Chapter 1
First Memories. Hadji-Magomet. The Black Rose
I am a Georgian. My name is Nina — Princess Nina Dzhavakha-ogly-Dzhamata. The princely house of Dzhamata is a glorious one; it is known throughout the Caucasus, from the Rioni and Kura rivers to the Caspian Sea and the Dagestan mountains.
I was born in Gori, the wonderful, smiling Gori, one of the most picturesque and charming corners of the Caucasus, on the banks of the emerald Kura River.
Gori lies in the very heart of Georgia, in a lovely valley, elegant and captivating with its sprawling plane trees, ancient linden trees, shaggy chestnuts, and rose bushes filling the air with the spicy, intoxicating scent of red and white blossoms. And all around Gori are the ruins of towers and fortresses, Armenian and Georgian cemeteries, completing a picture imbued with a wondrous and mysterious legend of old…
In the distance, the outlines of mountains are blue, and the mighty, inaccessible peaks of the Caucasus — Elbrus and Kazbek — gleam with a pearly mist, over which soar the proud sons of the East — gigantic gray eagles…
My ancestors were heroes who fought and fell for the honor and freedom of their homeland.
Not long ago, the Caucasus trembled from cannon shots, and the groans of the wounded echoed everywhere. There was an incessant war with the semi-savage highlanders, who made constant raids on peaceful inhabitants from the depths of their inaccessible mountains.
The quiet, green valleys of Georgia wept bloody tears…
At the head of the highlanders stood the brave leader Shamil, who with a mere glance could dispatch hundreds and thousands of his djigits (warriors) to Christian villages… How much sorrow, tears, and devastation these raids caused! How many weeping wives, sisters, and mothers there were in Georgia…
But then the Russians arrived and, together with our warriors, conquered the Caucasus. The raids ceased, the enemies vanished, and the war-weary country breathed freely…
Among the Russian leaders who bravely stepped forward into the fearsome battle with Shamil were my grandfather, the old Prince Mikhail Dzhavakha, and his sons — brave and courageous like mountain eagles…
When my father recounted the details of this terrible war, which took so many brave lives, my heart pounded and fluttered, as if wanting to burst from my chest…
In such moments, I regretted being born too late, that I couldn’t gallop with a white banner fluttering in my hands among a handful of brave men along the narrow paths of Dagestan, suspended over terrifying precipices…
The southern, hot blood of my mother stirred within me.
My mother was a simple djigitka from the aul (mountain village) of Bestudi… A rebellion broke out in that aul, and my father, then a very young officer, was sent with a hundred Cossacks to quell it.
The rebellion was quelled, but my father did not leave the aul quickly…
There, in the saklya (highlander’s hut) of old Hadji-Magomet, he met his daughter — the beautiful Mariam…
The black eyes and mountain songs of the pretty Tatar girl captivated my father, and he took Mariam to Georgia, where his regiment was stationed.
There, she embraced the Christian faith, against the wishes of the enraged old Magomet, and married the Russian officer.
The old Tatar could not forgive his daughter’s action for a long time…
I began remembering Mama very, very early. When I lay down in my bed, she would sit on its edge and sing songs with sorrowful words and a sad melody. She sang well, my poor beautiful “deda” (Deda – mother in Georgian)!
And her voice was tender and velvety, as if specifically created for such melancholic songs… Indeed, she herself was so tender and quiet, with large, sad black eyes and long braids reaching to her heels. When she smiled — it seemed as if the sky itself smiled…
I adored her smiles, just as I adored her songs… One of them I remember perfectly. It spoke of a black rose that grew on the edge of a precipice in one of Dagestan’s gorges… A gust of wind swept the lush wild rose into a green valley… And the rose grew sad and withered far from its sweet homeland… Fading and dying, it softly begged the mountain breeze to carry its greeting back to the mountains…
It was a simple song with simple words and an even simpler melody, but I adored this song because my beautiful mother sang it.
Often, interrupting a song mid-word, “deda” would snatch me up in her arms and, pressing me tightly, tightly to her thin chest, would babble through laughter and tears:
“Nina, dzhanym” (Dzhanym – in Tatar, soul, darling – the most common endearment in the East), “do you love me?”
Oh, how I loved her, how I loved her, my precious deda!
As I grew more sensible, I was increasingly struck by the sadness in her beautiful eyes and her melancholic tunes.
One day, lying in my bed with my eyes closed from approaching drowsiness, I involuntarily overheard Mama talking to Father.
She gazed into the distance, at the black, serpent-like ribbon of a path winding into the mountains, and whispered wistfully:
“No, my heart, don’t comfort me, he won’t come!”
“Calm down, my dear, he’s late today, but he will be here, he will certainly be here,” Father reassured her.
“No, no, Georgy, don’t comfort me… The mullah (Mullah – Muslim priest) won’t let him…”
I understood that my parents were talking about Grandfather Hadji-Magomet, who still refused to forgive his Christian daughter.
