Contents
In the following pages the reader will find an Introduction and Pushkin's preface to A Journey to Arzrum followed by its five constituent chapters:-
Chapter One S15,
Chapter Two S27,
Chapter Three S37,
Chapter Four S43,
Chapter Five S48.
These are then followed by The Earlier Texts Draft Prefaces S55; Travel Notes S57; Supplementary Sections Note on the Yezidi Sect S67; Route from Tiflis to Arzrum S71. Appendices 1. The Press S72; 2. Poems S74; 3. Derzhavin's Ode to Felitsa S86; 4. All's Quiet—the Caucasus S87; 5. Ushakov's History S89; 6. Fazil Khan S90; 7. Fath Ali Shah and the Russian Mission:- (1.) Maltsov's report S94; (2.) Letter to the Tsar S104; 8. Paskevich, Decembrists and the Caucasus Corps S105.
“…gang where nae man dwells.”
Walter Scott (1828: Appendix 8)
Introduction
Pushkin turned thirty on his journey to Erzurum viaTbilisi with the Russian army, in 1829. Life as the essential Petersburger of Egyptian Nights (1835)—“not yet thirty…unmarried”— young blood and salon-fixture—“inescapable as Rezanov's ice-cream”, was about to end. He would soon be a husband and a father.
Recalled from exile in the aftermath of the 1825 Decembrist Revolt, he and Tsar Nicholas's government had been exploring roles he might play—a cosmetic gesture to the disenfranchised radical wing of politics, cultural adornment of a re-launched autocracy, or worked example perhaps of political rehabilitation. The journey was a chance to draw breath, celebrate youth and its escapades (prokazy), spend time with old friends, gather new inspiration and commune with demons, not least his absence from the fateful revolt. It was an exhilarating and sobering experience, like crossing the frontier: “I rode joyfully into the Promised River and the trusty steed brought me out on the Turkish bank. But this bank was already conquered: I was still in Russia” (Chapter 2).
He arrived in camp fired up with derring-do (otvaga). “Come on then, Pushchin; where are the Turks and am I going to see them; I mean Turks who charge shouting, weapon in hand?” were his first words to an old friend.Footnote 2 One better than Byron at Missolonghi, like Silvio in The Shot (1831), last heard of in the disastrous first engagement of the Greek War of Independence, he was going to charge into battle and test his moment of glory. The following day he did exactly that, to the consternation of his hosts, Generals Paskévich and Rayevski. His relationship with the commander-in-chief, Paskevich, seems never to have fully recovered. An unreliable source says he was told off and resented it.Footnote 3 Pushkin's A Journey to Arzrum, the official campaign history and Paskevich's commentsFootnote 4 are all eloquent between the lines about an enduring clash of personality and style.
Pushkin's preoccupations and loyalties coloured for him the novelty and significance of what he was witnessing. Paskevich's campaign in eastern Turkey was a model exercise in applied theory of war, as much political as military, designed to achieve the maximum with a small force operating at long distance. Close attention was paid to extended supply logistics, keeping cholera at bay, successful winning of local support and active neutralisation of key, semi-autonomous Ottoman subordinates. Psychological momentum was carefully maintained. Battles were well prepared and fought for decisive impact, opportunities for negotiated surrender fully exploited. The victory won in Anatolia, with breakthrough in the Balkans, secured Greek Independence and established Nicholas's Russia as the dominant power in the region until the Crimean War. Pushkin was keenly aware of all of this. He tells us about the supply-train, about the quarantines, about how Burtsov's death near Bayburt might have shattered the illusion with disastrous results, even about the vacillating Kurds of Mush, exploited for an oriental vignette. But he did not warm to the style and he was not alone. His army friends, graduates of the hand-to-hand school of combat, felt themselves short-changed. There was grumbling in the field and afterwards about the commander-in-chief's caution: too little fighting and too much pursuit of fleeing enemy.Footnote 5
These differences mapped easily to the political fault-line of Nicholas's Russia. The Decembrists—Europeanising liberals—had been recognisably Russian in their readiness to commit all and to have a go. The new regime had a Mitteleuropäische parade-ground air. Led by a Tsar whose father-in-law was the King of Prussia, it drew on Russia's own Baltic Germans and outsiders like the Silesian Diebitsch or the Tsar's military theory tutor, the Swiss Jomini. Sentiment about this, voiced with characteristic vigour by Yermolov in Chapter 1, influenced perception of Paskevich's strategy and style. A big draw to the Caucasus for Pushkin was the prospect of reunion with old friends and Decembrists in the army, some reduced to the ranks. The high-point of his visit, is sandwiched between two chapters of anticipation and another two of anti-climax. Like outsiders at a mystery we hear hushed voices. Pushkin “greatly liked camp life…” during five days in the Soğanlı Mountains waiting for the Battles of Kayınlı and Millidüz. “At dinner we washed down oriental shashlik with English beer and champagne chilled in Taurus snows” (Chapter 3). What passed is left to the reader's imagination, prompted by small, easily missed clues across the narrative—a vision on Ararat—a quote from Lalla Rookh or Horace—a pseudo-Quranic text served up as a bawdy flourish. Paskevich cautioned Pushkin about spending too much time with Decembrists and limited opportunities by requiring his attendance.
Worse was to come. In 1828 Pushkin, whose post-Revolt relationship with Nicholas was an ongoing negotiation, had asked to join the army in the Balkans for the fight against Turkey and been turned down by the Tsar. His next idea, a visit to Paris, struck even his minders in the Third Department of the Imperial Chancellery (internal affairs and state security) as absurd. They talked him out of it, suggesting instead the Caucasus where he could visit his brother and see Ararat, “the cradle of mankind”.Footnote 6 The idea was put to one side but revived the following spring. The Department had Pushkin shadowed on his travels and asked Paskevich to supervise him in the Caucasus.Footnote 7 They omitted, however, to tell the Tsar, who read about Pushkin's expedition in the Tiflis [Tbilisi] Gazette and did not react well to his earlier instruction being flouted, or to Pushkin hobnobbing with military Decembrists. The Department prevaricated, leaving Nicholas to conclude that Pushkin was a wilful ingrate and, nearer the mark, that he would never become a wholehearted collaborator.Footnote 8 The Tsar cornered Pushkin on return, rejecting out of hand that Paskevich's say-so sufficed and telling him: “You should have asked me. Surely you know that the army is mine?” Footnote 9 Nicholas was still recounting the story as a turning-point, nearly twenty years later: “What then? After that [promising to reform] he sets off for the Caucasus without my permission or knowledge! Fortunately, there was someone there to keep an eye on him: Paskevich stands no nonsense.”Footnote 10
There were then public sour grapes. Faddei Bulgarin (Jan Tadeusz Bułharyn), editor of Northern Bee, novelist and Third Department stringer, actively trading insults with Pushkin at the time, picked up on the fallout at Court and Paskevich's disappointment that Pushkin's ringside seat had not inspired an ode. In a vicious review of the latest chapter of Eugene Onegin, which struck even the Tsar as unjust and vulgar, Bulgarin held Pushkin's patriotism and silence up to scorn. Another journal, European Herald, had already voiced similar sentiments (Appendix 1).
The Tsar's disapproval was a serious obstacle to writing about the journey. Travel notes, focused on the outward trip to Georgia, were probably circulated privately to friends and an extract was published as The Georgian Military Highway.Footnote 11 Onegin who in 1825 had set out, like Childe Harold, on pilgrimage now completed his travels but these were shelved,Footnote 12 to be part-published later as “fragments”. Some poems trickled out (Appendix 2), even a consolation-prize for Paskevich in The Anniversary of Borodino (1831):
Pushkin's persistence and the eventual Journey testify to a compulsion to place something on record. Prospects improved in 1834. Victor Fontanier, natural historian, travel-writer and post-war French Vice-Consul at Trabzon, had met some Russian officers, heard about their frustrated heroics and enemy-chasing and devoted a whole chapter of his next book to rubbishing the campaign. He portrayed an unequal contest, with overpowering military might crushing all before it. Only modest leadership skills were required, he added, demonstrating yet again the pre-eminence of Napoleon. Pushkin himself was mentioned in passing, as a bard-in-attendance who had supposedly written a satire.
Fontanier's account, drawing partly on Turkish sources, was ultimately an unintended tribute to Paskevich. But it, recognisably, reflected critique of his generalship to which Pushkin's army friends were party, a product of ongoing tensions in the Caucasus Corps (Appendix 8). Within Russia such debate followed ground rules: central authority might take a view and intervene. Replay before an outside audience was different, creating a perceived need to correct the record. Provided he displayed loyalty, Pushkin could plausibly now issue his account as a riposte to Fontanier. The opportunity to publish was however, demandingly circumscribed. Things would have to be said or implied at odds with his own views, which he might then be understood to have abandoned. Careful choice of words, with qualifications and other messages played between the lines, would be necessary in any event. But a journey branded by the Tsar as proof of disaffection set steeper challenges. Tackling thoughts about himself, his friends, their generation and the passage of time would, in the circumstances, be more than provocative. Opening channels for his own voice, while appearing to conform, would take the genius of a Charski (“Enchanter”, Egyptian Nights) or the intricate art of The Queen of Spades (1833), literary companion of its own “assorted ladies’ baubles devised late last century alongside Montgolfier's balloon and Mesmer's magnetism”. Pushkin wrote A Journey to Arzrum in 1835, applied successfully for the Tsar's permission to publishFootnote 14 and brought it out the following January in the first issue of his own new magazine The Contemporary, ostensibly paving the way for Russia's answer to Fontanier, Ushakov's official history of the campaign (1836) followed by Fonton's French adaptation (1840).
The preface had to set the tone. Surviving drafts document Pushkin's struggle with indignation which finally boiled down to noblesse oblige—never Pushkin at his best—and a gripe at the Press. Positive words for Paskevich came harder. He contrived some, squaring his reluctance with a backhandedness almost imperceptible when read in context: “it may be that all this, crowned in total success as it was, is an unrivalled invitation to ridicule…I should be ashamed… to write satire on a chief who covered himself in glory…” Farewell reference to “wanderings in the footsteps of a brilliant Hero through the conquered wastes of Armenia” (Chapter 5) is classic Pushkin tongue-in-cheek, like his dismissal of Ushakov's pen-portrait (“You admit me to the temple of Fame, a man once permitted by the Count of Erivan to ride after him into conquered Arzrum”).Footnote 15 Fontanier's exaggerations made it easy to assume the mantle of maligned campaign-stalwart, short of any explicit statements beggaring principle or credibility. This stance underpinned publication and, with the spotlight improbably shared, limited solidarity required for Paskevich. The preface may not ring Pushkin's most bell-like note: it is a gravity-defying balancing act from a still indignant author. But it served its purpose and cleared a path for the narrative.
The travelogue is pure delight. Tightly written, amusing, insistently paced, it conducts the reader through a wonderland of Caucasian scenery, battlefields and exotic Anatolian locations. It is by any standard a thoroughly good read. Typically innovative, it subjects the genre to Pushkin's disciplines of structure, rhythm and expression, exploiting the immemorial figure of the innocent abroad to launch a whole new style of military reportage. So skilfully is it put together that the cumulative impact might, or might not, be illusion.Footnote 16 It could, for example, just be accident that most of the soldiers mentioned are Decembrists and that a leading figure like Pankratyev, as important to the campaign as Muravyov or Burtsov, never quite makes it into the text. Seen from one angle, we have an entertaining record of a memorable campaign. Twist the kaleidoscope and the mosaic of comic sketch with subtext rearranges into a pattern barely distinguishable from the satire prematurely announced by Fontanier. This subliminal Journey nods respectfully at the perennial traveller's tale, whose anarchic licence fashioned the word outlandish (foreign, bizarre), and at Russia's own “satiric call to insurrection”,Footnote 17 Radíshchev's A Journey from St Petersburg to Moscow (1790, which cost the author his liberty).
Some of the content requires harder work. A major advance in unpacking it was made by Yuri Tynyanov.Footnote 18 He drew attention to the faint note of mockery running through references to Paskevich, including the stiff courtliness of his French exchange with Pushkin at the start of Chapter 4. To anyone in the know this was hilarious, with a po-faced Paskevich posting a day's agenda of chasing yet more fleeing enemy, parodied later in the chapter with a surreal bout of hen-chasing. Tynyanov explains many other features, such as the dervish at the end of Chapter 4 or the barbs at critics in the final paragraph. He rightly compares Pushkin's attitude with that of his friend Vyázemski, who also volunteered in 1828, was turned down and went on to declare the war more a political than patriotic venture. Vyazemski's pique touched the heart of the matter: Decembrists fighting for their country were entrenching Nicholas in power and projecting his new Russia internationally. Pushkin's reservations, like those of serving officers, ranged widely across style, personality and politics.
There is more. Lalla Rookh at the Tbilisi baths (Chapter 2) incorporates some sly digs, notably at the imperial couple and their German connection. Ararat turning up outside Gumry (Chapter 2) is not a mistake. The Third Department had highlighted the mountain as a Caucasus attraction and Pushkin responds with Noah's ark supporting a vision of execution and reconciliation. A quote from Horace when Pushkin meets his old friends (Chapter 3) is not mere erudite sentimentality. The chosen ode is about a generation passing on and the bequest of its cherished vintages to worthier successors. The apparently ribald text discovered in Osman Pasha's house (Chapter 5) is actually a Russian church formula, serving to call for absolution and the reconciliation vouchsafed on Ararat. The overall message is clear: “We have had our day. It will be for younger people to carry the torch. What we need now is reconciliation, binding of wounds and a less divided Russia.” This is a recognisably Pushkin cast of sentiment. It is distinct from the future reckoning he projects in the History of Pugachov (1833)Footnote 19 or his message in The Captain's Daughter (1836): “God forbid that we see another Russian revolt, mindless and merciless!” That revolt was a traditional bloodletting, followed by exemplary punishment and a general pardon. The Decembrist Revolt was in a newer mould. It would leave enduring divisions within the country and schisms concerning its future.
The magical moment in the Journey is Pushkin's encounter with Griboyedov's coffin, newly returned to what was then Georgian territory, on 11 June 1829 (Chapter 2). This too belongs within the convention signposted in the narrative by the “perfect optical illusion” seen near Pasanauri on Pushkin's 30th birthday.Footnote 20 Three torrents introduce twoFootnote 21 oxen drawing one “Mushroom-eater” (Griboyed), embodiment of a Russian idyll.Footnote 22 What matters is that Griboyedov is dead, heroically dead, and that he is nash (“one of our own”). On the outward stretch, in mud between Oryol and Yelets, Pushkin whiled time parodying “the American [Fenimore] Cooper's descriptions of evolutions [manoeuvres] at sea”.Footnote 23 This is The Red Rover (1827), a tale about an English gentleman-pirate, adopted by one 1828 marriage-prospect as a nickname for Pushkin. Like Pushkin, the Rover is offered an amnesty, in his case by a Royal Navy captain who acknowledges him as one of our own (in quaint republican cliché: “Our aristocratic columns, though they get a little cracked and defaced are, after all, the pillars of the throne…”). The Rover turns down his chance of a new life in politically correct obscurity, going on to join incognito in the struggle for US Independence and expire in discreet glory (“a cause so holy was not to be tarnished by such a name as mine”).Footnote 24 The two Aleksandr Sergeyevichs—Pushkin and Griboyedov—the author of Woe from Wit and ambassador to Persia murdered in post—were both national institutions (nash), both had moved in Decembrist circles (nash) and both came through unscathed; Griboyedov with help from Yermolov and his investigator. Both then had to rebuild their lives in circumstances resembling release on parole. Griboyedov, who had helped Yermolov manage dealings with Persia, was kept on by Paskevich as his wife's cousin and emerged from extended jockeying between the Foreign Ministry and the Viceroyalty of the Caucasus as successful negotiator of the Treaty of Turkmenchai and Russia's new ambassador to Persia.
Griboyedov managed to go out in a blaze of glory, merely tilted at by Pushkin on arrival in camp. He won immortality as a national hero, placed himself overnight at the very pinnacle of ‘our’ generation and in some obscure way helped mitigate the debacle of the revolt. Equally, seen from other vantage-points, it was all unnecessary and a new victory for zeal over judgement of the sort excluded in the campaign by Paskevich. Gridoyedov had taken a hard line over repatriation of captives. John Macdonald, the East India Company envoy at Tabriz, who helped broker the Treaty, thought he had overplayed his hand and wished he had accompanied him to defuse the conflict.Footnote 25 Pushkin describes Griboyedov's early joust with force majeure, has Georgians repatriate him from Tehran, in recognition of services to his adopted country, and drops a hint of mismatch between vision and outcome (“But the aged Shah still lived and Griboyedov's prophetic words had come true”). Tynyanov's novel Death of a Vazir-Mukhtar [Minister Plenipotentiary] (1927) ribs Griboyedov similarly (Monsieur, vous êtes trop perçant—“You are too penetrating, too Persian [persan], Sir”) and goes further (“He knew, though he also got it wrong”). There were prices to pay. Paskevich had to divert resources from the war with Turkey to cover the Persian front and attention to pre-empting Foreign Ministry recrimination.
The Journey is Pushkin's 30th anniversary exploration of what his and his generation's youth meant, written under extreme constraints and improbably published. It breathes the political stand-off of Nicholas’ Russia, the sharpest crisis in his relations with the Tsar and his own struggle to find and maintain an authentic voice in the face of pressure to conform. Decembrism's short but spectacular half-life in the Caucasus echoes to posterity in self-subverting narrative. The travelogue's iconic contemporary is Griboyedov, whom it rescues en passant from the shrine-keeping of BulgarinFootnote 26 to take his appointed place in the pantheon of “his friends”. The ultimate immortal of his generation was Pushkin himself however. He too finally went out in his blaze of glory. But he was, as his peers all knew, in a class apart, a man open to the world with limited appetite for tunnel-vision even when going to extremes. It was why he inspired them as no one else did and why they hesitated to draw him into their conspiracies. His superb Russian writing, the language he forged and the civilised values he eventually always advocated are the enduring legacy of the era, for Russians and all who can hear his voice.
The apt tribute to Pushkin as author of the Journey was organised by Ensign A. A. Bestuzhev, former co-editor of Polar Star with the executed Decembrist Ryleyev, popular novelist (“Marlinski”), himself about to die fighting Circassians. In February 1837 he had prayers said for both Aleksandr Sergeyevichs over Griboyedov's grave in Tbilisi. It was Bestuzhev who, in 1833, had succinctly articulated the residual aspiration of ageing 1825 radicals. “Tell him from me,” he wrote to a mutual friend, “you are Russia's hope—don't betray her, don't betray your generation…”Footnote 27 Pushkin did not disappoint. He lent the magic of his name irreproachable, unlike the Rover's, but still discreetly—dedicated to the ongoing struggle for a better future. The Journey was part of discharging that trust.
A Journey to ArzrumFootnote 28during the 1829 CampaignFootnote 29
Preface
I recently came across a book published in Paris last year (1834), entitled Voyages en Orient entrepris par ordre du Gouvernement Français.Footnote 30 The author, who has a version of the 1829 campaign all his own,Footnote 31 concludes his treatiseFootnote 32 as follows:
“A poet noted for his imagination discovered in all the heroics he witnessed the theme not for a poem but a satire.” Footnote 33
Among poets on the Turkish campaign I knew only of A. S. KhomyakovFootnote 34 and A. N. Muravyov. Both served in Count Diebitsch'sFootnote 35 army. The first wrote some fine lyrics at the time. The second meditatedFootnote 36 on his journey to the Holy Land, which made such a powerful impression.Footnote 37 I read no satire, however, on the Arzrum campaign.
I should never have supposed that this meant me but for finding my name in the same book, in a roll-call of Detached Caucasus Corps generals. “Notable among its (Prince Paskevich's Footnote 38 army) commanders were General Muravyov Footnote 39… the Georgian Prince Tsitsevaze Footnote 40… the Armenian Prince Bebutov, Footnote 41 Prince Potyomkin Footnote 42 General Rayevski Footnote 43 and finally Mr Pushkin…who had quit the capital to sing the exploits of his fellow-countrymen.” Footnote 44
Truth to tell: I was far more irked by the French traveller's lines, fulsome epithetsFootnote 45 notwithstanding, than censureFootnote 46 in the Russian journals.Footnote 47 I have always thought “seeking inspiration” a comic and absurd foible: you do not seek inspiration; it must find the poet. Going out to a war to sing future exploits would be too self-regarding for me on one front and too indelicate on the other. I do not dabble in military criticism. It is not my business. It may be that the bold crossing of the Sagan-lu,Footnote 48 the manoeuvre by which Count Paskevich cut off the SeraskierFootnote 49 from OsmanFootnote 50 Pasha, defeat of two enemy corps in twenty four hours, the rapid advance on Arzrum—it may be that all this, crowned in total success as it was, is an unrivalled invitation to ridiculeFootnote 51 in military eyes (such, for example, as trade consulFootnote 52 Fontanier's, author of Travels in the East). I should be ashamed, however, to write satire on a chief who covered himself in glory, who received me courteously in the shelter of his tent and found time amid his high concerns to show me a flattering attention.Footnote 53 The man who stands in no need of the patronage of the Powerful values their good humour and hospitality, for he can ask no more of them.Footnote 54 An accusation of ingratitude should not be left unanswered like worthless criticism or literary censure.Footnote 55 Hence my decision to publish this preface and issue my travel notes, which are all Footnote 56 I have written about the 1829 campaign.
A. Pushkin.
Chapter One
Steppes. A Kalmyk kibitka.Footnote 57 Caucasian Spa. The Georgian Military Highway. Vladikavkaz. An Ossete funeral. The Terek. Darial Gorge. Across the snow-capped peaks. First glimpse of Georgia. Water-conduits. Khosrow-Mirza. The Governor of Dushet.
…From Moscow I set off for Kaluga, Belev and Oryol and so travelled an extra 200 versts;Footnote 58 but I did see Yermolov.Footnote 59 He lives at Oryol, his estate lying nearby. I called at eight in the morning and missed him. My cabbie told me that Yermolov visits no one but his father, a down-to-earth, godfearing old man,Footnote 60 that he only turns away municipal officials and everyone else is freely admitted. I called again an hour later. Yermolov received me with his customary cordiality. At first glance I saw not the slightest resemblance to his portraits, generally done in profile. A round face, fiery grey eyes and a shock of grey hair. A tiger's head on a Herculean torso. The smile is unattractive because it is not natural. But when he ponders and frowns, he becomes handsome and calls strikingly to mind the poetic portrait by Dawe.Footnote 61 He wore a green Circassian chekmen. Footnote 62 His study walls were hung with sabres and daggers,Footnote 63 souvenirs of his dominion in the Caucasus. He plainly chafes at his inaction. Several times he brought up Paskevich, always scathingly; on the ease of his victories, he compared him to Joshua for whom the walls fell at the blast of a trumpet and dubbed C<ount> Erivan “Count Jericho”.Footnote 64 “Wait,” said Yermolov, “till he sets about a Pasha who's not clever, not subtle, just stubborn like the old Pasha at Shumla,Footnote 65 and Paskevich is done for.” I passed on to Yermolov Count Tolstoy'sFootnote 66 remark that Paskevich had done so well in the Persian campaign that a bright spark could now only distinguish himself by doing worse. Yermolov laughed but disagreed. “He could have saved men and money,” he said. I think he is writing, or wants to write, his memoirs. He is dissatisfied with Karamzin's History and would like a fiery pen to trace the march of the Russian people from obscurity to power and glory.Footnote 67 He spoke of Prince Kurbski's memoirs con amore.Footnote 68 The Germans caught their share.Footnote 69 “In fifty years’ time,” he said, “they'll think there was an auxiliary Prussian or Austrian army in this campaign, led by German general so-and-so.” I spent about two hours with him. He was put out at not remembering my full name.Footnote 70 He excused himself with compliments. The conversation touched several times on literature. Reading Griboyedov's verse, he said, gives him jaw-ache.Footnote 71 There was not a word about Government or politics.Footnote 72
The route via Kursk and Kharkov offered: but I took the turning straight for Tiflis, sacrificing a good dinner at the inn in Kursk (no trivial matter on Russian travels) and incurious about visiting Kharkov University, no match for Kursk's restaurant.Footnote 73
The going to Yelets is appalling. My calashFootnote 74 stuck several times in mud worthy of Odessa. As it fell out, I made no more than fiftyFootnote 75 versts a day. At last, I saw the Voronezh steppes and could roll freely across green plain. At Novocherkassok, I found Count P<ushkin>,Footnote 76 also bound for Tiflis, and we agreed to travel together.
The transition from Europe to Asia becomes ever more perceptible: woodland vanishes, hills recede; vegetation thickens and shows greater fertility; birds unknown in our woods appear; eagles sit on hummocks marking the highway, as if on guard, and proudly eye the traveller; over the rich pastures
The KalmyksFootnote 78 camp round the post-station cabins. Beside their kibitkas graze their ugly, shaggy mounts, known to you from Orlowski'sFootnote 79 fine sketches. The other day I visited a Kalmyk kibitka (a wicker frame covered in white felt). The entire household was sitting down to breakfast. There was a pot boiling in the middle and the smoke wafted through an opening at the top of the kibitka. A young Kalmyk girl, rather pretty, was smoking tobacco as she sewed. I sat down beside her.
“What's your name?”
“ * * *.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“What are you sewing?”
“Trousers.”
“Who for?”
“Me.”
She passed me her pipe and turned to breakfast. Tea laced with mutton-fat and salt bubbled in the pot. She offered me her bowl. I was loath to refuse and sipped, trying not to gasp. I defy any national cuisine to produce viler. I asked for something to help it down. A hunk of dried horseflesh was offered. I was glad of even that. Kalmyk coquetry was beginning to alarm me; I extricated myself hurriedly from the kibitka and quit the Circe of the steppes.Footnote 80
At Stavropol l saw clouds on the horizon, clouds on which I had last set eyes exactly nine years before. They were just the same, in just the same place—the snow-capped peaks of the Caucasus range.
From Georgievsk I called at Goryachiye Vody.Footnote 81 Here, I found great change: in my time the baths were housed in hastily built shacks. The springs, largely as nature made them, splashed, smoked and flowed down the mountains in different directions, leaving white and reddish traces. We would scoop up the bubbling water in bark cups or bottle-ends. Now, magnificent baths and buildings stand. A boulevard planted with limes has been laid along the slope of Mashuk. Everywhere there are tidy paths, green benches, rectangular flower-beds, bridges and pavilions. The springs have been lined, faced in stone; there are instructions from the police on the bathhouse-walls; order, hygiene and prettiness prevail.
Truth to tell: the Caucasus spa offers greater amenity now; but I pined for its old wildness; pined for the sheer, rock trails, the bushes and the unrailed precipices over which I used to clamber. I left the spa with a heavy heart and headed back to Georgievsk. Soon night fell. The clear sky was studded with a million stars. I drove along the bank of the Podkumok. Here, A. R<ayevski>Footnote 82 once used to sit with me, listening to the melody of the stream. Majestic BeshtuFootnote 83 loomed blacker and blacker in the distance, its vassal-mountains round it, and vanished at last in the gloom…
The next day we went on and reached Yekaterinograd, formerly the Governor-General'sFootnote 84 seat.
