Blackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine, No. CCCXXXII. by Various

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"Will you open, you devil's distaff?" impatiently exclaimed the voice,
"or I will not leave you a plank of this door for your coffin."

The feeble doors shook on their hinges.

"Enter, pray enter," said the old woman, undoing the iron hasp with a
trembling hand. The door flew open, and there entered a man of a
middling stature, and of a handsome but melancholy countenance. He was
clad in the Circassian dress: the water trickled down his bourka and
bashlik.[22] Without any apologies, he threw it on the feather-bed, and
began to untie the lopasti of his bashlik which half covered his
face--Fatma, having in the mean time lighted a candle, stood before him
with fear and trembling. The long-whiskered dog, with his tail between
his legs, pressed himself into a corner, and the child, in a fright,
climbed into the fire-place--which, used only for ornaments, was never
heated.

[22] Bashlik--a bonnet worn in bad weather.

"Well, Fatma, you are grown proud," said the unknown; "you do not
recognize old friends."

Fatma gazed at the new-comer's features, and her heart grew light within
her. She recognized Sultan Akhmet Khan, who had ridden in one night from
Kiafir Kounik to Bouinaki.

"May the sand fill my eyes that did not recognize their old master!" she
replied, respectfully crossing her arms on her breast. "To say truth,
they are blinded by tears, for her country--for Avar! Forgive an old
woman, Khan!"

"What old age is yours, Fatma? I remember you a little girl, when I
myself could hardly reach the young crows from their nests."

"A strange land makes every one old, Khan. In my native mountains I
should still have been fresh as an apple, and here am I like a snowball
fallen from the hill into the valley. Pray come hither, Khan, here it is
more comfortable. What shall I entertain my precious guest with? Is
there nothing the Khan's soul can wish for?"

"The Khan's soul wishes that you should entertain him with your
goodwill."

"I am at your will; speak, command!"

"Listen to me, Fatma! I have no time to waste in words. This is why I am
come here: render me a service with your tongue, and you shall have
wherewithal to comfort your old teeth. I will make you a present of ten
sheep; I will dress you in silk from top to toe."

"Ten sheep and a gown!--a silk gown! O gracious Aga! O kind Khan! I have
not seen such a lord here since the accursed Tartars carried me away,
and made me marry a hateful ... I am ready to do every thing, Khan, that
you wish. Cut my ears off even, if you will!"

"What would be the good of that? They must be kept sharp. This is the
business. Ammalat will come to you to-day with the Colonel. The Shamkhal
of Tarki will arrive also. This Colonel has attached your young Bek to
him by witchcraft; and having taught him to eat swine's flesh, wants to
make a Christian of him: from which Mahomet preserve him!"

The old woman spat around her, and lifted her eyes to heaven.

"To save Ammalat, we must make him quarrel with the Colonel. For this
purpose you must go to him, throw yourself at his feet, and fall
a-weeping as if at a funeral. As to tears, you will have no need to go
and borrow them of your neighbours. Swear like a shopkeeper of Derbend;
remember that each oath of yours will bring you a dozen sheep; and at
last tell him that you have heard a conversation between the Colonel and
the Shamkhal: that the Shamkhal complained of his sending back his
daughter: that he hates him out of fear that he should take possession
of the crown of his Shamkhalat: that he implored the Colonel to allow
him to kill him in an ambuscade, or to poison him in his food; but that
the other consented only to send him to Siberia, beyond the end of the
world. In one word, invent and describe every thing cleverly. You were
formerly famous for your tales. Do not eat dirt now. And, above all,
insist that the Colonel, who is going on a furlough, will take him with
him to Georgieffsk, to separate him from his kinsmen and faithful
noukers; and from thence will dispatch him in chains to the devil."

Sultan Akhmet added to this all the particulars necessary to give the
story the most probable form; and once or twice instructed the old woman
how to introduce them more skilfully.

"Well, recollect every thing accurately, Fatma," said he, putting on his
bourka; "forget not, likewise, with whom you have to do."

"Vallah, billah! let me have ashes instead of salt; may a beggar's
tchourek close my eyes; may" ...

"Do not feed the Shaitans with your oaths; but serve me with your words.
I know that Ammalat trusts you completely; and if, for his good, you
will arrange this--he will come over to me, and bring you with him. You
shall live, singing, under my wing. But I repeat, if, by chance or on
purpose, you betray me, or injure me by your gossiping, I will make of
your old flesh a kibab for the Shaitans!"

"Be easy, Khan! They have nothing to do either for me or with me. I will
keep the secret like the grave, and I will _put my sarotchka_[23] on
Ammalat."