Sometimes grandfather would visit us. He always appeared suddenly from the mountains, thin and resilient, on his strong, as if cast from bronze, horse, having spent several days in the saddle and not at all tired by the long journey.
As soon as the tall figure of the rider appeared in the distance, my mother, alerted by the servants, would run down from the rooftop, where we spent most of our time (a habit she brought from her parents’ home), and hasten to meet him beyond the garden fence, to hold his stirrup, according to Eastern custom, while he dismounted.
Our orderly, old Georgian Mikhako, would take grandfather’s horse, and old Magomet, barely nodding to my mother, would take me in his arms and carry me into the house.
Grandfather Magomet loved me exceptionally. I loved him too, and despite his stern and strict appearance, I was not at all afraid of him…
As soon as he had greeted my father and settled himself, legs crossed in the Eastern fashion, on the colorful divan, I would jump onto his lap and, laughing, rummage through the pockets of his beshmet (Beshmet – a type of caftan trimmed with braid), where there were always various delicious treats for me, brought from the aul (Aul – mountain village). There was everything: candied almonds, kishmish (Kishmish – raisins), and several cloyingly sweet honey cakes, skillfully prepared by the pretty Bella — my mother’s younger sister.
“Eat, dzhanym, eat, my mountain swallow,” he would say, stroking my black curls with his rough, thin hand.
And I did not need much urging, eating my fill of these light and tasty treats that seemed to melt in my mouth.
Then, having finished them and still sitting on Grandfather’s knees, I listened with attentive and eager ears to what he was saying to my father.
And he spoke much and for a long time… He always spoke of the same thing: how the old mullah reproached and shamed him at every meeting for giving his daughter to a “urus” (Highlanders call Russians and Georgians, Christians in general, “urus”), for allowing her to renounce the faith of Allah and calmly accepting her action.
Father, listening to Grandfather, merely twirled his long black mustache and furrowed his thin eyebrows.
“Listen, kunak (Kunak – friend, comrade) Magomet,” he blurted out during one such conversation, “you have nothing to worry about for your daughter: she is happy, she is well here, our faith has become dear and close to her. And what’s done cannot be undone… So don’t trouble my princess in vain. God sees, she has not ceased to be an obedient daughter to you. Tell this to your mullah, and let him worry less about us, and pray to Allah more diligently.”
My God, how Grandfather’s face flared up at these words! He jumped up from the divan… His eyes flashed lightning… He raised his burning gaze to Father — a gaze that revealed the entire semi-savage nature of the Caucasian highlander — and began to speak quickly and menacingly, mixing Russian, Tatar, and Georgian words:
“Kunak Georgy… you are a urus, you are a Christian and you will understand neither our faith nor our Allah and His prophet… You took a wife from our aul, without asking her father’s wish… Allah punishes children for disobedience to parents… Mariam knew this and yet she disregarded the faith of her fathers and became your wife… The mullah is right not to give her his blessing… Allah speaks through his mouth, and people must heed the will of Allah…”
He spoke for a long, long time, not suspecting that every word he uttered was firmly imprinted in the young mind of the little girl huddled in the corner of the divan.
And my poor deda listened to the stern old man, trembling all over and casting pleading glances at my father. He couldn’t bear this silent reproach, embraced her tightly, and, shrugging his shoulders, left the house. A few minutes later, I saw him galloping along the path into the mountains. I watched my father’s retreating figure, the graceful silhouette of horse and rider, and suddenly something seemed to push me towards Hadji-Magomet.
“Deda!” my childish, clear voice suddenly rang out in the ensuing silence, “you are mean, deda, I won’t love you if you don’t forgive Mama and stop hurting Papa! Take back your kishmish and your cakes; I don’t want them from you if you won’t be as kind as Papa!”
And without a moment’s hesitation, I quickly turned my pockets inside out, emptying all the treats Grandfather had brought onto the bewildered old man’s lap.
My mother, huddled in the corner of the room, made desperate signs to me, but I paid no attention to them.
“Take it, take it! Take your kishmish, and take your cakes, and Armenian gingerbread… nothing, nothing do I want from you, mean, unkind deda!” I repeated, trembling all over as if with a fever, continuing to throw out the treats he had brought from my pockets.
“Who teaches a child disrespect for old age?” Hadji-Magomet’s voice boomed throughout the house.
“No one teaches me, deda!” I cried bravely. “My mama, even though she doesn’t pray to the east like you and Bella, she loves you, and she loves your aul, and the mountains, and she misses you, and she prays to God when you don’t come for a long time, and she waits for you on the rooftop… Oh, deda, deda, you don’t even know how much she loves you!”
Something inexplicable flashed across the old man’s face at these words. His eagle-like gaze fell upon Mama. Perhaps he read much anguish and love in the depths of her black, gentle eyes — only his own eyes shone brightly and seemed to be veiled with moisture.
