KARS
A new post was offered to my husband. He had recently been nominated
President of the Commission of Demarcation, and was obliged to start for
Erzeroum, the capital of Anatolia. I felt a burning desire to see Sergy
before his departure, and acting upon the impulse of the moment, for I am
a person of prompt action, I rushed off to Kars at once, without stopping
to think of the state of the roads or anything else; determined to brave
all dangers, I felt adventurous enough to undertake this voyage through
Asia.
It was five o’clock in the morning when I started on my journey in a
hired carriage, accompanied by my faithful Helena. All the way was
strewed with corpses of horses and camels. We encountered on our road
bands of wandering Asiatic tribes very fierce-looking and armed from head
to foot.
We reached Kars without any adventure whatever towards night. A crowd of
red-fezzed Turks surrounded our carriage as soon as we arrived at the
market-place, and stared at us in a rather hostile manner. We tried in
vain to make ourselves understood and looked helplessly about us, when I
suddenly perceived in the crowd Mr. Danilevski, a Russian officer whom
I had known at Alexandropol. I greeted him with a radiant smile, for if
he was not the rose, he had been near the rose. My heart was inclined to
fail me when I asked for Sergy, and my discouragement was profound when
Mr. Danilevski told me that my husband had already started for Erzeroum.
Fate treated me with exasperating asperity, and his departure left me
inconsolable; I wondered what on earth I should do with myself in Kars;
fortunately Sergy had kept his lodging, and Mr. Danilevski proposed to
escort us thither.
Our carriage stopped before a shabby little house, and we made our way
up a dark and tortuous stairs to a room which had a dreary deserted
appearance. A rickety table and two lame chairs formed almost all the
furniture. The proprietor, an old Turk wearing an enormous white turban
on his head, came in and welcomed me graciously, putting his hand to his
heart and to his forehead. He offered me a little refreshment, which one
of his wives brought in to me on a tray laden with all sorts of sweets;
but what I wished for most at that moment was that my host would go away,
for I was very weary and exhausted after the journey. When the old Turk
had paid me all his oriental civilities and I had got rid of him, I lay
down upon a mattress which had been spread on the floor, for there was
no bed in the room, but nevertheless I was asleep almost before my head
touched the pillow.
I woke up the next morning feeling very miserable, very desolate. Here I
was alone in a land I knew not, among people whose language I could not
speak.
How dark those days were! I wanted my husband so badly! oh, so very
badly, and he was so desperately far away! In every letter Sergy
announced his speedy return, and I was looking forward to the happy time
that would unite us again. But he failed to arrive, and I felt myself
the most forsaken and miserable of women. I was here within four walls,
leading such a weary, grey life. I had nothing to fill up my time with
and didn’t know what to do with myself all day, and was in such a state
of melancholy that I wished myself dead a thousand times. And in these
moments of wretchedness, except Helena, I had not a human being to speak
to; I was all alone in my misery! The few Russian ladies staying at
Kars saw everything through black spectacles, which irritated me, and I
preferred to shut myself up in my room in order to escape from the great
trial of their sympathy and condolences; I felt myself far better alone.
The ticking of the clock and the wind in the chimney were the only sounds
that broke the silence around me. I hadn’t talked for so long that I
felt myself growing dumb. My life was made of nothing but privations; I
reduced my own personal requirements to the strictest minimum: a plate of
soup and gruel, that was our usual fare. Luckily a sort of torpor came
over me which made me indifferent to my surroundings.
A long, heavy winter was drawing near. I felt the cold terribly; my
broken window was stuffed up with paper instead of panes, of glass and
the stove smoked atrociously, it was impossible to heat it on windy days.
Thus went day after day. At length a telegram came from Sergy. I was sure
it was announcing his arrival and burst it open with a smile of triumph,
but this smile very soon disappeared, for the telegram was an awful
surprise, and shocked me dreadfully, saying that my husband was appointed
governor-general of Erzeroum. For three weeks I had already lived this
loathsome life and I had still many more weary weeks to pass before Sergy
could return to me! What would I not give only to be able to go to him!
Once the idea entered my mind, I communicated my wish to join him to
Sergy, who treated the subject as an insane one, apprehending the state
of the roads, quite impracticable in that season.
