OVER THE CAUCASUS
1. _Bareback to Kobi_
I HAD given Nicholas an address, Poste Restante, Mleti, and as Mleti is
in the province of Tiflis, on the other side of the mountains, it took
several days’ tramping to get there. I set off one August morning. The
following are pages from my diary:
KOBI, _10th August_, 6 a.m.
I am sitting on the stone wall of a bridge and am spread to the
sun. Last night I slept on a ledge of red porphyry rock beside
some moss and grasses; the dew was very heavy and I felt cold. I
don’t think I slept much, but I feel pretty fit at this moment,
sitting as I am in the sun on this bridge. I got up at the first
sign of dawn and went to one of the inns of the village—each
village has several inns of a kind, half grocer’s shop and half
wine house—_dukhans_ they call them. The samovar was actually on
the table steaming. Hot tea was wonderful after such a cold
night.
[Illustration: KAZBEK POSTING-STATION]
This village is six thousand feet up, and I should probably have slept
at the posting-station, but I arrived too late last night. So I slept
out again as on the last three nights. I had a very lively journey
hither. I left the Kazbek Station yesterday evening, and thought to find
a comfortable sleeping-place in the barley fields that lay between the
road and the River Terek; but just as I was beginning my tramp an
Ossetine came up with four horses and asked would I care to ride one. It
was a bareback business, and I rather fought shy of it, but he pointed
out a quiet horse and assured me we should go gently. We should need to
go gently if I was going to feel comfortable after eighteen versts of
it. There were of course neither stirrups nor saddle, and as I had a
blanket across my back I made a saddle of that. I felt ridiculously
stiff in the legs, for I had walked thirty miles already, but I managed
to scramble on to the horse’s back. The Ossetine disengaged his horse
from the other three and rode separately. I had two horses at my side.
It was very uncomfortable riding, but I soon learnt what to do; how to
kick him if the horse went too slow; how to cry _brrrrr_ if I wanted him
to stop. But, oh! how sore I got. After five versts I began to ride
side-saddle. At six versts we stopped at a wineshop, another _dukhan_;
there are plenty of them along the road. There is no Government monopoly
of spirits on this side of the Caucasus. They can’t enforce that on a
population that has produced its own wines for centuries. I did not much
want to stop but the Ossetine did. He was an unprofitable companion, for
utter stupidity he would be hard to be matched; he was almost totally
lacking in intelligence. He put on a thoughtful look whenever he was
addressed, and answered something irrelevant. I do not think he could
understand any sentence in which the word wine did not occur, hence his
astonishing imbecility. His face was reminiscent of the sun shining
through a shower of rain, eyes and moustache wet-looking, and the latter
yellow and shiny—in his eyes fore-knowledge of wine—also remembrance of
wine. A boy came out of the _dukhan_ and tied our horses to posts. The
Ossetine became very gay and festive, and directly he got into the shop
slapped the innkeeper on the back, and ordered sixpennyworth of white
wine, which meant a bucketful. It had a look of the tea I have made from
the Terek when the river has been very muddy, and it was a trifle fiery.
I drank two glasses and the man had the rest. When the bucket was dry he
began to be very sympathetic with me. I had only had two glasses; what a
pity there wasn’t any more. Shouldn’t we have some red wine now? But I
wasn’t going to buy him any more wine, and I had a wish to get to Kobi
in fairly decent style, so I said, “No thanks, I don’t want any more,
but if you want another drink you order it; don’t be shy on my account.
I haven’t any more money.” This conference had lasted some time; it was
getting darker; I did not want to arrive in Kobi after night-fall; it
would then be difficult to find a soft place to encamp for the night.
But the host brought in tea. This was free of charge, and so we sipped
it, and played with it, while the Ossetine tried to persuade me to stand
him another bucket of wine. He failed; we went out. He was drunk before
we dismounted, and now he was at the fighting stage. He had separated
the horses differently at the inn, so that I was with one only; and now,
without a word of warning, he slashed them from behind with a whip. We
went off at a gallop; he brought his two horses into line, and we went
forward neck to neck full pelt for two versts as if we were a desperate
cavalry charge. It was fearfully thrilling! We came to a sudden halt at
a turn of the road in order to let a cart pass; we were all four horses,
all scrunched and cooped up in a corner. The Ossetine swore by all his
saints if he had any—he was a Mahommedan—for my horse was backing into
him, and kicking out with its hind legs. Then suddenly we left the road
and cantered over the moor to the Terek. The river was by no means so
impetuous there as in the Dariel Gorge, and we forded it. What a kicking
and splashing we made, and how the horses stumbled! I thought I should
have been pitched into the water. Of course I got drenched to the knees
as it was. After this I had to dismount and put my rug straight, and the
first thing that happened after I got on again was most startling—the
flame, flash and bang of a revolver just in front of me, and the
Ossetine tearing off as if he were possessed. I thought someone had shot
at him, especially as he signalled to me over his shoulder. I kicked my
steed, brought him along sharply and got abreast of him. It was the
Ossetine who had fired, and two minutes later he fired again. The wild
man was brandishing his weapon and shouting in his own language. Then he
grinned at me, and said in Russian, “No one’s going to touch me, eh?” I
felt apprehension, and took good care to keep behind him. I did not want
a bullet in my back. He continued to flare about, and pull up his horse
at unexpected moments, and with such severity that it pawed the air.
Presently, whilst we were leading our horses down some steep rocks amid
a litter of stones, it seemed he fired at me. I asked him to be careful
and he grinned maliciously. Then we re-forded the Terek and regained the
road, which was a relief, for there is less chance of being murdered on
the highway than among the rocks. The Ossetine became very sulky; he had
evidently been long on the way and would be abused by his master when he
got to Kobi. No pace was quick enough for him; I think if I had been
thrown he would have left me by the wayside and charged ahead full
gallop with the four horses. I was glad enough, therefore, when the
lights of Kobi appeared. I dismounted outside the village and walked in.
The wine and the tea and the gallop made me feel more queer than a rough
Channel passage would have done. Then I wished I had some number to
write down, that would indicate how tired my legs were of clasping that
horse’s back.
