BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE
NO. CCCXXIX. MARCH, 1843. VOL. LIII.
CONTENTS.
AMMALÁT BEK. A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS FROM THE RUSSIAN OF MARLÍNSKI
POEMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER.--NO. VI.
CALEB STUKELY. PART XII.
IMAGINARY CONVERSATION. BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. SANDT AND KOTZEBUE
THE JEWELLER'S WIFE. A PASSAGE IN THE CAREER OF EL EMPECINADO
THE TALE OF A TUB:
AN ADDITIONAL CHAPTER--HOW JACK RAN MAD A SECOND TIME
PAUL DE KOCKNEYISMS, BY A COCKNEY
THE WORLD OF LONDON. SECOND SERIES. PART III.
THE LOST LAMB. BY DELTA
COMTE
* * * * *
AMMALÁT BEK.
A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN OF MARLÍNSKI. BY THOMAS B. SHAW, B.A. OF
CAMBRIDGE, ADJUNCT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE IMPERIAL
LYCEUM OF TSARSKOË SELO.
THE TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
The English mania for travelling, which supplies our continental
neighbours with such abundant matter for wonderment and witticism, is of
no very recent date. Now more than ever, perhaps, does this passion seem
to possess us:
"----tenet insanabile multos
_Terrarum_ [Greek: kakoithes], et ægro in corde senescit:"
when the press groans with "Tours," "Trips," "Hand-books," "Journeys,"
"Visits."
In spite of this, it is as notorious as unaccountable, that England
knows very little, or at least very little correctly, of the social
condition, manners, and literature of one of the most powerful among her
continental sisters.
The friendly relations between Great Britain and Russia, established in
the reign of Edward V., have subsisted without interruption since that
epoch, so auspicious to both nations: the bond of amity, first knit by
Chancellor in 1554, has never since been relaxed: the two nations have
advanced, each at its own pace, and by its own paths, towards the
sublime goal of improvement and civilization--have stood shoulder to
shoulder in the battle for the weal and liberty of mankind.
It is, nevertheless, as strange as true, that the land of Alfred and
Elizabeth is yet but imperfectly acquainted with the country of Peter
and of Catharine. The cause of this ignorance is assuredly not to be
found in any indifference or want of curiosity on the part of English
travellers. There is no lack of pilgrims annually leaving the bank of
Thames,
"With cockle hat and staff,
With gourd and sandal shoon;"
armed duly with note-book and "patent Mordan," directing their wandering
steps to the shores of Ingria, or the gilded cupolas of Moscow. But a
very short residence in the empire of the Tsar will suffice to convince
a foreigner how defective, and often how false, is the information given
by travellers respecting the social and national character of the
Russians. These abundant and singular misrepresentations are not, of
course, voluntary; and it may not be useless to point out their
principal sources.
The chief of these is, without doubt, the difficulty and novelty of the
language, and the unfortunate facility of travelling over the beaten
track--from St Petersburg to Moscow, and from Moscow, perhaps, to Nijny
Nóvgorod, without any acquaintance with that language. The foreigner may
enjoy, during a visit of the usual duration, the hospitality for which
the higher classes are so justly celebrated; but his association with
the nobility will be found an absolute obstacle to the making even a
trifling progress in the Russian language; which, though now regaining a
degree of attention from the elevated classes,[1] too long denied to it
by those with whom their native tongue _was_ an unfashionable one--he
would have no occasion at all to speak, and not even very frequent
opportunities of hearing.
[1] There is, strictly speaking, no middle class in Russia; the
"bourgeoisie," or merchants, it is true, may seem to form an
exception to this remark, but into their circles the traveller
would find it, from many reasons, difficult, and even
impossible, to enter.
But even in those rare cases where the stranger united to a
determination to study the noble and interesting language of the
country, an intention of remaining here long enough to learn it, he was
often discouraged by the belief, that the literature was too poor to
repay his time and labour. Besides, the Russian language has so little
relation to the other European tongues--it stands so much alone, and
throws so little direct light upon any of them, that another obstacle
was thrown into his way.
The acquisition of any one of that great family of languages, all
derived, more or less remotely, from the Latin, which extends over the
whole south and west of Europe, cannot fail to cast a strong light upon
the other cognate dialects; as the knowledge of any one of the Oriental
tongues facilitates, nay almost confers, a mastery over the thousand
others, which are less languages of distinct type than dialects of the
same speech, offshoots from the same stock.
Add to this, the extraordinary errors and omissions which abound in
every disquisition hitherto published in French, English, and German
periodicals with regard to Russian literature, and deform those wretched
rags of translation which are all that has been hitherto done towards
the reproduction, in our own language, of the literature of Russia.
These versions were made by persons utterly unacquainted with the
country, the manners, and the people, or made after the Russian had been
distilled through the alembic of a previous French or German
translation.
Poetry naturally forces its way into the notice of a foreign nation
sooner than prose; but it is, nevertheless, rather singular than
honourable to the literary enterprise of England, that the present is
the first attempt to introduce to the British public any work of Russian
Prose Fiction whatever, with any thing like a reasonable selection of
subject and character, at least _directly_ from the original language.
The two volumes of Translations published by Bowring, under the title of
"Russian Anthology," and consisting chiefly of short lyric pieces, would
appear at first sight an exception to that indifference to the
productions of Russian genius of which we have accused the English
public; and the popularity of that collection would be an additional
encouragement to the hope, that our charge may be, if not ill-founded,
at least exaggerated.
We are willing to believe, that the degree--if we are rightly informed,
no slight one--of interest with which these volumes were welcomed in
England, was sufficient to blind their readers to the extreme
incompetency with which the translations they contained were executed.
It is always painful to find fault--more painful to criticise with
severity--the work of a person whose motive was the same as that which
actuates the present publication; but when the gross unfaithfulness[2]
exhibited in the versions in question tends to give a false and
disparaging idea of the value and the tone of Russian poetry, we may be
excused for our apparent uncourteousness in thus pointing out their
defects.
[2] In making so grave a charge, proof will naturally be
required of us. Though we might fill many pages with instances
of the two great sins of the translator, commission and
omission, the _poco piu_ and _poco meno_, we will content
ourselves with taking, _ad aperturam libri_, an example. At
page 55 of the Second Part of Bowring's Russian Anthology, will
be found a short lyric piece of Dmítrieff, entitled "To Chloe."
It consists of five stanzas, each of four very short lines. Of
these five stanzas, three have a totally different meaning in
the English from their signification in the Russian, and of the
remaining two, one contains an idea which the reader will look
for in vain in the original. This carelessness is the less
excusable, as the verses in question present nothing in style,
subject, or diction, which could offer the smallest difficulty
to a translator. Judging this to be no unfair test, (the piece
in question was taken at random,) it will not be necessary to
dilate upon minor defects, painfully perceptible through
Bowring's versions; as, for instance, a frequent disregard of
the Russian metres--sins against _costume_, as, for example,
the making a hussar (a _Russian_ hussar) swear by his _beard_,
&c. &c. &c.
