It’s a cool morning. There is hoarfrost on the ground and, unlike yesterday, the road doesn’t give off dust. Kornei is not the same as yesterday either; he sits silent on the box and doesn’t hum. The three horses jog along, but in a little while, when the climb increases again, they move at a walking pace for ever so long.
The Terek Valley is at an end; the river curves into the mountains and away from our route. There is no vegetation anymore. Up from us sits a naked knoll, and at a place where we can see the road going zigzag all the way to the top, we get off and take a shortcut uphill, while the carriage makes one turn after another until it has reached us. From up here we again get a glimpse of the ice-covered Kazbek peak, which points up at the sky in the morning sun.
We again drive up the mountainside. Here and there the road is rooffed over on account of avalanches and landslides. It’s as though we are driving through tunnels with iron roofs over us. In many places the road has collapsed and repairs are going on; inspectors and engineers point and give orders to crowds of workmen. Of other people we again see herdsmen with huge flocks of sheep.
At another naked knoll Kornei stops the horse and leads us to a cross and a spring. He takes water into his hand and shows it to us; the water is boiling. Like him, we drink from the spring. The water is ice-cold but it boils, throwing off beads of foam; our hands turn white in the water, which tastes like club soda.
We keep going higher and higher; the hoarfrost persists and we have to wrap ourselves in our blankets again because of the cold. We’ll soon be at the highest point on our journey; my altimeter indicates almost 3,000 meters. A stone statue with an inscription gives the height in feet. Here Kornei unhitches one of the horses and ties it up to the back of the carriage. For from now on the horses won’t have to pull anymore, but only make themselves heavy and hold back.
We start downhill right away. Up here there is no plateau—the road is laid along the mountain ridge as the only passable place. The tall mountains round about are green and bare, and here too there are little haycocks to the very top.
The horses trot evenly downhill, at times slipping a step or two because they cannot hold back the carriage; but they do not fall. From Russian novels one receives the impression that in Russia they drive at an unheard-of speed. Pictures of Russian couriers also often show the horses in a fabulous chase, and even so the coachman’s whip points skyward. So we had formed the idea that we probably couldn’t avoid racing across the Caucasus with a four-in-hand, coming down on the other side like a pair of lunatics. We were surprised by the fact that the speed was very reasonable. Either Kornei Grigorevich was particularly careful with his horses, which he no doubt was, or the Russian poets and painters had exaggerated, which they no doubt had. Of all the drivers we saw from the train through Russia, there wasn’t a single one who drove conspicuously fast. If, on the other hand, you are interested in riding at breakneck speed, I know no better country for you than Finland. In Finnish cities I’ve experienced the utmost in that respect. The small Finnish horses, which resemble our West Norwegian breed, rush like the wind through the streets, and rounding the corners I’ve more than once floated on one wheel. The Finns feed their horses well and drive them hard; when I pleaded for the horse at times, I was called a “horse weeper,” with a smile. I have only once in my life reported a man to the police, and that man was a Finnish cabman….
The fever, a wakeful night, and the cold up here make me drowsy; I doze now and then and feel fine. At long intervals we meet carts hitched to two or four buffalo; as we drive slowly past them, the even rhythm of our carriage is broken and I wake up. We also pass a few flint-stone houses up here on the heights, herdsmen’s dwellings where the women sit on the roof in attractive blue sarafans working with yarn for rugs or clothes. When we pass they look at us briefly, talking among themselves, but when we look back a moment later, they have resumed their work. Half-naked children run after us for long stretches and can be driven back only with a copper coin.
The road is becoming rougher than ever, and the iron roofs over it more frequent. During the spring thaw I bet there are quite interesting avalanches hurtling along these roofs. On our left we see nothing but a bit of wall and beyond that the precipice. I’ve never seen such precipices before; I have to get down from the carriage occasionally and go on foot, keeping close to the rock wall. But the depths lure you, they lure you on. Looking down there now and then, I make out through my field glasses tiny little patches of fields at the bottom. When I sit in the carriage I hold on very firmly.
The sun beams at us, the spot of wax on my jacket has vanished completely, and we remove the blankets. Downhill it goes, always downhill; the chasms become even more terrifying; we wind our way in zigzag down through the gorges. The road is often collapsed, and burnous-clad men are repairing it. Kornei is not particularly attentive—he lets the horses stumble rather more than necessary, because he likes to gape into the depths sitting there on his high seat. We pass the Gudaur station in this manner.
