ALEXANDROPOL
We drove the hundred miles to Alexandropol in a post-chaise, bringing
over with us my old maid Helena, who was both a faithful friend and
servant.
We installed ourselves at Alexandropol in the house of a rich Armenian
merchant. It was a dreary home, my new one, with its cross-barred
windows, and suggested to my mind being in prison. I suffered a great
deal from the cold, for our apartments were very badly heated, and we
were obliged to put up an iron stove in the drawing-room.
Alexandropol is surrounded by high mountains; one of the summits named
“Alagöse” is always covered with snow. The town with its low houses and
flat roofs, uniformly built of grey stone, reminds one of Pompeii. The
costume of the native women is as gloomy as everything else in this town.
Enveloped in a yashmak, a piece of white muslin leaving only the eyes
exposed, they looked exactly like ghosts.
We lived in a very unpretending style. General Loris-Melikoff, who tried
his best to cheer our Russian colony, pursued me with invitations, which
I generally managed to evade.
One of our favourite diversions was to visit the citadel, a miniature
fortified town, situated at about a mile’s distance from Alexandropol.
General Kobsieff, the commander of the citadel, was awfully nice to me;
he lent me books and sent me flowers.
One of our most frequent guests, General S⸺ was so old that I was afraid
all the time he’d go to pieces. He showed a distinct preference for my
society and looked at me as if I were something good to eat. This old
general gave me to understand that I had captured his venerable heart and
that he was deeply enamoured with me, which sounded somewhat ridiculous
from that aged warrior, and though he was far too ancient for my taste, I
let him make love to me, for what harm could come of it? My old admirer
was dying to show me the renewal of his vigour, lost in the night of
time; an occasion soon presented itself. One rainy day I went out for a
walk accompanied by two cavaliers, my out-of-date adorer and a sprightly
young officer. Whilst I held my nose up in the air looking at the state
of the sky, a gust of wind tore away my umbrella and the old warrior,
trying to get it before the young one, ran as fast as his old legs could
carry him towards the rolling parasol, and brought it back triumphantly
to me, like a perfect knight. Gallant old creature!
A score of “djigites” belonging to General Loris-Melikoff’s escort,
consisting of different Asiatic tribes, gave circus performances on the
square, where a military band played every afternoon on the roof-platform
of the house opposite our abode. Below, a band of Armenian street urchins
went through all sorts of military evolutions, under the command of a
little chief, decorated with Russian paper-stars and crosses.
I had a great desire to cross the Arpatchai, a small frontier river
between Alexandropol and Asia Minor, in order to be able to say that I
had actually stepped upon Asiatic ground. The Arpatchai was frozen at
this time of year. As soon as I found myself with Mrs. Zezemann, one of
our military ladies, on the other side of the river, a group of Cossacks
who guarded our frontier cried out to us to go back, apprehending,
surely, that we had the intention of running away to Kars, where the
Turkish army was concentrated. The Turkish sentinels, in their turn,
regarded us with suspicion. Finding ourselves thus between two fires we
had to retreat speedily, to my great disappointment, for we had nearly
reached a small cottage inhabited by a Turkish major, with a dozen of
soldiers. But “well begun is half done,” I made a fresh attempt at my
exciting expedition, accompanied this time by Sergy and his interpreter.
My heart beat quickly as we went under the roof of our future enemies,
encircled by a group of red-fezzed soldiers who stared very hard at us.
When the usual greetings had been exchanged, our courteous host, who
seemed quite willing to be friendly, offered us black coffee, served in
tiny cups. Fearing that the beverage was poisoned, I entreated Sergy not
to taste it, but, notwithstanding, he drank a whole cupful and I hastened
to follow his example, for if the coffee had been poisoned, we should
undergo the same fate, both of us. In bidding good-bye to our host I
expressed my intense desire to possess a white Persian cat with silky
long wool, and the Turkish major promised to send me a beautiful specimen
of that feline race. It was very charming of him, but though we had been
treated first rate, I must say I was glad when we were safely home again.
Meanwhile the political horizon grew very dark, and the shadow of evil
hung over us. A great number of the heroes of the last Russo-Turkish war
are buried in Alexandropol in the “Dale of Honour,” and when I thought
that a new war was very near to bursting out, I had a ferocious desire to
fling myself into the Arpatchai. I tried to keep up my spirits as best
I could, deluding myself with vain hopes that in a short time we should
return safe and sound to Tiflis; but the menace of coming war became more
evident every day, it was no use deceiving myself. “Is war inevitable
then?” I asked Sergy a hundred times a day, and he could give me but
little comfort. How could I live then with this sword of Damocles hanging
over me?