A few days after my return from Vladikavkaz, I made preparations for
leaving Tiflis. It was near the end of June, and the unbearable heat
had driven away nearly all those who were free to go; all the highways
leading out of the city were crowded with carts and carriages of every
description, carrying household goods and passengers. My friends had
contracted with some Molokans (Russian heretics), belonging to the
colony of Azamburi, for the removal of their furniture to Signakh;
the carriers had promised to come to our house at four o'clock in the
morning, but it was nine o'clock before they put in an appearance,
and then their carts were half full of other people's goods, a direct
violation of the agreement. If any man ever needed the patience which
is proverbially ascribed to the patriarch Job, it is the man who has
business dealings with the Muscovite muzhik. You may assail him with
all the abuse which your knowledge of his language will permit, you
may strike him, you may calmly endeavour to persuade him with the most
lucid logic--it is all to no purpose; taking off his cap to scratch
his head, he looks at you with an assumption of childlike simplicity,
and replies with a proverb more remarkable for its laconism than for
its applicability to the matter under discussion. In this case we
wrangled for a long time, and then, being unwilling to risk a stroke
of apoplexy by getting into a rage, appealed to the majesty of the
law, represented by a stalwart policeman, at whose command the carts
were emptied forthwith, the contents being deposited on the roadside,
and our effects were soon put in their place, and the whole caravan
rattled down the hillside about two hours before noon. An hour later
a four-horse carriage with springs arrived, and the four of us,
my Georgian host, a Russian lady and gentleman, and myself, set out
for Kakheti.
After descending through the narrow streets which lie between the
Erivan square and the river, we crossed the busy bridge, and mounted
the steep bank on the other side, passing through the liveliest
part of the Persian quarter. By the time we had got clear of the
suburb called the Dogs' Village, with its camels and caravanserais,
we had overtaken the waggons; exchanging friendly salutations with
our volunteer baggage-guard, we were soon rolling along the smooth,
dusty road in the direction of Orkhevi. On our right, down by the side
of the Kura, lay Naftluk, with its beautiful vineyards and orchards,
and beyond it the road to Akstafa and Erivan; on the distant southern
horizon were the blue mountains of Armenia. On our left hand rose a
range of bare-looking hills of no great height.
The region through which the Kakhetian road passes is a flat,
waterless, almost uninhabited steppe; the winds which sometimes sweep
across it are so violent that it is the custom to seek shelter from
them by building the houses in the ground, with the roof on a level
with the road. Twenty years ago the "Society for the Re-establishment
of Orthodox Christianity in the Caucasus" obtained from the late Tsar
a large concession of land near Kara Yazi, and spent 370,000 roubles
on the construction of a canal for irrigation (Mariinskii Kanal);
the scheme was never completely carried out, and the results obtained
have not hitherto been such as to encourage the society, although a
few Nestorians, Assyrian Christians, have been induced to settle in
this unhealthy land. There are still unmistakable signs of the fact
that in ancient times all this steppe was watered from the Kura by
an elaborate system of irrigation, which must have made the country
very fertile; now the whole tract is an almost unbroken wilderness,
where the antelope wanders, unharmed by any hunter.
At Orkhevi there is nothing but the station-house, and those whose only
experience of posting has been derived from the military road between
Tiflis and Vladikavkaz, are likely to be unpleasantly surprised at the
primitive appearance of this traveller's rest. A bare, dirty room,
with two wooden benches and a table, the walls tastefully decorated
with official notices, among which the most prominent is one in four
languages warning farmers against the phylloxera, thereon portrayed
in all the various phases of its development. Such is my remembrance
of Orkhevi. The only refreshment obtainable is a samovar (tea-urn)
of boiling water, from which you can make your own tea if you have
the necessary ingredients with you. A former journey along this
road had already made me familiar with all the little discomforts
and privations which must be undergone by the visitor to Kakheti,
so I was not disappointed. None of the stations are any better all
the way to Signakh, and he who does not bring with him his own food
for the journey is likely to have a very good appetite by the time
he reaches his destination.
The sun had now reached the meridian, and beat down upon us with
terrible force, for our carriage was an open one; we were half-choked
with the dust, a thick white layer of which covered us from head to
foot; on either side lay bare, brown fields, baked hard as stone,
and deeply fissured; no water anywhere; the only thing which broke the
monotony of the scene was the occasional passage of a train of arbas,
laden with huge, bloated-looking ox-skins, full of wine. The arba is
the national vehicle of Georgia, and is said to have been used as a
chariot by the ancient kings; it is constructed entirely of wood;
there is not so much as a nail or pin of metal in it; the wheels
are generally made of one piece of timber, and for this reason the
arba is allowed to travel on the highways without paying the tolls
which are imposed on carts with tires; a pair of oxen draw the cart,
and the creaking of it may be heard afar off. Parched with thirst,
and almost stifled with dust, we were glad to reach Vaziani, where
we spread our cloaks under an oak-tree by the side of a spring,
and proceeded to make a good lunch, after which we slept for a while.
