Part 7

“In the bloody and perilous warfare that was being waged continually here, Bestushev, who had now changed his name to Bestushev-Marlinski, rapidly won promotion and became an officer again. Then he came to live right here, in the old bullet-shattered, smoke-blackened Fortress of Derbend,” pointing to walls above their heads marked by many sieges.

“Not long after his promotion, he fell in love with a young and beautiful girl, of poor family, in the village, by name, Oline Nesterzof. After a time she came to live with the writer.

“One night some Russian officers from Petersburg, were being banquetted in the very room where we have just been dining. When they were well under influence of wine, a friend of Bestushev, who had drunk too heavily, laughing, wagered he could prove the lovely Oline Nesterzof was untrue to her poet-lover. This enraged Bestushev to such degree he lost his head and took the wager. For days thereafter the friend of Bestushev spied upon the young and innocent girl, who was barely nineteen at that time, in order to win his wager. Finding it impossible to do so by fair means, he made a plot with other young friends of the poet—who had been present at the banquet—in order to play a trick upon him, and gave to Bestushev, at length, the ‘_framed_’ proof of her falsity.

“The emotional, unrestrained nature of Bestushev was deeply affected by treachery of the girl he sincerely loved. The very next day when Oline Nesterzof, ignorant of what had happened, and Bestushev were alone together in a room of this old Fortress of Derbend, a shot was heard. Bestushev, palled, disheveled, ran out to the courtyard, waving his arms wildly, calling for help. Oline Nesterzof was found upon the floor dying, having been shot through the breast. She was still able to speak, however. In her great and forgiving love for Bestushev, she declared that in attempting to clean his pistol she had shot herself by accident. This noble declaration of the dying girl, made in the presence of a priest, under the last rites of the Church, saved Bestushev from the death penalty.”

“And this is her grave, you say?” asked Dumas with emotion, looking down upon the humble marker of stone, which Bestushev had made. The only adornment upon the piece of marble was a rose, which the poet carved there, and which was now blackened with powder, broken. Beneath the rose one Russian word, _sondba_, was engraved, which means an _Act of Fate_. On the other side were her name and age.

Here lies the body of Mademoiselle Oline Nesterzof Born 1814. Died 1833.

Dumas was deeply touched by the humble grave and its story. He stood silent some time beside the pitiful, lonely, little mound of the ill-fated girl, hidden beneath grim walls of the Fortress of Derbend. Then he took his note book. He wrote a verse, something rare from hands of that single-hearted _prosateur_. He handed it to Commandant of the Fortress, asking him to have it engraved beneath the word _fatality_, with his name attached, as lasting memory of his visit to Derbend. Dumas said he loved poetry but he left the writing of it to other people.

The following proves sufficiently it was excessive modesty that impelled him to do it.

She had lived twenty years. She was loved, she was fair, On a twilight she fell like a rose on the wind; Where she sleeps with the dead, earth, press lightly there, For her weight was so light upon human-kind.

After the tragedy of Oline Nesterzof, melancholy madness fell upon the brilliant Bestushev, who, by the way, was distantly related to Russia’s great and extraordinary Chancellor, Bestushev-Rjumin, of the days of Catherine the Great.

He courted death. He was in the front of the battle. And always as if by magic he escaped. Bullets whizzed past him, but they did not touch him. Unscathed he emerged from combat.

In the spring of 1838, a particularly unsettled period for the Caucasus, the commanding officer, Captain Alberand, had been told to capture some mutinous mountaineers. They were said to be in hiding in a little piece of woods. Just before order to attack was given, a messenger rode up in haste to tell them the woods were filled with concealed soldiers, and to enter meant death to every man. The Captain ordered retreat. Bestushev-Marlinski disobeyed the order. He put spurs to his horse. He rode into the woods and out of sight. He was never seen nor heard from again.

