Kéraban the Inflexible (Part 1)/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII.
SHOWING HOW OUR TRAVELLERS CROSSED THE ANCIENT TAURIDA, AND WITH WHAT TEAM THEY QUITTED IT.
The Crimea! the Taurisian Chersonese of the ancients; a quadrilateral, or rather an irregular lozenge, which seems to have been lifted by enchantment from the Italian shores; a peninsula which M. de Lesseps would transform into an island with two strokes of his knife; a corner of the earth which has been the coveted possession, and the objective, of all the jealous peoples who dispute for the empire of the East; an ancient kingdom of the Bosphorus, which the Heracleans subdued six hundred years before the Christian era; which yielded to Mithridates, the Alains, the Goths, the Huns, the Hungarians, the Tartars, the Genoese; a province which Mahomet II. made a rich dependency of his empire, and which Catherine II. annexed definitively to Russia in 1791!
How is it possible that this country, blessed by the gods, and disputed for by mortals, should escape the network of mythological legend? Have not wiseacres sought in the marshes of Sivach the traces of the gigantic works of the problematic people of Atlantis? Have not the poets of antiquity placed one of the entrances to the infernal regions near Cape Kerberian, the three "moles" of which form the heads of Cerberus? Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, become a priestess of Diana "in Tauris," was here on the point of sacrificing to the goddess her brother Orestes, cast upon the shores of Cape Parthenium.
And now the Crimea in its southern part—worth more than all the arid islands of the archipelago—with its Tchadir Dagh rising four thousand feet to a table-land, whereon a feast could be laid for all the deities of Olympus; with its amphitheatres of guests, whose green mantle falls to the seashore; its "bouquets" of chestnut-trees, cypress, olives, Judas-trees, almonds, and laburnum, and its waterfalls,—is it not the most beautiful jewel in the crown of provinces which extends from the Black Sea to the Arctic Ocean? Is it not that vivifying and temperate climate that the Russians of the north as well as of the south unite in seeking; the former to gain a refuge from the severities of a hyperborean winter, the latter to find shelter from the dryness of the east winds? Have they not founded colonies, and built castles, houses, villas, and cottages around Cape Aïa, whose ram-like head defies the attacks of the Black Sea's waves, even to the extreme south of Tauris? Here we find Yalta and Aloupka, which belong to Prince Woronsow—a feudal manor outwardly, a dream of an oriental imagination within; Kisil Tasch, belonging to Count Poniatowski; Arteck, to Prince André Galitzin; Marsanda, Orcanda, Eriklik, imperial properties, and Livadia, a splendid palace with its cascades and streams, and whose winter gardens are the favourite retreat of the Empress of all the Russias.
Here all dispositions—the curious, the sentimental, the artistic, the romantic—will find something to satisfy them. This little corner of the earth is a microcosm wherein Europe and Asia mingle. Here we find Tartar villages, Greek towns, oriental cities, with mosques, minarets, muezzins, dervishes, monasteries of Russian foundation, seraglios, thebaïdes in which many romantic adventures are buried; holy places, to which pilgrims converge; a Jewish mountain, which belongs to the tribe of Karaites; and a valley of Jehoshaphat filled with tombs, like an antechamber to its prototype by the Cedron, where thousands of the justified will unite once again at the summons of the last trump.
What wonderful places Van Mitten had to see!—what novel impressions would he not have to note in this country, to which a strange destiny had led him! But his friend Kéraban did not travel for the purpose of seeing anything; and Ahmet, besides being familiar with the Crimea, would not allow an hour more than what was absolutely necessary to be spent in even a cursory examination.
"Perhaps, after all," said Van Mitten to himself, "perhaps I may be able, in passing, to obtain a light impression of this antique Chersonese which has been so justly praised."
But it was not to be. The chaise continued its course by the shortest way, following an oblique line, from north to south-west, without passing through the centre or touching the southern shore of the ancient Tauris. Indeed, such a route as Van Mitten would have followed had been vetoed at a consultation wherein he had no voice. If, by passing through the Crimea, they could shorten the tour of the Sea of Azof—which route would have lengthened the journey one hundred and fifty leagues at the least—they would gain by cutting direct from Pérékop to the peninsula of Kertsch. Then, from the other side of the Strait of Jenikale, the peninsula of Taman would offer a regular passage to the Caucasian territories.
