MORE ABOUT GEORGIA
After three interesting and informing days spent in Tiflis, a city
beautifully situated upon many hills, we left for a ten days’ excursion
into various parts of the country. The first trip was to Kasbec in the
Caucasus Mountains.
Eight automobiles, with a complete camera and moving-picture equipment
and a couple of newspaper men, drew up in front of our door at 7
o’clock one morning. The rain poured in torrents. The air was hot and
sultry. We were advised, none the less, to take with us the warmest
wraps we possessed, as we were to climb several thousand feet before
the end of the day and sleep in the mountains. I made an _entente
cordiale_ with two of the Frenchmen in order to exercise my French, and
we three packed ourselves into one of the roomy cars very comfortably;
and off we went.
Despite the weather, it was a gay cavalcade which dashed along the
great military highway, one of the finest engineering feats in the
world. The rain became steadily less persistent after the first
half-hour. The clouds began to disperse and the sun to peep out at
us. About two hours’ distance from the city we were hailed by a brown
shaggy figure standing in the middle of the road. On either side of the
road was a group of picturesque peasant folk in their rough, homely
garb. The men were on one side, the women on the other. An ancient
priest was amongst them. The chief peasant advanced to the first car
bareheaded, carrying bread and salt. His companion held a large horn
of sour, strong wine. We were invited to break bread, to eat salt
and to taste the wine, all of which we did punctiliously. Their faces
broadened with happy smiles as they passed from car to car. Huge
bunches of grapes followed. The women threw flowers to us. The lips of
the bearded priest moved as if in prayer, and his hands were raised to
bless. The little children broke from the side of their mothers and
clapped their tiny hands. At last the horn sounded, the signal for
departure was given, and to the roar of cheers, the waving of hands,
the curtsying and the smiling, we left this patriarchal scene full of
thoughts of early Bible lessons and the pictures of the shepherds of
the East. Some of the young men wore curious yellow wigs of unsewn
sheepskin, which looked like a mass of tangled blond curls, contrasting
sharply with their laughing black eyes. One young giant, wearing a
sheepskin wig and carrying a heavy stick, suggested the traditional
Esau tending his herds and flocks.
On we flew, through richest scenery hourly becoming more mountainous.
The road continued admirable. The sun broke dazzlingly through the
mists. The aspect of the country was that of a soft, delicate patchwork
in shades of green and gold. There were no hedgerows. There were no
glittering scintillations of light and atmosphere, no hardness of
outline as in Switzerland. All was soft, suggestive, seductive. Little
wooden houses perched upon the rocks and ledges. Large patriarchal
farm-houses lay in the valleys. Bright rivulets flashed in and out of
the sedge. Occasionally we passed a broad stream or a lake, or paused
to drink from a sparkling waterfall. Higher and higher we climbed, the
sweet air growing rarer, the habitations less numerous. Eagles screamed
aloft. An ancient castle or faded monastery, incredibly old, stood out
here and there upon the landscape. Everything spoke of a peaceful,
happy, peasant life, of rich flocks and autumn plenty.
At intervals the cars were stopped for some radiant welcome of us by
happy villagers. Sometimes we made little speeches to them, which were
translated by a young Georgian officer. Bread and salt, wine and fruit,
song and dance, merry words and gentle prayers and fierce patriotic
vows--it was all very wonderful and very moving to the men and women
from the West. A tiny peasant boy danced for us shyly at the little
town where we lunched, and imagination removed that boy to the Opera
House in Petrograd or to the Alhambra in London, there to delight the
sophisticated city folk with his mountain-born grace and incomparable
agility. The Georgians are a race of dancers. Their feet and hands move
instinctively to a gay tune. The lilt of the song is in my ears as I
write:
[Illustration: Georgian Dance Song (to be sung to the clapping of hands)
_Vigorously._]
On and on we went, higher and yet higher. The sun was beginning to go
down. Should we reach Kasbec before it quite set? Should we see the
great peaks before darkness came down upon us? We wished that we might.
We wrapped our furs more closely around us. It was really cold now.
Our faces were sore with alternate cold wind and hot sun. We chaffed
one another on our personal appearance, our red noses, suggestive of a
certain want of sobriety! The peaks grew higher. Round first one and
then another, we dashed at the maddest pace on those narrow roads.
Up and up we went. Now the road narrowed dangerously, the valleys
darkened, the gloom gathered on the hills. The solitary peasant at
the head of the pass stood gazing after us with astonished eyes,
leaning upon his staff. Round the last corner we panted, our machines
steaming their protest, when suddenly there burst upon our awestruck
gaze Kasbec, the prince of mountains, its immense snow-covered peak
glowing rose-pink in the last rays of the setting sun. One glorious
instant, and it was gone, shrouded in shadow and mysterious gloom. Up
one more slight incline, and then began our descent. It was quite dark
by this time. We settled down to quiet reverie upon the majesty of the
mountains and the beauty of the starry night.