It will not, we trust, be considered out of place to give our readers a
brief sketch of the history of the Russian literature; the origin,
growth, and fortunes of which are marked by much that is peculiar. In
doing this we shall content ourselves with noting, as briefly as
possible, the events which preceded and accompanied the birth of letters
in Russia, and the evolution of a literature not elaborated by the slow
and imperceptible action of time, but bursting, like the armed Pallas,
suddenly into light.
In performing this task, we shall confine our attention solely to the
department of Prose Fiction, looking forward meanwhile with anxiety,
though not without hope, to a future opportunity of discussing more
fully the intellectual annals of Russia.
In the year of redemption 863, two Greeks of Thessalonika, Cyril[3] and
Methodius, sent by Michael, Emperor of the East, conferred the precious
boon of alphabetic writing upon Kostisláff, Sviatopólk, and Kótsel, then
chiefs of the Moravians.
[3] Cyril was the ecclesiastical or claustral name of this
important personage, his real name was Constantine.
The characters they introduced were naturally those of the Greek
alphabet, to which they were obliged, in order to represent certain
sounds which do not occur in the Greek language,[4] to add a number of
other signs borrowed from the Hebrew, the Armenian, and the Coptic. So
closely, indeed, did this alphabet, called the Cyrillian, follow the
Greek characters, that the use of the aspirates was retained without any
necessity.
[4] For instance, the _j_, (pronounced as the French _j_), _ts,
sh, shtsh, tch, ui, yä_. As the characters representing these
sounds are not to be found in the "case" of an English
compositor, we cannot enter into their Oriental origin.
These characters (with the exception of a few which are omitted in the
Russian) varied surprisingly little in their form,[5] and perhaps
without any change whatever in their vocal value, compose the modern
alphabet of the Russian language; an examination of which would go far,
in our opinion, to settle the long agitated question respecting the
ancient pronunciation of the classic languages, particularly as Cyril
and his brother adapted the Greek alphabet to a language totally foreign
from, and unconnected with, any dialect of Greek.
[5] Not to speak of the capitals, the [Greek: gamma, delta,
zeta, kappa, lambda, mu, omicron, pi, rho, sigma, phi, chi,
theta], have undergone hardly the most trifling change in form;
[Greek: psi, xi, omega], though they do not occur in the
Russian, are found in the Slavonic alphabet. The Russian
pronunciation of their letter B, which agrees with that of the
modern Greeks, is V, there being another character for the
_sound_ B.
In this, as in all other languages, the translation of the Bible is the
first monument and model of literature. This version was made by Cyril
immediately after the composition of the alphabet. The language spoken
at Thessalonika was the Servian: but from the immense number of purely
Greek words which occur in the translation, as well as from the fact of
the version being a strictly literal one, it is probable that the
Scriptures were not translated into any specific spoken dialect at all;
but that a kind of _mezzo-termine_ was selected--or rather formed--for
the purpose. What we have advanced derives a still stronger degree of
probability from the circumstance, that the Slavonic Bible follows the
Greek _construction_. This Bible, with slight changes and corrections
produced by three or four revisions made at different periods, is that
still employed by the Russian Church; and the present spoken language of
the country differs so widely from it, that the Slavonian of the Bible
forms a separate branch of education to the priests and to the upper
classes--who are instructed in this _dead_ language, precisely as an
Italian must study Latin in order to read the Bible.
Above the sterile and uninteresting desert of early Russian history,
towers, like the gigantic Sphynx of Ghizeh over the sand of the Thebaid,
one colossal figure--that of Vladímir Sviatoslávitch; the first to
surmount the bloody splendour of the Great Prince's bonnet[6] with the
mildly-radiant Cross of Christ.
[6] The crown was not worn by the ancient Russian sovereigns,
or "Grand Princes," as they were called; the insignia of these
potentates was a close skull-cap, called in Russian shápka,
bonnet; many of which are preserved in the regalia of Moscow.
This bonnet is generally surrounded by the most precious furs,
and gorgeously decorated with gems.
From the conversion to Christianity of Vladímir and his
subjects--passing over the wild and rapacious dominion of the Tartar
hordes, which lasted for about 250 years--we may consider two languages,
essentially distinct, to have been employed in Russia till the end of
the 17th century--the one the written or learned, the other the spoken
language.
The former was the Slavonian into which the Holy Scriptures were
translated: and this remained the learned or official language for a
long period. In this--or in an imitation of this, effected with various
degrees of success--were compiled the different collections of Monkish
annals which form the treasury whence future historians were to select
their materials from among the valuable, but confused accumulations of
facts; in this the solemn acts of Government, treaties, codes, &c., were
composed; and the few writings which cannot be comprised under the above
classes[7] were naturally compiled in the language, emphatically that of
the Church and of learning.
[7] For instance, sermons, descriptions, voyages and travels,
&c. Two of the last-mentioned species of works are very curious
from their antiquity. The Pilgrimage to Jerusalem of Daniel,
prior of a convent, at the commencement of the 12th century;
and the Memoirs of a Journey to India by Athanase Nikítin,
merchant of Tver, made about 1470.
The sceptre of the wild Tartar Khans was not, as may be imagined, much
allied to the pen; the hordes of fierce and greedy savages which
overran, like the locusts of the Apocalypse, for two centuries and a
half the fertile plains of central and southern Russia, contented
themselves with exacting tribute from a nation which they despised
probably too much to feel any desire of interfering with its language;
and the dominion of the Tartars produced hardly any perceptible effect
upon the Russian tongue.[8]
[8] The only traces left on the _language_ by the Tartar
domination are a few words, chiefly expressing articles of
dress.
It is to the reign of Alexéi Mikháilovitch, who united Little Russia to
Muscovy, that we must look for the germ of the modern literature of the
country: the language had begun to feel the influence of the Little
Russian, tinctured by the effects of Polish civilization, and the spirit
of classicism which so long distinguished the Sarmatian literature.
The impulse given to this union, of so momentous an import to the future
fortunes of the empire, at the beginning of the year 1654, would
possibly have brought forth in course of time a literature in Russia
such as we now find it, had not the extraordinary reign, and still more
extraordinary character, of Peter the Great interposed certain
disturbing--if, indeed, they may not be called in some measure
impeding--forces. That giant hand which broke down the long impregnable
dike which had hitherto separated Russia from the rest of Europe, and
admitted the arts, the learning, and the civilization of the West to
rush in with so impetuous a flood, fertilizing as it came, but also
destroying and sweeping away something that was valuable, much that was
national--that hand was unavoidably too heavy and too strong to nurse
the infant seedling of literature; and the command and example of Peter
perhaps rather favoured the imitation of what was good in other
languages, than the production of originality in his own.
