Not far from the settlement of Kazbek we crossed the Frenzied Gorge, a ravine which turns into a raging torrent when there is heavy rain. At this time of year it was completely dry, and resounding only in name.
The village of Kazbek is at the foot of Mount Kazbek and belongs to Prince Kazbek. The Prince, a man of about forty-five, is taller than a fugleman35 of the Preobrazhensky Regiment. We found him in a dukhan (the name for taverns in Georgia, which are far poorer and no cleaner than Russian ones). In the doorway lay a pot-bellied wineskin (an oxhide), its four legs spread wide. The giant drew some chikhir36 from it and asked me a few questions, to which I replied with the respect due to one of his rank and height. We parted the best of friends.
Impressions soon become dulled. Scarcely one day had passed and no longer did the roar of the Terek and its unattractive waterfalls, those cliffs and precipices, attract my attention. My impatience to reach Tiflis took hold of me to the exclusion of all else. I rode past Kazbek as indifferently as I had once sailed past Chatyrdag.37 The truth was the rainy, misty weather prevented me from seeing its snowy mass which, as the poet puts it, ‘props up the horizon’.38
A Persian prince was expected. A short distance from Kazbek we met several carriages, which hampered our progress along the narrow road. While the carriages were passing each other, the convoy officer announced that he was escorting a Persian court poet and, in accordance with my wishes, introduced me to Fazil-Khan.39 With the help of an interpreter I embarked on a high-flown Oriental-style welcome; but how mortified I felt when Fazil-Khan replied to my inappropriate elaboration with the simple, intelligent politeness of a decent fellow! He hoped to see me in St Petersburg, he regretted that our acquaintance would be so short-lived and so on. To my shame I was compelled to abandon my mock-serious tone and descend to normal European phraseology. This was a lesson for Russian facetiousness. In future I shall not judge a man by his papakha* and his painted nails.
The post of Kobi lies at the very foot of the Krestov Mountain, which we now had to cross. Here we stopped for the night and began to wonder how we were to accomplish that fearful exploit: should we abandon our carriages and ride on Cossack horses, or should we send for Ossetian oxen? To be on the safe side I wrote an official request, on behalf of all our convoy, to Mr Chilyayev, who was in command in this region, and we went to bed, expecting carts to arrive.
Next day, around noon, we heard a loud noise and shouting, and witnessed an unusual spectacle: eighteen pairs of skinny, undersized oxen, urged on by a crowd of half-naked Ossetians, were hauling, with difficulty, the light Viennese carriage belonging to my friend O**. This spectacle at once dispelled all my doubts. I decided to send my heavy St Petersburg carriage back to Vladikavkaz and ride to Tiflis on horseback. Count Pushkin had no wish to follow my example. He preferred to harness a whole herd of oxen to his brichka, which was laden with all kinds of provisions, and to ride in triumph over the snowy ridge. We parted, and I set off with Colonel Ogaryov, who was inspecting the roads in the area.
Our road went over a landslide that had come down at the end of June 1827. Such incidents usually occur every seven years. The enormous mass of rock and earth that had crashed down had buried the pass for as much as half a mile and dammed the Terek. The sentries who were stationed lower down had heard a terrible rumbling and saw that the river was swiftly growing shallower, and within quarter of an hour it was completely drained and silent. It took the Terek two hours to burrow through the landslide. Then it indeed looked terrifying!
We climbed ever higher up the steep slope. Our horses sank into the loose snow, beneath which one could hear little streams. I looked in amazement at the road and could not understand how travelling along it on wheels was at all possible.
Just then I heard a hollow rumbling. ‘It’s an avalanche,’ Mr Ogaryov told me. I looked around and to one side I saw a pile of snow which was crumbling and slowly sliding down the steep slope. Small avalanches are not uncommon here. Last year a Russian carrier was driving along Krestov Mountain. An avalanche started; the dreadful mass piled into his wagon, swallowing up wagon, horse and man, rolled across the road and continued rolling down into the abyss with its booty. We reached the very summit of the mountain. Here stands a granite cross, an old monument, restored by Yermolov.
