Kitabı oku: «Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 331, May, 1843», sayfa 4

"A rare man, if this be true!" exclaimed Saphir Ali, with feeling, throwing away his reins. "A stout friend indeed!"

"But what an icy lover! But this is not all. To relieve both of them from misrepresentation and scandal, he came hither on service. Not long ago—for his happiness or unhappiness—his friend died. And what then? Do you think he flew to Russia. No! his duty kept him away. The Commander-in-chief informed him that his presence was indispensable here for a year more, and he has remained—cherishing his love with hope. Can such a man, with all his goodness, understand such a passion as mine? And besides, there is such a difference between us in years, in opinions. He kills me with his unapproachable dignity; and all this cools my friendship, and impedes my sincerity."

"You are a strange fellow, Ammalát; you do not love Verkhóffsky for the very reason that he most merits frankness and affection!"

"Who told you that I do not love him? How can I but love the man who has educated me—my benefactor? Can I not love any one but Seltanetta? I love the whole world—all men!"

"Not much love, then, will fall to the share of each!" said Saphir Ali.

"There would be enough not only to quench the thirst, but to drown the whole world!" replied Ammalát, with a smile.

"Aha! This comes of seeing beauties unveiled—and then to see nothing but the veil and the eyebrows. It seems that you are like the nightingales of Ourmis; you must be caged before you can sing!"

Conversing in this strain, the two friends disappeared in the depths of the forest.

CHAPTER VII

FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM COLONEL VERKHÓFFSKY TO HIS BETROTHED.

Derbénd, April.

Fly to, me, heart of my heart, dearest Maria! Rejoice in the sight of a lovely vernal night in Daghestán. Beneath me lies Derbénd, slumbering calmly, like a black streak of lava flowing from the Caucasus and cooled in the sea. The gentle breeze bears to me the fragrant odour of the almond-trees, the nightingales are calling to each other from the rock-crevices, behind the fortress: all breathes of life and love; and beautiful nature, full of this feeling, covers herself with a veil of mists. And how wonderfully has that vaporous ocean poured itself over the Caspian! The sea below gleams wavingly, like steel damasked with gold on an escutcheon—that above swells like a silver surge lighted by the full moon, which rolls along the sky like a cup of gold, while the stars glitter around like scattered drops. In a moment, the reflection of the moonbeams in the vapours of the night changes the picture, anticipating the imagination, now astounding by its marvels—now striking by its novelty. Sometimes I seem to behold the rocks of the wild shore, and the waves beating against them in foam. The billows roll onward to the charge: the rocky ramparts repel the shock, and the surf flies high above them; but silently and slowly sink the waves, and the silver palms arise from the midst of the inundation, the breeze stirs their branches, playing with the long leaves, and they spread like the sails of a ship gliding over the airy ocean. Do you see how she rolls along, how the spray-drops sparkle on her breast, how the waves slide along her sides. And where is she?... and where am I?... You cannot imagine, dearest Maria, the sweetly solemn feeling produced in me by the sound and sight of the sea. To me, the idea of eternity is inseparable from it; of immensity—of our love. That love seems to me, like it, infinite—eternal. I feel as if my heart overflowed to embrace the world, even as the ocean, with its bright waves of love. It is in me and around me; it is the only great and immortal feeling which I possess. Its spark lights and warms me in the winter of my sorrows, in the midnight of my doubts. Then I love so blindly! I believe so ardently! You smile at my fantasy, friend and companion of my soul. You wonder at this dark language; blame me not. My spirit, like the denizen of another world, cannot bear the chill and frosty moonlight—it shakes off the dust of the grave; it soars away, and, like the moonlight, dimly discovers all things darkly and uncertainly. You know that it is to you alone that I write down the pictures which fall on the magic-glass of my heart, assured that you will guess, not with cold criticism, but with the heart, what I would describe. Besides, next August, your happy bridegroom will himself explain all the dark passages in his letters. I cannot think without ecstasy of the moment of our meeting. I count the sand-grains of the hours which separate us. I count the versts which lie between us. And so in the middle of June you will be at the waters of the Caucasus. And nought but the icy chain of the Caucasus will be between two ardent hearts.... How near—yet how immeasurably far shall we be from each other! Oh! how many years of life would I not give to hasten the hour of our meeting! Long, long, have our hearts been plighted.... Why have they been separated till now?