At Yekaterinograd the Georgian Military Highway begins; the post-road ends. Horses are on hire to Vladikavkaz. There is an escort of Cossacks, infantry and one cannon. The post leaves twice a week and travellers join it: the term used is okaziya. Footnote 85 We did not have long to wait. The post came the day after and the following morning at nine o' clock we were ready for the road. At the mustering-point a whole caravan of five hundred people or so had gathered. The drum rolled. We were off. At the head went the cannon, surrounded by foot-soldiers. Behind trailed calashes, britzkas and kibitkasFootnote 86 carrying soldiers’ wives from fort to fort; then came a creaking train of two-wheeled arabas.Footnote 87 Alongside scurried herds of horses and oxen. Round them careered NogaiFootnote 88 herdsmen in burkasFootnote 89 and with lassoes. At first all this was rather agreeable. But I soon wearied of it. The cannon moved at a walk, fuse smouldering and soldiers lighting their pipes at it. Our slow progress (we made just fifteen verstsFootnote 90 the first day), the intolerable heat, short rations, disturbed nights and, above all, the incessant screech of the Nogai arabas exasperated me. The Tartars glory in the din, saying that they ride as men of honour with no cause to hide. On this occasion, I would gladly have travelled in less eminent company. The road is fairly monotonous: plain, hills on either side. The peaks of the Caucasus rim the horizon, higher and higher each day. There are forts, adequate for these parts, with a ditch which each of us could have jumped standing in the old days, rustingFootnote 91 cannon unfired since the time of Count GudovichFootnote 92 and a crumbling rampart with a wandering garrison of hens and geese. Inside the forts there are a few huts where one can, with difficulty, obtain ten eggs and some curd.Footnote 93
The first place of note is Fort Minaret. As we approached, our caravan crossed a delightful valley, between burial-mounds overgrown with limes and planes. These are the graves of several thousand victims of the plague. There was a bright show of flowers, spawned in the infected ash. To our right, the snowy Caucasus gleamed. Ahead soared a huge, wooded mountain; behind lay the fort. Around it can be seen the remains of a ruined aul Footnote 94 called Tartartub, once the capital of Greater Kabardia. A slender, solitary minaret bears witness to the vanished settlement. It rises elegantly among heaps of stones on the bank of a dried-up watercourse. The stairway inside had not yet collapsed. I climbed to the platform from which the mullah's voice rings no more. There, I found a few unknown names scratched in the brickwork by vainglorious travellers.Footnote 95
Our route turned picturesque. The mountains stretched above us. Over their peaks barely visible flocks crawled, like insects. We even made out a shepherd, perhaps a Russian, taken prisoner once and grown old in captivity.Footnote 96 We came upon more burial-mounds, more ruins. Two or three gravestones stood at the roadside. Here, by Circassian tradition, their horsemen are buried. A Tartar inscription, a picture of a sabre, a tanga,Footnote 97 cut in the stone, remain for robber grandsons in memory of a robber forebear.
The CircassiansFootnote 98 hate us. We drove them from their free pastures; their auls were destroyed, whole tribes wiped out. They withdraw ever deeper into the mountains and from there direct their raids. The friendship of “peaceable”Footnote 99 Circassians is not to be relied on: they are ever-ready to help their turbulent fellow-tribesmen. Their wild chivalry has suffered a marked loss of spirit. They rarely attack Cossacks in equal numbers, never attack infantry and flee at the sight of a cannon. By the same token, they never miss the opportunity to waylay a weak or unprotected detachment. The country brims with tales of their villainy. There is practically no means of pacifying them, short of disarming them as the Crimean Tartars were disarmed, extraordinarily difficult given the prevalence of hereditary disputes and blood-feuds among them. Daggers and sabres are limbs and the young begin mastering them before they talk.Footnote 100 To them murder is a mere bodily function. They keep captives in hope of ransom but treat them with dreadful inhumanity, make them work beyond their strength, feed them on raw dough, beat them at will and set youngsters to guard them, entitled to butcher them with their childrens' sabres at the least protest. A peaceful Circassian was arrested recently after shooting a soldier. His plea was that his rifle had been loaded too long.Footnote 101 What is to be done with such a people? The hope, however, must be that acquisition of the eastern Black Sea shore will, by severing Circassian trade with Turkey, force them into closer ties with us. The influence of luxury might promote domestication: the samovar would be an important innovation. There is a more potent course, more moral, more consonant with the enlightenment of our age: spreading the Gospel. The Circassians adopted the Mohamedan faith very recently. They were lured by the vigorous fanaticism of apostles of the Koran, foremost among them Mansur,Footnote 102 a remarkable man who long incited the Caucasus against Russian rule, was finally captured by us and died in the Solovetski Monastery. The Caucasus awaits Christian missionaries. It taxes our indolence less, however, in place of the Living Word to propagate dead letters and distribute mute books to people who cannot read.Footnote 103
We reached Vladikavkaz, the former Kap-kay, threshold of the mountains. It is surrounded by OsseteFootnote 104 auls. I visited one and ran into a funeral. A crowd was milling round the saklia.Footnote 105 Outside stood an araba with two bullocks at the yoke. The dead man's relatives and friends were converging from all sides and entering the saklia with loud laments, banging their fists on their foreheads. The women stood meekly by. The corpse was brought out on a burka…
it was laid on the araba. One of the guests took the deceased's rifle, blew the powder from the pan and laid it beside the body. The bullocks moved off. The guests followed. The body was to be buried in the mountains, some thirty versts from the aul. Unfortunately, no one could explain these rites to me.Footnote 107
The Ossetes are the poorest tribe among the nations of the Caucasus; their women are beautiful and, reportedly, very well-disposed to travellers. At the fort gate, I encountered the wife and daughter of a gaoled Ossete. They were bringing his dinner. Both looked calm and spirited; at my approach, however, both dropped their heads and drew their tattered chadars.Footnote 108 Inside the fort, I saw Circassian amanats,Footnote 109 lively, handsome lads. They constantly make mischief and escape from the fort. They are pitifully kept. They go about in rags, half-naked and disgustingly filthy. I saw some in wooden stocks. It is unlikely that amanats set free pine for their stay in Vladikavkaz.Footnote 110
The cannon left us. We went on with the infantry and Cossacks. The Caucasus received us into its sanctuary. We heard a dull noise and saw the Terek hurtling in different directions. We set off along the left bank. Its noisy flood turns the wheels of mean Ossete mills that look like dog-kennels. The further we penetrated the mountains, the narrower the gorge became. The trapped Terek hurls its troubled waters with a roar over cliffs blocking its path. The gorge winds down its course. The rock foot of the mountain has been ground smooth by its flow. I walked and kept stopping, struck by the brooding loveliness of nature. The weather was sullen; clouds heaved ponderously round the black peaks. Count P<ushkin> and S<tjernvall>Footnote 111 were reminded, viewing the Terek, of the ImatraFootnote 112 and awarded pride of place to the “thundering river of the North”.Footnote 113 I, though, had no comparison for the sight before me.Footnote 114
Short of Lars I fell behind the convoy, deep in contemplation of huge cliffs between which the Terek lashes with unspeakable fury. Suddenly a soldier came running towards me, shouting from afar: “Don't stop, Y<our> H<onour>. You'll be killed.” The warning struck me in all innocence as extremely odd. The fact is that Ossete bandits, safe in this narrow place, shoot across the Terek at travellers. The day before we passed they made just such an attack on General Bekovich,Footnote 115 who galloped through their fire. On the cliff are to be seen the ruins of some castle: they are plastered with “peaceful” Ossete saklias, like swallows’ nests.
At Lars we stopped for the night. Here we found a French traveller who scared us about the road ahead. He advised leaving carriages at Kobi and riding. With him we had our first drink of KakhetianFootnote 116 wine out of a stinking burdyuk, Footnote 117 recalling the feasts of the Iliad:
And in goatskin bottles wine, our delight!Footnote 118
I found a soiled copy of “A Captive in the Caucasus” here and must say I re-read it with great pleasure. It is all feeble, juvenile and incomplete. But much is faithfully caught and expressed.Footnote 119
The next morning we went on. Some Turkish prisoners were working on the road. They complained about the rations issued. They just could not get used to Russian black bread. It reminded me of my friend Sh<eremetev>'sFootnote 120 comment on return from Paris: “Rum life in Paris, m’ boy: nothing to eat; no black bread for love or money!”
Seven versts on from Lars is Darial Post. The gorge bears the same name. The cliffs on either side are parallel walls. It is so very, very narrow, writes one traveller,Footnote 121 that you not only see, you seem to feel the tightness. A strip of sky runs like blue ribbon overhead. Streams cascading from the mountain-top in fine, spurting jets reminded me of the Rape of Ganymede, Rembrandt's uncanny painting. What's more, the gorge is lit entirely in his manner.Footnote 122 In places the Terek washes the very cliff-foot away, leaving rock piled like a damn on the road. Not far from the Post, there is a little bridge thrown bravely across the river. It is like standing on a mill. The whole bridge simply judders as the Terek roars by like waterwheels turning the stones. Opposite Darial,Footnote 123 on sheer cliff, are to be seen the ruins of a fort. Legend has it that a certain Queen DariaFootnote 124 went into hiding there and gave her name to the gorge: make-belief. Darial in Old Persian means gate.Footnote 125 According to Pliny the Caucasian Gates, incorrectly called Caspian, stood here. The gorge was barred with real wooden gates bound in iron. Under them, writes Pliny, flows the River Diriodoris. A fort was also erected here to check the incursions of wild tribes; etc.Footnote 126 See the travels of Count J. Potocki whose learned research is as engaging as his Spanish novels.Footnote 127
From Darial we set off for Kazbek. We saw the TroitskiFootnote 128 Gate (an arch blasted in the rock with gunpowder)—the road once went under it but the Terek, with its frequent changes of course, now flows through.
Near Kazbek we crossed Beshenaya Balka,Footnote 129 a ravine which turns into a furious torrent during the heavy rains. It was perfectly dry at the time and ominous only in name.
Kazbek village lies at the foot of Mount Kazbek and belongs to Prince Kazbek. The prince, a man of about forty five, is taller than a Preobrazhenski fugleman.Footnote 130 We found him in the dukhan Footnote 131 (the name for Georgian hostelries, which are far meaner and dirtier than Russian ones). A pot-bellied burdyuk (ox-hide) lay in the doorway, spreading its four legs. The giant dispensed chikhir Footnote 132 from it and put some questions to me, which I answered with the respect due to his rank and stature. We parted great friends.
Impressions soon dull. Barely a day had passed and the Terek's roar, its monstrous waterfalls, the cliffs and the precipices no longer held my attention. Impatience to reach Tiflis gripped me to exclusion. I drove past Kazbek with as much indifference as I once sailed past Chatyrdag.Footnote 133 It is also true that rain and mist blocked my view of its snowy bulk that, in the poet's phrase, “props up the heavens’ rim”.Footnote 134
A Persian prince was due. Some way out of Kazbek we ran into several calashes blocking the narrow road. As the carriages manoeuvred, the escort officer told us that his charge was a Persian court poet and, at my request, presented me to Fazil-Khan.Footnote 135 I launched, with the aid of an interpreter, into a high-flown oriental salutation; how shamed I was, then, when Fazil-Khan met my misplaced convolutions with the simple, sensible civilities of a gentleman! “He had hoped to see me in Petersburg, regretted that our acquaintance would be short-lived etc.” Abashed, I was forced to drop the mock-heroic style and fall back on stock European phrases. There's a lesson for Russian derisiveness. In future I shall not judge a man by his sheepskin papakha *Footnote 136 and painted nails.
Kobi PostFootnote 137 is right at the foot of Mount Krestovaya,Footnote 138 which we were to cross. We stopped here for the night and turned our minds to how to pull off this awesome feat: mount Cossack horses, abandoning carriages, or send for Ossete oxen? As a precaution, I penned an official request on behalf of our entire caravan to Mr. Ch<ilyayev>,Footnote 139 in charge of the area, and we turned in for the night, in expectation of transport.
The next day around noon we heard uproar, shouting and saw a rare spectacle: 18 pairs of scraggy, stunted bullocks, urged on by a crowd of half-naked Ossetes, were barely dragging my friend O * * *'s light Viennese calash. The sight instantly dispelled all my doubts. I settled for sending my heavy Petersburg calash back to Vladikavkaz and riding to Tiflis. Count P<ushkin> was loath to follow my example. He preferred to yoke an entire herd of oxen to his britzka, weighed down as it was with provisions of every kind, and crest the snow-covered ridge in triumph. We parted and I set off with Col. Og<aryov>Footnote 140 who was inspecting the local roads.
The road passed a landslide which fell in late June 1827. Such events commonly occur every seven years. An enormous mass of rock descended, strewing itself across a whole verst of gorge and damming the Terek. Sentries on duty downstream heard a tremendous crash and saw the river fall rapidly and in a quarter of an hour fail completely and run dry. The Terek forced its way through the landslide only two hours later. It was that fearsome!Footnote 141
We climbed steeply, higher and higher. Our horses floundered in loose snow, with streams burbling below. I looked at the road in wonder and could not see how wheels would pass.
Just then I heard a dull roar. “It's an avalanche”, Col. Og<aryov> told me. I looked round and saw a mass of snow to one side which had broken free and was slowly descending the precipice. Minor falls here are common. Last year, a Russian haulier was crossing Mount Krestovaya. There was an avalanche. A horrific drift dropped on his vehicle, swallowed up cart, horse and driver, swept across the road and plunged into the chasm with its prey. We reached the summit. A granite cross stands here, an old monument restored by Yermolov.Footnote 142
At this point travellers generally alight from their carriages and walk. Recently a certain foreign consulFootnote 143 passed through. He was so faint that he had his eyes bandaged; was led across by hand and when the covering was removed fell to his knees, gave thanks to God etc., which much astonished his guides.
The instant passage from the grim Caucasus to lovely Georgia is exhilarating. The southern air suddenly wafts over the traveller. At the top of Mount Gut the Kaishaur Valley unfolds, with its inhabited cliffs, its gardens and its bright Aragva meandering like a silver ribbon—all in miniature at the bottom of a three-verst drop, with a perilous road going down.
We were descending into the valley.Footnote 144 A new moon showed in the clear sky. The evening air was still and warm. I spent the night on the banks of the Aragva, at Mr Ch<ilyayev>'s residence.Footnote 145 Next day I took leave of my amiable host and pressed on.
Here Georgia begins. Bright valleys watered by the merry Aragva had replaced the gloomy gorges and grim Terek. Instead of bare cliffs, I had green hills and fruit trees about me. Water-conduits testified to civilisation. One impressed me with a perfect optical illusion: the water seemed to be flowing uphill.
At Paisanaur I stopped to change horses. Here I met the Russian officer escorting the Persian prince. Before long I heard bells tinkling and a whole line of katarsFootnote 146 (mules), roped together and heavily loaded Oriental-fashion, came trailing up the road. I set off on foot without waiting for the horses and half a verst short of Ananur met Khosrow-MirzaFootnote 147 on a bend in the road. His carriages were at a halt. He peered from his calash and nodded to me. A few hours after our encounter the prince was attacked by mountain-folk. Hearing the whistle of bullets, Khosrow leapt from his calash, mounted a horse and galloped off. The attendant Russians marvelled at his bravery. The fact was that the young oriental, unused to the calash, saw it more as a trap than a refuge.
I reached Ananur without feeling tired. There was no sign of my horses. I was told that it was only another ten versts or so to the town of Dushet and set off again on foot. What I did not know, however, was that the road went uphill. Those ten versts were more like a good twenty.
Evening fell; I walked on, climbing higher and higher. There was no missing the way; but in places I was up to my knees in mud churned from the clay by springs. I was utterly exhausted. The darkness deepened. I heard dogs howling and barking and was cheered picturing the town at hand. I was wrong, though: they were Georgian shepherd dogs barking and jackals, common in these parts, howling. I cursed my hastiness but there was no going back. At last I saw lights and around midnight reached some tree-shaded houses. The first man I met offered to lead me to the town-governor's house, demanding an abaz Footnote 148 for his services.
My arrival at the town-governor's, an old Georgian officer, caused great stir. I requested, first, a changing-room, secondly, a glass of wine and, thirdly, an abaz for my guide. The governor was at a loss what to do with me and eyed me in bewilderment. Seeing him in no hurry to accede to my requests, I set about undressing in his presence, apologising de la liberté grande.Footnote 149 Happily, I discovered the posting-warrant in my pocket, proving that I was a law-abiding traveller and no Rinaldo-Rinaldini.Footnote 150 The blessed document worked instant results: I was assigned a room, a glass of wine was brought and an abaz dispensed to my guide with a fatherly reprimand for his profiteering, a blot on Georgian hospitality. I flung myself on the divan in hopes of a hero'sFootnote 151 sleep after my exploit: Nothing of the sort! Fleas, far more perilous than jackals, attacked me throughout the night and gave me no respite. In the morning, my man reported with the news that Count P<ushkin> had successfully crossed the snow-covered mountains with his oxen and had arrived in Dushet. I must hurry! Count P<ushkin> and S<tjernvall> called and proposed that we go on again together. I left Dushet in agreeable contemplation of spending the night in Tiflis.
The road was no less agreeable and picturesque, though we seldom saw signs of habitation. A few versts from Gartsiskal,Footnote 152 we crossed the Kura by an ancient bridge, a monument to Roman campaigns,Footnote 153 and headed at a round trot breaking occasionally into a gallop for Tiflis, which we reached without incident after 10 pm.
Chapter Two
Tiflis (Tbilisi). Public baths. Noseless Hassan. Georgian character. Songs. Kakhetian wine. Cause of the heat. High prices. Description of the town. Departure from Tiflis. Night in Georgia. Sighting Armenia. Double stage. An Armenian village. Gergery. Griboyedov. Bezobdal. A mineral spring. Storm in the mountains. Night at Gumry. Ararat. The frontier. Turkish hospitality. Kars. An Armenian family. Departure from Kars. Count Paskevich's camp.
I stopped at an inn and next day set off for the famous Tiflis baths. The town seemed full of people. The oriental buildings and bazaar reminded me of Kishinyov.Footnote 154 Donkeys with cross-panniers ran down narrow, crooked streets; bullock-carts blocked the way. Armenians, Georgians, Circassians and Persians thronged the irregular square;Footnote 155 young Russian officials swaggered among them on Karabakh nags. At the bath-house entrance sat the janitor, an old Persian. He opened the door for me. I entered a vast room and what did I see? More than fifty women, young and old, half-clothed and fully unclothed, sitting and standing, dressing and undressing at benches round the walls. I paused. “Come on, come on,” said my host. “Today's Tuesday, women's day.” “No problem, indeed,” I answered. “On the contrary.” Arrival of males made no impression. They continued laughing and chattering. Not one rushed to draw her chadar; not one interrupted her undressing. I might have been invisible. Many were indeed beautiful and bore out T. Moore's imaginings:
By the same token, I know nothing more repulsive than old Georgian women: they are witches.
The Persian led me to the baths: a hot ferro-sulphur spring flowed into a deep cistern cut in the rock. Never in my life have I encountered anything more luxurious, in Russia or in Turkey, than the Tiflis baths. I shall describe them in detail.
My host left me in the care of a Tartar attendant. I must acknowledge that he had no nose; this did not detract from mastery of his trade. Hassan (the noseless Tartar's name) began by laying me out on the warm stone floor; after that, he began cracking my limbs, pulling my joints and pummelling me with his fist. I felt no pain at all, just marvellous relief. (Oriental bath-attendants sometimes go into ecstasies, jump on your shoulders, run their feet over your thighs and dance squatting on your back, e sempre bene.)Footnote 157 After that, he gave me a long rub with a woollen glove, a heavy sluice of warm water and set about washing me with a soapy linen bag. The sensation is indescribable: the hot soap flows over you like air! NBFootnote 158 the woollen glove and the linen bag should definitely be adopted in Russian bath-houses: the discerning will be grateful for the innovation.
After the bag Hassan released me to the bath, with which the rites concluded.
I had hoped to catch R<ayevski>Footnote 159 in Tiflis but, learning that his regiment was already in the field, decided to ask Count Paskevich's permission to travel out to the army.
I spent about a fortnight in Tiflis and met local society. S<ankovski>,Footnote 160 editor of the “Tiflis Gazette”, told me many interesting stories about the region, about Pr<ince> Tsitsianov,(Footnote 161 about A. P. Yermolov etc. S <ankovski> loves Georgia and foresees a brilliant future for it.
Georgia turned to Russia for protection in 1783, which did not prevent the notorious Aga-MohammedFootnote 162 from capturing and sacking Tiflis and carrying 20,000 inhabitants into captivity (1795). Georgia passed under the Emperor Alexander's sceptre in 1802.Footnote 163 The Georgians are a martial people. They have proved their courage under our colours. Their qualities of intellect await greater education. They are generally jolly and sociable in temperament. On holidays the men carouse and roam the streets. Black-eyed lads sing, leap and turn cartwheels; women dance the lezghinka.Footnote 164
Georgian songs have an attractive air. One was translated for me word for word; it is seemingly a modern composition; there is a certain oriental nonsensicality about it possessing its own poetic merit. Here it is:
Soul, born recently in Paradise! Soul, created for my happiness! To you, immortal one, I look for life.
To you, blooming spring, two-week-old moon, to you, my guardian angel, to you I look for life.
Your face shines and your smile gladdens. I don't want to rule the world; I want your gaze. To you I look for life.
Mountain rose, moist with dew! Nature's chosen favourite! Silent, hidden treasure! To you I look for life.Footnote 165
Georgians drink differently from us and are marvellously robust.Footnote 166 Their wines do not travel and spoil quickly but are excellent on the spot. Kakhetian and KarabakhFootnote 167 rival some Burgundies. Wine is kept in marans,Footnote 168 enormous pitchers buried in the ground. These are opened with grand ceremony. Not long ago, a Russian dragoon secretly unearthed one of these pitchers, fell into it and drowned in Kakhetian, like the unfortunate Clarence in his butt of malaga.Footnote 169
Tiflis lies on the banks of the Kura, in a valley surrounded by rocky hills. They shield it in every direction from the wind and, baked by the sun, boil rather than warm the motionless air. This is the cause of the intolerable heat prevailing in Tiflis despite the fact that the town lies only just below the forty first degree of latitude. Its very name (Tbilis-kalar)Footnote 170 means Hot Town.
Most of the town is constructed oriental fashion: low houses, flat roofs. In the north, buildings of European design rear up and regular squares are taking shape round them. The bazaar divides into several rows; the stalls are full of Turkish and Persian wares, cheap enough if the universal dearness is allowed for. Tiflis weaponry is prized throughout the East. C<ount> S<amoylov>Footnote 171 and V., renowned locally as heroes, regularly tested out their new sabres by severing a ram or decapitating an ox at a single stroke.Footnote 172
In Tiflis Armenians make up the majority population; in 1825 there were some 2500 households here. During the present wars their numbers have further increased. Georgian households total about 1500. Russians do not count themselves local residents. Serving soldiers live in Georgia because those are their orders. Young Titular Counsellors come here after the rank of Assessor, so coveted.Footnote 173 Both regard Georgia as exile.
The climate in Tiflis is said to be unhealthy. The local feverFootnote 174 is dire; it is treated with mercury taken without ill effect on account of the heat. Doctors feed it to their patients without compunction. General S<ipyagin>Footnote 175 is said to have died because his personal physician, who came with him from Petersburg, took fright at the dose local doctors prescribed and denied it to his patient. Common feverFootnote 176 here is much as in the Crimea and Moldavia and is treated identically.
The locals drink the Kura river-water which is cloudy but palatable. All the spring and well water smells strongly of sulphur. Wine, though, is so widely consumed here that a water shortage would pass unnoticed.
The low value of money in Tiflis surprised me. I took a cab two blocks, dismissed it in half an hour and had to pay two silver roubles. I thought at first the cabbie was trying to exploit a newcomer's ignorance; but I was told this really is the price. Everything else is commensurately dear.
We would go to the German colony, and dine there. The drink was locally brewed beer, very distasteful, and the bill was very steep for a very poor meal. The food at my inn was just as dear and bad.Footnote 177 G<eneral> S<trekalov>,Footnote 178 a celebrated gourmet, invited me to dinner once; unfortunately, service was by seniority and there were English officers with generals’ epaulettesFootnote 179 seated at table. The servants passed me by so assiduously that I rose from table hungry. Devil take the Tiflis gourmet!
I was waiting impatiently for my fate to be decided. At last, I had a note from R<ayevski>.Footnote 180 He wrote that I must hurry to Kars, as the army was due to move on in a few days. I left the next day.
I rode, changing horses at the Cossack posts.Footnote 181 The land about me was parched with heat. Georgian villages looked like lovely gardens from a distance but on closer approach I would find a few poor saklias shaded by dusty poplars. The sun set but the air was still stifling:
The moon shone; all was quiet; the clatter of my horse's hooves was the only sound in the silence of the night. I rode on for a long time meeting no signs of habitation. At last, I saw a solitary saklia. I started rapping on the door. The owner came out. I asked for water first in Russian, then in Tartar. He did not understand me. Wonderful unconcern! Thirty versts out of Tiflis, on the road to Persia and Turkey at that, he knew not a word of Russian or Tartar.
Stopping overnight at a Cossack post,Footnote 182 I went on at daybreak. The road ran through hills and woodland. I met some travelling Tartars; there were women among them. They were in the saddle, wrapped in chadars; only their eyes and heels showed.
I started climbing Bezobdal,Footnote 183 the mountain that divides Georgia from ancient Armenia. A broad, tree-lined road winds round the mountain. At the top of Bezobdal I passed through a small gorge, called Wolf's GateFootnote 184 apparently, and reached the natural frontier of Georgia. Ahead lay new mountains and a new horizon; below stretched lush green meadows. I looked back once more at sun-scorched Georgia and set off down the mountain-incline towards the fresh plains of Armenia. To my indescribable satisfaction I noticed the heat suddenly drop: it was already a different climate.
My man with the pack-horses had fallen behind. I rode on alone through flourishing wilderness ringed by distant hills. Absent-mindedly I passed the postFootnote 185 where I should have changed horses. More than six hours had elapsed and I began to marvel at the length of the stage. I saw some heaps of rubble to one side, which looked like saklias, and headed towards them. I did indeed reach an Armenian village. A few women in gaily coloured rags were sitting on the flat roof of an underground saklia. Somehow I made myself understood. One went down into the saklia and brought me out some cheese and milk. After a few moments’ rest I continued and on a high river-bank opposite saw GergeryFootnote 186 Fort. Three torrents plunged noisily and frothily over the high bank. I crossed the river. Two bullocks with an araba were coming up a steep road. Some Georgians accompanied the araba. “Where are you from?” I asked.
“Teheran.”Footnote 187
“What are you carrying?”
“Griboyed.”Footnote 188
This was the murdered Griboyedov's body which they were conveying to Tiflis.
I had not expected to meet dear oldFootnote 189 Griboyedov again! I said goodbye to him last year in Petersburg before he left for Persia. He was gloomy and prey to strange forebodings. I tried to calm him. “You don't know these people,” he told me. “You just see: it'll come to knives.”Footnote 190 He thought that bloodshed would be occasioned by the Shah's death and internecine strife between his seventy sons.
But the aged Shah still lived and Griboyedov's prophetic words had come true. He fell to Persian daggers, a victim of ignorance and perfidy.Footnote 191 His mutilated corpse, for three days the plaything of the Teheran mob, was recognised only by the hand once pierced by a pistol bullet.Footnote 192
I first knew Griboyedov in 1817.Footnote 193 His melancholy temperament, his bitter wit, his good nature, his very weaknesses and vices, man's inescapable travelling companions—everything about him was uncommonly winning. Born with ambition to equal his gifts, he was long enmeshed in petty want and obscurity. His skills as a statesman found no outlet; his poetic talent went unrecognised; even his cool, brilliant courage was for a time suspect. A few friends knew his worth and caught the incredulous smile, that intolerable, silly grin, when they chanced to speak of him as someone out-of-the-ordinary. People only believe Fame and do not understand that there may be a Napoleon among them who has not commanded one company of chasseurs or a new Descartes who has not published a line in the “Moscow Telegraph”. Our respect for Fame, though, may be a function of vanity: our vote too elects the hall of Fame.
Griboyedov's life was overshadowed by certain clouds—the consequence of fierce passions and mighty circumstances.Footnote 194 He felt the need to break once and for all with his youth and abruptly redirect his life.Footnote 195 He put Petersburg and idle licence behind him and left for Georgia where he spent eightFootnote 196 years at solitary, unremitting toil. Return to Moscow in 1824Footnote 197 was the turning-point in his fortunes and the start of unbroken success. His manuscript comedy “Woe from Wit” made an indescribable impact and placed him instantly in the front rank of Russian poets. Shortly after, his comprehensive knowledge of the region in which war was breaking out opened a new field; he was appointed envoy.Footnote 198 On arrival in Georgia, he married the woman he loved…Footnote 199 I know nothing more enviable than the last years of his turbulent life. Even death, which overtook him in courageous, unequal combat, held no terrors for Griboyedov, no torments. It was instant and fine.
What a pity that Griboyedov did not leave his memoirs! Writing his biography should be the task of his friends; but remarkable people vanish from our midst, leaving no trace. We are indolent and incurious…Footnote 200
At Gergery I met B<uturlin>,Footnote 201 headed as I was for the army. B<uturlin> travelled with every possible luxury. I dined with him and we might have been in Petersburg. We decided to travel together; but the demon impatience overcame me again. My man was begging permission to rest. I set off alone without even a guide. The road was unchanging and perfectly safe.
