My man with the pack horses lagged behind me. I rode alone in the blossoming desert surrounded by distant mountains. I absentmindedly rode past the post where I was meant to change horses. More than six hours went by, and I began to wonder about the distance I had gone. I saw heaps of stones to one side that looked like saklias, and headed for them. In fact, I came to an Armenian village. Several women in motley rags were sitting on the flat roof of an underground saklia. I expressed myself somehow or other. One of them went down into the saklia and brought up some cheese and milk. After resting for a few minutes, I went on and saw on a high bank opposite me the citadel of Gergeri. Three streams rushed with noise and foam down the high bank. I crossed the river. Two oxen hitched to an arba were going up the steep road. Several Georgians were accompanying it. “Where are you from?” I asked them. “Tehran.” “What are you carrying?” “Griboed.” It was the body of the slain Griboedov, which they were accompanying to Tiflis.46
I never thought I would meet our Griboedov again! I parted with him last year in Petersburg, before he left for Persia. He was sad and had strange premonitions. I began to reassure him; he said to me: “Vous ne connaissez pas ces gens-là; vous verrez qu’il faudra jouer des couteaux.”*8 He supposed the cause of the bloodshed would be the death of the shah and the internecine war among his seventy sons. But the elderly shah is still alive, and Griboedov’s prophetic words came true. He died under Persian daggers, a victim of ignorance and treachery. His disfigured corpse, which for three days was the plaything of the Tehran mob, was recognized only by the hand once pierced by a pistol bullet.
I made the acquaintance of Griboedov in 1817. His melancholy character, his embittered mind, his good-nature, his very weaknesses and vices, inevitable companions of humanity—everything in him was extraordinarily attractive. Born with an ambition equal to his gifts, he was caught for a long time in a web of petty needs and obscurity. His abilities as a statesman remained unemployed; his talent as a poet went unrecognized; even his cold and brilliant courage remained under suspicion for some time. A few friends knew his worth and saw a distrustful smile, that stupid, insufferable smile, when they happened to speak of him as an extraordinary man. People believe only in fame and do not understand that there might be among them some Napoleon, who has never commanded a single company of chasseurs, or another Descartes, who has not published a single line in the Moscow Telegraph. However, our respect for fame may well come from vanity: our own voice, too, goes into the making of fame.
Griboedov’s life was darkened by certain clouds: the consequence of ardent passions and powerful circumstances. He felt the necessity of settling accounts once and for all with his youth and making a sharp turn in his life. He said good-bye to Petersburg and idle dissipation, and went to Georgia, where he spent eight years in solitary, unremitting work. His return to Moscow in 1824 was a turnabout in his fate and the beginning of continuous successes. His comedy in manuscript, Woe from Wit, had an indescribable effect and suddenly placed him in the rank of our foremost poets. A short time after that his perfect knowledge of the region where a war was starting opened up a new career for him; he was appointed ambassador. On coming to Georgia, he married the woman he loved…I know of nothing more enviable than the last years of his stormy life. His death itself, overtaking him in the midst of courageous, unequal combat, had nothing terrible, nothing agonizing for Griboedov. It was instantaneous and beautiful.
What a pity that Griboedov did not leave us his memoirs! Writing his biography should be a task for his friends; but among us remarkable people disappear without leaving a trace behind. We are lazy and incurious…
In Gergeri I met Buturlin, who, like me, was going to the army.47 Buturlin traveled with every possible gratification. I had dinner with him as if we were in Petersburg. We decided to travel together; but the demon of impatience took possession of me again. My man asked me for permission to rest. I set out alone, even without a guide. There was only one road, and it was perfectly safe.
Having crossed the mountain and descended into a valley overshaded by trees, I saw a mineral spring flowing across the road. Here I met an Armenian priest who was going to Akhaltsikhe from Erevan. “What’s new in Erevan?” I asked him. “In Erevan there’s plague,” he replied, “and what about Akhaltsikhe?” “In Akhaltsikhe there’s plague,” I replied. Having exchanged this pleasant news, we parted.
