From DerbÉnd to SmolÉnsk. October, 1819.

Two months—how easy to say it!—two centuries have past, dearest Maria, while your letter was creeping to me. Twice has the moon made her journey round the earth. You cannot imagine, dearest, how dreary is this idle objectless life to me; with nothing to employ me—not even correspondence. I go out, I meet the KazÁk [26] with a secret trembling of heart: with what joy, with what exstacy do I kiss the lines traced by a pure hand, inspired by a pure heart—yours, my Maria! With a greedy rapture my eyes devour the letter: then I am happy—I am wild with joy. But hardly have I reclosed it when unquiet thoughts again begin to haunt me. "All this is well," I think; "but all this is past, and I desire to know the present. Is she well? Does she love me yet? Oh! will the happy time come soon—soon—when neither time nor distance can divide us? When the expression of our love will be no longer chilled by the cold medium of the post!" Pardon, pardon, dearest, these black thoughts of absence. When heart is—with heart, the lover trusts in all; in separation he doubts all. You command—for such to me is your wish—that I should describe my life to you, day by day, hour by hour. Oh, what sad and tiresome annals mine would be, were I to obey you! You know well, traitress, that I live not without you. My existence—'tis but the trace of a shadow on the desert sand. My duty alone, which wearies at least, if it cannot amuse me, helps me to get rid of the time. Thrown in a climate ruinous to health, in society which stifles the soul, I cannot find among my companions a single person who can sympathise with me. Nor do I find among the Asiatics any who can understand my thoughts. All that surrounds me is either so savage or so limited, that it excites sadness and discontent. Sooner will you obtain fire by striking ice on stone, than interest from such an existence. But your wish to me is sacred; and I will present you, in brief, with my last week. It was more varied than usual.

[Footnote 26: The KazÁks are employed in the Russian army frequently as couriers.]

I have told you in one of my letters, if I remember, that we are returning from the campaign of AkoÚsh, with the commander-in-chief. We have done our work; Shah Ali Khan has fled into Persia; we have burned a number of villages, hay, and corn; and we have eaten the sheep of the rebels, when we were hungry. When the snow had driven the insurgents from their mountain-fastnesses, they yielded and presented hostages. We then marched to the Fort of BoÚrnaya, [27] and from this station our detachment was ordered into winter quarters. Of this division my regiment forms a part, and our head-quarters are at DerbÉnd.

[Footnote 27: Stormy.]

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."

The OuzdÉns were conducted away.

There remained one Tartar bek, whom we had not remarked. This was a young man of twenty-five, of unusual beauty, graceful as the Belvidere Apollo. He bowed slightly to the commander-in chief as he approached him, raised his cap, and again resumed his proud indifferent expression; unshaken resignation to his fate was written on his features.

The commander-in-chief fixed his stern eye upon his face, but the young man neither changed countenance nor quivered an eyelash.

"AmmalÁt Bek," said AlexÉi PetrÓvitch, after a pause, "do you remember that you are a Russian subject? that the Russian laws are above you?"

"It would have been impossible to forget that," replied the Bek: "if I had found in those laws a protection for my rights, I should not now stand before you a prisoner."

"Ungrateful boy!" cried the commander-in-chief; "your father—you yourself, have been the enemy of the Russians. Had it been during the Persian domination of your race, not even the ashes would have remained; but our Emperor was generous, and instead of punishing you he gave you lands. And how did you repay his kindness? By secret plot and open revolt! This is not all: you received and sheltered in your house a sworn foe to Russia; you permitted him, before your eyes, traitorously to slaughter a Russian officer. In spite of all this, had you brought me a submissive head, I would have pardoned you, on account of your youth and the customs of your nation. But you fled to the mountains, and with Suleiman Akhmet Khan you committed violence within the Russian bounds; you were beaten, and again you make an incursion with DjemboulÁt. You cannot but know what fate awaits you."

"I do," coldly answered AmmalÁt Bek: "I shall be shot."

"No! a bullet is too honourable a death for a brigand," cried the angry general: "a cart with the shafts turned up—a cord round your neck—that is the fitting reward."

"It is all one how a man dies," replied AmmalÁt, "provided he dies speedily. I ask one favour: do not let me be tormented with a trial: that is thrice death."

"Thou deservest a hundred deaths, audacious! but I promise you. Be it so: to-morrow thou shalt die. Assemble a court-martial," continued the commander-in-chief, turning to his staff: "the fact is clear, the proof is before your eyes, and let all be finished at one sitting, before my departure."

He waved his hand, and the condemned prisoner was removed.

