"We mounted and galloped home."
CHAPTER IV
"TELL me, what became of Kazbich?"
I asked the staff-captain impatiently.
"Why, what can happen to that sort of a
fellow?" he answered, finishing his tumbler of
tea. "He slipped away, of course."
"And wasn't he wounded?" I asked.
"Goodness only knows! Those scoundrels take
a lot of killing! In action, for instance, I've seen
many a one, sir, stuck all over with bayonets like
a sieve, and still brandishing his sabre."
After an interval of silence the staff-captain
continued, tapping the ground with his foot:
"One thing I'll never forgive myself for.
On our arrival at the fortress the devil put it into
my head to repeat to Grigori Aleksandrovich all
that I had heard when I was eavesdropping
behind the fence. He laughed -- cunning fellow!
-- and thought out a little plan of his own."
"What was that? Tell me, please."
"Well, there's no help for it now, I suppose.
I've begun the story, and so I must continue.
"In about four days' time Azamat rode over
to the fortress. As his usual custom was, he went
to see Grigori Aleksandrovich, who always used
to give him sweetmeats to eat. I was present.
The conversation was on the subject of horses,
and Pechorin began to sound the praises of
Kazbich's Karagyoz. What a mettlesome horse
it was, and how handsome! A perfect chamois!
In fact, judging by his account, there simply
wasn't another like it in the whole world!
"The young Tartar's beady eyes began to
sparkle, but Pechorin didn't seem to notice the
fact. I started to talk about something else,
but immediately, mark you, Pechorin caused the
conversation to strike off on to Kazbich's horse.
Every time that Azamat came it was the same
story. After about three weeks, I began to
observe that Azamat was growing pale and
wasted, just as people in novels do from love,
sir. What wonder either! . . .
"Well, you see, it was not until afterwards
that I learned the whole trick -- Grigori Aleksan-
drovich exasperated Azamat to such an extent
with his teasing that the boy was ready even to
drown himself. One day Pechorin suddenly
broke out with:
"'I see, Azamat, that you have taken a
desperate fancy to that horse of Kazbich's, but
you'll no more see him than you will the back
of your neck! Come, tell me, what would you
give if somebody made you a present of him?'
"'Anything he wanted,' answered Azamat.
"'In that case I will get the horse for you,
only on one condition . . . Swear that you will
fulfil it?'
"'I swear. You swear too!'
"'Very well! I swear that the horse shall
be yours. But, in return, you must deliver your
sister Bela into my hands. Karagyoz shall be her
bridegroom's gift. I hope the transaction will
be a profitable one for you.'
"Azamat remained silent.
"'Won't you? Well, just as you like! I
thought you were a man, but it seems you are
still a child; it is early for you to be riding on
horseback!'
"Azamat fired up.
"'But my father --' he said.
"'Does he never go away, then?'
"'True.'
"'You agree?'
"'I agree,' whispered Azamat, pale as death.
'But when?'
"'The first time Kazbich rides over here.
He has promised to drive in half a score of rams;
the rest is my affair. Look out, then, Azamat!'
"And so they settled the business -- a bad
business, to tell the truth! I said as much to
Pechorin afterwards, but he only answered that
a wild Circassian girl ought to consider herself
fortunate in having such a charming husband as
himself -- because, according to their ideas, he
really was her husband -- and that Kazbich was a
scoundrel, and ought to be punished. Judge for
yourself, what could I say to that? . . . At the
time, however, I knew nothing of their con-
spiracy. Well, one day Kazbich rode up and
asked whether we needed any rams and honey;
and I ordered him to bring some the next
day.
"'Azamat!' said Grigori Aleksandrovich;
'to-morrow Karagyoz will be in my hands; if
Bela is not here to-night you will never see the
horse.' . .
"'Very well,' said Azamat, and galloped to
the village.
"In the evening Grigori Aleksandrovich armed
himself and rode out of the fortress. How they
settled the business I don't know, but at night
they both returned, and the sentry saw that
across Azamat's saddle a woman was lying, bound
hand and foot and with her head wrapped in a
veil."
