XVIII
On the morning after the raid, not very early, Butler left the house by the back porch, meaning to take a stroll and a breath of fresh air before breakfast, which he usually had with Petróv. The sun had already risen above the hills, and it was painful to look at the brightly lit-up white walls of the houses on the right side of the street; but then, as always, it was cheerful and soothing to look to the left, at the dark receding and ascending forest-clad hills, and at the dim line of snow peaks which as usual pretended to be clouds. Butler looked at these mountains, inhaling deep breaths and rejoicing that he was alive, that it was just he that was alive, and that he lived in this beautiful place.
He was also rather pleased that he had behaved so well in yesterday’s affair, both during the advance and especially during the retreat, when things were pretty hot; and he was also pleased to remember how on their return after the raid Másha (or Márya Dmítrievna), Petróv’s mistress, had treated them at dinner, and had been particularly nice and simple with everybody, but specially kind—as he thought—to him.
Márya Dmítrievna, with her thick plait of hair, her broad shoulders, her high bosom, and the radiant smile on her kindly freckled face, involuntarily attracted Butler, who was a strong young bachelor; and it even seemed to him that she wanted him; but he considered that that would be doing wrong towards his good-natured simple-hearted comrade, and he maintained a simple, respectful attitude towards her, and was pleased with himself for doing so.
He was thinking of this when his meditations were disturbed by the tramp of many horses’ hoofs along the dusty road in front of him, as if several men were riding that way. He looked up, and saw at the end of the street a group of horsemen coming towards him at a walk. In front of a score of Cossacks rode two men: one in a white Circassian coat with a tall turban on his head; the other, an officer in the Russian service, dark, with an aquiline nose, and much silver on his uniform and weapons. The man with the turban rode a fine chestnut horse with mane and tail of a lighter shade, a small head, and beautiful eyes. The officer’s was a large, handsome Karabákh horse. Butler, a lover of horses, immediately recognized the great strength of the first horse, and stopped to learn who these people were.
The officer addressed him. “This the house of commanding officer?” he asked, his foreign accent and his words betraying his foreign origin.
Butler replied that it was. “And who is that?” he added, coming nearer to the officer and indicating the man with the turban.
“That, Hadji Murád. He come here to stay with the commander,” said the officer.
Butler knew about Hadji Murád, and about his having come over to the Russian; but he had not at all expected to see him here in this little fort. Hadji Murád gave him a friendly look.
“Good day, kotkildy,” said Butler, repeating the Tartar greeting he had learnt.
“Saubul!” (“Be well!”) replied Hadji Murád, nodding. He rode up to Butler and held out his hand, from two fingers of which hung his whip.
“Are you the chief?” he asked.
“No, the chief is in here. I will go and call him,” said Butler, addressing the officer; and he went up the steps and pushed the door. But the door of the visitors’ entrance—as Márya Dmítrievna called it—was locked; and as it still remained closed after he had knocked, Butler went round to the back door. He called his orderly, but received no reply; and finding neither of the two orderlies, he went into the kitchen, where Márya Dmítrievna—flushed, with a kerchief tied round her head, and her sleeves rolled up on her plump white arms—was rolling pastry, white as her hands, and cutting it into small pieces to make pies of.
“Where have the orderlies gone to?” asked Butler.
“Gone to drink,” replied Márya Dmítrievna. “What do you want?”
“To have the front door opened. You have a whole horde of mountaineers in front of your house. Hadji Murád has come!”
“Invent something else!” said Márya Dmítrievna, smiling.
“I am not joking, he is really waiting by the porch!”
“Is it really true?” said she.
“Why should I wish to deceive you? Go and see, he’s just at the porch!”
“Dear me, here’s a go!” said Márya Dmítrievna pulling down her sleeves, and putting up her hand to feel whether the hairpins in her thick plait were all in order. “Then I will go and wake Iván Matvéich.”
“No, I’ll go myself. And you, Bondarénko, go and open the door,” said he to Petróv’s orderly, who had just appeared.
“Well, so much the better!” said Márya Dmítrievna and returned to her work.
When he heard that Hadji Murád had come to his house, Iván Matvéich Petróv, the Major, who had already heard that Hadji Murád was in Grózny, was not at all surprised; and sitting up in bed he rolled a cigarette, lit it, and began to dress, loudly clearing his throat, and grumbling at the authorities who had sent “that devil” to him.
When he was ready, he told his orderly to bring him some medicine. The orderly knew that “medicine” meant vodka, and brought some.
“There is nothing so bad as mixing,” muttered the Major, when he had drunk