This opinion, bold and perhaps rash as it may appear to Russians, seems
to derive some support, as well as illustration, from the immense number
of foreign words which make the Russian of Peter's time
"A Babylonish dialect;"
the mania for every thing foreign having overwhelmed the language with
an infinity of terms rudely torn, not skilfully adapted, from every
tongue; terms which might have been--have, indeed, since
been--translated into words of Russian form and origin. A review of the
literary progress made at this time will, we think, go far to establish
our proposition; it will exhibit a very large proportion of
translations, but very few original productions.
From this period begins the more immediate object of the present note:
we shall briefly trace the rise and fortunes of the present, or
vernacular Russian literature; confining our attention, as we have
proposed, to the Prose Fiction, and contenting ourselves with noting,
cursorily, the principal authors in this kind, living and dead.
At the time of Peter the Great, there may be said to have existed (it
will be convenient to keep in mind) three languages--the Slavonic, to
which we have already alluded; the Russian; and the dialect of Little
Russia.
The fact, that the learned are not yet agreed upon the exact epoch from
which to date the origin of the modern Russian literature, will probably
raise a smile on the reader's lip; but the difficulty of establishing
this important starting-point will become apparent when he reflects upon
the circumstance, that the literature is--as we have stated--divisible
into two distinct and widely differing regions. It will be sufficiently
accurate to date the origin of the modern Russian literature at about a
century back from the present time; and to consider Lomonósoff as its
founder. Mikháil Vassílievitch Lomonósoff, born in 1711, is the author
who may with justice be regarded as the Chaucer or the Boccacio of the
North: a man of immense and varied accomplishments, distinguished in
almost every department of literature, and in many of the walks of
science. An orator and a poet, he adorned the language whose principles
he had fixed as a grammarian.
He was the first to write in the spoken language of his country, and, in
conjunction with his two contemporaries, Soumarókoff and Kheráskoff, he
laid the foundations of the Russian literature.
Of the other two names we have mentioned as entitled to share the
reverence due from every Russian to the fathers of his country's
letters, it will be sufficient to remark, that Soumarókoff was the first
to introduce tragedy and opera, and Kheráskoff, the author of two epic
poems which we omit to particularize, as not coming within our present
scope, wrote a work entitled "Cadmus and Harmonia," which may be
considered as the first romance. It is a narrative and metaphysical
work, which we should class as a "prose poem;" the style being
considerably elevated above the tone of the "Musa pedestris."
The name of Emín comes next in historical, though not literary,
importance: though the greater part of his productions consists of
translations, particularly of those shorter pieces of prose fiction
called by the Italians "novelle," he was the author of a few original
pieces, now but little read; his style bears the marks, like that of
Kheráskoff, of heaviness, stiffness, and want of finish.
The reputation of Karamzín is too widely spread throughout Europe to
render necessary more than a passing remark as to the additions made by
him to the literature of his country in the department of fiction: he
commenced a romance, of which he only lived to finish a few of the first
chapters.
Naréjniy was the first to paint the real life of Russia--or rather of
the South or Little Russia: in his works there is a good deal of
vivacity, but as they are deformed by defects both in style and taste,
his reputation has become almost extinct. We cannot quit this division
of our subject, which refers to romantic fiction anterior to the
appearance of the regular historical novel, without mentioning the names
of two, among a considerable number of authors, distinguished as having
produced short narratives or tales, embodying some historical
event--Polevói and Bestónjeff--the latter of whom wrote, under the name
of Marlínski, a very large number of tales, which have acquired a high
and deserved reputation.
It is with Zagóskin that we may regard the regular historical
novel--viewing that species of composition as exemplified in the works
of Scott--as having commenced.
With reference to the present state of romance in Russia, the field is
so extensive as to render impossible, in this place, more than a cursory
allusion to the principal authors and their best-known works: in doing
which, we shall attend more exclusively to those productions of which
the subject or treatment is purely national.
One of the most popular and prolific writers of fiction is Zagóskin,
whose historical romance "Yoúriy Milosláffskiy," met with great and
permanent success. The epoch of this story is in 1612, a most
interesting crisis in the Russian history, when the valour of Mínin
enabled his countrymen to shake off the hated yoke of Poland. His other
work, "Roslavleóff," is less interesting: the period is 1812. We may
also mention his "Iskonsítel"--"the Tempter"--a fantastic story, in
which an imaginary being is represented as mingling with and influencing
the affairs of real life.
Of Boulgárin, we may mention, besides his "Ivan Vuíjgin," a romance in
the manner of "Gil Blas," the scenery and characters of which are
entirely Russian, two historical novels of considerable importance. "The
False Dimítri," and "Mazeppa,"--the hero of the latter being _a real
person_, and not, as most readers are aware, a fictitious character
invented by Byron.
Next comes the name of Lajétchnikoff, whose "Last Page" possesses a
reputation, we believe, tolerably extensive throughout Europe. The
action passes during the war between Charles XII. and Peter the Great,
and Catharine plays a chief part in it, as servant of the pastor Glück,
becoming empress at the conclusion. The "House of Ice," by the same
writer, is perhaps more generally known than the preceding work. The
last-named romance depicts with great spirit the struggle between the
Russian and foreign parties in the reign of Anna Ivánovna. But perhaps
the most remarkable work of Lajétchnikoff is the romance entitled
"Bassourmán," the scene of which is laid under Iván III., surnamed the
Great.[9] Another Polevói (Nikolái) produced a work of great
merit:--"The Oath at the Tomb of Our Lord," a very faithful picture of
the first half of the fifteenth century, and singular from the
circumstance that love plays no part in the drama. Besides this, we owe
to Polevói a wild story entitled "Abbaddon." Veltman produced, under the
title of "Kostshéi the Deathless," a historical study of the manners of
the twelfth century, possessing considerable merit. It would be unjust
to omit the name of a lady, the Countess Shíshkin, who produced the
historical novel "Mikháil Vassílievitch Skópin-Shúisky," which obtained
great popularity.
[9] The non-Russian reader must be cautioned not to confuse
Iván III. (surnamed Velíkiy, or the Great) with Ivan IV., the
Cruel, the latter of whom is to foreigners the most prominent
figure in the Russian history. Iván III. mounted the throne in
1462, and his terrible namesake in 1534; the reign of Vassíliy
Ivánovitch intervening between these two memorable epochs.
The picturesque career of Lomonósoff gave materials for a romantic
biography of that poet, the work of Xenophónt Polevói, resembling, in
its mixture of truth and fiction, the "Wahrheit und Dichtung" of Goethe.
