Host and Guest
By Vazha-Pshavela
(Luka P. Razikashvili, 1861-1915)
Translated by Lela Jgerenaia
© All Rights Reserved.
Edited by A. S. Kline
This work may be freely reproduced, stored,
and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Host and Guest
I
Veiled in the gloom
of night
The sweet face of Kisteti
Appears, among hills
around,
A rocky throne among
cliffs.
The river moans in
its dark ravine
Turbid, with grief
at its heart.
The mountains too
are bowed down,
Laving face and
hands in the water;
On their breasts,
many have died,
Unfitting is the
blood on their flanks.
Seeking the blood of
his brother’s killer,
A man travels along
the road.
I say a road, but
what road is this:
A narrow path over
rock!
A path that’s so
hard to walk,
He can scarcely move
a step.
There, the village
of the Kists,
Is like an eagle’s
nest,
As pleasant a place
to gaze on
As the breast of a
woman.
Black fog slumbers
about the village,
Its face deep in
thought,
Listening to the
hills around,
Absorbing the scene
with joy.
It’s a guest for the
moment,
Tomorrow, it moves
elsewhere;
Departing,
travelling the heights,
The slopes covered
with ice;
It darkens and
shrouds
The visible
landscape.
Making the hunter
cry out,
His track lost among
cliffs,
Bringing joy to the
wolf, the thief,
Those walkers in the
dark.
II
High above, some stranger
Dislodges a rock
from the cliff.
The traveller looks
up,
Faced by a tall
mountain.
He listens….after a moment
Hearing the hiss of
sand.
He reaches for his
gun:
It might be an
enemy.
He looks about feverishly,
His weapon at the
ready.
He sees someone burdened
With a double-headed
staff.
He was dragging its
dark weight,
That’s why the sand
hissed.
The stranger said
not a word,
Not a sound came
from his mouth,
The barrel of the
gun gleaming
Like the dew after
morning rain.
He asked: ‘What kind
of man are you?
Why are you
wandering here at this hour?’
‘What would you
have? I’m a hunter.’
‘You don’t look like
one to me.’
‘Why should you not
trust me?
Why are you suspicious?
Because I’m
wandering perhaps
Like you across this
mountain?
I am a hunter too,
And today I’ve
hunted in vain.’
‘So it goes with us
hunters.
Would you live
without trouble?’
‘This also is trouble,
brother,
I can barely move a
step,
I’ve walked all these
hills,
I traversed every
ravine;
Black fog swirled
around
Driven by a strong
wind;
It howled through
the ravines
Like a famished
wolf.
I could barely see
the road;
I tried to descend
the cliff,
At a loss to know
the way
I was struggling so
fiercely.
I scared the beasts
near and far,
I could hear their
hooves clearly,
I could hear the rams clashing horns
As they fled along
the cliff.
My heart sank at
that
I could see nothing
ahead;
Forget about the
hunting,
I dared not take a
step forward.’
The stranger
standing close by
Came a little closer.
The traveller called
out: ‘Hunt on, then,
Don’t complain, stay
calm.’
‘Good hunting to you
too, brother,
Kill a host of those
agile creatures.’
‘Here’s one. So why
complain?’
He showed him a
horned ram,
Lying dead, one with
curving horns.
‘A cunning one, but
silent now.
If you want we’ll
share it,
Equal shares, like
comrades,
I’ll not take more
than my own,
Let’s share it
justly,
Come home with me
tonight,
My dwelling is
nearby.
Where do you come
from, brother?
Tell me your name as
well!
Don’t’ worry, God has found
Food for you today.
You shall have your share
In this ram I’ve
slain,
Don’t look
surprised, it’s no jest,
And I’m not seeking
favours.
If it was not meant
to be,
Why would you meet
me, now?
It would be a shame
If you lost your
share,
Who are you? Tell me
your name.
Your looks seem
Khesvurian.’
‘I am called, Nunua,
brother,
A wanderer in the
hills.’
But Zviadauri lied,
He concealed his true
name.
What could he do? He
was notorious,
He owed a debt of
blood to many Kists,
He had cut the right
hand of many Kists,
Sent them to an
untimely grave.
‘Tell me your name,
too,
Now I have told you
mine.’
‘Mine is Jokhala,
brother,
My last name,
Alkhastaidze;
It would not do for us
To tell lies.
My house is nearby,
With doors like a
fortress.
Come home with me
tonight,
I’ll take you there
myself.
If I’m not the
perfect host
I’ll not treat you
ill, at least.
Tomorrow, take your
own way,
Go wherever you
wish.