So the chaise continued its way along the narrow isthmus to which the Crimea hangs like a great orange to a bough. On one side is the bay of Pérékop, on the other the marshes of Sivach, better known under the name of the Putrid Sea—a vast tarn fed by the waters of the Tauris and the Sea of Azof, to which the cutting of Ghénitché serves as a canal.
The travellers, as they passed, were able to observe the Sivach, which is scarcely three feet deep, and in which the degree of saltness is almost at "saturation point" in certain places. Now as it is in such spots that the salt crystals are deposited, naturally the "Putrid Sea" could be made the most productive salt-marsh in the world. It must be confessed that the odours of the Sivach are not pleasant. The air is impregnated with sulphuretted hydrogen. The fish that penetrate into the lake are quickly killed. The Putrid Sea resembles in this respect the Lake Asphaltites in Palestine.
The railway from Alexandroff to Sebastopol traverses this marsh. So Seigneur Kéraban heard with horror the whistling of the locomotives, and the rumbling of the trains upon the rails which are sometimes washed by the dense waters of the Putrid Sea.
Next day, on the 31st of August, the travellers found themselves journeying upon a road through a fertile country. The leaves of the olive-trees, blown back by the wind, seemed to be sprinkled with quicksilver; dark green cypresses, magnificent oaks and arbutus of great height were numerous. Everywhere upon the slopes were vineyards, which produce wines little inferior to some good French vintages.
Thanks to the liberality of Ahmet, no delays were met with: the horses were always at hand to be harnessed, and the postillions, frequently rewarded, were always willing to take the shortest cuts. In the evening they had passed the long straggling village of Dorte, and some leagues farther on they would reach the borders of the Putrid Sea again. At this place the curious lagoon is only separated from the Sea of Azof by a tongue of sand, the average breadth of which is about a quarter of a league. This tongue of sand is called the Arrow of Arabat, and extends from the village of that name to Ghénitché northwards, on terra firma, divided only by a cutting of three hundred feet, through which the water from the Sea of Azof enters the marsh, as already stated.
At daybreak Seigneur Kéraban and his companions were surrounded by clouds of damp vapour, thick miasmas, which gradually dispersed under the influence of the sun's rays.
The country was less wooded and more deserted here. A few dromedaries were noticed—animals of great size—and their appearance gave somewhat of an Arabic touch to the landscape. The few carriages that passed were of wood, without a particle of iron, and creaked and groaned loudly. Their appearance was primitive in the extreme; but in the villages, and in the more isolated farms, Tartar generosity and hospitality are continually the prevailing features. Any one may enter, seat himself at table, eat and drink as much as he pleases, and pay his score with a simple "Thank you."
It need scarcely be said that our travellers never abused these simple customs, which are rapidly disappearing. They left always some sufficient remuneration as a memento of their journey. That evening the team, fatigued by such a long stage, stopped at the bourgade of Arabat, at the southern extremity of the "Arrow." There a fortress has been erected, and is surrounded by houses scattered in all directions. All about this part of the country are quantities of fennel, the hiding-places of adders; and whole fields of water-melons, the crop of which is very abundant.
It was nine o'clock in the evening when the chaise was stopped before an auberge of small pretensions. It was the best in the place. In the forsaken Chersonese it does not pay to be too particular, and our travellers had to put up with the inn.
"Nephew Ahmet," said Kéraban, "we have travelled for many days and nights without any more delay than was necessary to change horses. Now, for my own part, I shall not be sorry to have a few hours' sleep, even in a hotel bed!"
"I shall be delighted to do the same," said Van Mitten, rubbing his hips to get rid of his stiffness.
"What! lose twelve hours?" exclaimed Ahmet. "Twelve hours in a journey of six weeks?"
"Do you wish to argue the point?" asked Kéraban, in the slightly aggressive tone he usually adopted.
"No, uncle—no," said Ahmet. "When you have need of repose—"
"Well, I have need of repose now; so has Van Mitten and Bruno, I suppose, as well as Nizib, who is only too glad to get it."
"Seigneur Kéraban," said Bruno, "I regard this idea of yours as one of the best you have ever had, and all the more praiseworthy if supper be included and served first."
This suggestion of Bruno was very much to the point, as the provisions which had been carried in the chaise were rapidly diminishing, and what remained it would be necessary to leave untouched until the travellers reached Kertsch, an important town in the peninsula of the same name, where they could obtain an abundant supply.
Unfortunately, if the beds of the Arabat Inn were pretty good, even for travellers of such distinction, the arrangements of the kitchen left much to be desired. Tourists are not numerous in the Taurida: the principal guests at the auberge of Arabat are merchants or salt-buyers, people not difficult to please, who sleep on the hard beds, and eat whatever is put before them.
