The Kingdom of Georgia: Notes of travel in a land of women, wine, and song

by John Oliver Wardrop

THE GEORGIAN MILITARY ROAD BETWEEN TIFLIS AND VLADIKAVKAZ.

The part which rivers have played in the history of civilization is well illustrated by this road. The Aragva, flowing southward from Gudaur, and the Terek, running northward from it, have formed the highway along which countless crowds of Asiatics have penetrated into Europe. Between the two streams there is a distance of some ten miles, forming a huge but not insurmountable barrier, the virtual removal of which did not take place until our own times. It was General Yermolov who, in 1824, succeeded in making the road practicable for troops of all kinds; but from the poet Puskhin’s “Journey to Erzerum” (1829), we learn that there was still room for improvement. The traveller had to go with a convoy of 500 soldiers and a cannon, he dare not lag behind for fear of the mountaineers, provisions and lodgings were scarce and bad, the roads were impassable for carriages, the rate of speed was sometimes only ten miles a day. When we read Pushkin’s account, and the one given by Lermontov, in “A Hero of Our Times,” we can only ask ourselves, “What was the road like before Yermolov?”

During the wars with Kasi-mullah and Shamil, it became indispensable to effect great improvements, and, at length, about five-and-twenty years ago, under the governorship of Prince Bariatinskii, the road was finished, and is now one of the finest in the world, besides being one of the highest—the Simplon is only 6147 feet above sea-level, while the Dariel road is nearly 2000 feet higher. The total distance from Tiflis to Vladikavkaz is 126 miles, and the distance can be done comfortably in less than twenty hours. During the summer 1150 horses are kept in readiness at the stations, in the winter the number is reduced by about 300. Two stage coaches start from each end every day, but as they run during the night also, much of the beauty of the scenery is lost by those who avail themselves of this mode of conveyance; besides, it is difficult to get an outside seat unless you book it a long time in advance. It is far better to travel by troïka, as you are then free to stop when you like and as long as you like, and you get an uninterrupted view of the country through which you pass.

About the middle of June, having previously obtained a formidable-looking document by which Alexander Alexandrovich, Autocrat of all the Russias, commanded all postmasters to supply me with horses immediately on demand, I set out on my journey over the frosty Caucasus, accompanied by a young Russian friend. The troïka had been ordered for four a.m., but, of course, it did not turn up till half-past five. For the information of those who have never been in Russia, I may say that a troïka is a team of three horses harnessed abreast in a vehicle of unique construction called a teliezhka. The form of the cart is like a longitudinal section of a beer barrel; it is large enough to contain an ordinary travelling trunk; it is of wood, has neither sides nor springs, and there are four wheels; the seat is made by slipping a piece of rope through a couple of rings on either side, and laying your cloak and a pillow on the rope; the driver sits on the front edge of the cart; the whole affair is invariably in the last stage of decay. The shafts are so long that the horses cannot kick the bottom out of the thing, and the horse in the centre has his head swung up in a wooden frame. The driver is always asleep or drunk, or both, but he never lets the reins fall, and at regular intervals mechanically applies the whip to his steeds; he only wakes up when there is a shaky bridge to cross, and, regardless of the notice “Walking pace!”, first crosses himself and commends his soul to the saints, then gallops over the creaking structure at racing speed.

As we clattered down the steep rocky streets which lead to the Boulevard, I had not much time to look round; all my attention was necessary to preserve myself from falling out of the cart, the jolting was terrible. However, by the time we had got to the outskirts of the town the road became much smoother; the driver got down and released the clappers of the bells above the middle horse’s head, and we rattled along merrily to the tune of eight miles an hour. Just outside the city an imposing cruciform monument marks the spot where the late Tsar’s carriage was overturned without injuring his Majesty. Passing the Sakartvelo Gardens, where the good people of Tiflis often dine in vine-covered bowers by the river-side, we cross the Vera, an important tributary of the Kura, and then enter a broad plain which continues for many miles to the westward.