Among the considerable number of romances already mentioned, those
exhibiting scenes of private life and domestic interest have not been
neglected. Kaláshnikoff wrote "The Merchant Jáloboff's Daughter," and
the "Kamtchadálka," both describing the scenery and manners of Siberia;
the former painting various parts of that wild and interesting country,
the latter confined more particularly to the Peninsula of Kamtchátka.
Besides Gógol, whose easy and prolific pen has presented us with so many
humorous sketches of provincial life, we cannot pass over Begitchéff,
whose "Khólmsky Family" possesses much interest; but the delineations of
Gógol depend so much for their effect upon delicate shades of manner,
&c., that it is not probable they can ever be effectively reproduced in
another language.
Mentioning Peróffsky, whose "Monastírka" gives a picture of Russian
interior life, we pass to Gretch, an author of some European reputation.
His "Trip to Germany" describes, with singular piquancy, the manners of
a very curious race--the Germans of St Petersburg; and "Tchérnaia
Jénstchina," "the Black Woman," presents a picture of Russian society,
which was welcomed with great eagerness by the public.
The object of these pages being to invite the attention of British
readers to a very rich field, in a literature hitherto most
unaccountably neglected by the English public, the present would not be
a fit occasion to enter with any minuteness into the history of Russian
letters, or to give, in fact, more than a passing allusion to its chief
features; the translator hopes that he will be excused for the
meagreness of the present notice.
He will be abundantly repaid for his exertions, by the discovery of any
increasing desire on the part of his countrymen to become more
accurately acquainted with the character of a nation, worthy, he is
convinced, of a very high degree of respect and admiration. How could
that acquaintance be so delightfully, or so effectually made, as by the
interchange of literature? The great works of English genius are read,
studied, and admired, throughout the vast empire of Russia; the language
of England is rapidly and steadily extending, and justice, no less than
policy, demands, that many absurd misapprehensions respecting the social
and domestic character, no less than the history, of Russia, should be
dispelled by truth.
The translator, in conclusion, trusts that it will not be superfluous to
specify one or two of the reasons which induced him to select the
present romance, as the first-fruit of his attempt to naturalize in
England the literature of Russia.
It is considered as a very good specimen of the author's style; the
facts and characters are all strictly true;[10] besides this, the author
passed many years in the Caucasus, and made full use of the
opportunities he thus enjoyed of becoming familiar with the language,
manners, and scenery of a region on which the attention of the English
public has long been turned with peculiar interest.
[10] The translator recently met in society a Russian officer,
who had served with distinction in the country which forms the
scene of "Ammalát Bek." This gentleman had intimately known
Marlínski, and bore witness to the perfect accuracy of his
delineations, as well of the external features of nature as of
the characters of his _dramatis personæ_. The officer alluded
to had served some time in the very regiment commanded by the
unfortunate Verkhóffsky. Our fair readers may be interested to
learn, that Seltanetta still lives, and yet bears traces of her
former beauty. She married the Shamkhál, and now resides in
feudal magnificence at Tarki, where she exercises great sway,
which she employs in favour of the Russian interest, to which
she is devoted.
The picturesqueness as well as the fidelity of his description will, it
is hoped, secure for the tale a favourable reception with a public
always "_novitatis avida_," and whose appetite, now somewhat palled with
the "Bismillahs" and "Mashallahs" of the ordinary oriental novels, may
find some piquancy in a new variety of Mahomedan life--that of the
Caucasian Tartars.
The Russian language possessing many characters and some few sounds for
which there is no exact equivalent in English, we beg to say a word upon
the method adopted on the present occasion so to represent the Russian
orthography, as to avoid the shocking barbarisms of such combinations as
_zh_, &c. &c., and to secure, at the same time, an approach to the
correct pronunciation. Throughout these pages the vowels _a, e, i, o,
y_, are supposed to be pronounced as in French, the diphthong _ou_ as in
the word _you_, the _j_ always with the French sound.
With respect to the combinations of consonants employed, _kh_ has the
gutteral sound of the _ch_ in the Scottish word _loch_, and _gh_ is like
a rather rough or coarse aspirate.
The simple _g_ is invariably to be uttered hard, as in _gun_ or _gall_.
To avoid the possibility of errors, the combination _tch_, though not a
very soft one to the eye, represents a Russian sound for which there is
no character in English. It is, of course, uttered as in the word
_watch_.
As a great deal of the apparent discord of Russian words, as pronounced
by foreigners, arises from ignorance of the place of the accent, we have
added a sign over every polysyllable word, indicating the part on which
the stress is to be laid.
The few preceding rules will, the translator hopes, enable his
countrymen to _attack_ the pronunciation of the Russian names without
the ancient dread inspired by terrific and complicated clusters of
consonants; and will perhaps prove to them that the language is both an
easy and a melodious one.
_St Petersburg, November_ 10, 1842.
CHAPTER I.
"Be slow to offend--swift to revenge!"
_Inscription on a dagger of Daghestán._
It was Djoumá.[11] Not far from Bouináki, a considerable village of
Northern Daghestán, the young Tartars were assembled for their national
exercise called "djigítering;" that is, the horse-race accompanied by
various trials of boldness and strength. Bouináki is situated upon two
ledges of the precipitous rocks of the mountain: on the left of the road
leading from Derbend to Tarki, rises, soaring above the town, the crest
of Caucasus, feathered with wood; on the right, the shore, sinking
imperceptibly, spreads itself out into meadows, on which the Caspian Sea
pours its eternal murmur, like the voice of human multitudes.
[11] Djoumá answers to our Sabbath. The days of the Mahomedan
week are as follows: Shambi, Saturday; Ikhshambá, Sunday;
Doushambá, Monday; Seshambá, Tuesday; Tchershambá, Wednesday;
Pkhanshambá, Thursday; Djoumá, Friday.
A vernal day was fading into evening, and all the inhabitants, attracted
rather by the coolness of the breeze than by any feeling of curiosity,
had quitted their sáklas,[12] and assembled in crowds on both sides of
the road. The women, without veils, and with coloured kerchiefs rolled
like turbans round their heads, clad in the long chemise,[13] confined
by the short arkhaloúkh, and wide toumáns,[14] sat in rows, while
strings of children sported before them. The men, assembled in little
groups, stood, or rested on their knees;[15] others, in twos or threes,
walked slowly round, smoking tobacco in little wooden pipes: a cheerful
buzz arose, and ever and anon resounded the clattering of hoofs, and the
cry "katch, katch!" (make way!) from the horsemen preparing for the
race.
[12] Sákla, a Circassian hut.
[13] A species of garment, resembling a frock-coat with an
upright collar, reaching to the knees, fixed in front by hooks
and eyes, worn by both sexes.
[14] The trowsers of the _women_: those worn by the men, though
alike in form, are called shalwárs. It is an offence to tell a
man that he wears the toumán; being equivalent to a charge of
effeminacy; and _vice versâ_.