[23] Give him her feelings--a Tartar phrase.

"Well, be it so, old woman. Here is a golden seal for your lips. Take
pains!"

"_Bathousta, ghez-ousta_!"[24] exclaimed the old woman, seizing the
ducat with greediness, and kissing the Khan's hand for his present. The
Sultan Akhmet Khan looked contemptuously at the base creature, whilst he
quitted the sakla.

[24] Willingly, if you please? Literally, "on my head, on my
eyes."

"Reptile!" he grumbled to himself, "for a sheep, for a piece of cloth of
gold, thou wouldst be ready to sell thy daughter's body, thy son's soul,
and thy foster-son's happiness!"

He did not reflect upon what name he deserved himself, entangling his
friend in deceit, and hiring such vile creatures for low slander and for
villanous intentions.

_Fragment of a Letter from Colonel Verkhoffsky to his Betrothed_.

Camp near the Village of Kiafir Koumik, August.

... Ammalat loves, and how he loves! Never, not even in the hottest fire
of my youth, did my love rise to such a frenzy. I burned, like a censer
lighted by a sunbeam; he flames, like a ship set on fire by lightning on
the stormy sea. With you, my Maria, I have read more than once
Shakspeare's Othello; and only the frantic Othello can give an idea of
the tropical passion of Ammalat. He loves to speak long and often of his
Seltanetta, and I love to hear his volcanic eloquence. At times it is a
turbid cataract thrown out by a profound abyss--at times a fiery
fountain of the naphtha of Bakou. What stars his eyes scatter at that
moment--what light plays on his cheeks--how handsome he is! There is
nothing ideal in him: but then the earthly is grand, is captivating. I
myself, carried away and deeply moved, receive on my breast the youth
fainting from rapture: he breathes long, with slow sighs, and then
casting down his eyes, lowering his head as if ashamed to look at the
light--not only on me--presses my hand, and walks away with an uncertain
step; and after that one cannot extract a word from him for the rest of
the day.

Since the time of his return from Khounzakh, he is become still more
melancholy than before; particularly the last few days. He hides the
grandest, the noblest feeling which brings man near to divinity, as
carefully as if it were a shameful weakness or a dreadful crime. He
imploringly asked me to let him go once more to Khounzakh, to sigh at
the feet of his fair one; and I refused him--refused him for his own
good. I wrote long ago about my favourite to Alexei Petrovitch, and he
desired me to bring him with me to the waters, where he will be himself.
He wishes to give him some message to Sultan Akhmet Khan, which will
bring undoubted advantage to him and to Ammalat. Oh, how happy I shall
be in his happiness! To me, to me, he will owe the bliss of his
life--not only empty life. I will force him on his knees before you, and
will make him say--"Adore her as a deity!" If my heart were not filled
with love to Maria, thou wouldst not take possession of Seltanetta.
Yesterday I received an express from the commander-in-chief--a
noble-minded man! He gives wings to happy news. All is arranged; my
darling, I go to meet you at the waters. I shall only lead the regiment
to Derbend--and then to the saddle! I shall know neither fatigue by day
nor drowsiness by night, till I repose myself in your embrace. Oh, who
will give me wings to fly to you! Who will give me strength to bear
my--_our_--bliss! ... I, in delicious agitation, pressed my bosom, that
my heart might not burst forth. For a long time I could not sleep:
imagination painted our meeting in a thousand forms, and in the
intervals appeared the most trivial but delightful cares, about wedding
trifles, dresses, presents. You will be clad in my favourite colour,
green. ... Is it not true, my soul? My fancies kept me from sleeping,
like a strong perfume of roses; but the sweeter, the more brilliant was
my sleep. I saw you by the light of dawn, and every time different,
every time more lovely than before. My dreams were twined together like
a wreath of flowers; but no! there was no connexion between them. They
were wonderful phantoms, falling like colours from the kaleidoscope, and
as impossible to retain. Notwithstanding all this, I awoke sorrowful
this morning; my awakening took from my childish soul its favourite
toy.... I went into Ammalat's tent; he was still asleep. His face was
pale and angry--let him be angry with me! I taste beforehand the
gratitude of the ardent youth. I, like fate, am preparing his happiness
in secret....