At this point travellers usually leave their carriages and proceed on foot. Recently a certain foreign consul was passing through: he was so faint-hearted that he ordered himself to be blindfolded; they then led him by the arm, and when the blindfold was removed he went down on his knees, thanked God, and so on, which absolutely amazed his guides.
The instant transition from awe-inspiring Caucasus to pretty Georgia is enchanting. The air of the South suddenly begins to waft over the traveller. From the heights of Mount Gut the Kayshur valley opens out with its inhabited rock faces, its orchards, its bright Aragva, winding like a silver ribbon – and all this visible on a reduced scale, at the bottom of a two-mile long abyss, along which runs a dangerous road.
We descended into the valley. A new moon appeared in the bright sky. The evening air was calm and warm. I spent the night on the banks of the Aragva, in Mr Chilyayev’s house. Next day I parted from my amiable host and went on further.
Here Georgia begins. Bright valleys, watered by the cheerful Aragva, replaced those gloomy defiles and the menacing Terek. Instead of bare cliffs I saw green hills all around and fruit trees. Watercourses revealed the presence of civilization. One of them struck me as the very perfection of an optical illusion: the water, so it appeared, was flowing uphill.
At Paysanur I stopped to change horses. Here I met a Russian officer who was accompanying the Persian prince.40 Soon I heard the tinkle of small bells and a whole line of katars (mules), tied one to the other and laden Asian style, stretched along the road. I proceeded on foot, without waiting for the horses; and about a quarter of a mile from Ananur, at a turn in the road, I met Khozrev-Mirza. His carriages had stopped. He looked out of his barouche and nodded to me. A few hours after our meeting the prince was attacked by tribesmen from the mountains. When he heard the whistle of bullets Khozrev leapt from his barouche, mounted his horse and galloped off. The Russians who had been accompanying him were amazed at his boldness. The fact was, the young Asian, unaccustomed to a carriage, viewed it more as a trap than a refuge.
I reached Ananur without any feeling of fatigue. My horses had not arrived. I was told that the town of Dushet was no more than six miles away and once again I set off on foot. But I did not know that the road was uphill. These six miles were equal to a good thirteen.
Evening set in. I moved on, climbing higher and higher. It was impossible to lose one’s way; but in places the clayey mud, formed by springs, reached up to my knees. I was completely exhausted. The darkness thickened. I heard the howling and barking of dogs and I was glad, imagining that the town could not be far away. But I was mistaken: the barking was of Georgian shepherds’ dogs, while the howling came from jackals, which are quite common in these parts. I cursed my impatience, but there was nothing I could do. Finally I saw lights and towards midnight found myself close to some houses with trees overhanging them. The first person I came across offered to lead me to the mayor, for which service he asked one abaz.41
My appearance at the house of the mayor – an old Georgian officer – produced a great deal of commotion. Firstly, I requested a room where I could undress; secondly, a glass of wine; thirdly, an abaz for my guide. The mayor just did not know how he should receive me and looked at me in bewilderment. When I saw that he was in no hurry to carry out my request, I started undressing in front of him, asking him to excuse de la liberté grande. Luckily I found in my pocket an order for fresh horses that proved I was a law-abiding traveller and no Rinaldo-Rinaldini.42 That blessed charter immediately had the desired effect: a room was provided, a glass of wine was brought and an abaz handed to my guide, together with a paternal reprimand for his cupidity that was an insult to Georgian hospitality. I threw myse
lf on the divan, hoping to sleep soundly after my heroic exploit. No hope of that! Fleas, which are far more dangerous than jackals, attacked me and did not give me a moment’s peace the whole night. In the morning my man came and announced that Count Pushkin had safely traversed the snowy mountains with his oxen and had arrived in Dushet. I had to hurry! Count Pushkin and Shernvall called on me and suggested we all set off together again. I left Dushet with the pleasant thought that I would be spending that night in Tiflis.
The road was just as pleasant and picturesque, although we rarely saw any signs of habitation. A few miles from Gartsiskal we crossed the River Kura by a wooden bridge, a monument to Roman campaigns, and at a round trot, sometimes even at a gallop, we rode on to Tiflis where we arrived inconspicuously at about eleven o’clock at night.
