Derbénd, April.
Fly to, me, heart of my heart, dearest Maria! Rejoice in the sight of a lovely vernal night in Daghestán. Beneath me lies Derbénd, slumbering calmly, like a black streak of lava flowing from the Caucasus and cooled in the sea. The gentle breeze bears to me the fragrant odour of the almond-trees, the nightingales are calling to each other from the rock-crevices, behind the fortress: all breathes of life and love; and beautiful nature, full of this feeling, covers herself with a veil of mists. And how wonderfully has that vaporous ocean poured itself over the Caspian! The sea below gleams wavingly, like steel damasked with gold on an escutcheon—that above swells like a silver surge lighted by the full moon, which rolls along the sky like a cup of gold, while the stars glitter around like scattered drops. In a moment, the reflection of the moonbeams in the vapours of the night changes the picture, anticipating the imagination, now astounding by its marvels—now striking by its novelty. Sometimes I seem to behold the rocks of the wild shore, and the waves beating against them in foam. The billows roll onward to the charge: the rocky ramparts repel the shock, and the surf flies high above them; but silently and slowly sink the waves, and the silver palms arise from the midst of the inundation, the breeze stirs their branches, playing with the long leaves, and they spread like the sails of a ship gliding over the airy ocean. Do you see how she rolls along, how the spray-drops sparkle on her breast, how the waves slide along her sides. And where is she?... and where am I?... You cannot imagine, dearest Maria, the sweetly solemn feeling produced in me by the sound and sight of the sea. To me, the idea of eternity is inseparable from it; of immensity—of our love. That love seems to me, like it, infinite—eternal. I feel as if my heart overflowed to embrace the world, even as the ocean, with its bright waves of love. It is in me and around me; it is the only great and immortal feeling which I possess. Its spark lights and warms me in the winter of my sorrows, in the midnight of my doubts. Then I love so blindly! I believe so ardently! You smile at my fantasy, friend and companion of my soul. You wonder at this dark language; blame me not. My spirit, like the denizen of another world, cannot bear the chill and frosty moonlight—it shakes off the dust of the grave; it soars away, and, like the moonlight, dimly discovers all things darkly and uncertainly. You know that it is to you alone that I write down the pictures which fall on the magic-glass of my heart, assured that you will guess, not with cold criticism, but with the heart, what I would describe. Besides, next August, your happy bridegroom will himself explain all the dark passages in his letters. I cannot think without ecstasy of the moment of our meeting. I count the sand-grains of the hours which separate us. I count the versts which lie between us. And so in the middle of June you will be at the waters of the Caucasus. And nought but the icy chain of the Caucasus will be between two ardent hearts.... How near—yet how immeasurably far shall we be from each other! Oh! how many years of life would I not give to hasten the hour of our meeting! Long, long, have our hearts been plighted.... Why have they been separated till now?
My friend Ammalát is not frank or confiding. I cannot blame him. I know how difficult it is to break through habits imbibed with a mother's milk, and with the air of one's native land. The barbarian despotism of Persia, which has so long oppressed Aderbidján, has instilled the basest principles into the Tartars of the Caucasus, and has polluted their sense of honour by the most despicable subterfuge. And how could it be otherwise in a government based upon the tyranny of the great over the less—where justice herself can punish only in secret—where robbery is the privilege of power? "Do with me what you like, provided you let me do with my inferior what I like," is the principle of Asiatic government—its ambition, its morality. Hence, every man, finding himself between two enemies, is obliged to conceal his thoughts, as he hides his money. Hence every man plays the hypocrite before the powerful; every man endeavours to force from others a present by tyranny or accusation. Hence the Tartar of this country will not move a step, but with the hope of gain; will not give you so much as a cucumber, without expecting a present in return.
Insolent to rudeness with every one who is not in power, he is mean and slavish before rank or a full purse. He sows flattery by handfuls; he will give you his house, his children, his soul, to get rid of a difficulty, and if he does any body a service, it is sure to be from motives of interest.
In money matters (this is the weakest side of a Tartar) a ducat is the touchstone of his fidelity; and it is difficult to imagine the extent of their greediness for profit! The Armenian character is yet a thousand times more vile than theirs; but the Tartars hardly yield to them in corruption and greediness—and this is saying a good deal. Is it surprising that, beholding from infancy such examples, Ammalát—though he has retained the detestation of meanness natural to pure blood—should have adopted concealment as an indispensable arm against open malevolence and secret villany? The sacred ties of relationship do not exist for Asiatics. With them, the son is the slave of the father—the brother is a rival. No one trusts his neighbour, because there is no faith in any man. Jealousy of their wives, and dread of espionage, destroy brotherly love and friendship. The child brought up by his slave-mother—never experiencing a father's caress, and afterwards estranged by the Arabian alphabet, (education,) hides his feelings in his own heart even from his companions; from his childhood, thinks only for himself; from the first beard are every door, every heart shut for him: husbands look askance at him, women fly from him as from a wild beast, and the first and most innocent emotions of his heart, the first voice of nature, the first movements of his feelings—all these have become crimes in the eyes of Mahometan superstition. He dares not discover them to a relation, or confide them to a friend.... He must even weep in secret.
