Part 5

A few days after my return from Vladikavkaz, I made preparations for leaving Tiflis. It was near the end of June, and the unbearable heat had driven away nearly all those who were free to go; all the highways leading out of the city were crowded with carts and carriages of every description, carrying household goods and passengers. My friends had contracted with some Molokans (Russian heretics), belonging to the colony of Azamburi, for the removal of their furniture to Signakh; the carriers had promised to come to our house at four o'clock in the morning, but it was nine o'clock before they put in an appearance, and then their carts were half full of other people's goods, a direct violation of the agreement. If any man ever needed the patience which is proverbially ascribed to the patriarch Job, it is the man who has business dealings with the Muscovite muzhik. You may assail him with all the abuse which your knowledge of his language will permit, you may strike him, you may calmly endeavour to persuade him with the most lucid logic--it is all to no purpose; taking off his cap to scratch his head, he looks at you with an assumption of childlike simplicity, and replies with a proverb more remarkable for its laconism than for its applicability to the matter under discussion. In this case we wrangled for a long time, and then, being unwilling to risk a stroke of apoplexy by getting into a rage, appealed to the majesty of the law, represented by a stalwart policeman, at whose command the carts were emptied forthwith, the contents being deposited on the roadside, and our effects were soon put in their place, and the whole caravan rattled down the hillside about two hours before noon. An hour later a four-horse carriage with springs arrived, and the four of us, my Georgian host, a Russian lady and gentleman, and myself, set out for Kakheti.

After descending through the narrow streets which lie between the Erivan square and the river, we crossed the busy bridge, and mounted the steep bank on the other side, passing through the liveliest part of the Persian quarter. By the time we had got clear of the suburb called the Dogs' Village, with its camels and caravanserais, we had overtaken the waggons; exchanging friendly salutations with our volunteer baggage-guard, we were soon rolling along the smooth, dusty road in the direction of Orkhevi. On our right, down by the side of the Kura, lay Naftluk, with its beautiful vineyards and orchards, and beyond it the road to Akstafa and Erivan; on the distant southern horizon were the blue mountains of Armenia. On our left hand rose a range of bare-looking hills of no great height.

The region through which the Kakhetian road passes is a flat, waterless, almost uninhabited steppe; the winds which sometimes sweep across it are so violent that it is the custom to seek shelter from them by building the houses in the ground, with the roof on a level with the road. Twenty years ago the "Society for the Re-establishment of Orthodox Christianity in the Caucasus" obtained from the late Tsar a large concession of land near Kara Yazi, and spent 370,000 roubles on the construction of a canal for irrigation (Mariinskii Kanal); the scheme was never completely carried out, and the results obtained have not hitherto been such as to encourage the society, although a few Nestorians, Assyrian Christians, have been induced to settle in this unhealthy land. There are still unmistakable signs of the fact that in ancient times all this steppe was watered from the Kura by an elaborate system of irrigation, which must have made the country very fertile; now the whole tract is an almost unbroken wilderness, where the antelope wanders, unharmed by any hunter.

At Orkhevi there is nothing but the station-house, and those whose only experience of posting has been derived from the military road between Tiflis and Vladikavkaz, are likely to be unpleasantly surprised at the primitive appearance of this traveller's rest. A bare, dirty room, with two wooden benches and a table, the walls tastefully decorated with official notices, among which the most prominent is one in four languages warning farmers against the phylloxera, thereon portrayed in all the various phases of its development. Such is my remembrance of Orkhevi. The only refreshment obtainable is a samovar (tea-urn) of boiling water, from which you can make your own tea if you have the necessary ingredients with you. A former journey along this road had already made me familiar with all the little discomforts and privations which must be undergone by the visitor to Kakheti, so I was not disappointed. None of the stations are any better all the way to Signakh, and he who does not bring with him his own food for the journey is likely to have a very good appetite by the time he reaches his destination.

