Hadji Murád by Leo Tolstoy (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕
Description
In this short novel, Tolstoy fictionalizes the final days of Hadji Murád, a legendary Avar separatist who fought against, and later with, Russia, as the Russian Empire was struggling to annex Chechnya and the surrounding land in the late 1840s.
The novel opens with the narrator finding a thistle crushed in a blooming field, which reminds him of Hadji Murád and his tragic tale. As the narrator recounts the story, the reader is quickly thrust into the rich, colorful history of the Caucuses, and its people’s fight against Russian imperialism.
Hadji Murád is portrayed as a legendary and imposing, yet friendly and approachable figure. Despite his reputation, it seems that his best days are behind him; as the novel opens, Murád is fleeing Shamil, a powerful imam who has captured Murád’s family. Murád finds himself thrust between the invading Russians on one side, and Shamil’s vengeance on the other.
As Murád and his tiny but loyal group of warriors try to forge alliances in their attempt to rescue Murád’s family, they quickly find themselves politically outclassed. The Russians are Murád’s enemies, yet only they can help him in his struggle against Shamil; and after years of losses incurred by Murád’s guerrilla tactics, the Russians would like his help but cannot trust him. Shamil, on the other hand, is a deep link to the region’s complex web of tribal blood feuds, vengeances, reprisals, and quarrels over honor. He’s one of the few powers left standing between the Russians and their control of the Caucuses, but Murád, having crossed him, can’t rescue his family from Shamil’s clutches without the help of the Russians.
Murád’s impossible position, the contradiction between his legendary past and his limping, dignified, and ultimately powerless present, and the struggle against a mighty empire by a people torn by internecine conflict, form the major thematic threads of the novel.
The novel was one of the last that Tolstoy finished before his death, and was only published posthumously in 1912. Tolstoy himself served in the Crimean War, and the war scenes portrayed in the novel echo his personal experiences. As the story progresses, Tolstoy characterizes various real-life historical personalities besides Hadji Murád and Shamil, including Emperor Nicholas I, Mikhail Loris-Melikov, and Count Vorontsov-Dashkov, making this a fascinating piece of historical fiction. Despite this being such a late entry in Tolstoy’s corpus, it has been highly praised by critics both contemporary and modern, with the famous critic Harold Bloom going so far as to say that Hadji Murád is “my personal touchstone for the sublime of prose fiction, to me the best story in the world, or at least the best I have ever read.”
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- Author: Leo Tolstoy
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In it lived Prince Simon Mikhailovich Vorontsóv, Commander of the Kurín Regiment, an imperial aide-de-camp, and son of the Commander-in-Chief. Vorontsóv’s wife, Márya Vasílevna, a famous Petersburg beauty, and lived in this little Caucasian fort more luxuriously than anyone had ever lived there before. To Vorontsóv, and especially to his wife, it seemed that they were not only living a very modest life, but one full of privations; while to the inhabitants of the place their luxury was surprising and extraordinary.
Now at midnight, in the spacious drawing room with its carpeted floor, its rich curtains drawn across the windows, at a card table lit by four candles, sat the hosts and their visitors, playing cards. One of the players was Vorontsóv himself: a long-faced, fair-haired colonel, wearing the insignia and gold cords of an aide-de-camp. His partner—a graduate of Petersburg University, whom the Princess Vorontsóv had lately had sent to the Caucasus to be tutor to her little son (born of her first marriage)—was a shaggy young man of gloomy appearance. Against them played two officers: one a broad and red-faced man, Poltorátsky, a company commander who had exchanged out of the Guards; and the other, the regimental adjutant, a man with a cold expression on his handsome face, who sat very straight on his chair.
The Princess, Márya Vasílevna, a large-built, large-eyed, and black-browed beauty, sat beside Poltorátsky—her crinoline touching his legs—and looked over his cards. In her words, her looks, her smile, her perfume, and in every movement of her body, there was something that reduced Poltorátsky to obliviousness of everything except the consciousness of her nearness; and he made blunder after blunder, trying his partner’s temper more and more.
