Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings

by Alexander Pushkin

  After spending the night at a Cossack post I pressed on further at dawn. The road ran through mountains and forests. I came across some travelling Tartars; among them were a few women. They were on horseback and were wrapped in yashmaks; only their eyes and heels were visible.

  I began the ascent of Bezobdal, the mountain that separates Georgia from ancient Armenia. The wide road, shaded by trees, winds its way past the mountain. At the summit of Bezobdal I rode through a narrow defile called, I think, the Wolf’s Gate and found myself on the natural border of Georgia. New mountains, a new horizon came into view; below me stretched lush green cornfields. I glanced once more at scorched Georgia and began my descent of the mountain slope to the fresh plains of Armenia. To my indescribable pleasure I noticed that the torrid heat had suddenly abated: the climate was already different.

  My man with the pack-horses was lagging behind. I rode on alone in the flowering wilderness, which was surrounded by distant mountains. In a fit of absent-mindedness I rode past the post where I should have changed horses. More than six hours passed, and I began to feel amazement at the great distance between the staging-posts. To one side I saw some piles of rocks resembling huts and I set off towards them. I had in fact ridden into an Armenian village. A few women in colourful rags were sitting on the flat roof of an underground hut. Somehow I managed to make myself understood. One of them went down into the hut and brought me cheese and milk. After a few moments’ rest I pressed on and saw opposite me, on the high river bank, the fortress of Gergery. Three torrents, roaring and foaming, came crashing down from the high bank. I crossed the river. Two oxen, yoked to a cart, were climbing the steep road. Several Georgians were accompanying the cart.

  ‘Where are you from?’ I asked them.

  ‘From Teheran.’

  ‘What are you taking?’

  ‘Griboyed.’

  It was the body of the slain Griboyedov13 which they were conveying to Tiflis.

  Never had I imagined that I would meet our Griboyedov again! I had parted from him the previous year in St Petersburg, before he left for Persia. He was sad and had strange forebodings. I wanted to set his mind at rest; he told me, ‘Vous ne connaissez pas ces gens-là: vous verrez qu’il faudra jouer des couteaux.’14 He assumed that the cause of any bloodshed would be the death of the Shah and the consequent strife between his seventeen sons. But the aged Shah is still alive, and Griboyedov’s prophetic words came true. He perished under Persian daggers, the victim of ignorance and treachery. His mutilated corpse, the play-thing of the Teheran rabble for three days, was recognizable only from one hand that had once been pierced by a pistol bullet.

  I became acquainted with Griboyedov in 1817. His melancholy character, his embittered mind, his good nature, his very weaknesses and vices, those inevitable companions of mankind – everything about him was unusually attractive. Born with an ambition equal to his talents, he was long caught up in the meshes of petty needs and obscurity. The abilities of a statesman were not put to any use; the talent of a poet was not recognized; even his steely and brilliant courage was for some time under suspicion. A few friends knew his worth and met with an incredulous smile, a stupid and insufferable smile, whenever they happened to speak of him as an extraordinary person. People trust only in fame and do not understand that in their midst might be some Napoleon who has never commanded so much as one chasseur company, or another Descartes who has never even published a single line in the Moscow Telegraph. However, our respect for fame possibly originates from vanity: after all, it is our own voice too that contributes to that fame.

  Griboyedov’s life was darkened by several clouds, the consequence of violent passions and powerful circumstances. He felt the necessity of settling accounts once and for all with his youth and turning his life in a completely different direction. He bade St Petersburg and idle dissipation farewell and travelled to Georgia, where he spent eight years in solitary, unceasing activity. His return to Moscow in 182415 was a turning-point in his fortunes and the beginning of unbroken success. His comedy, The Misfortune of Being Clever, while still in manuscript, had an indescribable effect and immediately put him on a level with our leading poets. Not long afterwards his perfect knowledge of that region where war was commencing opened up a new career for him: he was appointed envoy. After arriving in Georgia he married the woman he loved16… I know of nothing more enviable than the last years of his stormy life. Death itself, which claimed him in the middle of a courageous, unequal combat, held nothing terrible, nothing agonizing for Griboyedov. It was instantaneous and beautiful.