Here there are many properly built stone houses, even one with two stories. The surroundings are bare, hard as rock, but it looks clean and pleasant here; some people stand in the doorways watching us as we pass the station. The idea occurs to me that it’s Sunday today, though it’s only Friday; these people standing in the doorways looked so free and contented. Maybe they follow Mohammedan custom, so that today really is their holy day.
We continue downhill in long zigzags, in and out between the rock walls. The telegraph wires that accompany us are sometimes fastened to the rock, but sometimes they run underground because of the avalanches. I no longer go on foot; it’s just too slow, delaying the whole expedition—but I’d much rather be on foot, for the sake of my nerves. A mail coach, with an armed seven-men Cossack escort, is approaching from the opposite direction; the driver blows his horn and we give way and stop while it passes. Then it’s downhill once more.
Kornei sits with slack reins looking somnolently into the endless depths; if one of the horses slips, another must back it up. I don’t dare take hold of Kornei and shake him, because then he would have his attention distracted even further from the horses. I have to let matters take their course. Here the road, built above the naked rock wall, rests on iron logs; it is hanging in the air. However, we didn’t see this until we had wound our way down the mountain in several hairpin turns; then we put our heads back and looked up at the route we had traveled. The sight made us tremble.
In one of the worst places, where even the small miserable wall on the outer edge of the road had collapsed, two little boys of six or eight pop up and begin to dance and turn somersaults for us. The little depraved creatures no doubt had a permanent begging station here when the traffic was busy. I was deeply annoyed that they popped up so suddenly, even making the horses shy toward the rock wall, so I tried to chase them away with my excellent stick from Vladikavkaz; but it was no use. They continued their dance and, what’s more, had the daredevil cheek to turn a little somersault on the shoulder at a point where the wall had disappeared into the abyss. There was nothing for it but to get out one’s pennies and pay them. They looked at us with the most audacious, wide-open eyes and pretended not to have the faintest idea of the reason for His Excellency’s furious mien. When they had picked up the money from the road, they again crept outside the wall on the edge of the precipice, where they must have had a small foothold to stand on. And if another carriage happened to come by in the course of the day, they would again flip their little bodies onto the road and dance their perilous dance.
Along the inner edge of the road where the sun shines, coltsfoots and shaggy thistles grow; eventually we come across dandelions and a blue carnation that is extraordinarily attractive; farther down we encounter red clover. Our descent goes on hour after hour, though the horses trot all along. After nearly three hours we finally reach a somewhat flatter road; we are at the Mleti station and will take a rest. Mleti is situated 1,500 meters above sea level, so in the last three hours we have come down 1,500 meters from the top of the mountain. Here the sun is hot, and in addition to the blankets we have discarded as much clothing as possible.
Kornei wants to rest for four hours. Astounded, I yell and shake my head at him for a long while. Kornei then points at the sun and gives us to understand that the heat will get worse, but in the course of four hours it will abate somewhat; nevertheless we will reach the Ananuri station before evening. We think it over and examine our contour map: it’s still forty versts to Ananuri, but thirty-five versts of the road slope sharply downhill, so it will go very fast. We let Kornei have his four hours and wave to him that, all right, we’re agreed.
•
Here in Mleti the telegraph wires are fourfold. Outside our window there are rowan trees loaded with berries, and a short distance from the station there is a hazel copse; but otherwise there is no vegetation. It’s the haying season, and a needlessly large crowd of laborers are carting hay from the fields. Mleti is a big place, maybe the biggest of all in the mountains, but the uncleanliness is very bad, here as elsewhere. After we felt obliged to clean our knives and forks on our napkins, it turned out that the napkins themselves had to be discarded, forcing us to use our handkerchiefs. But here, too, the food was tasty; we simply had to avoid thinking of how it might have been handled in the kitchen.
While we were dining, a gentleman suddenly stepped into the room and stood there looking at us. We return his look in amazement: it was our fellow traveler from the train, the officer who was supposed to have accompanied us over the mountains but got off and went to Pyatigorsk. He gave a start when he recognized us, turned upon his heel and went out the door without saying a word. No carriage had reached the station since our arrival, so the officer got here before we did, and this was incomprehensible to us. He had interrupted his stay in Pyatigorsk ahead of time and had used the days we stopped in Vladikavkaz to slip past us—was that it? And why had he made all this fuss about avoiding us? After all, we hadn’t wanted his companionship. And why had he stopped in Mleti?
When I was smoking by myself on the veranda after dinner, the officer came through the door and straight up to me. He tipped his hat and said in English that I was no doubt surprised to see him here. I replied that I really hadn’t considered where the officer rightly ought to be at the moment. Then he just looked at me and didn’t ask me any further questions.
