Tzinchadzi of the Catskills

I WAS gazing at the mountain slopes across the ear-shaped valley, unable to decide whether they were extremely picturesque or extremely commonplace, when a queer-looking figure on horseback dived out of a wooded spot less than a mile to the right of me. It was a man with a full beard, wearing what in the distance looked like a turban, a cassock, and a sword. He broke into a spirited trot along the main road, but was soon swallowed up by a shaggy gap.

In the insupportable monotony of summer hotel life, the appearance of a cat would have been an event. The oddlooking horseman produced a sensation on the veranda. When the landlord’s son arrived with the mail, he solved the riddle.

“ He’s a Circassian, an’ he sells Oriental goods,” he said. “ He c’n play all kinds o’ tricks on horseback, and he makes money hand over fist.”

We feverishly hoped he would get around to our “ farm,” but he was kept busy peddling among the more fashionable cottagers. I learned that he lived with “ Pity Pete,” an ancient hemlock peeler, whose rickety shanty and stable, once by the side of a busy road, were now ensconced in the bosom of a young forest, and the next Sunday I went to call on him.

I knew the road well, for it led from the boarding house of which I was so weary down to the lively town at the foot of the wooded hill; yet, as I thought of the man whose acquaintance I was going to make, the leafage which was thickening all around me took on a weird look. I had never spoken to a Circassian before, and the whole Caucasus was epitomized in my brain as a group of horsemen like those I used to see galloping after the Czar’s carriage. They wore snow-white coats ; the sun played on their gold and silver mountings, on the crimson silk of their fur caps, on the gilt lace of their purple shirts. Their horses almost touched the carriage ; their heads hung over the Emperor’s. It was glorious aud it was terrible. As they bounded past, a hollow-voiced, awe-stricken “ Hurrah ! ” lifted itself along either side of the street.

The young maples closed in on me, and the midday glare lapsed into a twilight of greenish gold.

Presently I heard the neigh of a horse. Then a sabre flamed, and a white figure glimmered through the gloom.

“ Hay ! Choo ! ” said a voice.

“Good-morning,” I said, in Russian.

“ What ? Who’s there ? Good-morning ! ” came back from behind the trees.

The horse disappeared, and the white figure emerged from the darkness. I introduced myself to a stalwart, palefaced man with a blond beard. He wore a long white coat, gathered in at the waist by a narrow girdle of leather and Caucasian silver. A white fur cap shaped into a truncated cone, its top covered with red satin and gold lace, was jauntily tilted back on his head. A shirt of cream-colored silk trimmed with gold showed through an opening at the bosom of the cassock, and dangling from the girdle were a dagger and a sabre. The silver tips of what looked like two rows of cartridges glistened at his breast. Things gleamed and sparkled all over him, but there was nothing obtrusively dazzling.

He welcomed me with joyous hospitality, and presently we sat on a fallen tree by the road, chatting of Russia. His Russian was thick with the velvety gutturals of his native tongue, but he spoke it with ease, and he threw himself into the conversation with the eagerness of one loosening his tongue after weeks of enforced silence.

When I asked him if he thought the Catskills pretty, he raised his clear eyes toward the peak looming blue between the trees, and said condescendingly, “ They are good.”

“ Of course they don’t come up to your mountains.”

He smiled and held out both his index fingers as he said : “ A butterfly is pretty, and the sea when sprinkled with sunshine is pretty. These mountains are a butterfly ; ours the mighty sea.”

He told me his name was David Tzinchadzi ; that he was a Georgian nobleman, and that his grandfather once led his tribe against the Russians.

“ See this ? ” he asked, passing his hand over the silver-tipped ornaments at his breast. “ They are relics of our glorious past. They are mere sticks of wood, but they represent the powder boxes we used to carry in the mountains. We lost our independence in 1801, yet our horses are fleet, and our steel gleams undimmed. See this metal ? ” He unsheathed his sabre, and cut a swath in the air. “ Four hundred rubles, sir! A Georgian who deserves to be a Georgian will rather be without a wife than without a faithful steed and a brave piece of steel.” He paused, smiled ruefully, and added, “ I had the two comrades, and I reached out for the third.”

“ What do you mean ? ” I asked bashfully. “ Did you fall in love ? ”

“ Yes, sir. I loved a dark-eyed maiden, and that’s why I am now roaming about these strange mountains. You don’t mind my talking about it, do you ? My heart has been overflowing so long, I need a listener. Have you ever loved a maiden ? Have you ever been homesick ? Ill luck has inflicted both wounds on me. They are burning me, they are stifling me, they are wringing my heart. Will you hear my tale, sir?”