My friend Ammalát is not frank or confiding. I cannot blame him. I know how difficult it is to break through habits imbibed with a mother's milk, and with the air of one's native land. The barbarian despotism of Persia, which has so long oppressed Aderbidján, has instilled the basest principles into the Tartars of the Caucasus, and has polluted their sense of honour by the most despicable subterfuge. And how could it be otherwise in a government based upon the tyranny of the great over the less—where justice herself can punish only in secret—where robbery is the privilege of power? "Do with me what you like, provided you let me do with my inferior what I like," is the principle of Asiatic government—its ambition, its morality. Hence, every man, finding himself between two enemies, is obliged to conceal his thoughts, as he hides his money. Hence every man plays the hypocrite before the powerful; every man endeavours to force from others a present by tyranny or accusation. Hence the Tartar of this country will not move a step, but with the hope of gain; will not give you so much as a cucumber, without expecting a present in return.

Insolent to rudeness with every one who is not in power, he is mean and slavish before rank or a full purse. He sows flattery by handfuls; he will give you his house, his children, his soul, to get rid of a difficulty, and if he does any body a service, it is sure to be from motives of interest.

In money matters (this is the weakest side of a Tartar) a ducat is the touchstone of his fidelity; and it is difficult to imagine the extent of their greediness for profit! The Armenian character is yet a thousand times more vile than theirs; but the Tartars hardly yield to them in corruption and greediness—and this is saying a good deal. Is it surprising that, beholding from infancy such examples, Ammalát—though he has retained the detestation of meanness natural to pure blood—should have adopted concealment as an indispensable arm against open malevolence and secret villany? The sacred ties of relationship do not exist for Asiatics. With them, the son is the slave of the father—the brother is a rival. No one trusts his neighbour, because there is no faith in any man. Jealousy of their wives, and dread of espionage, destroy brotherly love and friendship. The child brought up by his slave-mother—never experiencing a father's caress, and afterwards estranged by the Arabian alphabet, (education,) hides his feelings in his own heart even from his companions; from his childhood, thinks only for himself; from the first beard are every door, every heart shut for him: husbands look askance at him, women fly from him as from a wild beast, and the first and most innocent emotions of his heart, the first voice of nature, the first movements of his feelings—all these have become crimes in the eyes of Mahometan superstition. He dares not discover them to a relation, or confide them to a friend.... He must even weep in secret.

All this I say, my sweet Maria, to excuse Ammalát: he has already lived a year and a half in my house, and hitherto has never confessed to me the object of his love; though he might well have known, that it was from no idle curiosity, but from a real heartfelt interest, that I wished to know the secret of his heart. At last, however, he has told me all; and thus it happened.

Yesterday I took a ride out of the town with Ammalát. We rode up through a defile in the mountain on the west, and we advanced further and further, higher and higher, till we found ourselves unexpectedly close to the village of Kelík, from which may be seen the wall that anciently defended Persia from the incursions of the wandering tribes inhabiting the Zakavkáz, (trans-Caucasian country,) which often devastated that territory. The annals of Derbénd (Derbéndnámé) ascribe, but falsely, the construction of it to a certain Iskender—i.e. Alexander the Great—who, however, never was in these regions. King Noushirván repaired it, and placed a guard along it. More than once since that time it has been restored; and again it fell into ruin, and became overgrown, as it now is, with the trees of centuries. A tradition exists, that this wall formerly extended from the Caspian to the Black Sea, cutting through the whole Caucasus, and having for its extremity the "iron gate" of Derbénd, and Dariál in its centre; but this is more than doubtful as far as regards the general facts, though certain in the particulars. The traces of this wall, which are to be seen far into the mountains, are interrupted here and there, but only by fallen stones or rocks and ravines, till it reaches the military road; but from thence to the Black Sea, through Mingrelia, I think there are no traces of its continuation.