With startling suddenness wild shrieks tore the air, and the mad
clattering of innumerable horses’ feet coming towards us along the
pass. We sat up startled. What on earth could it be in that solitary
place? It was not the screaming of eagles, nor the roar of wild animals
in pain. That steady patter of feet growing ever louder was of horses
ridden by human beings. We were within a few miles of the Russian
frontier. Perhaps this was a raid of hungry Bolsheviks. If so, what
were we to do? Unfortunately for our safety, the Georgians carried
arms. At one of our pleasant stopping-places they had practised their
arms on improvised targets. The picturesque Mayor of Tiflis, for a
wager, had hit the bull’s-eye at thirty paces, the target being a piece
of white handkerchief on the branch of a tree. There would certainly
be fighting in the event of a collision with the Bolsheviks. And
then--what?
The foremost emotion was curiosity, not fear. Renaudel stood up and
peered into the blackness. Marquet mounted the seat. I hung out of the
car at the side. We could discover nothing. The sounds were coming
nearer. They came from either side as well as in front. Shots rang
out. Wild whoops added to the mystery and the clamour. Suddenly from
out of the mountains on both sides, almost into the cars where we sat,
leapt ferocious horsemen, black and bearded, by the score. They were
dressed in native peasant warrior style, with swords and pistols,
curved scimitars and studded shields. Their head-dress was of various
kinds, round astrakhan caps or the captured peaked caps of the enemy
across the border. The heads of most were uncovered. Broad, spreading
square-shaped astrakhan capes, a family inheritance perchance, covered
the more sober riders.
They rode hardy mountain horses or shaggy ponies, and rode them with
amazing skill, picking up their dropped swords as they galloped and
performing other feats of astounding dexterity. They were of several
tribes, these peasant soldiers of Georgia, of terrifying aspect, wild
and untamed, but withal the merriest, most engaging lot of black-eyed
brigands that ever stepped outside a cinema show. We were out of the
modern world and had moved back through a thousand years of history.
This gallant company had assembled to conduct us into Kasbec, the most
original guard of honour that ever took charge of the guests of a
Government. At their head galloped a particularly attractive ruffian
carrying a red flag on a long wand. How he contrived to carry this
heavy pole in one hand, holding it perfectly erect, and to control
his spirited horse with the other, was one of the wonders at which we
marvelled greatly. It seemed as easy as falling off a log to him. He
led the procession in the three-mile gallop to Kasbec. On either side
of the cars ran torch-bearers on horseback. The fifty attendants grew
to a hundred as we neared the city, the hundred to two hundred, the
two hundred to three, four, five hundred. In addition were women and
children in the town, waiting to help with the songs and the dances.
The old church in which the address of welcome was to be delivered
was too small for the company assembled. We held the meeting in the
churchyard and spoke to the people from the top of a broad wall. I
never heard Mr. Macdonald speak better than he did to those grim
but simple mountain warriors, reminiscent as they were of the shaggy
Highlanders of his native Scotland three centuries or more ago.
I cannot write about the hotel in Kasbec. It was unbelievably awful in
its primitive arrangements and its dirt. The food was abundant and of
good quality, and the host was more than kind. To make us feel more at
home and more secure, exuberant young warriors during the whole night
at intervals flashed past the hotel on horseback, firing shots as they
galloped! And towering high and white in the risen moon, like a stern
but indulgent father, was Kasbec of the everlasting snows.
* * * * *
On the morrow morning we took a trip to the Russian frontier to pay
our respects to the Bolshevik guards and to give some of our friends
the satisfaction of saying they had set foot in Russia in defiance of
Lenin and Trotsky. There the poor fellows stood, in frayed uniforms
with the red star in front of their peaked caps, looking dull and
lonely and tired. They were very pleased to see us, and our cigarettes
and chocolates gave them great satisfaction. “Poor devils!” said a
sympathetic delegate. “They must have an awful time in this lonely,
God-forsaken spot.” No attempt was made to engage them in argument nor
to weaken in any way their adherence to their Government, but one young
fellow volunteered to us in excellent French as we parted: “Nous ne
sommes pas communistes; mobilisées!”