"And the horse?" I asked the staff-captain.
"One minute! One minute! Early next
morning Kazbich rode over, driving in half a
score of rams for sale. Tethering his horse by
the fence, he came in to see me, and I regaled
him with tea, for, robber though he was, he was
none the less my guest-friend.
"We began to chat about one thing and
another. . . Suddenly I saw Kazbich start,
change countenance, and dart to the window;
but unfortunately the window looked on to the
back courtyard.
"'What is the matter with you?' I asked.
"'My horse! . . . My horse!' he cried, all
of a tremble.
"As a matter of fact I heard the clattering of
hoofs.
"'It is probably some Cossack who has
ridden up.'
"'No! Urus -- yaman, yaman!'[1] he roared,
and rushed headlong away like a wild panther.
In two bounds he was in the courtyard; at the
gate of the fortress the sentry barred the way
with his gun; Kazbich jumped over the gun
and dashed off at a run along the road. . .
Dust was whirling in the distance -- Azamat was
galloping away on the mettlesome Karagyoz.
Kazbich, as he ran, tore his gun out of its cover
and fired. For a moment he remained motion-
less, until he had assured himself that he had
missed. Then he uttered a shrill cry, knocked
the gun against a rock, smashed it to splinters,
fell to the ground, and burst out sobbing like
a child. . . The people from the fortress
gathered round him, but he took no notice of
anyone. They stood there talking awhile and
then went back. I ordered the money for the
rams to be placed beside him. He didn't touch
it, but lay with his face to the ground like a
dead man. Would you believe it? He re-
mained lying like that throughout the rest of
that day and the following night! It was only
on the next morning that he came to the fortress
and proceeded to ask that the name of the thief
should be told him. The sentry who had ob-
served Azamat untying the horse and galloping
away on him did not see any necessity for con-
cealment. At the name of Azamat, Kazbich's
eyes flashed, and he set off to the village where
Azamat's father lived."
[1] "No! Russian -- bad, bad!"
"And what about the father?"
"Ah, that was where the trick came in!
Kazbich could not find him; he had gone away
somewhere for five or six days; otherwise, how
could Azamat have succeeded in carrying off
Bela?
"And, when the father returned, there was
neither daughter nor son to be found. A wily
rogue, Azamat! He understood, you see, that
he would lose his life if he was caught. So, from
that time, he was never seen again; probably
he joined some gang of Abreks and laid down
his turbulent life on the other side of the
Terek or the Kuban. It would have served him
right!" . . .
CHAPTER V
"I CONFESS that, for my part, I had trouble
enough over the business. So soon as ever
I learned that the Circassian girl was with Grigori
Aleksandrovich, I put on my epaulettes and sword
and went to see him.
"He was lying on the bed in the outer room,
with one hand under his head and the other
holding a pipe which had gone out. The door
leading to the inner room was locked, and there
was no key in the lock. I observed all that in
a moment. . . I coughed and rapped my heels
against the threshold, but he pretended not to
hear.
"'Ensign!' I said, as sternly as I could. 'Do
you not see that I have come to you?'
"'Ah, good morning, Maksim Maksimych!
Won't you have a pipe?' he answered, without
rising.
"'Excuse me, I am not Maksim Maksimych.
I am the staff-captain.'
"'It's all the same! Won't you have some
tea? If you only knew how I am being tortured
with anxiety.'
"'I know all,' I answered, going up to the
bed.
"'So much the better,' he said. 'I am not
in a narrative mood.'
"'Ensign, you have committed an offence for
which I may have to answer as well as you.'
"'Oh, that'll do. What's the harm? You
know, we've gone halves in everything.'
"'What sort of a joke do you think you are
playing? Your sword, please!' . . .
"'Mitka, my sword!'
"'Mitka brought the sword. My duty dis-
charged, I sat down on the bed, facing Pechorin,
and said: 'Listen here, Grigori Aleksandrovich,
you must admit that this is a bad business.'
"'What is?'
"'Why, that you have carried off Bela. . .
Ah, it is that beast Azamat! . . . Come, con-
fess!' I said.