  What a pity that Griboyedov did not leave any memoirs! To have written his biography should have been the concern of his friends; but with us, remarkable people disappear without trace. We are lazy and incurious…

  At Gergery I met Buturlin17 who, like myself, was on his way to the army. Buturlin travelled with every possible luxury. I dined with him as if we were in St Petersburg. We decided to travel together; but once again the demon of impatience took possession of me. My man asked for permission to rest. I set off alone, without a guide even. The road was the same the whole way and completely safe.

  After crossing the mountain and descending into a valley shaded by trees, I saw a mineral spring flowing across the road. Here I encountered an Armenian priest travelling from Erivan to Akhaltsyk. ‘What’s new in Erivan?’ I asked him. ‘In Yerevan they’ve the plague,’ he replied. ‘And what’s the news from Akhaltsyk?’ ‘In Akhaltsyk they’ve the plague,’ I replied. After exchanging this pleasant news we parted.

  Now I was riding amidst fertile cornfields and flowering meadows. The crops were swaying, awaiting the sickle. I admired the beautiful soil, whose fertility has become proverbial in the East. Towards evening I arrived at Pernike. Here was a Cossack post. The sergeant predicted a storm and advised me to stay the night, but I wanted to reach Gumry that same day, come what may.

  Facing me was a journey across some low mountains, the natural border of the pashalyk 18 of Kars. The sky was filled with clouds. I was hoping that the wind, which was strengthening every minute, would disperse them. But it began to drizzle, and then the rain became heavier and more persistent. From Pernike to Gumry is about eighteen miles. I tightened the straps around my felt cloak, put the hood over my cap and entrusted myself to providence.

  More than two hours passed. The rain did not stop. Water streamed off my cloak which was now heavy from the rain and off my sodden hood. Eventually a cold trickle began to make its way under my necktie, and soon I was soaked to the skin. It was a dark night; the Cossack rode on ahead, showing me the way. We started climbing into the mountains; meanwhile the rain had stopped and the clouds dispersed. It was still another six miles to Gumry. The freely blowing wind was so strong that in about a quarter of an hour it had completely dried me. I did not think I would avoid a fever. Finally I reached Gumry at around midnight. The Cossack took me straight to the post. We stopped by a tent and I hurried into it. Here I found twelve Cossacks sleeping side by side. I was given a place; I collapsed on to my cloak, completely numb with fatigue. That day I had ridden fifty miles. I slept like a log.

  The Cossacks awoke me at dawn. My first thought was: did I have a fever? But I felt very well, thank God, and in the best of spirits; there wasn’t a trace either of illness or fatigue. I went out of the tent into the fresh morning air. The sun was rising. Against the clear sky stood a white, snow-capped mountain. ‘What mountain is that?’ I asked, stretching myself, and I received the reply, ‘That’s Ararat.’ How powerful an effect a few vowels can have! I glanced at the biblical mountain, and I saw the ark moored to its summit in the hope of life’s renewal – and the raven and the dove flying forth from it, symbols of punishment and reconciliation.

  My horse was ready. I set off with a guide. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining. We rode across a broad meadow, over lush green grass sprinkled with dew and drops of yesterday’s rain. Before us gleamed a small river that we had to cross. ‘And
there is Arpachay,’ the Cossack told me. Arpachay! Our frontier! This was as good as Ararat. I galloped towards the river with an indescribable feeling. Never had I set eyes on foreign soil. A frontier held some kind of mystery for me, and since childhood travelling had been my fondest dream. Long afterwards I led a nomadic existence, wandering first in the South, then the North, but not until now had I broken out of the bounds of vast Russia. I gaily rode into the cherished river and my worthy steed carried me out on to the Turkish bank. But this bank had already been conquered: I was still in Russia.