I’ll tell you some
of my troubles,
You can share some
of yours.’
‘Lead me wherever you wish, brother,
I long to be there –
How far is it?
You’ve cut the ram’s
throat,
And skinned its legs
too.
I’ll not refuse to
visit,
I’ll help carry the
ram too
I don’t ask for a
share, you know,
I’d not dishonour
myself like that.’
Between them they
skinned the ram,
And carried it to
the house,
They exchanged many
stories,
Grew acquainted as
they went.
III
The turrets came in
sight,
Dogs were barking;
From the doorways
Curious children were
gazing;
The stone-built
houses
Seemed like giant
boulders.
‘Look, here are my
family,
My fortress, my
home;
Welcome, as brother
to brother,
As godson to
godfather.’
Jokhala called to
his wife:
‘Come see who’s at
the door!’
Pride was apparent
In the host’s
conversation.
As they stood in the
hallway, waiting…
The fire smouldered
in the hearth,
An old man played on a lyre,
A man sitting near
to him,
Sang of heroes
Of ancestral wars:
How they sacked
Pshav-Khevsureti,
In vengeance for the
blood of their brother;
They celebrate everywhere
The hand of a
righteous man.
Then a beautiful
woman appeared,
Dressed in black,
Slender as a willow
tree,
Like a star
descended to earth.
‘See, I have brought
you a guest.’
‘Mercy be to God.’
How you will treat
our guest, wife,
That is for you to
say.
The woman welcomed
him in:
‘Guest, may peace be
upon you!’
‘You too, may you have peace
And your husband and
children!’
She took the guest’s
weapons,
They invited him in;
The woman following
behind,
Jokhala leading;
Zviadauri following
His new brother.
IV
The man who sat by
the hearth,
Grey-haired,
elderly,
He rose now to his
feet,
Like a powerful
tiger on a cliff-top.
An old man, there as
a guest,
Must respect the
guest of another,
To rise to one’s
feet is expected,
He must follow the
mountain ways.
But on seeing the
stranger,
He took on the mask
of the wolf;
They were evident,
The thoughts in his
mind,
The aged Kist felt no pleasure,
On seeing this
stranger.
His heart throbbed
with anger,
And his face
betrayed it,
His hand drifted to
his sword,
And he checked his knife,
covertly,
But a guest cannot start a quarrel
In another man’s
house.
He rose and exited
quietly,
Biting his finger in
bitterness,
He beat at his chest
three times,
As he stepped
outside.
He left and went
from house to house,
Sharpening his
tongue with poison:
‘Our deadly enemy, you Kists,
Walks with you,
disguised, in the night.
It seems, Jokhala
fails to know him
His eyes have not pierced the disguise.
He is the decimator
of our people,
Attacking us with
violence,
Forever insatiable in his desire
For our blood and
bone.
Today he is in our
hands, let’s see
If we can make him
taste the bitterness
Of those Khevsur killed this summer;
We have unburied
dead.
Tell me, if I fail
of the truth,
If my words are in
error!
Make our enemy know
too,
That we are not
basely born.
I am surprised at
Jokhala,
Why open the door to
an enemy,
Who is this guest?
The idiot,
Why does he not see?
We must bring bitterness
To Zviadauri’s
nostrils,
If not then let the women
Wield our shields
and swords.’
Even the Kists’
children were stirred,
Everyone strapped on
a sword,
The entire village
was stirred –
Man, woman, and
child.
They must sacrifice the life
Of Zviadauri to
their dead;
They must kill him
on his enemy’s grave
As is the custom.
To send a spy,
Instructing him in
secret,
To go to Jokhala,
Like a neighbour and
a brother;
Not to divulge in any way
The villagers’
intent.
To eat and to
converse,
To discover where
the guest will sleep;
To assault him at
night, and bind him,
Needs little debate.
The spy arrives
With ingratiating
tongue
He blesses Jokhala’s
name,
He speaks freely,
gives no offence.
He jests and tells
stories,
He strikes sparks
with his tongue.
Who could know his heart was full
Of the venom of a
deadly snake.
They dined. The host
Admired his guest
with all his heart.
‘He’s a brave man,
you can tell,’
He swore by his
cult,
‘Meeting today,
tomorrow as brothers
Let us be one in
spirit.’
He invited him to
rest,
And showed him to
his own bed.
His guest refused
it, ‘No,’
I want neither
mattress nor blanket.
I’ll sleep in the
entrance way,
I’m not used to
sleeping inside…
He had achieved the
goal
Aimed at in his
heart,
This is what the spy
desires,
It’s why he made his
way there.