I slept on the hard rock, or did not sleep, and had hot tea in the
morning, and here I am. I shall take things easily to-day.
This is a beautiful place, a wide trough of black earth high up among
the mountains. It has an immense sky for a mountain village, and the air
is buoyant, fresh, perfect. All around are rosy porphyry rocks, and like
a gleam in fairyland the sunlight comes upon them at dawn. This is the
village to have a cottage in; it is perfectly beautiful and in the heart
of the mountains, and is at cross-roads. Only the flowers are few;
perhaps it stands too high. The water flowing under this bridge is green
and clear and cold. I have just washed in it. What luxury! Within a
stone’s throw is a rock out of which gushes seltzer water with iron in
solution. According to the natives it cures everything, even the pain
that you feel when in the mountains you come across the track of the
devil.
2. _Driving a Cart to Gudaour._
GUDAOUR, _10th August_.
I have been feeling very saddle-sore, but to-day my pains are too many
and too various to describe. I came over the pass on a cart this day,
and was so jolted that I felt in need of internal refitting. I had been
lying by the roadside at Kobi drinking in the sunshine; it was perfectly
blissful. I was determined not to walk to Gudaour; it didn’t matter if I
did spend a day in perfect idleness. But at noon I was aware of a
vehicle crawling towards me up the road, and I thought I would ask a
place in it for my weary bones. It took half an hour to come up,
however, for the driver was fast asleep and the horse was going at its
own sweet will, _i.e._, at about a mile an hour. I woke the man. He was
an Armenian, a copper-coloured fellow with a black eye. When I got in,
he beat the horse furiously with a thick cudgel for about half a verst
distance, and then relapsed into sleep. We went at a smart pace and then
slowed down. The horse kept looking backward all the time—it had no
blinkers—watching its master and the angle of his cudgel. When the
Armenian was fast asleep the horse resumed its original speed of one
mile an hour. And so, laboriously, we climbed the ten versts to
Krestovy, the ridge of the pass. The scenery was extremely beautiful and
the air very cold and fresh. At Vladikavkaz I expect there were 90 or
100 degrees Fahrenheit, but here, in the shade, it was near
freezing-point. The avalanche snow lay in great quantities below us,
bridging the little rivers. Even now and then there was snow on the
road. But we were protected from snow slides by covered ways at the most
important points. The chief feature of the landscape were the cascades.
Narrow silvery waterfalls dropped from ledge to ledge of the red
porphyry rock. They are the prettiest things I have seen in the
Caucasus, for these mountains are the places of the sublime rather than
of the charming.
At six versts the Armenian collapsed backward into the cart and then
woke up. The horse immediately changed speed to five miles an hour;
these collapsings had evidently happened before and been followed by
cudgel thumping. The driver now rubbed his eyes, and then looked at me
as if seeing me for the first time. Then he seemed to recollect, asked
me where I was going to, and gave me the reins. I took the seat in
front, for he evidently wanted me to drive. He, for his part, spread his
sheepskin cloak in the cart, and snuggled himself to go to sleep. His
last words were, “Hit her hard, she’s not a horse, she’s a devil.”
At eight versts I looked behind and saw a strange cloud coming from the
north. It looked like a clenched fist, and all the knuckles stood out
hard with anger. I took advice and thumped the horse a little. It would
not be pleasant to be caught in a storm. We got along at a better pace,
the horse squinting back at me to see if I were going to sleep. It was
amusing that it increased or slackened its speed as I raised or lowered
the stick. It was scarcely necessary to touch the horse at all. I felt I
had something in common with the conductor of an orchestra. It was a
cunning horse, however, and knew that I was not its master. At the
highest point of the road it stopped stock-still and refused to budge;
my mild thumping had no effect. The wind had now risen to a gale and the
fist of cloud had become a wide army of vapours. I got down and led the
horse a little way, and then hopped to my seat while the cart was in
motion. We went like this for half a verst, and then the horse made a
sudden dash off the road and settled down to eat grass. More habits were
displaying themselves. I got him off after some trouble, and set him
going on the road again. This proceeding, which had to be repeated every
verst or so, reminded me of the “Innocents Abroad” and the mules. When
they wished to change direction they had to dismount, lift up the mules
by the hind-quarters, and turn them to the new angles. I expect the
mules would then go on a good way without stopping: my case was worse.
In six versts we should be at Gudaour and could take shelter, but the
rain would overtake us. The clouds were pouring over the rocks and
cliffs all about, and only far away to the south spread the blue sky as
yet not covered. Suddenly the clouds came drifting over the road; we
were obliged to stop, and as they rolled over us and the cart they
seemed to turn to rain at a touch. But we were only five minutes in the
mist; we heard a long roll of thunder, and suddenly, instead of cloud it
was hissing, stinging hail. The Armenian slept soundly, and I wrapped
myself in my blanket and urged the horse forward. The road lay downhill
and we moved quickly towards Gudaour. In an hour we arrived there and
the rain had stopped; the clouds had passed over our heads and there was
blue sky again. The sun shone.
We stopped at an inn in the village, and, looking down from there, could
see the thunderstorm that had left us raging in the valleys of Mleti and
Ananaour. The clouds were literally below us, and we saw the blue sky
above them. How brightly the sun shone! it stood just beyond a little
grassy summit where some sheep were browsing; it seemed that if one were
there one could stretch out one’s hand and take it from its place.
The Armenian had definitely wakened up now and was preparing to have a
good meal. The innkeeper lit a wood fire on the stone floor of his
dwelling and prepared to do some cooking. We bargained for a chicken
between us. It would cost sixpence. The chicken was already plucked, and
the innkeeper threw it into a pot that he had on the fire. Whilst we
waited for it to cook we had a bucket of red wine before us, and the
Armenian did himself justice.
“You’re an Englishman,” said he. “You ought to know where there’s any
war going on. Where’s there any war, I say? Where’s there any war?”
“In Spain,” I suggested. “The Spanish are fighting the Moors.”