All this I say, my sweet Maria, to excuse Ammalát: he has already lived a year and a half in my house, and hitherto has never confessed to me the object of his love; though he might well have known, that it was from no idle curiosity, but from a real heartfelt interest, that I wished to know the secret of his heart. At last, however, he has told me all; and thus it happened.
Yesterday I took a ride out of the town with Ammalát. We rode up through a defile in the mountain on the west, and we advanced further and further, higher and higher, till we found ourselves unexpectedly close to the village of Kelík, from which may be seen the wall that anciently defended Persia from the incursions of the wandering tribes inhabiting the Zakavkáz, (trans-Caucasian country,) which often devastated that territory. The annals of Derbénd (Derbéndnámé) ascribe, but falsely, the construction of it to a certain Iskender—i.e. Alexander the Great—who, however, never was in these regions. King Noushirván repaired it, and placed a guard along it. More than once since that time it has been restored; and again it fell into ruin, and became overgrown, as it now is, with the trees of centuries. A tradition exists, that this wall formerly extended from the Caspian to the Black Sea, cutting through the whole Caucasus, and having for its extremity the "iron gate" of Derbénd, and Dariál in its centre; but this is more than doubtful as far as regards the general facts, though certain in the particulars. The traces of this wall, which are to be seen far into the mountains, are interrupted here and there, but only by fallen stones or rocks and ravines, till it reaches the military road; but from thence to the Black Sea, through Mingrelia, I think there are no traces of its continuation.
I examined, with curiosity, this enormous wall, fortified by numerous towers at short distance; and I wondered at the grandeur of the ancients, exhibited even in their unreasonable caprices of despotism—that greatness to which the effeminate rulers of the East cannot aspire, in our day, even in imagination. The wonders of Babylon, the lake of Mœris, the pyramids of the Pharaohs, the endless wall of China, and this huge bulwark, built in sterile places, on the summits of mountains, through the abyss of ravines—bear witness to the gigantic iron will, and the unlimited power, of the ancient kings. Neither time, nor earthquake, nor man, transitory man, nor the footstep of thousands of years, have entirely destroyed, entirely trodden down, the remains of immemorial antiquity. These places awake in me solemn and sacred thoughts. I wandered over the traces of Peter the Great; I pictured him the founder, the reformer, of a young state—building it on these ruins of the decaying monarchies of Asia, from the centre of which he tore out Russia, and with a mighty hand rolled her into Europe. What a fire must have gleamed in his eagle eye, as he glanced from the heights of Caucasus! What sublime thoughts, what holy aspirations, must have swelled that heroic breast! The grand destiny of his country was disclosed before his eyes; in the horizon, in the mirror of the Caspian, appeared to him the picture of Russia's future weal, sown by him, and watered by his red sweat. It was not empty conquest that was his aim, but victory over barbarism—the happiness of mankind. Derbénd, Báka, Astrabád, they are the links of the chain with which he endeavoured to bind the Caucasus, and rivet the commerce of India with Russia.
Demigod of the North! Thou whom nature created at once to flatter the pride of man, and to reduce it to despair by thine unapproachable greatness! Thy shade rose before me, bright and colossal, and the cataract of ages fell foaming at thy feet! Pensive and silent, I rode on.
The wall of the Caucasus is faced on the north side with squared stones, neatly and firmly fixed together with lime. Many of the battlements are still entire; but feeble seeds, falling into the crevices and joints, have burst them asunder with the roots of trees growing from them, and, assisted by the rains, have thrown the stones to the earth, and over the ruins triumphantly creep mallows and pomegranates; the eagle, unmolested, builds her nest in the turret once crowded with warriors, and on the cold hearthstone lie the fresh bones of the wild-goat, dragged thither by the jackals. Sometimes the line of the ruins entirely disappeared; then fragments of the stones again rose from among the grass and underwood. Riding in this way, a distance of about three versts, we reached the gate, and passed through to the south side, under a vaulted arch, lined with moss and overgrown with shrubs. We had not advanced twenty paces, when suddenly, behind an enormous tower, we came upon six armed mountaineers, who seemed, by all appearance, to belong to those gangs of robbers—the free Tabasaranetzes. They were lying in the shade, close to their horses, which were feeding. I was astounded. I immediately reflected how foolishly I had acted in riding so far from Derbénd without an escort. To gallop back, among such bushes and rocks, would have been impossible; to fight six such desperate fellows, would have been foolhardiness. Nevertheless, I seized a holster-pistol; but Ammalát Bek, seeing how matters stood, advanced, and cried in a calm slow voice: "Do not handle your arms, or we are dead men!"
