"Will you hold your tongue, little serpent?" said an old Tartar woman to
her grandson, who, having awakened before daylight, was crying for want
of something better to do. "Be quiet, or I will kick you into the
street."
This old woman was Ammalát's nurse: the hut in which she lived stood
close to the tents of the Begs, and had been given to her by her
foster-son, Ammalát. It was composed of two clean whitewashed rooms, the
floor of both was strewed with coarse mats, (ghasil;) in niches close to
each other, for the room was without windows, stood boxes bound with
iron, and on them were arranged a feather-bed, blankets, and all the
utensils. On the cornices, at half the height of the wall, were ranged
porcelain cups for pillau, having tin covers in the form of helmets, and
little plates hanging side by side on wires: the holes with which they
were pierced showing that they served not for use, but for ornament. The
face of the old woman was covered with wrinkles, and expressed a sort of
malicious sorrow: the usual consequence of the lonely pleasureless life
of a Mussulman woman. As a worthy representative of persons of her age
and country, she never for a moment ceased scolding her grandson from
under her blanket, and to grumble to herself. "Kess," (be quiet,) she
cried at length, yet more angrily, "or I will give you to the ghaóuls,
(devils!) Do you hear how they are scratching at the roof, and knocking
at the door for you?"
It was a stormy night; a thick rain pattering on the flat roof which
served as a ceiling, and the roaring of the wind in the chimney,
answered to her hoarse voice. The boy became quiet, and straining his
eyes, hearkened in a fright. It really seemed as if some one was
knocking at the door. The old woman became frightened in her turn: her
inseparable companion, a dirty dog, lifted up his head from sleep, and
began to bark in a most pitiful voice. But meanwhile the knocking at the
door became louder, and an unknown voice cried sternly from without,
"Atch kapini, akhirin akhirici!" (open the door for the end of ends.)
The old woman turned pale. "Allah bismallah!" she exclaimed, now
addressing heaven, then threatening the dog, and then quieting the
crying child. "Sh, accursed beast! Hold your tongue, I say, kharamzáda,
(good-for-nothing son of shame!) Who is there? What honest man will
enter, when it is neither day nor dawn, into the house of a poor old
woman? If you are Shaitán, go to neighbour Kitchkína. It has been long
time to show her the road to hell! If you are a tchaóuth,
(tax-gatherer,) who, to say the truth, is rather worse than Shaitán,
then go about your business. My son-in-law is not at home; he serves as
nóuker at Ammalát Bek's; and the Bek has long ago freed me from taxes;
and as for treating idle travellers, don't expect from me even an egg,
much less a duck. Is it in vain, then, that I suckled Ammalát?"
"Will you open, you devil's distaff?" impatiently exclaimed the voice,
"or I will not leave you a plank of this door for your coffin."
The feeble doors shook on their hinges.
"Enter, pray enter," said the old woman, undoing the iron hasp with a
trembling hand. The door flew open, and there entered a man of a
middling stature, and of a handsome but melancholy countenance. He was
clad in the Circassian dress: the water trickled down his bóurka and
bashlík.[22] Without any apologies, he threw it on the feather-bed, and
began to untie the lopasti of his bashlík which half covered his
face--Fatma, having in the mean time lighted a candle, stood before him
with fear and trembling. The long-whiskered dog, with his tail between
his legs, pressed himself into a corner, and the child, in a fright,
climbed into the fire-place--which, used only for ornaments, was never
heated.
[22] Bashlík--a bonnet worn in bad weather.
"Well, Fatma, you are grown proud," said the unknown; "you do not
recognize old friends."
Fatma gazed at the new-comer's features, and her heart grew light within
her. She recognized Sultan Akhmet Khan, who had ridden in one night from
Kiafir Kounik to Bouináki.
"May the sand fill my eyes that did not recognize their old master!" she
replied, respectfully crossing her arms on her breast. "To say truth,
they are blinded by tears, for her country--for Avár! Forgive an old
woman, Khan!"
"What old age is yours, Fatma? I remember you a little girl, when I
myself could hardly reach the young crows from their nests."
"A strange land makes every one old, Khan. In my native mountains I
should still have been fresh as an apple, and here am I like a snowball
fallen from the hill into the valley. Pray come hither, Khan, here it is
more comfortable. What shall I entertain my precious guest with? Is
there nothing the Khan's soul can wish for?"
"The Khan's soul wishes that you should entertain him with your
goodwill."
"I am at your will; speak, command!"
"Listen to me, Fatma! I have no time to waste in words. This is why I am
come here: render me a service with your tongue, and you shall have
wherewithal to comfort your old teeth. I will make you a present of ten
sheep; I will dress you in silk from top to toe."
"Ten sheep and a gown!--a silk gown! O gracious Aga! O kind Khan! I have
not seen such a lord here since the accursed Tartars carried me away,
and made me marry a hateful ... I am ready to do every thing, Khan, that
you wish. Cut my ears off even, if you will!"
