Kitabı oku: «Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 331, May, 1843», sayfa 5

CHAPTER VIII

Ammalát knocked up two horses, and left two of his noúkers on the road, so that at the end of the second day he was not far from Khounzákh. At each stride his impatience grew stronger, and with each stride increased his fear of not finding his beloved amongst the living. A fit of trembling came over him when from the rocks the tops of the Khan's tower arose before him. His eyes grew dark. "Shall I meet there life or death?" he whispered to himself, and arousing a desperate courage, he urged his horse to a gallop.

He came up with a horseman completely armed: another horseman rode out of Khounzákh to meeting, and hardly did they perceive one another when they put their horses to full speed, rode up to each other, leaped down upon the earth, and suddenly drawing their swords, threw themselves with fury upon each other without uttering a word, as if blows were the customary salutation of travellers. Ammalát Bek, whose passage they intercepted along the narrow path between the rocks, gazed with astonishment on the combat of the two adversaries. It was short. The horseman who was approaching the town fell on the stones, bedewing them with blood from a gash which laid open his skull; and the victor, coolly wiping his blade, addressed himself to Ammalát: "Your coming is opportune: I am glad that destiny has brought you in time to witness our combat. God, and not I, killed the offender; and now his kinsmen will not say that I killed my enemy stealthily from behind a rock, and will not raise upon my head the feud of blood."

"Whence arose your quarrel with him?" asked Ammalát: "why did you conclude it with such a terrible revenge?"

"This Kharám-Záda," answered the horseman, "could not agree with me about the division of some stolen sheep, and in spite he killed them all so that nobody should have them ... and he dared to slander my wife. He had better have insulted my father's grave, or my mother's good name, than have touched the reputation of my wife! I once flew at him with my dagger, but they parted us: we agreed to fight at our first encounter, and Allah has judged between us! The Bek is doubtless riding to Khounzákh—surely on a vizit to the Khan?" added the horseman.

Ammalát, forcing his horse to leap over the dead body which lay across the road, replied in the affirmative.

"You go not at a fit time, Bek—not at all at a fit time."

All Ammalát's blood rushed to his head. "Why, has any misfortune happened in the Khan's house?" he enquired, reining in his horse, which he had just before lashed with the whip to force him faster to Khounzákh.

"Not exactly a misfortune, his daughter Seltanetta was severely ill, and now"——

"Is dead?" cried Ammalát, turning pale.

"Perhaps she is dead—at least dying. As I rode past the Khan's gate, there arose a bustling, crying, and yelling of women in the court, as if the Russians were storming Khounzákh. Go and see—do me the favour"——

But Ammalát heard no more, he dashed away from the astounded Ouzdén; the dust rolled like smoke from the road, which seemed to be set on fire by the sparks from the horse's hoofs. Headlong he galloped through the winding streets, flew up the hill, bounded from his horse in the midst of the Khan's court-yard, and raced breathlessly through the passages to Seltanetta's apartment, overthrowing and jostling noúkers and maidens, and at last, without remarking the Khan or his wife, pushed himself to the bed of the sufferer, and fell, almost senseless, on his knees beside it.

The sudden and noisy arrival of Ammalát aroused the sad society present. Seltanetta, whose existence death was already overpowering, seemed as if awakening from the deep forgetfulness of fever; her cheeks flushed with a transient colour, like that on the leaves of autumn before they fall: in her clouded eye beamed the last spark of the soul. She lad been for several hours in a complete insensibility; she was speechless, motionless, hopeless. A murmur of anger from the bystanders, and a loud exclamation from the stupefied Ammalát, seemed to recall the departing spirit of the sick, she started up—her eyes sparkled.... "Is it thou—is it thou?" she cried, stretching, forth her arms to him: "praise be to Allah! now I am contented, now I am happy," she added, sinking back on the pillow. Her lips wreathed into a smile, her eyelids closed, and again she sank into her former insensibility.

