The village of Kazbek is located at the foot of Mount Kazbek and belongs to Prince Kazbek. The prince, a man of about forty-five, is taller than the fugelman of the Preobrazhensky regiment.31 We found him in the dukhan (the Georgian word for eateries, which are much poorer and no cleaner than Russian ones). In the doorway lay a fat-bellied burdyuk (an oxhide wineskin), spreading its four legs. The giant was sipping chikhir from it, and he asked me several questions, which I answered with a deference suited to his title and size. We parted great friends.
Impressions soon grow dull. Barely twenty-four hours went by, and already the roaring of the Terek and its shapeless waterfalls, already the cliffs and precipices, ceased to draw my attention. I was possessed only by impatience to reach Tiflis. I rode past Kazbek as indifferently as I once sailed past Chatyrdag. It is also true that the rainy and foggy weather prevented me from seeing its snowy heap, which, in a poet’s expression, “props up the heavenly vault.”32
A Persian prince was expected. At some distance from Kazbek several carriages came towards us and obstructed the narrow road. While the vehicles worked past each other, the convoy officer told us that he was accompanying a Persian court poet and, at my wish, introduced me to Fazil Khan.33 With the help of an interpreter, I started on a grandiloquent oriental greeting; how ashamed I was when Fazil Khan responded to my inappropriate whimsicality with the simple, intelligent courtesy of a decent man! He hoped to see me in Petersburg; he was sorry that our acquaintance would be of short duration, and so on. Embarrassed, I was forced to abandon my pompously jocular tone and descend to ordinary European phrases. This is a lesson for our Russian love of mockery. In the future, I will not judge a man by his lambskin papakha*5 and painted nails.
The Kobi outpost is located right at the foot of the Mountain of the Cross, which we now had to go over. We spent the night there and started thinking about how to perform this dread exploit: should we abandon our carriages and mount Cossack horses or send for Ossetian oxen? Just in case, I wrote an official request on behalf of our whole caravan to Mr. Chilyaev, who was in command of these parts, and we went to sleep in expectation of the carts.
The next day around noon we heard noise, shouting, and saw an extraordinary spectacle: eighteen pair of skinny, puny oxen, prodded by a crowd of half-naked Ossetes, were dragging with great difficulty the light Viennese carriage of my friend O. This spectacle at once dispelled all my doubts. I decided to send my heavy Petersburg carriage back to Vladikavkaz and ride on horseback to Tiflis. Count Pushkin did not want to follow my example. He preferred to hitch his britzka, laden with all sorts of supplies, to the whole herd of oxen and cross the snowy ridge in triumph. We parted and I went further on with Colonel Ogarev, who was inspecting the local roads.
The road went through an avalanche that had occurred at the end of June, 1827. These things usually happen every seven years. An enormous block fell down, burying the gorge for a mile, and damming up the Terek. Sentries, standing downstream, heard a terrible noise and saw that the river was quickly getting shallow and in a quarter of an hour was completely still and drained. The Terek ate its way through the avalanche only two hours later. Oh, how terrifying it was!
We climbed steeply higher and higher. Our horses sank into the loose snow, under which streams gurgled. I looked at the road with amazement and did not understand how it was possible to travel on wheels.
Just then I heard a muted rumble. “That’s an avalanche,” said Mr. Ogarev. I turned and saw to one side a heap of snow crumbling and slowly sliding down the steep slope. Small avalanches are not uncommon here. Last year a Russian driver was going over the Mountain of the Cross; there was an avalanche: a frightful block of snow fell on his vehicle, swallowed cart, horse, and muzhik, tumbled across the road and down into the abyss with its booty. We reached the very top of the mountain. A granite cross had been set up there, an old monument, restored by Ermolov.
Here travelers usually get out of their carriages and go on foot. Recently some foreign consul came here: he was so shaky that he asked to be blindfolded; he was led under the arms, and when they took off his blindfold, he sank to his knees and thanked God, and so on, which greatly amazed the guides.