The robbers, perceiving us, jumped up and cocked their guns, one fine, broad-shouldered, but extremely savage-looking Lezghín, remaining stretched on the ground. He lifted his head coolly, looked at us, and waved his hand to his companions. In a moment we found ourselves surrounded by them, while a path in front was stopped by the Ataman.
"Pray, dismount from your horses, dear guests," said he with a smile, though one could see that the next invitation would be a bullet. I hesitated; but Ammalát Bek jumped speedily from his horse, and walked up to the Ataman.
"Hail!" He said to him: "hail, sorvi golová! I thought not of seeing you. I thought the devils had long ago made a feast of you."
"Softly, Ammalát Bek!" answered the other; "I hope yet to feed the eagles with the bodies of the Russians and of you Tartars, whose purse is bigger than your heart."
"Well, and what luck, Shermadán?" carelessly enquired Ammalát Bek.
"But poor. The Russians are watchful: and we have seldom been able to drive the cattle of a regiment, or to sell two Russian soldiers at a time in the hills. It is difficult to transport madder and silk; and of Persian tissue, very little is now carried on the arbás. We should have had to quest like wolves again to-day, but Allah has had mercy; he has given into our hands a rich bek and a Russian colonel!"
My heart died within me, as I heard these words.
"Do not sell a hawk in the sky: sell him," answered Ammalát, "when you have him on your glove."
The robber sat down, laid his hand on the cock of his gun, and fixed on us a piercing look. "Hark'e, Ammalát!" said he; "is it possible that you think to escape me?—is it possible that you will dare to defend yourselves?"
"Be quiet," said Ammalát; "are we fools, to fight two to six? Gold is dear to us, but dearer is our life. We have fallen into your hands, so there is nothing to be done, unless you extort an unreasonable price for our ransom. I have, as you know, neither father nor mother: and the Colonel has yet less—neither kinsmen nor tribe."
"If you have no father, you have your father's inheritance. There is no need then to count your relations with you: however, I am a man of conscience. If you have no ducats, I will take your ransom in sheep. But about the colonel, don't talk any more nonsense. I know for him the soldiers would give the last button on their uniforms. Why, if for Sh—— a ransom of ten thousand rubles was paid, they will give more for this man. However, we shall see, we shall see. If you will be quiet.... Why, I am not a Jew, or a cannibal—Perviáder (the Almighty) forgive me!"
"Now that's it, friend: feed us well, and I swear and promise by my honour, we will never think of harming you—nor of escaping."
"I believe, I believe! I am glad we have arranged without making any noise about it. What a fine fellow you have become, Ammalát! Your horse is not a horse, your gun is not a gun: it is a pleasure to look at you; and this is true. Let me look at your dagger, my friend. Surely this is the Koubatchín mark upon the blade."
"No, the Kizliár mark," replied Ammalát, quietly unbuckling the dagger-belt from his waist; "and look at the blade. Wonderful! it cuts a nail in two like a candle. On this side is the maker's name; there—read it yourself: Alióusta—Kóza—Nishtshekói." And while he spoke, he twirled the naked blade before the eyes of the greedy Lezghín, who wished to show that he knew how to read, and was decyphering the complicated inscription with some difficulty. But suddenly the dagger gleamed like lightning.... Ammalát, seizing the opportunity, struck Shermadán with all his might on the head; and so fierce was the blow, that the dagger was stopped by the teeth of the lower jaw. The corpse fell heavily on the grass. Keeping my eyes upon Ammalát, I followed his example, and with my pistol shot the robber who was next me, and had hold of my horse's bridle. This was to the others a signal for flight; the rascals vanished; for the death of their Ataman dissolved the knot of the leash which bound them together. Whilst Ammalát, after the oriental fashion, was stripping the dead of their arms, and tying together the reins of the abandoned horses, I lectured him on his dissembling and making a false oath to the robber. He lifted up his head with astonishment: "You are a strange man, Colonel!" he replied. "This rascal has done an infinity of harm to the Russians, by secretly setting fire to their stacks of hay, or seizing and carrying straggling soldiers and wood-cutters into slavery. Do you know that he would have tyrannized over us—or even tortured us, to make us write more movingly to our kinsmen, to induce them to pay a larger ransom?"
"It may be so, Ammalát, but to lie or to swear an oath, either in jest or to escape misfortune, is wrong. Why could we not have thrown ourselves directly at the robbers, and have begun as you finished?"
"No, Colonel, we could not. If I had not entered into conversation with the Ataman, we should have been riddled with balls at the first movement. Moreover, I know that pack right well: they are brave only in the presence of their Ataman, and it was with him it was necessary to begin!"