The agonized Asiatic paid no attention to the questions of the Khan, or the reproaches of the Khánsha: no person, no object distracted his attention from Seltanetta—nothing could arouse him from his deep despair. They could hardly lead him by force from the sick chamber; he clung to the threshold, he wept bitterly, at one moment praying for the life of Seltanetta, at another accusing heaven of her illness! Terrible, yet moving, was the grief of the fiery Asiatic.

Meanwhile, the appearance of Ammalát had produced a salutary influence on the sick girl. What the rude physicians of the mountains were unable to accomplish, was effected by his arrival. The vital energy, which had been almost extinguished, needed some agitation to revivify its action; but for this she must have perished, not from the disease, which had been already subdued, but from languor—as a lamp, not blown out by the wind, but failing for lack of air. Youth at length gained the victory; the crisis was past, and life again arose in the heart of the sufferer. After a long and quiet slumber, she awoke unusually strengthened and refreshed. "I feel myself as light, mother," she cried, looking gaily around her, "as if I were made wholly of air. Ah, how sweet it is to recover from illness; it seems as if the walls were smiling upon me. Yet, I have been very ill—long ill. I have suffered much; but, thanks to Allah! I am now only weak, and that will soon pass away. I feel health rolling, like drops of pearl, through my veins. All the past seems to me a sort of dark vision. I fancied that I was sinking into a cold sea, and that I was parched with thirst: far away, methought, there hovered two little stars; the darkness thickened and thickened; I sank deeper, deeper yet. All at once it seemed as if some one called me by my name, and with a mighty hand dragged me from that icy, shoreless sea. Ammalát's face glanced before me, almost like a reality; the little stars broke into a lightning-flash, which writhed like a serpent to my heart: I remember no more!"

On the following day Ammalát was allowed to see the convalescent. Sultan Akhmet Khan, seeing that it was impossible to obtain a coherent answer from him while suspense tortured his heart, that heart which boiled with passion, yielded to his incessant entreaties. "Let all rejoice when I rejoice," he said, as he led his guest into his daughter's room. This had been previously announced to Seltanetta, but her agitation, nevertheless, was very great, when her eyes met those of Ammalát—Ammalát, so deeply loved, so long and fruitlessly expected. Neither of the lovers could pronounce a word, but the ardent language of their looks expressed a long tale, imprinted in burning letters on the tablet of their hearts. On the pale cheek of each other they read the traces of sorrow, the tears of separation, the characters of sleeplessness and grief, of fear and of jealousy. Entrancing is the blooming loveliness of an adored mistress; but her paleness, her languor, that is bewitching, enchanting, victorious! What heart of iron would not be melted by that tearful glance, which, without a reproach, says so tenderly to you, "I am happy, but I have suffered by thee and for thy sake?"

Tears dropped from Ammalát's eyes; but remembering at length that he was not alone, he mastered himself, and lifted up his head to speak; but his voice refused to pour itself in words, and with difficulty he faltered out, "We have not seen each other for a long time, Seltanetta!"

"And we were wellnigh parted for ever," murmured Seltanetta.

"For ever!" cried Ammalát, with a half reproachful voice. "And can you think, can you believe this? Is there not, then, another life, in which sorrow is unknown, and separation from our kinsmen and the beloved? If I were to lose the talisman of my life, with what scorn would I not cast away the rusty ponderous armour of existence! Why should I wrestle with destiny?"

"Pity, then, that I did not die!" answered Seltanetta, sportively. "You describe so temptingly the other side of the grave, that one would be eager to leap into it."

"Ah, no! Live, live long, for happiness, for—love!" Ammalát would have added, but he reddened, and was silent.

Little by little the roses of health spread over the cheeks of the maiden, now happy in the presence of her lover. All returned into its customary order. The Khan was never weary of questioning Ammalát about the battles, the campaigns, the tactics of the Russians; the Khánsha tired him with enquiries about the dress and customs of their women, and could not omit to call upon Allah as often as she heard that they go without veils. But with Seltanetta he enjoyed conversations and tales, to his, as well as her, heart's content. The merest trifle which had the slightest connexion with the other, could not be passed over without a minute description, without abundant repetitions and exclamations. Love, like Midas, transforms every thing it touches into gold, and, alas! often perishes, like Midas, for want of finding some material nourishment.