The instantaneous transition from the formidable Caucasus to winsome Georgia is ravishing. The air of the south suddenly begins to waft over the traveler. From the height of Mount Gut the Kaishaur valley opens out, with its inhabited cliffs, its gardens, its bright Aragva, meandering like a silver ribbon—and all this in miniature, at the bottom of a two-mile-deep chasm, along which goes a dangerous road.
We were descending into the valley. A young crescent moon appeared in the clear sky. The evening air was gentle and warm. I spent the night on the bank of the Aragva, in the house of Mr. Chilyaev. The next day I parted from my amiable host and went further on.
Here Georgia begins. Bright valleys watered by the merry Aragva replaced the gloomy gorges and the formidable Terek. Instead of bare cliffs I saw around me green mountains and fruit trees. Aqueducts demonstrated the presence of civilization. One of them struck me with a perfect optical illusion: the water seemed to be flowing uphill.
In Paisanaur I stopped to change horses. There I met a Russian officer who was accompanying the Persian prince. Soon I heard the sound of little bells, and a whole line of katars (mules), tied to one another and loaded in the Asian manner, stretched out along the road. I went on foot, without waiting for horses; and half a mile from Ananur, at a turn of the road, I met Khozrev-Mirza.34 His vehicles were standing there. He looked out of his carriage and nodded to me. A few hours after our meeting the prince was attacked by mountaineers. Hearing the whistle of bullets, Khozrev jumped out of his carriage, mounted a horse, and galloped off. The Russians who were with him marveled at his courage. The thing was that the young Asiatic, unaccustomed to a carriage, saw it as more of a trap than a shelter.
I reached Ananur, not feeling any fatigue. My horses had not come yet. I was told that it was no more than seven miles to the town of Dusheti, and I again set out on foot. But I did not know that the road went uphill. Those seven miles were worth a good fifteen.
Evening fell; I walked on, going higher and higher. It was impossible to lose my way; but in some places the clayey mud produced by the springs reached my knees. I was completely exhausted. It grew darker. I heard howling and barking and rejoiced, fancying that the town was near. I was mistaken: the barking came from the dogs of the Georgian shepherds, and the howling from jackals, common animals in those parts. I cursed my impatience, but there was nothing to be done. At last I saw lights, and around midnight I found myself near houses overshaded by trees. The first man I met volunteered to take me to the mayor and for that demanded an abaz from me.
My appearance at the mayor’s, an old Georgian officer, caused a great stir. I requested, first of all, a room where I could undress; second, a glass of wine; third, an abaz for my guide. The mayor did not know how to receive me, and kept glancing at me in perplexity. Seeing he was in no hurry to fulfill my requests, I began to undress in front of him, apologizing de la liberté grande.*6 Fortunately, in my pocket I found my papers, proving that I was a peaceful traveler and not a Rinaldo Rinaldini.35 The blessed charter had an immediate effect: I was given a room, a glass of wine was brought, and an abaz was given to my guide, along with a fatherly reprimand for his money-grubbing, insulting to Georgian hospitality. I threw myself on the sofa, hoping after my exploit to sleep a hero’s sleep: nothing of the sort. Fleas, far more dangerous than jackals, fell upon me and gave me no rest all night. In the morning my man came to me and said that Count Pushkin had safely crossed the snowy mountains with his oxen and arrived in Dusheti. So much for my hurry! Count Pushkin and Stjernvall called on me and suggested that we go on our way together again. I left Dusheti with the pleasant thought that I would spend the night in Tiflis.
The road was pleasant and picturesque as well, though we rarely saw any signs of population. Several miles from Gartsiskal we crossed the Kura on
an ancient bridge, a monument of the Roman campaigns, and at a long trot, at times even a gallop, rode to Tiflis, where we arrived without noticing it and found it was past ten o’clock in the evening.
CHAPTER TWO
Tiflis. The public baths. Noseless Hassan. Georgian ways. Songs. Kakheti wine. Causes of heat. High prices. Description of the city. Leaving Tiflis. The Georgian night. The sight of Armenia. Double distance. An Armenian village. Gergeri. Griboedov. Bezobdal. A mineral spring. A storm in the mountains. Night in Gyumri. Ararat. The border. Turkish hospitality. Kars. An Armenian family. Leaving Kars. Count Paskevich’s camp.