“I never heard of it; there’s been a war here, you know, in Persia, but
Persians are weak fellows, and the Russians are weak. Three Persians one
Russian, three Russians one Armenian. Loris Melikoff, eh? Did you ever
hear of him? He was the greatest general the Russians ever had, and he
was an Armenian. The richest man in the world is an Armenian. He lives
in London and keeps a flying machine. You are English, why don’t you use
a flying machine? What does the sky look like in England? Is it full of
machines? One day I shall go there. Already I know some English, _brodt,
bootter_. The English are better than the Russians. Fine machines they
have. But they break down, oh, they break down. I saw two yesterday that
couldn’t get on. How would you like to plough a mountain side with one
of your machines? You’d break down. But a horse wouldn’t break down; a
horse for me. Do you know they wanted me to join the army, serve my
time, be drilled, learn to ride and shoot. I said to the General, ‘The
devil comes to me to learn to ride and shoot, who’s going to give me
lessons? No Russian. I should think not. Why,’ I said, ‘you give me your
hat and I’ll put it on one of these mountain peaks so far away that you
can’t see it, far less fire at it, but I’ll take a gun and shoot it
off.’ He said, ‘We shall have to have you all the same,’ but they wont.
I’ll go to England or America first. Don’t I wish there’d come a war; we
Armenians would throw off the Russians and have our own king. Dirty,
vodka-drinking Russians, always begging or drinking. Directly a Russian
finds five copecks he runs as hard as he can to the public-house and
drinks vodka, and when he comes out of the shop, if he sees a rich man
coming, he will stand at the side of the road and say ‘Give me five
copecks.’ Shameless people!”
The arrival of the chicken cut short this harangue, of which I have only
remembered a little. He turned out to be a wonderful conversationalist,
this little man, who seemed to be without words altogether when we were
in the cart. The chicken was tender. It was served to us without knives
and forks and on one plate; we each took bones and picked them like
heathens; with the chicken there were pickled gherkins and white bread
and home-made cheese. The samovar appeared and we had tea.
3. Mleti.
MLETI.
I slept under a rock last night. A large boulder had fallen on three
other rocks and made a little cavern. One had to let oneself in very
gingerly, for the opening was so small. It felt like sliding into a
letter-box to sleep. But the bottom was soft sand and the place was
secure from men and from rain. I was soaked through; my blanket weighed
at least a hundred-weight with the water that was in it. But I slept.
This morning I have been drying myself. My blanket is open wide to the
sun and is steaming. I have taken my coat off, and it also is lying on a
rock getting dried.
[Illustration: MLETI]
By road to Mleti it is eighteen versts; cross-country it is only five. I
came across country accordingly. But it is a very difficult matter,
Mleti being 2500 feet lower. The road zig-zags extraordinarily, and I
crossed it six times before getting to this valley.
Mleti is verdant. It is pleasant to get into a land of leaves and
flowers after two days among the desolate, barren passes. And there is
no river. Consequently there is extraordinarily stillness and peace. It
is the first time I have been out of hearing of a river since I have
been in the Caucasus. I am sitting on a bank where sweet-scented violets
are growing; the air is filled with their perfume. There are hollyhocks
on the slopes, hundreds and thousands of them, some over six feet high,
and covered with saffron-coloured blossoms. I came through some weeds so
high that they closed above my head and shut out the sky, a waste of
dead nettle, comfrey, teasel, canterbury bells and convolvulus. Clusters
of pink mallow hung like bouquet-baskets from these tangles. On the
rocks there is an abundance of stone-crop and bryony and pinks which
look like sweet-williams. The rock-roses are perfect gems. High up, near
Gudaour, I found several plants which could not have been other than
tradescantia, which is not supposed to grow wild out of Asia. But there
is no end to the wild flowers of the Caucasus, and plants brought up
with tender care in England grow brightly and abundantly without any
care at all on these wildernesses.
There were three letters from Nicholas; he has saved up money and thinks
of going to London again. They are highly characteristic letters, full
of poetry. The first one begins, “And someone has moved a stone with his
accursed hand,” which sounds very tragical in the Russian of Lermontof.
It means, I think, that Fate has separated two friends who ought never
to have been put asunder. Later on in his letter he writes, “For you the
road to happiness lies open, for me it is closed for ever.” This
sentence reminded me of the day when he plastered up the mirror with
newspaper so that he shouldn’t see his face. He proposes that I come to
Lisitchansk in the autumn, and that we return from there to London.
“Couldn’t I go, if only for a month?”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
EPILOGUE
ON my way back I found a cottage at Kobi for next summer. It is made of
stone and has two rooms. A sparkling rivulet comes past, washing, as it
were, the toes of the cottage. It will be empty if I come and claim it
in the spring, and I think I shall. Now my summer draws to a close.
Already the procession of autumn has commenced: the trees at the summits
of the mountains have turned from green to golden. The messenger has
come to Proserpine. Presently, where I used to count five snowy peaks, I
shall find seven and then ten, till at last the little Sphinx mountain
that squats outside Vladikavkaz will also be a peak and glisten like the
rest. The thorn-apples have already burst and thrown out their crimson
seed, and like dusty yellow balls the Cape gooseberries have appeared on
the mountains. The glories of gold and brown have spread downwards like
fire into the valleys. The leaves are falling from the trees on the
hills where the wind roars, from the trees in the valleys, even from the
trees in the town, where there is no wind at all, and the snow is
descending in the valleys. The sleet falls in Vladikavkaz, and then
snow, and then in November even Vladikavkaz is, as Moscow and St
Petersburg and the whole wintry north, a snow-clad town. The cycle of
seasons has gone round; winter turned to slush on Palm Sunday at Moscow,
it changed to laughing spring on the hill-slopes at Vladikavkaz. Summer
followed the plough over the fields and blushed in a myriad flowers. The
maize fields waved, the sunflowers gazed. Then autumn was seen in the
streets, whilst all the village folk threshed the corn with flails. The
priest blessed the first fruits and autumn was past. Once more it became
the turn of winter, the most Russian of all seasons. Quick pace the
winter came just as it had passed away. As in the spring sledges gave
way to wheels in a day, so now did the wheels give way and the sledge
ruled the road.