On the other side of the Kura we see Mushtaid; a little farther on is the pretty German colony of Alexandersdorf, with its poplar avenues, neat houses, and modest little white church. All the German colonies in the Caucasus seem to be exactly alike, and they do not in any respect differ from German villages in the fatherland; the colonists altogether ignore the people of the country in which they have settled, and, although they make a comfortable livelihood, their isolated condition and the absence of all European influence must make their lives very narrow and joyless. Some of these colonies were founded in order to set before the native peasantry examples of good agriculture and farm management, but this worthy object has not been attained, and the Teutons are looked upon with feelings generally of indifference, sometimes of positive ill-will. High on the hills behind the colony stands the white monastery of St. Antony, a favourite place for picnics. In the cliffs on the left of our road are numerous holes, variously conjectured to be troglodyte dwellings (like those at Uphlis Tsikhe), rock tombs, places of refuge in time of war, provision stores, &c. Before us we see the road winding up between the hills in a northerly direction, and after crossing the Transcaucasian railway and then the Kura we arrive at the post-house of Mtzkhet, not far from the village of that name.

Mtzkhet, if we are to believe local traditions, is one of the oldest cities on earth, for the story goes that it was founded by a great-grandson of the patriarch Noah. Be that as it may, there are unmistakable signs that a Greek or Roman town existed here at a remote date, and antiquaries generally agree in identifying Mtzkhet with the Acrostopolis of the Romans, the headquarters of Pompey after he had defeated Mithridates and subdued Iberia and Albania. No better spot could have been chosen, for its position at the junction of the Aragva and the Kura commands the two great roads of the country and makes it the key of Transcaucasia. Mtzkhet, the ancient capital of Georgia, was always a place of much importance in the annals of the kingdom; now it is a wretched village of some hundreds of inhabitants. It was here that St. Nina began her work of converting the nation, and we propose to give a brief account of the legends relating to this event.

Tradition says that at the beginning of our era there lived in Mtzkhet a wealthy Jew named Eleazar, who frequently made journeys to Jerusalem on business. On the occasion of one of these visits he became possessed of the tunic of our Lord, which he brought home with him as a present to his daughter. She, expecting a valuable gift, ran out to meet him, and with an angry expression snatched from his hands the precious relic, of which she little knew the worth; she fell dead on the spot, but no force could take the garment from her hands, so it was buried with her, and from her grave there soon grew up a tall cedar, from the bark of which oozed a fragrant myrrh, which healed the sick. Now about three centuries later, that is in the third century of our era, St. Nina was born in Cappadocia. When she was twelve years of age her parents proceeded to Jerusalem, and gave themselves up to religious work, leaving the maiden under the care of a devout old woman, who taught her to read the Scriptures. Nina was very anxious to learn what had become of Christ’s tunic, and said to her teacher, “Tell me, I pray thee, where is that earthly purple of the Son of God now kept?” To which the venerable matron replied that it had been taken to a heathen land called Iveria, far away to the northward, and that it lay buried there in the city of Mtzkhet. One night the Blessed Virgin appeared to the damsel in a dream, and said to her, “Go to the Iverian land, preach the Gospel of the Lord Jesus, and He will reward thee. I will be thy guard and guide,” and with these words she handed to her a cross made of vine branches. When Nina awoke and saw in her hands the wondrous cross she wept for joy, and after reverently kissing the holy gift she bound the two loose sticks together with her own long hair. This cross has always been the palladium of Georgia, and is still preserved in the Sion Cathedral at Tiflis. Now it so happened that at this time seven-and-thirty maidens, fleeing from the persecutions of Diocletian, left Jerusalem to spread the good tidings in Armenia; St. Nina went with them as far as Vashgarabada, and then pursued her journey alone. As she was entering the city of Mtzkhet, the king of Georgia, Marian, with all his people, went out to a hill in the neighbourhood to offer human sacrifices to idols, but in answer to her prayer a mighty storm arose and destroyed the images. She took up her abode in a cell in the king’s garden, and soon became well-known as a healer of the sick. At length the queen fell ill, and St. Nina, having made her whole in the name of Jesus, converted the Georgian court to Christianity, and in 314 A.D. baptized all the people of the city. Over the spot in the royal garden where her cell had been, the king built the Samtavr church, which still exists, and lies to the left of the post-road. It was then revealed to St. Nina that the tunic, the object of her search, lay buried under a cedar in the middle of the town; the tree was cut down and the robe was found in the hands of the dead girl. On the spot where the cedar stood King Marian built, in 328, the Cathedral of the Twelve Apostles; the cedar was replaced by a column, and this column is said to drip myrrh occasionally, even in these degenerate days of ours. The sacred garment was preserved in the cathedral until the seventeenth century, when Shah Abbas sent it as a present to the Tsar of Russia, Mikhail Fedorovich. It was solemnly deposited in the Cathedral of the Assumption at Moscow, where I saw it last autumn.

Having evangelized Kartli, St. Nina proceeded to Kakheti, where she met with the same success, and died at Bodbé, near Signakh; her tomb is in a monastery overlooking one of the finest landscapes in all Kakheti.