“No … that’s too bad! You’ve wasted an ace again,” said the regimental adjutant, flushing all over as Poltorátsky threw out an ace.
Poltorátsky uncomprehendingly—as though just awoke—turned his kindly, wide-set black eyes towards the dissatisfied adjutant.
“Do forgive him!” said Márya Vasílevna, smiling. “There, you see! Didn’t I tell you so?” she went on, turning to Poltorátsky.
“But that’s not at all what you said,” replied Poltorátsky, smiling.
“Wasn’t it?” she queried, also smiling; and this answering smile excited and delighted Poltorátsky to such a degree that he blushed crimson, and seeing the cards began to shuffle.
“It isn’t your turn to deal,” said the adjutant sternly, and with his white ringed hand he began to deal as though he wished to get rid of the cards as quickly as possible.
The Prince’s valet entered the drawing room and announced that the officer on duty wanted the Prince.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the Prince, speaking Russian with an English accent. “Will you take my place, Márya?”
“Do you all agree?” asked the Princess, rising quickly and lightly to her full height, rustling her silks, and smiling the radiant smile of a happy woman.
“I always agree to everything,” replied the adjutant, very pleased that the Princess—who could not play at all—was now going to play against him.
Poltorátsky only spread out his hands and smiled.
The rubber was nearly finished when the Prince returned to the drawing room, animated and obviously very pleased.
“Do you know what I propose?”
“What?”
“That we have some champagne.”
“I am always ready for that,” said Poltorátsky.
“Why not? We shall be delighted!” said the adjutant.
“Bring some, Vasíly!” said the Prince.
“What did they want you for?” asked Márya Vasílevna.
“It was the officer on duty and another man.”
“Who? What about?” asked Márya Vasílevna quickly.
“I mustn’t say,” said Vorontsóv, shrugging his shoulders.
“You mustn’t say!” repeated Márya Vasílevna. “We’ll see about that.”
When the champagne was brought, each of the visitors drank a glass; and, having finished the game and settled the scores, they began to take their leave.
“Is it your company that’s ordered to the forest tomorrow?” the Prince asked Poltorátsky as they said goodbye.
“Yes, mine … why?”
“Then we’ll meet tomorrow,” said the Prince, smiling slightly.
“Very pleased,” replied Poltorátsky, not quite understanding what Vorontsóv was saying to him, and preoccupied only by the thought that he would in a minute be pressing Márya Vasílevna’s hand.
Márya Vasílevna, according to her wont, not only pressed his hand firmly but shook it vigorously; and again reminding him of his mistake in playing diamonds, she gave him what he took to be a delightful, affectionate, and meaning smile.
Poltorátsky went home in an ecstatic condition only to be understood by people like himself who, having grown up and been educated in society, meet a woman belonging to their own circle after months of isolated military life, and, moreover, a woman like Princess Vorontsóv.
When he reached the little house in which he and his comrade lived he pushed the door, but it was locked. He knocked, but still the door was not opened. He felt vexed, and began kicking the door and banging it with his sword. Then he heard a sound of footsteps and Vovílo—a domestic serf of his—undid the cabin-hook which fastened the door.
“What do you mean by locking yourself in, blockhead?”
“But how is it possible, sir … ?”
“You’re tipsy again! I’ll show you ‘how it is possible!’ ” and Poltorátsky was about to strike Vovílo but changed his mind. “Oh, go to the devil! … Light a candle.”
“In a minute.”
Vovílo was really tipsy. He had been drinking at the name-day party of the ordnance sergeant, Iván Petróvich. On returning home he began comparing his life with that of the latter. Iván Petróvich had a salary, was married, and hoped in a year’s time to get his discharge.
Vovílo had been taken “up” when a boy—that is, he had been taken into his owner’s household service—and now although he was already over forty he was not married, but lived a campaigning life with his harum-scarum young master. He was a good master, who seldom struck him, but what kind of a life was it? “He promised to free me when we return from the Caucasus, but where am I to with my freedom? … It’s a dog’s life!” thought Vovílo, and he felt so sleepy that, afraid lest someone should come in and steal something, he fastened
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