I shook my head. The Asiatic cunning, though it had saved my life, could not please me. What confidence can I have in people accustomed to sport with their honour and their soul? We were about to mount our horses, when we heard a groan from the mountaineer who had been wounded by me. He came to himself, raised his head, and piteously besought us not to leave him to be devoured by the beasts of the forest. We both hastened to assist the poor wretch; and what was Ammalát's astonishment when he recognized in him one of the noúkers of Sultan Akhmet Khan of Avár. To the question how he happened to be one of a gang of robbers, he replied: "Shairán tempted me: the Khan sent me into Kemék, a neighbouring village, with a letter to the famous Hakím (Doctor) Ibrahim, for a certain herb, which they say removes every ailment, as easily as if it were brushed away with the hand. To my sorrow, Shermadán met me in the way! He teazed me, saying, 'Come with me, and let us rob on the road. An Armenian is coming from Kouba with money.' My young heart could not resist this ... oh, Allah-il-Allah! He hath taken my soul from me!"
"They sent you for physic, you say," replied Ammalát: "why, who is sick with you?"
"Our Khanóum Seltanetta is dying: here is the writing to the leech about her illness:" with these words he gave Ammalát a silver tube, in which was a small piece of paper rolled up. Ammalát turned as pale as death; his hands shook—his eyes sank under his eyebrows when he had read the note: with a broken voice he uttered detached words. "Three nights—and she sleeps not, eats not—delirious!--her life is in danger—save her! O God of righteousness—and I am idling here—leading a life of holidays—and my soul's soul is ready to quit the earth, and leave me a rotten corse! Oh that all her sufferings could fall on my head! and that I could lie in her coffin, if that would restore her to health. Sweetest and loveliest! thou art fading, rose of Avár, and destiny has stretched out her talons over thee. Colonel," he cried at length, seizing my hand, "grant my only, my solemn prayer—let me but once more look on her!"——
"On whom, my friend?"
"On my Seltanetta—on the daughter of the Khan of Avár—whom I love more than my life, than my soul! She is ill, she is dying—perhaps dead by this time—while I am wasting words—and I could not receive into my heart her last word—her last look—could not wipe away the icy tear of death! Oh, why do not the ashes of the ruined sun fall on my head—why will not the earth bury me in its ruins!"
He fell on my breast, choking with grief, in a tearless agony, unable to pronounce a word.
This was not a time for accusations of insincerity, much less to set forth the reasons which rendered it unadvisable for him to go among the enemies of Russia. There are circumstances before which all reasons must give way, and I felt that Ammalát was in such circumstances. On my own responsibility I resolved to let him go. "He that obliges from the heart, and speedily, twice obliges," is my favourite proverb, and best maxim. I pressed in my embrace the unhappy Tartar, and we mingled our tears together.
"My friend Ammalát," said I, "hasten where your heart calls you. God grant that you may carry thither health and recovery, and bring back peace of mind! A happy journey!"
"Farewell, my benefactor," he cried, deeply touched, "farewell, and perhaps for ever! I will not return to life, if Allah takes from me my Seltanetta. May God keep you!"
He took the wounded Aváretz to the Hakím Ibrahim, received the medicinal herb according to the Khan's prescription, and in an hour Ammalát Bek, with four noúkers, rode out of Derbénd.
And so the riddle is guessed—he loves. This is unfortunate, but what is yet worse, he is beloved in return. I fancy, my love, that I see your astonishment. "Can that be a misfortune to another, which to you is happiness?" you ask. A grain of patience, my soul's angel! The Khan, the father of Seltanetta, is the irreconcilable foe of Russia, and the more so because, having been distinguished by the favour of the Czar, he has turned a traitor; consequently a marriage is possible only on condition of Ammalát's betraying the Russians, or in case of the Khan's submission and pardon—both cases being far from probable. I myself have experienced misery and hopelessness in love; I have shed many tears on my lonely pillow; often have I thirsted for the shade of the grave, to cool my anguished heart! Can I, then, help, pitying this youth, the object of my disinterested regard, and lamenting his hopeless love? But this will not build a bridge to good-fortune; and I therefore think, that if he had not the ill-luck to be beloved in return, he would by degrees forget her.
"But," you say, (and methinks I hear your silvery voice, and am revelling in your angel's smile,) "but circumstances may change for them, as they have changed for us. Is it possible that misfortune alone has the privilege of being eternal in the world?"
I do not dispute this, my beloved, but I confess with a sigh that I am in doubt. I even fear for them and for ourselves. Destiny smiles before us, hope chaunts sweet music—but destiny is a sea—hope but a sea-syren; deceitful is the calm of the one, fatal are the promises of the other. All appears to aid our union—but are we yet together? I know not why, lovely Mary, but a chill penetrates my breast, amid the warm fountains of future bliss, and the idea of our meeting has lost its distinctness. But all this will pass away, all will change into happiness, when I press your hand to my lips, your heart to mine. The rainbow shines yet brighter on the dark field of the cloud, and the happiest moments of life are but the anticipations of sorrow.
Ammalát knocked up two horses, and left two of his noúkers on the road, so that at the end of the second day he was not far from Khounzákh. At each stride his impatience grew stronger, and with each stride increased his fear of not finding his beloved amongst the living. A fit of trembling came over him when from the rocks the tops of the Khan's tower arose before him. His eyes grew dark. "Shall I meet there life or death?" he whispered to himself, and arousing a desperate courage, he urged his horse to a gallop.