The Cathedral of the Twelve Apostles is the chief place of interest in Mtzkhet. The original church was of wood, but in 378 it was replaced by a stone edifice, which stood until the invasion of Tamerlane. The existing church was built in the fifteenth century. A stone wall, with ruined towers, encloses a rectangular piece of ground, in which stands the cathedral, a fine building about seventy paces long by twenty-five paces broad. It is in the Byzantine style, and the interior is divided into three parts by two rows of columns. Here lie buried the last kings of Georgia and their families, the patriarchs of the church, and other illustrious persons.

The post-house at Mtzkhet was a pleasant surprise to me, but I found nearly all the stations on this road equally comfortable; in many of them there are bed-rooms, a dining-room, a ladies’ room, and one can get white bread and European food. Those who have travelled on post-roads in Russia will readily understand my surprise.

Leaving Mtzkhet, our road follows the Aragva along a smooth valley between forest-clad hills; the scenery reminded me very much of some of the dales of Thelemarken in Norway. The soil is rich and well cultivated, and here, as elsewhere, we saw a whole herd of oxen dragging one wooden plough. This valley is one of the most feverish places on the whole road, and the people attribute this to a yellow weed (Carlina arcaulis), of which there is a great abundance; strange to say, other places where the plant flourishes have the same unpleasant reputation for unhealthiness, the explanation is doubtless to be found in the fact that this weed grows best in a damp soil.

Tsilkani is the next station, but there is no village there. While waiting for horses we saw in the yard a camel; there are plenty of these amiable animals in Tiflis, but I did not think they went so far north as the Aragva.

The scenery continues to be of the same character as far as the station of Dushet, some distance from the garrison-town of that name, which lies in rectangular regularity on the hillside, like a relief map; it is a place of some military importance on account of its position at the entrance of the narrow part of the valley, but it is as uninteresting as any Russian provincial town. Near it is a lake, said to cover a Caucasian Sodom; the traveller looks at the lake with more attention than he would bestow upon it if it were in Switzerland, for lakes, like waterfalls, are very rare in the Caucasus. Soon after leaving Dushet we climb a rather steep hill—the wilder part of the road is about to begin. On our left is a huge, antique-looking edifice with towers and battlements, which we feel sure has a romantic history, but we are disappointed to learn that the place is only a modern imitation. At a pretty spot on the river-bank near here I met on my return a party of about fifty prisoners on their way to Siberia; they were, as a rule, honest enough looking fellows, and I could not help feeling pity for them when I remembered how many cases I knew of in which innocent men had been ruined in mind and body, by exile for crimes with which they had no connection. The road crosses a range of green hills, and passing through scenery very like that of Kakheti, descends to the Aragva again at Ananur, the most picturesque village on the whole road, although the surrounding landscape is tame compared with that to the northward.

Ananur lies in a pretty little valley, amid well-wooded hills. At the southern end of the village, perched on a rising ground, is a partly ruined wall with towers and battlements, within which are two churches, one of them still used for divine service, the other a mouldering heap of moss-grown stones. The post-house is at the farther end of the village, and while the horses are being changed we have time to return to the ruins, about a quarter of an hour’s walk; by the roadside are several little shops in which furs of all the wild animals of the country may be bought for a trifle; there is also a small barrack. We now climb up to the citadel, and as we enter we cannot help thinking of some of the scenes of blood which have taken place here, even as late as a century and a half ago, when Giorgi, the Eristav (or headman) of Aragva, defended the castle against the Eristav of Ksan. When the place had been taken and all the garrison slain, Giorgi and his family fled to the old church, thinking that no Christian would violate the right of sanctuary, but the conqueror heaped up brushwood round the building and burnt it down; only one of the ill-fated family escaped alive.

The door by which we are admitted lies on the side farthest removed from the road; it leads us through a square tower into the citadel proper, which occupied a piece of ground about one hundred paces long and forty paces broad; formerly it used to stretch down to the very bank of the river, where a ruined tower may still be seen. On entering we see immediately on the left the ruined house of the Eristav Giorgi; straight in front of us is a well-preserved tower, on the left of which may be seen the ruins of the old church, on the right is the modern church. The old church is, of course, quite ruined; it is only about five-and-twenty paces in length by fifteen paces broad. There still exist fragments of painting and carving which would doubtless prove highly interesting to those who are acquainted with the history of Byzantine art. The building is said to date from the fourth century. There is also a small underground chapel which is fairly well preserved.

