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.
A STREET IN SIGNAKH.
Page 80.
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!
GEORGIAN NATIONAL COSTUME.
Page 84.
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.
Our dinner lasted more than two hours, and concluded with some miscellaneous toasts, among which those of England and her Queen were received with the greatest enthusiasm. Then, after tea, the guests amused themselves with music and dancing, and nightfall found us all, young and old, chasing one another about on the hillside in the games of cat-and-mouse and blindman’s buff. It was past midnight before we retired to rest; some of us lay on the low, carpet-covered takhti, or divans, which in Georgia replace beds, while those who preferred it slept out on the green, wrapped up in their cloaks.
It had been arranged that we should start for the Alazana on the following morning at four o’clock, in order to escape the terrible midday heat of the low-lying plains by the river-side; but when we rose we found that a couple of the horses had disappeared, and this delayed us for two or three hours. At length we started, and, waving farewells to all our good friends at Bakurtsikhe, we proceeded down the long slope to the plain. There were six of us, besides a servant, and we were armed to the teeth, after the manner of the country, with daggers, pistols, swords, and rifles—not an unnecessary precaution, for we saw ploughmen with a double-barrelled gun slung over the shoulder, and sword and dagger at the girdle, while a man stood at the end of the furrow ready to give the alarm. These fertile lands are only half tilled. The wild Lesghian marauders come down upon the farms, and steal all that can be carried away, and in the event of a war they would simply burn up the whole country to the very gates of Tiflis.
It was a weary journey down to the river-bank, and we did not reach the ferry until noon. The ferryman lives in a hut a good way from the river, and it was only after firing half a dozen shots in the air that we succeeded in attracting his attention. That half-hour of waiting among the reeds, with the sun right overhead, was the warmest half-hour I ever spent. At length the ferry-boat, a long tree-trunk with the inside burnt out of it, came across the stream, and we took our saddles and bridles and laid them in it. The horses had, of course, to swim, and it was a long and difficult task to get them all over. The current is very strong, and it was a subject for congratulation that none of them were carried away by it. Excepting at the ferry, the banks are so steep that it is impossible to land. When all had safely reached the other side we lay down under the shade of the trees, and lunched off cucumbers and coarse bread, washed down by the white Kakhetian wine, of which we carried a full sheepskin.
The hottest part of our day’s work was over; instead of burnt, shadowless plains we should now have the sunless forest to ride through until we reached our halting-place for the night. But we well knew that we should not be in clover for the rest of the day, for we had often been told that this wood was infested by a horse-fly of a very malignant character, and as we rode along the northward path we had an opportunity of making the acquaintance of the insect in question. Within a mile of the bank we were surrounded by swarms of them, and the horses, becoming more and more restless, at last went perfectly mad with pain, while the blood dripped plentifully from their flanks. To think of holding them in by bit and bridle was out of the question, the only thing to be done was to let them gallop ahead and to keep a sharp look-out for the many boughs that overhung the scarcely perceptible track. Although Georgia is not in the tropics, this was a truly tropical forest with all its luxuriant and beautiful vegetation; walnut and other fancy woods abound, but they are allowed to fall and rot unutilized; the undergrowth on either hand is so thick as to be impenetrable; on all sides are masses of strange, bright flowers, making the air heavy with perfume, and birds of dazzling plumage sit chattering on every tree.
About an hour before sunset we reached the river Kabalo, a swift, shallow mountain stream, which we forded, and then rode up a fine glade to the encampment of my friends’ Tatar herdsmen. About a score of families live there all the summer in large tents, which are not altogether devoid of comfort; in the interior may be seen carpeted divans, gold and silver ornaments are not uncommon, and the copper household utensils are thoroughly artistic in shape and beautifully engraved. We dismounted at the chief man’s tent, and, lying down on the greensward, waited impatiently for dinner. The fare was abundant and good, as was to be expected in a country so rich in game and fish, and we slaked our thirst with cool kumiss (fermented mare’s milk). The Tatars are fine, bold-looking fellows; there is in their faces a look of wild freedom that is extremely attractive to one who has spent the most of his life in cities. I believe that if I had stayed a week or two in that camp on the Kabalo, I should have been content to renounce civilized life altogether. A very houri, a gazelle of the wilderness, a sixteen-year old maiden in red tunic and wide trousers, with long dark hair in countless tiny braids and pretty little white bare feet and ankles, cast timid glances in our direction, and lovely, languorous eyes said as plainly as possible, “Fly to the desert! fly with me” ... and many other things which the curious reader may find recorded in the works of the late Mr. Thos. Moore.
At nightfall we rode away, accompanied by a few Tatars, to visit the large herds of horses and cattle which feed near here, and then proceeded to the little cluster of cottages where the Georgian farm-labourers live, about a couple of miles higher up the river. We were received by the steward, a Greek from Cilicia, and after chatting merrily over our tea for a few hours, we spread our burkas on the ground and slept as well as the clouds of fierce mosquitoes would allow us to do, under the starlit sky, lulled by the music of the stream.
About an hour before dawn the cold aroused us all, and after a bath in the icy waters of the Kabalo, and a hasty breakfast, we visited the farm-buildings. Tobacco is the chief commodity produced, but its cultivation is at present rather unprofitable; I saw three hundred bales of the finest leaves of last year’s growth lying in the store unsold; it is quite equal to Turkish, and can be bought at a ridiculously low price, but it is not yet known in Europe, even in Russia “Batumskii tabak” has only recently been introduced, although it is far superior to that which is grown on the Don. Georgian landowners cannot afford to push the sale of their wares in Europe, but I am sure that if English firms would send out buyers they would not regret it, unless they dealt with the wily Armenian middle-man instead of the Georgian producer. The fear of the Lesghian robber-bands prevents any great outlay of capital in the development of such a district, and, indeed, nobody in Georgia has much capital to spare, so the greater part of the estate I am speaking of, hundreds of square miles in extent, is a pathless forest.