* * * * *
Perhaps in some respects the most amazing reception we received was
at Koutäis, the ancient capital of Georgia. Literally the whole city
turned out to receive us. Masses of people assembled outside the
station. Beautiful white-frocked children, with wreaths in their hair,
lined the road from the railway cars to the carriages, throwing flowers
in our paths. The streets were lined half a dozen deep for the mile and
a half to the public park where the great demonstration was held. Here
there was an enormous concourse, and we had a great time with these
happy folk.
Börjom is perhaps the most beautiful of all the cities of Georgia. It
is in the very heart of the mountains and is famous for its mineral
springs. The surrounding country suggests Switzerland, with this
difference, that for nine months of the year there is a warm and sunny
climate and a profusion of sub-tropical fruits of the greatest variety.
As we wound through the woods and climbed the great hills on the
mountain railway we felt a regret that Georgia and its beauties are not
better known and more accessible to European and American travellers
after health and pleasure. Otherwise it could not fail to attract
thousands of people content with lesser beauties at a greater cost.
At a place called Ikan, about three versts from Börjom, is the palace
of the Grand Duke Michael Nicolaivich, whose ancient and impeccable
servitors, long-bearded and profound, ministered to our needs during
the whole of a long summer’s night. Of this I have already written.
The port of Poti we saw through a flood of rain which filled the
streets with miniature lakes and roused to malignancy a veritable
plague of mosquitoes. These vile insects made the hours in Poti a time
of intolerable torture; but the ladies of Poti were most kind in their
ministrations, and made matters as easy as they could. In an immense
church which had not then been consecrated, reminiscent in size and
austerity of St. Paul’s Cathedral, we held a meeting, beginning in the
early afternoon and continuing until the light had faded and the fitful
gleam of torches lit up the faces of the speakers to ten thousand
eager, patient, curious spectators of a dozen nationalities--Turks,
Armenians, Jews, Tartars, Russians and native Georgians; Christians
and Mussulmans; soldiers and peasants; princes and workmen; women
with and without veils, little children on their mothers’ laps, all
congregated to see and hear the strangers from the unknown lands of the
West.
Our practice was to travel all night and speak and visit during the
day. Sometimes we did not leave the train but spoke to the people
from the steps of the railway carriage. Sometimes the platform was
placed in a field adjoining the railway station, to save the time of
the delegation. Often carriages were in waiting to take us into the
larger towns, where we were shown the more important of the civic
institutions. Frequently we spoke four, five, six, or seven times in
one day. I think the minimum number of speeches was four. And always
there were bouquets of flowers and baskets of fruit as a reward. The
Georgians are indeed “given to hospitality” of the most generous sort.
Amongst the interesting experiences they gave us was a visit to the
manganese mines. Georgia has some of the richest deposits of manganese
in the world. There are already mined vast quantities of this mineral
waiting the restoration in Europe of the amenities of trade and travel
for shipment abroad. In the case of this important industry the
principle of nationalization has not been adopted. A heavy percentage
on profits is paid by the companies to the Government. The managers of
the mines are of several nationalities--Belgian, German and English.
The Englishman we met appears to be a favourite with the men. The
Belgians were less popular. The German overseer of coal mines with
whom we spoke gave the usual impression of very great efficiency,
and obviously commanded respect. The rich coal deposits need capital
for their adequate working. The two thousand miners to whom I spoke
appeared to enjoy the novelty of a woman speaker.
But to say everything that might be said about this gallant little
Socialist Republic, or even one-half of what we ourselves saw during
our two weeks’ visit, is out of the question. The impressions formed
need time for their ripening, but on certain matters we formed very
clear and definite judgments.
The Republic of Georgia, about the same size as Switzerland and with
the same population, is equally beautiful if it is not even more
lovely. It has a good soil, very fertile, with useful deposits of
valuable minerals and a rich supply of oil. Its industries might be
made very productive if modernized and supplied with the necessary
capital. Foreign capital is shy, however, since the Russian Revolution.
It fears confiscation by even the moderate Socialist Government of
Georgia, and is certain of it if Georgia comes to be Bolshevized either
by Lenin from the outside or revolutionaries from within.
Georgia needs peace and security for her happiness. There is no
immediate prospect of either. From the Turks on one side and the
Bolsheviks all round she is in constant danger.
I had the very strongest impression when in Georgia that the population
was overwhelmingly against Bolshevism, and that their support of the
Social Democrats was founded on the love of the peasants for the land
and the fear of the bourgeoisie and aristocracy that a worse fate
might befall them. I believe it to be true of Georgia, as of other
countries whose ancient orders have been overthrown, that the vicious
terms of the various Peace Treaties have united all classes in support
of a party which has not failed in government because it has never
been tried, and which stands for the national existence against a
world of foes combined. In other words, there is a thick streak of
nationalism running through every Socialist Movement of Europe, not
excepting the Russian, whose chief leaders only, and not the rank and
file to any extent, are believers in that anti-nationalism they falsely
parade before the world as internationalism. Surely there can be no
internationalism unless there are nations out of which to make it.