He came up with a horseman completely armed: another horseman rode out of Khounzákh to meeting, and hardly did they perceive one another when they put their horses to full speed, rode up to each other, leaped down upon the earth, and suddenly drawing their swords, threw themselves with fury upon each other without uttering a word, as if blows were the customary salutation of travellers. Ammalát Bek, whose passage they intercepted along the narrow path between the rocks, gazed with astonishment on the combat of the two adversaries. It was short. The horseman who was approaching the town fell on the stones, bedewing them with blood from a gash which laid open his skull; and the victor, coolly wiping his blade, addressed himself to Ammalát: "Your coming is opportune: I am glad that destiny has brought you in time to witness our combat. God, and not I, killed the offender; and now his kinsmen will not say that I killed my enemy stealthily from behind a rock, and will not raise upon my head the feud of blood."
"Whence arose your quarrel with him?" asked Ammalát: "why did you conclude it with such a terrible revenge?"
"This Kharám-Záda," answered the horseman, "could not agree with me about the division of some stolen sheep, and in spite he killed them all so that nobody should have them ... and he dared to slander my wife. He had better have insulted my father's grave, or my mother's good name, than have touched the reputation of my wife! I once flew at him with my dagger, but they parted us: we agreed to fight at our first encounter, and Allah has judged between us! The Bek is doubtless riding to Khounzákh—surely on a vizit to the Khan?" added the horseman.
Ammalát, forcing his horse to leap over the dead body which lay across the road, replied in the affirmative.
"You go not at a fit time, Bek—not at all at a fit time."
All Ammalát's blood rushed to his head. "Why, has any misfortune happened in the Khan's house?" he enquired, reining in his horse, which he had just before lashed with the whip to force him faster to Khounzákh.
"Not exactly a misfortune, his daughter Seltanetta was severely ill, and now"——
"Is dead?" cried Ammalát, turning pale.
"Perhaps she is dead—at least dying. As I rode past the Khan's gate, there arose a bustling, crying, and yelling of women in the court, as if the Russians were storming Khounzákh. Go and see—do me the favour"——
But Ammalát heard no more, he dashed away from the astounded Ouzdén; the dust rolled like smoke from the road, which seemed to be set on fire by the sparks from the horse's hoofs. Headlong he galloped through the winding streets, flew up the hill, bounded from his horse in the midst of the Khan's court-yard, and raced breathlessly through the passages to Seltanetta's apartment, overthrowing and jostling noúkers and maidens, and at last, without remarking the Khan or his wife, pushed himself to the bed of the sufferer, and fell, almost senseless, on his knees beside it.
The sudden and noisy arrival of Ammalát aroused the sad society present. Seltanetta, whose existence death was already overpowering, seemed as if awakening from the deep forgetfulness of fever; her cheeks flushed with a transient colour, like that on the leaves of autumn before they fall: in her clouded eye beamed the last spark of the soul. She lad been for several hours in a complete insensibility; she was speechless, motionless, hopeless. A murmur of anger from the bystanders, and a loud exclamation from the stupefied Ammalát, seemed to recall the departing spirit of the sick, she started up—her eyes sparkled.... "Is it thou—is it thou?" she cried, stretching, forth her arms to him: "praise be to Allah! now I am contented, now I am happy," she added, sinking back on the pillow. Her lips wreathed into a smile, her eyelids closed, and again she sank into her former insensibility.
The agonized Asiatic paid no attention to the questions of the Khan, or the reproaches of the Khánsha: no person, no object distracted his attention from Seltanetta—nothing could arouse him from his deep despair. They could hardly lead him by force from the sick chamber; he clung to the threshold, he wept bitterly, at one moment praying for the life of Seltanetta, at another accusing heaven of her illness! Terrible, yet moving, was the grief of the fiery Asiatic.
Meanwhile, the appearance of Ammalát had produced a salutary influence on the sick girl. What the rude physicians of the mountains were unable to accomplish, was effected by his arrival. The vital energy, which had been almost extinguished, needed some agitation to revivify its action; but for this she must have perished, not from the disease, which had been already subdued, but from languor—as a lamp, not blown out by the wind, but failing for lack of air. Youth at length gained the victory; the crisis was past, and life again arose in the heart of the sufferer. After a long and quiet slumber, she awoke unusually strengthened and refreshed. "I feel myself as light, mother," she cried, looking gaily around her, "as if I were made wholly of air. Ah, how sweet it is to recover from illness; it seems as if the walls were smiling upon me. Yet, I have been very ill—long ill. I have suffered much; but, thanks to Allah! I am now only weak, and that will soon pass away. I feel health rolling, like drops of pearl, through my veins. All the past seems to me a sort of dark vision. I fancied that I was sinking into a cold sea, and that I was parched with thirst: far away, methought, there hovered two little stars; the darkness thickened and thickened; I sank deeper, deeper yet. All at once it seemed as if some one called me by my name, and with a mighty hand dragged me from that icy, shoreless sea. Ammalát's face glanced before me, almost like a reality; the little stars broke into a lightning-flash, which writhed like a serpent to my heart: I remember no more!"