His speech seemed to me oddly stilted, but, strange to say, I was beginning to feel its effect on my own.

“ Even if it takes you three days and three nights,” I answered ; and he resumed : —

“ Well, if your eyes ever behold a maiden, and your heart begins to ache, bear in mind a rule : don’t — But no, I won’t tell it to you just yet. First listen. All I will tell you is that I did n’t know that rule myself, or I should not be here, a shadow among mountains that are not mine. Well, it was in my native town where my heart was touched, in a town, called Khadziss. Ah, it’s a lovely nest, sir! There are mountains there, and they are high and beautiful. Our valleys are deep, immense, filled with the echoes of heaven. Our rivers glisten like a sword and wind like a serpent; they murmur words into the Caucasian’s ear; and as he flies along their banks on his dear one they speak to him, and he listens, and he flies and flies, and listens and listens. O Lord, have mercy on a poor Caucasian ! Carry me back to Khadziss ! ” He dropyted his head, in despair ; then a dreamy look came into his eyes, and he went on in a whisper : —

“ And our horses, — oh, you can’t think how good they are. They are brave, the sweet ones, the best friends we have. Do you know what we say ? ' A good steed is better than a bad wife.’ But the wife I sought would not be mine.”

“Was she the belle of the town ? ” I urged him on.

“ Indeed she was, — a true Caucasian girl, beautiful as a new sword drawn under a million sunbeams, and she can sit in her saddle like the best of men. Our children, boys and girls alike, say ‘ Zkhem! Zkhem ! ’¹ almost on the same day as they first say ‘ Mamma! ’ but I never saw a girl who could ride like Zelaya.

“ One evening I saw her ride past the bailiff’s office. I signed to her to stop, and she did. ‘ Tell me to ride to the world’s end for you, Zelaya,’ said I. She gave me a sad look, and answered: ‘ I know you are good to me, but what am I to do ? Azdeck says his heart, too, is sore, just like yours. Speak to my father. Let him decide. I know you are both good, but I am only a girl, so I am a fool! ’ That’s the way she spoke, and, O Lord ! ” He smote his breast, and drew a heavy sigh.

“ Did you speak to her father ? ” I asked.

“ I did, but he said ‘ no,’ the wolf. He’s a stern old man, her father. The neighbors say he’s wise, but he’s as fond of sport as a bad boy. When I asked him why he would n’t be my father-inlaw, he said : ‘ You talk too much, my lad, and your talk is too fine. Sift it through a sieve, and out of a dozen words one will be to the point. You will make a poor husband, and a worse father.’ ' And Azdeck ? ’ I asked, and as I said the word I felt a load in my throat; and even now, as I speak to you, I seem to feel it choking me.”

“ And what was his answer ? ”

“ He thought a little, and then he gave a laugh and said : ‘ Well, Azdeck is as bad as you, and as good. He talks to the point, but he is a fool. Yet a better fellow than you two I don’t seem to see around. So run a race, and the one who wins will win Zelaya. Is it a go ? ’ ‘ It is! ’ I answered. I was sure I could beat Azdeck, so my heart danced in me. Oh, the fool that I was !

“ Well, the holidays were drawing nigh, and the great games were to take place on the square in front of the village church. Every fellow was to show his smartest djigits,² and then Azdeck and I were to ride for Zelaya. So I thought to myself : ‘ Here is my chance. I will learn to ride so that the whole village will make the sign of the cross.’ Away into the fields I went; on the mountain tops I hid ; in deserted dales I passed my days, — riding, riding, riding. Oh, how I labored ! I had never trained so hard before, and I invented the cleverest tricks that ever were shown by a Caucasian on his steed. ' ’T is for you, Zelaya ! ’ I whispered to the wind, and the words gave wisdom to my brain and suppleness to my limbs.

“ At last it came, the great day. We rode out ” —

“ How was the weather ? ” I could not help interrupting him. At first he started, with an annoyed look, but the next minute he smiled, saying : —

“ I see you want to know how it all looked, but it’s all a blur in my own brain. I do remember that the sky was overcast and a sharp breeze was blowing, — yes, and it blew the fire of my veins into a merry blaze. There were trumpeter’s on the mountain slope near by, and their blare is still in my blood. The Caucasians were out in their best silks, gold, silver, and steel. I remember I wore a coat of purple, and the man by my side said it seemed to be all aflame. Well, we unsheathed our swords and — But wait.”