ANANUR.

Page 46.

The larger church was built by the Eristav Giorgi in 1704; it is thirty paces long by twenty paces broad, and is an enlarged copy of the older sanctuary; the stone of which it is built is yellowish. It is a very fine specimen of Georgian architecture. Beautifully carved in the stone, on each side of the building, is a gigantic cross of vine branches (the cross of St. Nina). The decorative work is excellent throughout, both in design and workmanship; but the figures of animals, &c., are very poor indeed.

Ananur is connected with the darkest page in the mournful latter-day history of Georgia. The Persians had taken Tiflis in 1795, and reduced it to a smouldering heap of ruins. King Irakli, with a few servants, had escaped almost by a miracle, and had taken refuge in the mountain fastness of Ananur; abandoned by his cowardly, faithless children, betrayed by his most trusted dependents and allies, sick in body and weary in mind, the old man of seventy-seven was a sight sad enough to make angels weep. “In the old, half ruined monastery of Ananur, in an ancient cell which used to stand in the corner of the monks’ orchard, one might have seen a man dressed in a rough sheepskin cloak, sitting with his face turned to the wall. That man, once the thunderbolt of all Transcaucasia, was the king of Georgia, Irakli II. Near him stood an old Armenian servant. ‘Who is that sitting in the corner?’ asked those who passed by. ‘He whom thou seest,’ replied the Armenian, with a sigh, ‘was once a man of might, and his name was honoured throughout Asia. His people never had a better ruler. He strove for their welfare like a father, and for forty years kept his empire together; but old age has weakened him, and has brought everything to ruin. In order to prevent quarrels after his death, he determined to divide his kingdom among his children while he still lived, but his hopes in them were deceived. He who was chief eunuch of Tamas Khuli Khan when Irakli was a leader of the Persian army, now marched against him in his feeble old age. His own children refused to help him and their native land, for there were many of them, and each thought he would be striving, not for himself, but for his brother’s good. The King of Georgia had to ask the help of the King of Imereti, but if thou hadst been in Tiflis thou hadst seen how shamefully the Imeretians behaved. Irakli, with but a handful of men, fought gallantly against a hundred thousand, and lost his throne only because his children pitilessly forsook him, leaving him to be defeated by a wretched gelding. His ancient glory is darkened, his capital in ruins, the weal of his folk is fled. Under yon crumbling wall thou seest the mighty King of Georgia hiding from the gaze of all men, helpless and clothed in a ragged sheepskin! His courtiers, all those who have eaten his bread and been pressed to his bosom, have left him; not one of them has followed his master, excepting only me—a poor, despised Armenian.’”

From Ananur the road rises along the Aragva valley, which is well cultivated, thanks to a fine system of artificial irrigation. On our left, about a couple of versts from the station, we see high up on a hill the ruined castle and church of Sheupoval, where a grandson of the Eristav Giorgi shared the fate of the rest of his family; the place was burnt down with all its inhabitants. As we pass along the road we meet several pleasant-looking wayfarers, all armed with long, wide dagger, and many carrying in addition sword and rifle; this highway is, however, perfectly safe as far as brigands are concerned, the carrying of weapons is merely a custom which means little more than the use of a walking-stick in our country. Several handsome Ossets, as they pass, courteously salute us with the phrase, “May your path be smooth!” a peculiarly appropriate wish in such a region. When we go through a little village, pretty children run out to look at us, but they never beg, indeed I never saw or heard of a Georgian beggar, although there is much poverty among the people.

All along the road, wherever there is a coign of vantage one sees it topped by the ruins of a four-sided tapering tower, standing in the corner of a square enclosure; every foot of ground has its history of bloodshed and bravery, a history now long forgotten, save for the dim traditions of the peasantry.

The stage between Ananur and Pasanaur (21 versts), is the longest on the whole road, and, although it presents no engineering difficulties such as those which were met with farther to the northward, it is, nevertheless, a toilsome journey for the horses, as it rises about 1300 feet. I shall never forget the pleasant emotions I felt on making the night journey from Pasanaur to Ananur; although there was no moon, the stars shone with a brightness that is unknown in northern latitudes, and lighted up the strange, beautiful landscape; the glittering snow-peaks behind, the silvery stream at our side, the green forests and the lonely ruins made up a picture of surpassing loveliness and weirdness. Fort Gudomakarsk is soon visible, and we know that the station is not far off. I may as well say that almost all the so-called forts between Tiflis and Vladikavkaz are insignificant, neglected-looking places, merely small barracks; they formerly served to keep the mountaineers in order, but now there is really very little necessity for maintaining a garrison in them.