On the following day Ammalát was allowed to see the convalescent. Sultan Akhmet Khan, seeing that it was impossible to obtain a coherent answer from him while suspense tortured his heart, that heart which boiled with passion, yielded to his incessant entreaties. "Let all rejoice when I rejoice," he said, as he led his guest into his daughter's room. This had been previously announced to Seltanetta, but her agitation, nevertheless, was very great, when her eyes met those of Ammalát—Ammalát, so deeply loved, so long and fruitlessly expected. Neither of the lovers could pronounce a word, but the ardent language of their looks expressed a long tale, imprinted in burning letters on the tablet of their hearts. On the pale cheek of each other they read the traces of sorrow, the tears of separation, the characters of sleeplessness and grief, of fear and of jealousy. Entrancing is the blooming loveliness of an adored mistress; but her paleness, her languor, that is bewitching, enchanting, victorious! What heart of iron would not be melted by that tearful glance, which, without a reproach, says so tenderly to you, "I am happy, but I have suffered by thee and for thy sake?"
Tears dropped from Ammalát's eyes; but remembering at length that he was not alone, he mastered himself, and lifted up his head to speak; but his voice refused to pour itself in words, and with difficulty he faltered out, "We have not seen each other for a long time, Seltanetta!"
"And we were wellnigh parted for ever," murmured Seltanetta.
"For ever!" cried Ammalát, with a half reproachful voice. "And can you think, can you believe this? Is there not, then, another life, in which sorrow is unknown, and separation from our kinsmen and the beloved? If I were to lose the talisman of my life, with what scorn would I not cast away the rusty ponderous armour of existence! Why should I wrestle with destiny?"
"Pity, then, that I did not die!" answered Seltanetta, sportively. "You describe so temptingly the other side of the grave, that one would be eager to leap into it."
"Ah, no! Live, live long, for happiness, for—love!" Ammalát would have added, but he reddened, and was silent.
Little by little the roses of health spread over the cheeks of the maiden, now happy in the presence of her lover. All returned into its customary order. The Khan was never weary of questioning Ammalát about the battles, the campaigns, the tactics of the Russians; the Khánsha tired him with enquiries about the dress and customs of their women, and could not omit to call upon Allah as often as she heard that they go without veils. But with Seltanetta he enjoyed conversations and tales, to his, as well as her, heart's content. The merest trifle which had the slightest connexion with the other, could not be passed over without a minute description, without abundant repetitions and exclamations. Love, like Midas, transforms every thing it touches into gold, and, alas! often perishes, like Midas, for want of finding some material nourishment.
But, as the strength of Seltanetta was gradually re-established, with the reappearing bloom of health on Ammalát's brow, there often appeared the shadow of grief. Sometimes, in the middle of a lively conversation, he would suddenly stop, droop his head, and his bright eyes would be dimmed with a filling of tears; heavy sighs would seem to rend his breast; he would start up, his eyes sparkling with fury; he would grasp his dagger with a bitter smile, and then, as if vanquished by an invisible hand, he would fall into a deep reverie, from whence not even the caresses of his adored Seltanetta could recall him.
Once, at such a moment, Seltanetta, leaning enraptured on his shoulder, whispered, "Asis, (beloved,) you are sad—you are weary of me!"
"Ah, slander not him who loves thee more than heaven!" replied Ammalát; "but I have felt the hell of separation; and can I think of it without agony? Easier, a hundred times easier, to part from life than from thee, my dark-eyed love!"
"You are thinking of it, therefore you desire it."
"Do not poison my wounds by doubting, Seltanetta. Till now you have known only how to bloom like a rose—to flutter like a butterfly; till now your will was your only duty. But I am a man, a friend; fate has forged for me an indestructible chain—the chain of gratitude for kindness—it drags me to Derbénd."
"Debt! duty! gratitude!" cried Seltanetta, mournfully shaking her head. "How many gold-embroidered words have you invented to cover, as with a shawl, your unwillingness to remain here. What! Did you not give your heart to love before it was pledged to friendship? You had no right to give away what belonged to another. Oh, forget your Verkhóffsky, forget your Russian friends and the beauty of Derbénd. Forget war and murder-purchased glory. I hate blood since I saw you covered with it. I cannot think without shuddering, that each drop of it costs tears that cannot be dried, of a sister, a mother, or a fair bride. What do you need, in order to live peacefully and quietly among our mountains! Here none can come to disturb with arms the happiness of the heart. The rain pierces not our roof; our bread is not of purchased corn; my father has many horses, he has arms, and much precious gold; in my soul there is much love for you. Say, then, my beloved, you will not go away, you will remain with us!"