I rode amidst fertile wheatfields and blossoming meadows. The harvest swayed, waiting for the sickle. I admired the beautiful land, the fruitfulness of which was proverbial in the East. By evening I arrived in Pernike. Here was a Cossack outpost. The sergeant predicted a storm and advised me to stay the night, but I wanted to reach Gyumri without fail that same day.
I was to cross some not very high mountains, the natural border of the Kars pashalik. The sky was covered with dark clouds; I hoped that the wind, which was growing stronger every minute, would scatter them. But rain began to sprinkle and kept getting heavier and steadier. It is eighteen miles from Pernike to Gyumri. I tightened the belt of my burka, drew a bashlik over my visored cap, and entrusted myself to Providence.
More than two hours went by. The rain would not let up. Water poured in streams from my now sodden burka and rain-soaked bashlik. Finally a cold stream began to penetrate behind my tie, and soon the rain had soaked me to the skin. The night was dark; a Cossack rode ahead showing me the way. We started up the mountains. Meanwhile the rain stopped and the clouds scattered. It was about six miles to Gyumri. The wind, blowing freely, was so strong that in a quarter of an hour it dried me out completely. I had no hope of avoiding a fever. Finally I reached Gyumri at around midnight. The Cossack led me straight to the outpost. We stopped by a tent, which I hurriedly entered. There I found twelve Cossacks sleeping side by side. Room was made for me; I collapsed on my burka, insensible from fatigue. That day I had ridden fifty miles. I fell into a dead sleep.
The Cossacks awakened me at dawn. My first thought was: have I come down with a fever? But, thank God, I felt hale and hearty; there was no trace, not only of illness, but even of fatigue. I came out of the tent into the fresh morning air. The sun was rising. Against the clear sky stood a white, snowy, two-headed mountain. “What mountain is that?” I asked, stretching, and heard the answer: “It’s Ararat.” How strong is the effect of sounds! I gazed greedily at the biblical mountain, saw the ark, moored to its top in hopes of renewal and life—and the raven and the dove flying off, symbols of punishment and reconciliation…
My horse was ready. I set out with a guide. The morning was beautiful. The sun was shining. We rode across a wide meadow, over thick green grass, washed with dew and the drops of yesterday’s rain. Before us sparkled a river, which we would have to ford. “Here is the Arpachai,” the Cossack said to me. The Arpachai! Our border! That was worth Ararat. I galloped to the river with an indescribable feeling. I had never yet seen a foreign land. For me there was something mysterious in a border; since childhood travel had been my favorite dream. Later I led a nomadic life for a long time, wandering now in the south, now in the north, but I had never yet escaped the limits of boundless Russia. I joyfully rode into the cherished river, and my good horse carried me to the Turkish bank. But that bank had already been conquered: I was still in Russia.
—
I still had fifty miles to go to reach Kars. I hoped to see our camp by evening. I did not stop anywhere. Halfway there, in an Armenian village, built in the mountains on the bank of a little river, I ate, instead of dinner, a cursed churek, Armenian flatbread, baked half with ashes, which the Turkish prisoners in the Darial gorge missed so much. I would have paid dearly for a slice of Russian black bread, which they found so disgusting. I was accompanied by a young Turk, a terrible chatterbox. He babbled in Turkish all the way, caring less whether I understood him or not. I strained my attention and tried to guess what he meant. He seemed to be scolding the Russians, and, as he was used to seeing them all in uniform, took me by my clothes for a foreigner. We
met a Russian officer going the opposite way. He was coming from our camp and told me that the Russian army had already marched out of Kars. I cannot describe my despair: the thought that I would have to go back to Tiflis, exhausting myself for nothing in deserted Armenia, simply killed me. The officer went on his way; the Turk again began his monologue; but I was past listening to him. I changed from an amble to a long trot and by evening came to a Turkish village located thirteen miles from Kars.
Having leaped off my horse, I was about to enter the first saklia, but the owner appeared in the doorway and pushed me away with curses. I responded to his greeting with my whip. The Turk started shouting; people gathered. My guide apparently intervened for me. They showed me to the caravansarai; I went into a big saklia that resembled a cattle shed; there was no room in it to spread my burka. I requested a horse. The Turkish headman came. To all his incomprehensible talk I made one reply: verbana at (give me a horse). The Turks would not consent. Finally it occurred to me to show them some money (which is what I should have done in the first place). A horse was brought at once, and I was given a guide.