I stayed at an inn, and the next day headed for the famous Tiflis baths. The city seemed populous to me. The Asiatic buildings and the market reminded me of Kishinev.36 Donkeys with panniers ran along the narrow and crooked streets; arbas harnessed to oxen blocked the way. Armenians, Georgians, Circassians, Persians thronged in the irregular square; among them young Russian officials rode on Karabakh stallions. At the entrance to the baths sat the owner, an old Persian. He opened the door for me, I entered a spacious room, and what did I see? More than fifty women, young and old, half-dressed and completely undressed, sat and stood undressing and dressing at benches placed along the walls. I stopped. “Go on, go on,” the owner said to me. “Today is Tuesday: women’s day. Never mind, there’s no harm.” “Of course there’s no harm,” I replied. “On the contrary.” The appearance of men did not make any impression. They went on laughing and talking among themselves. Not one of them hastened to cover herself with her chadra; not one of them stopped undressing. It seemed 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 ROOKH37
But I know nothing more repulsive than Georgian old women: they are witches.
The Persian led me to the baths: the hot iron-sulfur spring spilled into a deep basin carved in the rock. Never in my life have I met, either in Russia or in Turkey, with anything more luxurious than the Tiflis baths. I will describe them in detail.
The owner left me in the charge of a Tatar bath attendant. I must inform you that he had no nose, but that did not prevent him from being a master of his trade. Hassan (that was the name of the noseless Tatar) began by laying me down on the warm stone floor; after which he started wringing my arms and legs, pulling the joints, beating me hard with his fists; I felt not the slightest pain, but an astonishing relief. (Asiatic bath attendants sometimes become ecstatic, jump onto your shoulders, slide their feet over your thighs, do a squatting dance on your back, è sempre bene.*7) After that he rubbed me for a long time with a woolen mitten and, dousing me liberally with warm water, began to wash me with a soapy linen pouch. The feeling is ineffable: hot soap pours all over you like air! NB: the woolen mitten and linen pouch should definitely be adopted in Russian baths: connoisseurs will be grateful for such an innovation.
After the pouch, Hassan let me get into the bath; and with that the ceremony was over.
I hoped to find Raevsky in Tiflis, but learning that his regiment was already on the march, I decided to ask Count Paskevich’s permission to come to the army.
I spent around two weeks in Tiflis and became acquainted with the local society. Sankovsky, publisher of the Tiflis Gazette, told me many curious things about the local area, about Prince Tsitsianov, A. P. Ermolov, and so on.38 Sankovsky loves Georgia and foresees a brilliant future for her.
Georgia put herself under Russian protection in 1783, which did not prevent the famed Aga Mohammed from taking and destroying Tiflis and carrying off 20,000 of its inhabitants as prisoners (1795).39 Georgia came under the scepter of the emperor Alexander in 1802. The Georgians are a martial people. They have proved their courage under our banners. Their mental abilities could do with greater cultivation. They are generally of cheerful and sociable character. On holidays the men drink and carouse in the streets. The dark-eyed boys sing, leap, and turn somersaults; the women dance the lezghinka.
The voice of Georgian songs is pleasant. One of them was translated for me word for word; it seems to have been composed recently; there is some oriental nonsense in it, which has its poetic virtue. Here it is:
Soul, recently born in paradise! Soul, created for my happiness! From you, immortal one, I look for life.
From you, blossoming spring, two-week-old moon, from you, my guardian angel, from you I look for life.
Your face shines and your smile gladdens. I do not want to possess the world; I want your gaze. From you I look for life.
Mountain rose, fresh with dew! Chosen favorite of nature! Quiet, hidden treasure! From you I look for life.