Crossing a mountain and descending into a tree-shaded valley, I saw a mineral-water spring flowing across the road. Here, I met an Armenian priest on his way from Erivan to Akhaltsik.Footnote 202 “What's news in Erivan?” I asked.
“There's plagueFootnote 203 in Erivan,” he answered, “and what report from Akhaltsik?”
“There's plague at Akhaltsik,” I replied. These glad tidings exchanged, we went our ways.Footnote 204
I rode through fertile fields and blooming meadows. The harvest was billowing, awaiting the scythe. I feasted my eyes on the rich soil whose fertility is a byword in the East. By evening I had reached Pernik.Footnote 205 This was the Cossack post. The sergeant predicted a storm and advised stopping the night, but I was set on reaching GumryFootnote 206 that day without fail.
The road ahead crossed some low hills, the natural boundary of Kars Pashalik.Footnote 207 The sky was thick with storm-clouds. I hoped that the wind, which was quickening by the hour, would scatter them. But a drizzle set in and rain fell ever heavier and more insistent. Pernik to Gumry is reckoned at 27 versts. I tightened my burka straps, pulled the hood over my cap and trusted to providence.
More than two hours went by. The rain was unremitting. Water streamed down my leaden burka and rain-sodden hood. Eventually, a cold trickle started working its way past my necktie and I was soon soaked to the last stitch. It was a dark night; a Cossack rode ahead guiding me. We started up the hills; in the meantime, the rain had stopped and the storm clouds had lifted. Gumry was still some ten versts off. The wind, gusting freely, was so strong that in a quarter of an hour it completely dried me. Escaping fever was unthinkable. At last I reached Gumry around midnight. The Cossack took me straight to the post. We stopped at a tent into which I rushed. Inside, I found twelve sleeping Cossacks cheek by jowl. They made room for me; I collapsed on the burka, insensible with exhaustion. I had travelled 75 versts that day. I went out like a corpse.
The Cossacks woke me at dawn. My first thought was: I must have fever. But I felt, God be thanked, fit and well. There was no trace of sickness, let alone fatigue. I came out of the tent into the fresh morning air. The sun was rising. Framed in clear sky was a snow-white, twin-peaked mountain. “What mountain's that?” I asked, stretching myself, and heard an answering: “That's Ararat.” The power of sounds! I gazed thirstily at the Biblical mountain, saw the ark, moored to its summit with hope of renewal and life—and the raven and the dove flying off, symbols of execution and reconciliation.Footnote 208
My horse was ready. I set off with a guide. It was a fine morning. The sun shone. We rode through broad meadow, thick green grass sodden with dew and yesterday's rain. Ahead gleamed a river which we were to cross. “Here's the Arpachai”,Footnote 209 the Cossack told me. The Arpachai! The frontier! This matched Ararat. I set off at a gallop for the river, my feelings beyond words. I had never before seen foreign soil. The frontier held mystique for me; from childhood travel had been my favourite dream. I had led a long nomad life since, wandering South or North, but had never yet outrun the confines of boundless Russia. I rode joyfully into the Promised River and the trusty steed brought me out on the Turkish bank. But this bank was already conquered: I was still in Russia.
Kars was still 75 versts off. I hoped by evening to set eyes on the Russian camp. I made no stops. Halfway, at an Armenian village by a stream in the mountains, I ate a damnable çörek in lieu of dinner, Armenian bread baked in ash like a pancake, so pined for by the Turkish prisoners in the Darial Gorge. I would have paid dear for a hunk of the Russian black bread they so disdained. I had a young Turk for a guide, dreadful blabbermouth. He rattled on in Turkish all the way, untroubled whether I understood him or not. I concentrated and tried to follow. He was, it seemed, badmouthing the Russians and, used to seeing them all in uniform, had taken me by dress for a foreigner. We met a Russian officer. He was from camp and told me that the army had already left Kars. I cannot describe my despair: the thought of having to return to Tiflis after wearing myself out to no avail in the wilds of Armenia was deathly. The officer went his way; the Turk resumed his monologue; but I was no longer listening. I stepped up the pace to a fast gallop and by evening had reached a Turkish village twenty versts from Kars.
Leaping from the horse, I made to enter the first saklia but the owner showed in the doorway and pushed me off swearing. I met his salutation with the whip. The Turk hollered; a crowd gathered. My guide seemed to take my part. I was directed to a caravansarai. I entered a large saklia like a cow-shed; there was nowhere to spread my burka. I turned to demanding a horse. The Turkish elder appeared. I had one answer to all his incomprehensible utterances: verbana at (give me a horse). The Turks refused. Finally, I had the wit to show them money (which I should have done in the first place). A horse was fetched at once and I was given a guide.
I set off through a broad valley surrounded by hills. Before long I saw Kars, a white dot on one of them. My Turk pointed it out—“Kars, Kars!” he repeated—and set his horse at a gallop; I followed in a torment of anxiety: my fate would be decided in Kars. Here I would discover the whereabouts of our camp and whether I could still catch the army. In the meantime, the sky filled with storm-clouds and rain fell again; but I no longer cared.
We entered Kars. On approach to the town-gates I heard a Russian drum—sounding the tattoo. The sentry took my pass and went off to the commandant. I stood in the rain for about half an hour. Finally, I was let in. I told the guide to take me straight to the baths. We started up steep, winding streets. The horses slithered on the poor Turkish paving. We stopped at a rather wretched-looking building. This was the baths. The Turk dismounted and began rapping at the door. No one answered. The rain was drenching me. Eventually, a young Armenian emerged from a nearby house and, after an exchange with my Turk, invited me inside in passable Russian. He led me up a narrow staircase to the first floor of his house. Sitting in a room furnished with low divans and ancient carpets was an old woman, his mother. She approached and kissed my hand. Her son told her to make a fire and cook me supper. I undressed and sat by the fire. My host's younger brother, a lad of about seventeen, came in. Both brothers had visited Tiflis and had lived there some months. They told me that our troops had left the day before and that the camp was 25 versts from Kars. I relaxed completely. Soon the old woman had cooked me mutton with onions, which to me seemed the pinnacle of culinary art. We all slept in the one room. I spread myself by the guttering stove and fell asleep in agreeable hope of seeing Count Paskevich's camp the next day.
In the morning, I went round the town. My younger host volunteered as cicerone. Touring the fortifications and the citadel, built on sheer cliff, I could not see how we had managed to capture Kars.Footnote 210 My Armenian explained to me, as best he could, the course of the fighting which he had witnessed at first hand. Noticing an enthusiasm for war, I suggested he accompany me to the army. He agreed at once. I sent him to fetch horses. He reappeared with an officer who demanded to be shown written authority. Judging by his oriental features, I saw no need to burrow in my papers and pulled the first sheet to hand from my pocket. The officer inspected it gravely, immediately ordered His Honour's horses to be brought as authorised and handed back my sheet: it was a missive to the Kalmyk girl scribbled at one of the Caucasus post-stations.Footnote 211 Half an hour later I left Kars with Artemi (my Armenian's name) already charging alongside on a Turkish nag, pliant Kurdish javelin in hand, a dagger at his belt and raving about Turks and battles.
I was riding through country entirely sown with wheat; there were villages to be seen around, but they were empty; the inhabitants had fled. The road was excellent and paved where waterlogged—stone bridges spanned the streams. The ground rose perceptibly—the foothills of the Sagan-lu Range, the ancient Taurus, started to show. About two hours passed; I crested a ridge and suddenly saw our camp pitched on the bank of the Kars-chai. Within minutes I was in R<ayevski>'s tent.
Chapter Three
Crossing the Sagan-lu. Skirmish. Camp life. The Yezidis. Battle with the Seraskier of Arzrum. A blown-up saklia.
I had arrived in time. That same day (13 June) the army received the order to advance. Over dinner at R<ayevski>'s I listened to the young generals debating the movements handed down. General BurtsovFootnote 212 was deployed left on the main road to Arzrum straight at the Turkish camp,Footnote 213 while all the rest of the force were to go right flanking the enemy.Footnote 214
By five o’ clock the army was on the march. I rode with the Nizhni-Novgorod Dragoon Regiment, chatting with R<ayevski> whom I had not seen for years. Night fell. We halted in a valley where the army rested up. Here I had the honour of being presented to Count Paskevich.
I found the Count settled in front of a bivouac fire, his staff round him. He was jovial and received me warmly. An outsiderFootnote 215 to the art of war, I had no inkling that the campaign's fate was being determined that moment. I saw V<olkhovski>Footnote 216 here, dust-covered from head to foot, beard overgrown and careworn. He found time, though, to chat with me as an old friend. I saw M <ikhail> P<ushchin>Footnote 217 here too, wounded the previous year. He is loved and respected as a fine comrade and brave soldier. I was surrounded by many of my old friends. How they had changed! How quickly time goes!
I went back to R<ayevski>'s and slept in his tent. During the night I was woken by a fearful clamour: one might have taken it for a surprise enemy attack. R<ayevski> sent to discover the cause of the alarm: some Tartar horses had broken loose and were charging about the camp. The Mussulmans (as Tartars serving in our army are called) were rounding them up.
At dawn the army moved off. We approached some wooded hills. We entered a defile. “Watch out, mate: grape-shot coming”, the dragoons were telling one another. Indeed, the terrain was made for ambush; but the Turks, drawn the other way by General Burtsov's advance, were not exploiting their advantage. We came safely through the perilous defile and emerged on the heights of the Sagan-lu, ten versts from the enemy camp.
The landscape round us was sullen. The air was cold, the hills were covered with gloomy pines. Snow lay in the ravines.
We had only just rested up and dinedFootnote 220 when we heard rifle fire. R<ayevski> sent to investigate. The report was that the Turks had engaged our forward pickets in a skirmish. I rode off with S<emichev>Footnote 221 to view the, for me novel, scene. We met a wounded Cossack: he was swaying in the saddle, pale and bloodied. Two Cossacks held him up. “Are there many Turks?” S<emichev> asked.
“Spilling like pigs, Your Honour,” one replied. Emerging from a defile, we suddenly saw on a hillside opposite some 200 Cossacks drawn up in their lava Footnote 222 with about 500 Turks on top of them. The Cossacks were retreating slowly; the Turks were harrying them with much bravado, taking aim at 20 paces and, shot taken, racing back. Their tall turbans, handsome dolmans and brilliant horse-trappings made a stark contrast with the Cossacks’ blue uniforms and plain harnesses. About 15 of our men had already been wounded. Lieutenant-Colonel BasovFootnote 223 had sent for assistance. Just then, he himself was wounded in the leg. The Cossacks were about to break. But Basov remounted his horse and held his position. Reinforcements arrived. The Turks spotted them and vanished instantly, leaving behind on the hill the decapitated and mutilated corpse of a naked Cossack. The Turks send severed heads to Constantinople and print blood-dipped hands on their banners. The firing died away. Eagles, camp-followers, soared over the hill, spying out their prey from on high. Just then, a crowd of generals and officers showed: Count Paskevich had arrived and set off up the hill behind which the Turks had gone to ground. They had reinforcements of 4,000 cavalry hidden in a hollow and ravines. From the top of the hill the Turkish camp was revealed, fenced from us by ridges and ravines.Footnote 224 We returned late. As I rode through our camp, I saw our wounded, some five of whom died that night and the next day. That evening I called on young Osten-SackenFootnote 225 who had been wounded the same day in a different engagement.
I greatly liked camp life. We were wakened at dawn by a cannon. Sleep under canvas is marvellously refreshing. At dinner we washed down oriental shashlik with English beer and champagne chilled in the Taurus snows. We were a diverse lot. In Rayevski's tent the Mussulman Regimental BeksFootnote 226 gathered; and talk was through an interpreter. Our force included peoples of our Trans-Caucasus provinces and inhabitants of newly conquered territory. Among them, I was intrigued by the Yezidis who have the reputation in the East of being devil-worshippers.Footnote 227 Some 300 households live at the foot of Ararat. They have acknowledged the Tsar of Russia as their sovereign. Their commander, a tall, ugly-looking fellow in a red cloak and black cap, would sometimes call to pay his respects to General Rayevski as cavalry commander-in-chief. I tried to find out from the Yezidi the truth about their religion. He answered my questions by saying that reports of the Yezidis worshipping Satan are idle myth; that they believe in the one God; that under their law cursing the Devil is, certainly, held improper and base, for though a wretch today he may be pardoned in time as no bounds can be set to the mercy of Allah. This explanation set my mind at rest. I was very glad for the Yezidis that they do not worship Satan; and their errors already struck me in a much more pardonable light.Footnote 228
My man turned up in camp three days after me. He came with a supply-train which joined the army safely in full view of the enemy. NB: throughout the campaign not one araba from numerous Russian convoys was captured by the enemy. The regularity with which supply kept up with the force is indeed a marvel.
On the morning of 17 June we heard a fresh exchange of fire and two hours later saw the Karabakh Regiment returning with eight Turkish standards. Colonel FriederichsFootnote 229 had come to blows with the enemy, dug in behind stone fieldworks, and had dislodged and routed him; Osman-Pasha, the cavalry commander, barely escaped with his life.Footnote 230
On 18 June the camp moved to a new site.Footnote 231 On the 19th, the cannon had barely woken us before the whole camp was astir. Generals were off to their posts. Regiments marshalled; officers lined up with their platoons. Left to my own devices, I had no idea which way to go and entrusted my horse to God's will. I met General Burtsov who invited me over to the left flang.Footnote 232 “What's the left flang?” I wondered and went on. I met General MuravyovFootnote 233 placing cannon. Before long some DelibashFootnote 234 showed and whirled round the valley exchanging shots with our Cossacks. In the meantime, a massed body of their infantry was coming up the hollow. General Muravyov gave the order to fire. The grape-shot struck dead-centre. The Turks hurled themselves aside and went to ground behind a ridge. I saw Count Paskevich, his staff round him. The Turks were outflanking our force, shielded by a deep ravine. The Count sent P<ushchin> to reconnoitre the ravine. P<ushchin> galloped off. The Turks took him for a skirmisher and loosed off a volley. Everyone burst out laughing. The Count ordered cannon brought up and fired. The enemy scattered over the hill and down the hollow. On the left flang, where Burtsov had invited me, fierce fighting was in progress.Footnote 235 Turkish cavalry came galloping at our front (the centre). The Count sent in General Rayevski who led his Nizhni-Novgorod Regiment at the attack. The Turks melted away. Our Tartars surrounded their wounded and stripped them nimbly, leaving them naked on the field. General Rayevski halted at the edge of the ravine. Two squadrons, separated from the regiment, had been carried away in the chase; they were retrieved by Colonel Simonich.Footnote 236
The battle died away; the Turks began digging and hauling stones as we watched, entrenching themselves in their usual fashion. They were left in peace. We dismounted and set about such dinner as was to be had. At this point some prisoners were brought to the Count. One was severely wounded. They were cross-questioned. Some time after five o’ clock the troops received renewed orders to attack the enemy.Footnote 237 The Turks stirred behind their screens, met us with cannon fire and before long broke into retreat. Our cavalry was at the head; we started down the ravine; the ground was cracking and crumbling under the horses’ hooves. My horse might have stumbled any moment and then the <Combined> Uhlan Regiment would have ridden over me. But God preserved me. We had scarce gained the wide road running through the hills before our entire cavalry was off at full tilt. The Turks fled; the Cossacks cracked their whips at cannon abandoned on the road and hurtled by. The Turks were flinging themselves into ravines on either side of the road; they were no longer firing; at least no bullet whistled past my ears. First in the chase were our Tartar regiments whose horses are outstandingly fast and strong. My horse, bit between his teeth, was not to be outdone; I could barely hold him. He stopped at the corpse of a young Turk, which was lying across the road. He looked about 18; his pale, girlish face was unmarked. His turban lay sprawled in the dust; the shaved crown of his head had been shot away by a bullet. I continued on foot; before long R<ayevski> caught up.Footnote 238 He wrote in pencil on a scrap of paper to Count Paskevich, reporting the total defeat of the enemy, and went on. I followed at a distance. Night fell. My tired horse hung back and stumbled every step of the way. Count Paskevich had ordered no let-up in the pursuit and directed it himself. Our cavalry detachments raced past me; I saw Colonel Polyakov,Footnote 239 commander of the Cossack artillery which had played an important part in the day, and arrived with him at the deserted villageFootnote 240 where Count Paskevich had halted after breaking off pursuit in the gathering darkness.
We found the Count in front of a fire on the roof of an underground saklia. Prisoners were being brought to him. He was interrogating them. Almost all our commanders were also present. Cossacks held their horses’ reins. The fire lit a scene, worthy of Salvator-Rosa,Footnote 241 a brook burbled in the gloom. Just then, the Count had word that there was a powder magazine hidden in the village and danger of an explosion. The Count left the saklia, with all his suite. We headed for our camp, now 30 versts from where we had slept. The road was thick with cavalry units. We had just arrived when the sky lit up as if with a meteor and we heard a dull explosion. The saklia we had left a quarter of an hour before had been blown into the air: it held the magazine. Several Cossacks were crushed by flying masonry.Footnote 242
That is all I saw at the time. In the evening, I learnt that in this battle the Seraskier of Arzrum, advancing to join Hakki-PashaFootnote 243 with 30,000 troops, had been routed. The Seraskier had fled to Arzrum. His army, thrown back from the Sagan-lu, had been scattered, his artillery had been captured and it remained only to deal with Hakki-Pasha. Count Paskevich left him no time to deploy.
Chapter Four
Engaging Hakki-Pasha. Death of a Tartar Bek. A hermaphrodite. The Pasha in captivity. The Araxes. Shepherd's bridge. Hassan-Kale. A hot spring. The march on Arzrum. Parleying. The capture of Arzrum. Turkish prisoners. A dervish.
The next day the camp woke before five and had orders to move off. On my way out of the tent I met Count Paskevich, up and about before everyone. He saw me.
“Are you tired after yesterday?”
“A little, my lord.”
“I'm sorry about that, because we have another march to catch the Pasha, and then there'll be thirty more versts chasing the enemy.”Footnote 244
We set off and by eight o’ clock had reached a ridge from which Hakki-Pasha's camp unfolded, as if in our grasp. The Turks opened harmless fire from all their batteries. By now, a great stir was evident in their camp. Weariness and the morning heat had many of us dismounting and lying down on the fresh grass. I wound the reins round my hands and fell sweetly asleep, awaiting the order to advance. A quarter of an hour later I was woken. Everything was in motion. On one side columns were advancing at the Turkish camp; on the other—cavalry were preparing to chase the enemy. I would have followed the Nizhni-Novgorod Regiment but my horse was limping. I lagged behind.Footnote 245 The Uhlan Regiment swept past me. Then V<olkhovski> galloped by with three cannon. I found myself alone in wooded hills. I ran into a dragoon who announced that the wood was full of enemy. I turned back. I met General M<uravyov> with an infantry regiment. He detailed a company to clear the wood. Approaching a hollow, I saw a rare scene. Under a tree lay one of our Tartar Beks, mortally wounded. His favourite was sobbing beside him. A mullah, on his knees, recited prayers. The dying Bek was extraordinarily calm and gazed fixedly at his young friend. There were some 500 prisoners gathered in the hollow. Several wounded Turks beckoned me, probably mistaking me for a doctor and demanding help I could not provide. A Turk came out of the wood, clutching a bloodstained rag to his wound. Soldiers closed intending to finish him, perhaps compassionately, but it disgusted me. I interceded for the poor Turk and led him off, fainting and streaming blood, towards a group of his comrades. With them was Colonel A<nrep>,Footnote 246 He was gregariously smoking their pipes, notwithstanding rumours that plague had broken out in the Turkish camp. The prisoners sat talking calmly among themselves. They were nearly all young lads. After a rest, we went on. There were bodies strewn all along the road. 15 versts on, I found the Nizhni-Novgorod Regiment halted on the bank of a stream, among cliffs. The chase went on for several more hours. By evening, we had reached a valley surrounded by dense wood and I could finally sleep to my heart's content, after galloping more than eighty versts in those two days.
The next day, the troops chasing the enemy were ordered back to camp. Here, we learnt that there was a hermaphrodite among the prisoners. R<ayevski> had him fetched at my request. I saw a tall, rather fat peasant with the face of a snub-nosed, Lapland crone. We examined him in the presence of a doctor. Erat vir mammosus ut femina, habebat t. non evolutos, p. que parvum et puerilem. Quaerebamus, sitne exsectus?s—Deus, respondit, castravit me. Footnote 247 This malady, known to Hippocrates,Footnote 248 is according to travellers frequently found among nomad Tartars and Turks. Khoss Footnote 249 is the Turkish name for these pseudo-hermaphrodites.
Our force quartered in the Turkish camp captured the day before. Count Paskevich's tent flanked the green pavilion of Hakki-Pasha, taken prisoner by our Cossacks. I called on him and found him surrounded by our officers. He sat, legs curled under him, smoking a pipe. He looked about forty. Consequence and calm were written across his handsome face. His requests upon surrender had been a cup of coffee and exemption from questions.
We encamped in a valley. The snow- and wood-covered Sagan-lu Mountains were already behind us. We went on, no longer encountering enemy anywhere. The villages were empty. The surrounding countryside was gloomy. We saw the Araxes, fast-flowing in its rocky banks. 15 versts from Hassan-Kale is a bridge, thrown handsomely and boldly over seven unequal arches. Legend ascribes its construction to a shepherd who became wealthy and died a hermit on a hilltop where his grave is still on show today, shaded by two solitary pines. Neighbouring peasants gather there to pay homage. The bridge is called Chaban-KepriFootnote 250 (shepherd's bridge). The road to Tabriz crosses it. A few paces from the bridge, I visited the darkened ruins of a caravanserai. I found no one inside except a sick donkey, probably abandoned by fleeing villagers.
On the morning of 24 June we headed for Hassan-Kale,Footnote 251 an ancient fort captured by Prince Bekovich the day before. It was 15 versts from our overnight stop. The long stages were tiring me. I was hoping for a rest; but it was not to be.
Before the cavalry left, some Armenians from the hills turned up in our camp demanding protection from Turks who had driven off their livestock three days before. Colonel A<nrep>, who had not fully grasped what they wanted, fancied there was a Turkish unit in the hills and charged off into the interior with a squadron of the Uhlan Regiment, passing word to R<ayevski> that there were 3,000 Turks in the hills. R<ayevski> followed, to support him in case of danger. I considered myself an honorary Nizhni-Novgorod Regiment member and galloped off in high dudgeon to the Armenians’ rescue. After about 20 versts we entered a village and saw a few dismounted uhlan stragglers, swords drawn, chasing a few hens. One of the inhabitants here explained to R<ayevski> that the point at issue was 3,000 oxen driven off by Turks three days before, which could very easily be rounded up in a couple of days. R<ayevski> ordered the uhlans to break off the hen-chase and sent word to Colonel A<nrep> to turn round. We started back and, once out of the hills, reached Hassan-Kale. But we had made a 40 verst detour to save the lives of a few Armenian hens, which I did not find at all amusing.
Hassan-Kale is reckoned the key to Arzrum. The town is built at the foot of a cliff, topped by a fort. It had about a hundred Armenian households. Our camp was pitched in a broad valley spreading out in front of the fort. I visited a round, stone building here housing a ferro-sulphur spring.
The round pool is three sazhensFootnote 252 in diameter. I swam it twice and suddenly experienced dizziness and nausea, and hardly had the strength to clamber out on the spring's stone rim. The waters are renowned in the East but the locals, lacking proper doctors, take them as they will and probably to no great effect.
The River Murts flows past the walls of Hassan-Kale; its banks are dotted with iron springs spurting from the rock and pouring down into the river. They are not as tasty as Caucasus NarzanFootnote 253 and smell of honey.
On 25 June, His Imperial Majesty's birthday, the regiments held a service in camp under the walls of Hassan-Kale. At Count Paskevich's dinner, during the toast to the Tsar, the Count announced his advance on Arzrum.Footnote 254 By five that afternoon the army was on the march.
On 26 June we halted in the hills, five versts from Arzrum. The hills are called Ak-Dag (white mountains); they are chalk. Acrid white dust stung our eyes; the melancholy look of them brought on the doldrums. The nearness of Arzrum and certainty of an end to the campaign were our consolation.
In the evening Count Paskevich rode out to inspect the terrain. Turkish skirmishers, who had been wheeling in front of our pickets all day, started shooting at him. The Count threatened them more than once with his whip, without interrupting his debate with General M<uravyov>. Their fire went unanswered.
Meanwhile, there was much dissension in Arzrum. The Seraskier, fleeing back to the town after his defeat, put it about that the Russians had been completely routed. He was followed by released prisoners delivering a proclamation from Count Paskevich to the townspeople. Fugitives exposed the Seraskier's lies. Before long it was learnt that the Russians were fast approaching. People began talking of surrender. The Seraskier and the army were minded to resist. There was a revolt. Several FranksFootnote 255 were killed by the incensed mob.
Delegates from the townspeople and the Seraskier arrived in our camp (on the morning of the 26th); the day was spent in parley; at five o’ clock in the afternoon the delegates left for Arzrum, General Prince Bekovich, thoroughly versed in oriental languages and customs going with them.
The next morning our force advanced. East of Arzrum, on the summit of Top-Dagh,Footnote 256 was a Turkish battery. The regiments headed towards it, answering Turkish fire with drum-rolls and music. The Turks fled and Top-Dagh was taken. I arrived with the poet Yu<zefovich>.Footnote 257 At the abandoned battery we found Count Paskevich, with all his suite. From the hilltop, Arzrum opened to view in a hollow, with its citadel, minarets and green roofs,Footnote 258 stuck one on top of another. The Count was on his horse. Before him on the ground sat Turkish delegates who had come with the keys of the town. In Arzrum, however, a stir was apparent. Suddenly, there was a flash of fire at the town rampart, a puff of smoke and cannon-balls came hurtling at Top-Dagh. Several passed over Count Paskevich's head; “Just look at the Turks,” he told me. “There's no trusting them.”Footnote 259 At that moment Prince Bekovich came galloping up to Top-Dagh, after a night spent at Arzrum in talks. His news was that the Seraskier and townspeople had long since accepted surrender but dissident ArnautsFootnote 260 led by Topchi-Pasha had seized the town batteries and mutinied. The generals approached the Count for permission to silence the Turkish batteries. The Arzrum dignitaries, sitting under fire of their own guns, seconded the request. The Count tarried a while; finally he gave the command, saying, “Enough of their tomfoolery.” Cannon were immediately brought up, opened fire and the enemy shooting gradually subsided.Footnote 261 Our regiments entered Arzrum and on 27 June, the anniversary of the Battle of Poltava,Footnote 262 at six o’ clock in the evening, the Russian flag unfurled over the citadel of Arzrum.
R<ayevski> left for town—I went with him; we entered a town which made an amazing picture. Turks watched us sullenly from their flat roofs. Armenians milled noisily in the narrow streets. Their youngsters ran in front of our horses, crossing themselves and chorusing: “Christian, Christian!..” We approached the fort as our artillery entered it. To my utter astonishment, I found young Artemi here, having already toured the town despite strict instructions that no one was to take absence from camp without special authority.
The town streets are narrow and crooked. The houses are quite tall. There was a big crowd—shops were locked up. After about two hours in the town I returned to camp. The Seraskier and four captured Pashas were already there. One Pasha, a scrawny old fellow, a dreadful busybody, was talking animatedly to our generals. Seeing me in a frock-coat, he asked who I was. P<ushchin> conferred on me the title poet. The Pasha folded his arms and bowed, saying through an interpreter: “Blessed be the hour when we meet a poet. The poet is the dervish's brother. He has no country, no earthly goods. We, poor souls, chase after glory, power and treasure, while he equals the potentates of the earth and they bow down to him.”
The Pasha's oriental salutation caught everyone's fancy. I went to take a look at the Seraskier. At the entrance to his tent I met his favourite page, a black-eyed boy of about fourteen in sumptuous Arnaut attire. The Seraskier, a grizzled old man, very ordinary-looking, sat in deep despair. A crowd of our officers was round him. As I left his tent, I saw a young, half-naked fellow in a sheepskin cap, club in hand, a skin (outre) over his shoulders. He was in full cry. I was told that it was my brother, the dervish, come to salute the victors. He could barely be driven off.Footnote 263
Chapter Five
Arzrum. Oriental luxury. Climate. A cemetery. Satiric verses. The Seraskier's palace. A Turkish Pasha's harem. Plague. Death of Burtsov. Leaving Arzrum. The journey back. A Russian journal.
