i took my leave of lavrenti at dawn and set out for pasanaour. a man with an ox-dray picked me up two miles from the priest’s dwelling, and carried me ten miles at a pace slower than that of walking. the driver belonged to a tribe dwelling on the black aragva, consisting of about thirty thousand souls with a quite alien language and distinct customs, the khevsurs. for one thing, they take their wives for a year on probation before marrying them. this man spoke no russian, but a georgian boy who was also being carried told me about him and his people. he pointed out how dirty he was, and showed a scar on his cheek and another on his wrist from knife wounds. the khevsurs are a very quarrelsome tribe, and it is difficult to find a single grown man who has never been wounded. they live by shepherding and by wattle-making. wattle is a very important manufacture in the caucasus; houses and fences are made of it, and it is used for the embankments of the rivers.
georgian women
the ox-cart left the road at the confluence of the black aragva with the white, and i was on my feet 183again. many people were on the road, and these were more or less of a wilder type than those i had yet seen. i observed that when a man and woman make a journey together, the woman rides astride on horseback and the man walks at her side. the favourite colour for dresses seems to be a cloudy crimson.
i found the road monotonously beautiful. the hills were wooded to the top, the landscape was graceful. here were more pretty things than on the north side of the caucasus. one might have been in a park. nature did not seem entirely responsible for the scene; a painter might have planned the grouping and effects; the country was, in a word, picturesque. the road seemed endlessly long, and i grew a little tired of it. the sun, however, was bright and hot, and i made a siesta among some rocks below the shelter of the road. there, in a cleft, beside the clear, rushing stream, i had a washing hour. it is wonderful how well one can wash and dry a garment or so in an hour. i dabbled the things in the water, and rubbed them and spread them in the sun to dry. meanwhile a wren kept coming to and fro on tip-toe with thatch for a little house she was building under the bridge.
at the same time i also made a meal of bread and sausage helped down with water. mountain bread is not good, but it has one advantage—it may be kept any length of time without its quality being obviously impaired.
184along the road are many extremely ancient ruins, and also buildings of great antiquity still inhabited. clearly things last well in the caucasian climate. the castles and towers are but toys compared with norman ruins; they would have vanished utterly in england. the walls are so thin and so poorly put together. it seems that warfare has been rather more of a game than with us. there have been no cromwells there. the churches, however, are often surrounded by high battlemented walls, which suggests that though there were no puritans there were robbers in plenty.
near ananaour a flock of sheep, about a thousand, were driven past. one solemn shepherd marched in front of his flock, and at the sides young men scolded and yelled and kept the order with long poles. it was a grand sight. i came into the village, where there is an old byzantine church with a castellated wall, and went into a tavern to get some bread and cheese and wine. two men were at the table eating soup from one wooden basin with only a single wooden spoon between them. it was not really soup, but such a collection as no western person could face—boiled maize, garlic, raw sliced onion, water and soaked bread. the two men eating were evidently chums, for instead of using the spoon each for himself, they helped one another, and i was specially amused to watch the little bald man near me shovelling the mixture into the mouth of his tall, hairy companion. as they were drinking yellow wine 185and i red, the little bald man proposed a health, and we changed glasses. whereupon the company, for there were many present, viewed me with the utmost cordiality, and i shared among them the superfluity of my cold brown pitcher.
i set off towards dushet, but feeling tired i spread my travelling-bed on a grassy bank and fell asleep. when i awoke it was dark and cold, and the sky was in continuous sheet lightning. a damp breeze blew briskly upon me and i was anything but comfortable. i lay for hours half-dozing, but at length came to the conclusion that it was better walking. accordingly i continued my walk to dushet. it was two in the morning, and even so early the sky promised dawn from three sides. i had no notion of the compass.
very leisurely i made that walk. ten miles is only a short distance at night, and i did not wish to arrive too early at dushet. i promised myself hot tea, and i must not come too early for it.
it was a strange night, starless, dark, full of flower odours. i wished to drink, but every mountain stream was chalky. i sat on many stones and scanned the sky, hoping for the dawn. dogs barked at me, and even made to attack me, but of human kind i saw none. i passed a beautiful dusky plum tree laden with blossom—she was a woman.
about half-past four i came into the district town of dushet, and at five o’clock behold me sitting in an inn 186waiting for the samovar. “it will be ready at once, in an hour,” the innkeeper had said. on the wall of the inn was a large coloured picture of the last judgment, the good being led by angels to heaven, and the bad being clawed down into hell by fiends; it was very realistic, and caused me to recall the lines:
“hear all the pedants’ screeds and strictures
and don’t believe in anything
which can’t be told in coloured pictures.”
the georgians keep a good hot material hell in their conception of the hereafter.
the innkeeper was evidently only just up, and didn’t intend to serve customers before he had washed himself and put his shop in order. accordingly, i watched his proceedings. he had a small wash, and combed his brown hair and moustache with two inches of comb, swept up the refuse from the floor, and put the empty bottles away. large joints of mutton and beef hung from the roof—the man was also a butcher—and these he removed to a stall outside the shop. his wife slept in a bed in a gallery above the counter, and evidently slept too long, for her good man seemed to hurl imprecations at her from time to time.
at about half-past six the samovar, which had been “drawing” in the yard outside the shop, was brought in boiling, and i received what i had promised myself—four glasses of hot tea, the innkeeper’s charge for which was ten copecks—twopence halfpenny.
187i had no intention of walking this day. when i had finished my breakfast i went half a mile along the road and then sat down by the wayside. a quarter of an hour later a van carrying hay came along, and the driver offered to take me to tiflis for a rouble. i lay down on two bags of chaff and soon fell fast asleep.
after about two hours i wakened up to find myself in heavenly circumstances; beautiful hills, a hot sun, a cool breeze and a comfortable resting-place. the driver also lay on two sacks and slept. the three horses clattered ahead, evidently well knowing the way.
so all day we rolled easily over the road as in a coach. the land was rich and beautiful, and the sun glorified every beauty.
at mtskhet, the ancient capital of georgia, we stayed for an hour, and i rested at a shop whose owners had gone to tiflis for the day. two little girls were in charge, and they gave me a dish of fish without knife or fork, and on protest brought out a carving knife! the elder girl was only twelve years old.
in the twilight we sped along the banks of the kuma and arrived at tiflis.