* * * * *
Since the writing of the above I have received this letter from Paris.
President Jordania is there, in exile. He writes in French, but I have
translated the letter:
_Paris,
April 9th, 1921._
DEAR MADAM:
I enclose the manifesto signed by my comrades and myself and addressed
to all the Socialist parties and workers’ organizations. You will find
in it in detail the latest events in Georgia. This exact document
gives in brief amongst other things, the purpose of our action in
Europe: it is to expedite the evacuation of Georgia by the Bolshevik
troops.
The war is not yet finished in Georgia, but it has taken a new form:
it is no longer the Republican army which desperately resists the
invaders, it is the whole country which fights against the armies of
occupation as it has formerly fought against the power of the Czar.
The issue of this conflict depends very largely upon the attitude
of the workers of the world. Each voice of protest raised against
the invaders of Georgia strengthens the power of resistance of the
Georgian democracy and quickens the day of its deliverance.
In thanking you warmly for all you have done for the cause of Georgia
I count upon your support, dear madam, in this new campaign.
Socialist greetings,
N. JORDANIA.
Madame Snowden,
London.
It is a thousand pities that the enclosed manifesto, signed by the
Minister for Foreign Affairs, M. Gueguetchkori, the President of the
Constituent Assembly, M. Tcheidze, and the Minister of the Interior, M.
Ramichvili, in addition to President Jordania, cannot be reproduced in
full, for it is interesting and valuable history; but in the fears for
Georgia already expressed I had foreshadowed only what has unhappily
come to pass.
The substance of the document can be given in a few words. It begins
by pointing out the importance of Georgia in Bolshevik policy in the
Orient and of the desire in Moscow to accomplish its conversion to
Bolshevism. For a long time it was hoped to do this by subsidized
propaganda from the inside. In spite of a wealth of money poured into
the country, this plan failed. Then came an attempt to do so by force.
This also failed. A Russo-Georgian Treaty secured the recognition of
Georgian independence by Russia on May 7, 1920. In November of the same
year Trotsky, speaking to the assembled secretaries of the Communist
Party, declared: “The establishment of the Soviet in Armenia is the
end of Georgia.” The Russian General Hocker was asked to present
a report on the number of soldiers and equipment required for the
conquering of Georgia. This was in December. The general pointed out
that it could be done only with the co-operation of Angora; but from
this moment began the massing of Bolshevik troops on the Georgian
frontier, notwithstanding the vigorous protests of the Georgian Foreign
Minister. Although it had been clear for long that the Russians meant
to attack Georgia, they sought to find some excuse that would satisfy
exterior public opinion by discovering a quarrel between Georgia and
Armenia over some disputed territory. Part of the Bolshevik army
attacked from the Armenian side, Armenia having been compulsorily
Sovietized also in the interests of Bolshevik policy in the East. This
enterprise was undertaken at the very time when M. Chavordoff, the
Armenian Bolshevik, declared his willingness to negotiate with Georgia
the disputed districts. Another section of the Russian army began to
close in from the side of Azerbaijan. Instructions were sent to the
Bolshevik representative in Tiflis to join his agitation to the efforts
of the army in the hope of counter-revolution within. Tiflis was
occupied after valiant resistance. The Turkish Kemalists, assisted by
Bolsheviks, attacked and captured Batoum. The whole country was given
over to its enemies, who cared nothing for treaties when something
crossed their path.
Since all this, a treaty between the Turks and the Russians has been
signed at Moscow, in which the Bolsheviks are recognized as the masters
of Georgia. The Kemalists renounce their aspirations after Batoum,
receiving for themselves the two disputed districts of Middle Georgia,
Artvin, and Ardahan, and a part of the province of Batoum.
[Illustration: Georgian National Anthem]
Lenin is making a great effort to reconcile the people of Georgia.
He has urged his representatives in Georgia to find a way of
reconciliation and a common platform with President Jordania and
his friends. But so far the Georgian people have shown no sign of
going over to the enemy and forsaking their old leaders and elected
representatives. And Jordania, an exile, writes from Paris.
As I write my mind travels first to Russia and the dying population
of Petrograd, then to the merry Georgian peasants with their cakes
and honey in the fields on the way from Kasbec, and finally to the
unforgettable national song which poured from a thousand throats when
patriot-soldiers swore to defend their country’s liberties with their
blood, like the loving sons of every land.