Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/144

 “Skvernyj Gorodok!” exclaimed the young Russian lieutenant standing beside me on the deck, and stretched out his hand in the direction of the little town before which we had anchored in the bay of Novorossijsk. “Skvernyj Gorodok!” (actually he pronounced it “Skrjorny”), he repeated, and was sorry for me because I had to spend a week in such an out-of-the-way spot.

Well, certainly, Novorossijsk in itself is an out-of-the-way spot, consisting of about 200 insignificant cottages mostly constructed only of wood and clay, a few unimpressive military buildings and a Russian church painted brown, with a green onion-shaped dome in the company of the inevitable smaller domes at the side, also onion-shaped. The only interesting thing about it to me was its population, a motley mixture of Russian officials, traders, and soldiers, Russian peasants, Cossacks, Greeks, Armenians, Georgians and others.

But then on the other hand, the surrounding landscape! Would you like to accompany me on an imaginary excursion into these regions?

“Today you will have a fine journey” observed the Novorossijsk hotel keeper, an Armenian called Gusikov (probably some Armenian name in a Russian uniform), carefully cutting the nail on the toe of his right foot, which for this purpose he had stretched out before him on the table. The capacious sole of his foot was turned towards me, and thus caused a partial eclipse of the flushed moon, as by a poetical comparison I may call the circular, ruddy countenance of my host with its surrounding decoration of reddish locks.

“Don’t forget to cover your head and neck with a pocket hankerchief; a. hat alone is not enough to protect you against our sun” added the waiter with fatherly concern, as he polished his master’s boots behing the buffet, which in the Russian style invited the guests to the free enjoyment of various dainties, such as crabs, spring onions, small pasties, caviare and so on.

He was a curious waiter: tall and shambling, in a white linen smock, with a fez upon his head, the bald skull of which was covered here and there with a few wisps of light hair which looked more like whitish fibres. But I was also interested by this man’s history. By birth he was an Adige (Circassian) of a war-like stock which formerly inhabited the mountains round Novorossijsk; after the year 1864, when the Circassians were defeated in their obstinate struggle against the Russians, and some of the left their home in the Caucasus for Turkey, while the rest emigrated to Kuban, he came while still a youth to Asia Minor. But he clearly did not make his fortune in foreign parts, for after several years he returned to his native mountains and was satisfied with the above mentioned modest position in the single “hotel” of Novorossijsk. I often used to see him as he stood before this little one-storied inn, and shaded his eyes with his hand, while his gaze wandered across to the mountains near by. Only ten years or so earlier, these mountains had swarmed with war-like Circassians, and he himself as he sat on the threshold of his native hut in one of the numerous auls (Circassian villages), would dream of his future glory as a hero. Now these moutains are bare and deserted far and wide, the auls have disappeared or are overgrown with dense forests, and there is neither sight nor sound of the Circassians here. So instead of a hero he became a waiter, and avenged himself on his former arch-enemies by serving them with flavourless wine from Kachetin and sour beer from Kertch. As he looked at those bare mountains, did he meditate upon the bitter lot of himself and his whole nation? I do not know. But I never saw in him any traces of sentimentality. His face always used to have a contented and kindly expression, and round his lips there often used to play a merry smile, on which occasions two rows of beautiful large white teeth were displayed under his fair long moustache.

I was just about to reply to the remarks of these two people, when the surgeon Pavel Semenovitch Tabunov, in full riding equipment, stepped into the inn. He informed me that the whole party was assembled outside. I followed him.

To the quiet amusement of the company I made use of the stone bench in front of the inn as I mounted the tractable mountain pony, and with one hand seized carefully the long front points of the Tcherkessian saddle with the high-slung stirrup, which forced the legs into a cramped position uncomfortable to the beginner.

But first of all let me here enumerate the heroes and heroines who under the surgeon’s leadership had assembled for this excursion into the mountains. There was the surgeon’s wife, Anna Kirilovna, a talkative brunette of quite respectable proportions, and in the “prime of her years”; she had undertaken to act the part of motherly supervisor and chaperon to the remaining ladies during the hardships of the excursion. But on the journey she herself soon became the centre of continual care and concern to the whole company.

Then there was an old Colonel, Ivan Ivanovitch Revnin, tall, gaunt, with several scars and numberless wrinkles in his lean, striking face through whose expression of military sternness shone his natural kindness of heart. He still carried himself perfectly straight, and his silver grey hair, eyebrows and moustache charmingly completed the picture of a veteran hero.

It did not take me long to see that this old lion had found two powerful and alert tamers in the persons of his young daughters. Being a widower, he devoted his whole life to their interests, and submitted to their fancies and whims