The fate of this fine young man touched us all. Every body was whispering about him; every body pitying him; the more, that there appeared no means of saving him. Every one knew well the necessity of punishing this double treason, and the inflexibility of AlexÉi PetrÓvitch in matters of this publicity: and, therefore, no one dared to intercede for the unfortunate culprit. The commander-in-chief was unusually thoughtful for the remainder of the evening, and the party separated early. I determined to speak a word for him—"Perhaps," I thought, "I may obtain some commutation of the sentence." I opened one of the curtains of the tent, and advanced softly into the presence of AlexÉi PetrÓvitch. He was sitting alone, resting both arms on a table; before him lay a despatch for the Emperor, half finished, and which he was writing without any previous copy. AlexÉi PetrÓvitch knew me as an officer of the suite, and we had been acquainted since the battle of Kulm. At that time he had been very kind to me, and therefore my visit was not surprising to him. "I see—I see, EvstÁfii IvÁnovitch, you have a design upon my heart! In general you come in as if you were marching up to a battery, but now you hardly walk on tip-toe. This is not for nothing. I am sure you are come with a request about AmmalÁt."

"You have guessed it," said I to AlexÉi PetrÓvitch, not knowing how to begin.

"Sit down, then, and let us talk it over," he replied. Then, after a silence of a couple of minutes, he continued, kindly, "I know that a report goes about respecting me, that I treat the lives of men as a plaything—their blood as water. The most cruel tyrants have hidden their bloodthirstiness under a mask of benevolence. They feared a reputation for cruelty, though they feared not to commit deeds of cruelty; but I—I have intentionally clothed myself with this sort of character, and purposely dressed my name in terror. I desire, and it is my duty to desire, that my name should protect our frontier more effectually than lines and fortresses—that a single word of mine should be, to the Asiatics, more certain, more inevitable, than death. The European may be reasoned with: he is influenced by conscience, touched by kindness, attached by pardon, won by benefits; but to the Asiatic all this is an infallible proof of weakness; and to him I—even from motives of philanthropy—have shown myself unmitigably severe. A single execution preserves a hundred Russians from destruction, and deters a thousand Mussulmans from treason. EvstÁfii IvÁnovitch, many will not believe my words, because each conceals the cruelty of his nature, and his secret revengefulness, under excuses of necessity—each says, with a pretence of feeling, 'Really I wish from my heart to pardon, but be judges yourselves—can I? What, after this, are laws—what is the general welfare?' All this I never say; in my eyes no tear is seen when I sign a sentence of death: but my heart bleeds."

AlexÉi PetrÓvitch was touched; he walked agitatedly several times up and down the tent; then seated himself, and continued—"Never, in spite of all this, never has it been so difficult to me to punish as this day. He who, like me, has lived much among the Asiatics, ceases to trust in Lavater, and places no more confidence in a handsome face than in a letter of recommendation; but the look, the expression, the demeanour of this AmmalÁt, have produced on me an unusual impression. I am sorry for him."

"A generous heart," said I, "is a better oracle than reason."

"The heart of a conscientious man, my dear friend, ought to be under the command of reason. I certainly can pardon AmmalÁt, but I ought to punish him. DaghestÁn is still filled with the enemies of Russia, notwithstanding their assurances of submission; even Tarki is ready to revolt at the first movement in the mountains: we must rivet their chains by punishment, and show the Tartars that no birth can screen the guilty—that all are equal in the sight of the Russian law. If I pardon AmmalÁt, all his relations will begin to boast that YermÓloff is afraid of the ShamkhÁl." I remarked, that indulgence shown to so extensive a clan would have a good effect on the country—in particular the ShamkhÁl.

"The Shamkhal is an Asiatic," interrupted AlexÉi PetrÓvitch; "he would be delighted that this heir to the ShamkhalÁt should be sent to the Elysian fields. Besides, I care very little to guess or gratify the wishes of his kinsmen."

I saw that the commander-in-chief began to waver, and I urged him more pressingly. "Let me serve for three years," said I; "do not give me leave of absence this year—only have mercy on this young man. He is young, and Russia may find in him a faithful servant. Generosity is never thrown away."

AlexÉi PetrÓvitch shook his head.

"I have made many ungrateful," said he, "already; but be it so. I pardon him, and not by halves—that is not my way. I thank you for having helped me to be merciful, not to say weak. Only remember my words: You wish to take him to yourself—do not trust him; do not warm a serpent in your bosom."

I was so delighted with my success, that, hastily quitting the commander-in-chief, I ran to the tent in which AmmalÁt Bek was confined. Three sentinels were guarding him; a lantern was burning in the midst. I entered; the prisoner was lying wrapped up in his boÚrka, and tears were sparkling on his face. He did not hear my entrance, so profoundly was he buried in thought. To whom is it pleasant to part with life? I was rejoiced that I brought comfort to him at so melancholy a moment.

"AmmalÁt," said I, "Allah is great, and the SardÁr is merciful; he has granted you your life!"

The delighted prisoner started up, and endeavoured to reply, but the breath was stifled in his breast. Immediately, however, a shade of gloom covered his features. "Life!" he exclaimed; "I understand this generosity! To consign a man to a breathless dungeon, without light or air—to send him to eternal winter, to a night never illumined by a star—to bury him alive in the bowels of the earth—to take from him not only the power to act, not only the means of life, but even the privilege of telling his kinsmen of his sad lot—to deny him not only the right to complain, but even the power of murmuring his sorrow to the wind. And this you call life! this unceasing torment you boast of as rare generosity! Tell the General that I want not—that I scorn—such a life."