A wave of intense longing came and I must see England again. So one day
found me once more in the city of fog and rain. As I walked down Fleet
Street in Russian attire I heard someone say, “There goes a Pole.” But
when I came into the city people were not deceived, and despite my
shabby soft black hat, unclipped hair, and furry overcoat, a young man
in Throgmorton Street persisted in whistling behind me that Gilbert and
Sullivan air:—
“Oh, he might have been a Rooshian,
A Greek, a Turk, a Prooshian,
But in spite of all temptati-on
To belong to another nati-on
_He was an Englishman_!”
Yes, he was.
The time comes to draw a line and strike a balance, and that is not an
easy thing to do. Life to me has meant love, and, as Antony says,
“there’s beggary in love that can be measured.” My gains are not to be
set down. Many things are true until they are set down in words. A
pressed flower is not a flower at all.
I went to Russia to see the world, to see new life, to breathe in new
life. In truth it was like escaping from a prison, and now when I take a
walk in London streets it seems as if I am taking the regulation
exercise in a prison yard. And the dirty rags of London sky look like a
tramp’s washing spread on the roots to dry. Still, it is given that we
live even in prisons and under such skies for certain purposes. The
towns have their beauties and mysteries even as the mountains have. I,
least of all, have reason to be despondent there, for, like the
companion of Christian, I have in my bosom that key which is called
Promise.
At my room in the mill at Vladikavkaz I commonly looked out upon three
pictures. In the foreground was a row of trembling poplars, and beyond
these was a beautiful soft green hill, and beyond all a great grey
mystic range of mountains. I call them the Present, the Future and the
Eternal. The pleasant waving poplars were very real, very clear, and
every leaf stood out distinctly, but on the green hill the trees were so
many that I could not pick one out and see it clearly. It tempted me to
go there and explore. The hill was full of allurement and charm, as it
were, of the deep eyes of a woman as yet unknown but destined to be
loved. It betrayed a mystery which it did not reveal.
Moreover, the green hill seemed to be the best standing place for
looking into that vision of the eternal, of the ever-present mystery of
Man and his Life. The mountains seemed to be the Ikon in God’s open-air
room, His vast chamber of Nature.
Here then is the story of my life and of its gains written in the terms
of these symbols. It was written at the Mill, it is a flower wreath
gathered on the mountains.
THE HORIZON
A youth steps forward on the road and a horizon goes forward. Sometimes
slowly the horizon moves, sometimes in leaps and bounds. Slowly while
mountains are approached, or when cities and markets crowd the skies to
heaven, but suddenly and instantaneously when summits are achieved or
when the outskirts dust of town or fair is passed. One day, at a highest
point on that road of his, a view will be disclosed and lie before
him—the furthest and most magical glance into the Future. Away, away in
the far-distant grey will lie his newest and last horizon, in a place
more fantastic and mystical than the dissolving city, which the eye
builds out of sunset clouds.
Time was when the youth played carelessly in a meadow and knew not of
the upward road and mountainous track. The destiny which was his had
spoken not from bee or flower; and if it came to him, came only as a
dream-whisper in the soft breeze that now and then fluttered in his
ears. The sun was then his, the blue sky and the field below, and flower
and leaf and tree and the glad air. As these belonged to him, so he also
belonged to them, and neither knew nor cared of the having or the
losing. Life was joy, and joy was life. But mornings pass, and every
noon is a turning-point. One afternoon found him wending from the meadow
and bending steps towards a green slope that lay before him, cool and
fresh and tempting. By a foot-path over the hill he went to the great
high road. The grasses waved farewell to him as the evening breeze
ruffled them in the sunlight. The green slope parted with him, and he
left its sunlight and freshness, and his eyes looked on the road. What
was there in the road that he should leave the hill for her—that he
should take its dust for her? He knew not, neither questioned he, but
moved ahead towards the highway which stretched out over the undulating
plain far up into the west; towards the highway which led to the land of
the setting sun, and which lost itself in a region of crimson and gold.
For the sun went down to the level of the plain, and for a moment
appeared as the very gateway through which at last the great road gave
into enchanted regions. Onward the youth sped gaily, light in his face,
life in his steps, the songs of the meadow-birds in his heart. Some
spell in the road drew him onward, or some meaning wrought in him
impelled him forward. Onward he sped on the long upward road, and gained
its first incline as the sunset faded away. Then had the horizon faded
inward near him, and all became grey and lonely as he gained the next
incline, and then a summit gained, the first summit giving view to
further slope and further crest. He now left the land of plains and
upward made his path, and only seldom descended into valleys; but as
night came on, and with night wistfulness and loneliness, he looked
about him where he should find rest. He lay down in the grass by the
roadside, and the fresh odour in the grass brought back the meadow
thoughts, and a certain staleness and dustiness came as sadness upon his
heart. And as he lay watching the starlight growing brighter in the grey
sky, he dreamed uneasily of the gay meadow and its flies and bees, and
of the red sunset-gate, and of something appalling, though mysterious,
there.
Many days followed this day, and the youth had lain on many banks of the
same long dusty road, when one afternoon a change came over him. He had
tired early, for the noonday sun had been terrible, and the hot road
hard to his way-weary feet. He had lain among the long fresh grasses
beside a bush of the wild rose, and had fallen asleep. Weary had he
been, and the world had seemed dull to him, the road ever the same, the
sky the same, village and town the same, and nowhere was there beauty
and freshness and new delight. Not seven days a week were there for him
but to-day, name it what one would, eternally recurred. He fell asleep
among the grasses. But when he woke it was in a surprise, for the world
had changed. Away in the west the sun had set mildly and a little moon
had risen; a tender night breeze was on the wing, and earliest moths
flitted from bush to tree. He awakened, or rather he and himself
awakened, a self below himself had awakened, as if the soul had drawn
curtains from two windows after a long custom of drawing from only one.