CHAPTER TWO
Tiflis. Public baths. The noseless Hassan. Georgian customs. Songs. Kakhetian wine. Reason for the heat-waves. High cost of living. Description of the city. Departure from Tiflis. A Georgian night. View of Armenia. A double crossing. An Armenian village. Gergery. Griboyedov. Bezobdal. A mineral spring. Storm in the mountains. A night in Gumry. Ararat. The frontier. Turkish hospitality. Kars. An Armenian family. Departure from Kars. Count Paskevich’s camp.
I stayed at an inn and next day went off to the famous Tiflis baths. The city struck me as very populous. The Asian styles of architecture and the market reminded me of Kishinev. Along the narrow, crooked streets ran donkeys, laden with a basket on each side; carts harnessed to oxen blocked the road. Armenians, Georgians, Circassians crowded the irregular square. Among them rode young Russian civil servants on Karabakh stallions. At the entrance to the baths sat the owner, an old Persian. He opened the door and I entered a spacious room – and what did I see? More than fifty women, young and old, half and completely naked, sitting or standing, were undressing and dressing on benches arranged along the walls. I hesitated. ‘Come on, come on,’ the owner told me, ‘it’s Tuesday, women’s day. Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.’ ‘Of course it doesn’t matter,’ I replied. ‘On the contrary.’ The appearance of men made no impression whatsoever. They continued laughing and chatting among themselves. Not one of them was in any hurry to cover herself with her chadra;1 not one stopped undressing. It seemed that I had entered invisibly. Many of them were indeed beautiful and justified the imagination of T. Moore:
a lovely Georgian maid,
With all the bloom, the freshen’d glow
Of her own country maiden’s looks,
When warm they rise from Teflis’ brooks.
‘Lalla Rookh’2
On the other hand I know of nothing more repellent than old Georgian women: they are witches.
The Persian led me into the baths: a hot ferrous sulphide spring was pouring into a deep basin carved out of the rock face. Never in my life had I encountered, whether in Russia or Turkey, anything more luxurious than the Tiflis baths. I shall describe them in detail.
The owner left me in the care of a Tartar bathhouse attendant. I have to tell you that he had no nose; this did not prevent him from being master of his trade. Hassan (this was the noseless Tartar’s name) began by making me lie outstretched on the warm stone floor. After this he started beating my limbs, stretched out my joints and thumped me violently with his fist. I did not feel the least pain, only an amazing sense of relaxation. (Asian bath attendants usually go into raptures, jumping on one’s shoulders, sliding their feet over one’s ribs and performing a squatting dance on one’s back, e sempre bene.)3 After this he rubbed me for a long time with a woollen mitten and, having splashed me violently with warm water, started washing me with a soapy inflated linen bladder. The sensation is indescribable: the hot soap washes over one like air!
Note The woollen mitten and linen bladder should certainly be introduced into Russian baths: connoisseurs would be grateful for such an innovation.
After the bladder Hassan released me into the bath; with that the ceremony ended.
In Tiflis I was hoping to find Rayevsky, but when I discovered that his regiment was already on the march I decided to ask Count Paskevich’s4 permission to join up with the army.
I spent about two weeks in Tiflis and met local society. Sankovsky,5 publisher of the Tiflis Gazette, told me many curious things about these parts, about Prince Tsitsianov,6 A. P. Yermolov and so on. Sankovsky loves Georgia and foresees a brilliant future for it.
Georgia resorted to Russia’s protection in 1783, which did not prevent the renowned Aga-Mohammed7 from capturing and destroying Tiflis and taking away 20,000 of its inhabitants as prisoners (1795). Georgia came under Alexander’s sceptre in 1802. The Georgians are a bellicose nation. Under Russian banners they have shown their courage. Their intellectual abilities await further development. In general they are of a cheerful and sociable disposition. On holidays the men drink and make merry in the streets. Black-eyed boys sing, skip and perform somersaults; the women dance the lezginka.8
The sound of Georgian songs is pleasant. One of them was translated for me word for word; apparently it was written in modern times; it contains some Oriental nonsense, which does have its own poetic merit. Here it is:
My soul, recently born in paradise! My soul, created for my happiness!
From thee, immortal soul, I await life.
From thee, blossoming spring, two-week-old moon, from thee my
guardian angel, I await life.