"What would be the good of that? They must be kept sharp. This is the
business. Ammalát will come to you to-day with the Colonel. The Shamkhál
of Tárki will arrive also. This Colonel has attached your young Bek to
him by witchcraft; and having taught him to eat swine's flesh, wants to
make a Christian of him: from which Mahomet preserve him!"
The old woman spat around her, and lifted her eyes to heaven.
"To save Ammalát, we must make him quarrel with the Colonel. For this
purpose you must go to him, throw yourself at his feet, and fall
a-weeping as if at a funeral. As to tears, you will have no need to go
and borrow them of your neighbours. Swear like a shopkeeper of Derbénd;
remember that each oath of yours will bring you a dozen sheep; and at
last tell him that you have heard a conversation between the Colonel and
the Shamkhál: that the Shamkhál complained of his sending back his
daughter: that he hates him out of fear that he should take possession
of the crown of his Shamkhalát: that he implored the Colonel to allow
him to kill him in an ambuscade, or to poison him in his food; but that
the other consented only to send him to Siberia, beyond the end of the
world. In one word, invent and describe every thing cleverly. You were
formerly famous for your tales. Do not eat dirt now. And, above all,
insist that the Colonel, who is going on a furlough, will take him with
him to Georgieffsk, to separate him from his kinsmen and faithful
nóukers; and from thence will dispatch him in chains to the devil."
Sultan Akhmet added to this all the particulars necessary to give the
story the most probable form; and once or twice instructed the old woman
how to introduce them more skilfully.
"Well, recollect every thing accurately, Fatma," said he, putting on his
bóurka; "forget not, likewise, with whom you have to do."
"Vallah, billah! let me have ashes instead of salt; may a beggar's
tchóurek close my eyes; may" ...
"Do not feed the Shaitáns with your oaths; but serve me with your words.
I know that Ammalát trusts you completely; and if, for his good, you
will arrange this--he will come over to me, and bring you with him. You
shall live, singing, under my wing. But I repeat, if, by chance or on
purpose, you betray me, or injure me by your gossiping, I will make of
your old flesh a kibab for the Shaitáns!"
"Be easy, Khan! They have nothing to do either for me or with me. I will
keep the secret like the grave, and I will _put my sarótchka_[23] on
Ammalát."
[23] Give him her feelings--a Tartar phrase.
"Well, be it so, old woman. Here is a golden seal for your lips. Take
pains!"
"_Bathóusta, ghez-óusta_!"[24] exclaimed the old woman, seizing the
ducat with greediness, and kissing the Khan's hand for his present. The
Sultan Akhmet Khan looked contemptuously at the base creature, whilst he
quitted the sákla.
[24] Willingly, if you please? Literally, "on my head, on my
eyes."
"Reptile!" he grumbled to himself, "for a sheep, for a piece of cloth of
gold, thou wouldst be ready to sell thy daughter's body, thy son's soul,
and thy foster-son's happiness!"
He did not reflect upon what name he deserved himself, entangling his
friend in deceit, and hiring such vile creatures for low slander and for
villanous intentions.
_Fragment of a Letter from Colonel Verkhóffsky to his Betrothed_.
Camp near the Village of Kiafir Koumík, August.
... Ammalát loves, and how he loves! Never, not even in the hottest fire
of my youth, did my love rise to such a frenzy. I burned, like a censer
lighted by a sunbeam; he flames, like a ship set on fire by lightning on
the stormy sea. With you, my Maria, I have read more than once
Shakspeare's Othello; and only the frantic Othello can give an idea of
the tropical passion of Ammalát. He loves to speak long and often of his
Seltanetta, and I love to hear his volcanic eloquence. At times it is a
turbid cataract thrown out by a profound abyss--at times a fiery
fountain of the naphtha of Bakou. What stars his eyes scatter at that
moment--what light plays on his cheeks--how handsome he is! There is
nothing ideal in him: but then the earthly is grand, is captivating. I
myself, carried away and deeply moved, receive on my breast the youth
fainting from rapture: he breathes long, with slow sighs, and then
casting down his eyes, lowering his head as if ashamed to look at the
light--not only on me--presses my hand, and walks away with an uncertain
step; and after that one cannot extract a word from him for the rest of
the day.
Since the time of his return from Khounzákh, he is become still more
melancholy than before; particularly the last few days. He hides the
grandest, the noblest feeling which brings man near to divinity, as
carefully as if it were a shameful weakness or a dreadful crime. He
imploringly asked me to let him go once more to Khounzákh, to sigh at
the feet of his fair one; and I refused him--refused him for his own
good. I wrote long ago about my favourite to Alexéi Petróvitch, and he
desired me to bring him with me to the waters, where he will be himself.
He wishes to give him some message to Sultan Akhmet Khan, which will
bring undoubted advantage to him and to Ammalát. Oh, how happy I shall
be in his happiness! To me, to me, he will owe the bliss of his
life--not only empty life. I will force him on his knees before you, and
will make him say--"Adore her as a deity!" If my heart were not filled
with love to Maria, thou wouldst not take possession of Seltanetta.