Seigneur Kéraban and his companions had to put up with a meagre repast—that is to say, a dish of pilaw, the national food, but with more rice than fowl, and more bone than flesh. Besides, the fowl was so old and tough that it nearly resisted and defied Kéraban himself; but the solid molars of the headstrong Turk gained the victory at last, and he did not yield any more than he had ever done.
After this dish a veritable tureen of yaourtz, or curdled milk, came upon the board to assist in the digestion of the pilaw: then some cakes, of a not very appetizing character, called katlamas.
Bruno and Nizib were scarcely as well supplied as their masters, as might be expected. Their jaws would, no doubt, have done justice to the toughest of fowls, but they had not the opportunity to exercise them in that way. The pilaw on their table was substituted by a black substance, something like a thin brick from the chimney-back.
"What is that?" asked Bruno.
"I don't know what they call it," replied Nizib.
"What! you a native of the country, and—"
"I am not a native of the country."
"Well, very nearly—you are a Turk," replied Bruno. "Well, my friend, taste a piece of this dried boot-sole, and tell me what you think of it."
Nizib, always willing, took piece of the said leather sole, and bit it.
"Well?" asked Bruno.
"Well, it is not good, but it is possible to eat it, all the same."
"Yes, Nizib, when one is dying of hunger, and one has no other choice of food."
Then Bruno boldly attacked the dish, like a man who has decided not to get thin, but to risk all in the attempt to keep up appearances. And this the men did, aided by several glasses of a certain alcoholized beer.
Suddenly Nizib cried, "Allah protect me!"
"What has happened?" inquired Bruno.
"Suppose what I have eaten prove to be pork?"
"Pork!" exclaimed Bruno. "Ah! just so, Nizib. A good Mussulman, like you, is not permitted to partake of that excellent but unclean animal. Well, it seems to me that if the thing we have eaten is pork, we have only one course open to us—"
"That is—?"
"To digest it as quietly as possible, now we have eaten it."
But Nizib was not so easily comforted, for he was a very strict observer of the law of the Prophet, and he felt greatly troubled in mind. So Bruno volunteered to ascertain from the landlord what he had sent up for dinner.
Nizib was quickly reassured, and his digestion was no longer troubled. The dish was not meat at all; it was fish, shebac, a kind of "Saint Peter's" fish, which, when caught, is split and dried in the sun, and then smoked. These fish are exported in considerable numbers from Rostow on the Sea of Azof.
Masters and servants had accordingly to be content with a very light supper at the Inn of Arabat. The beds appeared even more unpleasant than the gnats in the carriage; but the sleepers were not subjected to any violent jolting, and the rest they obtained in their not too comfortable rooms was sufficient to recruit their energies.
Next morning, on the 2nd of September, at daybreak, Ahmet was afoot, and he set off to the post-house in search of relays. The team which had brought our travellers to the inn was quite exhausted, and unable to continue the journey without a further rest. Ahmet had made up his mind to bring the chaise, all ready horsed, to the inn door, so as to leave his uncle and Van Mitten no excuse—they had only to enter the chaise and depart for Kertsch.
The post-house was some distance off, at the end of the village; and the roof, ornamented with crosses of wood, gave it the appearance of the finger-board of a "double bass." But of horses there was no sign whatever! The stable was empty, and the post-master could not supply the animals for any consideration.
Ahmet, very much annoyed at this check, returned to the inn. Kéraban, Van Mitten, Nizib, and Bruno, all ready to start, were waiting for the chaise. Already one of the party—it is needless to say which—was exhibiting signs of impatience.
"Well, Ahmet," cried this individual, "have you returned alone? I thought you had gone to procure horses for us?"
"My errand was useless, uncle," replied Ahmet. "There is not a single horse to be had."
"No horses!" exclaimed Kéraban.
"And we cannot have any before to-morrow," added Ahmet.
"To-morrow!"
"Yes. That means a loss of twenty-four hours."
"Twenty-four hours!" cried Kéraban; "but I do not mean to lose ten, not five, not even one."
"Nevertheless," said the Dutchman, "if there are no horses—"
"There shall be some," replied Kéraban, walking away, and signing to the others to accompany him. In a quarter of an hour they reached the post-house. The post-master was standing on the steps in the easy attitude of a man who knew that one is not obliged to provide what he does not possess.