Pasanaur (which in old Persian means “Holy Hill”) is situated in a very narrow part of the valley, amid thick woods. The station is a pretty one, and, like that at Ananur, so comfortable that the traveller who has to spend a night there need not be pitied. The only building of interest in the village is a modern church in the Russian style of architecture, which looks as if it had been painted with laundry blue; for ugliness it can compare with any church in Muscovy.

To the eastward of Pasanaur live the Khevsurs, Pshavs and Tushes, peoples probably having a common origin, and speaking a language akin to Georgian. Their number is variously estimated, from twenty to thirty thousand. They live in a very primitive way, and the Khevsurs still clothe themselves in chain armour and helmets; this circumstance, added to the fact that they have long been Christians, has given rise to the supposition that they are descended from a party of Crusaders who lost their way in trying to return to Europe overland, and settled in these valleys. Their country is among the wildest in the whole range, and their villages are perched high up among the rocks, like eagles’ nests. The Khevsurs live chiefly on the scanty products of agriculture; the Pshavs and Tushes are pastoral peoples, in winter they drive their flocks down into Kakheti, and when the snow among the mountains begins to melt they return to their native valleys. All these tribes are wild and brave to the highest degree; from the earliest times they have formed part of the Georgian kingdom, and have distinguished themselves in many a battle against the infidel. The Christianity of this region is not so elaborate as that of Rome or Byzantium, but I suppose it is quite as reasonable as that of the Russian muzhik or the English farm-labourer; they have made a saint of Queen Tamara, and they worship the god of war and several other deities in addition to the God Christ. Irakli II. tried to reform their theology, but they replied, “If we, with our present worship, are firm in our obedience and loyalty to the king, what more does he ask of us?” There are now many Orthodox Greek Churches in the villages, but the people totally ignore their existence.

After leaving Pasanaur the road bends to the westward, leaving on the right a high table-shaped mountain of granite which has for a long time seemed to bar our progress; we still keep close to the Aragva, and the scenery becomes bolder, and the soil more barren; here and there we see high up on the face of the rock a cluster of Osset houses; from the valley they look like small dark holes in the cliffs. Pushkin has described them as “swallows’ nests,” and no happier name could have been chosen.

The Ossets call themselves Ir or Iran, the Tatars and Georgians call them Oss or Ossi. According to official accounts they number over 100,000, about half of them being on each side of the Caucasus. The majority of them profess the Christian religion, but 15,000 are Mahometans, and a considerable number are idolaters. Their traditions say that they came from Asia across the Ural, and used at one time to dwell in the plain to the north of the Caucasus, but were gradually driven into the mountains by stronger peoples. In the reign of Queen Tamara most of them embraced Christianity, and Tamara’s second husband was an Osset; they remained tributary to Georgia until the beginning of the present century, and a traveller who visited Tiflis about a hundred years ago says that Irakli’s bodyguard was composed of Ossets “who never washed.” The Ossets were the first Caucasian people to settle down quietly to Russian rule, and they have never given any serious trouble, if we except their share in the Imeretian rising of 1810. The stories about the Ossets being a Teutonic people are as absurd as the assertion that there are in the Crimea Northmen who speak Dutch. They live in a wretched manner, in houses built of loose stones, without mortar; but their physique is good, and their faces are handsome and engaging.

After another long climb of 1300 feet we reach Mleti. Here, indeed, we have come to the end of the valley—we are at the bottom of a deep well with sides as bare and steep as walls, on the top glitters the everlasting snow. The engineering difficulties which we have hitherto encountered are as nothing compared with those before us. To our right rises a precipice over three thousand feet high, up which the road climbs in a series of zigzags.

Soon after leaving Mleti we saw the sun set behind the silvery peaks to the west, and within half an hour it was dark; our driver was drunk and fast asleep, and we had occasionally to seize the reins in order to keep the horses from going too near the fenceless edge of the abyss. The distance to Gudaur is only fourteen and a half versts, but nearly the whole ascent has to be done at walking pace; slowly we rose up the hillside, gazing silently now up at the glistening chain above us, now down into the gloomy valley behind us, where a fleecy waterfall shone in the starlight; we saw no wayfarers all the time, and no sound came to break the stillness of the summer night.

