The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

In the morning before returning to Kutaisi we again came to the sea and saw that it had limits, although they were very foggy, indeterminate, and far beyond the horizon. We saw the waves glistening so brightly in the sun that our eyes hurt and that the foam resembled fanciful lace. Especially incised in memory was the translucent, glassy color of the waves and the unusual, “heavenly” purity of the whole watery mass.

Then we rode back scrutinizing the colorful garb of the natives and their fragile huts erected on stilts. Our toughest crossing was from Kutaisi to Abas-tuman—but what wild, primeval gulfs, what forests, what wilderness. When we spent a night near a roaring mountain stream the darkness was so thick you could not see your hand in front of your face. Our campfire cast light only as far as the nearest trees. Anyone could have crept up to our bivouac without any difficulty. But of course there was no one: only the sounds of wild animals from the dense forest. This was the most nerve-wracking night of our expedition.

The whole crossing was tiring. We were short of bread. The hard, yellow, unsalted cornpone which we bought at occasional villages was inedible. Worn-out and famished we climbed the pass, entering a realm of clouds and fog where nothing was visible except for patches of white hiding in the trees. There wasn’t a soul for tens of kilometers. As it began to grow dark and the unpleasant thought of spending the night amidst clouds entered our minds, we suddenly heard pure Russian speech. It seemed to us fairy-tale sorcery or a hallucination, but then we saw the foggy outlines of buildings, either native huts or Russian log cabins. It was an outpost of a Cossack regiment on duty in Abastuman where the crown prince was in residence. What dear, Russian faces, what rollicking, expansive songs, what good-natured jokes, what tasty

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Chapter Four

borshch and what blessed sleep on hay among your own people. That was our best night.

After that it was easier, mostly downhill. We spent a night in the outskirts of Abastuman at some lumber mill. It was worse than uncomfortable. The boards cut into my side and I dreamt that I was the dying soldier impaled on the rocks in Lermontov’s “A Vale in Dagestan,” left behind by my buddies. In my sleep I tried to scream to call them back and woke up.

Abastuman was attractive but different from Borzhomi. There were no natural springs, but the air was permeated with the scent of pine resin, very sweet air, and there was also the presence of the crown prince. It was said that the crown prince, Grand Duke Georgii Aleksandrovich, lived very modestly, unlike his brother in Borzhomi. It was said that the crown prince was a very likable young man. [He was a younger brother of Emperor Nicholas II and was next in succession until the birth of Nicholas’ son, Alexis.]

We were approaching the end of our expedition, walking past Akhalpikh through a bare, sun-scorched plateau. The sun was rising. An old Turk on horseback stopped, faced the sun and covered his face with his palms. It must be that Mohammed and his followers were exquisitely sensitive to the beauty of sunrise. Our thoughts at the rising of the sun do not go past the mundane, but here, in a small village, a mullah atop a minaret fervidly sang praise and gratitude to the Creator.

Whenever we encountered Turks, we would say, “Salaam a leikum” to them. And they would hospitably answer, “A leikum salaam.” Here, in this part of the Caucasus, we found a small corner of Turkey, or so it seemed to us. Miniature houses, almost without windows, dusty gardens and stillness. Quiet, placid people and not mean, but friendly, dogs. It was apparent that the Turks were a good people and it was a pity that we warred against them and that we sang derogatory soldiers’ songs about them.

And then we reached Borzhomi. What an empty place it seemed without anyone we knew. Of course, there was something familiar in the effervescent fizz of Borzhomi mineral water, in the green glades, in the clean, sandy garden walks. But my companions, after having looked at themselves in the mirror at the railway station, decided that the luxury and indolent bliss of this spa was not for us, woodsmen, and that we would scare the local belles to death if we appeared before them as we were. We returned by train to Tbilisi and to our previous life in the military school. We were upperclassmen now, the special class of 1899, the centennial of Pushkin’s birth.

In 1898 my family had moved to the now familiar Voznesenskii Street. There I got my own minuscule room which my mother christened a “studio.” It had its own door to the staircase and was totally separate. It was so small

Oleg Pantiukhov, A Student’s Summer

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