A Hero of our time / Герой нашего времени. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Grigoriy Aleksandrovich and I really spoiled him. What a daredevil he was, good at everything: he could pick up a cap from the ground at full gallop, and he was a crack shot. But there was one bad thing about him: he had a terrible weakness for money. Once for a joke Pechorin promised him a gold coin if he stole the best goat from his father’s herd, and what do you think? The very next night he dragged the animal in by the horns. Sometimes, if we just tried teasing him, he would flare up and reach for his dagger.

�You’ll come to a bad end, Azamat,’ I would tell him.

�Yaman[1 - Bad!]. You won’t keep your skull on your shoulders!’

“Once the old prince himself came over to invite us to a wedding. He was giving away his elder daughter and since we were kunaks[2 - blood brothers] there was no way to say no, of course, Tatar or not. So we went. A pack of barking dogs met us in the village. On seeing us the women hid themselves – the faces we did catch a glimpse of were far from pretty.

�I had a much better opinion of Circassian women,’ Grigoriy Aleksandrovich said to me. �You wait a while,’ I replied, smiling. I had something up my sleeve.

“There was quite a crowd assembled in the prince’s house. It’s the custom among those Asiatics, you know, to invite to their weddings everyone they happen to meet. We were welcomed with all the honors due to us and shown to the best room. Before going in, though, I took care to remember where they put our horses – just in case, you know.

”

“How do they celebrate weddings?” I asked the captain.

“Oh, in the usual way. First the mullah reads them something from the Koran, then presents are given to the newlyweds and all their relatives. They eat, and drink booza, until finally the horsemanship display begins, and there is always some kind of filthy clown dressed in rags riding a mangy lame nag playing the fool to amuse the company.

Later, when it grows dark, what we would call a ball begins in the best room. Some miserable old man strums away on a three-stringed… can’t remember what they call it… something like our balalaika. The girls and young men line up in two rows facing each other, clap their hands and sing. Then one of the girls and a man step into the center and begin to chant verses to each other, improvising as they go, while the rest pick up the refrain.