At last we reached the tableland at the top, and were soon in the station-house of Gudaur, almost 8000 feet above sea-level. Although there were only patches of snow here and there on the ground near us, the air was very cool; only a few days ago we had been simmering in Tiflis in a heat of over 100° Fahr., and now we saw the thermometer down at freezing-point. I knew that as far as comfort went Mleti was a much better place than Gudaur to spend the night at, but I was eager to enjoy the delightful intoxication of the mountain air as soon and as long as possible, and I did enjoy it thoroughly.

After a very rough and hasty supper and a short walk on the edge of the plateau, we entered the common room, and wrapping ourselves up in our burkas, sought out the softest plank on the floor, and were soon sleeping the sleep of innocence. Several travellers arrived during the night, for when we rose at dawn we found the room full. Leaving our companions to snore in peace, we ordered the horses, and were soon on our way to the pass.

On the grassy plain were feeding large flocks of goats and sheep, the latter with strange, large, fatty protuberances on either side of the tail. To the right is a remarkable-looking green hill of pyramidal shape, and beyond it an old castle looks down from an inaccessible crag. The scenery of the pass itself is imposing, but it is seen to better advantage when one comes in the opposite direction, i.e. from Vladikavkaz to Tiflis; in that case one leaves a scene of the wildest desolation for the luxuriant beauty of the Aragva valley and Kartli; on the northward journey it is, of course, the reverse. The road sinks very rapidly to a depth of almost 2000 feet; the long snow-sheds remind us that even at the present day a winter journey over the Cross Mountain is a serious undertaking; traffic is often stopped for several days at a time by avalanches, and in spring the rivers sometimes wash away the bridges and large pieces of the road. At the foot of the mountain we meet the foaming Terek, a river almost as muddy as the Kura, and following its course reach a vast plain, on the east side of which stands Kobi.

Near Kobi station there are two villages; the larger of the two lies under the shadow of a perpendicular rock on the one side, on the other side it is flanked by a rugged crag, on the top of which may be seen the ruins of a church and a castle. By the roadside are curious monumental tablets, painted with hieroglyphs of various kinds, among which the rising sun generally occupies the chief place. All round Kobi there are numerous medicinal springs of all kinds, and the station-house is intended to accommodate a few patients. There may come a day when Kobi will be as fashionable as Kissingen, but in the meantime it is not the sort of place that one would recommend to an invalid.

On the score of originality nothing can be said against the environs of Kobi; when we looked round we could not help thinking of the phrase “riddlings of creation,” which we have heard applied to the Scottish Highlands; it does, indeed, look as if some of the materials left over after the creation of our earth, had been left here in disordered heaps, to give us some idea of chaos. The road now follows the course of the Terek, and the scenery is indescribably grand; straight before us lies snowy Kazbek in all its rugged wildness, here and there are ruined towers, and about the middle of the stage a turn in the road brings us to an aul, or village, of mediæval appearance, by the side of which is a little copse, a rarity in this bleak district. The basaltic rocks present many fantastic shapes and colours to the eye; in several places I saw what looked like huge bundles of rods, reminding me of the Giant’s Causeway. Before reaching the station we were met by children who offered for sale all sorts of crystals, pieces of quartz and other pretty geological specimens.

Kazbek station is a very comfortable inn, where one can dine well, and is to be recommended as a place for a prolonged stay. The mountain, generally called Kazbek, rises from the valley in one almost unbroken mass, reaching a height of 16,550 feet above sea-level; the Georgians call it Mkhinvari (ice mountain), and the Ossets, Christ’s Peak; Kazbek is really the name of the family who own this part of the country, and is wrongly applied to the mountain. This peak, like Ararat, enjoys the reputation of being inaccessible, and our countrymen, Freshfield, Moore, and Tucker, who climbed to the top, without much difficulty, in June, 1868, were not believed when they told the story of their ascent. On the mountain the sportsman can occasionally get a shot at a tur (aurochs, Ægoceros Pallasii); but if he is unwilling to expose himself to the necessary danger and fatigue, he can for a few roubles buy a pair of horns at the station.

Those who invade the realm of the mountain spirit should not fail to visit Devdorak glacier, the easiest way of making the ascent; there they will see a place where the native hunters make sacrifices of tur horns to propitiate the spirit, who might otherwise throw blocks of ice down on their heads.

There is a popular legend to the effect that on the summit of Mkhinvari is the tent of the Patriarch Abraham, within which, in a cradle held up by an unseen hand, lies the child Jesus asleep; outside there grows some wheat of wonderful size, beside the tree of life; round the cradle are heaps of treasures. Under the reign of King Irakli II., a priest and his son started for the summit in order to see these wonders; the boy returned alone, bearing samples of the material of the tent, some big grains of wheat, &c., the soles of his boots were covered with silver coins which had stuck to them—unfortunately it was found that the coins were quite modern!