"You have no more horses, I hear?" said Kéraban, in a far from conciliatory tone.
"I have only those that you brought here yesterday, and they are unfit to travel," replied the post-master.
"And why, if you please, have you no fresh horses in your stables?"
"Because they have been taken by a Turkish seigneur who has gone to Kertsch, en route to Poti and the Caucasus."
"A Turk!" exclaimed Kéraban. "One of your European Ottomans, no doubt. They are not content with interfering with us in the streets of Constantinople, but they must inconvenience us in the Crimea!"
"Who is this man, this Turk?" he continued, after a pause.
"His name is Seigneur Saffar; that's all I know about him," replied the post-master quietly.
"Why did you permit Seigneur Saffar to take all the horses?" asked Kéraban with contempt.
"Because the traveller arrived here twelve hours before you, and as the horses were available I had no reason for refusing them to him."
"You ought to have done so—"
"Ought to have done so?" echoed the post-master.
"Yes, certainly, when I was on the road hither," replied Kéraban.
Now what could one reply to such arguments? Van Mitten endeavoured to interpose, but was only snapped up by his friend. As for the post-master, he only gazed at Kéraban with a contemptuous expression, and turned away to enter the house. But Kéraban stopped him by saying, "After all, it does not matter whether you have horses or not; we must proceed at once."
"Proceed at once! Have I not told you I have no horses?" replied the post-master.
"We'll find some."
"There are none in Arabat."
"Find a pair—find one," replied Kéraban, who began to lose his self-control; "find half a one, but find something."
"But if there are no horses—" began Van Mitten gently.
"There must be some found."
"Perhaps you can procure for us a team of mules?" said Ahmet to the post-master.
"Very well, mules will do," said Kéraban. "We will be content with mules."
"I have never seen any mules in the province," replied the post-master.
"He has seen one to-day," whispered Bruno to Van Mitten, as he indicated Kéraban; "and a fine one too."
"Are there any asses?" inquired Ahmet.
"No more asses than mules."
"No asses!" exclaimed Kéraban, "You are playing with us, monsieur. No asses in this country—not enough to form a team—not sufficient to relay a carriage? You are joking."
As he spoke Kéraban looked round at a number of natives who had assembled near the post-house.
"He is quite capable of having those people harnessed to the chaise," muttered Bruno.
"Yes, them or us," replied Nizib, who knew his master.
However, since there were neither horses, mules, nor asses, it was evident that the travellers could not proceed; and all they could do was to resign themselves to the delay of twenty-four hours. Ahmet, who was as greatly put out as his uncle, was about to try to make him hear reason in the absolute impossibility of procuring horses, when Kéraban cried out,—
"A hundred roubles to any one who will find me a team."
A shiver passed over the natives who heard this offer. At length one man boldly came forward, and said,—
"Seigneur Turk, I have two dromedaries to sell."
"I will buy them," said Kéraban.
To harness a pair of dromedaries to a carriage was an experiment never hitherto made, but it was going to be attempted now.
In less than an hour the bargain was completed, and at a high rate. But no matter. Seigneur Kéraban would have paid double the amount. The two animals were harnessed, and with the assurance of a substantial "tip" the late proprietor of the dromedaries, mounting as postillion, seated himself on the hump of one of the animals. Then the chaise, to the great astonishment of the natives, and to the extreme satisfaction of the travellers, descended the road toward Kertsch at a long slinging trot. The same evening the travellers reached Argin, twelve leagues from Arabat.
There were no horses there either, in consequence of the Seigneur Saffar having had them. Our travellers were obliged to sleep at Argin and give the dromedaries a rest.
Next day, on the 3rd of September, the chaise departed under the same conditions and reached Marienthal, seventeen leagues from Argin. The night was passed there, and at daybreak the travellers started again, and after a run of twelve leagues reached Kertsch without accident, but not without some rude jolting, consequent upon the "pulling" of the dromedaries, which were quite new to the business.
To sum up, Seigneur Kéraban and his companions, who had started on the 17th of August, had, after nineteen days' journeying, accomplished three-sevenths of the required distance—three hundred leagues out of seven hundred. They had, therefore, done well; and if they continued to progress in like manner during the twenty-six days still remaining—till the 30th of September—they would complete the tour of the Black Sea within the prescribed period.
"Somehow," said Bruno to his master again, "somehow I can't help thinking that the journey will end badly."
"For my friend Kéraban, do you mean?"
"For your friend Kéraban, or for those who accompany him," replied Bruno.