But, as the strength of Seltanetta was gradually re-established, with the reappearing bloom of health on Ammalát's brow, there often appeared the shadow of grief. Sometimes, in the middle of a lively conversation, he would suddenly stop, droop his head, and his bright eyes would be dimmed with a filling of tears; heavy sighs would seem to rend his breast; he would start up, his eyes sparkling with fury; he would grasp his dagger with a bitter smile, and then, as if vanquished by an invisible hand, he would fall into a deep reverie, from whence not even the caresses of his adored Seltanetta could recall him.

Once, at such a moment, Seltanetta, leaning enraptured on his shoulder, whispered, "Asis, (beloved,) you are sad—you are weary of me!"

"Ah, slander not him who loves thee more than heaven!" replied Ammalát; "but I have felt the hell of separation; and can I think of it without agony? Easier, a hundred times easier, to part from life than from thee, my dark-eyed love!"

"You are thinking of it, therefore you desire it."

"Do not poison my wounds by doubting, Seltanetta. Till now you have known only how to bloom like a rose—to flutter like a butterfly; till now your will was your only duty. But I am a man, a friend; fate has forged for me an indestructible chain—the chain of gratitude for kindness—it drags me to Derbénd."

"Debt! duty! gratitude!" cried Seltanetta, mournfully shaking her head. "How many gold-embroidered words have you invented to cover, as with a shawl, your unwillingness to remain here. What! Did you not give your heart to love before it was pledged to friendship? You had no right to give away what belonged to another. Oh, forget your Verkhóffsky, forget your Russian friends and the beauty of Derbénd. Forget war and murder-purchased glory. I hate blood since I saw you covered with it. I cannot think without shuddering, that each drop of it costs tears that cannot be dried, of a sister, a mother, or a fair bride. What do you need, in order to live peacefully and quietly among our mountains! Here none can come to disturb with arms the happiness of the heart. The rain pierces not our roof; our bread is not of purchased corn; my father has many horses, he has arms, and much precious gold; in my soul there is much love for you. Say, then, my beloved, you will not go away, you will remain with us!"

"No, Seltanetta, I cannot, must not, remain here. To pass my life with you alone—for you to end it—this is my first prayer, my last desire, but its accomplishment depends on your father. A sacred tie binds me to the Russians; and while the Khan remains unreconciled with them, an open marriage with you would be impossible—the obstacle would not be the Russians, but the Khan"——

"You know my father," sorrowfully replied Seltanetta; "for some time past his hatred of the infidels has so strengthened itself, that he hesitates not to sacrifice to it his daughter and his friend. He is particularly enraged with the Colonel for killing his favourite noúker, who was sent for medicine to the Hakím Ibrahim."

"I have more than once begun to speak to Akhmet Khan about my hopes; but his eternal reply has been—'Swear to be the enemy of the Russians, and then I will hear you out.'"

"We must then bid adieu to hope."

"Why to hope, Seltanetta? Why not say only—farewell, Avár!"

Seltanetta bent upon him her expressive eyes. "I don't understand you," she said.

"Love me more than any thing in the world—more than your father and mother, and your fair land, and then you will understand me, Seltanetta! Live without you I cannot, and they will not let me live with you. If you love me, let us fly!"

"Fly! the Khan's daughter fly like a slave—a criminal! This is dreadful—this is terrible!"

"Speak not so. If the sacrifice is unusual, my love also is unusual. Command me to give my life a thousand times, and I will throw it down like a copper poull.⁸ I will cast my soul into hell for you—not only my life. You remind me that you are the daughter of the Khan; remember, too, that my grandfather wore, that my uncle wears, the crown of a Shamkhál! But it is not by this dignity, but by my heart, that I feel I am worthy of you; and if there be shame in being happy despite of the malice of mankind and the caprice of fate, that shame will fall on my head and not on yours."

"But you forget my father's vengeance."