Fifty Mingrelian Chasseurs were sent by the Captain to rescue his valiant officer whom he loved, and to bring him back. But nothing was ever heard of him. With entry of the forest he disappeared from face of the earth. He had hastened to self-chosen death.

On return to the Fortress, the daughter of the Commandant showed the room which Bestushev-Marlinski had occupied, to Dumas, and to his surprise and delight, pointing to a chest of drawers, she said: “Some unpublished writing of the poet, done after the sad murder of Oline, is still there.”

The next day Dumas’ Russian secretary, a young student of literature from the University of Moscow, read aloud in French, to the great romancer, the last writing of the tragic Russian. One of these forgotten manuscripts was a novel, _Sultanetta_, (the woman whose picturesque grave of rose color and green, Prince Bagration had pointed out with emotion, in the little Tartar Cemetery that crowned the hill, on their arrival). Dumas was so delighted with the faithful, colorful story of adventure and love among Tartar peoples of the mountains, that he rewrote the novel himself, and published it later in Paris, under the same name Bestushev-Marlinski himself had given it.

During the weeks Dumas spent in Derbend, he devoted himself to this rewriting, and to collecting recipes for his cook-book, which he tried and perfected with pleasure. He found here a ragout of lamb which pleased his epicurean knowledge of food. Also he sampled with delight the white wine of Erivan and the red wine of Kislar. He enjoyed himself tremendously. The only drawback to perfect contentment was that he could not procure, in the humble shops of Derbend, blue paper of an especial tint, which was what he used for his work. But he added vastly to his collection of splendid weapons, almost more than he was able to transport. Some were historic, and bore names of great warriors, or blessings from the Koran, in gold, along the blade. And he jotted down in his diary: “_I wrote like a God all the time I was in Derbend!_” Moynet, his friend and companion, was making the first colored pictures of costumes worn in the Caucasus, which are familiar today in authoritative works on dress.

The second manuscript which the daughter of the Commandant of the Fortress brought to the attention of Dumas was Bestushev-Marlinski’s _Ode to a Nose_, which Dumas asserts is not only one of the most original things that has been written, but one of the most delightful. We append this poem in Dumas’ prose translation, taking no credit ourselves, remarking at the same time, as inconsequential aside, that in one of Dumas’ later novels he gives another, a freer version of _The Nose_, without taking the trouble to refer to the dead Russian poet as author.

But only tolerance can be meted to one so great, so invariably delightful. Dumas writes: “In addition to other interesting things about the Georgians, there is one thing of which I have not spoken, and not to do so would be to do them wrong. They have noses such as no other race in the world have. Bestushev-Marlinski, the romancer, made an ode about the Georgian nose, which I quote since I can not hope to do better than he.”

“Have you reflected, dear readers, about what an admirable thing a nose is?

A nose? Yes, a nose!

And how useful to every individual, who, as Ovid says, lifts his face to heaven!

It is indeed a strange and unheard of ingratitude; not a poet has had the idea of making an ode to a nose.

It has remained for me, who am not poet at all, or who at least make no pretensions except to follow humbly the footsteps of great poets, to have originated the idea.

In truth the nose has had that misfortune!

Man had invented many things for pleasure of the eyes. They have made songs, compliments, kaleidoscopes, pictures, decorations, glasses,

And for the ears!

First in order, come earrings, _Robert le Diable_, _William Tell_, _Fra Diavolo_, the violins of Stradivarius, the pianos of Erard, the trumpets of Sax.

And for the mouth!

Carême, _la cuisinière bourgeoise_, the Almanach of the Gastronomists. They have made soups of all kinds, from Russian _batwigne_ to the cabbage soup of France. The mouth feeds upon the reputation of the greatest men, from cutlets _à la Soubise_ to black pudding _à la Richelieu_. Its lips have been compared to coral, its teeth to pearls, its breath to benzoin. It has been served with pheasants in plumage, and wood-cocks served whole. It has even been promised roasted skylarks.

What on the other hand has been invented for the nose?