Arzrum (incorrectly called Arzerum, Erzrum, Erzron)Footnote 264 was founded circa 415, in the days of Theodosius II, and called Theodosiopolis. Nothing memorable in history is connected with the name.Footnote 265 All I knew about it was that here, according to Hajji Baba, the Persian ambassador was presented, in satisfaction of some offence, with calf's instead of human ears.Footnote 266
Arzrum ranks as the principal town of Asiatic Turkey. Its population was reckoned at some 100,000 but the number is seemingly overstated. The houses are stone, the roofs covered in turf, which gives the town an extremely odd appearance viewed from a height.
The main overland trade between Europe and the East passes through Arzrum. But few goods are on sale; they are not unloaded, as noted by TournefortFootnote 267 who wrote that a sick man could die in Arzrum for want of a spoonful of rhubarb when there were whole balefuls of the stuff in town.
I know no more nonsensical expression than “oriental luxury”. The phrase probably originated during the Crusades when poor knights left the bare walls and oak chairs of their castles and saw gorgeous divans, brightly patterned carpets and jewel-hilted daggers for the first time. Nowadays, one might speak of “oriental poverty”, “oriental squalor”, etc., while luxury is, of course, the prerogative of Europe. In Arzrum no money can buy what you will find at a fancy goods shop in any district town of Pskov Province.
Arzrum's climate is bleak. The town is built in a hollow, 7,000 feet above sea level. The hills round it are covered in snow most of the year. The land is unwooded but fertile. It is irrigated by plentiful springs and criss-crossed by water channels. Arzrum is renowned for its water. The Euphrates flows three versts from the town. But fountains abound everywhere. At each a tin cup hangs by a chain, and good Mussulmans drink and sing the water's praises. Timber is got from the Sagan-lu Mountains.
The Arzrum arsenal yielded a hoard of ancient weaponry, helmets, armour and sabres, rusting probably since Godfrey'sFootnote 268 day. The mosques are low and dark. There is a cemetery outside the town. The monuments are mostly columns decorated with a stone turban. Two or three pashas’ tombs stand out by virtue of greater ornateness but there is nothing graceful about them, no taste, no design… One traveller writes that, of all the towns in Asia, he found a clock-tower only at Arzrum and it was broken at that.Footnote 269
The innovations devised by the Sultan have not yet reached Arzrum.Footnote 270 The army still wears its picturesque oriental uniform. There is a rivalry between Arzrum and Constantinople, much as between Kazan and Moscow.
Here is the opening of a satiric poem composed by the janissary Amin-Oglu:-Footnote 271
I was living at the Seraskier's palace in rooms that had housed the harem. All day I roamed innumerable passages, room to room, roof to roof, staircase to staircase. The palace looked plundered; the Seraskier, planning to flee, had removed whatever he could. Divans had been stripped, carpets taken up. When I walked round town, Turks beckoned me and stuck out their tongues. (They take any Frank for a doctor.) It got on my nerves, I was ready to respond in kind. I spent evenings with the intelligent and amiable S<ukhorukhov>; our similar interests drew us together. He spoke to me of his literary plans, of the historical research he had begun earlier with such enthusiasm and success. The modesty of his wants and needs is truly moving. It will be sad if they are not met.Footnote 272
The Seraskier's palace made an ever-lively scene: on the spot where a sullen Pasha had puffed in silence among wives and disreputable striplings, his conqueror received reports of his generals' victories, distributed pashaliks and discussed the latest novels.Footnote 273 The Pasha of Mush visited Count Paskevich to solicit his nephew's post.Footnote 274 As he walked through the palace, the stately Turk paused in one of the rooms, voiced a few words with vigour and then lapsed into reverie: his fatherFootnote 275 had been beheaded in that very room on the Seraskier's orders.Footnote 276 There are some genuine Oriental impressions! The famous Bey-Bulat,Footnote 277 terror of the Caucasus, arrived in Arzrum with two elders of Circassian villages which had rebelled during the recent wars. They dined with Count Paskevich. Bey-Bulat is a man of about thirty five, short and broad-shouldered. He speaks no Russian, or affects not to. His arrival in Arzrum gladdened me greatly: he had already acted as my guarantor during the perilous passage through the mountains and Kabardia.
Osman-Pasha, taken prisoner just outside Arzrum and sent to Tiflis with the Seraskier,Footnote 278 had asked Count Paskevich to look after the harem he was leaving behind in Arzrum. At first this was all but forgotten. Once over dinner, during a quiet discussion in the Mussulman town, with 10,000 troops in occupation and not one inhabitant complaining of violence by a soldier, the Count remembered about Osman-Pasha's harem and instructed Mr A<bramovich>Footnote 279 to visit the Pasha's house and check with his wives that all was well and they had come to no harm. I asked permission to accompany Mr A.Footnote 280 We set off. Mr A. took with him as interpreter a Russian officer whose story is intriguing. At the age of 18 he became a Persian prisoner. He was castrated and served for more than 20 years as a eunuch in one of the Shah's sons’ harems. He told the story of his misfortune and stay in Persia with a moving straightforwardness. In physiological terms, his testimony was invaluable.
We reached Osman-Pasha's house; we were led into an open room, very passably, even tastefully, decorated—there were inscriptions on stained-glass windows—drawn from the Koran. One struck me as very choice for a Mussulman harem: it befits you to bind and loose.Footnote 281 Coffee was served in silver-mounted cups. An old man with a venerable white beard, Osman-Pasha's father, came on behalf of the wives to thank Count Paskevich,—but Mr A. stated bluntly that he had been sent to Osman-Pasha's wives and meant to see them, to ascertain from them in person that all was well with them in their husband's absence. The Persian captive had barely translated all this before the old man started clicking his tongue, in token of indignation, and declared that he could never consent to our request. Should the Pasha find out on return that strange men had seen his wives, he would have the heads of himself, the old man, and all the harem servants. The attendants, not a eunuch among them, backed the old man up. But Mr A. was unrelenting. “You may fear your Pasha,” he told them, “but I fear my Seraskier and dare not disobey his orders.” There was nothing to be done. They led us through a garden with two meagre fountains playing. We came to a small, stone building. The old man stood between us and the door, carefully unlocked it keeping firm hold of the bolt and we saw a woman, veiled from head to yellow slippers in a white chadar. Our interpreter repeated the question: we heard an old woman of seventy croak; Mr A. cut her short: “This is the Pasha's mother,” he said, “but I was sent to see his wives. Fetch one of them”; everyone was astounded at the giaours’ perspicacity: the old woman left and returned a moment later with a woman veiled just like herself—from under the wraps an attractive young voice spoke. She thanked the Count for his attention to the poor widows and praised Russian treatment of them. Mr A. artfully engaged her in extended conversation. Meanwhile, looking about me, I suddenly saw a round window directly above the door and, at the round window, five or six round heads with inquiring black eyes. I was about to alert Mr A. to my discovery but the little heads started nodding and winking and several fingers threatened me, signalling silence; I obeyed orders; and kept my discovery to myself. Their faces were all attractive but there was no beauty among them; the woman at the door talking to Mr A. was probably the queen of the harem, keeper of hearts—the rose of love—at least so I imagined.
Finally, Mr A. broke off his cross-questioning. The door shut. The faces at the window vanished. We toured the garden and the house and returned well content with our mission.
That was how I saw a harem: not many Europeans have. There you have the makings of an oriental novel.
The war was seemingly over. I was preparing for the journey home. On 14th June I went to the public baths and had a wretched time. I cursed the dirty linen, the incompetent attendant etc. What comparison could there be between the Arzrum and the Tiflis baths! — —
Returning to the palace I learnt from K<onovnitsyn>,Footnote 282 on guard duty, that plagueFootnote 283 had broken out in Arzrum. I instantly pictured the horrors of quarantine and decided the same day to leave the army. The thought of plague circulating is in all innocence very disagreeable. Keen to efface the impression, I went for a stroll through the bazaar. Stopping at an armourer's stall, I was examining a dagger when there was a sudden tap on my shoulder. I turned round: a ghastly beggar stood at my back. He was pale as death; tears poured from his red, rotting eyes. The thought of plague flashed again through my imagination. I pushed the beggar off with feelings of indescribable revulsion and returned home, very out of sorts with my stroll.
Curiosity, however, prevailed; the next day I set off with a doctor for the camp where the infected were held. I did not dismount and took the precaution of remaining upwind. One was brought to us from a tent; he was extremely pale and swayed like a drunk. Another lay delirious. After inspecting the plague-victim and promising the wretch a speedy recovery, I turned my attention to the two Turks who had led him by the arms, undressed him and prodded him as if the plague were no more than a common cold. I must say, I was ashamed of my European squeamishness in the face of such composure and beat a hasty retreat back to town.
On 19th July, when I called to take my leave of Count Paskevich, I found him greatly distressed. The grievous news had come in of General Burtsov's death at Baiburt.Footnote 284 There was sadness for brave Burtsov but the event might also have been fatal for the whole of our small force, advanced deep into foreign territory and surrounded by hostile nations ready to rise up at the first word of reverse.Footnote 285 So, war had broken out again! The Count invited me to witness further operations. But I was rushing back to Russia… Footnote 286 The Count presented me with a Turkish sabre as a souvenir. I keep it in remembrance of my wanderings in the footsteps of a brilliant Hero through the conquered wastes of Armenia.Footnote 287 I left Arzrum that day.
I was travelling back to Tiflis by the road I already knew. Places only recently alive with 15,000 troops were silent and gloomy. I crossed the Sagan-lu Mountains and barely recognised the site where our camp stood. At Gumry I sat out three days’ quarantine. Again, I saw Bezobdal and exchanged the high plains of chilly Armenia for sweltering Georgia. I reached Tiflis on 1st August. I stopped a few days here in congenial and cheering company. I spent several evenings in the gardens listening to music and Georgian songs. I went on.Footnote 288 My mountain-crossing was marked by being caught near Kobi in a night storm. In the morning, passing Kazbek, I saw a wonderful vision. Tattered white storm-clouds drifted over the mountain-top and the lone monastery, gleaming in the sun's rays, looked to be swimming in air on a bed of cloud.Footnote 289 Beshenaya Balka likewise greeted me in all its majesty: filled with rainwater, the ravine outdid even the Terek for fierceness, which itself was roaring menacingly. Its banks had been torn away; huge boulders had been dislodged and were damming the stream. A crowd of Ossetes was repairing the road. I crossed safely. Finally, I emerged from the narrow gorge into the open plains of Greater Kabardia. At Vladikavkaz, I caught up with D<orokhov> and P<ushchin>.Footnote 290 Both were on their way to take the waters and heal wounds from the recent campaigns. At P<ushchin>'s, I found some Russian journals on the table. The first article to catch my eye was a review of one of my compositions. It roundly denounced me and my verse. I started reading it aloud. P<ushchin> stopped me demanding that I put more art into the mimicry. The review, it should be explained, was tricked out with conventional devices of Russian criticism: it was a dialogue between a sexton,Footnote 291 a communion-bread woman and a proof-reader, the ZdravomyslFootnote 292 of this little comedy. P<ushchin>'s insistence struck me as so comical that the irritation brought on by reading the journal article completely lifted and we roared with unrestrained laughter.
Such was my first welcome back to my beloved homeland.
Draft Prefaces
First Draft
In 1829 I set off for the Caucasus to take the waters. Being so close to Tiflis, I had an urge to look in and see some of my friends, and my brother then serving in the Nizh<ni-Novgorod> Drag<oon> Regiment—Arrived in Tiflis, I found none of them there; the army had [already] taken the field.—Desire to see the war, and little-known country, prompted me to request H<is> E<xcellency> C<oun>t Pask<evich> of Eriv<an>'s permission to go out to the army—That was how I saw a brilliant war, crowned in the capture of Arzrum.
Journalists somehow found outFootnote 293 [and did me the honour of mentioning my journey in their pages; meanwhile at]. On return, I published a chapter of Yevg<enii> Oneg<in> written 3 years earlier. In the N<orthern> Bee, an anonymous AristarchFootnote 294 denounced me roundly, for, he said, we were expecting not Yev<genii> Oneg<in> <but> poems on the capture of Arzrum. The respected Eur<opean> H<erald> also grumbled about Songsters who did not hymn our success at arms.
This was all rather odd; What business of theirs [I thought, wearily] were my travels, and surely I was not duty-bound to write exactly to order for journalists?—What sort of unfortunates are Russian writers? They alone fall outside the Censorship code. Our private life is subject to disclosure.
Of what officer, [for <example>] would a journalist venture to write for example the following: We hoped that Mr so-and-so would return from the front with a Georg<e> Cross, instead of which all he brought home from Moldavia was a fever.—Plainly, the Censorship would not pass it
However, I made no reply, not wishing to treat the market-place to an agreeable “author-baiting” spectacle and conscious that the public is as little bothered about the reason for my travels as it is about the stringent demands of my reviewers.
But I recently came across a book published last year Voyage etc. The author, a Fr<ench> consul, whose account of the 1829 campaign is all his own (he thinks it opened with the capture of Akhaltsik, stormed on 5 <August> 1828)Footnote 295 concludes his military verdict as follows: (a poet etc. <p.> 252)
Among [excellent] Russian [russkikh] [ro<?> possibly rossiiskikh] poets on the Turkish campaign, I knew only A. Khomyakov and A. V. [sic] M<uravyov> [but I do not kno<w>] [the fir<st>]—both of them served in Eur<opean> Turkey—The first wrote some f<ine> lyr<ics>, the second meditated on his Journey to the H<oly> La<nd> which made such a powerful impression—I read no satire, however, on the Arzrum campaign—
I should never have guessed that it meant me, but for finding my name a few pages earlier in a roll-call of generals commanding the 1829 campaign. Truth to tell, I was far more irked by the French writer's accusation, flattering epithets and rank conferred notwithstanding, than the vulgar censure to which national journals have inured me. [I did not travel]
Second Draft
These notes, which will detain only the few, would never have been published had particular cause not roused me:Footnote 296 I beg leave to explain and to enter for the purpose into details which are very unimportant for they concern me alone.
In 1829 I set off for the Caucasus spa.Footnote 297 So close to Tiflis, I had an urge to look in and see my brother and some of my friends.Footnote 298 Arrived in Tiflis, I found none of them. The Army had taken the field. Desire to see the war and little-known country prompted me to request H. E. Count Paskevich of Erivan's permission to go out to the army. That was how I saw a glittering campaign, crowned in the capture of Arzrum.
Journalists somehow found out. In a (political) NewspaperFootnote 299 I was roundly denounced for publishing on my return verse unrelated to the capture of Arzrum. We had hoped… an anonymous reviewer wrote, etc. One of the Moscow journals also grumbled about Songsters who did not sing our success at arms.
I was, of course, under no obligation to write to order for the gentlemen of the press. A writer's private life, moreover, like any citizen's is not subject to disclosure. One could not, for example, print in the newspapers: “We had hoped that Ensign So-and-so would return home from the campaign with a George Cross, instead of which all he brought back from Moldavia was a fever.” Plainly, the censorship would not pass it. Conscious that the public is as little bothered about my travels as it is about the demands of reviewers, I was not about to defend myself. But a weightier accusation has forced me to break silence.
I recently came across a book published in Paris last year (1834), entitled Voyages en Orient entrepris par ordre du Gouvernement Français. The author, whose account of the 1829 campaign is all his own, concludes his treatise as follows:
“A poet noted for his imagination discovered in all the heroics he witnessed the theme not for a poem but a satire.”
Among poets on the Turkish campaign I knew only of A. S. Khomyakov and A. N. Muravyov. Both served in Count Diebitsch's army. The first wrote some fine lyrics at the time. The second meditated on his journey to the Holy Land, which made such a powerful impression. I heard of no satire, however, on the Arzrum campaign. I should never have dreamt that this meant me but for finding my name in the same book, in a roll-call of Detached Caucasus Corps generals. “Notable among its (Prince Paskevich's army) commanders were General Muravyov… the Georgian Prince Tsitsevaze (Chavchevadzev[sic])… the Armenian Prince Bebutov, Prince Potyomkin, General Rayevski and finally Mr Pushkin…who had quit the capital to sing the exploits of his fellow-countrymen.”
Truth to tell: I was far more irked by the French traveller's lines, fulsome epithets notwithstanding, than censure in the Russian journals, to which, God be thanked, we are inured. I have always thought “seeking inspirationˮ a comic and absurd foible: you do not seek inspiration; it must find the poet. Going out to a war expressly to sing future exploits would be too self-regarding in a poet and quite unbecoming a Russian nobleman. [I crave the journalists’ indulgence of a droll GothicFootnote 300 expression] I do not dabble in military criticism. It is not my business. It may be that the bold crossing of the Sagan-lu, the manoeuvre by which Count Paskevich cut off the Seraskier from Osman Pasha, defeat of two enemy corps in twenty four hours, the rapid advance on Arzrum; penetration of our fifteen-thousand-strong force five hundred versts deep into enemy territory, vindicated as it was in total success; all this may in military eyes be exceedingly comic. I should be ashamed of myself, however, had I been able to write satire on a chief who received me courteously in the shelter of his tent and found time amid his high concerns to show me a flattering attention. A man without ties who stands in no need of the patronage of the powerful and asks nothing of them must surely value their good humour and hospitality?
An accusation of ingratitude is a matter of honour and should not be left unanswered like worthless criticism or literary censure. Hence my decision to publish this preface and issue my travel notes, which are all I have written about the 1829 campaign.
Travel Notes 1829
(LB 82, folio 1 ff)Footnote 301
15 May Georgievsk
Opens as Journey: “From Moscow I set off…” up to “fifty versts a day”.
Watching the drivers tack and trim,Footnote 302 in boredom I parodied the American Cooper's descriptions of evolutions at sea.Footnote 303 At last, the Voronezh steppes revived my journey. I rolled freely across green plain—and reached Novocherkassok without incident, where I found Count Vl[adimir] Pushkin, also bound for Tiflis—[I was heartily glad to see him] and we went on together. He travels in a vast britzka. It is a kind of fortified townlet.Footnote 304 We nicknamed it the “Good Cheer”.Footnote 305 Its northern quarter holds wines and foodstuffs. The southern books, uniforms, hats etc. etc—Its western and eastern fronts bristle with rifles, pistols, muskets [sabres] and the like. At each station a part of the northerly stores is unloaded and so we pass the time superbly.
The transition from Europe to Asia becomes ever more perceptible—Woodland vanishes, hills recede, the grass thickens and shows greater fertility (végétation[s]);Footnote 306 birds unknown in our forests appear; eagles like sentries on picket-duty sit on hummocks, marking the highway, and calmly eye the traveller; over the rich pastures
Half-savage tribes’ nomad kibitkas begin to appear, relieving the boundless monotony of the steppes. Every nation cooks its own porridge.Footnote 307 Kalmyks camp round post-station cabins—Tartars graze their camels, while we pay our distant fellow-countrymen friendly visits.
[The other day, while my horses were being harnessed, I went to the Kalmyk kibitk <as> (i.e. a round frame, set with poles, cover<e>d in white felt, with an opening at the top). Grazing by a kibitka were their ugly, shaggy mounts, familiar to us from Orlovski's faithful pencil. I found an entire Kalmyk household. A pot was boiling in the middle and the smoke wafted through an opening on top. A young Kalmyk girl, rather pretty, was smoking tobacco as she sewed. A swarthy, dark-red face. Crimson lips, pearly teeth—I note that the Kalmyk bloodline is starting to mutate—and their original facial features are gradually vanishing—I sat down beside her—What's your name?—How old are you?—Eighteen—What are you sewing?—Trousers.—Who for?—Me—Kiss me—Can't, for shame. Her voice was extremely attractive. She passed me her pipe and turned to breakfast with her entire household. Tea laced with mutton-fat and salt bubbled in the pot. I defy the cuisine of whatever nation to produce viler. She offered me her bowl—and I was powerless to refuse—I sipped, trying not to gasp—I asked to help it down with something—a hunk of dried horseflesh was produced. And I devoured it avidly. After this feat, I thought I was entitled to some reward. But my proud beauty struck me on the head with a musical instrument like our balalaika—Kalmyk cordiality was beginning to pall. I extricated myself from the kibitka and went on. Here is a message for her which will, probably, never reach her—
At Stavropol I saw a white, motionless mass of clouds on the horizon, on which I had last set eyes exactly 9 years before—They were just the same, in just the same place—the snow-capped peaks of the Caucasus
On approach to Georgievsk, I had a clearer view of their bright range and the dark masses of the foothills. They occupied the whole right-hand horizon and were brightly outlined in the clear morning sky. I saw sharply pointed Beshtu, surrounded by Mashuk,Footnote 308 Zmeinaya and LysayaFootnote 309—[like a tsar by his Vassals].
I found great change at the spa—In my time the baths were housed in hastily built shacks—The inhabitants lived in dugouts or huts. The springs, largely as nature made them, splashed, smoked and flowed down the mountains in different directions, leaving white and rust-coloured traces—[At the health-giving springs] [old military pensioners] would scoop up the water in bark cups or bottle-ends. Now, magnificent baths stand, and buildings. A boulevard planted with limes has been laid along the slope of Mashuk—Everywhere there are tidy paths, green benches, rectangular parterres, bridges and pavilions—The springs have been lined, faced in stone, and there are police instructions on the bathhouse-walls—Order, hygiene and prettiness prevail — — —
[How to put it—Of course the Caucasus spa now offers greater amenity, greater refinement—Such is the natural course of things]—But truth to tell: I pined for its old wildness, the freedom—pined for our sheer, rocky trails, the bushes and unrailed precipices [over which we would wander in the cool of Caucasus evenings] Of course the place has been improved, but it has lost a lot of charm—[much as a poor young scamp, turned eventually into a solid and respectable citizen—loses his old lovability]
I spent about three hours at the spa with an inexplicably heavy heart; [I spoke full of feeling to the amiable Zhe… and Zhi…Footnote 310 and tried to explain my gloomy impressions. They understood and bade me a friendly farewell.] I set off back to Georgievsk—along the bank of the fast-flowing Podkumok. Here, N <ikolai> R<ayevski> once used to sit with me, listening in silence to the melody of the stream—I sat on the box and did not take my eyes off majestic Beshtu, already covered in evening shadow. Soon night fell—The sky was studded with a million stars—Beshtu loomed blacker and blacker in the distance, its mountain Vassals round it. At last it vanished in the gloom. I reached Georgievsk and found C<oun>t Push<kin> already asleep.
M<ay> 22 Vladikavkaz
At Yekaterinograd the Georgian Military Highway begins—The post-road ends, horses are on hire to Vladikavkaz—there is an escort of Cossacks and infantry—and one cannon—the post leaves twice a week and travellers join it—the term used is okaziya. We did not have long to wait for it—the post came the day after [our arrival]—and the following morning at nine o' clock we were ready for the road. At the assembly-point [our] whole caravan of five hundred people—or so—had mustered—[Our company presented a very lively spectacle] The drum rolled. We were off—At the head went the cannon, surrounded by foot-soldiers—a fuse was burning and they lit their pipes at it—behind trailed calashes, britzkas and kibitkas carrying soldiers’ wives from fort to fort, then came a vast creaking train of two-wheeled arabas.—Alongside scurried herds of horses and oxen, round them careered herdsmen in burkas, shaggy caps, and with lassoes—At first we found it rather agreeable but soon wearied of it; our [unbearably] slow progress (we made just fifteen versts from Yeka<terinograd> to Prishib the first day)[. T] <, t>he intolerable heat, short rations, disturbed nights and, above all, the incessant screech of the Nogai arabas exasperated us. The Tartars glory in the din saying that they ride as men of honour with no cause to hide.—On this occasion, we would gladly have travelled with [scoundrels]—The road is fairly monotonous—plain, hills on either side—the peaks of the Caucasus rim the horizon, higher and higher each day—there are forts, adequate for these parts—with a ditch which each of us <could> have jumped standing, a rusting cannon unfired since the time of C<oun>t Gudovich, a crumbling rampart with a wandering garrison of ducks and chickens. Inside the forts there are a few huts where one can, with difficulty, obtain ten eggs and some curd—
The first place of note is Fort Minaret—as we approached our caravan crossed a delightful valley—between burial-mounds overgrown with limes and planes. These are the graves of several thousand victims of the plague—there were bright flowers, spawned in the infected ash—To our right, the snowy Caucasus still gleamed—To our left the Terek rumbled, ahead soared a huge, wooded mountain<.> Behind lies the fort. Around it can be seen the remains of a ruined aul—And a slender, solitary minaret stands witness to a vanished settlement, called Tartartub, one of the centres of G<reater Kabardia>—Round it are high mountains. It rises elegantly among heaps of stones on the bank of a dried-up watercourse—a monument that has outlasted much. The stairway inside had not yet collapsed. I climbed to the place from which the mullah's voice rings no more—There, I found a few unknown names scratched in the brickwork by passing officers—Vanity of vanities. [C<oun>t P<ushkin> followed me—He inscribed a beloved name—his wife's—in the brickwork—lucky fellow—and I my
Our route turned very picturesque—The mountains stretched above us—over the peaks barely visible flocks crawled—We even made out a shepherd perhaps taken prisoner once and grown old in captivity—We came upon more burial-mounds, more ruins—Two or three gravestones stood at the roadside—Here by old Circassians’ tradition their horsemen are interred—A Tartar inscription, pictures of sabres, daggers—a tanga—remain for a robber grandson in memory of a robber forbear.
The Circassians hate us [and the Russians are not to be outdone]—We drove them from their free pastures—their auls were destroyed whole tribes wiped out—They retire further and further and collect in the mountains, and from there direct their raids—the friendship of peaceful Circassians is not to be relied on—they are ever-ready to help their turbulent fellow-tribesmen. [All measures taken to curb them have been in vain—Harsh measures, however, are more effective]—Their wild chivalry has suffered a marked loss of spirit. They rarely attack Cossacks in equal numbers—never attack infantry and flee at the sight of a cannon—By the same token, they never miss the opportunity to waylay a weak—or unprotected—detachment—The country brims with tales of their villainy. There is no hope of pacifying them, short of disarming them as the Cri<mean> Tartars were disarmed, extraordinarily difficult given the prevalence among them of hereditary feuds and the so called “debt of blood” Until the armed Circassian stops thinking of himself as outside the law—
Daggers and sabres are limbs—and the young begin master<ing> them ahead of speech—To them murder is a mere bodily function—They keep captives in hope of ransom but treat them with dreadful inhumanity—make them work beyond their strength, feed them on raw dough, beat them at will—and set youngsters to guard them, entitled to butcher them with their childrens' sabres at the least protest. What is to be done with such a people?
One could try the influence of luxury—new needs will gradually draw the Circassians closer to us—the samovar would be an important innovation. The hope must be that, with acquisition of part of the eastern Bl<ack> Sea shore—the Circassians [cut off] from Turkey <…> There is finally a more potent course, more moral—more consonant with the enlightenment of our age [but Russia has not up to now bothered with this course: spreading the Gospel]. Tolerance in itself is a very fine thing but is Apostleship inconsistent with it? [Was the truth vouchsafed to be hidden under a bushel? We are surrounded by peoples grovelling in the darkness of childlike delusion—and none of us has yet had the wit to gird himself up and go in Christian friendship to poor brethren deprived until now of the true light.] It taxes our cold indolence less, however, in place of the Living Word to propagate dead letters and distribute mute books to people who cannot read—[It is burdensome for us to wander among them shouldering hardship and danger on the model of [the ancient Apostles] and modern Rom<an>-Cath<olic> missionaries.]