I rode through a wide valley surrounded by mountains. Soon I saw Kars, showing white against one of them. My Turk pointed it out to me, repeating “Kars! Kars!” and sent his horse into a gallop; I followed him, suffering from anxiety: my fate would be decided in Kars. There I would find out where our camp was and whether it would still be possible to catch up with the army. Meanwhile the sky clouded over and it rained again; but I no longer cared about that.
We rode into Kars. Riding up to the gate in the wall, I heard a Russian drum: they were beating 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 in. I told my guide to take me straight to the baths. We rode along the steep and winding streets. The horses slid on the bad Turkish pavement. We stopped in front of a house of rather poor appearance. This was the baths. The Turk dismounted and started knocking on the door. No one answered. Rain poured down on me. Finally a young Armenian came out of a neighboring house and, having talked with my Turk, invited me in, speaking rather good Russian. He led me up a narrow stairway to the second part of the house. In a room furnished with low couches and threadbare carpets sat an old woman, his mother. She came up to me and kissed my hand. Her son told her to start a fire and prepare dinner for me. I took off my burka and sat down by the fire. My host’s younger brother, a boy of about seventeen, came in. Both brothers had been in Tiflis and lived there for several months at a time. They told me that our troops had left the day before and that our camp was seventeen miles from Kars. That set me completely at ease. Soon the old woman had prepared me some lamb with onion, which I thought the height of culinary art. We all lay down to sleep in the same room; I sprawled in front of the dying fire and fell asleep in the pleasant hope of seeing Count Paskevich’s camp the next day.
In the morning I went to look at the town. The younger of my hosts volunteered to be my cicerone. Examining the fortifications and the citadel, built on an inaccessible cliff, I could not understand how we could have taken Kars. My Armenian explained to me as well as he could the military actions that he himself had witnessed. Noticing an inclination for war in him, I proposed that he go to the army with me. He accepted at once. I sent him for horses. He came back together with an officer, who demanded a written order from me. Judging by the Asiatic features of his face, I did not deem it necessary to rummage among my papers and took from my pocket the first scrap I chanced upon. The officer, having gravely studied it, at once gave instructions that horses be brought to his honor in accordance with the order and gave me back my paper: it was a poem to a Kalmyk girl that I had scribbled in one of the Cossack way stations.48 Half an hour later I rode out of Kars, and Artemy (the name of my Armenian) was already riding beside me on a Turkish stallion, a supple Kurdish javelin in his hand, a dagger behind his belt, and raving about Turks and battles.
I rode over land sown everywhere with grain; I could see villages around, but they were empty: the inhabitants had fled. The road was excellent and paved in marshy places—stone bridges had been built across the streams. The land was rising noticeably—the advance hills of the Sagan-loo ridge, the ancient Tauris, were beginning to appear. Some two hours went by; I rode up a gentle slope and suddenly saw our camp, pitched on the bank of the Kars-chai; a few minutes later I was already in Raevsky’s tent.
CHAPTER THREE
Crossing over Sagan-loo. A skirmish. Camp life. Yazidis. Battle with the seraskir of Arzrum. A blown-up saklia.
I arrived just in time. That same day (June 13) the army received the order to move forward. Having dinner at Raevsky’s, I listened to the young generals discussing the maneuver prescribed for them. General Burtsov49 was dispatched to the left down the Arzrum high road, straight toward the Turkish camp, while the rest of the army was to move to the right side around the enemy.
The troops set out between four and five. I rode with the Nizhegorodsky dragoon regiment, conversing with Raevsky, whom I had not seen for several years. Night fell; we stopped in the valley where the whole army had made a halt. Here I had the honor of being introduced to Count Paskevich.
I found the count in quarters before a campfire, surrounded by his staff. He was cheerful and received me amicably. A stranger to the military art, I did not suspect that the fate of the campaign was being decided at that moment. Here I saw our Volkhovsky,50 covered with dust from head to foot, overgrown with beard, exhausted with cares. He found time, however, to talk with me as an old schoolmate. Here I also saw Mikhail Pushchin,51 who had been wounded the year before. He is loved and respected as a fine comrade and a brave soldier. Many of my old friends surrounded me. How changed they were! How quickly time passes!
