It was a strange gathering. In this magnificent mountain region, which ten or so years previously had still swarmed with savage Circassians, on the slope of a Caucasian height, was this cheerful European party, comfortably arranged in the thick grass around a huge shining samovar, with two sturdy Cossacks and the horses grazing in the background as a picturesque setting.
The tea gave an inner warmth, the sun glowed from above, several faces were beaded with drops of sweat, what did it matter! The Chinese nectar fulfilled its duty. Whenever I saw such a party of Russians around the samovar, and then noticed how their faces became radiant, their eyes gleamed with satisfaction, their lips became inclined for mirth and conversation, and even their gestures and movements acquired a greater vivacity, I always used to think that tea is to the Russians almost what water is to the fish, a vital element in which they must be continually splashing about, if they are not to lose their proper humor. From the samovar comes the breath of the Russian animation.
“What were you arguing about so excitedly just now?” asked Anna Kirilovna suddenly.
“About something which I expect is of little interest to you, darling.” said Tabunov with a smile. “About fame.”
“About fame? You are right. An argument about the preserving of fruit would certainly have interested me more.”
“But,—Anna Kirilovna!” twittered Duňaška. “Do you think so little of fame then? Ah, I should like to be famous. What a pity that I can’t become a General. . . How lovely that would be! You know, like in Lermontov’s poem:
The battalion comes,
See the banners in the van-guard,
Hear the beat of drums.
Tried in many frays,
Leads his soldiers into battle,
Sternness in his gaze.
At this she became silent, her face bashfully reddening, and in embarrassment she lowered her little auburn head....but she immediately raised it again, looked round merrily with gleaming eyes, her white teeth flashing with suppressed laughter; she rubbed her hands hastily and wriggled like a chicken among the ashes,—a charming combination of child-like shyness and playfulness.
“Well,” Suslikov chimed in, “we have all expressed our opinions about this subject, but Pavel Semenovič has contributed only a mysterious smile to our discussion. Let us hear your ideas as well, Pavel Semenovič.”
“Yes, yes, Pavel Semenovič,—you also must tell us what you think about fame,” exclaimed the rest.
Tabunov smiled and reflected for a moment. Something like a shadow flitted suddenly across his face, and with his former smile he remarked: “So you are asking me what fame is in my opinion? Very well then, I will tell you. But I warn you that it will take a very long time,—it is a regular history.”
“That doesn’t matter. Let us hear it. We have still plenty of time,” announced the voices of the inquisitive members of the party round about.
While at the touch of Anna Kirilovna’s plump hand the steaming liquid from the silvery falcon’s beak which formed the ornamental cap of the samovar filled his glass, Tabunov rolled a cigarette, whereupon, after taking a hearty gulp of tea and blowing a few whitish rings of fragrant smoke, he began thus: “Last year, one day in the spring, I was in the bazaar, when a Czech settler from Metodějovka came to me and asked me to ride over to see his son who was ill. I promised that I would look in there during the afternoon, and immediately after lunch I galloped on horseback to the Czech settlement near by.”
“Have you paid a visit yet to your fellow countrymen there?” asked the surgeon turning to me, and when I nodded my head in reply, he continued: “Well, you saw there a group of tiny huts standing between the foot of the mountains on one side and the fringe of the impenetrable, marshy forest on the other. As a matter of fact you can catch a glimpse of the village from where we are now.. Besides that one, there are a number of other Czech settlements in this district, Kyrilovka, Glebovka, Vladimirovka, Pavlovka and Varvarovka. Well, our Government wanted to form a settlement of Czechs all over the district which had been left bare after the migration of the Circassians. But somehow or other it was not successful. Why? I do not wish to express a definite opinion on the subject. What is certain is that the whole of this scheme for colonisation fell through. The emigrants cannot carry on agriculture here entire-