“Is it true, dzhanym?” Hadji-Magomet whispered rather than asked.
“Oh, batono!” (Batono – master/sir in Georgian; this word is added for respect) a groan escaped my mother’s chest, and, leaning forward with her flexible and slender body, she fell at Grandfather’s feet, sobbing softly and uttering only one word that expressed all her boundless love for him:
“Oh, batono, batono!”
He seized her, lifted her, and pressed her to his chest.
I don’t remember what happened next… I dashed like a wild mountain pony through the shaded alleys of our garden, unable to contain the surge of ecstatic happiness that swept over my childish heart like a mighty wave…
I ran breathless, crying and laughing at the same time… I was happier than ever, with a sharp, captivating, almost unbearable surge of happiness…
When, somewhat calmed, I returned to the room, I saw my mother sitting at Grandfather’s feet… His hand rested on her dark-haired head, and joy shone in both their eyes.
Father, who had returned during my wild romp in the garden, scooped me up and covered my face with a dozen of the warmest and tenderest kisses… He was so happy for Mama, my proud and wonderful father!
This was the best day of my life. It was the first true, conscious happiness, and I savored it with all my young heart…
In the evening, they all gathered by my bedside — Father, Mother, Grandfather, and I, smiling through the haze of drowsiness, joining their large hands in my tiny fists and falling asleep to the quiet whisper of their gentle voices…
A new, wonderful, peaceful life reigned under our roof. Grandfather Magomet came more often from the aul, alone or with Bella, my young aunt — a participant in my childhood games and mischief.
But our happiness did not last long. Only a few months after that blissful day, my poor, dear mother became gravely ill and passed away. They say she withered away from longing for her native aul, which she could not even visit, fearing insults from fanatical Tatars and her irreconcilable enemy — the old mullah.
All of Gori mourned Mama… Father’s regiment, who knew her and loved her dearly, wept as one man, accompanying her slender body, showered with roses and magnolias, to the Georgian cemetery near Gori.
Until the last minute, I couldn’t believe she was dying…
Before her death, she stayed on the rooftop of the house, from where she admired the mountains blue in the distance and the silver-green ribbon of the Kura…
“There is Dagestan… there is the aul… there are my mountains… There are Father and Bella…” she whispered between fits of coughing, and pointed into the distance, towards the northeast, with a tiny, almost childish hand due to her striking thinness.
And she, wrapped in a white burka (cloak), seemed a tender, translucent angel of the eastern sky.
I remember with agonizing clarity the evening she died…
The divan on which she lay was moved to the rooftop so she could admire the mountains and the sky…
Gori was falling asleep, enveloped by the wing of the fragrant eastern night… The roses slept on the garden bushes, the nightingales slept in the plane tree groves, the ruins of the mysterious fortress slept, the Kura slept in its emerald banks, and only sorrow did not sleep, only death was awake, awaiting its victim.
Mama lay with open eyes, strangely gleaming in the gathering darkness… As if some light emanated from those eyes and illuminated her entire face, turned towards the sky. Moonlight rays, like golden needles, glided over the thick waves of her black hair and crowned her matte-white forehead with a shining halo.
Father and I were silent at her feet, afraid to disturb the peace of the dying, but she herself beckoned us with a trembling hand, and when we leaned close to her face, she spoke quickly, but very, very softly, barely audible:
“I am dying… yes, it is so… I am dying… but I am not bitter, not afraid… I am happy… I am happy that I am dying a Christian… Oh, how good it is — your faith, Georgy,” she added, turning towards my father, who was kneeling by her head, “and I was worthy of it… I am a Christian… I am going to my God… The One and Great… Don’t cry, Georgy, take care of Nina… I will watch over you… I will admire you… and then… not soon, yes, but still we will be reunited… Don’t cry… farewell… goodbye… What a pity that Father isn’t here… Bella… Tell them that I love them… and I say goodbye to them… Farewell to you too, Georgy, my joy, thank you for the happiness you gave me… Farewell, light of my eyes… Farewell, my dzhanym… my Nina… My little one… Farewell to you both… don’t forget… the black rose…”
Delirium began… Then she fell asleep… never to wake again. She died quietly, so quietly that no one noticed her passing…
I drifted off, resting my cheek against her thin arm, and woke up in the morning from a sensation of cold on my face. Mama’s hand had turned blue and cold as marble… And at her feet, my poor, orphaned father was writhing and sobbing.
Gori was waking up… The rays of dawn illuminated the sad scene. I could not cry, although I clearly understood what had happened. It was as if icy chains bound my heart…
And below, along the bank of the Kura, a rider was galloping. He was clearly in a hurry to Gori and mercilessly spurred his horse.
Now he’s close… close… I recognized Grandfather Magomet…
A little more — and the rider disappeared behind the mountain. Below, a gate clanged shut… Someone ran up the stairs with youthful speed, and at the same moment, Hadji-Magomet entered the rooftop.
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