[15] It is the ordinary manner of the Asiatics to sit in this
manner in public, or in the presence of a superior.
Nature, in Daghestán, is most lovely in the month of May. Millions of
roses poured their blushes over the crags; their odour was streaming in
the air; the nightingale was not silent in the green twilight of the
wood, almond-trees, all silvered with their flowers, arose like the
cupolas of a pagoda, and resembled, with their lofty branches twined
with leaves, the minarets of some Mussulman mosque. Broad-breasted oaks,
like sturdy old warriors, rose here and there, while poplars and
chenart-trees, assembled in groups and surrounded by underwood, looked
like children ready to wander away to the mountains, to escape the
summer heats. Sportive flocks of sheep--their fleeces speckled with
rose-colour; buffaloes wallowing in the mud of the fountains, or for
hours together lazily butting each other with their horns; here and
there on the mountains noble steeds, which moved (their manes floating
on the breeze) with a haughty trot along the hills--such is the frame
that encloses the picture of every Mussulman village. On this Djoumá,
the neighbourhood of Bouináki was more than usually animated. The sun
poured his floods of gold on the dark walls of the flat-roofed sáklas,
clothing them with fantastic shadows, and adding beauty to their forms.
In the distance, crawling along the mountain, the creaking arbas[16]
flitted among the grave-stones of a little burial-ground ... past them,
before them, flew a horseman, raising the dust along the road ... the
mountain crest and the boundless sea gave grandeur to this picture, and
all nature breathed a glow of life.
[16] A kind of rude cart with two wheels.
"He comes, he comes!" was murmured through the crowd; all was in motion.
The horsemen, who till now had been chattering with their acquaintance
on foot, or disorderedly riding about the meadow, now leaped upon their
steeds, and dashed forward to meet the cavalcade which was descending to
the plain: it was Ammalát Bek, the nephew of the Shamkhál[17] of Tarki,
with his suite. He was habited in a black Persian cloak, edged with
gold-lace, the hanging sleeves thrown back over his shoulders. A Turkish
shawl was wound round his arkhaloúkh, which was made of flowered silk.
Red shalwárs were lost in his yellow high-heeled riding-boots. His gun,
dagger, and pistol, glittered with gold and silver arabesque work. The
hilt of his sabre was enriched with gems. The Prince of Tarki was a
tall, well-made youth, of frank countenance; black curls streamed behind
his ears from under his cap--a slight mustache shaded his upper lip--his
eyes glittered with a proud courtesy. He rode a bright bay steed, which
fretted under his hand like a whirlwind. Contrary to custom, the horse's
caparison was not the round Persian housing, embroidered all over with
silk, but the light Circassian saddle, ornamented with silver on a black
ground; and the stirrups were of the black steel of Kharamán, inlaid
with gold. Twenty noúkers[18] on spirited horses, and dressed in cloaks
glittering with lace, their caps cocked jauntily, and leaning affectedly
on one side, pranced and sidled after him. The people respectfully stood
up before their Bek, and bowed, pressing their right hand upon their
right knee. A murmur of whispered approbation followed the young chief
as he passed among the women. Arrived at the southern extremity of the
ground, Ammalát stopped. The chief people, the old men leaning upon
their sticks, and the elders of Bouináki, stood round in a circle to
catch a kind word from the Bek; but Ammalát did not pay them any
particular attention, and with cold politeness replied in monosyllables
to the flatteries and obeisances of his inferiors. He waved his hand;
this was the signal to commence the race.
[17] The first Shamkháls were the kinsmen and representatives
of the Khalifs of Damascus: the last Shamkhál died on his
return from Russia, and with him finished this useless rank.
His son, Suleiman Pacha, possessed his property as a private
individual.
[18] The attendants of a Tartar noble, equivalent to the
"henchman" of the ancient Highlanders. The noúker waits behind
his lord at table, cuts up and presents the food.
Twenty of the most fiery horsemen dashed forward, without the slightest
order or regularity, galloping onward and back again, placing themselves
in all kinds of attitudes, and alternately passing each other. At one
moment they jostled one another from the course, and at the same time
held in their horses, then again they let them go at full gallop over
the plain. After this, they each took slender sticks, called djigidís,
and darted them as they rode, either in the charge or the pursuit, and
again seizing them as they flew, or picking them up from the earth.
Several tumbled from their saddles under the strong blows; and then
resounded the loud laugh of the spectators, while loud applauses greeted
the conqueror; sometimes the horses stumbled, and the riders were thrown
over their heads, hurled off by a double force from the shortness of
their stirrups. Then commenced the shooting. Ammalát Bek had remained a
little apart, looking on with apparent pleasure. His noúkers, one after
the other, had joined the crowd of djigíterers, so that, at last, only
two were left by his side. For some time he was immovable, and followed
with an indifferent gaze the imitation of an Asiatic combat; but by
degrees his interest grew stronger. At first he watched the cavaliers
with great attention, then he began to encourage them by his voice and
gestures, he rose higher in his stirrups, and at last the warrior-blood
boiled in his veins, when his favourite noúker could not hit a cap which
he had thrown down before him. He snatched his gun from his attendants,
and dashed forward like an arrow, winding among the sporters. "Make
way--make way!" was heard around, and all, dispersing like a rain-cloud
on either side, gave place to Ammalát Bek.
At the distance of a verst[19] stood ten poles with caps hanging on
them. Ammalát rode straight up to them, waved his gun round his head,
and turned close round the pole; as he turned he stood up in his
stirrups, turned back--bang!--the cap tumbled to the ground; without
checking his speed he reloaded, the reins hanging on his horse's
neck--knocked off another, then a third--and so on the whole ten. A
murmur of applause arose on all sides; but Ammalát, without stopping,
threw his gun into the hands of one of his noúkers, pulled out a pistol
from his belt, and with the ball struck the shoe from the hind foot of
his horse; the shoe flew off, and fell far behind him; he then again
took his gun from his noúker, and ordered him to gallop on before him.
Quicker than thought both darted forward. When half-way round the
course, the noúker drew from his pocket a rouble, and threw it up in the
air. Ammalát raised himself in the saddle, without waiting till it fell;
but at the very instant his horse stumbled with all his four legs
together, and striking the dust with his nostrils, rolled prostrate. All
uttered a cry of terror; but the dexterous horseman, standing up in the
stirrups, without losing his seat, or even leaning forward, as if he had
been aware that he was going to fall, fired rapidly, and hitting the
rouble with his ball, hurled it far among the people. The crowd shouted
with delight--"Igeed, igeed! (bravo!) Alla valla-ha!" But Ammalát Bek,
modestly retiring, dismounted from his steed, and throwing the reins to
his djilladár, (groom,) ordered him immediately to have the horse shod.