  It was another fifty miles to Kars. I was hoping to see our camp by evening and I did not stop anywhere. Halfway, in an Armenian village built in the hills on the banks of a small river, I ate instead of dinner that damned Armenian bread called churek, which is baked in the form of a flat cake – half with ashes – and for which those Turkish prisoners in the Darial Pass were pining so much. I would have given anything for a slice of the Russian black bread, that they found so revolting. I was accompanied by a young Turk, a dreadful chatterbox… The whole way he kept jabbering in Turkish, unconcerned whether I understood or not. I concentrated as hard as I could and tried to make out what he meant. He seemed to be abusing the Russians and, accustomed to seeing them all in uniform, took me for a foreigner because of my clothes. Then we happened to meet a Russian officer. He was travelling from our camp and informed me that the army had already moved out of Kars. I can find no words to describe my despair: the thought that I would have to return to Tiflis after having exhausted myself to no purpose in desolate Armenia left me utterly dejected. The officer went on his way; the Turk recommenced his monologue, but I no longer had any time for him. I changed from an amble to a round trot and arrived that evening at a Turkish village twelve miles from Kars.

  Having jumped down from my horse I wanted to enter the first hut, but the owner appeared in the doorway and pushed me away with a shower of abuse. I responded to his welcome with my whip. The Turk started bellowing; a crowd gathered. My guide, it seemed, had interceded on my behalf. I was shown a caravan-serai;19 I entered a large hut resembling a cattle shed; there was nowhere to spread my cloak. I demanded a horse. The Turkish headman came over to me. To all his incomprehensible words I gave the same reply: verbana at (give me a horse). The Turks would not agree. Finally I had the sense to show them money (which I should have done in the first place). A horse was brought immediately and I was given a guide.

  I rode along a wide valley, surrounded by hills. Soon I saw Kars, standing out white on one of them. My Turk kept pointing it out to me, repeating ‘Kars, Kars!’ and put his horse into a gallop. I followed him, tormented by anxiety: it was in Kars that my fate would be decided. There I would discover the whereabouts of our camp and if there was still any chance of catching up with the army. Meanwhile the sky clouded over and it started raining again; but I was not worried about the rain.

  We rode into Kars. As we approached the city gates I heard a Russian drum: they were sounding the retreat. A sentry took my pass and went to the commandant. I stood in the rain for about half an hour. Finally they let me enter. I instructed my guide to take me straight to the bathhouse. We rode along steep, crooked streets; our horses kept slipping on the wretched Turkish paving. We stopped at a building of somewhat squalid appearance. It was the bathhouse. The Turk dismounted and started knocking at the door. No one answered. The rain bucketed down on me. Eventually a young Armenian emerged from a nearby house and after a discussion with my Turk called me over to him, expressing himself in quite pure Russian. He led me up a narrow staircase to the second floor of his house. In a room furnished with low divans and ancient carpets sat an old woman – his mother. She came over and kissed my hand. Her son told her to make a fire and prepare some supper for me. I took my things off and sat in front of the fire. My host’s younger brother, a lad of about seventeen, came in. Both brothers were frequently in Tiflis and lived there for a few months at a time. They told me that our army had marched out the previous day and that our camp was sixteen miles from Kars. At this I was completely reassured. In no time the old woman prepared some mutton and onions for me, which struck me as the height of culinary art. We all lay down to sleep in the same room; I stretched out in front of the dying fire and fell asleep in the pleasant expectation of seeing Count Paskevich’s camp the next day.

  In the morning I went to look round the city. The younger of my hosts volunteered to be my cicerone. As I inspected the fortifications and citadel, built on an inaccessible cliff, I was at a loss to understand how we had succeeded in capturing Kars. My Armenian explained to me, to the best of his ability, the military actions which he himself had witnessed. Observing his liking for war, I suggested he travel with me to the army. He agreed at once. I sent him to fetch some horses. He reappeared with an officer who asked for my written order. Judging from his Asiatic features I did not think it necessary to rummage around in my papers and took from my pocket the first piece of paper I found there. After solemnly inspecting it the officer immediately ordered some horses for ‘his honour’ in accordance with the written order and handed me back my piece of paper: it was a verse epistle20 I had scribbled at one of the Cossack post-stages. Half an hour later I rode out of Kars, and Artemy (this was my Armenian’s name) was already galloping beside me on a Turkish stallion, with a flexible Kurdish javelin in one hand and a dagger in his belt, raving about Turks and battles.