Hypocrites! Is this how you carry out your Christian duty—Are you Christians—You should hang your heads in abject penitence and be silent — — — Who among you, a man of Faith and Humility, measures up to the holy friars who trudge the deserts of Africa, Asia and America, shoeless and in tatters, often with no shelter or food—but radiating enthusiasm and serenity—What reward awaits them? The conversion of an ancient fisherman, or a household of nomad savages, want—hunger, sometimes—a martyr's death. We are adept at calm displays of eloquence, basking in audience appreciation—We read books and gravely detect reprehensible expressions in frivolous works—
I foresee a smile on many lips—Many will take my Kalmyk blandishments and my Circassian indignation together and say to themselves that not everyone [and not] everywhere is entitled to talk higher truth—that is not my view—Truth, like the good in Molière, is to be had where it is found—
We crossed the Terek for the first time
But we are in Vladikavkaz the very threshold of the mountains. [Snowy mountains above us.] We are surrounded by auls. Tomorrow the sanctuary [of wild nature] will admit us—
Vlad<ikavkaz> 22 May 1829
_______
[LB 82, folio 103-99]
We reached Vladikavkaz, the former Kap-kay—threshold of the mountains. It is surrounded by auls—and I visited one—and ran into an [Ossete] funeral—A crowd was milling round the saklia—Outside stood an araba, with two bullocks at the yoke—the dead man's relatives and friends were converging from all sides—[riding up to the saklia] they [dismounted] and entered the saklia with loud laments, banging their fist on their forehead which I found very…—The women were silent—The corpse was brought out on a burka and laid on the araba. One of the guests took the deceased's rifle, blew the powder from the pan and laid it beside the body—the bullocks moved off, and the guests followed—The body was to be buried in the mountains 30 versts from the aul—Unfortunately no one could explain their rites to me—neither rites [nor reasons]
The Ossetes are the poorest tribe among those of the Caucasus—Their women are beautiful and reportedly very well-disposed to travellers—
At the fort gate I encountered two—the wife and daughter of a gaoled Ossete; they were bringing his dinner—Both looked calm and spirited—At my approach however both drop<ped> their heads and drew tattered chadars—Inside the fort I saw Circassian amanats—handsome, lively lads—They are constantly making mischief and escaping from the fort. They are pitifully kept—They go about in rags, half-naked—and disgustingly filthy—I saw some in wooden stocks—
It is unlikely that amanats set free recall their stay in Vladikavkaz with much regret.
_______
The cannon left us, we went on with the infantry and Cossacks—The Caucasus received u<s> into its sanctuary. We heard a dull roar and soon saw the Terek hurtli<ng> in different diffection<s>—We set off along the left bank—the further we penetrated the mountains, the narrower the gorge became. Confined, the Terek hurled its slate-grey waters with a terrible roar over rocks blo<ck>ing its path and constantly—The weather was sullen, cloud heaved round the black peaks, the misty gorge wound down the Terek's course. The rock foot of the mountain had been ground smooth by its flow—I walked and kept stopping struck by the wild splendours of nature—Ct. Push<kin> and S<tjernvall> were reminde<d> viewing the Terek of the Imatra and awarded the palm to the
I, though, had no comparison for the sight bef<ore> me. Short of <L>ars I fell behind the convoy deep in contemplation of huge cliffs between wh<ich> the Terek lashes with unspeakable frenzy. Suddenly a soldier came running towards me saying: “Y<our> H<onour>, don't stop: you'll be killed.” The warning struck me in all innocence as extremely odd—the fact is that Ossete bandits wholly safe on the far side of the Terek sometimes shoot here from the clifftop at travellers—The day before we passed they killed a hor<se> <?> and h<arried> <?> the convoy of Gen<eral> Bekovich, who galloped through under their fire, and wounded a soldier—
At Lars we halted for the night—there we found a travelling Frenchman who scared us about the road ahead—crossing Mount Krestovaya by calash was, in his opinion, an impossibility. He advised us to leave carriages at Kobi and ride.—With him for the first time we drank Kakhetian wine out of a burdyuk—recalling the feasts of the Iliad.
I found a manuscript of Captive in the Caucasus at the kom<…> <?>Footnote 312 here and must say I re-read it with pleasure. It is all juv<enile>, much is incomplete, but much is caught—[I myself don't understand how I could portray so faithfully if feebly ways and nature I had seen at a distance.]
The next morning we went on—Turkish prisoners were repairing the road; they complained about the rations issued. They could not get used to black bread. It reminded me of my friend Sh<akhovskoy>'sFootnote 313 comment—arrived from Paris: Rum life, m’ boy: nothing to eat; no black bread for love or money.
Our impressions soon dull—Barely a day had passed, the Terek's tumult, its unruly course, the cliffs and precipices no longer held my attention—Impatience to reach Tiflis gripped me to exclusion—I drove past Kazbek with as much indifference as I once sailed past Chatyrdag. It is also true that rain and mist blocked my view of its snowy bulk that in the poet's phrase
A Pers<ian> pr<ince> was due to pass. Some way out of the village of Kazbek, we ran into several calashes—and the road was blocked—The esc<ort> offi<cer> disclosed that his charge was a c<our>t poet Fazil Khan—and at my request introduced me to him—I launched through an interpreter into a high-flown oriental salutation to him led on in part by innate irreverence.—How shamed I was then when F.<azil> Kh.<an> met m<y> misplac<ed> convolutions simply <with> the sense and civility of a gentleman. I had hoped to see you in P<eters>b<urg>. He regretted that our acquaintance would be so short-lived etc.—Abashed, I <was> forced to drop the semi-comic style and fall back on stock European phrases. But it was a lesson for me—not to judge a man by his sheepskin papakha and painted nails.
[At Kobi we halted for the night.] The village of Kobi is at the foot of Mount Krestovaya which we were to cross—We stopped here for the night and turned our minds to the matter of how to pull off the awesome feat [—abandon calashes and britzkas and mount Cossack horses or send for Ossete bullocks—] As a precaution, I penned an eloquent request on behalf of our entire caravan to *** in charge of these parts and <we> turned in for the night in expectation of transport—
The next day around noon we heard uproar, wild shouts <and> saw a rare spectacle. 15 pair of scraggy, stunted bullocks surrounded by half-naked Ossetes were dragging my friend Or—‘s lightish Viennese calash — — — The sight settled all my doubts—Ct. P<ushkin> was loath to follow my example—he préféra to yoke an entire herd to his enormous britzka weighed down as it was with provisions of every kind—and haul it triumphantly over the snow-covered ridge—We parted <—> I set off with Col<onel> Oga<rev> who was inspecting the local roads—
We climbed higher and higher. Our horses floundered in loose snow. I looked at the road in wonderment and could not see how wheels would pass. We reached the snowy summit of the Caucasus—Just then I head a dull roar—An avalanche, the colonel told me. I looked round and saw an enormous mass of snow to one side which had broken free and was slowly descending [the] precipice. Finally, at the summit we saw a cross—a monument of Peter's,Footnote 314 restored by Yermolov, and began our descent—
The instant passage from the grim wild C.<aucasus> to charm<ing> lovel<y> Georgia is exhilarating. At the top of Mount Gut the Kashaur valley unfolds—with its inhabited cliffs, its flourishing fields—its rich dark green gardens—its deep deep blue translucent sky, its bright Aragva, fair sister of the savage Terek—A breath of the fragrant South suddenly wafts over the traveller—The ruins of an ancient castle are to be seen plastered with saklias like swallows’ nestsFootnote 315—[Here] Chelyayev — — — —
Arzrum 12 July 1829
[6 days now I have been in Arzr<um> at the Seraskier's residence and long unable to settle to the idea. All day I roamed innumerable passages, room to room, staircase to staircase, roof to roof and long failed to grasp the layout of this labyrinth—[Traces of luxury are everywhere] but the Seraskier, planning to flee, had removed whatever he could—Divans [mattresses and pillows] had been stripped, carpets taken up—the palace looked plundered.
The imagination was constantly struck here by the contrariness of Fortune—on the spot where a grim Pasha had puffed in silence at his long pipe surrounded by disreputable striplings, his fortunate conqueror now accepted reports of his generals’ victories, released prisoners, distributed gifts, there the Sult<an>
Fragment of travel notes, LB 82 (folios 12-13)
We were going from Arzrum to Tiflis—30 Line Cossacks escorted us, headed back home—a Line regiment showed, on its way out to replace them—The Cossacks recognised their countrymen and galloped off towards them, greeting them with joyful rifle and pistol shots—The two parties combined and embraced on horseback with a whistle of bullets and in clouds of smoke and dust—news exchanged—they parted—and rejoined us with renewed farewell shots.
What news, I asked the sergeant as he galloped up to me, all well at home—God be thanked, he answered, the old folk are alive, the wife's well—Is it long since you left them—Three years now, though I was only meant to serve a year — — Say, broke in a young art.<illery> officer, hasn't your wife given birth while you were away—The lads say not, replied the sergeant cheerily. But hasn't she <- - - - - - - - -> without you—She <- - - - - ->Footnote 316 a bit, I'm told—Well will you beat her for it—Why beat her? Am I innocent—Fair point; and you, mate, I asked another Cossack, old woman been true as the sergeant's—Mine's given birth, he replied trying to hide his pique—What did God grant—A son—Well, mate, will you beat her—We'll see, if she's laid the hay in for winter, I'll forgive her, if not—then I'll beat her—That's just it, a friend chipped in, you beat her and you'll regret it like old man Cherkasov; he was strapping and hot-tempered from a youngster, was wronged just like you, gave his wife such a thrashing that she was crippled for the next thirty years—His son had the same trouble, and was for thrashing the girl too—the old boy told him—Listen here, Ivan, let her be—see your mother, I thrashed her when I was young for the same reason, brought me no happiness—Same goes for you, the sergeant added, forgive the wife and sooner expose the <- - - - - - - ->Footnote 317—Alright, alright, we'll see, the Cossack answered [the sergeant]—
What actually, I asked, will you do with the <- - - - - - - - ->—What can I do, feed him, answer for him as my own—He's furious, the sergeant whispered, the wife'd better not show her face awhile—He'll beat her to death—
It set me thinking about simple Cossack ways—What age do you people get married, I asked the sergeant—Why 14, the s.<ergeant> repl<ied>—It's too young, a husband can't handle a wife—A real father-in-law helps out—like old Suslov back home married off his son and produced his own grandson.”
Variant fragment [Circassians]
(LB 82 folio 11 verso)
A Circassian was recently arrested [after shooting] a soldier—His plea was that his rifle had been loaded too long—What is to be done with suc<h> people—The expectation must be that acquisition of a major part of the Bla<ck> S<ea> will, by interrupting the Anapa trade, force the Circ<assians> into closer ties with us. The influence of luxury might promote domestication—The sam<ovar> would be an i<mportant innovation>—there is f<inally> etc—The Circassians adopted the Moham<edan> faith very recently (and have still preserved many Christian traditions)—They were lured by the vigorous fanaticism of Mohamedan missionaries, among others Mansur. This man long incited the Caucasus against Russian rule, was finally captured by us <and> died in the Solovetski monast<ery>. The Caucasus awaits preachers. The Circassians are still res<istant>. [There is no doubt that zealous warriors]
Variant fragment
(LB 82 folio 14 verso)
The cannon left us at Vlad<ikavkaz>—We set off with Cossacks <and> an infantry escort. The weather was sullen—dense cloud heaved round the mountain peaks—The Caucasus received us at its broad threshold—the further we went, the more it narrowed—we soon heard a dull noise, saw the Terek hurtling in different directions—We set <off>
Plans in Travel Notes MS
(LB 82 folios 10, 10 reverse and 122)
18 July.Footnote 318 Arzrum—quarantine. Din<ner> at C<oun>t Pask<evich's>—Harem—Sword.
14 July—Arzr.<um> baths—plague—
Supplement
Note on the Yezidi SectFootnote 321
Of the many sects which arose among the Moslems in Mesopotamia after the death of their prophet, none is so detested by all others as the Yezidis. The Yezidis take their name from Sheikh Yezid, founder of their sect, and declared enemy of the family of Ali.Footnote 322 The teaching they profess is a blend of Manicheism, Mohamedanism and ancient Persian belief. It is preserved among them by tradition, and passed down from father to son without the aid of any book, for they are prohibited from learning to read and write. This absence of books is undoubtedly the reason why Moslem historians mention the sect only in passing, and in order to designate with this name people sunk in blasphemy, cruel, barbarian, cursed by God and unfaithful to the religion of their prophet. As a result of this, no fixed ideas about the Yezidis’ beliefs can be arrived at except by means of what one can observe among them today.
The Yezidis’ guiding principle is maintaining the friendship of the Devil and drawing their swords in his defence. Thus, they refrain not only from naming him but from using any term which is close in sound to his name. For example, a river is called shatt in common parlance and since the word slightly resembles sheitan, the Devil's name, the Yezidis call a river avé mazen, that is “great water”. In the same vein, the Turks frequently curse the devil using the word nal, which means curse. The Yezidis take great care to avoid all words which bear any resemblance to it. So, instead of nal, which also means horseshoe, they say sol, that is the “sole” of a horse's shoe, and they substitute solker, meaning cobbler, for the term nalbenda in common parlance, which means blacksmith. Anyone who spends time in their settlements must be sure never to utter the words “devil” and “cursed” and above all “may the devil be cursed”. Otherwise, he would be at great risk of assault or even death. When their business brings them into Turkish towns, there can be no greater insult to them than to curse the Devil. If a person who has been so rash subsequently encounters the Yezidis on his travels and is recognised by them, he is in great danger of suffering their revenge. Time and again, members of the sect arrested for crime by Turkish justice and condemned to death have chosen to undergo the penalty rather than take the opportunity offered to avoid it by cursing the Devil.
The Devil has no name in the Yezidi language. At most, they use the circumlocution sheikh mazen, great chief, to refer to him. They acknowledge all prophets and all saints revered by Christians and whose names are borne by monasteries in their localities.
They believe that all these holy figures, when alive on earth, were distinguished above other men to the extent, greater or lesser, that the Devil resided in them. He was manifest above all, according to them, in Moses, Jesus ChristFootnote 323 and Mohammed. In a word, they hold that God ordains but that he entrusts the discharge of his orders to the power of the devil.
Each morning, as the sun barely begins to rise, they fall to their knees, barefoot, and worship facing that star, touching their heads to the ground. They seclude themselves far from human habitation to make these devotions. They do their utmost to avoid being seen when performing this office, with which they will even dispense if circumstances require.
They have no fasts or prayers and justify the lack of such offices by saying that Sheikh Yazid discharged them on behalf of all subsequent followers of his teachings until the end of the world and that he obtained definite assurance to this effect in his revelations. This is the reason why learning to read and write is forbidden. All tribal chiefs and headmen of large villages do, however, employ a Moslem scribe to read and interpret letters addressed to them by Turkish overlords and pashas and to reply to them. In matters of business between themselves they never use an agent of another religion. They transmit all their orders and instructions orally, using their fellow sect-members.
Just as they lack prayers, fasts and sacrifices, so they have no festivals. They do, however, hold an assembly in August on the 10th of the lunar month, in the vicinity of the tomb of Sheikh Adi. This assembly, which is attended by many Yezidis from distant lands, lasts the whole of that day and the following night. For five or six days before and after the event small caravans are at risk of being attacked in the plains of Mosul and Kurdistan by pilgrims who always travel in force, and rarely does a year go by without the pilgrimage giving rise to some unfortunate incident. It is said that many Yezidi women—not, however, including unmarried girls—come from neighbouring villages to frequent the gathering and that, on that night, after much drinking and eating, the lights are extinguished and not a word is said until dawn approaches, the moment for the assembled company to disperse. It may be imagined what occurs in the silence, under cover of darkness.
No foodstuffs are forbidden to the Yezidis except lettuce and pumpkin. They never bake wheaten bread in their houses, only barley. I do not know the reason for this.
In oath-taking, they use the formulas current among Turks, Christians and Jews. But the most binding oath, which they take between themselves, is to swear by “Yezid's standard”, that is to say their religion.
These sectarians hold Christian monasteries in their neighbourhoods in great veneration. When they visit them, they remove their shoes before entering the precinct and, walking barefoot, kiss the gate and the walls. They believe that this obtains for them the protection of the saint whose name the convent bears. If, when they are ill, they happen to dream about a monastery, they do not recover until they visit it and offer incense, wax, honey or some other item. They stay for about a quarter of an hour and kiss the walls again before departing. They do not demur at kissing the hand of the patriarch or bishop in charge of the monastery. As to Turkish mosques, they refrain from entering them.
The Yezidis recognise as their religious leader the sheikh who heads the tribe responsible for guarding the tomb of Sheikh Adi who re-established their sect. The tomb lies in the Prince of Amadia's jurisdiction. This tribal chief may only be chosen from among the descendants of Sheikh Yazid. He is confirmed in office by the Prince of Amadia, at the request of the Yezidis and in consideration of a gift of several purses. The respect the sectarians accord their religious leader is so great that they consider themselves fortunate to obtain one of his old shirts for use as a winding-sheet. They believe that it will secure them a better place in the next world. Some pay up to forty piastres for such a relic and, if they cannot obtain the whole garment, they make do with a part of it. Sometimes, the sheikh himself will send one of his shirts as a gift. The Yezidis secretly divert a proportion of their profits from highway robbery to the supreme leader to reimburse the expenses he incurs in providing hospitality to his fellow sect-members.
The Yezidi leader is always attended by another figure known as the kotchek, without whose advice he does nothing. This man is regarded as the leader's oracle, by virtue of his privileged access to direct revelation from the Devil. Thus, if a Yezidi is unsure whether to undertake some important business, he seeks out the kotchek and asks his advice, which, however, he can only obtain by parting with some money. Before answering the question put, and to add weight to his response, the kotchek stretches full-length on the ground, covers himself and sleeps, or pretends to, after which he declares that this or that decision has been revealed to him in his sleep. Sometimes he will take two or three nights to give his answer. The following example will serve to show the extent of the confidence reposed in his revelations. Yezidi women under forty, like Arab women, used to wear blue blouses, dyed in indigo, to save soap. One morning the kotchek went, quite without warning, to see the sect's leader and announced that it had been revealed to him during the night that blue was a colour of ill omen, abhorrent to the Devil. This was enough for orders to go out immediately, post-haste, to all tribes to ban the colour blue, to dispose of all blue clothing and to replace it with white. The order was so scrupulously carried out that if a Yezidi today lodging with a Turk or a Christian were given a blue blanket he would rather sleep in his clothes than use it, even at the coldest time of year.
The Yezidis are forbidden to trim their moustaches with scissors. They must let them grow naturally. So, there are some whose mouths are barely visible.
The sect also has its satraps who are known in the Aleppo region as fakiran and popularly called karabash because they wear on their head a black cap with black ribbons. Their cloak, or aba, is likewise black but their undergarments are white. These people are very few in number. Wherever they go, their hands are kissed and they are welcomed for the blessings they dispense and the good luck they portend. When summoned to a sickbed, they place their hands on the patient's neck and shoulders and are well rewarded for their pains. If called upon to ensure a dead man's happiness in the next world, before dressing the corpse, they stand it on its feet and lightly tap its neck and shoulders, pronouncing the following words over it in Kurdish, ara behesht, that is to say “go to paradise”. They are handsomely rewarded for this ceremony and never accept modest remuneration.
The Yezidis believe that the souls of the dead go to a place of rest, where they enjoy greater or lesser happiness in proportion to their merits, and that they sometimes appear to their family and friends in dreams to inform them of their wishes. They hold this belief in common with the Turks. They are also convinced that on the universal day of judgement they will enter paradise bearing their arms.
The Yezidis are divided into several clans or tribes, each independent of the others. The supreme leader of the sect has no temporal authority, except over the single tribe. Nonetheless, when tribes are at odds with one another, it is his duty to mediate and reconcile them and his efforts to that end seldom fail to achieve a happy outcome. Some tribes live on the land of Prince Joulemerk, others in the Prince of Jezireh's territory. Some dwell in the mountains subject to Diarbekir province. Others fall under the jurisdiction of the Prince of Amadia. These last include the noblest tribe which is known as sheikhan and whose sheikh, called mir, that is to say prince, is the supreme religious leader and guardian of Sheikh Adi's tomb. The headmen of the villages in which this tribe resides all descend from the same family and could contend primacy in the event of dispute among them. The most powerful and most redoubtable, however, is the clan which inhabits Mount Sinjar, between Mosul and the River Khabour. It is divided between two sheikhs, one commanding in the East and the other in the South. Mount Sinjar, which is rich in fruit of all kinds, is highly inaccessible and the resident clan fields more than six thousand marksmen, not counting cavalry armed with lances. Hardly a year goes by without some large caravan being looted by this tribe. The Yezidis of the mountain have waged several wars against the Pashas of Mosul and Baghdad. On such occasions, after much bloodshed on both sides, matters are composed by means of a financial settlement. These Yezidis are universally dreaded because of their cruelty. They do not confine themselves on their armed raids to robbing those who fall into their hands, they kill them all without exception. If there are sherifs, descendants of Mohamed, or Moslem divines, among them, they put them to death more barbarically, and with greater satisfaction, believing that by so doing they acquire greater merit.
The Sultan tolerates the Yezidis in his dominions because, according to Moslem doctors of law, any man who professes the basic tenets there is no God but God and Mohamed is God's apostle qualifies as faithful and a true believer, even if he violates all other precepts of Moslem law.
The Kurdish princes, for their part, admit the Yezidis for personal advantage. They even try to attract more of this nation's tribes into their lands. For the Yezidis, with their peerless courage, make fine infantry and cavalry and are ideal for sudden strikes and night-raids on districts and villages. The princes deploy them to great effect, whether to subdue refractory Moslem tribes in their domains or to fight the other princes when they are at war. It is, besides, a firm conviction among Moslems that anyone who perishes at the hands of one of these sectarians dies a martyr. The Prince of Amadia is at pains, therefore, to keep a Yezidi executioner in attendance, to carry out the death-sentence on Turks. The Yezidis take the same view in relation to the Turks and there is reciprocity in the matter. If a Turk kills a Yezidi, his action is pleasing to God and if a Yezidi kills a Turk, his deed is most meritorious in the eyes of the Great Sheikh, that is the Devil. After the Amadia executioner has spent some years in the prince's service, he retires so that another may succeed him and acquire the same merit. Wherever the executioner who has quit his post passes among the Yezidis, he is received with veneration and people kiss his hands which are sanctified with Turkish blood. The Persians, on the other hand, and all Mohamedans of the sect of Ali will not admit the Yezidis to their country at all. What is more, they are forbidden to spare these sectarians’ lives.
When at war with the Yezidis, the Turks are permitted to enslave their women and children and to keep them for personal use or sell them. There is no similar Yezidi dispensation in relation to Turks and they kill them all. If a Yezidi wishes to turn Turk, it suffices as a declaration of faith for him to curse the Devil and then learn at leisure to pray like a Turk, for the Yezidis undergo circumcision eight days after birth.
All Yezidis speak Kurdish. Some know Turkish or Arabic, having frequent occasion to associate with people who speak one or other of these languages and finding that it suits them better to rely on conducting their own dealings, rather than employ interpreters.
There are, doubtless, many other Yezidi errors or superstitions. But, as they have no book, those I have recorded are the only ones about which I have been able to obtain information. Besides, much is subject to change in the light of their kotchek's purported revelations, which adds to the difficulty of forming a thorough understanding of their creed.
Route from Tiflis to ArzrumFootnote 324
Appendix 1: The Press
Tiflis Gazette [Tiflisskiye Vedomosti] No. 29, 28 June 1829.
“Our hopes have been fulfilled. Pushkin has visited Georgia. He was not long in Tiflis: wanting to see the war, he obtained permission to join the army on campaign and on 16 June reached camp at the Iskan-Su [Inzha-Su: in fact 13 June at Kotanly]. Our top-ranking poet has marked his stay in different parts of Russia with the compositions of his glorious pen: from the Caucasus he gave us ‘A Captive in the Caucasus’, in the Crimea he wrote ‘The Fountain of Bakhchisarai’, in Bessarabia—‘The Gipsy [Gypsies]’, in the home provinces he penned the charming sketches of ‘Onegin’. Now our reading public attaches the sweetest hopes to A Pushkin's stay in the Caucasus army's camp and asks: what gift will our favourite poet, witness of bloody battles, bring us from the military encampment? Like Horace entrusting his friend to the perilous element of the sea,Footnote 350 we ask fate to preserve our poet amid the terrors of the fray [bran’].”
Tiflis Gazette [Tiflisskiye Vedomosti] No. 32, 9 August 1829.
“On 6 August A. Pushkin, back from Arzrum, left Tiflis for the Caucasus spas. Lovers of fine things must now await the charmed gifts with which Pushkin's genius, stirred by the memories of parts Transcaucasian, will undoubtedly endow our literature!”
Northern Bee [Severnaya Pchela] No. 101, 22 August 1829
“I shall send you further details of Arzrum, if time permits, in missives to follow; but I will say that you can expect something new, outstanding from A. S. Pushkin who is with us now in Arzrum.” I. Radozhitski [J. Radożycki], correspondent.
Northern Bee [Severnaya Pchela] No. 110, 12 September 1829.
“From Vladikavkaz Fort, 10th August.
“Today A. S. Pushkin passed through. He arrived here from Arzrum and went on the next day intending to stay at the Caucasus spas and then proceed through Mozdok to Kizlyar and Astrakhan.”
Northern Bee [Severnaya Pchela] No. 138, 16 November 1829.
“A. S. Pushkin has returned to this capital [Petersburg] from Arzrum. He was on the glittering field of victories and triumphs of Russian arms, had his full measure of a spectacle which would whet anyone's curiosity, let alone a Russian's. Many admirers of his Muse hope that he will enrich our literature with some composition inspired in the shelter of martial tents, within view of the impregnable mountains and fastnesses upon which the mighty hand of the hero of Erivan [Paskevich] has raised Russia's standards.”
European Herald [Vestnik Yevropy] No. 2, February 1830 (“On the origin, nature and fortunes of the poesy called Romantic” by N. I. Nadezhdin).
“Today, when following in Oleg's fabled footsteps victorious Russia was about to nail its shield to the walls of Constantinople, had it not, guided by humanity as much as martial valour, spared an enemy conquered and prostrated in the dust,—today not one of our milling throng of songsters so much as thought of bestirring his lips. What does it signify? Does no Russian heart beat in their breasts? Does no Russian blood flow in their veins? Alas! they have turned into Romantics and aspire to nothing more. This canker has all too recently entered our native soil and infected it with its poison…”
Northern Bee [Severnaya Pchela] No. 35, 22 March 1830.
“Issue No. 3 of the Moscow Telegraph this year 1830 (pages 356 and 357) made clear the present state of opinion in Literature and said, among other things: ‘What is demanded of Writers today is not just the signature of a celebrated name but intrinsic merit and outward elegance”—Correct! The halting, funereal progress of the Literaturnaya Gazeta and the public's cold reception of the Poem Poltava (so wittily remarked upon in Vestnik Yevropy [European Herald] No. 2 on p. 164) are clear proof that the magic of names is no more. And indeed could the public's attention be demanded for such works as, for example, Chapter VII of Yevgeni Onegin? We thought at first that it was a hoax, simply a joke or parody, and were unpersuaded that this Chapter VII was the work of the Author of Ruslan and Lyudmila [Pushkin] until the booksellers assured us that it was. This Chapter VII—two small printed sheets [57 pages = 16°]—is spangled with such verse and buffoonery [balagurstvo: note 415] that by comparison even Yevegni BelskiFootnote 351 seems somehow purposeful. Not one thought in this dilute Chapter VII, not one feeling, not one image worthy of contemplation! Utter collapse, chute complète!Footnote 352
“And so our hopes have come to nothing! We thought that the Author of Ruslan and Lyudmila had headed beyond the Caucasus to nourish high feelings of Poesy, to enrich himself with new impressions and transmit the great exploits of modern Russian heroes in sweet song to posterity. We thought that the great events in the East which have astonished the world and won Russia the respect of all enlightened nations would arouse the genius of our Poets—and we were wrong! Celebrated lyres have remained silent, and the desert of our poetry once again hosts Onegin, pale, feeble… The heart aches at the sight of this colourless picture!—Our readers will ask what is the content of this Chapter VII in 57 diminutive pages?” [continued, No 39, 1 April 1830]
Appendix 2: PoemsFootnote 353
Sheyer I. To Farhad-Bek Footnote 375
Appendix 3: Derzhavin's Ode to Felitsa
To a Kalmyk Girl (Appendix 2) echoes Derzhavin's Ode to Felitsa (1782).Footnote 419 This was addressed to Catherine II using the idiom of her own Tale of Prince Khlor (1781), an allegory in which the Empress, lightly disguised as a Kazakh princess Felitsa (Felicia), instructs her grandson, the future Alexander I (Chlorus, the father of Constantine), in wisdom. Derzhavin first caught Catherine's attention with this ode.