The race and the shooting was continued.
[19] 3500 English feet--three quarters of a mile.
At this moment there rode up to Ammalát his emdjék,[20] Saphir-Ali, the
son of one of the poor beks of Bouináki, a young man of an agreeable
exterior, and simple, cheerful character. He had grown up with Ammalát,
and therefore treated him with great familiarity. He leaped from his
horse, and nodding his head, exclaimed--"Noúker Mémet Rasoúl has knocked
up the old cropped[21] stallion, in trying to leap him over a ditch
seven paces wide." "And did he leap it?" cried Ammalát impatiently.
"Bring him instantly to me!" He went to meet the horse--and without
putting his foot in the stirrup, leaped into the saddle, and galloped to
the bed of a mountain-torrent. As he galloped, he pressed the horse with
his knee, but the wearied animal, not trusting to his strength, bolted
aside on the very brink, and Ammalát was obliged to make another turn.
The second time, the steed, stimulated by the whip, reared up on his
hind-legs in order to leap the ditch, but he hesitated, grew restive,
and resisted with his fore-feet. Ammalát grew angry. In vain did
Saphir-Ali entreat him not to force the horse, which had lost in many a
combat and journey the elasticity of his limbs. Ammalát would not listen
to any thing; but urging him with a cry, and striking him with his drawn
sabre for the third time, he galloped him at the ravine; and when, for
the third time, the old horse stopped short in his stride, not daring to
leap, he struck him so violently on the head with the hilt of his sabre,
that he fell lifeless on the earth.
[20] Foster-brother; from the word "emdjek"--suckling. Among
the tribes of the Caucasus, this relationship is held more
sacred than that of nature. Every man would willingly die for
his emdjek.
[21] This is a celebrated race of Persian horses, called Teke.
"This is the reward of faithful service!" said Saphir-Ali,
compassionately, as he gazed on the lifeless steed.
"This is the reward of disobedience!" replied Ammalát, with flashing
eyes.
Seeing the anger of the Bek, all were silent. The horsemen, however,
continued their djigítering.
And suddenly was heard the thunder of Russian drums, and the bayonets of
Russian soldiers glittered as they wound over the hill. It was a company
of the Kourínsky regiment of infantry, sent from a detachment which had
been dispatched to Akoúsh, then in a state of revolt, under Sheikh Ali
Khan, the banished chief of Derbend. This company had been protecting a
convoy of supplies from Derbend, whither it was returning by the
mountain road. The commander of the company, Captain -----, and one
officer with him, rode in front. Before they had reached the
race-course, the retreat was beaten, and the company halted, throwing
aside their havresacks and piling their muskets, but without lighting a
fire.
The arrival of a Russian detachment could have been no novelty to the
inhabitants of Daghestán in the year 1819; and even yet, it must be
confessed, it is an event that gives them no pleasure. Superstition made
them look on the Russians as eternal enemies--enemies, however, vigorous
and able; and they determined, therefore, not to injure them but in
secret, by concealing their hatred under a mask of amity. A buzz spread
among the people on the appearance of the Russians: the women returned
by winding paths to the village, not forgetting, however, to gaze
secretly at the strangers. The men, on the contrary, threw fierce
glances at them over their shoulders, and began to assemble in groups,
discussing how they might best get rid of them, and relieve themselves
from the podvód[22], and so on. A multitude of loungers and boys,
however, surrounded the Russians as they reposed upon the grass. Some of
the Kekkhoúds (starosts[23]) and Tehaoúshes (desiátniks[24]) appointed
by the Russian Government, hastily advancing to the Captain, pulled off
their caps, after the usual salutation, "Khot ghialdi!" (welcome!) and
"Yakshimoúsen, tazamoúsen, sen-ne-ma-moúsen," (I greet you,) arrived at
the inevitable question at a meeting of Asiatics, "What news?"--"Na
khaber?"
[22] The being obliged to transport provisions.
[23] The chief of a village.
[24] The subordinates of the atarost.
"The only news with me is, that my horse has cast a shoe, and the poor
devil is dead lame," answered the Captain in pretty good Tartar: "and
here is, just _ápropos_, a blacksmith!" he continued, turning to a
broad-shouldered Tartar, who was filing the fresh-shod hoof of Ammalát's
horse. "Kounák! (my friend,)--shoe my horse--the shoes are ready--'tis
but the clink of a hammer, and 'tis done in a moment!"
The blacksmith turned sulkily towards the Captain a face tanned by his
forge and by the sun, looked from the corners of his eyes at his
questioner, stroked the thick mustache which overshadowed a beard long
unrazored, and which might for its bristles have done honour to any
boar; flattened his arákshin (bonnet) on his head, and coolly continued
putting away his tools in their bag.
"Do you understand me, son of a wolf race?" said the Captain.
"I understand you well," answered the blacksmith,--"you want your horse
shod."
"And I should advise you to shoe him," replied the Captain, observing on
the part of the Tartar a desire to jest.
"To-day is a holiday: I will not work."
"I will pay you what you like for your work; but I tell you that,
whether you like it or not, you must do what I want."
"The will of Allah is above ours; and he does not permit us to work on
Djoumá. We sin enough for gain on common days, so on a holiday I do not
wish to buy coals with silver."[25]
[25] Go to the devil.
"But were you not at work just now, obstinate blockhead? Is not one
horse the same as another? Besides, mine is a real Mussulman--look at
the mark[26]--the blood of Karabákh."
[26] The Asiatics mark their horses by burning them on their
haunch with a hot iron. This peculiar mark, the [Greek: stigma]
or [Greek: kotpa] of the Greeks is called "távro."
"All horses are alike; but not so those who ride them: Ammalát Bek is my
aga (lord.)"
"That is, if you had taken it into your head to refuse him, he would
have had your ears cropped; but you will not work for me, in the hope
that I would not dare to do the same. Very well, my friend! I certainly
will not crop your ears, but be assured that I will warm that orthodox
back of yours with two hundred pretty stinging nogaikas (lashes with a
whip) if you won't leave off your nonsense--do you hear?"
"I hear--and I answer as I did before: I will not shoe the horse--for I
am a good Mussulman."
"And I will make you shoe him, because I am a good soldier. As you have
worked at the will of your Bek, you shall work for the need of a Russian
officer--without this I cannot proceed. Corporals, forward!"
In the mean time a circle of gazers had been extending round the
obstinate blacksmith, like a ring made in the water by casting a stone
into it. Some in the crowd were disputing the best places, hardly
knowing what they were running to see; and at last more cries were
heard: "It is not fair--it cannot be: to-day is a holiday: to-day it is
a sin to work!" Some of the boldest, trusting to their numbers, pulled
their caps over their eyes, and felt at the hilts of their daggers,
pressing close up to the Captain, and crying "Don't shoe him, Alékper!