  I rode over soil sown everywhere with grain; around me I could see villages, but they were deserted: the inhabitants had fled. The road was excellent and in marshy areas was paved… stone bridges had been built across the small streams. The land rose perceptibly – the first foothills of the Sagan-Lu (ancient Taurus) ridge were beginning to appear. About two hours passed; I rode up a long incline and suddenly saw our camp pitched on the banks of the Kars-chay; within a few minutes I was in Rayevsky’s tent.

  CHAPTER THREE

  March over Sagan-Lu. Cross-fire. Camp life. The Yazidi. Battle

  with the Seraskier of Arzrum. A hut blown up.

  I arrived in good time. That same day (June 13th) the army received orders to advance. While I was dining with Rayevsky I listened to some young generals discussing the movements they had been directed to make. General Burtsov’s1 forces were to be detached to the left, on the great Arzrum road directly opposite the Turkish camp, while the remainder of the army was to outflank the enemy from the right.

  Before five o’clock the troops advanced. I rode with the Nizhny Novgorod dragoon regiment, chatting with Rayevsky, whom I had not seen for several years. Night fell; we stopped in a valley where the whole army made a halt. Here I had the honour of being introduced to Count Paskevich.

  I found the count in his tent in front of a bivouac fire, surrounded by his staff. He was in a cheerful mood and greeted me warmly. Since I was ignorant of the art of war, I did not suspect that the outcome of the campaign was being decided that very minute. Here I saw our Volkhovsky,2 covered in dust from head to foot, with a thick growth of beard, and worn out with worry. However, he did find time to chat with me as if I were an old comrade. Here I also saw Mikhayl Pushchin,3 who had been wounded the previous year. He is loved and respected as a wonderful comrade and a brave soldier. Many of my old friends gathered round me. How they had changed! How quickly time passes!

  Heu! fugaces, Posthume, Posthume,

  Labuntur anni…4

  I returned to Rayevsky and spent the night in his tent. In the middle of the night I was awakened by terrible shouting: one would have thought that the enemy had made a surprise attack. Rayevsky sent someone to find out the reason for the commotion: a few Tartar horses had broken loose from their tethers, were running around the camp and the Muslims (that is the name for the Tartars serving in our army) were trying to catch them.

  At dawn the army advanced. We approached thickly forested mountains. We rode into a gorge. The dragoons were telling each other, ‘Watch out, my friend, sit tight. They could get you any minute w
ith grape-shot.’ And in fact the terrain favoured ambushes; but the Turks, diverted by General Burtsov’s manoeuvres in another direction, did not put their advantage to good use. We safely passed through the dangerous gorge and halted on the heights of Sagan-Lu, about six miles from the enemy camp.

  Nature all around was gloomy. The air was cold, the mountains covered with sad pine trees. Snow lay in the gullies.

  … nec Armeniis in oris,

  Amice Valgi, stat glacies iners

  Menses per omnes…5

  We had barely managed to rest and have dinner when we heard rifle shots. Rayevsky sent men to find out what was happening. They reported that the Turks had started exchanging rifle fire with our advance pickets. I rode off with Semichev to look at a scene that was quite new to me. We met a wounded Cossack: pale and bloody, he swayed as he sat in his saddle. Two Cossacks were supporting him. ‘Are there many Turks?’ Semichev asked. ‘Teeming like swine, Your Honour,’ one of them replied.

  After passing through the gorge we suddenly saw on the slope of the mountain opposite us about two hundred Cossack cavalry loosely deployed, while above them were about five hundred Turks. The Cossacks were slowly retreating; the Turks attacked them with increasing audacity, taking aim at twenty paces and then galloping back to their positions after firing. Their tall turbans, fine tunics and the glittering trappings of their horses contrasted sharply with the Cossacks’ dark blue uniforms and simple harness. About fifteen of our men were already wounded. Lieutenant-Colonel Basov6 sent for help. At that moment he himself was wounded in the leg. The Cossacks were about to panic, but Basov remounted his horse and stayed in command. The reinforcements arrived in time. As soon as the Turks saw them they vanished, leaving behind on the mountain the naked corpse of a Cossack, decapitated and hacked to pieces. The Turks send severed heads to Constantinople, while they dip the hands in blood and make imprints from them on their banners. The firing died down. Eagles, those companions of armies, soared above the mountain, seeking out booty from on high.