Eheu, fugaces, Postume, Postume
labuntur anni…*9
I went back to Raevsky and spent the night in his tent. In the middle of the night I was awakened by terrible shouting: you might have thought the enemy had made a surprise attack. Raevsky sent to find out the cause of the alarm: several Tatar horses, torn loose from their tethers, were running around the camp, and the Muslims (as the Tatars who serve in our army are called) were trying to catch them.
At dawn the army moved forward. We rode up to the tree-clad mountains. We went down into a gorge. The dragoons talked among themselves: “Watch out, brother, steady now: you’ll catch some case shot.” In fact, the location was favorable for an ambush; but the Turks, sidetracked by General Burtsov’s maneuver, did not take advantage of it. We passed safely through the dangerous gorge and stopped on the heights of Sagan-loo, seven miles from the enemy camp.
The nature around us was dreary. The air was cold, the mountains covered with mournful pines. Snow lay in the glens.
…nec Armeniis in oris,
amice Valgi, stat glacies iners
menses per omnis…*10
We barely had time to rest and have dinner when we heard gunfire. Raevsky sent for information. The report was that the Turks had started a skirmish on our advance picket lines. I went with Semichev52 to have a look at a picture that was new to me. We met a wounded Cossack: he sat swaying in the saddle, pale and bloody. Two Cossacks were supporting him. “Are there many Turks?” asked Semichev. “A whole swiny swarm, Your Honor,” replied one of them. Having passed through the gorge, we suddenly saw on the slope of the mountain opposite no less than two hundred Cossacks, formed into a single line, and above them about five hundred Turks. The Cossacks were slowly retreating; the Turks were driving ahead with great boldness, taking aim at twenty paces, firing, galloping back. Their high turbans, handsome dolmans, and brightly caparisoned horses were in sharp contrast with the blue uniforms and simple harness of the Cossacks. Some fifteen of our soldiers had already been wounded. Lieutenant Colonel Basov sent for reinforcements. Just then he himself was wounded in the leg. The Cossacks were in confusion. But Basov mounted up again and remained in command. The reinforcements came quickly. Noticing it, t
he Turks disappeared at once, leaving on the mountainside a naked Cossack corpse, decapitated and truncated. The Turks send cut-off heads to Constantinople, and the hands they dip in blood and put the prints on their banners. The shooting died down. Eagles, the companions of armies, hovered over the mountain, seeking their prey from on high. Just then a group of generals and officers appeared: Count Paskevich arrived and went up the mountain behind which the Turks had vanished. They were reinforced by four thousand cavalry concealed in the hollow and the ravines. From the top of the mountain the view of the Turkish camp opened out, separated from us by ravines and elevations. We came back late. Going through our camp, I saw our wounded, five of whom died that same night and the next day. In the evening I visited young Osten-Sacken,53 wounded that day in another battle.
I liked camp life very much. A cannon shot roused us at dawn. Sleeping in a tent was remarkably healthy. At dinner we washed down Asiatic shashlik with English beer and champagne chilled in the snows of Taurida. Our company was diverse. In General Raevsky’s tent the beks of the Muslim regiments gathered; the conversation was conducted through an interpreter. In our army there were both people of our Transcaucasian territories and inhabitants of recently conquered areas. Among them I looked with curiosity at the Yazidis, reputed in the East to be devil worshippers.54 About three hundred families live at the foot of Ararat. They have recognized the rule of the Russian sovereign. Their chief, a tall, ugly man in a red cape and a black hat, occasionally came with his respects to General Raevsky, commander of all the cavalry. I tried to find out from the Yazidi the truth about their beliefs. To my questions he replied that the rumor of the Yazidis supposedly worshipping Satan was an empty fable; that they believe in one God; that, true, by their law it was considered improper and ignoble to curse the devil, for he is now unhappy, but that in time he may be forgiven, for it is impossible to set limits to Allah’s mercy. This explanation set me at ease. I was very glad for the Yazidis that they did not worship Satan; and their errors now seemed to me much more forgivable.
Novels, Tales, Journeys: The Complete Prose of Alexander Pushkin Page 45