Do nothing for him: here's news, my masters! What new prophets for us
are these unwashed Russians?" The Captain was a brave man, and thoroughly
understood the Asiatics. "Away, ye rascals!" he cried in a rage, laying
his hand on the butt of his pistol. "Be silent, or the first that dares
to let an insult pass his teeth, shall have them closed with a leaden
seal!"
This threat, enforced by the bayonets of some of the soldiers, succeeded
immediately: they who were timid took to their heels--the bolder held
their tongues. Even the orthodox blacksmith, seeing that the affair was
becoming serious, looked round on all sides, and muttered "Nedjelaim?"
(What can I do?) tucked up his sleeves, pulled out from his bag the
hammer and pincers, and began to shoe the Russian's horse, grumbling
between his teeth, "_Vala billa beetmi eddeem_, (I will not do it, by
God!)" It must be remarked that all this took place out of Ammalát's
presence. He had hardly looked at the Russians, when, in order to avoid
a disagreeable rencontre, he mounted the horse which had just been shod,
and galloped off to Bouináki, where his house was situated.
While this was taking place at one end of the exercising ground, a
horseman rode up to the front of the reposing soldiers. He was of
middling stature, but of athletic frame, and was clothed in a shirt of
linked mail, his head protected by a helmet, and in full warlike
equipment, and followed by five noúkers. By their dusty dress, and the
foam which covered their horses, it might be seen that they had ridden
far and fast. The first horseman, fixing his eye on the soldiers,
advanced slowly along the piles of muskets, upsetting the two pyramids
of fire-arms. The noúkers, following the steps of their master, far from
turning aside, coolly rode over the scattered weapons. The sentry, who
had challenged them while they were yet at some distance, and warned
them not to approach, seized the bit of the steed bestridden by the
mail-coated horseman, while the rest of the soldiers, enraged at such an
insult from a Mussulman, assailed the party with abuse. "Hold hard! Who
are you?" was the challenge and question of the sentinel. "Thou must be
a raw recruit if thou knowest not Sultan Akhmet Khan of Avár,"[27]
coolly answered the man in mail, shaking off the hand of the sentry from
his reins. "I think last year I left the Russians a keepsake at Báshli.
Translate that for him," he said to one of his noúkers. The Aváretz
repeated his words in pretty intelligible Russian.
[27] The brother of Hassan Khan Djemontái, who became Khan of
Avár by marrying the Khan's widow and heiress.
"'Tis Akhmet Khan! Akhmet Khan!" shouted the soldiers. "Seize him! hold
him fast! down with him! pay him for the affair of Báshli[28]--the
villains cut our wounded to pieces."
[28] The Russian detachment, consisting on this occasion of
3000 men, was surrounded by 60,000. These were, Ouizmi
Karakaidákhsky, the Aváretzes, Akoushínetzes, the Boulinétzes
of the Koi-Soú, and others. The Russians fought their way out
by night, but with considerable loss.
"Away, brute!" cried Sultan Akhmet Khan to the soldier who had again
seized the bridle of his horse--"I am a Russian general."
"A Russian traitor!" roared a multitude of voices; "bring him to the
Captain: drag him to Derbend, to Colonel Verkhóffsky."
"'Tis only to hell I would go with such guides!" said Akhmet, with a
contemptuous smile, and making his horse rear, he turned him to the
right and left; then, with a blow of the nogaik,[29] he made him leap
into the air, and disappeared. The noúkers kept their eye on the
movements of their chief, and uttering their warcry, followed his steps,
and overthrowing several of the soldiers, cleared a way for themselves
into the road. After galloping off to a distance of scarce a hundred
paces, the Khan rode away at a slow walk, with an expression of the
greatest _sang-froid_, not deigning to look back, and coolly playing
with his bridle. The crowd of Tartars assembled round the blacksmith
attracted his attention. "What are you quarrelling about, friends?"
asked Akhmet Khan of the nearest, reining in his horse.
[29] The whip of a Kazak.
In sign of respect and reverence, they all applied their hands to their
foreheads when they saw the Khan. The timid or peaceably disposed among
them, dreading the consequences, either from the Russians or the Khan,
to which this rencontre might expose them, exhibited much discomfiture
at the question; but the idle, the ruffian, and the desperate--for all
beheld with hatred the Russian domination--crowded turbulently round him
with delight. They hurriedly told him what was the matter.
"And you stand, like buffaloes, stupidly looking on, while they force
your brother to work like a brute under the yoke!" exclaimed the Khan,
gloomily, to the bystanders; "while they laugh in your face at your
customs, and trample your faith under their feet! and ye whine like old
women, instead of revenging yourselves like men! Cowards! cowards!"
"What can we do?" cried a multitude of voices together; "the Russians
have cannon--they have bayonets!"
"And ye, have ye not guns? have ye not daggers? It is not the Russians
that are brave, but ye that are cowards! Shame of Mussulmans! The sword
of Daghestán trembles before the Russian whip. Ye are afraid of the roll
of the cannon; but ye fear not the reproach of cowardice. The fermán of
a Russian prístav[30] is holier to you than a chapter of the Koran.
Siberia frightens you more than hell. Did your forefathers act, did your
forefathers think thus? They counted not their enemies, they calculated
not. Outnumbered or not, they met them, bravely fought them, and
gloriously died! And what fear ye? Have the Russians ribs of iron? Have
their cannon no breach? Is it not by the tail that you seize the
scorpion?" This address stirred the crowd. The Tartar vanity was touched
to the quick. "What do we care for them? Why do we let them lord it over
us here?" was heard around. "Let us liberate the blacksmith from his
work--let us liberate him!" they roared, as they narrowed their circle
round the Russian soldiers, amidst whom Alékper was shoeing the
captain's horse. The confusion increased. Satisfied with the tumult he
had created, Sultan Akhmet Khan, not wishing to mix himself up in an
insignificant brawl, rode out of the crowd, leaving two noúkers to keep
alive the violent spirit among the Tartars, while, accompanied by the
remainder, he rode rapidly to the ootakh[31] of Ammalát.
[30] A superintendent.
[31] The house, in Tartar, is "ev;" "outakh," mansion; and
"sarái," edifice in general; "haram-khanéh," the women's
apartments. For palace they employ the word "igarát." The
Russians confound all these meanings in the word "sákla,"
which, in the Circassian language, is house.
"Mayest thou be victorious," said Sultan Akhmet Khan to Ammalát Bek, who
received him at the threshold. This ordinary salutation, in the
Circassian language, was pronounced with so marked an emphasis, that
Ammalát as he kissed him, asked, "Is that a jest or a prophecy, my fair
guest?"
"That depends on thee," replied the Sultan. "It is upon the right heir
of the Shamkhalát[32] that it depends to draw the sword from the
scabbard."