Fascination with the exotic found widened scope in the interconnecting world of the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries. Peter the Great, like other leading contemporaries, collected “blackamoors” for his Court, notably Pushkin's great-grandfather Abram Gannibal. The Persian Prince Khosrow's (note 147) visit was a sensation in Petersburg of 1829. Pushkin's poem teases society hostesses and debutantes about being upstaged by a Kalmyk nomad. It also debunks the literary contrivance of oriental masque, much as Pushkin put Lalla Rookh and spin-offs to the test of the Tbilisi baths (note 156).
Derzhavin's third and fourth stanzas run:
Appendix 4: All's quiet—the Caucasus…
On Georgia's hills there lies a gloom of night (Appendix 2) brought together old and new. The poem's development charts Pushkin wrestling, during the journey and after, with lost youth and preparations for married life, with old and new loyalties (note 371). The richness of the challenge was demonstrated in sharp relief by Maria Volkonskaya's reaction to the finished poem.
A first draft was written at Georgievsk on 15 May 1829:
Pushkin dropped the second stanza and relocated the first to the Kvesheti area. In 1830 Vera Vyazemsakaya sent the completed single-stanza poem (Appendix 2) to Maria Volkonskaya in Siberia, telling her on Pushkin's authority that it was addressed to Natalya Goncharova.
Volkonskaya, General Rayevski's sister, accompanied her family and Pushkin on their 1820 Caucasus tour. In 1827 she joined her husband, the convicted Decembrist Sergei Volkonski, in exile at Irkutsk. Their son Nikolai, left behind, died aged two the following year. Pushkin composed an epitaph in 1829 at her father's request, much appreciated by the family. Couched ostensibly in conventional pieties, it contrived to hope for his parents’ release from exile:
The second stanza of the Georgievsk draft is linked to Decembrist friends by the “Saadi quote” (note 363) in the third line and the closing lines are so worded that they can be read as a declaration of loyalty to the cause.Footnote 431 The unnamed female addressee could be a purely symbolic figure but is almost certainly Volkonskaya, travelling-companion of 1820 and now an icon of unbroken Decembrist spirit.
Pushkin probably saw On Georgia's hills as uniting the best of old and new and trusted that friends would too. Volkonskaya gave him short shrift, writing back to Vyazemskaya: “…I am much indebted to you for your punctuality in sending me it [Literaturnaya Gazeta] and also for our great poet's piece of verse [On Georgia's hills]; I admit that I have abused your trust in showing it to people here. The first two lines are those of a poet testing out his voice, he plucks harmonious enough sounds, to be sure, but in no sequence or connection with the thoughts which follow and which are so worthy of our great poet and, from what you tell me, of the object of his inspiration. These thoughts are so fresh, so graceful, they have our admiration, but the ending [line 8]—my apologies, dear Vera, to your adopted son [Pushkin]—is old French madrigal, amorous drivel [radotage] and delights us because it proves how carried away the poet is with his betrothed and underwrites for us the happiness that awaits him. Accept our sincerest, truest congratulations for him…”Footnote 432
Volkonskaya sensed the layering of the finished poem, as she was no doubt meant to. Her reaction shows that the surviving Georgievsk lines still rang, unmistakably for her, with an old familiar voice. She had no difficulty in identifying the first two lines as later elaboration. But the last line (“drivel”) was not add-on. It had begun life as a tribute to old loyalties and was now doing double duty. Pushkin had, as she said, been “carried away”. Honouring past and future together was not well calculated to appeal to ladies representing either. Volkonskaya, offered recognisable verse and a declared addressee, not unnaturally concluded that Pushkin was laying his past at Goncharova's feet and may never have grasped the fullness of her rebuff. Some months later she complained to her sister-in-law Zinaida: “Vera Vyazemsky has stopped writing to me since I called her adopted son's poem to his betrothed amorous drivel or madrigal, ‘Love is beyond its power to curb”.Footnote 433
Appendix 5: Ushakov's History
Ushakov's account of Pushkin's part in the 14 June skirmish (Chapter 3, note 223) appears at the back of the History, as a footnote and comic tailpiece. Lämmlein translated it. Fonton (below) reworked and embellished.
N. I. Ushakov, A History of Military Operations in Asiatic Turkey in 1828 and 1829 [in Russian] (SPb, 1836) Part II, pp. 305-306:
“The skirmish of 14 June is remarkable for the fact that our famous poet A. S. Pushkin took part in it. He arrived the day the army set off over the SaganlugFootnote 434 and was warmly received by Count Erivan.Footnote 435 When the troops were resting, after an arduous march, in the Inzha-SuFootnote 436 valley, the enemy suddenly attacked our front line. The poet, hearing the sounds of war so close at hand for the first time, could not resist a rush of enthusiasm. In a poetic frenzy he leapt at once from his tent, mounted a horse and in a trice was at the front line. The experienced Major Semichev, sent after the poet by General Rayevski, barely caught up with him and extricated him forcibly from the Cossack forward rank at the very moment when Pushkin, fired up with bravura so typical of the new recruit, had seized a lance off one of the dead Cossacks and was bearing down on enemy horsemen. It may be taken as read that our Don lads were utterly astounded at the sight before them of an unknown hero in a round hat and burka. This was the Muses’ favourite's first and last military foray in the Caucasus.”
Félix de Fonton, La Russie dans l'Asie mineure ou Campagnes du Maréchal Paskevitch en 1828 et 1829 précédées d'un Tableau du Caucase (Paris 1840) pp. 558-559:
“The skirmish of 14 June 1829 is remarkable for the part played in it by Alexander Pushkin, Russia's favourite poet. More than anyone, he was alive to the poetry of this war in Asia and all the brilliance Count Paskevich's enterprising character imparted to it.Footnote 437 His ardent nature, captivated [éprise] by Russian gloryFootnote 438 which he has advanced so vigorously in another arena, and perhaps his spirit of adventure, impelled him to take a hand in the Russians’ exploits. He reached the Caucasus Corps just as it was about to cross the Saganlugh. It was on the banks of the Indja-Su, as the enemy attacked the Russian outposts, that the poet heard the whistle of bullets for the first time. Inspired by the lure of this wholly novel poetry, he left his tent, mounted a horse and in the twinkling of an eye was in the front line. General Raievski, witnessing this untimely dash and fearing for his friend's life, had almost forcibly to retrieve Pushkin from the midst of the Cossack front line where, fired up with conscript bravery, he had seized a lance off one of the dead to charge at an enemy horseman, to the great amazement of the Cossacks at seeing among them a man in a round hat and a burka. This was this Muses’ favourite's first military exploit in the Caucasus. After that, he wielded no more deadly weapons and had no further recourse to his courage, with the exception of one lamentable episode which did, however, crown a poet's glory in the tears and grief of fifty million people.”Footnote 439
Appendix 6: Fazil Khan
Mohammad Fazil Khan Garrusi (1784-1852), also known by the pen-names Ravi and Shayda, was an important figure in early Qajar literature. He fled to Russia in 1838, dying at Tbilisi in 1852.
Garrusi was born into a Turkmen family of the Bayandor tribe at Bijar-e Garrus, Hamadan Province. He left the town when his father died in 1799/1800 to pursue his studies and seek redress of family inheritance grievances against the governor of Garrus and others. In Tehran Fath Ali Khan Saba (1765-1822), the “poet laureate” (malek al-sho'ara: king of poets) at Fath Ali Shah's court, was impressed by his talents and took him under his wing. He became official reciter (ravi) of qasidas (panegyrics/eulogies) to the Shah.
Fath Ali Shah, patron of the arts and a poet himself under the pen-name Khaqan (“supreme ruler”), asked Garrusi to complete a project begun by a Qajar relative, Ahmad Mirza, a celebratory album on the lives and literary achievements of the ruling clan and their court poets.Footnote 440 The resulting Tazkerah-ye anjoman-e khaqan Footnote 441 in 1818/19 was extremely well received. In 1819/20 Garrusi was appointed chief herald (jarchi-bashi), became a secretary to the Shah and was awarded the title Fazel (“luminary”, “scholar”). In the Anjoman he loyally rated Saba's epic (Shahanshahnama) on the reign of Fath Ali above Ferdowsi's national epic, the Shahnama, on which it was modelled.Footnote 442
Fazil Khan lampooned Mirza Abul Hasan Khan, the Foreign Minister, for betraying his country.Footnote 443 This will have been in 1828, with encouragement from the Tabriz court. Abul Hasan had opposed the war with Russia, promoted by Allahyar Khan (Appendix 7) and Tabriz, but ended up signing away Persia's last Caucasus territories. The peace treaty, prepared by Griboyedov, Mirza SalihFootnote 444 and others, was signed at the village of Torkaman (Turkmenchai), near Meyaneh, on 9/21 February 1828 (5 Shaban AH 1243) by Paskevich and Obreskov (note 198) for Russia. Abbas Mirza attended, preserved by royal prerogative from actual signature. The treaty, marked “seen and confirmed” by him, was signed by Abul Hasan.
By the 1830s, if not earlier, Fazil Khan had moved to Tabriz, then Iran's window on the West.
He was court poet, tutored the crown prince's children and assisted the chief minister, Mirza Abulqasem Qaim Maqam Farahani (1779-1835), working with him to pioneer a simplified, businesslike Farsi. The Qaim Maqam held Fazil Khan in high regard, complimenting him on his chancery style (taḥrirat) and adding “nothing has ever been written better than your Anjoman”.Footnote 445
Khosrow Mirza assisted his father in peace treaty diplomacy and attended the Torkaman ceremony with him. Still under fifteen in 1829 (Macdonald, 21 August 1829, FO 249/27 p. 249), he struck people as older. Capt Mignan of the British residency in Basra, who travelled back with the mission, thought him “about three-and-twenty”.Footnote 446 His delegation to Petersburg comprised the Amir Nezam,Footnote 447 Mirza Masud Ansari,Footnote 448 Mirza Salih, Mirza Baba,Footnote 449 Mirza Taqi Khan better known as Amir KabirFootnote 450 and Mr. Semino,Footnote 451 with a supporting entourage including Fazil Khan and Mustafa Khan Afshar.Footnote 452 Reception by the Tsar in Petersburg opened with a ceremonial greeting in verse from Count Dmitri Khvostov (elderly poet and figure of fun, with whom the later Pushkin was on cordial terms). Fazil Khan responded with a qasida in praise of Tsar Nicholas. During the mission's ten months abroad (May-December 1829), Mirza Taqi toured widely, absorbing ideas he would later draw on as prime minister. Fazil Khan applied to stay on but was encouraged to return with Khosrow Mirza, to avoid diplomatic incident.Footnote 453
Abbas Mirza died in 1833, Fath Ali in 1834. Khosrow Mirza, now governor of Kerman, one of several princes contesting his eldest brother Mohammad's title to the throne, was detained at Ardabil and blinded. The Qaim Maqam, instrumental in Mohammad's accession, was appointed prime minister but executed the following year. A similar fate would await Amir Kabir early in the next reign. Able, reform-minded politicians were vulnerable to Qajar clan conservatism and intrigue.
One of Fazil Khan's Tbilisi pupils later claimed that Abbas Mirza drove him from Persia after cutting off his ears, convinced that he had become infatuated with one of his sons.Footnote 454
But Fazil Khan weathered the political turbulence of 1833-5, continuing in Persia until 1838. He told Nikolai Khanikov, the Tbilisi-based orientalist who wrote his obituary for the newspaper Kavkaz (1852 No. 19, pp. 76-7), that his final period as court-poet to Ardashir Mirza, appointed governor of Mazandaran by his brother Mohammad Shah, was the happiest of his life. The Mazandaran vazir, Asadollah Navai, however, found him too influential with the prince and asked Hajji Mirza Aqasi, the new premier, to intervene. Summoned by Aqasi to Tehran and fearing the worst, Fazil Khan fled by sea to Baku, coinciding there with Golovin, the incoming Viceroy, and travelling on with him to Tbilisi. He was appointed head of two madrasas, Shia, then also Sunni,Footnote 455 going on to become head of Islamic studies at a new government school for Shias opened in 1847. He lived with his family in the old town, near the baths.
Fellow Persians in Tbilisi included the mojtahedFootnote 456 Aqa Mir Fattah Tabataba'i, hereditary shaykh al-Islam of Tabriz, a Fath Ali opponent who led the town's surrender in 1827. He became Paskevich's supreme Islamic religious authority but the role declined and he returned to Tabriz in 1842.Footnote 457 Another was Bahman Mirza, a Russian candidate for the throne who withdrew to Tbilisi in 1848, moving on to Shusha in 1860 and dying there in 1884. Literary figures included Mirza Shafi Vazeh (1794-1852) and his pupil Mirza Fatali Akhundov/Akhundzada (1812-78). Vazeh, an Azeri from Ganja, taught at Tbilisi from 1840, running a majlis or literary-political circle (devan-e hekmat: Council of Wisdom). Versions of his Persian poetry were popularised in Germany by F. Bodenstedt, another Tbilisi teacher. Akhundov, a translator in the Viceroy's office, like Lermontov wrote a memorable poem on the death of Pushkin and is famous for his plays. Dubbed the “Tartar Molière” by Vorontsov (Viceroy 1845-54), Pushkin's Odessa bête noire, he became the acknowledged father of Azeri literature. Khanikov, who took Fazil Khan on an epigraphic expedition to Trabzon, greatly admired his talents, commenting in the obituary that the acidic pen had lost none of its power: “If he was struck by some injustice or human failing, he would castigate them in forceful and stinging verse. A sort of fevered irony, a wan smile through the tears, a mock-humiliation of AesopFootnote 458 under the rod of his master pervades his satires from beginning to end.”
Fazil Khan's poetry was never compiled or issued as a divan. A collection of his letters survives in the Tabriz public library.Footnote 459 An inspirational address (khutba) in Arabic delivered at the Shia school inauguration in 1847 is preserved in Russian translation. The school was the first in a programme also reaching out, like Ottoman mosque restoration (note 455), to Sunnis. Fazil Khan, a Russian subject since 1842, teacher of Shias and Sunnis, steps forward with a ringing message. His Arabic addressed all Muslims including the khalidiyya rebels with authority, immediacy and inclusivity. It will have been a virtuoso script. Earlier attraction to European enlightenment, conventionally personified in Tsar Nicholas, his heir Alexander and their representatives in the Caucasus, has become full commitment. The disaffected at large are invited to weigh the futility of opposition, the economic benefits of cooperation (a Utilitarian “happiness” on earth) and experience for themselves the improving power of education:
“Today [the Tsar] is opening a channel to you whereby you will be conducted to happiness in this world while in the one to come you will be saved from God's anger. That channel is the pledgeFootnote 460 of eternal bliss and unalterable felicity, afforded to you and your descendants and equally available to both the great and minor among you all. Arise from the slumber of oblivion and the ravishment of ingratitude. I swear by God, there is no malady more deadly than ignorance…May [the Tsar's] banners be victorious forever…[the Tsarevich's] powerful palm is endowed with four purposes by the Almighty: to draw the sword of justice, to scatter the treasures of benefactions, to accept the kisses of obedience and restrain the disobedient …God Almighty! Send down your help to [Vorontsov]…guarding the happiness and security of Your people with his great and caring mind and with his invincible troops…”Footnote 461
These and other initiatives began to engage the mountaineers, the solution Pushkin had searched for in the Journey. Fazil Khan himself acknowledges Vorontsov's sagacity (“his great and caring mind”). By the time he departed in 1854, rebel support had weakened. Shamil was captured in 1859.
Iranian scholars have maintained that Fazil Khan died in Iran at dates ranging from 1837 to 1854.Footnote 462 It is a tribute to the richness of Persian naming conventions that, in 1972, Yahya Aryanpur insisted that Pushkin met Garrusi not the poet Molla Fathallah also known as Fazil KhanFootnote 463 and that, in 1985, A. Z. Rozenfel'd criticised Aryanpur and D. S. Komissarov for confusing Fazil Khan Shayda with “a different poet” Fazil Khan Garrusi.Footnote 464 KomissarovFootnote 465 and more recently Alexidze have shown that they are the same person. Shayda (“love-crazed”) was a nom de plume used for ghazals. Molla Fathallah, a name featuring in Russian records, may relate to early training or later life in Tbilisi.
Appendix 7: Fath Ali Shah and the Russian Mission
“The aged Shah still lived” (Chapter 2). But his 37-year reign was closing turbulently. He successfully rode out defeat in the 1826-8 war and loss of the last of Persia's possessions in the Caucasus, over which his uncle Aqa Mohammad Khan had reasserted control in 1795. Playing hard to get during Treaty negotiation, not least over exorbitant war reparations, he made the most of chances that Ottoman success in the field against Russia might benefit Persia, going on to deploy his army against lesser foes in Khorasan (the North East). Two documents in particular capture Fath Ali managing internal Persian politics during 1829, the report on the massacre from the deputy head of the mission to Tehran, First Secretary Ivan Sergeyevich Maltsov (1807-80), and the Shah's substantive letter to Tsar Nicholas, sent eight months later as the Turks capitulated.
(1) Maltsov's Report
Paskevich deduced from first reports that the attack on the Russian mission (note 191) had been instigated by Allahyar Khan and that the Persian government had made some, ineffectual, efforts to protect them (AKAK 7.653). The news reached Tabriz on 6/18 February in letters from Zell-e Soltan (“Shadow of the Sovereign”, Ali Mirza a.k.a. Ali Shah), the Governor of Tehran, to his full brother Abbas Mirza, dated 7 Shaban (31 January/12 February)Footnote 466 and from Nazar Ali Khan Afshar, the official host (mehmandar) Abbas Mirza assigned to Griboyedov, to Qaim Maqam Farahani.Footnote 467 These generated reports to Tbilisi (AKAK 7. 650-1) and Kolkata (FO 60/31 ff. 59-69). Fath Ali's own account emerged a few days later.
Allahyar Khan, a prime mover in the 1826-8 war, was leading calls for renewed hostilities. Married to one of the Shah's daughters, he had served as prime minister and wartime cavalry commander-in-chief. Captured by the Russians at Tabriz, he was released under what became Article 13 (return of prisoners of war and “subjects of both governments fallen at any time into captivity”) of the Treaty of Turkmenchai, the focus of dispute with Griboyedov. At Tehran, the Russians learnt of two Armenian female captives in his household, allegedly girls from Kara-Kilissia (Vanadzor, just north of the pre-1828 frontier), Christians converted to Islam, whose parents were petitioning for their release. Griboyedov applied to interview them under Article 13. This set a four-month timetable for return but left open demand “at any time” of captives who “by reason of distant location or any other cause or circumstance” had missed the deadline. Captain Ronald Macdonald, the British envoy's brother, sent to Tehran to deliver protests, investigate and bring Maltsov back, says in his report: “An attempt was at first made by the Persian Government to evade his requisition but on its being pressed Allah Yar Khan was ordered to produce the women” (FO 249/27 p. 192).
At interview, the women requested Article 13 repatriation. Maltsov is unequivocal about this. Griboyedov, scrupulous on points of law, is unlikely to have agreed without satisfying himself that they were eligible (born in Russia or the newly acquired provinces). Ronald Macdonald (p. 192) corroborates, doubting “from the known character of Mr. Grebayedoff, who must besides have been well aware of the risk he would incur by having publicly Mahomedan women in his premises, that he could assert a right to have them delivered to him without a conviction of going upon just grounds”. When the women failed to reappear, Allahyar Khan submitted the case to Mirza Masih, head of the Tehran olema, who ruled that they should be recovered and returned to him.
Persia insisted that the women were Armenians (Zell-e Soltan) or Kurds (Fath Ali) from Mush (note 274), captured during Abbas Mirza's 1821-3 war with Turkey, and were detained against their wishes. These claims were central to the attack on the mission. Intervention to protect Muslim women, sustainable if they lodged willingly with Christians, became compelling if they were forcibly held. If the women were Ottoman rather than Russian subjects, they fell outside the scope of the Treaty. Rustem Beg, a Georgian mission-member who helped the Russians capture Allahyar Khan in 1827 (N. N. Muravyov ASGRC = A S Griboyedov in the Recollections of Contemporaries [in Russian], Moscow 1980, pp. 70-1) was targeted and killed early in the riot. In Persian and British accounts he is singled out for negative coverage and as alleged instigator of the women's detention.
Maltsov's report, which reached Paskevich two months after the event, told a different story. It set events squarely in the context of the mission's official dealings, dominated by problems at Court. It highlights Persian government attention to matters of form, even a surreal proclamation to disperse read in a courtyard of corpses, and to news management after the event. It implies, at minimum, that Fath Ali sanctioned the attack.
Griboyedov's visit had exposed dissent within the palace. The Shah's Armenians were high officials, comparable to Mesopotamian royal eunuchs (2 Kings 18.17, Jeremiah 39.3, Daniel 1.3) or a Roman Emperor's freedmen. The issue was not just confidentiality, as Maltsov (below), Paskevich (AKAK 7.673: “knew all his secrets and all the incident of his harem”) and others suggest, fascinated by women's quarters and misled by Fath Ali's protest that slaves were like wives (below). The Armenians’ loyalty mattered politically. Manuchehr Khan (Yenikolopov), the Chief Eunuch, regularly represented the Shah on major state business, soon going on to become Mo'tamad al-Dawla (“State Guardian”) or senior privy councillor on the death of the aged Mirza Abdul Vahhab Nashat. His Turkic titles (eşik ağası başı, AKAK 7.661 p. 680), “Eich Akase” ([iç ağası] Fowler p. 213) approximate to Lord Chamberlain. Farsi Khajeh Bashi (Morier's Zohrab) or khodja (Maltsov below) meant dignitary (khwaja), eunuch or both. Mirza Yaqub Markarian, the Second Eunuch, who applied to the Russians for repatriation, had played a part in reorganising state finances and equated roughly to a European monarch's Master of the Household. It is unclear whether, a year after signature, his Treaty rights were foreclosing: Ronald Macdonald (p. 191) speaks of “a given period which had not as yet expired”. The breakdown of trust, however, was ominous. As Markarian jibes tellingly (below) to Manuchehr Khan: “I am guilty indeed…of leaving the Shah, but you yourself will soon follow me.” In normal circumstances obstruction would have contained the problem. But it was frustrated by Treaty commitments as Maltsov himself patiently explained to Manuchehr Khan (below), unwittingly setting higher drama in train. Fath Ali was left with momentum for action stirred by Allahyar Khan, Mirza Masih's expressed view that Markarian deserved to die as an apostate and the need to be seen to do something. The Mirza's clerics organised a march on the mission, targeting Markarian, Rustem Beg and recovery of the women.
The rioters were not just ordinary Tehranis. Baron Bode, First Secretary at the Russian Embassy in the 1830s, identifies the most violent as government-held Bakhtiaris from Loristan: “It should be observed that quartered hard by the Russian embassy's house were some Persian government hostages, Bakhtiaris, of the Lur tribe, one of the wildest and most savage tribes inhabiting the mountain terrain south and west of Isfahan. For them the opportunity represented enviable spoils. Like cats they crawled over the walls, gained the flat (as ever in Persia) roof, punched large holes in the ceiling and started shooting at our people from above” (ASGRC p. 212). Willock (note 469 p. 509) mentions them glancingly: “men of the military tribes”. Nor was the riot, as later claimed, wholly out of control. A party which attacked Russian stabling in the British residency next door killed a Georgian “Jellowdar” (jilaudar: groom, FO 249/27 p. 196) and two Cossacks, carried off the horses and equipment and “withdrew without injuring even a shrub in the Court, though the house, open and unguarded, contained plate, baggage, furniture and much valuable property which at such a moment might have been plundered with impunity to the perpetrators”. The British envoy John Macdonald was using this opportunity, like others, to impress value for money on cost-conscious East India Company directors: the restraint demonstrated “how much the British name is now respected even by the lower classes in Persia” (March 1829, FO 249/27 p. 174). The rioters evidently understood what they were, and were not, at liberty to touch.
Maltsov, quartered separately with the mehmandars, escaped notice with the help of servants and the mission's Persian guard (sarbaz) to whom he distributed largesse and who deflected inquiries. Taken, as he describes, to the palace of Zell-e Soltan and due initially to leave for Tabriz within three days, he remained Zell-e Soltan's guest for three weeks while the Persian version of events went the rounds and reaction to the news settled. Ronald Macdonald met him on 19 February/3 March, just departing with Nazar Ali and a strong cavalry escort. Macdonald caught up at Qazvin on 22 February/6 March and travelled back with them (FO 249/27 p. 189). Maltsov says release depended on reassuring his hosts that he too attributed events to unaccountable and uncontrollable mob frenzy (ASGRC pp. 299-300). He was similarly circumspect with the British, keen for their part to quote him in support of Fath Ali's innocence. Ronald Macdonald (p. 194) cites Maltsov as believing no harm was intended to the Russians, except Rustem. John Macdonald reported: “Even M. Maltzoff himself…acquits the [Persian] Government from further blame in the affair than that necessarily arising from a neglect in the adoption of those precautionary measures which under existing circumstances ought certainly to have been taken the previous evening” (26 March, FO 249/27 p. 177).
Maltsov would later summarise his views plainly: “The Persian government says that it had no part whatever in the murder of our envoy and even that it knew nothing of the intentions of the mullahs and the mob; but you have only to visit Persia to convince yourself of the absurdity of these words. Many Persian officials assured me that they had forewarned the envoy three days previously of the dangers menacing us…This, in my opinion, is how it all came about. The Shah tried every means of checking Mirza Yakub, first persuasion, entreaty, then false financial claims, finally anger and threats: none of it worked. The Shah had to destroy this man who knew the whole secret history of his domestic life, all the tittle-tattle of his harem: while the envoy was alive no one could do this. The Shah dared not send sarbaz [infantry] to remove Mirza Yakub forcibly and kill him, for that would have been blatant violation on his part of a peace treaty for which he had paid 8 crores;Footnote 468 he was told: ‘The people will break into the envoy's house, will kill Mirza Yakub, we will feign alarm, have the palace gates locked, send Zilli-Sultan and a vizier to calm the mob, send sarbaz with no cartridges and orders to touch no one and we will say that we knew nothing, that it was all done by the accursed populace, we immediately sent reinforcements but, unfortunately, the atrocity had already been committed’—in short, everything that the Shah says and writes in his own defence. The Shah had no other means of destroying Mirza Yakub and so resorted to it, relying on placing himself beyond our reach with his usual excuses” (ASGRC pp. 301-2).
Simonich (note 236), ambassador in Tehran (1832-8) while Russia was the dominant power, cultivated good relations with government and leading clerics. He was persuaded, or found it politic to accept, that there had been a demonstration which might have passed off peacefully (ASGRC, 1929 edition, pp. 208-9). This seems to have been pressed on him by Mirza Abul Hasan Khan (note 443) who confided that demonstration had been his idea. He suggested to the Amin al-Dawlah (Abdallah Khan Sadr Esfahani, Allahyar Khan's successor as prime minister) that they should organise a public outcry and then demand that Griboyedov be replaced: “Believe me…I know Europe and especially Russia: he will be recalled” (p. 206). Fath Ali confirms that European-style political protest was an element in thinking (below) and that preserving the Treaty was, as Maltsov assumed, a key constraint. As he put it at audience to Ronald Macdonald (p. 188), “Can the Russians…ever suppose that we would willingly risk the rupture of a Peace purchased at the cost of so many Crores of Tomauns?”
Abul Hasan's judged admission enhanced credibility. Government was involved but as taken aback as anyone that others turned street-protest into massacre. According to Persia, the Russians brought their fate on themselves. The crowd demanded the women and the Russians, or their sarbaz, opened fire (Zell-e Soltan: “shot some of the Town's people”; Fath Ali: “four or five of the Mussulmans were shot”), initiating responsive violence. This was, however, a simplified version of surrender and seizure of captives, with fatalities on both sides. Ronald Macdonald (pp. 194-195) reports: “On their [the people] forcing their way into the premises Mr. Grebayedoff directed the women to be restored but a contest natur[i]ally ensuing between some of his followers and a part of the Crowd who had laid hold of and were dragging out the Eunuch [Markarian], Shots were fired, one of which is said to have killed a townsman—All hopes of reconciling matters were at an end…”
Zell-e Soltan's and Fath Ali's summaries mention only the women. The Court's keener interest in Markarian was less openly avowable, the line after the event being that the Shah was reconciled to his departure. Unlike the women, he could not be decoupled from the Treaty. There was no contesting his origins in Erivan and, despite argument that long residence weakened his rights, Article 13 unquestionably said “fallen into captivity at any time”. If the Russians declined to surrender him, action infringed the Treaty and, as Maltsov points out (“while the envoy was still alive”), its future and Griboyedov's became linked. In Willock's (note 469, p 509) fuller account Markarian is handed over to the crowd and Allahyar Khan's servants carry off the women, while lives (“Dadash Beg [Vasili Dadashev, 2nd interpreter], a cossack and one or two servants” and “two or three of the townspeople”) are lost on both sides. Willock testifies, in passing, to the significance of surrender or seizure. An unidentified “Hadjee Beg the Meerza” (a cluster of titles) calls out “Take Meerza Yakoob, and begone!” endeavouring “to appease the mob, by delivering up to them a victim”.