Oil of roses. And tobacco.

_Ah!_ ... what ingratitude, Philosophers my Masters, and Poets my Brothers!

And yet how faithful is this member.... It is not a member, the savants cry at me. Pardon, gentlemen, I make good the mistake. And yet how faithful is this appendix, _Ah!_... Moreover, I insist that this appendix serves us faithfully.

The eyes sleep; the mouth closes; the ears become deaf.

The nose alone is always busy and on guard.

It watches over our sleep. It contributes to our health. The other parts of the body do stupid things; the hands, the feet. The hands permit themselves to be caught in a sack like fools they are. The feet stumble, make the body fall, by their awkwardness. And in this last instance who suffers most? The feet do the wrong. It is the nose that suffers.

How common is this expression: such and such a man has broken his nose. Many noses have been broken since beginning of the world. But be so kind as to mention one nose broken by its own fault! No, you can not! All things fall upon the poor nose. Let it be so. It bears everything with saintly patience. Sometimes, to be sure, it makes bold to snore. But, when did you hear it complain? Let us forget that nature created it an instrument of admiration, a speaking trumpet to increase or diminish the voice. Let us say nothing of the service it has rendered in making itself the intermediary between our souls and the souls of flowers. Let us suppress the fame of its utility and consider only its æsthetic claims, its beauty.

Cedar of Lebanon, it tramples beneath its feet the hyssop of the mustache. Central column, it serves as base for the double arch of the brows. Upon its capital rests the eagle which is thought; round about it smiles flourish. With what pride the nose of Ajax was lifted against the storm when he declared: _I will escape despite the gods!_

With what bravery the nose of the Great Condé (who was really great only because of his nose) with what bravery the nose of the Great Condé preceded every one, even the Great Condé himself, in the intrenchments of the Spaniards! With what assurance the nose of Dugazon, which had forty-two different movements, each more amusing than the other, presented itself to the public!

No indeed, I do not believe the nose will remain in the obscurity in which up to now, the ingratitude of man has left it.

But what are you thinking of! These are all noses of the occident. There are oriental noses—And they are handsome ones.

Gentlemen of Vienna, of Paris, of Saint Petersburg, do you doubt the superiority of the nose of the East, over your own?

In that case, Viennese, take the Danube! Parisians, take the steamboat, and people of Petersburg, the _pericladnoi_, and say these simple words: To Georgia!

_Ah!_ ... but I must announce to you in advance a deep humiliation. If you should take to Georgia one of the largest noses in Europe, the nose of Alcide Tousez, of Schiller, at the boundary of Tiflis, they would look at you in surprise and say: “_Poor man_ ... he lost his nose on the way! What a pity!”

When you entered the first street.... (What am I saying!) ... when you passed the first house of the suburbs, you would be convinced that all the Greek, Roman, German, French, Spanish, and even Neapolitan noses, would wish to hide in shame, in the depths of the earth, at sight of the nose of Georgia.

_Ah!_... _Good Heavens_ ... the beautiful noses of Georgia! The robust noses, the magnificent noses! And there are noses of all shapes; round, large, long, wide. There are noses of all colors: White, rose, red, and violet. There are noses mounted with rubies, others mounted with pearls. I even saw one mounted with turquoises. You have only to press them between your fingers and the little one will spout a pint of wine of Kaketie.

In Georgia a law of Vacktang IV had abolished the unit measure; it has kept only the nose. Rich weaves are measured by the nose. They say: “I brought seventeen noses of _tarmalama_ to make a dressing gown, seven noses of _Kanaos_ for making trousers, one nose and a half of sateen for a cravat.”

And they say that the women of Georgia consider this measure superior to all others, especially the measures of Europe.”

Supreme lyric poetry (despite Robbie Burns) belongs to the Orient. It can be produced only by a race with a long past, a race that has warred much, enjoyed much, suffered much, loved much, made and unmade gods. Such mighty things go to weaving of the tissue-thin lyric.