[32] The father of Ammalát was the eldest of the family, and
consequently the true heir to the Shamkhalát. But the Russians,
having conquered Daghestán, not trusting to the good intentions
of this chief, gave the power to the younger brother.
"To sheath it no more, Khan? An unenviable destiny. Methinks it is
better to reign in Bouináki, than for an empty title to be obliged to
hide in the mountains like a jackal."
"To bound from the mountains like a lion, Ammalát; and to repose, after
your glorious toils, in the palace of your ancestors."
"To repose? Is it not better not to be awakened at all?
"Would you behold but in a dream what you ought to possess in reality?
The Russians are giving you the poppy, and will lull you with tales,
while another plucks the golden flowers of the garden."[33]
[33] A _jeu-de-mots_ which the Asiatics admire much;
"kizil-gulliár" means simply roses, but the Khan alludes to
"kizíl," ducats.
"What can I do with my force?"
"Force--that is in thy soul, Ammalát!... Despise dangers and they bend
before you.... Dost thou hear that?" added Sultan Akhmet Khan, as the
sound of firing reached them from the town. "It is the voice of
victory!"
Saphir-Ali rushed into the chamber with an agitated face.
"Bouináki is in revolt," he hurriedly began; "a crowd of rioters has
overpowered the detachment, and they have begun to fire from the
rocks."[34]
[34] The Tartars, like the North American Indians, always, if
possible, shelter themselves behind rocks and enclosures, &c.,
when engaged in battle.
"Rascals!" cried Ammalát, as he threw his gun over his shoulder. "How
dared they to rise without me! Run, Saphir-Ali, threaten them with my
name; kill the first who disobeys."
"I have done all I could to restrain them," said Saphir-Ali, "but none
would listen to me, for the noúkers of Sultan Akhmet Khan were urging
them on, saying that he had ordered them to slay the Russians."
"Indeed! did my noúkers say that?" asked the Khan.
"They did not say so much, but they set the example," said Saphir-Ali.
"In that case they have done well," replied Sultan Akhmet Khan: "this is
brave!"
"What hast thou done, Khan!" cried Ammalát, angrily.
"What you might have done long ago!"
"How can I justify myself to the Russians?"
"With lead and steel.... The firing is begun.... Fate works for you ...
the sword is drawn ... let us go seek the Russians!"
"They are here!" cried the Captain, who, followed by two men, had broken
through the disorderly ranks of the Tartars, and dashed into the house
of their chief. Confounded by the unexpected outbreak in which he was
certain to be considered a party, Ammalát saluted his enraged
guest--"Come in peace!" he said to him in Tartar.
"I care not whether I come in peace or no," answered the Captain, "but I
find no peaceful reception in Bouináki. Thy Tartars, Ammalát, have dared
to fire upon a soldier of mine, of yours, a subject of our Tsar."
"In very deed, 'twas absurd to fire on a Russian," said the Khan,
contemptuously stretching himself on the cushions of the divan, "when
they might have cut his throat."
"Here is the cause of all the mischief, Ammalát!" said the Captain,
angrily, pointing to the Khan; "but for this insolent rebel not a
trigger would have been pulled in Bouináki! But you have done well,
Ammalát Bek, to invite Russians as friends, and to receive their foe as
a guest, to shelter him as a comrade, to honour him as a friend! Ammalát
Bek, this man is named in the order of the commander-in-chief; give him
up."
"Captain," answered Ammalát, "with us a guest is sacred. To give him up
would be a sin upon my soul, an ineffaceable shame upon my head; respect
my entreaty; respect our customs."
"I will tell you, in your turn--respect the Russian laws. Remember your
duty. You have sworn allegiance to the Tsar, and your oath obliges you
not to spare your own brother if he is a criminal."
"Rather would I give up my brother than my guest, Sir Captain! It is not
for you to judge my promises and obligations. My tribunal is Allah and
the padishah! In the field, let fortune take care of the Khan; but
within my threshold, beneath my roof, I am bound to be his protector,
and I will be!"
"And you shall be answerable for this traitor!"
The Khan had lain in haughty silence during this dispute, breathing the
smoke from his pipe: but at the word "traitor," his blood was fired, he
started up, and rushed indignantly to the Captain.
"Traitor, say you?" he cried. "Say rather, that I refused to betray him
to whom I was bound by promise. The Russian padishah gave me rank, the
sardar[35] caressed me--and I was faithful so long as they demanded of
me nothing impossible or humiliating. But, all of a sudden, they wished
me to admit troops into Avár--to permit fortresses to be built there;
and what name should I have deserved, if I had sold the blood and sweat
of the Aváretzes, my brethren! If I had attempted this, think ye that I
could have done it? A thousand free daggers, a thousand unhired bullets,
would have flown to the heart of the betrayer. The very rocks would have
fallen on the son who could betray his father. I refused the friendship
of the Russians; but I was not their enemy--and what was the reward of
my just intentions, my honest counsels? I was deeply, personally
insulted by the letter of one of your generals, whom I had warned. That
insolence cost him dear at Báshli ... I shed a river of blood for some
few drops of insulting ink, and that river divides us for ever."
[35] The commander-in-chief.
"That blood cries for vengeance!" replied the enraged Captain. "Thou
shalt not escape it, robber!"
"Nor thou from me!" shouted the infuriated Khan, plunging his dagger
into the body of the Captain, as he lifted his hand to seize him by the
collar. Severely wounded, the officer fell groaning on the carpet.
"Thou hast undone me!" cried Ammalát, wringing his hands. "He is a
Russian, and my guest!"
"There are insults which a roof cannot cover," sullenly replied the
Khan. "The die is cast: it is no time to hesitate. Shut your gate, call
your people, and let us attack the enemy."
"An hour ago I had no enemy ... there are no means now for repulsing
them ... I have neither powder nor ball ... The people are dispersed."
"They have fled!" cried Saphir-Ali in despair. "The Russians are
advancing at full march over the hill. They are close at hand!"
"If so, go with me, Ammalát!" said the Khan. "I rode to Tchetchná
yesterday, to raise the revolt along the line ... What will be the end,
God knows; but there is bread in the mountains. Do you consent?"
"Let us go!" ... replied Ammalát, resolvedly.... "When our only safety
is in flight, it is no time for disputes and reproaches."
"Ho! horses, and six noúkers with me!"
"And am I to go with you?" said Saphir-Ali, with tears in his
eyes--"with you for weal or woe!"
"No, my good Saphir-Ali, no. Remain you here to govern the household,
that our people and the strangers may not seize every thing. Give my
greeting to my wife, and take her to my father-in-law, the Shamkhál.
Forget me not, and farewell!"
They had barely time to escape at full gallop by one gate, when the
Russians dashed in at the other.