By eight o’clock we were in the saddle. The path rises through thick woodlands to the summit of a hill crossed by a narrow, rocky pass which has an unpleasant reputation as being the haunt of brigands; only a few weeks before, a party of travellers had been attacked there, two of their number were wounded, and they were all relieved of their purses, jewellery, and arms. We were within half a mile of the top when we perceived a Lesghian prowling about a little in advance of us. We halted, unslung our fire-arms and loaded, then extending for attack, as far as the nature of of the country would allow, we went forward at a quick walking pace. We soon caught sight of three more Lesghians, but this was evidently the whole force, for they contented themselves with looking at us from a distance, and seeing that the odds were in our favour, they galloped away into the depths of the forest, and left us to pursue our journey unmolested.
Climbing to the summit of the hill, we enjoyed a splendid view of the Alazana valley from the opposite side to that whence we had been accustomed to see it; behind us rose the white peaks of the Caucasus, looking very near in the clear morning air. A little way off the blue smoke rising from among the trees showed us where our friends, the highwaymen, were cooking their breakfast. To the eastward, almost at the foot of the hill, lay the Russian military colony of Mikhailovka, to which we descended.
Mikhailovka is fairly prosperous compared with other Russian colonies in Transcaucasia, but to a European it does not seem an Arcadia; it is one wide, straggling street of poor, dirty-looking farmhouses. The colonists have to struggle with fever and ague, not to speak of Lesghians, and altogether do not seem to enjoy their life very much. Mikhailovka is the point at which the military road from Signakh turns to the eastward, and about five miles farther on arrives at Lagodekh, the staff head-quarters of an army corps, into which we rode about an hour before noon.
Lagodekh is a place of some size, with wide, clean streets and large grassy squares, planted with fine trees, the houses are neat and comfortable-looking. Swift mountain streams run through it and supply delicious water. The public buildings comprise barracks, hospital, stores, a fine church of red sandstone, a modest club-house, bazar, &c. We made our way to the quarters of an officer of the 39th, whose hospitality we enjoyed until evening. In spite of the terrible heat, our host showed us everything worth seeing. The park is the great attraction, it is beautifully kept, and contains a fine long avenue of tall poplars; in the middle of it is a pavilion with the garrison ball-room, and near the entrance may be seen a small cemetery where there is a real, old-fashioned ghost, which, under the semblance of a white lady carrying a cross, affrights the local Tommy Atkins every year in the month of June. I commend this sprite to the attention of the Psychical Research Society, and I am quite willing to proceed to Lagodekh and spend a month there in investigating the matter—at the Society’s expense.
The troops suffer a good deal in the summer months, and there are many casualties from apoplexy, dysentery, and other complaints.
Early in the afternoon we sat down to dinner, and did full justice to the fare. My neighbour on the right was the brother of a charming lady whom I had met in Tiflis, and it so happened that he had that very day received from her a letter in which I was spoken of, for Englishmen are rare birds in these lands. This gentleman had wandering proclivities almost as strong as my own, and he informed me that he thought of travelling overland by Merv to India, “where the English pay private soldiers as much as the Russians pay a captain.” After dinner we all slept for an hour, and then, the heat having slightly diminished, we started for Mikhailovka. A bear hunt was to take place on the following day, and we were urgently pressed to stay and take part in it, but we had to be back in Signakh within the next twenty-four hours, and were therefore obliged to deny ourselves this pleasure.
Before we were clear of Lagodekh somebody had the unfortunate idea of starting a wild gallop, but the spot was badly chosen, for a sudden turn in the road brought us to a river with a wide, stony bed. The leading horse threw his rider into the very middle of the stream, I was deposited on a heap of big stones on the other side; all the rest, warned by our mishap, escaped. It took over an hour to catch the runaway horses, and when we reached Mikhailovka I felt as if I had passed through a thrashing-mill, every bone was aching. Our camping-ground was under a large oak-tree, behind a peasant’s house, and we lay there on the ground, a prey to the mosquitoes, until early morning.
At half-past four we were in the saddle, and after a stirrup-cup of Russian vodka, galloped down the smooth, well-kept military road towards the Alazana, occasionally glancing back at the beautiful hill country behind us. I felt all my many bruises with double force after the night’s rest, and it was as much as I could do to keep my seat, not to speak of emulating the exploits of my companions, who were amusing themselves with shots at the hares and feathered game with which the country abounds. At length, at about eight o’clock, we reached the Chiauri Bridge, a shaky-looking wooden structure. There is a wretched little wine-shop, where we dismounted for breakfast. A fine fish of fifteen pounds’ weight, with some of the coarse, indiarubber-like bread of the country, formed the solid part of the meal; I need not say what the liquid part of it was; we emptied our sheepskin and then fell back on mine host’s supplies. The river, in summer at least, is sluggish and dirty, and has an evil smell of decaying vegetable matter, very suggestive of malarial fever; if our acquaintance with the Alazana had been confined to this portion of it, we should have been at a loss to understand the high praise which has been bestowed on it by all the sweet singers of Rustaveli’s land.
We spent a couple of hours in rest and refreshment, and then started for home across the broad plain yellow with ripe grain. Noon saw us begin the toilsome ascent of the hills of Signakh, and an hour later we were lying on our balcony dreamily smoking cigarettes of Kartuban tobacco, while we mentally retraced every step of our delightful journey among the fair scenes which now lay spread at our feet.