Thy face is radiant and thou cheerest with thy smile. I do not wish to
possess the world; I desire thy glance. From thee I await life.
Mountain rose, refreshed with dew! Chosen favourite of Nature!
Silent, hidden treasure! From thee I await life.9
Georgians do not drink as we do and are amazingly strong. Their wines do not travel well and soon spoil, but are excellent where they are made. Kakhetian and Karabakh are as good as some burgundies. They keep their wines in maranas, enormous jugs buried in the ground. They are opened to the accompaniment of solemn ritual. Not long ago a Russian dragoon who secretly dug up one of the jugs fell into it and was drowned in Kakhetian wine, like the hapless Clarence in a butt of malaga.
Tiflis is on the banks of the Kura, in a valley surrounded by rocky mountains. They protect it on all sides from the wind and as they grow hot in the sun do not simply heat the motionless air but bring it to boiling-point. This is the reason for the intolerable heat that prevails in Tiflis, despite the fact that the city is located only just below forty-one degrees of latitude. Its very name (Tbilis-kalar) means Hot City.
Most of the city is built Asian style: the houses are low, the roofs flat. In the northern part, European-style houses are going up and near them regularly shaped squares are beginning to appear. The market is divided into several arcades; the shops are full of Turkish and Persian goods which are comparatively cheap if one considers the generally high prices. Tiflis weapons are highly prized throughout the Orient. Count Samoylov10 and V., renowned as heroes here, usually tested their new swords by cutting a sheep in half or decapitating a bull at one stroke.
In Tiflis Armenians make up the major part of the population: in 1825 there were as many as 2,500 families here. During the current wars their number has increased even further. There are reckoned to be up to 1,500 Georgian families. Russians do not look upon themselves as local residents. Military men, following the call of duty, live in Georgia because they have been ordered to. Young titular counsellors come here to obtain the much sought-after rank of assessor. Both types consider Georgia a place of exile.
The Tiflis climate is said to be unhealthy. Malarial fever here is dreadful; it is treated with mercury, which is quite harmless on account of the searing heat. Doctors administer it to their patients without any pangs of conscience. General Sipyagin,11 they say, died because his personal physician, who had travelled from St Petersburg with him, took fright at the dose recommended by the local doctors and did not give it to the sick man. Common fevers are like those in the Crimea and Moldavia a
nd are treated similarly.
The inhabitants drink water, which is muddy but pleasant, from the River Kura. In all the wells and springs the water has a strong taste of sulphur. Wine, however, is so commonly drunk here that any shortage of water would pass unnoticed.
I was surprised to see how little money was worth in Tiflis. Having gone down two streets in a cab and sent it away after half an hour, I had to pay two silver roubles. At first I thought that the driver wanted to take advantage of a newcomer’s ignorance; but I was told that I had been charged exactly the right price. Everything else is proportionately expensive.
We drove to the German colony, where we dined. We drank the beer they make there, which has a most unpleasant taste, and paid an exorbitant price for a very bad dinner. I was fed just as expensively and poorly at my inn. General Strekalov, 12 a celebrated gastronome, invited me to dinner one day; unfortunately his guests were served according to their rank, and seated at the table were English officers with generals’ epaulettes. The servants missed me out so diligently while serving that I left the table hungry. The devil take that Tiflis gastronome!
Impatiently I waited for my fate to be decided. At last I received a note from Rayevsky. He wrote that I should hurry to Kars, since in a few days the army would have to move on. I left the very next day.
I went on horseback, changing horses at Cossack posts. Around me the earth was scorched by the heat. From the distance Georgian villages resembled beautiful gardens, but as I drew nearer I could see a few poor huts standing in the shade of dusty poplars. The sun had set, but the air was still stifling:
Sultry nights!
Foreign stars!…
The moon was shining; all was quiet; the clatter of my horse’s hoofs rang out in the nocturnal silence. I rode for a long time without finding any sign of habitation. At length I saw an isolated hut. I started knocking at the door. The owner came out. I asked for some water, first in Russian, then in Tartar. He did not understand me. What amazing indifference! Only twenty miles from Tiflis, on the main road to Persia and Turkey, and he did not know a word of either Russian or Tartar.
Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings Page 17