A new being waking, blinked uneasily to find itself in the swing and
motion of life. “Who set me going?” it asked, for it had power to ask
questions that the first being could not answer. The road stretched out
an eternity before and an eternity behind, but he knew not why, and
could give no answer to the questions: What is the road? Whither leads
the road? Whence comes the road? Where did you begin to march upon it?
Why did you leave the meadow? To all these questions answer such as
could be given was forthcoming, and was unsatisfactory enough withal.
Long into night brooded the two beings together, and then for weariness
forgot and slept. And the next morn both awoke and took this road, upon
which his steps had become a habit. Now all was thought and question,
and the youth found a new use for the wayfarers he met, and not a
tradesman or pilgrim or petty trafficker upon the road but he put to him
his questions concerning the destiny which was at the end of the way. To
most these questions were too difficult. Not a few said there was no
answer, not a few said there was no question. Many would have persuaded
him that he sought a mere shadow, a phantom, an illusion. Many bade him
give up the quest and settle upon the roadside in some town or village.
“Then I should be lost!” said the youth. “For I have left a home which I
can never find again, in order that I may find a home which my heart
tells me shall be mine, and there is no rest for me till my mind agrees
with my heart.” Then on one occasion an old pilgrim answered, “Knowest
thou not, my son, that this road leads eternally round the world? So
long is it, and so hard, that by old age thou canst only win back to the
sight of the land where thou wast once a child. Be advised, quit the
road where thou must always be a seeker. Abandon thy quest, and settle
here where the pleasant stream gently flows under the red stone bridge
of the village. Thou wilt be lost, but thou wilt sleep and forget, and
one morning will find thee once more the happiness lost in leaving the
meadow.”
Yet the youth pressed on, and the seasons passed by, and the years
rolled over with whites and greens and reds and browns. Years passed,
and still upon the road the young man moved, and at length fewer people
appeared—fewer communities—less used and worn the road appeared. One
night he came to a hermit’s hut. His old question he put to the hermit,
but the latter was a mocker. “Why is this road here; did not God make
it? Oh, my very young man, this road wasn’t made by God—man made it;
this is _the beaten track_, the way man has followed man and sheep has
followed sheep through all time. This is the safest road round the road
and back again. The wheel of sunlight rolls evenly along it, down over
it in the west in the evening, and up again in the east in the morning.
To the sun every inch of its road is known, and there are no discoveries
to be made upon it, no new things to be found. Thou mightst have in the
meadow learnt all its secrets from the sun. But men find happiness along
the road, some in the hope of finding the new, others in foot-measuring
its miles, and some become happy resting by the road, and settling
there, and again others have their joy in the nourishment of a secret
hope of finding the goal of the road. The sun provides the best
happiness, and does all the work that needs to be done, and from mankind
he has no need of help to rule the world. Be not over anxious, my son,
about goals and aims and objects; they are only the vessels of
happiness. And I counsel you, bethink you, now that the road becomes
more solitary, that your hope may become a burden or may become too
small. I also was of your spirit, and persevered far along the road till
I lost my hope and had no means of happiness. In the hermit’s hut one
learns the art of being happy. One fashions the soul to the deepest of
all cups....”
But the youth interrupted: “You have been along the road, father! Tell
me of that, for it is my road, and nought can discourage me from my wish
to know its end and meaning.” The hermit smiled. “Soon you come to a
land of towers,” he said. “The towers were set up by happy seekers; much
time they spent in building, and much secret happiness they gained
thereby. Watch-towers they are, and places of survey, besides many
league-stones and markers of progress. But really, now, there are no
more towers to be built, I think. Far as I went along the road I found
towers, and, indeed, nought but towers at last. And ever as thou comest
to a new tower, thou, like myself long since, wilt climb the stairs and
take survey, and see a next tower—watch-towers both—and from either only
barren road and watch-tower visible. These are not the profitable
reaches of the road of wisdom.”
The morning after this the wanderer rose after calm sleep. New hope was
in his eyes, and a new thought in his heart. “This is _the beaten
track_,” he said, as he stamped in the dust, and he was gay, though he
knew not the reason of his gaiety. Light of heart was he, and happiness
danced in his steps. But about noon clouds came over the sky, and his
gaiety gave way to a new questioning and a new seriousness. He began to
see that he was coming to a more desolate country. Naught was there
before the eye but sky and road, and then at length a first tower. Then
he mounted to the highest look-out and searched the land to the new
horizon, but the View was blank; only as a speck far onward on the road
he dimly made out the form of a second tower. “I am weary of the road,”
he said, as he turned to descend the stairs, and when he had got to the
foot a confession was on his lips that the hermit was right. Progress
along the road was but vanity and vexation of spirit. Now from sunset to
dawn was a desolate land of road and dust and towers all the way from
west to east. A strange weariness and anger possessed his soul, and it
happened that he saw a bank, and feeling that all wish to go on had
vanished he threw himself down upon it. So he lay beside the road and
fought with despair and weariness. Far over the wide country his eye
wandered, but found no resting-place. As the sun set stormily and
angrily he looked away to the north and scanned the sombre plain, and
then restlessly turned to the south. His heart brooded over some wrong,
and his mind sought some object to provoke it to thought. His eye
wandered over the desert to the south, and settled on a soft purple line
that lay the horizon. No window of the tower faced south, or he might
have been tempted to mount its steps once more; for of a sudden the
wrong was gone from his heart, the seeking from his mind, and the
restlessness from his spirit. In place of these had come a new energy, a
new longing, a new love. Still he sat hesitating by the bank, and
suddenly new thoughts flooded his mind as joy suffused his heart. “This
_was_ my road; this _is_ my road no longer. My heart brought me so far,
but I am no further tempted along its dust; now towards the desert my
heart yearneth. This is the beaten track, and beyond this point I, too,
would be merely following, heartlessly helpless, like a loose stone down
the steep slope of time.” For awhile he dwelt in the peace of his own
heart. Then a sunbeam flashed from beyond a cloud, and like a
searchlight lit up the way about him, and he saw what he had not
discerned before, that the road, though apparently one and continuous
away to the west, branched by an ill-defined track away to the south
also. Then the old magic came back, and he knew that for him the true
road was this one diverging to the south, this unworn way, this
little-traversed path to the purple mountains.