Georgians drink—not as we do, and with amazing fortitude. Their wines do not travel and quickly go bad, but in place they are excellent. Kakheti and Karabakh wines are worth some burgundies. Wine is kept in marans, enormous jars, buried in the ground. They are opened with solemn rituals. Recently a Russian dragoon, having secretly unearthed such a jar, fell into it and drowned in Kakheti wine, like unfortunate Clarence in a barrel of Malaga.40
Tiflis is situated on the banks of the Kura, in a valley surrounded by stony mountains. They shield it on all sides from the winds, and, turned burning hot by the sun, do not so much heat as boil the motionless air. That is the cause of the unbearable heat that reigns in Tiflis, even though the city is situated only at just under forty-one degrees latitude. Its very name (Tbilis-kalar) means “Hot City.”41
The greater part of the city is built in the Asiatic way: low houses, flat roofs. In the northern part houses of European architecture rise, and around them regular squares are beginning to form. The market is divided into several rows; the shops are filled with Turkish and Persian goods, rather cheap, if you take into account the universally high prices. Tiflis weapons are highly valued everywhere in the East. Count Samoilov and V., reputed to be mighty men here, used to try out their new swords by cutting a sheep in two or chopping off a bull’s head at one stroke.42
Armenians make up the main part of the population of Tiflis: in 1825 there were as many as 2,500 families. During the present wars their number has increased still more. Georgian families amount to 1,500. Russians do not consider themselves local residents. The military, bound by duty, live in Georgia because they have been ordered to. Young titular councilors come here in pursuit of the much-desired rank of assessor.43 Both the former and the latter look upon Georgia as exile.
The Tiflis climate is said to be unhealthy. The local fevers are terrible; they are treated with mercury, the use of which is harmless because of the heat. Doctors feed it to their patients quite shamelessly. General Sipyagin died, they say, because his personal physician, who came with him from Petersburg, was frightened of the dose suggested by the local doctors and did not give it to the sick man.44 The local fevers resemble those of the Crimea and Moldavia and are treated in the same way.
The inhabitants drink the water of the Kura, cloudy but pleasant. The water of all the springs and wells has a strong taste of sulfur. However, wine here is in such general use that a lack of water would go unnoticed.
I was astonished by the low value of money in Tiflis. Having taken a cab through two streets and let it go after half an hour, I had to pay the cabbie two silver roubles. I thought at first that he wanted to profit from a visitor’s ignorance; but I was told that that was indeed the price. Everything else is correspondingly expensive.
We went to the German colony and had dinner there. We drank the beer they make, of a very unpleasant taste, and paid very dearly for a very bad meal. In my inn the food was just as expensive and bad. General Strekalov, a well-known gastronome, once invited me to dinner; unfortunately, the dishes were served according to rank and there were English officers with general’s epaulettes at the table.45 The servants bypassed me s
o assiduously that I got up from the table hungry. Devil take the Tiflis gastronome!
I waited impatiently for my fate to be decided. At last I received a note from Raevsky. He wrote that I should make haste to Kars, because in a few days the troops were to go further on. I left the next day.
I went on horseback, changing horses at the Cossack outposts. The earth around me was scorched by the heat. From a distance the Georgian villages looked to me like beautiful gardens, but, on riding up to them, I saw a few poor saklias overshaded by dusty poplars. The sun went down, but the air was still stifling:
Torrid nights!
Foreign stars!…
The moon shone; all was still; only the trot of my horse rang out in the night’s silence. I rode for a long time without meeting any signs of habitation. At last I saw a solitary saklia. I started knocking at the door. The owner came out. I asked for water, first in Russian, then in Tatar. He did not understand me. Amazing nonchalance! Twenty miles from Tiflis and on the road to Persia and Turkey, he did not know a word of Russian or of Tatar.
Having spent the night at a Cossack outpost, I headed further on at dawn. The road went through mountains and forests. I met some traveling Tatars; there were several women among them. They were on horseback, wrapped in chadras; all you could see were their eyes and heels.
I started going up Bezobdal, the mountain that separates Georgia from ancient Armenia. A wide road, overshaded by trees, winds around the mountain. On the summit of Bezobdal I rode through a small gorge, apparently called the Wolf Gate, and found myself on the natural border of Georgia. Before me were new mountains, a new horizon; below me spread fertile green wheatfields. I looked back once more at scorched Georgia and started down the gently sloping mountain to the fresh plains of Armenia. With indescribable pleasure I noticed that the heat suddenly became less intense: the climate was different.
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