"No, Seltanetta, I cannot, must not, remain here. To pass my life with you alone—for you to end it—this is my first prayer, my last desire, but its accomplishment depends on your father. A sacred tie binds me to the Russians; and while the Khan remains unreconciled with them, an open marriage with you would be impossible—the obstacle would not be the Russians, but the Khan"——
"You know my father," sorrowfully replied Seltanetta; "for some time past his hatred of the infidels has so strengthened itself, that he hesitates not to sacrifice to it his daughter and his friend. He is particularly enraged with the Colonel for killing his favourite noúker, who was sent for medicine to the Hakím Ibrahim."
"I have more than once begun to speak to Akhmet Khan about my hopes; but his eternal reply has been—'Swear to be the enemy of the Russians, and then I will hear you out.'"
"We must then bid adieu to hope."
"Why to hope, Seltanetta? Why not say only—farewell, Avár!"
Seltanetta bent upon him her expressive eyes. "I don't understand you," she said.
"Love me more than any thing in the world—more than your father and mother, and your fair land, and then you will understand me, Seltanetta! Live without you I cannot, and they will not let me live with you. If you love me, let us fly!"
"Fly! the Khan's daughter fly like a slave—a criminal! This is dreadful—this is terrible!"
"Speak not so. If the sacrifice is unusual, my love also is unusual. Command me to give my life a thousand times, and I will throw it down like a copper poull.8 I will cast my soul into hell for you—not only my life. You remind me that you are the daughter of the Khan; remember, too, that my grandfather wore, that my uncle wears, the crown of a Shamkhál! But it is not by this dignity, but by my heart, that I feel I am worthy of you; and if there be shame in being happy despite of the malice of mankind and the caprice of fate, that shame will fall on my head and not on yours."
"But you forget my father's vengeance."
"There will come a time when he himself will forget it. When he sees that the thing is done, he will cast aside his inflexibility; his heart is not stone; and even were it stone, tears of repentance will wear it away—our caresses will soften him. Happiness will cover us with her dove's wings, and we shall proudly say, 'We ourselves have caught her!'"
"My beloved, I have lived not long upon earth, but something at my heart tells me that by falsehood we can never catch her. Let us wait: let us see what Allah will give! Perhaps, without this step, our union may be accomplished."
"Seltanetta, Allah has given me this idea: it is his will. Have pity on me, I beseech you. Let us fly, unless you wish that our marriage-hour should strike above my grave! I have pledged my honour to return to Derbénd; and I must keep that pledge, I must keep it soon: but to depart without the hope of seeing you, with the dread of hearing that you are the wife of another—this would be dreadful, this would be insupportable! If not from love, then from pity, share my destiny. Do not rob me of paradise! Do not drive me to madness! You know not whither disappointed passion can carry me. I may forget hospitality and kindred, tear asunder all human ties, trample under my feet all that is holy, mingle my blood with that of those who are dearest to me, force villany to shake with terror when my name is heard, and angels to weep to see my deeds!--Seltanetta, save me from the curse of others, from my own contempt—save me from myself! My noúkers are fearless—my horses like the wind; the night is dark, let us fly to benevolent Russia, till the storm be over. For the last time I implore you. Life and death, my renown and my soul, hang upon your word. Yes or no?"
Torn now by her maiden fear, and her respect for the customs of her forefathers, now by the passion and eloquence of her lover, the innocent Seltanetta wavered, like a light cork, upon the tempestuous billows of contending emotions. At length she arose: with a proud and steady air she wiped away the tears which, glistened on her eyelashes, like the amber-gum on the thorns of the larch-tree, and said, "Ammalát! tempt me not! The flame of love will not dazzle, the smoke of love will not suffocate, my conscience. I shall ever know what is good and what is bad; and I well know how shameful it is, how base, to desert a father's house, to afflict loving and beloved parents! I know all this—and now, measure the price of my sacrifice. I fly with you—I am yours! It is not your tongue which has convinced—it is my own heart which has vanquished me! Allah has destined me to see and love you: let, then, our hearts be united for ever—and indissolubly, though their bond be a crown of thorns! Now all is over! Your destiny is mine!"
If heaven had clasped Ammalát in its infinite wings, and pressed him to the heart of the universe—to the sun—even then his ecstacy would have been less strong than at this divine moment. He poured forth the most incoherent cries and exclamations of gratitude. When the first transports were over, the lovers arranged all the details of their flight. Seltanetta consented to lower herself by her bed-coverings from her chamber, to the steep bank of the Ouzén. Ammalát was to ride out in the evening with his noúkers from Khounzákh, as if on a hawking party; he was to return to the Khan's house by circuitous roads at nightfall, and there receive his fair fellow-traveller in his arms. Then they were to take horses in silence, and then—let enemies keep out of their road!
A kiss sealed the treaty; and the lovers separated with fear and hope in heart.