And he left
joyfully,
To spread the news
around.
If the fox knows
where the cockerel roosts,
What more can he
wish!
V
‘Wife, what’s all
this confusion?
Bring me my sword
and sabre!
This is no trivial
skirmish,
The whole enemy
force is attacking!
They are out to
destroy us,
Our guest has
betrayed us;
Beneath brotherhood and friendship
He’s concealed an
army!
Hush! Wait! I am
wrong…
They are our Kists.
Why are they here,
now;
What are they
crying, what do they want?
Listen, carefully,
I can hear a man
screaming.
What a dire sound,
What a dreadful
deed!
They are
slaughtering my guest
With their glittering
swords.
Look at those
ruthless ones,
How they trample
through my home!
They have my manhood
in their hands,
And they crush it as
they crush the grapes.
Let me go and see,
What has stirred
them so?...’
So saying, Jokhala
rose
And gripping his sword
in his hand,
He opened the doors
of his house,
And stepped out
defiantly.
‘Why are you here?
He cried,
‘Whose guest do you
bind with rope?
Why do you break our
sovereign law,
Why do you drench my
head with mud?
I swear by my
religion, I’ll shed blood,
You will regret your
vile conduct,
You’ll regret this,
though you are my brothers,
Trampling like this
on my manhood!...’
‘What do you mean,
you fool,
Have you lost your
wits?
Over a deadly guest,
an enemy
Who would cut off
the breasts of his own mother!’
So the Kists cried,
Shouting, all at
once, loud as thunder
‘You and your guest, will both
Be hurled from the
cliffs together.
Whatever the tribe must do, it will
According to the
tribe’s rules.
This decimator of all Kisteti
Why do you treat him
as your guest?
In the mountains, even a child
Knows this
Zviadauri’s name.
You fool, he’s
forever trying,
To exterminate us
all.
He attacks us like a
wolf,
He ambushes us on
the trail.’
Jokhala thought
deeply,
His face filled with
regret,
As if an arrow had been fired,
Into the very centre
of his heart.
‘It was he who killed your brother,
With his gun, in the
birch-wood.
We know his face,
Fierce with rage.
“I am here, I,
Zviadauri!”
He screamed from
above;
We heard him
clearly,
We were watching him
from afar.
He filled
Pshav-Khevsureti
With cattle he stole from us.
He stood behind the army,
Swift-footed, wearing
a grey chokha.
Why do you shame
yourself, you wretch,
For this insatiable
creature?
How can you sit near him,
Without vomiting in
his face?’
‘All that may be
true…
But what are you
trying to say,
You can’t tie my heart
To your wishes with
a thread.
He is my guest, this
day,
Though he owes me a
sea of blood,
I cannot betray him.
I swear it, by God,
his creator.
I ask you to loose
him, Musa,
Not to torment him
further,
When he leaves my
household,
Then you may do as
you wish.
Who has ever
betrayed a guest,
In Kisteti, even in
story?
What have I done,
then,
That you are all at
my door?
You forget the rules
of your own cult,
That is why you act
so wrongly;
What would you say
to my family?
You are in my house,
not outside!
Woe to you, children
of Kists,
Who come to my door
in force!
You attack an
unarmed man,
How does that make you feel?’
Musa (to Jokhala)
‘We will bind you
too,
For shaming the
tribe, you wretch!
Will you dare to disobey
What we order?
You’re barking like
some sheep-dog,
You are talking
foolish nonsense;
On behalf of this non-believer,
Treating your
brothers as the enemy,
Do you realise your own life
Will be filled now with misfortune!’
Jokhala (to Musa).
‘What? Do you call
me a dog?
Then I’ll act like
one, too!’
He drew his dagger,
And thrust it to the
hilt into Musa’s heart.
‘Look, here is the
true dog,
See how bold he
grows with me!
You tramplers on my
manhood,
Do you dare to curse
me?
I swear, by Allah,
I’ll slay you,
Before you can
murder me with your sabres
May the wrath of
land and sky show you no mercy,
For the unjust thing
you do!’
‘Oh God, what has he
done,
He’s given way to
madness…’
Jokhala was attacked
By the whole force of Kists,
They tied his hands…they made sure
He could not wield
his sword…
They threw him into the hallway
His hands and feet
bound like a corpse.
The people’s
condemnation is thunder,
Their saliva, the
moisture of rain.
They seized the
wounded man too,
Zviadauri….
What does Zviadauri
say,
Why is his face like
a stoic’s?