I examined, with curiosity, this enormous wall, fortified by numerous towers at short distance; and I wondered at the grandeur of the ancients, exhibited even in their unreasonable caprices of despotism—that greatness to which the effeminate rulers of the East cannot aspire, in our day, even in imagination. The wonders of Babylon, the lake of Mœris, the pyramids of the Pharaohs, the endless wall of China, and this huge bulwark, built in sterile places, on the summits of mountains, through the abyss of ravines—bear witness to the gigantic iron will, and the unlimited power, of the ancient kings. Neither time, nor earthquake, nor man, transitory man, nor the footstep of thousands of years, have entirely destroyed, entirely trodden down, the remains of immemorial antiquity. These places awake in me solemn and sacred thoughts. I wandered over the traces of Peter the Great; I pictured him the founder, the reformer, of a young state—building it on these ruins of the decaying monarchies of Asia, from the centre of which he tore out Russia, and with a mighty hand rolled her into Europe. What a fire must have gleamed in his eagle eye, as he glanced from the heights of Caucasus! What sublime thoughts, what holy aspirations, must have swelled that heroic breast! The grand destiny of his country was disclosed before his eyes; in the horizon, in the mirror of the Caspian, appeared to him the picture of Russia's future weal, sown by him, and watered by his red sweat. It was not empty conquest that was his aim, but victory over barbarism—the happiness of mankind. Derbénd, Báka, Astrabád, they are the links of the chain with which he endeavoured to bind the Caucasus, and rivet the commerce of India with Russia.

Demigod of the North! Thou whom nature created at once to flatter the pride of man, and to reduce it to despair by thine unapproachable greatness! Thy shade rose before me, bright and colossal, and the cataract of ages fell foaming at thy feet! Pensive and silent, I rode on.

The wall of the Caucasus is faced on the north side with squared stones, neatly and firmly fixed together with lime. Many of the battlements are still entire; but feeble seeds, falling into the crevices and joints, have burst them asunder with the roots of trees growing from them, and, assisted by the rains, have thrown the stones to the earth, and over the ruins triumphantly creep mallows and pomegranates; the eagle, unmolested, builds her nest in the turret once crowded with warriors, and on the cold hearthstone lie the fresh bones of the wild-goat, dragged thither by the jackals. Sometimes the line of the ruins entirely disappeared; then fragments of the stones again rose from among the grass and underwood. Riding in this way, a distance of about three versts, we reached the gate, and passed through to the south side, under a vaulted arch, lined with moss and overgrown with shrubs. We had not advanced twenty paces, when suddenly, behind an enormous tower, we came upon six armed mountaineers, who seemed, by all appearance, to belong to those gangs of robbers—the free Tabasaranetzes. They were lying in the shade, close to their horses, which were feeding. I was astounded. I immediately reflected how foolishly I had acted in riding so far from Derbénd without an escort. To gallop back, among such bushes and rocks, would have been impossible; to fight six such desperate fellows, would have been foolhardiness. Nevertheless, I seized a holster-pistol; but Ammalát Bek, seeing how matters stood, advanced, and cried in a calm slow voice: "Do not handle your arms, or we are dead men!"

The robbers, perceiving us, jumped up and cocked their guns, one fine, broad-shouldered, but extremely savage-looking Lezghín, remaining stretched on the ground. He lifted his head coolly, looked at us, and waved his hand to his companions. In a moment we found ourselves surrounded by them, while a path in front was stopped by the Ataman.

"Pray, dismount from your horses, dear guests," said he with a smile, though one could see that the next invitation would be a bullet. I hesitated; but Ammalát Bek jumped speedily from his horse, and walked up to the Ataman.

"Hail!" He said to him: "hail, sorvi golová! I thought not of seeing you. I thought the devils had long ago made a feast of you."

"Softly, Ammalát Bek!" answered the other; "I hope yet to feed the eagles with the bodies of the Russians and of you Tartars, whose purse is bigger than your heart."

"Well, and what luck, Shermadán?" carelessly enquired Ammalát Bek.

"But poor. The Russians are watchful: and we have seldom been able to drive the cattle of a regiment, or to sell two Russian soldiers at a time in the hills. It is difficult to transport madder and silk; and of Persian tissue, very little is now carried on the arbás. We should have had to quest like wolves again to-day, but Allah has had mercy; he has given into our hands a rich bek and a Russian colonel!"

My heart died within me, as I heard these words.