“You didn’t stay long in Pyatigorsk,” I said to be polite.
“No,” he replied, “I finished my business there earlier than expected.”
Sitting down while he was on his feet, I got up, but after standing for a few moments I turned my back on him and went in.
The officer followed.
In the corridor was a flight of stairs up to the second floor; the officer stopped at the stairs and invited me to come up with him.
At first I wanted to go on into the dining room, to show I felt offended by this stranger, but then the thought flashes upon me that I am in Russia, after all, and that many Russians are a bit different from other people.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Be so kind as to follow me to my room,” he replied politely. “I want to tell you something.”
After thinking it over for a moment, I followed him, although I disliked his face.
When we entered his room he closed the door and the window, in spite of the heat.
“Please sit down,” he said. “Of course, you’re surprised to find me here. The fact is, I finished my business in Pyatigorsk sooner than expected.”
“You already told me that,” I said.
“I was looking for a man but didn’t find him.”
“What man? Why should he be a concern of mine?”
“Right. In any case, let me tell you at once that I intend to speak politely.”
Laughing, I asked, “You do? Thanks.”
“You must’ve noticed that I started when I caught sight of you on entering the dining room downstairs a little while ago. That start was an act.”
“An act? Really.”
“I knew you were sitting there.”
“Well, so what?”
“And when I left the train and went to Pyatigorsk I didn’t thereby let you out of my sight.”
Growing impatient, I said, “Listen, my good man, what do you want with me?”
“I’m traveling on official business,” he said. “My travel actually concerns someone else, but that doesn’t mean that I neglect my business with you. Where do you come from?”
“From Finland.”
He picked up a document, looked at it and said, “That’s correct.”
“Correct?” I exclaimed. “What’s correct?” I was really beginning to imagine the possibility that it was a police officer I was dealing with, and therefore I replied that I came from Finland, which was the truth.
“We Russians aren’t hard people, you know,” he went on. “I’m reluctant to make trouble for you on your journey.”
“On the contrary, it’s a pleasure to talk to you,” I replied.
I quickly considered what he might want with me if he were a police officer. Naturally, he made a ridiculous mistake when thinking he had a quarrel with me. I came from Finland, where I’d lived for a year, had done nothing wrong, had never attempted to do anything wrong. I had given a lecture at the University of Helsingfors, but it was on a literary subject, and a couple of articles that I’d written for Finnish papers had also been about literary topics. I was of no importance whatsoever in a political context.
“You’re going to the Orient?” the officer asked.
“Yes. But would you, please, tell me what you want from me.”
“What I want?” he replied. “I would prefer to let you go about your travels. We Russians aren’t hard people, you know. But I have my orders.”
“You do?” I said, laughing. “And what is the nature of your orders?”
“Permit me to ask you a question,” the officer replied. “Weren’t all post horses engaged when you got to Vladikavkaz?”
“Yes. A company of Frenchmen had hired all the horses for a week.”
Then the officer smiled and said, “I was the one who had hired them.”
“You?”
“By telegram from Pyatigorsk.”
“Well. And so what?”
“I wanted to have your departure postponed for a day, so that I could get to the mountains ahead of you.”
This sounded unbelievable, but it was said by a grown-up man sitting right there.
“Perhaps you could tell me what you really want with me,” I said.
The officer replied, “I’m going to arrest you.”
“Why? For what?”
“Well, all that you’ll know later. I’m not an examining magistrate. I only have my orders.”
“And your orders are to arrest me?”
“Yes.”
I sat awhile thinking it over.
“I don’t believe you,” I said, rising.
The officer walked up to the window, leaving me free to use the door if I wanted to. This made an impression on me.
“In any case, you’re making an egregious mistake,” I said. “You’re mistaking me for someone else. Here’s my passport.”
And I showed him my passport.
He looked at the passport, read in it, closed it again, and returned it to me.
“I know all this already,” he said. “I knew that your passport was in order.”
“Then you will admit that you’ve got the wrong person, won’t you?”
“The wrong person?” he replied with a hint of impatience. He took some photographs from his pocket, all of the same size, unmounted. He selected one of them and handed it to me.
I could scarcely believe my eyes: it was a photograph of myself. It took some time before I recovered from my surprise—I forgot to look at the photographer’s name, forgot to look at the clothes I was photographed in; anyhow, I didn’t recognize the picture, had never seen it before, but it was a profile of me.
After the picture had been returned to him and put back in his wallet, my suspicion was awakened and I said, “That picture couldn’t, by any chance, have been taken in the train to Vladikavkaz, could it? I don’t remember seeing it before. Let me take another look at it.”