Yesterday I received an express from the commander-in-chief--a
noble-minded man! He gives wings to happy news. All is arranged; my
darling, I go to meet you at the waters. I shall only lead the regiment
to Derbénd--and then to the saddle! I shall know neither fatigue by day
nor drowsiness by night, till I repose myself in your embrace. Oh, who
will give me wings to fly to you! Who will give me strength to bear
my--_our_--bliss! ... I, in delicious agitation, pressed my bosom, that
my heart might not burst forth. For a long time I could not sleep:
imagination painted our meeting in a thousand forms, and in the
intervals appeared the most trivial but delightful cares, about wedding
trifles, dresses, presents. You will be clad in my favourite colour,
green. ... Is it not true, my soul? My fancies kept me from sleeping,
like a strong perfume of roses; but the sweeter, the more brilliant was
my sleep. I saw you by the light of dawn, and every time different,
every time more lovely than before. My dreams were twined together like
a wreath of flowers; but no! there was no connexion between them. They
were wonderful phantoms, falling like colours from the kaleidoscope, and
as impossible to retain. Notwithstanding all this, I awoke sorrowful
this morning; my awakening took from my childish soul its favourite
toy.... I went into Ammalát's tent; he was still asleep. His face was
pale and angry--let him be angry with me! I taste beforehand the
gratitude of the ardent youth. I, like fate, am preparing his happiness
in secret....
To-day I bid adieu to these mountains for long--I hope for ever. I am
very glad to quit Asia, the cradle of mankind, in which the
understanding has remained till now in its swaddling-clothes.
Astonishing is the immobility of Asiatic life, in the course of so many
centuries. Against Asia all attempts of improvement and civilization
have broken like waves; it seems not to belong to time, but to place.
The Indian Brahmin, the Chinese Mandarin, the Persian Bek, the mountain
Ouzdén, are unchanged--the same as they were two thousand years ago. A
sad truth! They represent, in themselves, a monotonous though varied, a
lively though soulless nature. The sword and the lash of the conqueror
have left on them, as on the water, no trace. Books, and the examples of
missionaries, have produced on them no influence. Sometimes, however,
they have made an exchange of vices; but never have they learned the
thoughts or the virtues of others. I quit the land of fruit to transport
myself to the land of labour--that great inventor of every thing useful,
that suggester of every thing great, that awakener of the soul of man,
which has fallen asleep here, and sleeps in weakness on the bosom of the
seducer--nature.
And truly, how seducing is nature here! Having ridden up the high
mountain to the left of Kiafir Koumík, I gazed with delight on the
gradually lighted summit of the Caucasus. I looked, and could not look
enough at them. What a wondrous beauty decks them as with a crown!
Another thin veil, woven of light and shadow, lay on the lower hill, but
the distant snows basked in the sky; and the sky, like a caressing
mother, bending over them its immeasurable bosom, fed them with the milk
of the clouds, carefully enfolding them with its swathe of mist, and
refreshing them with its gently-breathing wind. Oh, with what a flight
would my soul soar there, where a holy cold has stretched itself like a
boundary between the earthly and the heavenly! My heart prays and
thirsts to breathe the air of the inhabitants of the sky. I feel a wish
to wander over the snows, on which man has never printed the seal of his
blood-stained footsteps--which have never been darkened by the eagle's
shadow--which the thunder has never reached--which the war spirits have
never polluted; and on the ever-young summits where time, the
continuation of eternity, has left no trace.
Time! A strange thought has come into my head. How many fractional names
has the weak sense of man invented for the description of an infinitely
small particle of time out of the infinitely large circle of eternity!
Years, months, days, hours, minutes! God has nothing of all this: he has
not even evening nor morrow. With him all this has united itself into
one eternal _now_!... Shall we ever behold this ocean in which we have
hitherto been drowning? But I ask, to what end will all this serve man?
Can it be for the satisfaction of an idle curiosity? No! the knowledge
of truth, i.e. the All-knowing Goodness, does the soul of the reflecting
man thirst after. It wishes to draw a full cup from the fountain of
light which falls on it from time to time in a fine dew!
And I shall imbibe it. The secret fear of death melts like snow before
the beam of such a hope. I shall draw from it. My real love for my
fellow-creatures is a security for it. The leaden ways of error will
fall asunder before a few tears of repentance, and I shall lay down my
heart as an expiating sacrifice before the judgment-seat which will have
no terrors for me!
It is wonderful, my beloved--hardly do I look at the mountains, the sea,
the sky, ... but a solemn but inexpressibly sweet feeling o'er-burthens
and expands my heart. Thoughts of you mingle with it; and, as in dreams,
your form flits before me. Is this a foretaste of earthly bliss, which I
have only known by name, or a foreboding of ... etern ...? O dearest,
best, angelic soul, one look of yours and I am cured of dreaming! How
happy am I that I can now say with assurance--_au revoir_!