The sun had now reached the meridian, and beat down upon us with terrible force, for our carriage was an open one; we were half-choked with the dust, a thick white layer of which covered us from head to foot; on either side lay bare, brown fields, baked hard as stone, and deeply fissured; no water anywhere; the only thing which broke the monotony of the scene was the occasional passage of a train of arbas, laden with huge, bloated-looking ox-skins, full of wine. The arba is the national vehicle of Georgia, and is said to have been used as a chariot by the ancient kings; it is constructed entirely of wood; there is not so much as a nail or pin of metal in it; the wheels are generally made of one piece of timber, and for this reason the arba is allowed to travel on the highways without paying the tolls which are imposed on carts with tires; a pair of oxen draw the cart, and the creaking of it may be heard afar off. Parched with thirst, and almost stifled with dust, we were glad to reach Vaziani, where we spread our cloaks under an oak-tree by the side of a spring, and proceeded to make a good lunch, after which we slept for a while.

In the afternoon we left Vaziani, and soon passed through the prosperous German colony of Marienfeld, with its neat, homely cottages, shaded by fine poplar-trees. The vicinity of the river Iora makes this a very fertile spot, cool and inviting even in the middle of summer. A little before reaching Marienfeld we saw, on the left, the road to Telav, and the Kakhetian hills now seem to slope down very quickly to meet our road, but we know that we shall have to travel many a weary verst before we reach them. In the evening, at about six o'clock, we arrived at Azamburi, a Russian village not far from the station of Sartachali. It had been agreed that we should spend the night here, so we alighted at the postoyalii dvor, or inn.

Azamburi is exactly like any other Russian village, a long, dirty, double row of wretched hovels. Each farmer has his house and buildings arranged round a square courtyard, in the midst of which lie carts, pigs, agricultural produce, and filth of all kinds. The inhabitants are Molokans; some account of the religious opinions of these people will be found in Mr. D. M. Wallace's well-known work on Russia; they have no priests nor sacraments, neither smoke nor drink, do not swear, and pay great reverence to the Bible, a copy of which may be seen on a shelf in the living-room of every house. They are not at all attractive, either in physiognomy or conversation; their awful stupidity and ugliness are all the more powerfully felt from the contrast which the native population presents to them. Their choice of a piece of ground for colonization would be inexplicable did we not remember their peculiar religious convictions; they have chosen the very worst place in the whole plain; the only drinking water in the neighbourhood is very bad, so bad that the tea made from it is almost undrinkable, even by people accustomed to Kura water. Quite near the village are stinking, stagnant marshes, which must make the place terribly unhealthy.

After dinner we went outside to smoke, for the Molokan will not suffer the mildest cigarette in his house, and even in the depth of winter the visitor who smokes must burn his weed in the open air. Returning along the road for some little distance, followed by a crowd of children, who, evidently, had never before seen a lady in European dress, we mounted a little hill, whence we saw in the distance our baggage-waggons slowly approaching. In re-entering the village we overtook a farmer with an English reaping-machine; this man was less taciturn than his neighbours, and of his own accord entered into conversation with us; he was loud in his praises of the reaper, and said that the man who invented a certain part of it (a patent screw, I think) ought to be "kissed behind the ear." We tried to interest him in a pet idea of our own, viz., that village communities should buy machinery collectively, but we regret to say that we could not make a convert of him.

It was nine o'clock before our young friend, Prince Giorgi, arrived with the goods under his charge; and while we were at supper much merriment was caused by his vain endeavours to check himself in the use of the word chort (the devil!), a pet expression of his, but strictly forbidden in the houses of all good Molokans. The night being fine, although the air was cool, we made up our minds to sleep outside rather than risk the onslaughts of the Molokan fleas, and we chose for our bivouac a thrashing-floor about a hundred yards from the house; here we lay down, wrapped in our burkas, and smoked and chatted until we fell asleep. But we were not to have a quiet night; we were roused by the attack of some ferocious dogs; we beat them off several times, but the numbers ever increased, until all the canine population of Azamburi was howling round us.