* * * * *
A youth steps forward on a new road and a horizon goes forward.
Sometimes slowly the horizon moves, sometimes in leaps and bounds;
slowly while mountain is neared, suddenly when crests are achieved. The
enchantment which of old drew him from the meadow to the hill, and from
hill to highway, still goes before him, enticing him forward. Life loves
him and flees before him, and as with the eyes of a woman looks out and
beckons him. She is the secret mistress of his heart; as yet she is
unknown, her love unrevealed, her mystery and meaning unexplored.
Over brown moors and mountains green the wanderer clambers, and sighs
his soul to the goal that for the present stands before all others in
the sky. Over the ridges he passes and surmounts the rocks and passes
with light steps along the higher slopes, and then arduously battles
among crag and boulder, abyss and great rock....
And the conqueror is at last ascending the final darkest, highest crag
of all; only blackness is before him, and adamantine rock. All horizon
is gone; there is no future but the future in his heart. Then suddenly
the worst becomes the best; the darkest the brightest; the narrowest
the widest; the shortest the furthest. The conqueror stands with his
foot upon the mountain’s brow, and all the kingdoms of the world lie
beneath him. He has risen as a sun upon his own world, the dawn
whereby he sees his life has come. Now dwells he in the eternal blue
of ether, and looks down with pity to the clouds below and the mists
of fields and fogs of cities, to the places where those live who did
not believe in their quests or in his. Now he learns the utmost limit
of the meaning of human life, and he can renounce beyond knowledge in
his sufficiency. In nothing more shall he ever be surprised. Life is
revealed, the woman who fled is won. Now is the horizon removed to its
utmost possibility—further than that grey-blue line he cannot pass. He
may descend the mountain, but the horizon will narrow on—narrow in,
and even though it widen out again, and although he run his life’s
journey along the way, he will win no further than these, for that is
the shore of life itself, on which rolls the grey sea of Death.
As he descends into the plains, happiness remains his, and the mountain
vision remains in his heart. Life has been revealed; now it shall be
explored. Now he shall learn in detail the mystery in each contribution
of each little plot to that grand mountain harmony that flashed before
his vision as he reaches his topmost peak. He shall learn in detail the
meaning of those distant greys and blues. He may take what path he
chooses—north or east, or south or west; one path is his and he will
choose it. He may meet his old acquaintances of the road, but will have
no problems for them to solve. He may see the old villages and cities,
but without impatience will he dwell in them, for he has the
satisfaction required.
The youth stands and gazes, and all sinks into him. Softly his eyes rest
on the herds grazing in the valley, on the great highway, on church and
village, on many a green and brown and golden acre lying open to the
full kiss of the sky, and many a misty moor and jagged sultry
headland—looks over a long grey ridge marked with steeples here and
there, and beyond these, to new blues and greys and purples. He measures
life; the present to the ultimate future, “the cloud-capped towers, the
gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself,” all these
to the insubstantial pageant fading in the sleep of dreams.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
APPENDIX
HOW TO GET ABOUT
_A Chapter for Prospective Tourists_
HERE seems to me to be every reason why Englishmen should visit the
Caucasus and see what it is like for themselves. There is no likelihood
of the place being overrun, or of ordinary pleasure-seekers invading it.
The Caucasus is a preserved Alps.
I propose to write a few words on the facilities for seeing the country
in the hope that they may be of use to some who think of touring there.
The fare from London to Vladikavkaz is:
1st class £19
return
2nd class £13
return
3rd class £8, 10s
return
Return tickets are available for sixty days.
The tickets cannot be taken right through, and it is advisable to take
them from London to Alexandrovo, the Russian frontier, and thence to
Vladikavkaz. There are various companies which issue tickets for
Alexandrovo, the Great Eastern Railway Company, the London, Chatham and
Dover, and the Belgium States Railway Company, 52 Gracechurch Street,
E.C. The last-named is the only company issuing third-class tickets. It
is as convenient to travel third as to travel second in Belgium and
Germany. In Russia, however, it is extremely inconvenient to travel
third class. The carriages are dirty, and the passengers Russian
peasants, and the seats are wooden. First and second-class compartments
are very comfortable, and one may be fairly sure of sleeping at night,
since a ticket entitles one to the whole length of a seat.
The train takes five days from Alexandrovo, with changes at Warsaw (here
one has to cross the town from the Viensky to the Brestky Station, the
fare for which by droshky is one rouble), Kiev, Poltava and Rostof.
There is, however, a fast train, Warsaw-Rostof (first and second class
only), which enables one to do the journey in two days less. A special
ticket (platzkaart), costing 10s., has to be bought at the Brestky
Station, Warsaw. The train leaves that station at 5.11 p.m.
Another route is by train to Odessa (tickets may be taken from London to
Odessa), and thence by boat to Novorossisk, Sukhum or Batum.
The fares are:
┌────────────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│PORT. │ NOVOROSSISK. │
├────────────────────┼───────────────────────┬───────────────────────┤
│CLASS. │ With Meals. │ Without Meals. │
├────────────────────┼───────────┬───────────┼───────────┬───────────┤
│ │ 1st │ 2nd │ 2nd │ 3rd │
├────────────────────┼───────────┼───────────┼───────────┼───────────┤
│Fare from Odessa in │ 27.30 │ 19.90 │ 14.40 │ 5.45 │
│ Russian or English│roubles or │roubles or │roubles or │roubles or │
│ Money │ £2, 12/- │ £2, 12/- │ £1, 10/- │ 12/- │
├────────────────────┼───────────┴───────────┴───────────┴───────────┤
│ │ SUKHUM. │
├────────────────────┼───────────┬───────────┬───────────┬───────────┤
│Fare from Odessa │ 38.15 │ 27.50 │ 19.40 │ 6.50 │
│ Fare from Odessa │roubles or │roubles or │roubles or │roubles or │
│ in Russian or │ £3, 19/- │ £2, 18/- │ £2, 11/- │ 14/- │
│ English Money │ │ │ │ │
├────────────────────┼───────────┴───────────┴───────────┴───────────┤
│ │ BATUM. │
├────────────────────┼───────────┬───────────┬───────────┬───────────┤
│Fare from Odessa │ 42.10 │ 30.30 │ 21.19 │ 7.50 │
│ Fare from Odessa │roubles or │roubles or │roubles or │roubles or │
│ in Russian or │ £ 4, 7/- │ £3, 3/- │ £2, 15/- │ 15/- │
│ English Money │ │ │ │ │
└────────────────────┴───────────┴───────────┴───────────┴───────────┘
Another route is _via_ St Petersburg and Moscow. Boats carry passengers
to St Petersburg at various fares, and the ticket to Vladikavkaz from St
Petersburg costs:
(Single)
1st class 46 roubles 20 copecks
or £4, 15s.