As is well known, Mkhinvari is generally identified with the story of Prometheus, although the mountain does not correspond with the description given by Æschylus. Early travellers even went so far as to assert that they had seen the very chains with which the hero was bound, and there is a local legend to the effect that a giant still lies there in fetters. When I approached the mountain from Kobi I could not help being reminded of Prometheus. I saw a gigantic black space of irregular form with snow all round it; an imaginative mind found in this irregular tract a considerable resemblance to the human shape.

No traveller should leave Kazbek without making a pilgrimage to the monastery of St. Stephen, which stands on the top of an isolated hill about 2000 feet above the station. At sunset the view is wonderfully beautiful. Tradition says that the monastery was built by three kings, but does not give their names; in any case the building is of considerable antiquity. Service is held in the church three times a year. The interior has been spoiled by that fiend the “restorer.” From the church you look over a wide, uninhabited valley to the giant mountain, and on turning round you see the river Terek, on the banks of which are the station and village; on either hand stretch dark cavernous-looking valleys. Beyond the Terek is the home of the Ingushes, a people who frequently carry off the cattle of their more settled neighbours, and give the small garrison of Kazbek some amusement in hunting them down.

After leaving Kazbek, we see on our right the manor-house of the princely family from which the place takes its name, a family which has produced, and doubtless will yet produce, sons which will be an honour to Georgia; the house is a fine two-storey edifice, and there is a pretty chapel attached to it. In a few minutes we reach the Mad Ravine, so called from a torrent of terrible impetuosity, which has formed one of the most serious obstacles to the construction of the road. We now enter Dariel, the pass from which the road takes its name, one of the grandest spots on earth.

According to philologists, Dariel is derived from an old Persian word meaning gate (cf. Der-bend, Thuer, door, Slav Dver, &c.), and in fact it was here that the ancient geographers placed the site of the famous Caucasian Gates; but surely there is something to be said in favour of the local tradition which connects the place with Darius I. of Persia. As for the gates, it is, of course, impossible to say definitely whether they ever existed or not, at all events there are several points where it would not have been very difficult to construct them.

DARIEL FORT AND RUINS OF TAMARA’S CASTLE.

Page 62.

At the entrance of the ravine, on the left bank of the Terek, stands a high rock, on which may be seen the ruins of a castle, said to have been founded in 150 B.C., but doubtless having a still longer history. This castle is always associated with the name of a certain wicked Queen Tamara, a mythical creation of the popular fancy, and Lermontov has written a very pretty poem based on the legend. It is said that this Tamara (not to be confounded with the good Tamara), was very beautiful, and that she used to invite all the handsome young men who passed that way to come up and live with her, promising them all the delights that heart could wish for; after one night of bliss the unfortunate gentleman was deprived of his head, and was then thrown down into the Terek, which bore away his body. If the legend is not wrong in saying that the river carried away the corpses, the frolicsome monarch must have been comparatively constant during the summer months, or else the pile of wantons would soon have become large enough to frighten all the passion out of intending visitors, for in the month of June, Terek would not float a respectably-sized cat.

By the road-side is Dariel Fort, a romantic-looking place with old-fashioned battlemented towers; a few Kazaks are quartered here, and must find the time hang very heavily on their hands. When you reach this fort it looks as if it were impossible to go beyond it, a mighty wall stretches right across the path; but the road follows the course of the river, indeed it is built in the river-bed, and winds along between awful cliffs whose summits are lost in the clouds, and whose flanks are seldom or never touched by a ray of sunlight. We sometimes hear of places where a handful of men could keep back an army, this is one of them; a touch would send down upon the road some of the heavy, overhanging masses of rock, and effectually close the pass. About fifty years ago an avalanche fell here, from the glacier of Devdorak, and it was two years before the rubbish was all cleared away. When the new road is blocked by snow or carried away by floods, the old road, high up near the snow-line, has to be used.

The scenery of this pass has been described by Pushkin, Lermontov, and many others, but it is one of the few places that do not disappoint the traveller, however much he may have expected. It must not be forgotten that the road through this narrow gorge is the only passable one that crosses the Caucasian range; there are, it is true, one or two other tracks, but they are not practicable for wheeled carriages.

DARIEL.

