The other day, the general, who was about to depart on another campaign on the Line, came to take leave of us, and thus there was a larger company than usual to meet our adored commander. Alexéi Petróvitch came from his tent, to join us at tea. Who is not acquainted with his face, from the portraits? But they cannot be said to know Yermóloff at all, who judge of him only by a lifeless image. Never was there a face gifted with such nobility of expression as his! Gazing on those features, chiselled in the noble outline of the antique, you are involuntarily carried back to the times of Roman grandeur. The poet was in the right, when he said of him:—
"On the Koubán—fly, Tartar fleet!
The avenger's falchion gleameth;
His breath—the grapeshot's iron sleet,
His voice—the thunder seemeth!
Around his forehead stern and pale
The fates of war are playing….
He looks—and victory doth quail,
That gesture proud obeying!"
You should witness his coolness in the hour of battle—you should admire him at a conference: at one time overwhelming the Teberkéss with the flowing orientalisms of the Asiatic, at another embarrassing their artifices with a single remark. In vain do they conceal their thoughts in the most secret folds of their hearts; his eye follows them, disentangles and unrolls them like worms, and guesses twenty years beforehand their deeds and their intentions. Then, again, to see him talking frankly and like a friend with his brave soldiers, or passing with dignity round the circle of the tchinóbniks [28] sent from the capital into Georgia. It is curious to observe how all those whose conscience is not pure, tremble, blush, turn pale, when he fixes on them his slow and penetrating glance; you seem to see the roubles of past bribes gliding before the eyes of the guilty man, and his villanies come rushing on his memory. You see the pictures of arrest, trial, judgment, sentence, and punishment, his imagination paints, anticipating the future. No man knows so well how to distinguish merit by a single glance, a single smile—to reward gallantry with a word, coming from, and going to, the heart. God grant us many years to serve with such a commander!
[Footnote 28: Literally, a person possessing rank, used here to signify an employé of Government in a civil capacity—all of whom possess some definite precedence or class (tchin) in the state. ]
But if it be thus interesting to observe him on duty, how delightful to associate with him in society—a society to which every one distinguished for rank, bravery, or intellect, has free access: here rank is forgotten, formality is banished; every one talks and acts as he pleases, simply because those only who think and act as they ought, form the society. Alexéi Petróvitch jokes with all like a comrade, and at the same time teaches like a father. As usual, during tea, one of his adjutants read aloud; it was the account of Napoleon's Campaign in Italy—that poem of the Art of War, as the commander-in-chief called it. The company, of course, expressed their wonder, their admiration, their different opinions and criticisms. The remarks of Alexéi Petróvitch were lucid, and of admirable truth.
Then began our gymnastic sports, leaping, running, leaping over the fire, and trials of strength of various kinds. The evening and the view were both magnificent: the camp was pitched on the side of Tarki; over it hangs the fortress of Boúrnaya, behind which the sun was sinking. Sheltered by a cliff was the house of the Shamkhál, then the town on a steep declivity, surrounded by the camp, and to the east the immeasurable steppe of the Caspian sea. Tartar Beks, Circassian Princes, Kazáks from the various rivers of gigantic Russia, hostages from different mountains, mingled with the officers. Uniforms, tchoukhás, coats of chain-mail, were picturesquely mingled; singing and music rang through the camp, and the soldiers, with their caps jauntily cocked on one side, were walking in crowds at a distance. The scene was delightful; it charmed by its picturesque variety and the force and freshness of military life. Captain Bekóvitch was boasting that he could strike off the head of a buffalo with one blow of a kinjál; [29] and two of those clumsy animals were immediately brought.
[Footnote 29: It is absurd to observe the incredulity of Europeans as to the possibility of cutting off a head with the kinjál: it is necessary to live only one week in the East to be quite convinced of the possibility of the feat. In a practiced hand the kinjál is a substitute for the hatchet, the bayonet, and the sabre.]
Bets were laid; all were disputing and doubting. The Captain, with a smile, seized with his left hand a huge dagger, and in an instant an immense head fell at the feet of the astonished spectators, whose surprise was instantly succeeded by a desire to do the same: they hacked and hewed, but all in vain. Many of the strongest men among the Russians and Asiatics made unsuccessful attempts to perform the feat, but to do this strength alone was not sufficient. "You are children—children!" cried the commander-in-chief: and he rose from table, calling for his sword—a blade which never struck twice, as he told us. An immense heavy sabre was brought him, and Alexéi Petróvitch, though confident in his strength, yet, like Ulysses in the Odyssey, anointing the bow which no one else could bend, first felt the edge, waved the weapon thrice in the air, and at length addressed himself to the feat. The betters had hardly time to strike hands when the buffalo's head bounded at their feet on the earth. So swift and sure was the blow, that the trunk stood for some instants on its legs, and then gently, softly, sank down. A cry of astonishment arose from all: Alexéi Petróvitch quietly looked whether his sabre was notched—for the weapon had cost him many thousands [of roubles], and presented it as a keepsake to Captain Bekóvitch.
We were still whispering among ourselves when there appeared before the commander-in-chief an officer of the Kazáks of the Line, with a message from Colonel Kortsáreff, who was stationed on the frontier. When he had received the report, the countenance of Alexéi Petróvitch brightenened—"Kortsáreff has gloriously trounced the mountaineers!" said he. "These rascals have made a plundering expedition beyond the Térek; they have passed far within the Line, and have plundered a village—but they have lost not only the cattle they had taken, but fallen a sacrifice to their own fool-hardiness." Having minutely questioned Yesoúal respecting the details of the affair, he ordered the prisoners whom they had taken, wounded or recovering, to be brought before him. Five were led into the presence of the commander-in-chief.
A cloud passed over his countenance as he beheld them; his brow contracted, his eyes sparkled. "Villains!" said he to the Ouzdéns; "you have thrice sworn not to plunder; and thrice have you broken your oath. What is it that you seek? Lands? Flocks? Means to defend the one or the other? But no! you are willing to accept presents from the Russians as allies, and at the same time to guide the Tcherkéss to plunder our villages, and to plunder along with them. Hang them!" said he sternly; "hang them up by their own thievish arkáus (girdles)! Let them draw lots: the fourth shall be spared—let him go and tell his countrymen that I am coming to teach them to keep faith, and keep the peace, as I will have it."