Lord Byron’s poetic ancestry goes far back to the sagamakers of Iceland. He is child of the Nibelungs. Byron was the last fine flowering of that which was England, for Great England now is of the past. Slowly she has been drifting with the rest of the world toward the piled up civilizations of yester year.

The slow, ripening of time must go to making of lyric poetry. I do not believe many will contradict me when I state that Heine, Hafiz, Anacreon, and Tu Fu, are the supreme lyric poets of the world—the Jew, the Persian, the Greek, and the Man of China.

It is said that the best champagne is made from grapes grown upon land that has been cultivated for ages. A similar statement might be made in regard to lyric poetry. The greatest lyric poets of the world, they who represent it at its purest and best, Heine, Hafiz, Tu Fu, and Anacreon, represent the oldest races of Asia. Each is rich with the memory of a past that is glorious in achievement as history tells us, and remains among great traditions today. Not one was of the Christian race. In their veins there was either the blood of oriental Asia, or, as in the case of Anacreon, its tradition, having been born in Teos, one of the voluptuous Ionian cities of Asia Minor. Time was needed for ripening and perfecting of the races that bore them, because great poets are not born of unripe races. Their blood must be tempered by time. Slow centuries intervened between them.

Anacreon lived somewhere in the neighborhood of five hundred years before Christ; Hafiz about thirteen hundred years after Christ. The exact date is uncertain. It is known, however, that in the year 1389, according to our reckoning of time, he was living in his beloved Shiraz, where he died and that at that time he was very old. Tu Fu lived in Eighth Century China, under Emperors of Tang. And Heine lived well on into the nineteenth century of our own day.

The age of each was made turbulent and restless by great conquerors. Each knew the domination of warriors whose armies shook the earth. Anacreon knew the devastating wars of Cyrus the Great; Hafiz, the brutal Tamerlane who was the scourge of God, and who made towers of human heads to rival in height the tower of Babel; Tu Fu saw Turkish rebels destroy Ch’ang-an, one of earth’s loveliest dream-cities; and Heine was born on the very day that Napoleon was made First Consul of France.

The best source of information concerning them is their words, although the outward facts of Heine’s life are told accurately enough by history, and a literature has grown up about his art. Few definite facts remain of Anacreon or Hafiz. Old Chinese writers tell us of Tu Fu with eloquence, with emotion. We do know, however, that each saw the splendid historical panorama of a world in transition unroll before his eyes; and that each saw the dominant forces in action that resulted in making the world of today. None has been circumscribed by the age in which he lived because his appeal has been universal, to humanity, whose heart beats responsively under chlamys of caftan. The lyrics of Tu Fu are as fresh and readable as if they had been written yesterday.

Perhaps the preservation of the elder writers is somewhat worthy of remark when we consider the periods in which they lived and the centuries that have intervened, since lyric poets have not been beloved of their contemporaries, nor indeed of conventional scholars of the ages, because of unrestraint of utterance, and their untamable fire. Their souls are revolutionary. They do not follow the established order. Too frequently they utter the naked thought. Someone has said that degeneracy and prudery go together. The history of creative ages seems to prove it.

In addition, lyric poets have always loved life for its own sake, unenlivened of faith and unsanctified of the spirit. Their sense and appreciation of the present has been so real, vivid, that there was left neither room nor desire to ask for anything beyond. Upon earth, in their brains, they were given the vision of a heaven.

Anacreon was the blithe Greek; Heine the bitter Hebrew; and Hafiz the fiery-hearted Persian. Tu Fu was the sensitive, sumptuous souled, supercivilized oriental, haunted with the richness of a past that was too great. Anacreon was the Greek whom thought of death could not terrify, who was ready to meet it with a smile. To him the beautiful present was so satisfying, sufficient, that it was anodyne of ill. And he loved the beautiful present blithely, without regret or anger that it could not last. He gave his heart to it and was happy. He asked no more.