"There will come a time when he himself will forget it. When he sees that the thing is done, he will cast aside his inflexibility; his heart is not stone; and even were it stone, tears of repentance will wear it away—our caresses will soften him. Happiness will cover us with her dove's wings, and we shall proudly say, 'We ourselves have caught her!'"

"My beloved, I have lived not long upon earth, but something at my heart tells me that by falsehood we can never catch her. Let us wait: let us see what Allah will give! Perhaps, without this step, our union may be accomplished."

"Seltanetta, Allah has given me this idea: it is his will. Have pity on me, I beseech you. Let us fly, unless you wish that our marriage-hour should strike above my grave! I have pledged my honour to return to Derbénd; and I must keep that pledge, I must keep it soon: but to depart without the hope of seeing you, with the dread of hearing that you are the wife of another—this would be dreadful, this would be insupportable! If not from love, then from pity, share my destiny. Do not rob me of paradise! Do not drive me to madness! You know not whither disappointed passion can carry me. I may forget hospitality and kindred, tear asunder all human ties, trample under my feet all that is holy, mingle my blood with that of those who are dearest to me, force villany to shake with terror when my name is heard, and angels to weep to see my deeds!--Seltanetta, save me from the curse of others, from my own contempt—save me from myself! My noúkers are fearless—my horses like the wind; the night is dark, let us fly to benevolent Russia, till the storm be over. For the last time I implore you. Life and death, my renown and my soul, hang upon your word. Yes or no?"

Torn now by her maiden fear, and her respect for the customs of her forefathers, now by the passion and eloquence of her lover, the innocent Seltanetta wavered, like a light cork, upon the tempestuous billows of contending emotions. At length she arose: with a proud and steady air she wiped away the tears which, glistened on her eyelashes, like the amber-gum on the thorns of the larch-tree, and said, "Ammalát! tempt me not! The flame of love will not dazzle, the smoke of love will not suffocate, my conscience. I shall ever know what is good and what is bad; and I well know how shameful it is, how base, to desert a father's house, to afflict loving and beloved parents! I know all this—and now, measure the price of my sacrifice. I fly with you—I am yours! It is not your tongue which has convinced—it is my own heart which has vanquished me! Allah has destined me to see and love you: let, then, our hearts be united for ever—and indissolubly, though their bond be a crown of thorns! Now all is over! Your destiny is mine!"

If heaven had clasped Ammalát in its infinite wings, and pressed him to the heart of the universe—to the sun—even then his ecstacy would have been less strong than at this divine moment. He poured forth the most incoherent cries and exclamations of gratitude. When the first transports were over, the lovers arranged all the details of their flight. Seltanetta consented to lower herself by her bed-coverings from her chamber, to the steep bank of the Ouzén. Ammalát was to ride out in the evening with his noúkers from Khounzákh, as if on a hawking party; he was to return to the Khan's house by circuitous roads at nightfall, and there receive his fair fellow-traveller in his arms. Then they were to take horses in silence, and then—let enemies keep out of their road!

A kiss sealed the treaty; and the lovers separated with fear and hope in heart.

Ammalát Bek, having prepared his brave noúkers for battle or flight, looked impatiently at the sun, which seemed loth to descend from the warm sky to the chilly glaciers of the Caucasus. Like a bridegroom he pined for night, like an importunate guest he followed with his eyes the luminary of day. How slowly it moved—it crept to its setting! An interminable space seemed to intervene between hope and enjoyment. Unreasonable youth! What is your pledge of success? Who will assure you that your footsteps are not watched—your words not caught in their flight? Perhaps with the sun, which you upbraid, your hope will set.

About the fourth hour after noon, the time of the Mozlem's dinner, the Sultan Akhmet Khan was unusually savage and gloomy. His eyes gleamed suspiciously from under his frowning brows; he fixed them for a long space, now on his daughter, now on his young guest. Sometimes his features assumed a mocking expression, but it again vanished in the blush of anger. His questions were biting, his conversation was interrupted; and all this awakened in the soul of Seltanetta repentance—in the heart of Ammalát apprehension. On the other hand, the Khánsha, as if dreading a separation from her lovely daughter, was so affectionate and anxious, that this unmerited tenderness wrung tears from the gentle-hearted Seltanetta, and her glance, stealthily thrown at Ammalát, was to him a piercing reproach.