"You are mistaken, AmmalÁt," I cried; "you are fully pardoned: remain what you were, the master of your actions and possessions. There is your sword. The commander-in-chief is sure that in future you will unsheathe it only for the Russians. I offer you one condition; come and live with me till the report of your actions has died away. You shall be to be as a friend, as a brother."

This struck the Asiatic. Tears shone in his eyes. "The Russians have conquered me," he said: "pardon me, colonel, that I thought ill of all of you. From henceforth I am a faithful servant of the Russian Tsar—a faithful friend to the Russians, soul and sword. My sword, my sword!" he cried, gazing fixedly on his costly blade; "let these tears wash from thee the Russian blood and the Tartar naphtha! [30] When and how can I reward you, with my service, for liberty and life?"

[Footnote 30: The Tartars, to preserve their weapons, and to produce a black colour on them, smoke the metal, and then rub it with naphtha.]

I am sure, my dear Maria, that you will keep me, for this, one of your sweetest kisses. Ever, ever, when feeling or acting generously, I console myself with the thought, "My Maria will praise me for this!" But when is this to happen, my darling? Fate is but a stepmother to us. Your mourning is prolonged, and the commander-in-chief has decidedly refused me leave of absence; nor am I much displeased, annoying as it is: my regiment is in a bad state of discipline—indeed, as bad as can be imagined; besides, I am charged with the construction of new barracks and the colonization of a married company. If I were absent for a month, every thing would go wrong. If I remain, what a sacrifice of my heart!

Here we have been at DerbÉnd three days. AmmalÁt lives with me: he is silent, sad, and savage; but his fear is interesting, nevertheless. He speaks Russian very well, and I have commenced teaching him to read and write. His intelligence is unusually great. In time, I hope to make him a most charming Tartar. (The conclusion of the letter has no reference to our story.)

Fragment of another letter from Colonel VerhÓffsky to his fiancÉe, written six months after the preceding.

From DerbÉnd to SmolÉnsk.

Your favourite AmmalÁt, my dearest Maria, will soon be quite Russianized. The Tartar Beks, in general, think the first step of civilization consists in the use of the unlawful wine and pork. I, on the contrary, have begun by re-educating the mind of AmmalÁt. I show him, I prove to him, what is bad in the customs of his nation, and what is good in those of ours; I explain to him universal and eternal truths. I read with him, I accustom him to write, and I remark with pleasure that he takes the deepest interest in composition. I may say, indeed, that he is passionately fond of it; for with him every wish, every desire, every caprice, is a passion—an ardent and impatient passion. It is difficult for a European to imagine, and still more difficult to understand, the inflammability of the unruly, or rather unbridled, passions of an Asiatic, with whom the will alone has been, since childhood, the only limit to his desires. Our passions are like domestic animals; or, if they are wild beasts, they are tamed, and taught to dance upon the rope of the "conveniences," with a ring through their nostrils and their claws cut: in the East they are free as the lion and the tiger.

It is curious to observe, on the countenance of AmmalÁt, the blush with which his features are covered at the least contradiction; the fire with which he is filled at any dispute; but as soon as he finds that he is in the wrong, he turns pale, and seems ready to weep. "I am in the wrong," says he; "pardon me: takhsirumdam ghitch, (blot out my fault;) forget that I am wrong, and that you have pardoned me." He has a good heart, but a heart always ready to be set on fire, either by a ray of the sun or by a spark of hell. Nature has gifted him with all that is necessary to render him a man, as well in his moral as physical constitution; but national prejudices, and the want of education, have done all that is possible to disfigure and to corrupt these natural qualities. His mind is a mixture of all sorts of inconsistencies, of the most absurd ideas, and of the soundest thoughts: sometimes he seizes instantly abstract propositions when they are presented to him in a simple form, and again he will obstinately oppose the plainest and most evident truths: because the former are quite new to him, and the latter are obscured by previous prejudices and impressions. I begin to fancy that it is easier to build a new edifice than to reconstruct an old one.

But how happens it that AmmalÁt is melancholy and absent? He makes great progress in every thing that does not require an attentive and continuous reflection, and a gradual development; but when the matter involves remote consequences, his mind resembles a short fire-arm, which sends its charge quickly, direct, and strongly, but not to any distance. Is this a defect of his mind? or is it that his attention is entirely occupied with something else? … For a man of twenty-three, however, it is easy to imagine the cause. Sometimes he appears to be listening attentively to what I am telling him; but when I ask for his answer, he seems all abroad. Sometimes I find the tears flowing from his eyes: I address him—he neither hears nor sees me. Last night he was restless in his sleep, and I heard the word "seltanÉt—seltanÉt," (power, power,) frequently escape him. Is it possible that the love of power can so torment a young heart? No, no! another passion agitates, troubles the soul of AmmalÁt. Is it for me to doubt of the symptoms of love's divine disease? He is in love—he is passionately in love; but with whom? Oh, I will know! Friendship is as curious as a woman.