Ammalát Bek, having prepared his brave noúkers for battle or flight, looked impatiently at the sun, which seemed loth to descend from the warm sky to the chilly glaciers of the Caucasus. Like a bridegroom he pined for night, like an importunate guest he followed with his eyes the luminary of day. How slowly it moved—it crept to its setting! An interminable space seemed to intervene between hope and enjoyment. Unreasonable youth! What is your pledge of success? Who will assure you that your footsteps are not watched—your words not caught in their flight? Perhaps with the sun, which you upbraid, your hope will set.
About the fourth hour after noon, the time of the Mozlem's dinner, the Sultan Akhmet Khan was unusually savage and gloomy. His eyes gleamed suspiciously from under his frowning brows; he fixed them for a long space, now on his daughter, now on his young guest. Sometimes his features assumed a mocking expression, but it again vanished in the blush of anger. His questions were biting, his conversation was interrupted; and all this awakened in the soul of Seltanetta repentance—in the heart of Ammalát apprehension. On the other hand, the Khánsha, as if dreading a separation from her lovely daughter, was so affectionate and anxious, that this unmerited tenderness wrung tears from the gentle-hearted Seltanetta, and her glance, stealthily thrown at Ammalát, was to him a piercing reproach.
Hardly, after dinner, had they concluded the customary ceremony of washing the hands, when the Khan called Ammalát into the spacious court-yard. There caparisoned horses awaited them, and a crowd of noúkers were already in the saddle.
"Let us ride out to try the mettle of my new hawks," said the Khan to Ammalát; "the evening is fine, the heat is diminishing, and we shall yet have time, ere twilight, to shoot a few birds."
With his hawk on his fist, the Khan rode silently by the side of Ammalát. An Avarétz was climbing up to a steep cliff on the left, by means of a spiked pole, fixing it into the crevices, and then, supporting himself on a prong, he lifted himself higher. To his waist was attached a cap containing wheat; a long crossbow hung upon his shoulders. The Khan stopped, pointed him out to Ammalát, and said meaningly, "Look at yonder old man, Ammalát Bek! He seeks, at the risk of his life, a foot of ground on the naked rock, to sow a handful of wheat. With the sweat of his brow he cultivates it, and often pays with his life for the defence of his herd from men and beasts. Poor is his native land; but why does he love this land? Ask him to change it for your fruitful fields, your rich flocks. He will say, 'Here I do what I please; here I bow to no one; these snows, these peaks of ice, defend my liberty.' And this freedom the Russians would take from him: of these Russians you have become the slave, Ammalát."
"Khan, you know that it is not Russian bravery, but Russian generosity, that has vanquished me. Their slave I am not, but their companion."
"A thousand times the worse, the more disgraceful for you. The heir of the Shamkhál pines for a Russian epaulette, and glories in being the dependent of a colonel!"
"Moderate your words, Sultan Akhmet. To Verkhóffsky I owe more than life: the tie of friendship unites us."
"Can there exist a holy tie between us and the Giaour? To injure them, to destroy them, when possible, to deceive them when this cannot be done, is the commandment of the Korán, and the duty of every true believer."
"Khan! let us cease to play with the bones of Mahomet, and to menace others with what we do not believe. You are not a moólla, I am no fakir. I have my own notions of the duty of an honest man."
"Really, Ammalát Bek? It were well, however, if you were to have this oftener in your heart than on your tongue. For the last time, allow me to ask you, will you hearken to the counsels of a friend whom you quitted for the Giaour? Will you remain with us for good?"
"My life I would lay down for the happiness you so generously offer; but I have given my promise to return, and I will keep it."
"Is this decided?"
"Irrevocably so."
"Well then, the sooner the better. I have learned to know you. Me you know of old. Insincerity and flattery between us are in vain. I will not conceal from you, that I always wished to see you my son-in-law. I rejoiced that Seltanetta had pleased you; your captivity put off my plans for a time. Your long absence—the rumours of your conversion—grieved me. At length you appeared among us, and found every thing as before; but you did not bring to us your former heart. I hoped you would fall back into your former course; I was painfully mistaken. It is a pity; but there is nothing to be done. I do not wish to have for my son-in-law a servant of the Russians."
"Akhmet Khan, I once"——
"Let me finish. Your agitated arrival, your ravings at the door of the sick Seltanetta, betrayed to every body your attachment, and our mutual intentions. Through all the mountains, you have been talked of as the affianced bridegroom of my daughter: but now the tie is broken, it is time to destroy the rumours; for the honour of my family—for the tranquillity of my daughter—you must leave us—and immediately. This is absolutely necessary and indispensable. Ammalát, we part friends, but here we will meet only as kinsmen, not otherwise. May Allah turn your heart, and restore you to us as an inseparable friend. Till then, farewell!"
With these words the Khan turned his horse, and rode away at full gallop to his retinue. If on the stupefied Ammalát the thunderbolt of heaven had fallen, he could not have been more astounded than by this unexpected explanation. Already had the dust raised by the horse's hoofs of the retiring Khan been laid at rest; but he still stood immovable on the hill now darkening in the shadow of sunset.