Grief is killing
that brave man,
Because his hand
lacks a sword:
‘You have seized me,
you dogs,
A fortunate day for
you!’
He said this quite
calmly,
And he said nothing
more.
They were dragging
him to the graveyard,
Where the Kists were
buried;
As a sacrifice to
the dead,
To bear water for
them there,
To obey them as their servant,
And wash their feet…
VI
On the far side of
the village was a hill,
Scorched, and dusty;
Many brave men lay
there,
Lion-hearted, nobly
bred.
The silent hillside
sloped below,
A torrent flowing
through clay.
Those who wielded
sword and gun
Their strong hearts
no longer beat;
The voiceless ground
devours them,
Harsh and
insatiable;
Everyone thinks of
it
As the very likeness
of a human being…
Strength cannot save
us from mortal fate
Nor cunning words.
This is Nature’s
deep flaw,
That always offends
my mind:
It kills everyone,
good or bad,
And no-one survives
in the end.
When the ship is
wrecked
Every passenger is
drowned!...
The sun had not yet
risen,
The dew still rested
on the grass,
The breeze had not
yet blown,
Had not spread from
above.
Countless men and
women
Were gathered there.
Zviadauri was
brought
Hands bound before
the crowd,
All are eager for
his slaughter,
Yet who among them
would grieve?
Death terrifies us
all,
When others are
killed, we long to watch;
Most of the time men
do not feel
The wickedness of
their actions.
There are so many
sinful souls,
Who live their lives
without remorse;
Yet who does not
wish to destroy
One who harms them?
Here is the grave of a Kist,
Surrounded by the crowd.
Moollah begins to pray,
Remembering his dead:
‘Suffer, no more, Darda,
Nor be troubled,
Here are your brothers
At the door of your grave,
Be joyful, we sacrifice to you,
No longer swallow your anger against your foe,
May this dog die for you!’
The stranger’s voice is heard,
His hackles are rising,
His hair like a tiger’s.
Lime is burning
In the victim’s inner core.
Will this subdue his rage,
A blade with a rusted edge!
They fall upon Zviadauri,
Set the sword at his
throat:
‘We sacrifice you to
Darla!’
They all cry.
(Zviadauri) ‘Your
dead are the dogs!’
He shouted to the
crowd.
A brave man,
defiant.
Unwavering, his
brow.
The Kists were
confounded,
The crowd reared up.
‘He refuses to die,
Behold, this dog!’
They are shouting and as they do
Slowly driving in
the sword.
‘You are the dogs!’
he murmured in his throat
Before they severed
his head!
‘Look at him, look,
Not a blink from his
eyes!’
Life is ebbing, he
is bleeding,
Zviadauri is dying,
But an enemy hand
could not quench his heart,
His heart was still
his heart…
And witnessing all this
One lovely woman
melted,
Hiding her tears
Standing there,
behind the crowd,
She wanted to aid
him:
Her heart screamed:
‘Don’t kill him!’
She was thinking,
angrily:
‘I wish I had a
scythe,
I wish the female cult
Gave me the right,
To grant him life
In exchange for all
these souls.
I wish I were the
one
Who might sleep in
his arms,
Whose breast, now
damned,
Lay on his breast,
Would that one ever tire
Of her husband’s
love!’
The Kists were
angered, shamed:
Their wish was not
fulfilled,
They could not make a fitting sacrifice
To the dead;
Their victim slew their hearts
And diminished their
joy.
Ashamed they desired
To wield their swords as one
And make of the corpse
Ribbons stained with
blood.
But they did not
dare from shame:
And ‘Shameful!’ all
were thinking.
Their hearts and minds
Vexed and troubled.
As they headed home,
Heads low,
descending, they said:
‘We’d not have killed him
If as an enemy he’d
not harmed us.
He was a brave man’,
All swore to Allah,
‘That’s why he
fought like a tiger,
Defending the honour
of his land.’
But “treat your
enemy with harshness”
God himself commands
us,
The sooner then must
we
Drive a knife into
their hearts.’
They abandoned Zviadauri’s
Corpse there, alone;
For the dogs to drag
at him,
Birds to tear and
dismember him;
‘He was no
sacrifice, let him rot there
That too is no less
harm.’
The Kists proclaimed this
Proudly, in loud
voices.
And their voices
were echoed
By the mountains’
dark ravines.
Night fell,
Light faded from the
heights,
Darkness entered
stealthily
The sun sank to
rest.
The sunlight faded,
The sand no longer
shining;
No longer seen now, vanished,
The white hair of
the black summits.