2nd class 26 roubles 95 copecks
or £2, 16s.
3rd class 15 roubles 40 copecks
or £1, 11s.
It is a long and tiring journey, and one will appreciate the pleasure of
lounging in Vladikavkaz for a few days. The hotels are good, and rooms
can be taken from a rouble (two shillings) a day. From Vladikavkaz the
celebrated Georgian road runs to Tiflis—150 miles. There are various
conveyances, and I append the fares:
roubles day(s)
By motor omnibus from the Grand Hotel. 30 1
By diligence coach 10 2
By carriage and pair 70 2
By four-seated lineika (jaunting-car) 45 3
By furgon (a van) 3 4
(This last must be bargained for beforehand.)
Night accommodation at the post-stations is free, except for a charge of
3d. or 4d. for linen.
Instead of going by any of these conveyances one may walk, and in that
way the tourist will undoubtedly see more of the country and of the
people. Any passing cart will give one a lift at the rate of about 12
miles for 6d. Food of a rough kind is obtainable at the _dukhans_, of
which there are hundreds; bread is 1¼d. (5 copecks) a pound, and eggs
(cooked) two a penny or less; wine, 1d. a glass; milk as in England;
tea, _ad lib_, 2½d.; mutton, 2½d. a plate; chicken, 3d. or 4d. a plate.
[A Russian copeck corresponds to an English farthing, and a rouble is
100 copecks and is approximately worth 2s.] For a rouble one can get an
ordinary hot Russian dinner at the post stations. Tiflis hotels are on a
level with those of Vladikavkaz—the best is the _Vetsel_, with rooms
from one to eight roubles a day.
The Trans-Caucasian railway runs from Tiflis to Batum, a distance of
three hundred miles, and passes through some of the most beautiful of
the southern country. It runs via Kutais, and this town is connected
with Vladikavkaz by a road two hundred miles long, which one may travel
partly by stage coach from Kutais to Oni—110 versts, fare about six
roubles. The road onward is only open to traffic from June to September,
and there are no regular conveyances. One can take a lineika for thirty
roubles. The lineika is a low jaunting car, having no protection either
against wind or rain. One sits sideways, and one’s feet dangle beside
the wheels. It has springs and is comfortable enough in fine weather. It
is the best vehicle available on this road. The journey over the Mamison
Pass, 9281 feet high, may be extremely cold and stormy, and it is
advisable to start in the finest weather. A snowstorm in midsummer is by
no means unusual. Near Lisri there is a by-road of extraordinary
grandeur to Kobi on the Georgian road.
To see _Elbruz_ it is best to go to Kislovodsk by rail from Vladikavkaz
(260 versts). Kislovodsk is the most fashionable watering-place in
Russia.
It is extremely interesting to go by boat from Novorossisk to Batum,
calling at each of the thirteen Caucasian ports on the Black
Sea—Gilendzhik, Dzhubra, Tuapse, Lazarevsky, Sochi, Adler, Gagri,
Gudaut, Novy Afon, Sukhum, Ochemchiri, Batum.
From Sukhum there is a road to Kislovodsk, 300 versts, crossing the
Klukhorsky Pass, 9600 feet high. One can generally obtain a conveyance
at the rate of three roubles a day, and the journey, if continuous,
would take about ten days. It is possible, however, to do it in four
days in a phaeton, and this would cost not less than 100 roubles for the
journey. In many places this so-called road degenerates to a mere track
broken by rocks and overwashed by waterfalls. It is certainly more
convenient to drive than to walk in the higher parts.
Besides these roads there are hundreds of tracks leading to the
fastnesses of the mountains, and these are more or less difficult and
wild. They can only be explored by the horseman or the pedestrian, and
the former needs to have a sure seat. Horses may be hired at £2 for the
summer, or may be bought entirely at prices ranging from £5 upwards. It
may be mentioned, however, that the natives, especially the Ingooshi,
are expert horse thieves.
Russian is the only language of any value in the Caucasus, and the
tourist should know at least a smattering of it. It is most important to
realise that the natives speak an extremely childish and simple language
that is easily understood. It is unnecessary to know more than the
elements of the language and a good assortment of useful words. A
Berlitz course, or something similar, taught by a Russian teacher, is
probably the most useful. One should certainly carry a pocket
dictionary.
Much is said of the danger of travelling in the Caucasus, especially by
Russians, but there is truly little danger. It is likely that an English
traveller will have queer adventures, but unlikely that he will come to
harm. I never took my revolver out once on my tramps, but doubtless many
people would feel more secure with a weapon in their pocket. One thing
may be warned—keep out of the way of the police. The whole police system
of the Caucasus is corrupt, and innocent or guilty, English or Russian,
one is not likely to get out of their hands easily. Permission to carry
firearms into Russia must be obtained through the Russian Consul General
in London, and application should be made six weeks in advance.
The outfit may be best purchased in England, but the black sheepskin
cloaks worn by many people in the Caucasus are extremely serviceable,
being warm and completely waterproof; they can be bought in the towns
for ten roubles. It is well to look passably well-dressed on the road,
as that ensures respect and courteous treatment. Good manners help one
immensely in any difficulty. There is a sort of custom in Russia when
entering a shop to salute the shopkeeper and say “Zdrast-vit-yé!” I, for
my part, when tramping, would always bow comprehensively to the
shopkeeper and the company in the shop—especially if it is an inn.