Hardly, after dinner, had they concluded the customary ceremony of washing the hands, when the Khan called Ammalát into the spacious court-yard. There caparisoned horses awaited them, and a crowd of noúkers were already in the saddle.

"Let us ride out to try the mettle of my new hawks," said the Khan to Ammalát; "the evening is fine, the heat is diminishing, and we shall yet have time, ere twilight, to shoot a few birds."

With his hawk on his fist, the Khan rode silently by the side of Ammalát. An Avarétz was climbing up to a steep cliff on the left, by means of a spiked pole, fixing it into the crevices, and then, supporting himself on a prong, he lifted himself higher. To his waist was attached a cap containing wheat; a long crossbow hung upon his shoulders. The Khan stopped, pointed him out to Ammalát, and said meaningly, "Look at yonder old man, Ammalát Bek! He seeks, at the risk of his life, a foot of ground on the naked rock, to sow a handful of wheat. With the sweat of his brow he cultivates it, and often pays with his life for the defence of his herd from men and beasts. Poor is his native land; but why does he love this land? Ask him to change it for your fruitful fields, your rich flocks. He will say, 'Here I do what I please; here I bow to no one; these snows, these peaks of ice, defend my liberty.' And this freedom the Russians would take from him: of these Russians you have become the slave, Ammalát."

"Khan, you know that it is not Russian bravery, but Russian generosity, that has vanquished me. Their slave I am not, but their companion."

"A thousand times the worse, the more disgraceful for you. The heir of the Shamkhál pines for a Russian epaulette, and glories in being the dependent of a colonel!"

"Moderate your words, Sultan Akhmet. To Verkhóffsky I owe more than life: the tie of friendship unites us."

"Can there exist a holy tie between us and the Giaour? To injure them, to destroy them, when possible, to deceive them when this cannot be done, is the commandment of the Korán, and the duty of every true believer."

"Khan! let us cease to play with the bones of Mahomet, and to menace others with what we do not believe. You are not a moólla, I am no fakir. I have my own notions of the duty of an honest man."

"Really, Ammalát Bek? It were well, however, if you were to have this oftener in your heart than on your tongue. For the last time, allow me to ask you, will you hearken to the counsels of a friend whom you quitted for the Giaour? Will you remain with us for good?"

"My life I would lay down for the happiness you so generously offer; but I have given my promise to return, and I will keep it."

"Is this decided?"

"Irrevocably so."

"Well then, the sooner the better. I have learned to know you. Me you know of old. Insincerity and flattery between us are in vain. I will not conceal from you, that I always wished to see you my son-in-law. I rejoiced that Seltanetta had pleased you; your captivity put off my plans for a time. Your long absence—the rumours of your conversion—grieved me. At length you appeared among us, and found every thing as before; but you did not bring to us your former heart. I hoped you would fall back into your former course; I was painfully mistaken. It is a pity; but there is nothing to be done. I do not wish to have for my son-in-law a servant of the Russians."

"Akhmet Khan, I once"——

"Let me finish. Your agitated arrival, your ravings at the door of the sick Seltanetta, betrayed to every body your attachment, and our mutual intentions. Through all the mountains, you have been talked of as the affianced bridegroom of my daughter: but now the tie is broken, it is time to destroy the rumours; for the honour of my family—for the tranquillity of my daughter—you must leave us—and immediately. This is absolutely necessary and indispensable. Ammalát, we part friends, but here we will meet only as kinsmen, not otherwise. May Allah turn your heart, and restore you to us as an inseparable friend. Till then, farewell!"

With these words the Khan turned his horse, and rode away at full gallop to his retinue. If on the stupefied Ammalát the thunderbolt of heaven had fallen, he could not have been more astounded than by this unexpected explanation. Already had the dust raised by the horse's hoofs of the retiring Khan been laid at rest; but he still stood immovable on the hill now darkening in the shadow of sunset.