We were on foot at three o'clock, and, waking up the drivers, got the horses harnessed and started for Kakabeti. In the early morning air flitted beautiful birds with wings as brilliant as those of butterflies, and butterflies as big as birds. It was not so terribly hot as I had found it some weeks before, when I passed through Kakabeti in the afternoon, but it was still close enough to make us long for a breath of the mountain air. This region is swampy, and the fevers make it uninhabitable.

Kakabeti offers nothing of interest. The same wearisome plain stretches all the way to Kajereti, near which is the hospitable abode of one of the Andronikov family. We spent four hours there, and did not leave the station until an hour after noon. Passing the inviting-looking post-road to Bakurtsikhe, on our left, we kept to the plain for a while; then rapidly rising to the village of Nukriani, Signakh came into view at the top of the hill, and the lovely woodlands at our feet seemed all the more beautiful on account of the bare, monotonous character of the parched plain where we had spent the last two days. Descending by a zigzag road, we entered the town, and, passing along the main street, through the market-place, soon reached the very edge of the steep, high hill which rises from the Alazana valley.

SIGNAKH.

Our new home turned out to be a very delightful place,--large, lofty rooms, two balconies; at the back, vineyards and gardens stretching far down the hillside. The view was more beautiful than any I had ever seen or imagined. The house was built on the edge of a deep, narrow ravine, the steep sides of which were covered with vines and mulberry-trees all the way down to the Alazana valley, a smooth, fertile plain thirty miles broad. On the opposite side of the ravine, to the left, stood a very extensive fortification with ruined towers, a stronghold of some importance during the war with Shamil; behind this could be seen the Armenian church and the outskirts of the town. Straight in front lay the grand Caucasian mountains, rising like a wait from the plain, their glittering snow-clad tops dividing the dark forests on their flanks from the deep blue of the summer sky. In the midst of the plain flowed the silvery Alazana, in its winding course dividing the cultivated land on this side from the virgin forest beyond. Along the nearer edge lay scattered hamlets with their neat little white churches; farther off might be seen a wood, which we always thought of as that of the Sleeping Beauty. From the heights of Signakh it does not look large, but it is six miles in diameter, and the underwood is so thick that it can only be penetrated by cutting a path with axes; it is full of all sorts of wild beasts and dangerous reptiles. In the distance on the left may be seen the mountains on which Telav is situated; to the extreme right a few huts on the river bank indicate the position of the Alazana bridge, and beyond this begins the long sandy steppe which stretches in unbroken barrenness to the Caspian.

Signakh is 100 versts to the eastward of Tiflis, and stands about 1000 feet above the plain of the Alazana. The population is over 10,000, the majority being Armenian shop-keepers, usurers, &c. The name signifies "city of refuge," and the place was founded and fortified in the last century, in order to serve as a retreat for the country people in times of Lesghian raids. The fortress consists of a very large piece of ground enclosed by high walls, with towers at regular intervals, and the whole city used to be within these walls. The post-road to Bakurtsikhe runs through the stronghold, and about sunset all the wealth and beauty of Signakh may be seen promenading on the highway, for this is "the boulevard;" on Sunday afternoon wrestling goes on merrily to the sound of the pipe and drum. At present the military importance of Signakh is almost at an end, but if Russia should ever find herself involved in a great war we might probably hear something of the doings of the Lesghians in that region. The garrison is very small.

The Club is the centre of all the social life of Signakh, and on Saturday evenings there are informal dances, to which the stranger looks forward as a welcome break in the monotony of provincial life. The Gostinnitsa "Nadezhda" (Hope Inn), which we nicknamed "Grand Hôtel de Kakhétie," is dirty and uninviting to a degree which Europeans could hardly imagine possible; but it is the best hostelry in the town. The Court-house is just opposite the inn, and I remember spending a very interesting evening there on one occasion, watching the trial of Georgians, Tatars, Armenians, by a Russian justice of the peace in a gorgeous uniform. The cases were settled with a rapidity to which the High Court of Chancery is a stranger.

