"The devil take them all! What about Seltanetta?"
"Aha! at last I have touched the chilblain of your heart. Seltanetta, my dear Ammalát, is as beautiful as the starry sky; but in that heaven I saw no light, until I conversed about you. Then she almost threw herself on my neck when we were left alone together, and I explained the cause of my arrival. I gave her a camel-load of compliments from you—told her that you were almost dead with love—poor fellow!--and she burst into tears!"
"Kind, lovely soul! What did she tell you to say to me?"
"Better ask what she did not. She says that, from the time that you left her, she has never rejoiced even in her dreams; that the winter snow has fallen on her heart, and that nothing but a meeting with her beloved, like a vernal sun, can melt it.... But if I were to continue to the end of her messages, and you were to wait to the end of my story, we should both reach Derbénd with grey beards. Spite of all this, she almost drove me away, hurrying me off, lest you should doubt her love!"
"Darling of my soul! you know not—I cannot explain what bliss it is to be with thee, what torment to be separated from thee, not to see thee!"
"That is exactly the thing, Ammalát; she grieves that she cannot rejoice her eyes with a sight of him whom she never can be weary of gazing at. 'Is it possible,' she says, 'that he cannot come but for one little day, for one short hour, one little moment?'"
"To look on her, and then die, I would be content!"
"Ah, when you behold her, you will wish to live. She is become quieter than she was of old; but even yet she is so lively, that when you see her your blood sparkles within you."
"Did you tell her why it is not in my power to do her will, and to accomplish my own passionate desire?"
"I related such tales that you would have thought me the Shah of Persia's chief poet. Seltanetta shed tears like a fountain after rain. She does nothing else but weep."
"Why, then, reduce her to despair? 'I cannot now' does not mean 'it is for ever impossible.' You know what a woman's heart is, Saphir Ali: for them the end of hope is the end of love."
"You sow words on the wind, djanníon (my soul.) Hope, for lovers, is a skein of worsted—endless. In cool blood, you do not even trust your eyes; but fall in love, and you will believe in ghosts. I think that Seltanetta would hope that you could ride to her from your coffin—not only from Derbénd."
"And how is Derbénd better than a coffin to me? Does not my heart feel its decay, without power to escape it? Here is only my corpse: my soul is far away."
"It seems that your senses often take the whim of walking I know not where, dear Ammalát. Are you not well at Verkhóffsky's—free and contented? beloved as a younger brother, caressed like a bride? Grant that Seltanetta is lovely: there are not many Verkhóffskys. Cannot you sacrifice to friendship a little part of love?"
"Am not I then doing so, Saphir Ali? But if you knew how much it costs me! It is as if I tore my heart to pieces. Friendship is a lovely thing, but it cannot fill the place of love."
"At least, it can console us for love—it can relieve it. Have you spoken about this to the Colonel?"
"I cannot prevail on myself to do so. The words die on my lips, when I would speak of my love. He is so wise, that I am ashamed to annoy him with my madness. He is so kind, that I dare not abuse his patience. To say the truth, his frankness invites, encourages mine. Figure to yourself that he has been in love since his childhood with a maiden, to whom he was plighted, and whom he certainly would have married if his name had not been by mistake put into a list of killed during the war with the Feringhis. His bride shed tears, but nevertheless was given away in marriage. He flies back to his country, and finds his beloved the wife of another. What, think you, should I have done in such a case? Plunged a dagger in the breast of the robber of my treasure!--carried her away to the end or the world to possess her but one hour, but one moment! Nothing of this kind happened. He learned that his rival was an excellent and worthy man. He had the calmness to contract a friendship with him: had the patience to be often in the society of his former love, without betraying, either by word or deed, his new friend or his still loved mistress."
"A rare man, if this be true!" exclaimed Saphir Ali, with feeling, throwing away his reins. "A stout friend indeed!"
"But what an icy lover! But this is not all. To relieve both of them from misrepresentation and scandal, he came hither on service. Not long ago—for his happiness or unhappiness—his friend died. And what then? Do you think he flew to Russia. No! his duty kept him away. The Commander-in-chief informed him that his presence was indispensable here for a year more, and he has remained—cherishing his love with hope. Can such a man, with all his goodness, understand such a passion as mine? And besides, there is such a difference between us in years, in opinions. He kills me with his unapproachable dignity; and all this cools my friendship, and impedes my sincerity."
"You are a strange fellow, Ammalát; you do not love Verkhóffsky for the very reason that he most merits frankness and affection!"
"Who told you that I do not love him? How can I but love the man who has educated me—my benefactor? Can I not love any one but Seltanetta? I love the whole world—all men!"
"Not much love, then, will fall to the share of each!" said Saphir Ali.
"There would be enough not only to quench the thirst, but to drown the whole world!" replied Ammalát, with a smile.
"Aha! This comes of seeing beauties unveiled—and then to see nothing but the veil and the eyebrows. It seems that you are like the nightingales of Ourmis; you must be caged before you can sing!"
Conversing in this strain, the two friends disappeared in the depths of the forest.
CHAPTER VII
FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM COLONEL VERKHÓFFSKY TO HIS BETROTHED.
Derbénd, April.
Fly to, me, heart of my heart, dearest Maria! Rejoice in the sight of a lovely vernal night in Daghestán. Beneath me lies Derbénd, slumbering calmly, like a black streak of lava flowing from the Caucasus and cooled in the sea. The gentle breeze bears to me the fragrant odour of the almond-trees, the nightingales are calling to each other from the rock-crevices, behind the fortress: all breathes of life and love; and beautiful nature, full of this feeling, covers herself with a veil of mists. And how wonderfully has that vaporous ocean poured itself over the Caspian! The sea below gleams wavingly, like steel damasked with gold on an escutcheon—that above swells like a silver surge lighted by the full moon, which rolls along the sky like a cup of gold, while the stars glitter around like scattered drops. In a moment, the reflection of the moonbeams in the vapours of the night changes the picture, anticipating the imagination, now astounding by its marvels—now striking by its novelty. Sometimes I seem to behold the rocks of the wild shore, and the waves beating against them in foam. The billows roll onward to the charge: the rocky ramparts repel the shock, and the surf flies high above them; but silently and slowly sink the waves, and the silver palms arise from the midst of the inundation, the breeze stirs their branches, playing with the long leaves, and they spread like the sails of a ship gliding over the airy ocean. Do you see how she rolls along, how the spray-drops sparkle on her breast, how the waves slide along her sides. And where is she?... and where am I?... You cannot imagine, dearest Maria, the sweetly solemn feeling produced in me by the sound and sight of the sea. To me, the idea of eternity is inseparable from it; of immensity—of our love. That love seems to me, like it, infinite—eternal. I feel as if my heart overflowed to embrace the world, even as the ocean, with its bright waves of love. It is in me and around me; it is the only great and