"Do not sell a hawk in the sky: sell him," answered Ammalát, "when you have him on your glove."

The robber sat down, laid his hand on the cock of his gun, and fixed on us a piercing look. "Hark'e, Ammalát!" said he; "is it possible that you think to escape me?—is it possible that you will dare to defend yourselves?"

"Be quiet," said Ammalát; "are we fools, to fight two to six? Gold is dear to us, but dearer is our life. We have fallen into your hands, so there is nothing to be done, unless you extort an unreasonable price for our ransom. I have, as you know, neither father nor mother: and the Colonel has yet less—neither kinsmen nor tribe."

"If you have no father, you have your father's inheritance. There is no need then to count your relations with you: however, I am a man of conscience. If you have no ducats, I will take your ransom in sheep. But about the colonel, don't talk any more nonsense. I know for him the soldiers would give the last button on their uniforms. Why, if for Sh—— a ransom of ten thousand rubles was paid, they will give more for this man. However, we shall see, we shall see. If you will be quiet.... Why, I am not a Jew, or a cannibal—Perviáder (the Almighty) forgive me!"

"Now that's it, friend: feed us well, and I swear and promise by my honour, we will never think of harming you—nor of escaping."

"I believe, I believe! I am glad we have arranged without making any noise about it. What a fine fellow you have become, Ammalát! Your horse is not a horse, your gun is not a gun: it is a pleasure to look at you; and this is true. Let me look at your dagger, my friend. Surely this is the Koubatchín mark upon the blade."

"No, the Kizliár mark," replied Ammalát, quietly unbuckling the dagger-belt from his waist; "and look at the blade. Wonderful! it cuts a nail in two like a candle. On this side is the maker's name; there—read it yourself: Alióusta—Kóza—Nishtshekói." And while he spoke, he twirled the naked blade before the eyes of the greedy Lezghín, who wished to show that he knew how to read, and was decyphering the complicated inscription with some difficulty. But suddenly the dagger gleamed like lightning.... Ammalát, seizing the opportunity, struck Shermadán with all his might on the head; and so fierce was the blow, that the dagger was stopped by the teeth of the lower jaw. The corpse fell heavily on the grass. Keeping my eyes upon Ammalát, I followed his example, and with my pistol shot the robber who was next me, and had hold of my horse's bridle. This was to the others a signal for flight; the rascals vanished; for the death of their Ataman dissolved the knot of the leash which bound them together. Whilst Ammalát, after the oriental fashion, was stripping the dead of their arms, and tying together the reins of the abandoned horses, I lectured him on his dissembling and making a false oath to the robber. He lifted up his head with astonishment: "You are a strange man, Colonel!" he replied. "This rascal has done an infinity of harm to the Russians, by secretly setting fire to their stacks of hay, or seizing and carrying straggling soldiers and wood-cutters into slavery. Do you know that he would have tyrannized over us—or even tortured us, to make us write more movingly to our kinsmen, to induce them to pay a larger ransom?"

"It may be so, Ammalát, but to lie or to swear an oath, either in jest or to escape misfortune, is wrong. Why could we not have thrown ourselves directly at the robbers, and have begun as you finished?"

"No, Colonel, we could not. If I had not entered into conversation with the Ataman, we should have been riddled with balls at the first movement. Moreover, I know that pack right well: they are brave only in the presence of their Ataman, and it was with him it was necessary to begin!"

I shook my head. The Asiatic cunning, though it had saved my life, could not please me. What confidence can I have in people accustomed to sport with their honour and their soul? We were about to mount our horses, when we heard a groan from the mountaineer who had been wounded by me. He came to himself, raised his head, and piteously besought us not to leave him to be devoured by the beasts of the forest. We both hastened to assist the poor wretch; and what was Ammalát's astonishment when he recognized in him one of the noúkers of Sultan Akhmet Khan of Avár. To the question how he happened to be one of a gang of robbers, he replied: "Shairán tempted me: the Khan sent me into Kemék, a neighbouring village, with a letter to the famous Hakím (Doctor) Ibrahim, for a certain herb, which they say removes every ailment, as easily as if it were brushed away with the hand. To my sorrow, Shermadán met me in the way! He teazed me, saying, 'Come with me, and let us rob on the road. An Armenian is coming from Kouba with money.' My young heart could not resist this ... oh, Allah-il-Allah! He hath taken my soul from me!"