He hesitated. “Wasn’t it your picture?” he asked.
“Please let me see it again,” I said. “It was a snapshot—I thought I recognized the clothes, the very same I’m wearing now.”
He made his decision and quickly handed me the picture once more, saying, “Of course they are the same clothes you’re wearing now. I photographed you in the train. That’s what I always do when I shadow someone. So you see, I haven’t got the wrong person.”
Since he took it that way, it again sounded reasonable, and once more I felt rather strangely affected for a moment. If this man arrested me, our whole itinerary would be screwed up; moreover, God only knows what endless troubles I might get into in this country, where I couldn’t hold my own. Rather crestfallen, I said, “Under other circumstances it would’ve been a pleasure to let myself be arrested, for the sake of giving some variety to my travels, but right now it’s rather inconvenient. I’m not alone.”
“I’m very sorry about that,” he replied. “I wish I could spare both you and your companion.”
I thought the situation over in earnest. “Where, then, will you take me?” I asked.
“I’m going to take you back to Vladikavkaz,” he replied.
“Will you arrest both of us?” I then asked. “No, only you,” he replied.
Back over the mountains again! I had nothing against the trip per se, but our travel to the Orient would be delayed or perhaps come to nothing.
“Couldn’t you take me to Tiflis instead?” I asked. “Tiflis is on our way, and in Baku there is a consul we can turn to; he will clear up this little misunderstanding in no time.”
The officer deliberated. “To do my part in getting you out of trouble as soon as possible, I’ll take you to Tiflis,” he replied.
“I’m very grateful to you,” I said.
We both sized up the situation. Then he bowed and said, “You may go anywhere you like until we depart.”
My suspicion wouldn’t quite leave me and I asked, “Why did you say at first that you would take me to Vladikavkaz?”
“First to Vladikavkaz,” he replied, once again betraying some impatience. “I would first bring you to Vladikavkaz. That would also have been most convenient for you. Because actually you will be going to St. Petersburg.”
“Ah.”
“And if I take you to Tiflis, it’s simply to comply with your personal wish. But it’s against my orders.”
“Let me see your papers,” I said abruptly.
Smiling, he took from his pocket a large stamped document, which he presented to me. The language and the characters were Russian, so I didn’t understand any of it. But the officer pointed here and there in the document, explaining that there was his name, there it said that he was a police officer, and there it said finally that, wherever he went, the police should assist him.
Not daring to go any further, I retreated and fell silent.
“Then perhaps you’ll permit me to go down and inform my companion that our journey has been interrupted,” I said.
“I’m considering it,” he replied after a moment. “And I’m mostly considering it for the sake of your companion. Well, don’t misunderstand me, also for your sake. It will be very unpleasant for you both.”
“Just let’s get to Tiflis and we’ll be home free.”
“I’m reluctant to deprive you of your high hopes,” he replied, “but I must warn you that getting home free may take a long time.”
“But I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong!” I cried.
“Of course not. I believe you. But to prove that will require much time and a great deal of unpleasant work. Take my word for it.”
And in regard to this I believed him. I felt uneasy again and stared at the floor, absorbed in thought.
“There may possibly be a way out,” he said. “I’m merely mentioning it.”
“There is a way out?”
“There may be a way out. With a little mutual good will.”
“How?”
“We Russians aren’t hard people, you know,” he said. “We occasionally come to terms with one another.”
I stared at the man. “Can I come to terms with you?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders and, spreading out his arms in a Jewish gesture, said, “There is a way out. The suggestion of a way.”
Then I instantly felt safe and burst out laughing. I patted his shoulder and said, “You are magnificent, a real gem! How can I reward you for the last half hour’s entertainment?”
He stood there calmly, on his dignity, letting me pat him on the shoulder.
“I’ve witnessed many such exclamations,” he said. “I readily permit them. They provide relief, after all.”
“But now you must pardon my leaving,” I said. “And you will also pardon me for continuing my journey to Tiflis in our own carriage and without you.”
“I have no objection to that,” he replied. “But at every single station where you stop, be prepared to find me taking a rest too. You’ll arrive in Ananuri this evening; so will I.”
“Welcome!” I said and left.
He wouldn’t come, of course. He was not a police officer, he was a poor swindler who was trying to blackmail me. He had probably been to Pyatigorsk and gambled away his pennies, and now he found himself in the Caucasus and couldn’t get any further; he was stuck.
I would put him completely out of my mind and not say a word about the man to my traveling companion.
We left Mleti.