To-day I bid adieu to these mountains for long--I hope for ever. I am
very glad to quit Asia, the cradle of mankind, in which the
understanding has remained till now in its swaddling-clothes.
Astonishing is the immobility of Asiatic life, in the course of so many
centuries. Against Asia all attempts of improvement and civilization
have broken like waves; it seems not to belong to time, but to place.
The Indian Brahmin, the Chinese Mandarin, the Persian Bek, the mountain
Ouzden, are unchanged--the same as they were two thousand years ago. A
sad truth! They represent, in themselves, a monotonous though varied, a
lively though soulless nature. The sword and the lash of the conqueror
have left on them, as on the water, no trace. Books, and the examples of
missionaries, have produced on them no influence. Sometimes, however,
they have made an exchange of vices; but never have they learned the
thoughts or the virtues of others. I quit the land of fruit to transport
myself to the land of labour--that great inventor of every thing useful,
that suggester of every thing great, that awakener of the soul of man,
which has fallen asleep here, and sleeps in weakness on the bosom of the
seducer--nature.

And truly, how seducing is nature here! Having ridden up the high
mountain to the left of Kiafir Koumik, I gazed with delight on the
gradually lighted summit of the Caucasus. I looked, and could not look
enough at them. What a wondrous beauty decks them as with a crown!
Another thin veil, woven of light and shadow, lay on the lower hill, but
the distant snows basked in the sky; and the sky, like a caressing
mother, bending over them its immeasurable bosom, fed them with the milk
of the clouds, carefully enfolding them with its swathe of mist, and
refreshing them with its gently-breathing wind. Oh, with what a flight
would my soul soar there, where a holy cold has stretched itself like a
boundary between the earthly and the heavenly! My heart prays and
thirsts to breathe the air of the inhabitants of the sky. I feel a wish
to wander over the snows, on which man has never printed the seal of his
blood-stained footsteps--which have never been darkened by the eagle's
shadow--which the thunder has never reached--which the war spirits have
never polluted; and on the ever-young summits where time, the
continuation of eternity, has left no trace.

Time! A strange thought has come into my head. How many fractional names
has the weak sense of man invented for the description of an infinitely
small particle of time out of the infinitely large circle of eternity!
Years, months, days, hours, minutes! God has nothing of all this: he has
not even evening nor morrow. With him all this has united itself into
one eternal _now_!... Shall we ever behold this ocean in which we have
hitherto been drowning? But I ask, to what end will all this serve man?
Can it be for the satisfaction of an idle curiosity? No! the knowledge
of truth, i.e. the All-knowing Goodness, does the soul of the reflecting
man thirst after. It wishes to draw a full cup from the fountain of
light which falls on it from time to time in a fine dew!

And I shall imbibe it. The secret fear of death melts like snow before
the beam of such a hope. I shall draw from it. My real love for my
fellow-creatures is a security for it. The leaden ways of error will
fall asunder before a few tears of repentance, and I shall lay down my
heart as an expiating sacrifice before the judgment-seat which will have
no terrors for me!

It is wonderful, my beloved--hardly do I look at the mountains, the sea,
the sky, ... but a solemn but inexpressibly sweet feeling o'er-burthens
and expands my heart. Thoughts of you mingle with it; and, as in dreams,
your form flits before me. Is this a foretaste of earthly bliss, which I
have only known by name, or a foreboding of ... etern ...? O dearest,
best, angelic soul, one look of yours and I am cured of dreaming! How
happy am I that I can now say with assurance--_au revoir_!

CHAPTER XI.

The poison of calumny burnt into the soul of Ammalat. By the
instructions of the Khan, his nurse Fatma related, with every appearance
of disinterested affection, the story which had been arranged
beforehand, on the same evening that he came with Verkhoffsky to
Bouinaki, where they were met by the Shamkhal in obedience to the
Colonel's request. The envenomed shaft struck deep; now doubt would have
been welcomed by Ammalat, but conviction, it seemed, cast over all his
former ties of friendship and blood, a bright but funereal light. In a
frenzy of passion, he burned to drown his revenge in the blood of both;
but respect for the rites of hospitality quenched his thirst for
vengeance. He deferred his intention for a time--but could he forget it?
Every moment of delay fell, like a drop of melted copper, on his heart.
Memory, conviction, jealousy, love, tore his heart by turns; and this
state of feeling was to him so new, so strange, so dreadful, that he
fell into a species of delirium, the more dreadful that he was obliged
to conceal his internal sensations from his former friend. Thus passed
twenty-four hours; the detachment pitched their tents near the village
Bougden, the gate of which, built in a ravine, and which is closed at
the will of the inhabitants of Bougden, serves as a passage to Akoush.
The following was written by Ammalat, to divert the agony of his soul
while preparing itself for the commission of a black crime.... ----

MIDNIGHT.