"'But, supposing I am fond of her?' . . .
"Well, what could I say to that? . . . I was
nonplussed. After a short interval of silence,
however, I told him that if Bela's father were
to claim her he would have to give her up.
"'Not at all!'
"'But he will get to know that she is
here.'
"'How?'
"Again I was nonplussed.
"'Listen, Maksim Maksimych,' said Pechorin,
rising to his feet. 'You're a kind-hearted man,
you know; but, if we give that savage back his
daughter, he will cut her throat or sell her. The
deed is done, and the only thing we can do now
is not to go out of our way to spoil matters.
Leave Bela with me and keep my sword!'
"'Show her to me, though,' I said.
"'She is behind that door. Only I wanted,
myself, to see her to-day and wasn't able to.
She sits in the corner, muffled in her veil, and
neither speaks nor looks up -- timid as a wild
chamois! I have hired the wife of our dukhan-
keeper: she knows the Tartar language, and will
look after Bela and accustom her to the idea
that she belongs to me -- for she shall belong to
no one else!' he added, banging his fist on the
table.
"I assented to that too. . . What could I
do? There are some people with whom you
absolutely have to agree."
"Well?" I asked Maksim Maksimych. "Did
he really succeed in making her grow accustomed
to him, or did she pine away in captivity from
home-sickness?"
"Good gracious! how could she pine away
from home-sickness? From the fortress she
could see the very same hills as she could from
the village -- and these savages require nothing
more. Besides, Grigori Aleksandrovich used to
give her a present of some kind every day. At
first she didn't utter a word, but haughtily
thrust away the gifts, which then fell to the lot
of the dukhan-keeper's wife and aroused her
eloquence. Ah, presents! What won't a woman
do for a coloured rag! . . . But that is by the
way. . . For a long time Grigori Aleksandro-
vich persevered with her, and meanwhile he
studied the Tartar language and she began to
understand ours. Little by little she grew
accustomed to looking at him, at first furtively,
askance; but she still pined and crooned her
songs in an undertone, so that even I would feel
heavy at heart when I heard her from the next
room. One scene I shall never forget: I was
walking past, and I looked in at the window;
Bela was sitting on the stove-couch, her head
sunk on her breast, and Grigori Aleksandrovich
was standing, facing her.
"'Listen, my Peri,' he was saying. 'Surely
you know that you will have to be mine sooner
or later -- why, then, do you but torture me?
Is it that you are in love with some Chechene?
If so, I will let you go home at once.'
"She gave a scarcely perceptible start and
shook her head.
"'Or is it,' he continued, 'that I am utterly
hateful to you?'
"She heaved a sigh.
"'Or that your faith prohibits you from
giving me a little of your love?'
"She turned pale and remained silent.
"'Believe me, Allah is one and the same for
all races; and, if he permits me to love you,
why, then, should he prohibit you from requiting
me by returning my love?'
"She gazed fixedly into his face, as though
struck by that new idea. Distrust and a desire to
be convinced were expressed in her eyes. What
eyes they were! They sparkled just like two
glowing coals.
"'Listen, my dear, good Bela!' continued
Pechorin. 'You see how I love you. I am ready
to give up everything to make you cheerful once
more. I want you to be happy, and, if you are
going to be sad again, I shall die. Tell me, you
will be more cheerful?'
"She fell into thought, her black eyes still
fixed upon him. Then she smiled graciously and
nodded her head in token of acquiescence.
"He took her by the hand and tried to induce
her to kiss him. She defended herself feebly, and
only repeated: 'Please! Please! You mustn't,
you mustn't!'
"He went on to insist; she began to tremble
and weep.
"'I am your captive,' she said, 'your slave;
of course, you can compel me.'
"And then, again -- tears.
"Grigori Aleksandrovich struck his forehead
with his fist and sprang into the other room. I
went in to see him, and found him walking
moodily backwards and forwards with folded
arms.
"'Well, old man?' I said to him.
"'She is a devil -- not a woman!' he answered.
'But I g
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El ojo de agamotto me confiere poderes supranaturales, no oseis interferir en mis actividades misticas. |
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