In the afternoon we left Vaziani, and soon passed through the
prosperous German colony of Marienfeld, with its neat, homely cottages,
shaded by fine poplar-trees. The vicinity of the river Iora makes
this a very fertile spot, cool and inviting even in the middle of
summer. A little before reaching Marienfeld we saw, on the left, the
road to Telav, and the Kakhetian hills now seem to slope down very
quickly to meet our road, but we know that we shall have to travel
many a weary verst before we reach them. In the evening, at about
six o'clock, we arrived at Azamburi, a Russian village not far from
the station of Sartachali. It had been agreed that we should spend
the night here, so we alighted at the postoyalii dvor, or inn.
Azamburi is exactly like any other Russian village, a long, dirty,
double row of wretched hovels. Each farmer has his house and buildings
arranged round a square courtyard, in the midst of which lie carts,
pigs, agricultural produce, and filth of all kinds. The inhabitants are
Molokans; some account of the religious opinions of these people will
be found in Mr. D. M. Wallace's well-known work on Russia; they have no
priests nor sacraments, neither smoke nor drink, do not swear, and pay
great reverence to the Bible, a copy of which may be seen on a shelf in
the living-room of every house. They are not at all attractive, either
in physiognomy or conversation; their awful stupidity and ugliness
are all the more powerfully felt from the contrast which the native
population presents to them. Their choice of a piece of ground for
colonization would be inexplicable did we not remember their peculiar
religious convictions; they have chosen the very worst place in the
whole plain; the only drinking water in the neighbourhood is very
bad, so bad that the tea made from it is almost undrinkable, even by
people accustomed to Kura water. Quite near the village are stinking,
stagnant marshes, which must make the place terribly unhealthy.
After dinner we went outside to smoke, for the Molokan will not suffer
the mildest cigarette in his house, and even in the depth of winter
the visitor who smokes must burn his weed in the open air. Returning
along the road for some little distance, followed by a crowd of
children, who, evidently, had never before seen a lady in European
dress, we mounted a little hill, whence we saw in the distance our
baggage-waggons slowly approaching. In re-entering the village we
overtook a farmer with an English reaping-machine; this man was less
taciturn than his neighbours, and of his own accord entered into
conversation with us; he was loud in his praises of the reaper, and
said that the man who invented a certain part of it (a patent screw,
I think) ought to be "kissed behind the ear." We tried to interest
him in a pet idea of our own, viz., that village communities should
buy machinery collectively, but we regret to say that we could not
make a convert of him.
It was nine o'clock before our young friend, Prince Giorgi, arrived
with the goods under his charge; and while we were at supper much
merriment was caused by his vain endeavours to check himself in
the use of the word chort (the devil!), a pet expression of his,
but strictly forbidden in the houses of all good Molokans. The night
being fine, although the air was cool, we made up our minds to sleep
outside rather than risk the onslaughts of the Molokan fleas, and we
chose for our bivouac a thrashing-floor about a hundred yards from
the house; here we lay down, wrapped in our burkas, and smoked and
chatted until we fell asleep. But we were not to have a quiet night;
we were roused by the attack of some ferocious dogs; we beat them off
several times, but the numbers ever increased, until all the canine
population of Azamburi was howling round us.
We were on foot at three o'clock, and, waking up the drivers,
got the horses harnessed and started for Kakabeti. In the early
morning air flitted beautiful birds with wings as brilliant as
those of butterflies, and butterflies as big as birds. It was not
so terribly hot as I had found it some weeks before, when I passed
through Kakabeti in the afternoon, but it was still close enough to
make us long for a breath of the mountain air. This region is swampy,
and the fevers make it uninhabitable.
Kakabeti offers nothing of interest. The same wearisome plain stretches
all the way to Kajereti, near which is the hospitable abode of one of
the Andronikov family. We spent four hours there, and did not leave
the station until an hour after noon. Passing the inviting-looking
post-road to Bakurtsikhe, on our left, we kept to the plain for
a while; then rapidly rising to the village of Nukriani, Signakh
came into view at the top of the hill, and the lovely woodlands
at our feet seemed all the more beautiful on account of the bare,
monotonous character of the parched plain where we had spent the
last two days. Descending by a zigzag road, we entered the town,
and, passing along the main street, through the market-place, soon
reached the very edge of the steep, high hill which rises from the
Alazana valley.