He suddenly disappeared, and in a minute or two he came back leading his white horse by the bridle. He paused, looked me over with a shamefaced smile, and then, suddenly leaping into his saddle, he said to the horse : “Tzadzacha ! Tzadzacha ! ”

His face was set with a look of fury, his brow was contracted, his eyes sparkled, his beard seemed grown in size.

“ Tzadzacha ! Tzadzaclia i ” he shrieked, flung himself forward, struck the animal a savage blow, and was off, the skirts of his cassock fluttering and his scabbard and buckles twinkling between the trees. He disappeared down the narrow road, but he soon reemerged, and hurling himself down from the horse, he hung suspended by his feet as he was borne along and out of sight again. He rode with his feet in the air and his head on his saddle, and he rode facing his horse’s tail; he turned somersaults and he jumped over the saddle ; and he was about to perform a more complex djigit, when all at once he reined in the horse and-dismounted.

“ What’s the trouble : ” I asked.

“ Nothing,” he replied morosely. He clearly resented my failure to applaud, and I hastened to mend matters.

“ It was wonderful,” I said.

But he continued to frown, and after a little he murmured, with the air of an injured child : “ Oh, you don’t mean it; you need n’t praise me if you don’t like my riding. I don’t ask you to say it’s good, do I ? ”

“ But it is. I was so absorbed watching your tricks that I omitted to tell you how I admired them,” I assured him.

He brightened up.

“ I know your circus riders can do better work,” he said, with lingering resentment, “ but perhaps if you had seen me ride in the Caucasus you would have liked it better. You must n’t forget that these mountains are not mine, and the beast does n’t know me. Anyway, the Caucasians did think I rode well; and Azdeck, he was so scared at sight of my djigits that he sat in his saddle like a fool, and never budged. Seeing that, I lashed myself to still hotter work, and flew off in a whirlwind of djigits. You might n’t have liked it, but the Caucasians, such as they are, were wild with admiration, and — and there is where my great mistake comes in. The Caucasians began to tease Azdeck, to make mock of him, till he dismounted, and with bowed head and weeping he took his beast home.”

“ And Zelaya ? ” I asked impatiently.

“ What about her ? She came forward and said : ' Tzinchadzi, you have won the race. I am yours.’ ”

“ Did she ? ” I inquired, perplexed.

Tzinchadzi burst into a triumphant laugh.

“You see, sir, although you know much about horsemanship, you don’t seem to be very deep in some other kinds of wisdom. I had no trouble in getting you to believe that I won her; yet it was Azdeck who got her, not I, and all because of that accursed victory of mine !

“I tell you what,” he continued softly, as he thrust out his two index fingers, and a thoughtful smile animated his queer, bloodless face. “ There are many ways of bewitching a maiden, but beware of casting the wrong spell. Whatever else you do, beware of casting the wrong spell! I thought X should kindle her blood with admiration for my victory, but I only kindled it with pity for Azdeck. I should n’t have let the villagers hoot and jeer at him the way they did. As it was, she walked up to me, pale, gloomy, and said, ‘ You are without a heart, Tzinchadzi; ’ and then she sent to tell Azdeck that she was sorry for him, and that she would be his.”

He hung his head, and was silent awhile. Then he continued quietly : —

“ I disappeared again. My horse was the only friend I had. I could not bear to stay near Zelaya, and I bade my friend, my steed, carry me away, away from my misery. Do you know how we speak to our horses ? 4 Speed, my oak ! Run like a lion, tear mountains asunder for me, darling ! ’ we say. ‘ Fly like an eagle, my love ! Sweep over sea and waste, over mount and dale ! Can there be an obstacle where the freedom and glory of your master are at stake ? Take wing, birdie, take wing! ’