... Why, O Sultan Akhmet! have you cast lightning into my breast? A
brother's friendship, a brother's treachery, and a brother's murder!...
What dreadful extremes! And between them there is but a step, but a
twinkling of the eye. I cannot sleep, I can think of nothing else. I am
chained to this thought, like a criminal to his stake. A bloody sea
swells, surges, and roars around me, and above gleams, instead of stars,
the lightning-flash. My soul is like a naked peak, where only birds of
prey and evil spirits assemble, to share their plunder, or to prepare
misfortune. Verkhoffsky, Verkhoffsky! what have I done to you? Why would
you tear from heaven the star of my liberty? Is it because I loved you
so tenderly? And why do you approach me stealthily and thief-like? why
do you slander--why do you betray me, by hypocrisy? You should say
plainly, "I wish your life," and I would give it freely, without a
murmur; would have laid it down a sacrifice like the son of Ibrahim,
(Abraham!) I would have forgiven you, if you had but attempted my life,
but to sell my freedom, to steal my Seltanetta from me, by burying me
alive! Villain--and you still live!

But sometimes like a dove, whose wings have been scorched in the smoke
of a fire, appears thy form to me, Seltanetta. How is it, then, that I
am no longer gay when I dream of you, as of old?...

They would part us, my love--they would give you to another, to marry me
on the grave-stone. But I will go to you--I will go to you over a bloody
carpet--I will fulfil a bloody promise, in order to possess you. Invite
not only your maiden friends to your marriage feast--invite also the
vultures and the ravens, they shall all be regaled abundantly. I will
pay a rich dower. On the pillow of my bride I will lay a heart which
once I reckoned more precious than the throne-cushion[25] of the
Persian Padishah. Wonderful destiny!... Innocent girl!... You will be
the cause of an unheard of deed. Kindest of beings, for you friends will
tear each other like ferocious beasts--for you and through you--and is
it really for you alone--with ferocity--with ferocity only! Verkhoffsky
said, that to kill an enemy by stealth, is base and cowardly. But if I
cannot do it otherwise? But can he be believed?... Hypocrite! He wished
to entangle me beforehand; not my hands alone, but even my conscience.
It was in vain.

[25] This cushion is embroidered with jewels, and is invaluable.

... I have loaded my rifle. What a fine round barrel--what admirable
ornaments! The rifle I received from my father--my father got it from my
grandfather. I have heard of many celebrated shots made with it--and not
one, not one was fired by stealth.... Always in battle--always before
the whole army, it sent death; but wrong, but treachery, but you,
Seltanetta!... My hand will not tremble to level a shot at him, whose
name it is afraid even to write. One loading, one fire, and all is
over!...

One loading! How light, but how heavy will be each grain of powder in
the scales of Allah! How far--how immeasurably will this load bear a
man's soul? Accursed thou, the inventor of the grey dust, which delivers
a hero into the hand of the vilest craven, which kills from afar the
foe, who, with a glance, could have disarmed the hand raised against
him! So, this shot will tear asunder all my former ties, but it will
clear a road to new ones. In the cool Caucasus--on the bosom of
Seltanetta, will my faded heart be refreshed. Like a swallow will I
build myself a nest in a stranger land--like a swallow, the spring shall
be my country. I will cast from me old sorrows, as the bird sheds its
feathers.... But the reproaches of conscience, can they fade?... The
meanest Lezghin, when he sees in battle the man with whom he has shared
bread and salt, turns aside his horse, and fires his gun in the air. It
is true he deceives me; but have I been the less happy? Oh, if with
these tears I could weep away my grief--drown with them the thirst for
vengeance--buy with them Seltenetta! Why comes on the dawn of day so
slowly? Let it come! I will look, without blushing, at the sun--without
turning pale, into the eyes of Verkhoffsky. My heart is like iron--it is
locked against mercy; treachery calls for treachery ... I am resolved
... Quick, quick!

* * * * *

Thus incoherently, thus wildly wrote Ammalat, in order to cheat time and
to divert his soul. Thus he tried to cheat himself, rousing himself to
revenge, whilst the real cause of his bloody intentions, viz. the desire
of possessing Seltanetta, broke through every word.

In order to embolden himself for his crime, he drank deeply of wine, and
maddened, threw himself, with his gun, into the Colonel's tent; but
perceiving sentinels at the door, he changed his intention. The natural
feeling of self-preservation did not abandon him, even in his madness.
Ammalat put off till the morning the consummation of the murder; but he
could neither sleep nor distract his thoughts ... and re-entering his
tent, he seized Saphir Ali by the throat, who was lying fast asleep, and
shaking him roughly: "Get up, sleepy rascal!"; he cried to him, "it is
already dawn."