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In the most gloomy part of the defile the road crosses by a bridge to the left bank of the Terek, and a few versts farther on we emerge into comparatively open ground at Lars. I had, as usual, given my podorozhnaia (road-pass) to a stable-boy, with a request to get the horses ready without delay, and was sitting drinking tea, when I was astonished to hear behind me the long unfamiliar tones of my native language; I was still more surprised when I saw that the speaker was the starosta, or superintendent of the station (the Government inspector, or smatritel, is the real chief). He told me that he had seen from my pass that I was English, and had taken the liberty to come and have a chat with me. He spoke English fluently, and has spent five years in London, has travelled in the United States, and is altogether a very pleasant fellow; he had only been at Lars a year and a half, and during all that time had not seen an Englishman. We parted very good friends, expecting to meet again when I returned from Vladikavkaz.

The village of Lars, north of the post-house, is inhabited, among others, by some of the Tagaur Ossets, descended from Tagaur, an individual who at a remote period was heir to the Armenian throne, and fled to the mountains for fear of his younger brothers. Their royal descent leads them to think themselves superior to the poor folk among whom they dwell, and they are cordially disliked by the latter. Just outside the village is one of the towers which are so common all along the road; it doubtless yielded a handsome revenue to its owner in the good old days when every traveller had to pay a heavy toll for the privilege of passing one of these fortresses.

We still keep close to the Terek, which comes rushing down from Dariel with a fall of one foot in every thirty. Pushkin, comparing the Terek with Imatra, in Finland, unhesitatingly declares the superiority of the former in grandeur. Of course the surrounding scenery in the two cases is quite different, but as far as the rivers themselves are concerned, I must dissent from the poet, for I know no part of the Terek worthy of comparison with the fall of the Wuokses at Imatra, which is the very materialization of the idea of irresistible, pitiless power.

Although the valley is now a little wider than it was a few miles to the south, the scenery still has the same grandeur and sternness until we pass between the rocks that come down close to either bank of the river, and come out into the plain in which stands Fort Djerakhovsk, a rectangular edifice, about 120 feet long, which is fully garrisoned. We are not quite clear of the mountains, however, until we have passed Balta, and have got within five versts of Vladikavkaz. Before us stretches a smooth, green plain as far as the eye can reach; the contrast is most striking; it is as if we had been suddenly transported from Switzerland to Holland.

VLADIKAVKAZ.

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Vladikavkaz, 200 versts from Tiflis, lies at the foot of the Caucasus, at a height of 2368 feet. The best hotel is the Pochtovaya, at the post-station; the Frantsiya is also good. Vladikavkaz means, in Russian, “master of the Caucasus” (cf. Vladivostok, Vladimir, &c.—root vlad is akin to German walt-en, Gewalt); the Cherkesses (Circassians) call it Kapkai, “gate of the mountains.” It has a population of over 30,000 souls, chiefly Russians, Cherkesses, Georgians, Armenians, Persians, besides a strong garrison. A fortress was built here in 1784, but the town never became a trading centre of much importance until the war with Shamil; even now one is astonished to see how little activity them is in a place through which nearly all the overland traffic between Europe and Western Asia passes. Several chimney stalks bear witness to the existence of industry, but the only manufactory of any size is a spirit distillery. The silver work of Vladikavkaz is renowned throughout the whole Caucasus, and is much used for dagger hilts and sheaths, belts, &c.

The city is built on the banks of the Terek, which is here crossed by several bridges; the best quarter is on the right bank, where there are cool, shady gardens by the waterside, and a very respectable-looking boulevard. A few of the streets are fairly well paved, and there are one or two comfortable-looking houses with pleasant grounds; but on the whole the place is not one that anybody would care to settle down in. Were it not for the frequency with which one sees Asiatic costumes, and hears Asiatic tongues, and the fact that the frosty Caucasus may be seen, apparently perpendicular, rising to its loftiest points, it would be easy to imagine oneself in some provincial town not 100 versts from Moscow, instead of being 2000 versts from it.

When you have lounged in the gardens, and on the boulevard, visited the cathedral, which is still in course of construction, the market, the military school, and the old fortress, you have obtained all the diversion that is to be had in Vladikavkaz, unless you are fortunate enough to find the little theatre open, and the best thing to be done is to take the morning train to the Mineral Waters station (186 versts in nine hours) for the town called Five Mountains (Pyatigorsk), about twenty versts from the railway, which for almost a hundred years has enjoyed the reputation of being the most fashionable inland watering-place in the Russian Empire.