To be sure he has no fiery strain of passion. This, critics have counted to his discredit. And he gave us the light side of Greek nature. His enthusiasms were no more permanent than his roses. But they were as lovely, and inimitable. He was an intellectual sensualist.

He praised love, wine, for the Tyrant of Samos. Despite it all he was a great artist in surity of modeling and lightness of touch. A graceful fancy was his, a courtier’s polished wit. He has kept the favor of the ages. The world has loved him. _What Anacreon sang in wanton splendor long ago, time has not destroyed_, says Horace.

_Nec ... quid olim lusit Anacreon delevit ætas._ And both Plato and Ovid have praised him.

The fastidious, the scholarly Bodenstedt imitated him as well as Hafiz, in his _Songs of Mirza Schaffy_. A book could be written of them who loved him, who attempted to make his charm their own. A fluent ease was his. He is a bird in careless singing. What grace! He gives closely the sensation of natural things. His effect is indeed nature’s, that of something without a soul, irresponsible. With him intellect had not become the two-edged sword that cuts the hand. His note of joy is pure, unmixed of care, as that of a boy. He was of the fine free ages when the spirit was unfettered. Coming to him fresh from reading writers of today, is like stepping from a heated yellow ball room, filled with dizzy whirling figures, out into the fresh, pure air of dawn.

Heine worshipped with his soul the divinity of Anacreon, the pagan Venus, but the fear of the Hebrew God of Wrath was in his heart, and that consuming modern quality called _grief_ had set its seal upon him. What unfortunate combination of gifts for a lyric genius!

All his life he fled them, until his strength was gone, he fell ill, and died, fled them wildly in pitiful attempt to reach just once the shelter of Anacreon’s Greek Garden of Pleasure, there to chase butterflies among the roses. Centuries had passed since the serene day of Anacreon. Heine’s frail body tried to bridge the ages. It was impossible. He could not right the wrong of having been born out of time. Death was the result.

To be sure he created a miniature world of grace, of beauty, but into it he put a tragic heart. Tu Fu was both beloved vagabond and eloquent minstrel, under the dying moons of Cathay.

Each of these lyrists at periods of their lives gave themselves to dissipation in futile attempt to catch, to hold the fleeting joy-world. It embittered the heart of the Hebrew, burnt up his life and hastened his death. It saddened deeply the Persian. It saddened Tu Fu and killed him. But the Greek it could not touch. He was of the Brotherhood of Pan who may not grieve.

The day of each was a day when old things were changing, giving place to new. It was a period indeed that has no little in common with today with which important parallels might be drawn. The Persians under Cyrus were devastating the seductive Ionian cities of Asia. Anacreon, who was about eighteen at this time, fled with his parents to Thrace, thence to Samos, part of the way, it is pleasant to fancy, along the beautiful road that bordered the shore of Asia Minor, between white-walled cities and the sea. The Greek world was being remodeled. Decisive battles were recorded, and Tu Fu fought long years in the wars which destroyed a proud civilization.

Heine’s day was one of popular upheaval, revolution. It knew the eloquent speech of La Salle, the denunciative writing of Börne. A change of spirit was coming over Europe. Class prejudice was dying a hard death. The right of the individual was being born.

Hafiz’ period was similar. And yet he paid as little attention to it as did Goethe, in the days when the Revolution was sweeping on. Dynasty after dynasty had succeeded each other in Persia whose members made either Shiraz, the home of Hafiz, their place of residence, or Ispahan, or Kirman, until at length Tamerlane came along and beheaded them all. Hafiz’ political horizon was like to Heine’s in its uncertainty, and in its change of outlook. Like Heine, he saw world-conquerors sweep away the firm ground from beneath his feet, and he glimpsed far vision of a world in which there should be no inequality. He had the poet’s vision of the future’s justice. The definite facts of Hafiz’ life are few, unsatisfactory.