The epidemic of typhus that seemed softened down, broke out again,
sweeping away whole villages. The death-list of my husband’s companions
of arms swelled. I was present at the funeral service officiated over by
General Goubski, a good friend of ours, and was very painfully impressed
by it; all who stood by were dry-eyed, his servant only seemed somewhat
afflicted. I returned home in a most depressed state of mind. As I
entered my room I perceived on the flat roof of the house opposite my
lodgings an unusual animation; there was a table in the middle surrounded
by officers and soldiers; I was told that it was a public sale of all
the articles that had belonged to an inhabitant of that house, a Cossack
colonel who had just been carried away by the typhus. On the other
side of the roof the clothes of the deceased officer were burnt on a
wood-pile. At the sight of that my nerves utterly gave way, and I was
seized more than ever with a strong desire to rejoin my husband. I was
so awfully anxious knowing him to be in Erzeroum, where the disease was
at its height, that I could endure the separation, the uncertainty, the
suspense no longer. My pillow that night was all moistened with tears. I
lay in the dark, save for the ghastly light of the smouldering fire on
the opposite roof, with my pessimistic thoughts to keep me company; I
turned my face to the wall and sobbed hot, miserable sobs until I fell
into an uneasy slumber.
The next morning my mind was made up and I despatched a telegram to my
husband, telling him that, come what might, I would start for Erzeroum.
It was all to no purpose again; Sergy showed himself the most inexorable
of husbands and wrote to me that I must listen to reason and wait
patiently until his return after the ratification of the armistice. But
I was not in a humour to listen to reason. “Wait patiently,” I cried out
with unusual heat in myself, “Patience be hanged! I’ll go crazy if I
don’t go to Sergy; I cannot possibly sit still and wait!”
An officer who had just arrived from Erzeroum came on purpose to try to
dissuade me from undertaking such a long and dangerous journey. He told
me that even for him it had been awfully fatiguing; the roads were so
horrible that the committee of the Red-Cross could not find it possible
to send even one Sister of Mercy to Erzeroum. These descriptions of the
state of the roads were certainly not encouraging, but nothing could
shake my determination, I felt heroic and was prepared to brave all
dangers and risk anything for Sergy’s sake, and no human powers should
prevent me from starting at the first opportunity.
Oh, joy! Oh, rapture! A telegram had just been brought to me in which my
husband announced that the preliminary discussions were settled, and that
peace was definitely signed. It seemed almost too good to be true. I was
happier than words can tell. This piece of good news spread through the
town like wild fire. The cannons began to thunder, and the church-bells
pealed merrily all day.
Soon after, a messenger from Erzeroum brought me an urgent letter from
Sergy, telling me that he must remain in Erzeroum until the evacuation
of our troops. He advised me to return to Tiflis until then, but instead
of that I was determined to start for Erzeroum and rejoin my husband.
I implored Mr. Danilevski to send me there with the first military
conveyance, but better fortune awaited me: Mr. Danilevski was sent
himself as a courier to Erzeroum, and having taken compassion on me, he
proposed to take me with him in his post-cart, warning me that I must be
ready to start at any moment. As there was but small chance that I would
find a better occasion, I accepted gladly and began hastily to prepare
for our journey. There was only one drawback, I couldn’t take Helena
with me, there was no room for her in the post-cart. But I could not let
such a chance slip, and was willing even to sacrifice Helena. The poor
old woman entreated me with tears not to undertake this mad journey, but
it was no time to show weakness, my courage seemed to have developed
itself rapidly, for adversity is a great teacher; distance was nothing
to me. I trusted my star and laughed at the most gigantic obstacles, and
Helena had to submit to the painful necessity of letting me go. I did
not allow myself to sleep that night lest I should not be awake when the
hour came for starting. The next morning I received a note from General
Kousminski; that gentleman, whom I had never known before, the chief of
the military communications, extended a helping hand to me and proposed
to take me with Helena in his comfortable travelling-coach. This was
awfully generous of him and I hastened to accept his offer thanking him
profusely. I was so happy I would have kissed everybody, but there was
only Helena, so I kissed her. Dreading that long voyage for Helena I told
her that I could very well do without her and proposed she should return
to Tiflis, but the dear old woman protested hotly and said she was quite
decided to follow me anywhere. It was all settled, we were to start next
day at dawn. I went to bed radiously happy at the thought that on the
morrow I should be far away from Kars, and closing my eyes, I departed to
sweet dreamland, seeing myself already in my husband’s loving arms.