Altogether, Signakh is a dirty but highly picturesque little town; its streets are narrow, crooked, and ill-paved, the shops, as is usual in the East, are small, open rooms, in which saddlers, tailors, and smiths may be seen plying their respective trades; all round about the town are beautiful hills covered with oak, walnut, and other tall forest-trees. The only other place it reminded me of was Amalfi, and even in this case the resemblance was but slight.

On one of the neighbouring hills, at Bodbé, is the Monastery of St. Nina. This venerable relic stands in one of the finest pieces of scenery in all Kakheti, and is surrounded by a thick forest, which has from the earliest times been protected from destruction by a popular tradition, declaring that he who breaks off a branch therein will die within the same year. The monastery was originally built by King Mirian immediately after the death of the apostle of Georgia, and her tomb may still be seen in the present church, which, according to an inscription on one of the walls, was restored by a certain King Giorgi, after the country had been laid waste by Tamerlan. In the sacristy are many old manuscripts, amongst which there are doubtless some of great historical interest, but, as far as I know, they have not yet been catalogued. On the occasion of my visit to Bodbé I passed a wine-shop, where three or four Georgians were making merry; they pressed me to stay and drink with them, but, offering them my thanks, I begged to be excused on the ground of want of time. On my return they came out, hat in hand, to the middle of the road, and presented me with a goblet, which I could not refuse to drain without giving serious displeasure to my kind entertainers. This little incident is a very good illustration of the Georgian character: when the Georgian is merry, everybody else must share his jollity or he is unhappy. I have seen a squire quite unnecessarily leave a scene of revelry for a minute or two in order to heap up food in his horse's manger, so that the faithful beast might share in the universal joy.

A TRIP ACROSS THE ALAZANA.

BAKURTSIKHE--KARTUBAN--LAGODEKH.

By daily excursions among the sloping vine-clad hills I soon made myself familiar with Kakheti, the garden of Georgia; at Kodalo I had shared the munificent hospitality of the Andronikovs, at Bakurtsikhe that of the Vachnadzes; but I had never been in the wild country beyond the Alazana, and it was with pleasure that I accepted the invitation of the Princes Vachnadze to accompany them on their yearly visit to their estates at Kartuban, on the River Kabalo, at the foot of the mountains on the other side of the plain.

Accordingly, on a certain bright summer morning our cavalcade might have been seen winding down the steep main street of Signakh. The first halting-place was to be Bakurtsikhe, seventeen versts from Signakh, where we had been invited to meet a large company of Kakhetian squires and ladies at dinner. Our path, for some miles after leaving the town, lay in the dry bed of a torrent. The remembrance of the wild, beautiful scenery of that narrow gorge still fills me with delightful emotions. It was the scene of so many pleasant rides--in the fierce heat of the noonday sun, in the cool of evening, after midnight on stormy nights, when we had returned homewards drenched with rain, our path illumined only by dazzling flashes of lightning. As we picked our way among the stones we met many a courteous gentleman, most of them clad in the same Circassian garb as ourselves, but not a few, especially the older men, in the true national garb--a short tunic, with long flaps of cloth hanging from the shoulders; a dress said to resemble the ancient Polish costume. Each raised his tall papakh of Astrakhan fur, and, with graceful bow, saluted us, after the manner of the country, with the word Gamardjwéba, which is, being interpreted, "I wish thee the victory," to which we answered Gaguimardjos--"May God grant thee the victory." These salutations are as eloquent as a dozen volumes of history. I never heard them without thinking of the sad but glorious past of the Georgian kingdom, nobly holding its own, unaided, and witnessing for Christ and His Cross against all the hosts of Islam, performing prodigies of valour that would have added to the fame of Greece or Rome. God grant thee the victory, brave Georgia!