“ That’s what I said to my mount; only I bade him take me away from my love, from the sun of my soul, from my black despair. But how can you realize the beauty and the thunders of our tongue unless you hear its echo in the Caucasian mountains, where the gales, our horses, carry their riders uphill and down ? So I flewr over mountains, and flying 1 sobbed. You will say Zelaya’s father was right, that I am really a fool. Maybe I am, but I am sure that my horse understood my tears, — I am sure he did. Poor darling, where art thou now ? Alas, I am torn from thee even as I am from our birthplace! ” He gazed up at the sky as he added, under his breath : “I was nine years old when I first mounted a horse and drew a dagger, and they have been my mates ever since. Have you heard of Iracly, our youthful king ? He led our people on the Persians when he was a boy of thirteen, and he crushed his enemy into powder. Why ? Because his men knew how to make friends of a steed and steel. Well, my friend brought me to Batum, and there the American consul picked me out as a rider for the World’s Fair. So you see, although you don’t think much of my horsemanship, the American consul did. A man was making up a party of skilled riders, and I was accepted at once. We showed what a Caucasian could do in Chicago. Then the other men went home. I did not. A fellow who came with us brought along a stock of Caucasian goods. He sold some in Chicago, and the rest I bought of him for a low price. He was homesick, like me ; only he had a wife and children at home, and I — there was a maiden who would not let me love her.

“ A Jew said, 'I tell you what, Tzinchadzi : go to the summer resorts and sell your wares,’ and I came here. The Catskills are not up to much, but they are mountains; so I let them listen to the sighs of my pining heart. The Americans saw me ride, and although you, sir, don’t seem to care for my d jigits, they did. They went wild over them, sir. Then I bought a horse, and let them see what a Circassian could do.

“ I sell all kinds of goods now. The Americans are kind : they like my horsemanship and buy my trinkets. I make plenty of money, but can it buy me Zelaya ? Can it turn the Catskills into the Caucasus ? Oh ! ” He gnashed his teeth, smote the air with his fist, frowned, and compressed his lips.

I saw him often, but I confess his homesick outpourings began to pall on me. The next winter we met once or twice in New York, and then I lost track of him.

Six years passed. Last summer, as I sat on the upper deck of an overcrowded ferryboat, watching the splinters of a shattered bar of sunshine on the water, and listening to the consumptive notes of a negro’s fiddle, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

It was Tzinchadzi, but how changed he was ! His beard was gone, and instead of his picturesque costume of yore he wore an American suit of blue serge, a light derby, and a starched shirt front with a huge diamond burning in its centre. He had grown fat and ruddy ; he glistened with prosperity and prose.

He told me he had changed his name to “Jones,” because he had a busy store and owned some real estate, and the Americans found it difficult to pronounce “ Tzinchadzi.”

“Are you still homesick?” I joked him.

“ I wish I were,” he answered, without smiling.

“ And Zelaya ? ”

“ She married Azdeck. They are happy, but I bear them no grudge.”

“ Are you married ? ”

“ No, but my heart is cured of Zelaya. I bear her no grudge.”

“ So you are all right ? ”

“Yes. America is a fine place. I expect to go home for a visit, but I won’t stay there. A friend of mine went home, but he soon came back. He was homesick for America.”

I inquired about his business and his associations, and he answered my questions in a quiet, sober, rather nerveless way, in which I vainly sought to recognize my companion of the Catskills ; but suddenly he interrupted himself.

“ Shall I tell yon the real truth ? ” he asked, with his old-time vehemence. “ I have money and I have friends, but you want to know whether I am happy ; and that I am not, sir. Why ? Because I yearn neither for my country nor for Zelaya, nor for anything else. I have thought it all out, and I have come to the conclusion that a man’s heart cannot be happy unless it has somebody or something to yearn for. Do you remember how sore my soul was while we were in the Catskills? Well, there was a wound in me at that time, and the wound rankled with bitters mixed with sweets. Yes, sir. My heart ached, but its pain was pleasure, whereas now — alas ! The pain is gone, and with it my happiness. I have nothing, nothing! O Zelaya, where are the twinges your name used to give me when I roamed around in the mountains that were not mine ? Sweet twinges, where are you ? Well, sir, I have thought about it often. It amounts to this : I do enjoy life ; only I am yearning for — what shall I call it ? ”

“ For your old yearnings,” I was tempted to prompt him ; but as I looked at his half-shut eyes and rapt face, my phrasemaking ambitions seemed so small, so far beneath the mood for which he was vainly seeking a formula, that I remained silent.

“ I can’t tell you what I feel,” he finally said. “ Maybe if I could I should n’t feel it, and there would be nothing to tell, so that the telling of it would be a lie. I have plenty of money ; but if you want to think of a happy man, think of Tzinchadzi of the Catskills, not of Jones of New York.”

Abraham Cahan.