The Court may have hoped that demonstration would persuade the Russians to hand over the captives. Abul Hasan's and Manuchehr Khan's nephews were sent with successive last-minute messages “to enter into some temporary arrangements regarding the women” (Macdonald pp. 193-194). If the advice also extended to Markarian, this would not have been emphasised afterwards.
After the initial confrontation, one of the dead bodies was taken to a mosque, greater numbers gathered and arrangements were, presumably, made for the Bakhtiaris to join in. It is possible that Court instructions to try and achieve captive surrenders underlie Fath Ali's claim that clerics remonstrated with rioters (below), his emphasis on extenuating all-out assault and the dismay he describes at Court. Such understandings, however, served to distance the Shah from outcome short of decisively constraining it. The Court knew that Allahyar Khan and the clerics were fanning anti-Russian sentiment and pursuing an actively vengeful agenda. Markarian looks not to have been surrendered but, as Willock inadvertently highlights, the point was liable to become technical in the heat of the moment. Simonich (p. 206) learnt from Abul Hasan and others of the Shah's intense irritation with Griboyedov, ostensibly style but clearly also substance. He was told, “Often among his courtiers he would cry out, ‘Who will rid me of this dog of a Christian?’” Fath Ali might have been parodying Henry II on Becket. His likelier allusion, to words about a vexatious poet (“Who will rid me of Marwan's daughter?”) attributed to the Prophet Muhammad, was even more apt.
Maltsov's report depicts Griboyedov playing out a classic diplomatic hand, agreeing finally to meet Mirza Abul Hasan and Mirza Abdul Vahhab (above), senior politicians versed in the art of the face-saving formula. It is not necessarily the whole truth. Its focus on dealings with the Court and correcting the record tends also to marginalise the roles of Allahyar Khan and the olema. But it is coherent and the only overview we have from an otherwise silenced Russian mission.Footnote 469 Allegations against the Russians in other accounts are material to the riot and as pleas in extenuation, less so to the matters bilaterally in dispute. These now came to a head violently, the legend possibly as Muravyov (p. 72) cautions embroidered: “When the crowd had already laid siege to the very room where Griboyedov was, it is said that he then opened the door and stood at the threshold in full view of the crowd and asked cheerily what they wanted. His unexpected appearance, his bold bearing and the impact of his words (he spoke Persian well) halted the inflamed [reading razdrazhyonnuyu for razoryonnuyu: “ravaged”] mob and matters had already moved to explanation when Griboyedov was suddenly struck and brought senseless to the ground by a large stone which fell on his head…”
It remained to ask, as the Russian Foreign Ministry (note 191) and the British (Introduction) did, why Fath Ali was not helped more promptly down from his tree. Simonich (p. 208) suggests Griboyedov could have deferred Markarian's repatriation, in effect returning him to the Shah's discretion. He could (p. 207) have housed the women elsewhere, with an Armenian or Muslim family. Muravyov (pp. 69-70), oddly unconscious that victory had already delivered, thought Griboyedov was trying to eclipse the British with a decisive show of authority. Pushkin (Chapter 2) points, implicitly, to the character of the man, also John Macdonald's view. Robust style had been the hallmark of Treaty negotiation, where Paskevich and Griboyedov dictated terms backed by an army, and of a notable earlier Griboyedov coup, repatriation of some seventy members of the Persian army's “Russian battalion” (deserters). Maltsov (ASGRC p. 298) thought Griboyedov was resting on the conviction that “the government would not dare, after purchasing peace with Russia so dearly, insult this powerful state in the person of its envoy”. But the logic also led, in the absence of any alternative, to risking insult and limiting fallout by silencing the envoy.
Persians Ronald Macdonald canvassed saw the massacre, like Aqa Mir Fattah (note 191), as a blow struck against Russia. Reactions were mixed, with few plaudits for government competence. The “result upon the body of the people”, Macdonald (p. 199) found, “seems to be a sensation of alarm for the consequences which it may draw on them from the dreaded power of Russia, mingled with a conviction of their own strength and the inefficiency of the Government in talking of which and His Majesty Futteh Ali Shah they venture to express themselves in very unceremonious terms”.
In forwarding Maltsov's report to Petersburg on 29 March/10 April 1829, Paskevich emphasised that it necessarily reopened the question of retribution and that resources and circumstances ruled out early military action.
Report of Titular Councillor Maltsov to Count Paskevich, 18 (30) March 1829, No. 4—Nakhichevan (AKAK 7.672)
I have finally reached our frontier and am able to have the honour of submitting a full report on the fate of the Russian embassy at the court of Persia. Until now I have had no opportunity of discharging this duty, as I was held under guard for three weeks in Teheran and then conducted by mounted escort to the frontier; I did not have ciphers with me and, consequently, could not entrust papers to any Persian courier.
In Teheran our Ambassador was received with honours such as have never been shown in Persia to any European. After a first audience with the Shah, at which all the forms of established ceremony were observed, and a magnificent entertainment provided to us on the Shah's instructions by local grandees, the Ambassador had a private audience with H. M. The Shah treated him most graciously, said to him, “You are my emin (trusted) vizir, all my vizirs are your servants, address yourself in all matters to the Shah, the Shah will refuse you nothing” and many like courtesies, which the Persians lavish in inverse proportion to their meanness in all else.
Everything our Ambassador demanded was fulfilled, viz. a stern firman was issued to Yahya-Mirza [Governor of Gilan Province] banning all oppressions at Resht [Rasht, capital of Gilan] visited on our traders there, about which Y<our> E<xcellency> had been good enough to write to the Ambassador, and likewise to the Shah-zade [Alinaghi Mirza] at Kazvin [Qazvin] ordering him to release all the captives held at the house of the former Sardar of Erivan Hussein-Khan. The Shah sent the Ambassador gifts and the Order of the Lion and Sun, 1st class, and other officials the same Order, 2nd and 3rd class. Griboyedov was preparing to travel to Tabriz, leaving me in Teheran to deal with the Shah's government and present our Court's gifts to H.M. He had a farewell audience with the Shah, horses and mules were ready for departure, when suddenly an unexpected occurrence took our affairs in a quite different direction and sowed the seed of grievous discord with the Persian government.
A certain khodja (eunuch) Mirza-Yakub, who had served more than 15 years in the Shah's harem, came to the Ambassador in the evening and declared his wish to return to Erivan, his home-town. Griboyedov told him that only thieves sought refuge in the night; the Emperor of Russia's Minister conferred his protection openly, on the basis of the Treaty, and those who had business with him must apply to him in plain view, by day and not at night. Mirza-Yakub was sent away with ferrashes Footnote 470 to his house, with an assurance that the Persians would not dare offer him the least insult.
The next day he came again to the Ambassador with the same request. The Ambassador urged him to stay in Teheran, pointed out to him that here he was a person of note, that he held second place in the Shah's anderun (inner sanctum among Mussulmans), whereas among us he could be of no consequence whatever etc, but finding Mirza-Yakub firmly resolved on going to Erivan, he received him into the mission, with a view to taking him away with him to Tabriz and sending him on from there, on the basis of the Treaty, to Erivan. Griboyedov dispatched a man to collect property left at Mirza-Yakub's house; but when the items were already loaded, ferrashes arrived from Manuchehr-Khan [Chief Eunuch] (of the Yenikolopov family of Tiflis Armenians, subsequently governor of Ispahan, he was captured by the Persians at Erivan during Pr<ince> Tsitsiyanov's period of command in Transcaucasia, taken to Persia and castrated at Tabriz) who led Mirza-Yakub's mules and packs off to their master.
The Shah was incensed, the whole court railed as if the greatest national disaster had occurred. Envoys from the Shah came twenty times a day and represented in the most absurd terms that a khodja (eunuch) was the same as a wife to the Shah and that, consequently, the Ambassador was taking one of the Shah's wives from his anderun. Griboyedov replied that Mirza-Yakub was, on the basis of the Treaty, now a Russian subject and that the Russian Ambassador did not have the right to hand him over or deny him his protection. The Persians, seeing that their persuasive logic was achieving nothing, resorted to another method; they lodged huge financial claims against Mirza-Yakub and said that he had plundered the Shah and could not therefore be allowed to go. To clarify this matter, Griboyedov sent him with the interpreter Shakhnazarov [Staff-Captain Nariman Melik-Shakhnazarov, a.k.a. Mirza Nariman] to Manuchehr-Khan. The room was full of khodjas who abused Mirza-Yakub and spat in his face. “I am guilty indeed,” Mirza-Yakub told Manuchehr-Khan, “guilty of leaving the Shah, but you yourself will soon follow me.” Thus, on that occasion, apart from the swearing, nothing materialised.
It was the Shah's wish that the religious court should investigate the matter; the Ambassador agreed to this and sent me so that I could protest in the event of an unlawful decision. I went with Mirza-Yakub and the interpreter to the sharo[shari'a]-house (religious court) and told Manuchehr-Khan that if anyone permitted themselves any of the previous bad language in my presence, I would not stand for it, would break off negotiations, take Mirza-Yakub with me and they would never see him again; that for my part I vouched that Mirza-Yakub would likewise say nothing offensive to anyone. “Mirza-Yakub owes the Shah's treasurer several thousand tomans,” Manuchehr-Khan said to me, “is it conceivable that money should now be lost?” I replied that Mirza-Yakub had told the Ambassador he owed nobody here a grosh [farthing] and that, consequently, valid documents should be produced and that if there were real notes, i. e. duly witnessed by a hakim (authorised person), he would be made to satisfy Zurab[Zohrab]-Khan [Household Treasurer]. “There are no such documents, but there are receipts, witnesses.” “On the basis of the Treaty,” I said, “Y<our> Ex<altedness> [vysokostepenstvo: the British used ‘Excellency’] knows that such receipts and verbal depositions, unless the debtor himself acknowledges their validity, have no force in financial matters of the sort that Mirza-Yakub received money from Zurab-Khan, whereas he was treasurer of the anderun and was charged by the Shah with various responsibilities on which he did expend monies received. He says that he can prove that from papers and receipts at his house; but Y<our> Ex<altedness> sent his men who broke into the house, when he was already under the protection of our mission, removed belongings, led his horses and mules away and possibly also made off with the documents in question; you should have listed the belongings and papers with a Russian official present and not seized everything forcibly and arbitrarily, as occurred, and consequently all responsibility for infringement of a Russian subject's rights falls on you. How can the court reach a just decision when Zurab-Khan has his documents, whereas Mirza Yakub's have been taken from him and may already have been destroyed.” “Very well,” said Manuchehr-Khan, “but what you say is not in the Treaty at all.” In response, I instructed the interpreter to read certain articles marked by me from the Commercial Convention. “If that is so,” said Manuchehr-Khan, “there can be no religious court hearing, let everything stand as is.”
The next day the Ambassador attended on the Shah and agreed to H.M.'s proposal to investigate the matter of Mirza-Yakub with the Muetemid [Mo'tamad al-Dawla: Mirza Abdul Vahhab] and Mirza Abul Hasan [note 443], but this meeting was put off from day to day until such time as the death of the Ambassador and Mirza-Yakub made it no longer possible.
Meanwhile, the Ambassador made untiring efforts to free captives in Teheran. Two women, Armenian captives, were brought to him from Allah-Yar-Khan. Griboyedov interviewed them in my presence and when they declared a wish to go home, he let them stay in the mission so as then to send them back in due form. However, the matter is of such little importance that it need not be expanded upon. Not a word was spoken with the Persian government about these women and only after the Ambassador's murder did they begin to be talked of. I pointed this out at Tabriz to the Kaimakam who was insisting that the women were the chief cause of the Ambassador's murder. “Y<our> Ex<altedness>,” I told him, “you have in your hands the Ambassador's correspondence with the Teheran government, there is much said in it about khodja Mirza-Yakub, but is there even one word about the women?” “Indeed, there is no reference to the women, but they were forcibly detained by you against their will.” “I make bold to assure you,” I answered him, “that they declared their wish to go home to the Ambassador in my presence, and the best proof that the ambassador did not take women who did not wish to leave here may be had from an episode known to you, which was witnessed by all Kazvin. There were two women there in the house of a seyid [descendant of the prophet], one an Armenian, another a German from one of the settlements near Tiflis. They were brought to the ambassador and when they said that they wanted to stay in Kazvin, they were immediately released to the seyid.”
Meanwhile, it came to the notice of mujtehid [note 456] Mirza-Mesih that Mirza-Yakub was defaming the Mussulman faith. “How come,” said the mujtehid, “this man spends 20 years in our faith, reads our books and now he is off to Russia, profanes our faith? He is a traitor, an infidel and capitally liable.” It was also represented to him that the women were being forcibly detained at our residence and allegedly compelled to abandon the Mussulman faith.
Mirza-Mesih sent his akhunds [clerics] to Shah-zade Zilli-Sultan [Zell-e Soltan]; they told him, “We did not write the peace treaty with Russia and will not tolerate the Russians violating our faith; inform the Shah that the captives must be returned to us.” Zilli-Sultan asked them to bide their time and promised to report in full to the Shah. The akhunds went home and told the people on the way, “Lock the bazaar tomorrow and gather in the mosques, you will hear our word there!”
The fateful 30th January dawned. The bazaar was locked. The people gathered at first light in the mosque. “Go to the Russian Ambassador's house, recover the captives, kill Mirza-Yakub and Rustem, the Georgian, who is in the Ambassador's service.” A thousand people invaded our residence with bared daggers and threw stones. At that point I saw C<ollege> A<ssessor> Solomon Melikov [from Tbilisi, a.k.a. Mirza Solayman, son of a Georgian prince of Armenian descent and Manuchehr-Khan's sister], sent to Griboyedov by his uncle Manuchehr-Khan, run across the courtyard, the crowd throw stones at him and rush after him into the second and third courtyards, where the captives and the Ambassador were. All the roofs were covered with rampaging mob venting its joy and triumph in savage cries. Our guard of sarbaz (soldiers) had no ammunition with them and charged off after their rifles which were stacked in the attic and had already been removed by the crowd. For about an hour our Cossacks returned fire; then carnage began everywhere. The Ambassador, supposing at first that the crowd only wanted to recover the captives, told the three Cossacks standing guard over him to fire blank rounds and then only gave the order to load their pistols with bullets when he saw that the slaughter of our people had begun outside. About 15 officials and servants gathered in the Ambassador's room and put up a courageous defence at the door. Those who tried to break in forcibly were cut down with sabres; but at that point the ceiling of the room serving the Russians as last refuge went up in flames, everyone inside was killed by falling masonry and the rifle shots and dagger thrusts of the mob bursting into the room. The looting began, I saw the Persians carry the spoil outside and divide it among themselves with shouting and blows. Money, papers and the mission's records—everything was plundered (I presume the papers are in the possession of the Persian government).
At this point Major Khadi-Bek [Hadi (“Hadee”) Beg, Farahan infantry, the Russian mission sarbaz commander's immediate superior: Willock (note 469, p. 500)], sent by the Shah, arrived with a company of sarbaz; but this relief force had no cartridges; its orders were to use only eloquence, not bayonets, against an armed, rampaging mob and it was thus passive witness to the fury. The vizir [Zell-e Soltan's] Mirza-Mamed-Ali-Khan was also sent and a serheng (colonel). Seeing the serheng, whom I knew fairly well, I called him over. He told me that the Ambassador and all the mission officials had been killed; that he did not understand how I could have survived, posted a guard on my room and promised to visit me in the evening. An hour before sunset, when there were only sarbaz left in our ruined residence, one of the Shah's officials arrived and loudly proclaimed a firman to the four walls, commanding the people, on pain of the Shah's wrath, to withdraw peacably from our residence and refrain from any excess.
At nine o’ clock the serheng came with armed ghulams (servants) [royal guard], dressed me and my people in sarbaz clothing and took us to Zilli-Sultan's palace.
Altogether on that terrible day 37 of our people were killed and 19 Teheran inhabitants.
The Shah issued his own account some four days after the massacre, in a royal edict (farman) addressed to Abbas Mirza, who forwarded it to Paskevich (AKAK 7.680) and asked John Macdonald to send it to the Governor General of India (letter of 24 February, FO 60/31 f. 71, enclosure ff 39-49 = IOR/L/PS/9/90 pp 170-181). It was published in 1841 by Fowler (note 273) in another translation (Vol. 1, pp 212-219). Fath Ali puts the best gloss he can on events. He himself was ready to let Markarian go, subject only to clearing his debts. The olema were not to blame, for the clergy remonstrated with the rioters. The owner of the female captives (Allahyar Khan) is similarly blameless. Griboyedov knew they were from Turkey, was merely holding them to trade for other captives but would not, despite efforts to persuade him, name the captives to be produced so the women could be released. The farman is deeply apologetic. It also has its flashes of humour, much as at Alcock's audience (note 191). This was force majeure (notes 194, 247), the result of “the revolutions of heaven”, Zell-e Soltan had already announced at royal command (FO 60/31 f. 57). Fath Ali repeats this, later moving on from astrology to politics, stability and revolution in other countries. The implicit question is: “If in North America and Europe, why not Iran?” Admittedly, Persian sans-culottes had restrained themselves until the last, for fear of royal displeasure. But the unthinkable had happened, an unprecedented outburst of Iranian popular will had occurred. His sons Zell-e Soltan and Emamverdi Mirza had been publicly abused by the mob. The gates of the Golestan Palace complex had been closed “for two or three hours” to protect the monarch himself. He stops short of quantifying casualties among Griboyedov's Persian guard and reinforcements as Zell-e Soltan had. There is no mention of Nazar Ali's wounds, about which John Macdonald was informed on 18 February (“The simple circumstance of the Mehmandar of the Envoy, having been severely wounded in defence of His Excellency…may be urged as some palliation of the deed…” FO 60/31 f. 63). The Shah's thoughts about settlement are practical and founded in experience. In 1802 Hajji Khalil Khan, Persia's ambassador to the Government of India, was killed at Mumbai in a quarrel between his entourage and his guard. Marquess Wellesley made handsome amends, with a fulsome letter of apology, gifts and a Rs. 2000 p.a. pension for Khalil's son. Fath Ali had judged his circumstances. This would prove to be the material precedent.
(2) Letter to the Tsar
Fath Ali temporised over punishment of ringleaders. Khosrow Mirza presented an interim letter (AKAK 7.698) at audience on 10/22 August. The letter reporting sentences issued about a fortnight later, the Tsar replying on 6/18 January 1830 (No 707 pp 711-2). Professor E.G. Browne published it, with an elegant translation, as a leading example of Qaim Maqam Farahani's (Appendix 6) modernising chancery style (A Literary History of Persia, 1924 Vol. 4, pp. 312-315). The British mission's workaday version (enclosure with 14 September dispatch to Kolkata, PRO 30/9/4/18) ran:
Translation of a Namma [letter] from the Shah to the Emperor of Russia [dated Rabi’ al-Awal 1245, month beginning19/31 August 1829]
In the name of the omnisicient God, the creator and preserver of the universe, the eternal and Almighty, without likeness or resemblance, whose motives may not be questioned,Footnote 471 just and wise, the terror of the unjust, who rewards the good and the bad according to their deserts, and who by his universal ordination casts the wicked into trouble and pains, and bestows on the good the wages and reward of their virtue, who sheds his blessing on his true prophets and those who do well.Footnote 472
Let it not be concealed from the great King, the just and honest of purpose, crowned with splendour and majesty, the sovereign of sea and desert, our much valued and fortunate brother, the Emperor of Russia and her conquests, whose Government is exalted and elevated, and whose standard carries with it success and victory, that the Envoy of the Russian Government in our Capital in consequence of the order of destiny and the quarrels which occurred between his people and the foolish persons of the City suffered evil so that it became incumbent upon the Ministers of us, Your Imperial Majesty's true friend, to satisfy and atone for it—First therefore to accomplish the making of an apology and to shew due respect and honour to our dear brother, we sent our beloved Grandson Khosroo Meerza to the Russian Capital. The truly unexpected nature of the occurrence and the innocence of our Ministers were communicated in a former letter.
Second in consideration of the unity and good understanding which subsists between us, we have felt ourselves bound to revenge the death of the Envoy—and such of the inhabitants and natives of the Capital as could be suspected by any connexion with the offensive and evil act have been punished according to law, and to their deserts, and have been banished the Kingdom—Even the Chief of the policeFootnote 473 and the head of the district on the charge of having discovered the state of matters too late, and of not having taken measures to preserve the peace of that part of the town before the occurrence of the event, have been displaced and punished and fined—More important than these was the chastisement which fell on the exalted in dignity Meerza Messeh—notwithstanding his being a high priestFootnote 474 of Islam, notwithstanding the belief which high and low had in him, and notwithstanding the multitude that after the murder collected around him, we did not think it becoming to pardon or pass over his offence—and listened to the entreaties of no intercessor, and attended to the mediation of no mediator in his behalf.
As it was necessary that our kind brother should be acquainted with these things we have written this friendly letter. We have communicated the details through our son Abbas Meerza. We trust in God that from time to timeFootnote 475 the friendship between our two States will increase and strengthen—and that the purity of the affection of the two Sovereigns will always by the exchange of embassies and letters be great and greater.
Sealed by Futteh Ali Shah.
Appendix 8: Paskevich, Decembrists and the Caucasus Corps
Tsar Nicholas’ anger at Pushkin's visit to the army (see Introduction) was not an arbitrary outburst. Establishing control in the Caucasus had been a sharp early test of his regime. Invading Persians, prompted by the 1825 Decembrist Revolt and evident instability in Russia, were bent on recovering lost territory. The Viceroy, Yermolov, was uncharacteristically relaxed, even broaching the possibility of withdrawal from Tbilisi. Thomas Alcock, a Member of Parliament for Newton-le-Willows, met Paskevich and his officers, some of whom had served with Yermolov, at Tbilisi in October 1828. He heard perceptive comments but no explanation:
“Yermolof's want of success is attributed to the circumstance, that when he was attacked unawares by the Persians, he withdrew his forces towards Tiflis [Tbilisi], being desirous to concentrate them (for they had previously been disposed on an allignement [sic] across the country) instead of pushing forward and making the point d’ appui in rear of the enemy, by which the retreat of the Persians would probably have been cut off. The operation, as to facility of execution, would have been precisely the same, whether they retreated to the centre-rear, or advanced to the centre-front; but one plan showed fear, which gave great encouragement to the enemy, and they presumed upon it; whereas the other would have thrown the foe into dismay, and a complete defeat would probably have immediately followed.” (Footnote 476
External threats are a perennial of intra-governmental financial and political struggle. The frontier governor with the suddenly restive neighbours ultimately became a standing institution on the North West Frontier of British India and still survives in modern Pakistan. Organisational change too was in the air. The Caucasus was moving towards a more devolved and commercially oriented administration, with an eye to the East India Company model, just as the British themselves were beginning to canvass Crown Rule for India.Footnote 477 A short-lived Caucasus Company was established. Sipyagin, whose death Pushkin mentions, and Griboyedov were both champions.
The challenge to Nicholas’ regime was skilfully met. A dependable commander, Paskevich, was sent to the Caucasus. He succeeded in mobilising the army for victory in Persia and in sufficiently marginalising the Viceroy to permit his safe removal. Victory strengthened Nicholas at home. But the military loyalties forged in the campaign were fragile. The army contained many Decembrists and sympathisers exiled to the Caucasus as an established tough posting for the troublesome or condemned, whose exploits under the flag were entrenching their opponents in power. War with Turkey followed almost immediately and ended by projecting Nicholas’ new Russia to telling effect on the international stage. This was a game in progress for high stakes. Introducing into it a celebrity poet with radical credentials and close personal ties to leading military dissidents was not an obvious strong move.
The tensions and cross-currents in the Caucasus Corps found their outlet in a running critique of Paskevich and his conduct of the warfare. This can be tracked in occasional reports, culminating in Fontanier's 1834 debunking of the Turkish campaign. Pushkin's army friends were party in varying degrees to the critique. He invokes it repeatedly in the Journey. Alcock heard the version going the rounds at the close of the 1828 campaign season:
“It is with great diffidence that I venture to speak on military operations, especially when not sufficiently acquainted with the localities of the country to form an opinion: it is with those, however, who are the best informed, that these ideas originate and the judgment of Paskevitch has sometimes been questioned for a similar want of tact,Footnote 478 in not taking the greatest advantage of the irregularity and imbecility of the Turkish armies, as compared with regular troops; for it is said he attacked the Turks with the same caution, the same regular system laid down by principle, as would have been applicable in a warfare against organised troops, and enlightened officers; and lost in some measure a superiority, which the ignorance of all military tactics on the part of the enemy ought to have given him. It is thought that instead of so much caution and deliberation, which was construed into fear by the Turks, he ought, having once the upper hand, after the taking of Akhalstic [Akhaltsikh] for instance, to have dashed on Arzroom, and taken it by a coup de main. Thus one campaign might have sufficed; its brilliancy would have terrified the enemy infinitely more, much bloodshed might have been spared, much expense have been saved. I do not pretend to criticise the talents of General Paskevitch; but leave for the decision of those better qualified, to judge whether the danger of being put to confusion by too precipitate movements, the fear of losing a character firmly established, and the impossibility perhaps of holding so large a tract of country, as the taking of Arzroom would have made necessary, were not sufficient grounds for the quiet and prudent manner of conducting the war, which ultimately brought such utter destruction to the Turks, and such honour to the Russian army.”Footnote 479
The major criticisms were system and method frustrating the taking of opportunity and, during the 1829 campaign, pursuit of fleeing enemy, meaning successful psychological warfare, displacing regular combat. Lesser features included Paskevich holding up action till he could be present and appropriate the glory, exploiting others to show limited personal talent to better advantage, paranoia and vindictiveness towards those who upstaged or crossed him.
Paskevich did clash with Muravyov (note 233) on at least three occasions. He was angry that the then Colonel Muravyov, chief of staff to Prince Eristov, organised and proceeded with capture of Tabriz in 1827 on his own initiative without waiting for orders. But he knew his military worth and importance for morale and had him promoted to major-general. The two clashed again at Kars in 1828, where a Colonel Miklashevski led a premature attack and was outnumbered. The controversy must have been blistering and lingering: Muravyov's detailed self-justification (1831) runs to over forty pages.Footnote 480 He describes Paskevich dressing him down, claims it was unjust and takes some credit for encouraging the impromptu rescue which led to capture of the outer town.Footnote 481 It is clear from Mikhail Pushchin's (note 217) memoirs that there was more at issue than just military style. Muravyov's antics and others’ were competing with and obstructing the key task, assigned to Pushchin, of laying batteries commanding the town and citadel.Footnote 482 Pushchin also describes similar, more minor, differences during the Battle of Kayınlı (below).
Pushchin himself became legend in the 1827 and 1828 campaigns, a sort of Caucasus Corps Pimpernel. As one serving Decembrist put it:
“Most to the fore of all the Decembrists was Mikhail Ivanovich Pushchin, former commander of the Life Guards’ mounted pioneer squadron. From the moment he joined the force, in Persia, he was co-opted to the staff. Paskevich gave free rein to Pushchin's enterprise and energy. Wearing his private's greatcoat, Pushchin made himself at home in the force, re-deploying officers and generals and their units from position to position at his own initiative; he directed tasks great and small, from tying faggots and gabions, from wielding pick and shovel to constructing fords and bridges, to tracing and erecting fortifications, to digging approach works and carried out many important commissions besides. It was he who, in the same soldier's greatcoat, attended the commander-in-chief's war councils where his opinions almost always prevailed (I had this from Valkhovski [Volkhovski] and Ushakov). The fellow had a sort of knack of turning up in different places at the same time. The storming of Akhaltsikh put an end to his activity: there (as in other assaults, at the head of the storming column) Pushchin was wounded by a bullet right through the chest.”Footnote 483
Unlike his brother Ivan, Pushkin's close schoolfriend, Pushchin was not a radical activist. But he did know about the Decembrists’ plans. He happened to call at Ryleyev's apartment during their final preparatory meeting on 13 December 1825. With his practical skills and shrewdness, he may well have offered the conspirators unwelcome comment and advice. He was investigated, sent to Siberia, then transferred to the Caucasus, for failing to inform the authorities. Paskevich found him invaluable. He organised the breaching of the walls of Erivan in 1827, the hazardous placement of batteries at Kars and the storming of Akhaltsikh in 1828. Paskevich twice recommended him for the coveted order of St George (4th class). The Tsar rejected this but did confer the lesser order of St Anne on Pushchin, with promotion to lieutenant, after Akhaltsikh.