Emerging from the glen, we joined the post road at Anaga, and our impatient horses set off at a gallop. On we sped through the well-kept vineyards of a Russian capitalist, Count Sheremetiev, who threatens to ruin all the poor squires of the district by selling his wines under cost price. At a little village, about half-way between Signakh and Bakurtsikhe, two of us had far outstripped the rest, and were racing neck to neck when my companion's horse cast a shoe; so leaving him at a roadside smithy, I went on alone. The fierce summer sun stood high in the blue arch of heaven; on my left were vine-clad crags; to the right, beyond the river, rose the white peaks of the mountain wall between me and Europe. But I thought not of Europe. I forgot kindred, country, humanity--everything. My horse and I were one, and we were merged in that great, living ocean of life--our mother earth. My pulse beat in harmony with the heart of Nature herself, keeping time with the rippling rills, the whisper of the wandering airs to the leaves of the trembling trees. I had entered a blissful Nirvana, in which all consciousness of self was swallowed up in the world's soul.

I had ridden half a mile beyond the point whence I should have ascended by a bridle-path to our host's house, before the cool shade of a cliff aroused me from my state of forgetfulness. It was on the summit of this cliff that my friends had recently met their tenants to discuss some little differences that had arisen between them. Honest folk do not like law-courts--especially Russian law-courts--so the good Kakhetians decided to settle their dispute in the old-fashioned, orthodox manner. A couple of horses were killed, and a good many men on either side were pretty severely hacked and bruised; but the landlords came off victorious. They, nevertheless, agreed to grant certain concessions to the farmers, so all left the field of battle delighted with one another. It is only just to say that this case was an exceptional one. The relations between the gentry and peasantry are excellent; they are on terms of such affectionate familiarity that the latter always address their prince by his pet name.

Soon after noon we were all enjoying the hospitality of our friend. When I say hospitality, I am not using the word in its conventional sense; a Georgian displays towards his guest such courtesy and kindness as are unknown among European peoples. Other friends soon arrived, and at three o'clock, the usual dinner-hour, a score of us sat down to dine in a shady arbour on the hillside. The dishes were purely Oriental; rich pilavi (rice cooked with fruits, pistachio nuts, &c.), shishlik (a choice cut of mutton roasted on a silver skewer over a yard long, on which it is served up), and many another delicacy, the thought of which makes my mouth water even now. The wine deserves special mention. Kakheti has one of the finest soils in the world for grape-growing, and any kind of wine, including fine champagne, can be produced there. Unfortunately, the people in general have not yet become acquainted with the methods by which wine has to be "manipulated" in order to make it at once agreeable to a European palate. Some of the best brands are not, however, open to this objection, and are largely sold in Petersburg and Moscow, but they are not so well known as they deserve to be. Merchants discourage the introduction of new wines, as our Australian and South African fellow-subjects know to their cost; but the day will undoubtedly come when Caucasian vintages will be known and appreciated.

The drinking habits of the Georgians are interesting. A toastmaster (tolumbash) is always chosen, and it is his duty to propose the health of each guest in turn. To those who do not drain their glasses before the time for the next toast has arrived, the tolumbash cries Alaverdi! to which the laggard replies, Yakhsheol, and immediately finishes the draught, in order to escape the penalty of swallowing a large hornful of liquor at a breath. These words are of Tatar origin, and commemorate a brave Tatar named Alaverdi, who fell in a battle between the Georgians and Persians. The glasses contain a quarter of a pint, and the stranger who sits down with a score of friends is somewhat apprehensive as to the condition in which he will leave the table. Luckily, the wine is nothing but pure grape-juice, and a person with a tolerably strong head can dispose of two or three quarts of it without feeling much the worse. Each toast is accompanied by the singing of a grand old song called Mraval djamier ghmerthma inebos (May God grant thee many years), to which the person thus honoured must sing the reply, Madlobeli vart (I thank you). I have transcribed the song in the Appendix. The ladies drink water scarcely coloured with wine.