On entering a shop, a Russian commonly inquires the price of everything
there, and the shopman doesn’t feel vexed if, after turning over all his
wares, nothing is bought. Whereas, if one merely buys a penny glass of
wine and drinks it politely, one is wished well on one’s journey, the
whole company is pleased, and when one goes away the innkeeper says,
“There goes an Englishman—a fine man!”
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INDEX
A
Adler, 305
Alagir, 192, 220, 221
Alexandrovo, 16, 302
Alexandrovsky Boulevard, 126
Alexandrovsky Bridge, 166
Alpani, 191
Ananaour, 176, 184, 280
Andrief, Leonid, 44, 71, 210
Aragva, 174, 176, 182
Arakhveti, 177
Ararat, Mt., 252
Ard-Garon, 222
Ardon, 192, 211, 219, 220, 222
Armenians, 169, 277, 281
Azov, Sea of, 11
B
Babel, Tower of, 140
Baku, 252
Baptists, The, 32, 158, 159, 235, 237, 255
Batum, 252, 302, 304, 305
Black Sea, 119, 126
C
Candlemas Gate, 67
Candlemas Monastery, 67
Caspian Sea, 119, 126
Cathedral of the Annunciation, 112
Cherkesses, The, 119
Chiatouri, 124
Chisty-Prudy, 83
D
Dalin-dalin, 132, 136, 137, 138, 140, 145
Dariel Gorge, 148, 163, 164, 165, 166, 274
Devdorak Glacier, 166
Devil’s Bridge, 164
Dneiper River, 61
Donetz River, 28
Dostoievsky, 10
Dushet, 185
Dzhubra, 305
E
Ekaterinoslav, 39
Elbruz, 118, 144, 305
Ermolovsky Stone, 163
F
Fortoug, 129, 143, 144, 147
G
Gagri, 305
Georgian Military Road, 128, 131, 148, 157, 163, 304, 305
Georgians, The, 119, 126, 128, 139, 169, 177, 186, 191
Georgian Women, 84, 123, 127
Germany, 7, 15, 62
Gilendzhik, 305
Gizel, 222
Glola, 195
Gogol, 37
Gorky, 94, 192
Gudaour, 174, 175, 276, 279, 283
Gudaut, 305
Gurshevi, 188, 196, 197
I
Ikon, The, 40, 80, 88, 89, 90, 91, 93, 111, 149, 177, 226, 234
Imeritia, 188
Ingooshi, The, 126, 128, 129, 139
K
Kassar, Gorge of, 219
Kazbek, 148, 155, 167, 272
Kharkov, 11, 16, 19, 60, 108
Khevsurs, The, 182
Khitry Market, 74
Khvamli Table Mountain, 194
Kiev, 33, 62, 96, 302
Kislovka, 67, 69
Kislovodsk, 305
Klukhorsky Pass, 305
Kobi, 157, 167, 173, 271, 273, 305
Kremlin, The, 9, 74, 109, 112, 268
Krestovy Pass, 172, 277
Kuma River, 187
Kutais, 128, 188, 189, 195, 305
L
Larse, 163
Lazarevsky, 305
Life of Man, The (Andrief), 40, 41, 44-50
Lisitchansk, 11, 20, 23, 30, 57, 235
Lisri, 189, 210, 218, 305
M
Mahommedans, 142, 145, 202, 250
Mamison Pass, 188, 195, 204, 210, 305
Marzalkovsky, 7
Maximkina, 129
Mekhven, 190, 191
Misure, 220
Mleti, 175, 176, 271, 280, 282, 283
Molokans, The, 235
Moscow, 7, 9, 30, 61, 65-82, 83, 101-106
Mtskhet, 187
N
Nadiban, 181
Nadson, 71
Narodny Dom, 83
Nizhni Novgorod, 9, 266
Novorossisk, 302, 305
Novy Afon, 305
Nuzal, 218, 219
O
Ochemchiri, 305
Odessa, 96, 302, 303
Oni, 189, 190, 194, 305
Ossetia, 188, 211
Ossetines, The, 119, 126, 127, 128, 169, 196, 199, 210, 214
P
Pasanaour, 176, 182
Persians, The, 118, 120, 122, 126, 160, 162, 169, 248, 280
Petersburg, St, 33, 303
Petrovsky Park, 83
Pkhelshi, 158
Poland, 7
Poltava, 302
R
Rion River, 189, 195
Rostof, 237, 264, 302
Rubezhniya, 52, 59
S
Sergievo, 84, 93, 94, 96
Sevastopol, 20, 21
Siberia, 31
Sochi, 305
Sokolniky, 84
Steeple of St John, 83, 112, 115
Stolovy Mountain, 131
St Saviour’s Church, 101
Sukhareva Tower, 74
Sukhum, 302, 305
Svani, The, 191
T
Tabriz, 252
Tamara, Castle of Queen, 165
Tatars, The, 126
Tchekhof, 71
Teheran, 252
Terek River, 128, 144, 157, 163, 166, 272, 275
Theatre of Art, Moscow, 83
Tiflis, 124, 128, 187, 191, 252, 264, 271, 304
Tli, 216
Tolstoy, 71
Trans-Caucasia, 148, 166
Troitsky Lavra, 84
Tuapse, 305
Turgeniev, 7
Tverskoe Boulevard, 81
U
Uspensky Cathedral, 115
Utsera, 195, 198
V
Vindavsky Station, 74
Vladikavkaz, 124, 126, 131, 141, 154, 223, 226, 286, 301, 303
W
Warsaw, 7, 8, 9, 16, 302
Z
Zaramag, 215, 216, 217
Zhouetti, 193
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ The tables on page 303 were reformatted to match the capabilities
of HTML.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
End of Project Gutenberg's A Vagabond in the Caucasus, by Stephen Graham