chekai and his companion shepherds living in the koutan were clad in rags that were extremely dirty, their faces red, unshaven and wild, and their feet and legs bare, except of dirt. they were extremely apologetic. “you are clean,” said gudaev, “but god has given us to work in filth, as you see, but we are men and christian ossetines.” i put them at their ease with a smile and went to inspect the koutan. it was an extensive dwelling, for the most part dug out of the mountain side. the walls were made of boulders plastered wind-tight with stable filth, the roof of pine branches, peat and hay. there were no windows, and so the whole had no light beyond what came in at the door, or from the hole in the roof; but what light there was sufficed to show that the house was divided by fences into a number of compartments for the reception of horses, cows, sheep and goats.
one of these compartments, in the shelter of a ponderous rock, was the shepherds’ own room. three bits of fir trunk made the seats, and between these 200trunks and the walls were the beds of hay where they slept. under the rock the red-grey embers of last night’s fire still smouldered. i went in and sat down, being tired and cold after my wanderings in the wet snow on the pass. chekai and his companions milked the cows, brought in the horses and the sheep, separated and drove into separate pens the rams, the ewes and the lambs, so that the dark koutan became full of the cries of animals. i myself assisted in the separating of the sheep, for chekai, who had asked my name, kept calling out, “stepan, come here,” “stepan, go there,” and i was fain to obey.
achmet brought me the two quails he had killed, and showed me them with pride. he must have been a sure marksman with stones, and i thought with some ruefulness of my recent encounter when i had been somewhat in the position of the poor quails, but i said nothing. gudaev, having milked the cows, took up the business of hacking firewood out of a tough pine log. in his intervals of rest he brought armfuls of wet branches and put them on the fire. i was given a wooden basinful of fresh milk, which achmet had strained through hay before giving me. presently the animals were all housed and a bonfire made up on the rude hearth. clouds had crawled once again into the evening sky, there was a flash of lightning and a long roll of thunder; the dancing hailstones rushed down, and following them thick, soft, flaky snow. 201i was glad i had not tried to cross the pass that night.
a koutan
it was very dark, and the wet wood was filling the koutan with smoke, but chekai, who had cut up a great number of little sticks, made a brilliant illumination by setting fire to them. they had a contrivance of tin about three feet from the ground, and in this they burned the resinous pine splinters for hours. at length the brushwood burst into flame and dried and caught the thicker branches; in half an hour we had a roaring big fire. gudaev hung a large iron pot over it and boiled water; chekai settled down to pluck the quails; achmet prepared to make bread. when the water had boiled chekai informed me they would make copatchka. achmet took maize flour, salt and milk and boiling water, and kneaded a dough into flat cakes about the size of soup plates. gudaev stood them on end in front of the fire, and toasted them first one side and then the other. when they were done he buried them under the grey-red ashes and left them to cook. this done, he took from a wooden peg in the mud of the wall an iron violin with two strings, and commenced a tune of that sighing and moaning and shrieking style characteristic of caucasian music. chekai sang, and all the while plucked the little quails. when the birds had been quite disfeathered, singed and cleaned, the shepherd transfixed them together on a stake and toasted them at the fire. achmet filled up 202the pot over the fire with milk, flour and salt, thereby preparing soup.
i had fallen back asleep when suddenly chekai called out, “stepan, get up and eat!” this i was not loth to do, and in a minute behold me tasting for the first time hot copatchka and roast quail. it must be said the bird was tasty though it was small. the milk soup made my teeth dance, it was so hot. chekai began a conversation. “what are the english—christians or mahometans?” asked he. “is england far away? where does it lie?” i replied that it was four or five thousand versts to the north-west. chekai whistled. “beyond the mountains?” said he. “and have they such poor and dirty people there? look how poor i am, look how i’m dressed.”
“i expect you’re not so poor as you look,” said i. “the owners of the sheep must pay you well, but you leave the money in the village with your wife and family, or your mother.”
the shepherd frowned and then grinned. i had apparently hit on the truth.
the time came to make an end of the feast and lie down to sleep. they gave me the best place between a fir plank and a sheep fence close to the hot embers. i covered myself entirely up in my travelling-bed, and was secure in that both from vermin and from dirt. the three others disposed themselves in different parts of the 203smoky cavern and began to snore horribly. i slept heavily.
at dawn, through custom, i awoke. chekai was already stirring and had gathered fresh wood for the fire. he warned me it was necessary to hurry if he was to show me the track, for he had much work to do. i showed immediate alacrity. the weather seemed promising, and i was full of hope that i should reach the other side of the mountains in time for breakfast. we had a ten minutes’ parley over money. chekai wasn’t quite sure that he couldn’t hold me up to ransom à la hadgi stavros. but he was eventually content to receive half-a-crown, together with the present of a pretty water-jar i had bought a week before in georgia, and which he coveted. in exchange for the water-jar he presented me with his staff, which was stout and long and served me better in the long run than i could have guessed. i ought to have taken another meal of copatchka and milk before starting. a bottle of vodka in my pocket would not have been amiss. i did not dream that after two hours’ walking my heart would be beating so violently through exertion that i should fear to perish in the snow.