"They sent you for physic, you say," replied Ammalát: "why, who is sick with you?"

"Our Khanóum Seltanetta is dying: here is the writing to the leech about her illness:" with these words he gave Ammalát a silver tube, in which was a small piece of paper rolled up. Ammalát turned as pale as death; his hands shook—his eyes sank under his eyebrows when he had read the note: with a broken voice he uttered detached words. "Three nights—and she sleeps not, eats not—delirious!--her life is in danger—save her! O God of righteousness—and I am idling here—leading a life of holidays—and my soul's soul is ready to quit the earth, and leave me a rotten corse! Oh that all her sufferings could fall on my head! and that I could lie in her coffin, if that would restore her to health. Sweetest and loveliest! thou art fading, rose of Avár, and destiny has stretched out her talons over thee. Colonel," he cried at length, seizing my hand, "grant my only, my solemn prayer—let me but once more look on her!"——

"On whom, my friend?"

"On my Seltanetta—on the daughter of the Khan of Avár—whom I love more than my life, than my soul! She is ill, she is dying—perhaps dead by this time—while I am wasting words—and I could not receive into my heart her last word—her last look—could not wipe away the icy tear of death! Oh, why do not the ashes of the ruined sun fall on my head—why will not the earth bury me in its ruins!"

He fell on my breast, choking with grief, in a tearless agony, unable to pronounce a word.

This was not a time for accusations of insincerity, much less to set forth the reasons which rendered it unadvisable for him to go among the enemies of Russia. There are circumstances before which all reasons must give way, and I felt that Ammalát was in such circumstances. On my own responsibility I resolved to let him go. "He that obliges from the heart, and speedily, twice obliges," is my favourite proverb, and best maxim. I pressed in my embrace the unhappy Tartar, and we mingled our tears together.

"My friend Ammalát," said I, "hasten where your heart calls you. God grant that you may carry thither health and recovery, and bring back peace of mind! A happy journey!"

"Farewell, my benefactor," he cried, deeply touched, "farewell, and perhaps for ever! I will not return to life, if Allah takes from me my Seltanetta. May God keep you!"

He took the wounded Aváretz to the Hakím Ibrahim, received the medicinal herb according to the Khan's prescription, and in an hour Ammalát Bek, with four noúkers, rode out of Derbénd.

And so the riddle is guessed—he loves. This is unfortunate, but what is yet worse, he is beloved in return. I fancy, my love, that I see your astonishment. "Can that be a misfortune to another, which to you is happiness?" you ask. A grain of patience, my soul's angel! The Khan, the father of Seltanetta, is the irreconcilable foe of Russia, and the more so because, having been distinguished by the favour of the Czar, he has turned a traitor; consequently a marriage is possible only on condition of Ammalát's betraying the Russians, or in case of the Khan's submission and pardon—both cases being far from probable. I myself have experienced misery and hopelessness in love; I have shed many tears on my lonely pillow; often have I thirsted for the shade of the grave, to cool my anguished heart! Can I, then, help, pitying this youth, the object of my disinterested regard, and lamenting his hopeless love? But this will not build a bridge to good-fortune; and I therefore think, that if he had not the ill-luck to be beloved in return, he would by degrees forget her.

"But," you say, (and methinks I hear your silvery voice, and am revelling in your angel's smile,) "but circumstances may change for them, as they have changed for us. Is it possible that misfortune alone has the privilege of being eternal in the world?"

I do not dispute this, my beloved, but I confess with a sigh that I am in doubt. I even fear for them and for ourselves. Destiny smiles before us, hope chaunts sweet music—but destiny is a sea—hope but a sea-syren; deceitful is the calm of the one, fatal are the promises of the other. All appears to aid our union—but are we yet together? I know not why, lovely Mary, but a chill penetrates my breast, amid the warm fountains of future bliss, and the idea of our meeting has lost its distinctness. But all this will pass away, all will change into happiness, when I press your hand to my lips, your heart to mine. The rainbow shines yet brighter on the dark field of the cloud, and the happiest moments of life are but the anticipations of sorrow.