Saphir Ali raised his head in a discontented mood, and yawning,
answered: "I see only the dawn of wine on your cheek--good-night,
Ammalat!"

"Up, I tell you! The dead must quit their graves to meet the new-comer
whom I have promised to send to keep them company!"

"Why, brother, am I dead?... Even the _forty Imaums_[26] may get up from
the burial-ground of Derbend--but I will sleep."

[26] The Mussulmans believe, that in the northern burial-ground
of Derbend, are buried the forty first true believers, who were
martyred by the idolaters.

"But you love to drink, Giaour, and you must drink with me."

"That is quite another affair. Pour fuller, _Allah verdi_![27] I am
always ready to drink and to make love."

[27] God gave--Much good may it do you.

"And to kill an enemy!... Come, some more! A health to the devil!--who
changes friends into mortal enemies."

"So be it! Here goes, then, to the devil's health! The poor fellow wants
health. We will drive him into a consumption out of spite, because he
cannot make us quarrel!"

"True, true, he is always ready for mischief. If he had seen Verkhoffsky
and me, he would have thrown down his cards. But you, too, will not, I
hope, part from me?"

"Ammalat, I have not only quaffed wine from the same bottle with thee,
but I have drained milk from the same breast. I am thine, even if you
take it into your head to build yourself, like a vulture, a nest on the
rock of Khounzakh.... However, my advice would be"----

"No advice, Saphir Ali--no remonstrances.... It is now too late!"

"They would be drowned like flies in wine. But it is now time to sleep."

"Sleep, say you! Sleep, to me! No, I have bidden farewell to sleep. It
is time for me to awaken. Have you examined the gun, Saphir Ali--is the
flint good? Has not the powder on the shelf become damp with blood?"

"What is the matter with you, Ammalat? What leaden secret weighs upon
your heart? Your face is terrible--your speech is yet more frightful."

"And my deeds shall be yet more dreadful. Is it not true, Saphir Ali, my
Seltanetta--is she not beautiful? Observe! _my_ Seltanetta. Is it
possible that these are the wedding songs, Saphir Ali? Yes, yes, yes! I
understand. 'Tis the jackals demanding their prey. Spirits and wild
beasts, be patient awhile--I will content you! Ho, wine--more wine! more
blood!... I tell you!"

Ammalat fell on his bed in a drunken insensibility. Foam oozed out of
his mouth: convulsive movements shook his whole body. He uttered
unintelligible words, mingled with groans. Saphir Ali carefully
undressed him, laid him in the bed, enveloped him in the coverings, and
sat up the rest of the night watching over his foster-brother, in vain
seeking in his head the explanation of the, to him, enigmatical speech
and conduct of Ammalat.

CHAPTER XII.

In the morning, before the departure of the detachment, the captain on
duty came to Colonel Verkhoffsky to present his report, and to receive
the orders for the day. After the customary exchange of words, he said,
with an alarmed countenance: "Colonel, I have to communicate a most
important thing: our yesterday's signal-man, a soldier of my company,
Hamitoff, heard the conversation of Ammalat Bek with his nurse in
Bouinaki. He is a Tartar of Kazan, and understands pretty well the
dialect of this country. As far as he could hear and understand, the
nurse assured the Bek that you, with the Shamkhal, are preparing to send
him off to the galleys. Ammalat flew into a passion; said, that he knew
all this from the Khan, and swore to kill you with his own hand. Not
trusting his ears, however, the soldier determined to tell you nothing,
but to watch all his steps. Yesterday evening, he says, Ammalat spoke
with a horseman arrived from afar. On taking leave, he said: 'Tell the
Khan, that to-morrow, by sunrise, all will be over. Let him be ready: I
shall soon see him.'"

"And is this all, Captain?" demanded Verkhoffsky.

"I have nothing else to say; but I am much alarmed. I have passed my
life among the Tartars, Colonel, and I am convinced that it is madness
to trust the best of them. A born brother is not safe, while resting in
the arms of a brother."

"This is envy, Captain. Cain has left it as an eternal heirloom to all
men, and particularly to the neighbours of Ararat. Besides, there is no
difference between Ammalat and myself. I have done nothing for him but
good. I intend nothing but kindness. Be easy, Captain: I believe the
zeal of the signal-man, but I distrust his knowledge of the Tartar
language. Some similarity of words has led him into error, and when once
suspicion was awakened in his mind, every thing seemed an additional
proof. Really, I am not so important a person that Khans and Beks should
lay plots for my life. I know Ammalat well. He is passionate, but he has
a good heart, and could not conceal a bad intention two hours together."

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