In 1829 Pushchin, not yet fully recovered from his wound, agreed to serve and take on additional tasks, carrying out reconnaissance and running paid spies. By his own account, he worked closely with Osten-Sacken (note 178), the chief of staff. The two were clearly important in maintaining Caucasus Corps cohesion and smoothing dealings between Paskevich and his commanders. Muravyov testifies to Pushchin's credentials: “[He] had everyone's respect, for his fine qualities and for his attainments, knowledge and his unfailing dedication to carrying out the duties with which he was charged.”Footnote 484
Three years of continuous warfare were now nearing an end and minds were turning to the future. With the important battles of the Turkish campaign won in June, Paskevich struck an immediate change of tone. Leading military Decembrists were progressively sidelined. Sacken, not himself a Decembrist but key to managing wartime accommodation with them, was quickly court-martialled for unsatisfactory pursuit of fleeing Turks and removed as chief of staff. After a troubling interview at Hassan-Kale, Pushchin concluded that he no longer enjoyed Paskevich's confidence and decided to jump before he was pushed. He took leave of absence, owed for convalescence, and was already in the Caucasus when Pushkin “caught up” with him at Vladikavkaz (Chapter 5). Contacts at Court obtained Nicholas’ agreement for Pushchin to return to Russia and later to a discharge from the army. Burtsov died at Aydıntepe. By the end of the year Rayevski was in disgrace. Muravyov and Volkhovksi soldiered on, to retire in mid-career in 1837 and 1839.
Pushchin's own accounts are invaluable in conveying the atmosphere in camp as the 1829 campaign climaxed during Pushkin's visit. The old tensions between Paskevich and free spirits were playing out one last time in the Soğanlı Mountains and wartime political truce within the Corps was fraying. Pushkin himself immortalised the moment, not with an ode but by clowning the clash of styles with his own abortive heroics, mirrored in The Delibash (Appendix 2).
Encounter with Pushkin in Trans-Caucasia was written at Clarens near Montreux in 1857 at the prompting of the novelist Tolstoy, who was also staying at the resort. Detail had become vague after nearly thirty years. Ushakov and a Pushkin ink-sketch make it likely, for example, that he was carrying a lance not a sabre in the 14 June skirmish. But meeting Pushkin in the early hours of 14 June may be more factually accurate than Pushkin's stylish collages (Chapter 3) of afternoon dinner on 13 June with Decembrist generals followed by evening reunion with Decembrist staffers (Volkhovksi, Pushchin) at Paskevich's HQ:
“When the whole force had gathered at Kars, we joined Pankratyev who had been positioned ahead on the road to Arzerum. Here, despite all attempts to persuade him to move forward, Paskevich postponed advance from day to day, fearful of Hagki-Pasha who was encamped on our left, at the hamlet of Deli-Musa-Furni, and of having him in our rear as we advanced.
“During this period of inaction I, being employed to gather intelligence on the enemy and compiling maps for the advance on Arzerum, was duty-bound to carry out reconnaissance which I did successfully each night with a party of Cossacks of the line, mostly Greben. Once, in June, on return from patrol, this time very successful, right up to the Turks’ encampment on the heights of Mellidüz which I had been able to survey in detail, I dismounted straight into Nikolai Rayevski's tent to bring him first the cheer of imminent, inevitable encounter with the enemy, the encounter which everyone in the force was impatiently awaiting. I cannot describe my amazement and joy when A. S. Pushkin rushed forward to kiss me and his first question was: ‘Come on then, Pushchin; where are the Turks and am I going to see them; I mean Turks who charge shouting, weapon in hand? Do, please, let me see what I've come for against all obstacles!’—‘I can make you happy: the Turks won't be long about presenting themselves for your inspection; I'll even hazard they'll stir us out of our lethargy today; and if they don't attack us, then I and Burtsov will certainly try tomorrow to force them from their position, which is impregnable from the front, with a flanking movement, plans for which I'm taking on to Paskevich when he wakes.’
“Lively conversation with Pushkin, Rayevski and Sacken (the chief of staff, who had come to the tent when he heard I was back), over glasses of tea, warmed us up to hand-to-hand with the Turks. Pushkin was happy as a child at the sensation in store for him. I invited him to stick with me when we met the enemy, promised him the point of greatest danger with the proviso that I did not wish to see him wounded or killed. Rayevski was unwilling to let him out of his sight, but himself on this occasion, because of his senior position, wanted to keep as far as possible out of Turkish fire, and especially away from their sabres and Kurdish lances, and my proposal appealed more to Pushkin. At that moment Semichev (a major in the Nizhni-Novgorod Dragoon Regiment, exiled to the Caucasus from the Akhtyr Hussar Regiment) also offered to take Pushkin with him when he advanced with the regimental flankers. What Pushkin settled I do not know, because I was summoned to the commander-in-chief who as a result of my reports had reinforced the forward pickets, with orders to observe the highest alert; the whole force was ordered to prepare for action.
“It played out to the letter. We had not yet finished dinner at Rayevski's with Pushkin, his brother Lev and Semichev when word arrived that the enemy had showed at the forward pickets. We all rushed to our horses, saddled since morning. At no distance, I ran into a skirmish between Cossacks and Turkish horsemen, and there met Semichev who asked me if I had seen Pushkin. He and I galloped off after him and found him separated from the dragoon flankers, galloping with bared sabre at Turks flying towards him. Our approach, followed by uhlans under Yuzefovich charging to our rescue, forced the Turks at that point to withdraw—and Pushkin was not able to test his sabre on a Turkish head, and he, though disgruntled, did not wander off again, the more so since the Turks’ attack had been beaten off on all sides and our cavalry, after chasing them right back to their fortified camp, had returned to its previous station by nightfall.
“Hagki-Pasha's swift manoeuvre, with insignificant loss of a few Cossack dead and wounded, roused the commander-in-chief from the inaction which had been irritating everyone. We began moving forward, but with great caution. After a few days, on my night patrol, I stumbled on the Seraskier's whole army coming up from Hassan-Kale to face us. When this news was given to Pushkin, his African blood stirred, and he started leaping about and clapping his hands, saying this time he would definitely lay hands on a Turk; but he did not get another chance because he was not, in politeness, able to leave Paskevich who would not let him out of his sight, not just during battle, but on halts, in camp and generally throughout, sending for him on all repos and in free time and—in Pushkin's words—being a regular bore [poryadochno…yemu nadoyel]. Truth to tell, for all his desire to kill or savage a Turk, he no longer had any opportunity, because the enemy was no longer attacking us, but fleeing without a backward glance all the way to the surrender of Arzerum and all the battles, resonant in reports, were just pursuits of the enemy who was abandoning in his path guns, supply-trains, camps and stragglers. Whenever we got together with Pushkin, in my quarters or Rayevski's, he would rage at the Turks who would not give the battle he had so set his heart on—while I, on the contrary, was delighted that I could travel more by carriage and rest up, because I was fighting the 1829 campaign with a chest-wound that had not yet healed, received at the storming of Akhaltsikh, and every prolonged horse-ride set me back dreadfully.
“I was waiting impatiently for the fall of Arzerum, since I had Paskevich's promise to send me on leave to the Caucasus spas when it was captured. My patience was not tried: on 27 June Arzerum was occupied. But I still had a few days’ work: tasked by the commander-in-chief, I had to draw up plans for fortifying the town against the eventuality of Turkish attack. The plans were readily completed, since an attack by the Turks was out of the question; their army was so completely dispersed that no force of human will could bring it together.”Footnote 485
The parallel account in Pushchin's memoirs is more markedly coloured by the break with Paskevich. Selection and conflation reinforce an opening picture of Paskevich unduly labouring simple tasks of crossing the mountains and dislodging the Turks before advancing on Erzurum:
“Since on this campaign I had spies about and intelligence of the enemy, not always taking the spies on trust, I carried out night reconnaissances of the enemy with Cossacks of the Line and Paskevich always knew from me where the Seraskier was and where he could find him. Paskevich was very troubled about [Paskevicha ochen’ zabotil] crossing the Saganlug Mountains dividing Kars from Arzerum. I crossed these mountains with a sotnya [company] of Greben Cossacks and found nothing there to obstruct the passage of an army. Only the descent from the mountains to Arzerum might slow our advance somewhat. The Seraskier was encamped directly in line of this descentFootnote 486 and, to the left of him, separated by a deep ravine, was the camp of Hani-PashaFootnote 487 and his force at the hamlet of Milli-Düz. On the eve of our advance over the Saganlug I toured the Seraskier's position at night, passed Hani-Pasha's camp and having thoroughly familiarised myself with the terrain, when the army advanced sent Burtsov with the Kherson Regiment and two field-pieces to the left of the ravine against Hani-Pasha's camp and the hamlet of Milli-Düz. Muravyov, moving forward against the Seraskier, had orders to take up position and not engage until Paskevich arrived. Meanwhile, when Muravyov had formed up in position, the Turks were to be seen building screens for themselves with a wealth of stones scattered about the ground. To prevent them digging in, Muravyov had to advance, contrary to Paskevich's orders. Just as he was doing so Paskevich rode up and, becoming incensed with Muravyov and Sacken, sent Muravyov orders to halt; being present with the column, I replied that it was not possible to halt since the position was unfavourable and I halted the column where it could readily maintain fire on the enemy defences. Paskevich, seeing Muravyov advance despite his order to halt, sent a sharply-worded order which compelled me to report to him in person about the need to go on. To my surprise he heard me out with good humour and ordered me to tell Muravyov to take up position and not open fire until he gave the order; but before I was back with Muravyov, he had already opened fire on the enemy who for their part were firing at us from all their positions.Footnote 488 Soon Paskevich arrived and there was no longer any need for him to issue the order. During the fiercest exchanges on both fronts, everyone's attention turned to Burtsov who had formed his battalions into squares to withstand attack by 10 or 12 thousand Turkish cavalry charging at him; there was a moment when we thought Burtsov was done for, in the smoke only a flying horde of horsemen was to be seen, but as the smoke lifted, to everyone's amazement Burtsov's squares stood intact and the horde had hurtled past to their left into the mountain gorge. All of us involuntarily cried “Hurrah”. With the threat still gathering against Burtsov, I begged Paskevich to send Rayevski with the cavalry to cut the Turks off from their camp: but he sent Rayevski (Footnote 489 through a ravine, while the Turks were already galloping past the left of Burtsov's squares. The cavalry, slowed by passage through the deep ravine, could not catch Hani-Pasha and took only about 200 laggards prisoner. While Paskevich was pressing the engagement with the Seraskier, Burtsov came over to report on his splendid affair. Riding up to Paskevich, he asked him: ‘Pray, did you see, Y<our> E<xcellency>, how the Kherson Regiment excelled themselves (they had not had a good reputation in the Caucasus until Burtsov took command)?’—‘Yes,’ replied Paskevich, ‘but not in my book; we should have gone bang, bang, bang,’ meaning that the squares should have attacked the Turkish cavalry to the sound of drums. Burtsov scratched his nose as was his way and left Paskevich without saying a word in reply: but had Burtsov moved his squares a single step the Turkish cavalry would have hacked them to pieces, because he was one infantryman against four or five of cavalry.Footnote 490 “With the army was Academician Mashkov [Vladimir Ivanovich Moshkov (1792-1839)] who always followed our operations and painted everything interesting he came across; so on this occasion he had climbed a height behind our position for his painting, where he had the whole terrain on which the Seraskier was deployed in his grasp. As we were exchanging fire he came galloping up to Paskevich at full speed and told him that the Seraskier had gone, that from the height where he was painting he had seen a terrific cloud of dust gradually receding towards Arzerum. With this news, it might have seemed opportune to order an advance, but Paskevich ordered a cease-fire, grub up [varit’ kashu] and only sent Sacken and the cavalry after the enemy an hour later. The cavalry, which had already been chasing Hani-Pasha for several hours, had worn its horses out and Sacken, after some 10 versts and capture of about 800 stragglers, had to call a halt and report to Paskevich that he had halted since there was no pressing on with exhausted horses and he thought it better to conserve the cavalry than take a thousand or two prisoners who would impose a burden on the army. This report threw Paskevich into a fury, he now empanelled a court-martial of generals present in the army and ordered it, chaired by Pankratyev, to reach its verdict on his chief of staff in 24 hours. The court passed severe sentence on Sacken for not carrying out the commander-in-chief's orders to the letter and for slack pursuit of the Turkish cavalry; he was, additionally, confined to quarters and relieved of his duties as chief of staff.Footnote 491 That is how the Journal des Débats played out for Sacken.Footnote 492
Despite Paskevich leaving his position two hours after the Seraskier bolted to Arzerum, our Cossacks captured all their guns, some 30 in number, abandoned by the Turks at the roadside and the whole Turkish supply-train which had not been able to keep up with the flight”.Footnote 493
Pushchin places his own break with Paskevich in the same context of post-war adjustment, with Sacken, Rayevski and Abramowicz (note 279) all figuring. Abramowicz, whose face did fit the new order, ultimately became Paskevich's right-hand man in Poland. Pushchin, and probably Rayevski and Sacken too, believed that he had actively undermined them. The account runs as follows:
“At Hassan-Kale a day's rest was posted and a parade of all the units involved in the pursuit. Meanwhile, not overlooking the duty placed on me to collect intelligence on the enemy and prepare maps for forward movement, I presented Paskevich with an itinerary from Arzerum to Trebizond [Trabzon] where booty of 11 million in copper awaited us. Paskevich greeted me with, ‘And you're [vy: formal] intriguing against me?’—‘To what end?’ I replied, ‘I rest everything on the consideration you show me and can say that up to now I have served you with all diligence; but I can guess what has prompted Y<our> E<xcellency> to suspect me of intrigue. I am certain that Rayevski, who has just left, told you what I said to him about your orderly Abramowicz who does not deserve your consideration and if he holds himself slighted by me, I can give him satisfaction.’—‘How can you speak ill of a man who enjoys my confidence?’ said Paskevich. ‘I had not supposed that a coward like Abramowicz could enjoy your confidence and I repeat that if Abramowicz feels himself slighted by me, I am ready to give him every satisfaction, and I have also come to ask you to grant me leave as you promised after the capture of Erzerum and before I hand over my papers I beg you to take the itinerary to Trebizond I have drawn up.’—‘Who ordered you to draw up this itinerary? I don't want to know about it and I ask that no one in the army should know about it.’—‘Until now it has been my duty to prepare a map of forward movements and I assume that having extended the line of operations to Erzerum you need to carry it through to the sea to establish communication with Diebitsch's army.’ At that point Paskevich's tone changed, he started addressing me in the familiar form [ty] again and tried in every way to efface the unpleasantness conveyed, but I left him with the firm intention of parting company in Erzerum. After Paskevich I called on Rayevski who told me about his conversation with Paskevich. Rayevski had been defending Sacken and had said among other things that there were rogues and cowards in Paskevich's entourage who told him fanciful things. ‘Who? Name them.’—‘Well, Abramowicz for one! Pushchin was telling me only yesterday that he went riding with him on one expedition and Abramowicz was in front with him until they met the enemy and then dropped back, saying it wasn't his place, that he didn't want a bullet to the head; at this Elder of the Host [Cossack Lt. Col.] Aleksandrov said, “Our hero clearly isn't up for winning any medals in this set-to.”’ Rayevski was astonished that I had guessed that he had blurted it out to Paskevich, at which I pointed out to him that it was not hard to guess since he was the best-known blabbermouth in the army.
“This background determined me to part company with Paskevich regardless and be damned with all his proposals; I could do so because everyone could see the still poor state of health in which I was following the army simply for the love of the art, without any hope of reward.
“On the approach to Erzerum we learnt that the town was not going to resist. A few versts from the town we pitched camp, including all the pashas’ tents captured the day before. After a few shots at the town, the Turks sent emissaries to discuss surrender. Paskevich was not willing to treat until the seraskier and all the pashas came to our camp and as soon as they did invited them with scrupulous politeness to occupy their tents, immediately posted sentries and declared them prisoners of war. The pashas, seemingly, welcomed this, so as not to have to answer to their own government. A regiment was sent to occupy Erzerum and the order was given that no one from camp was to go into the town without permission. Just before dusk Paskevich went there and ordered his adjutant, Prince Dadiani, and myself to accompany him, joked with me on the way, was very friendly and said that if I really wanted to leave, he begged me to do him one last service before going: fortify Erzerum. ‘That will take so much time that I'll never get to the waters; let me draw up plans for fortification and have someone else carry them out.’—‘I understand,’ said Paskevich. I set to work at once and, despite all speed, it took more than a week. When I presented the completed plans, I renewed my request for leave, at which Paskevich again affected astonishment; but he ordered Vikinski to authorize four months’ leave of absence at the spas, charged me additionally with escorting the pashas to Tiflis, but on the day of departure there was a problem for which I had to go back to Paskevich. Vikinski was refusing me Cossacks to escort my pack-asses. Paskevich too at first refused. If that was the case, I could not take up my leave of absence, because I could not transport my effects with one batman and there was no possibility of hiring men in Erzerum. I almost wept and Paskevich, seeing my despair, took pity on me and commanded provision of Cossacks. While the pashas were being prepared for the road a few more days went by to test my patience. At that point Burtsov was setting off on his expedition against the Laz and invited me to go with him, but I said no thank you, and on that expedition he was killed by a pistol shot. On the day of my departure from camp, after Paskevich I called to pay my farewells to Sacken, whose tent stood like a plague-spot, stayed quite a long time with him while he wrote a letter to his wife, and all the time (as I learnt later) Paskevich was waiting to see when I would leave Sacken. When I did leave, I mounted my horse without seeing Paskevich again and charged off after the pashas who had already departed. For a long time I did not forget my feelings on leaving Paskevich's camp and all the unpleasantness swirling round him. One could somehow breathe freer, and ahead lay a sort of paradise, Tiflis with all its awaited delights. The season was hot, late July or early August, the fragrant evening air lent delight to the spirit, and the consciousness of duty done gladdened the heart. Friends were sad to part with me and several accompanied me some versts. I was taking leave of most of them for good and never met them again on life's journey, some of them survived [see note 363]. When he bade me farewell, Paskevich was particularly friendly and among other things said I should write to him if I needed anything, that he would always be ready to help me; but as we shall see later, this attitude changed when he saw how long I stayed before leaving with Sacken (still under arrest at the time and abandoned by all Paskevich's minions). Abramowicz, whom Sacken had nurtured like a viper in his bosom, was the first to betray him, retailing messroom [semeynye: “family”] conversations which often showed Paskevich up in a poor light. I would never have left the army had there not been such bickering. What Paskevich said to me at Hassan-Kale made up my mind.
“Knowing his character, I did not want to let his animosity towards me grow; better as I saw it to leave him of my own free will than like Sacken, Volkhovski, Muravyov be practically driven out.”Footnote 494
The two British soldiers best acquainted with Paskevich's campaigns, Monteith, a contemporary, and Baddeley, who studied the sources later, formed a keen appreciation of his capabilities. Monteith sums him up as follows:
“General Paskiewitch fortunately possessed an instinctive knowledge of character, and he completely trusted those whom he employed. In his attention to the civil adminstration he was indefatigable, and he put a stop to the abuses which had so long disgraced and ruined the Russian affairs… he had nearly succeeded in bringing the tribes of the Caucasus into pacific relations with the Russian government, by employing a portion of their troops and not interfering with their internal government,—the only system of policy, as I often heard from his own lips, that he thought likely to succeed… In his outward deportment Prince Paskiewitch was hasty and sometimes even violent, which appears to be a fashionable piece of affectation among the Russian officers—perhaps from a desire of imitating the eccentricities of Suwaroff [Suvorov]; but in his actions Paskiewitch was as remarkable for his cool deliberation as for the rapid execution of whatever he had decided upon. It has been said of him (reversing the epigram on Charles II) that he seldom said a wise thing and never did a foolish one.”Footnote 495
Baddeley says:
“The campaigns of Paskiévitch beyond the Caucasus differ from those of his predecessors by reason of the extent of the country traversed, the number of troops employed, particularly on the Turkish side, the admirable discipline and good conduct of the Russian soldiery, but, above all, by the uncommon measure of the success attained. To inquire more particularly into the causes of this success would take us beyond the scope of the present work…but, briefly, it may be said that the field-marshal's victories were due, in the first place, not to the soundness of his strategy, sound as it was, nor to the novelty and brilliance of his tactics, but to the unusual care he bestowed on the preparations for a campaign, which enabled him, when the right moment came, to give full play to his audacious military genius, and strike with the utmost force and rapidity.”Footnote 496
Monteith and Baddeley were both aware of the tensions at senior level in Paskevich's army. These underlie Monteith's comment about haste and violence of outward deportment. Baddeley describes Paskevich's Tabriz and Kars contretemps with Muravyov, his championing of Pushchin and Nicholas’ misgivings. But neither British officer had experience of an army in which differences of style and temperament marched systematically with politics, or quite caught the internal turmoil still seething on the frontier which Paskevich successfully harnessed, exploited and then suppressed.
Pushchin and Pushkin needed no tutoring in home truths. When, at the end of the Journey, Pushchin insists on a comic rendering of the schoolmasterly Nadezhdin's dialogue-review and both roar with unrestrained laughter, two no-nonsense (Zdravomysl’) indomitables are having the last laugh at all the coming grey men, civil, military and literary. Pushkin had “arrived in time” (Chapter 3) to catch the last vestiges of the “old life” and a Promised Land (note 37) before Sacken's tent, “standing like a plague-spot”, served notice that the game was up. It was now “welcome back” to a “beloved fatherland” where victory, which had already frustrated foreign travel (“this bank was already conquered: I was still in Russia”), was trying out its magic on public perception.
The struggle for Pushkin's pen belongs within this battle for hearts and minds. Russia's victories had shifted the balance of power, freely acknowledged in the rest of Europe. At home, they were well received, but a divided nation stopped short of universal and unqualified public rejoicing. Three years’ critical commentary from the front line, circulated informally and spilling into the public domain, had polarised opinion. Pushkin's endorsement would have been valuable, but not conclusive. When, two years later, he did speak out in support of the capture of Warsaw, his poems (The Anniversary of Borodino and To Russia's Slanderers) drew radical outrage.
The Warsaw poems appeared in a booklet issued jointly with Zhukovski. When Paskevich wrote to thank Zhukovski, he allowed himself a gripe about Pushkin. He had hoped to complete his collection of trophies with a Pushkin ode. No less important, the struggle to bank military success for gain in the war of words at home had been long and hard. Early contributions (“even at that stage you obliged me…”) had been disproportionately welcome and noted:
“Pray accept my unfeigned gratitude for the stanzas you sent and convey the same to Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin, who has so obliged me with his two excellent poems. The lines are truly beautiful and rich with feelings of national pride. The mellifluous lyres of our top-ranking poets long declined to bruit the glory of feats of arms. So, the dawning of memorable events in the Persian and Turkish wars was dimmed and the voice of high inspiration was all but inaudible at Home in honour of our successes at the time. This reproach, however, does not extend to you, for even at that stage [i v tu epokhu] you obliged me with your poetic attention. It is pleasing to see that the deeds of today's brave men have more vigorously roused the fire of true poetry and are extolled by the magical talent of the bards who ornament Russia.”Footnote 497
Pushkin met Paskevich again at a function in late 1832. In 1833 he called on him with his brother Lev, seeking support for the latter's transfer from the army to the Ministry of Internal Affairs.Footnote 498 Whether or not Paskevich later encouraged Pushkin to help rebut Fontanier, the Journey emerged as if answering to the call. It kept faith with friends, using time-honoured technique at which Pushkin excelled: his 1829 epitaph for Rayevski's nephew commissioned by the family (Appendix 4) is a virtuoso example. The narrative artfully showcased the tensions in the Caucasus Corps, leaving the audience to applaud or catcall its vaudeville battle and other scenes.
The searching eye spared no one. Yermolov was a tiger, not the lion of commonplace description. There was a hint of trickiness about the smile and his tub-thumping version of Russian history was to be awaited with wonder. Systematic reservation about Paskevich was reciprocated in Paskevich's 1837 summing-up: “One grieves for Pushkin, the man-of-letters, at a time when his talent was maturing; but he was a rotten sort.”Footnote 499 He meant that Pushkin was too good not to bother with, that investment had yielded some return but that he would always belong to the wrong clubs. Seen more impartially, Pushkin was cultivating his own Muse. The Romantics might have reinvented inspiration in their own image but the principle was ancient and sound, like the role of court-jester or licensed critic, and mattered most in the absence of free speech. The Journey's Don Quixote braves his way, past mountain and Arabic inscription crying “reconciliation”,Footnote 500 searching for the ground in no-man's-land where a divided Russia might come together.
This was not just theory. The Persian and Turkish campaigns had forced political opponents to cooperate and demonstrate what Russia's combined best talent could achieve. Paskevich's army transiently resembled a functioning parliamentary system—noisy factional contest, lobbying, briefing, compromise. It was a thought-provoking model, short on Decembrist idealism, unappealing to the new regime, but it delivered impressively. When, during Pushkin's visit, military success removed the external threat, an era passed for Decembrists, political inclusivity and quality of public achievement. Pushkin's journey to Arzrum (“Rome-land”) ended dispiritingly but he had been party to an emblematic clash of hotheads (Delibash) and to the Third Rome's decisive rout of the Second (Ottoman kaysar-i-rum), investing Tsar Nicholas and his revived autocracy—cliquish unlike the First Rome's—with a glamour and authority neither would finally sustain. The Journey's irrepressible one-man debate (rassuzhdenie: notes 32, 254) honours the 1827-9 Caucasus Corps.
Aptly enough, the hussar-poet Denis Davydov, arch-insurgent of 1812 and presiding genius of the old unruly heroism, had pre-empted both Caucasus Corps dissidents and Pushkin. In 1826 he rejoined the colours after long absence and fought the Persians for his cousin Yermolov. In his Part-soldier of that year, celebration of untamed spirit, the Cossack way of life and the “partisan” (guerilla, freedom fighter) style, so devastating to Napoleon's retreat from Moscow, yields gradually to the power of the “cloud-defying” (note 387) mountains, the Aragats, Ararat and Kazbek. Pushkin pays tribute in Chapter 1 (note 134). Le triste soldat, in Maurice Allart's contemporary version, caught the mood. Like the Journey, the poem finds its own assured if sotto voce mountain-top illumination:
Davydov sent the poem to Sir Walter Scott, who kept a portrait of the “Black Captain” of 1812 at Abbotsford, mentioning it (une bagatelle poétique) in a letter and commissioning his nephew Vladimir, a student in Edinburgh, to prepare a translation. On his way back in 1827 Davydov paused like Pushchin and Pushkin at the spas. Struck by the potential for a novel—a project later taken up by Pushkin and carried through by Lermontov (note 81)—he wrote again to Scott, enthusiastically relocating characters from St Ronan's Well to the Caucasus.
When young Vladimir left Edinburgh for Russia in 1828, Scott reciprocated with an edifying Scots dialect motto (“The following lines which contain an excellent moral lesson occur in a stone label on the old mansion house of Fir Glen”):
* surrounded with spies.
** uncensured.
The sentiment was: “Achieve and rise above envy; or if you want a quiet life, hide away”. Scott's annotations point up intended significance, turning spectators into spies for a Russian audience and declaring “censure” the central issue. This was literary criticism or roughhouse—bran’ as Pushkin calls it in the preface to the Journey— from which Scott instinctively shielded himself with masks and devices like those of Pushkin's Tales of Belkin. In a world of flexible spelling, familiar with Roman censors and their censura, Scott may have meant the Russian censorship too. Vladimir understood the hermit-like reserve (“If you want a life without censure [bez narekanii], go and live in the desert”) but “gang where nae man dwells” also suggested originality, pushing the boundaries.Footnote 501
These were “moral lessons” that united them all.