Embroidered, veined with sorrows,
The face of those
rocks,
That are forever
grieving,
With pure streams
like tears.
For death, mourning
is fitting,
For a dead brother,
a sister’s weeping,
For the forest, the
stag’s trail,
Or the howling of
wolves,
For a brave man death
in battle,
Shattered sword in
hand.
For war, the victory feast
With the enemy
defeated.
Zviadauri was mourned
By the fret and fall
of water,
The moan from the tall mountain
Freed on the breeze,
Tears from the ranks of mist
Ordained by God.
And by the stream, a
woman,
Fine, a beauty of
Kist,
Pours water over her
breast and forehead,
Fainting from time
to time.
She cried for a long
time, quietly,
Though now and then
she trembled,
The death of Zviadauri
Would appear before
her eyes.
She was crying without tears,
Constrained by
respect:
Respect for the
tribe on the one hand
On the other, her
fear of God.
Grieving for an enemy
Would bring their
anger upon her.
The thought was in
her mind,
But her heart took
its own path,
The man’s heroic death,
Was etched on her
heart.
That scene had pierced
The woman’s heart
like an arrow,
Forcing this beauty
To mourn the
slaughtered one.
She is waiting for
dark, so she
Can weep for the
dead by night;
She gave barely a
thought
To her Jokhala,
A wife is mourning
another’s man
What is the madwoman
doing?
Perhaps they are
killing Jokhala,
Breaking down the
doors of the house!
She rose and glanced around
A frightened
creature;
Swiftly she climbed
The mountainous
cliffs;
With the fearful noise of the waters
Hissing in the
gloom.
She climbed to the
grave, leaned
There, then knelt in
reverence,
She was sobbing, out
of breath;
Tears melted the stone.
She took a knife and approached
Zviadauri’s corpse,
She cut three hairs from his beard
For a keepsake,
She wrapped them
round a coarse twig
With her tapering
sculpted fingers.
What is that
deafening noise?
Her ears are
ringing…
From the graves can be heard
The anger and moans
of the dead!
As if infants were
crying too,
Wailing bitterly!
It’s the voice of a
shared anger,
Of a common grief:
‘What are you doing,
you shameful wretch’
Was their bitter
complaint,
‘Almighty God will
vent his anger on you!’
Was the cry from the
grave.
Swift clouds
Appeared on the
surface of the sky…
She ran away,
looking back,
The dead themselves
ran after her,
‘Where can you hide
yourself,
If you try to escape
us now?’
The voices behind
her cry,
The mountains echo
their words,
Reverberating everywhere
Not just in one
place or two.
‘Traitor!’ they all cry,
The peerless
stallions,
The grasses, stones,
and sand,
All around.
Here, from his grave, rises
Her dead brother,
Ebari,
Unequalled among his
peers,
Famed horseman of
the Kists;
He shouted after his
sister,
With thunderous
words:
‘Oh, my sister, what
have you done to me?
Why do you shame me
so?
You have dug me a second
grave,
Though I am dead and
buried!
Is this how you
prove yourself my sister,
Is this your
womanhood?’
He glided along the path,
He howled towards
the graveyard.
VIII
(Aghaza) ‘What are
you after, damn you?
Where are you going?
Who permits you to tear
at a good man’s flesh?
You dog, with greedy
eyes!
Are Zviadauri’s bones
For you to pick at?’
So Aghaza cried,
Hurling a shower of
stones.
The dead run behind
her menacingly,
Along the edge of
the rocky ravine.
She can still hear
their voices,
Echoed by the
mountains.
Aghaza’s agate black hair
Was filled with
their disapproval.
As she neared her
house,
She saw light
streaming from it;
She wanted to scream
for help,
Wanted her voice to
be heard,
But she couldn’t
speak a word,
Sweat poured from
her forehead…
She felt she was
suffocating,
Poured out like
water on the threshold.
Jokhala was seated
by the hearth,
One knee crossed
over the other,
‘Woe is me,’ she
said, that’s all,
The words died on
her tongue.
The husband embraced
his wife,
And helped her to the
hearth.
‘What has happened to you, woman?
He asked, anxiously.
As if I lacked for
sorrows,
Have you become one
too?
What’s happened,
what is it?
Tell me, open your
lips!
Has anyone tried
To grasp you in his
arms?
Tell me. I’ll not be
angry
I’ll make him regret
in an instant
Any disrespect to my
honour,
I’ll knock the
foolishness out of him,
As I made Musa
regret
Coming to our door.’
He was waiting for
an answer,
Standing over her,
At the same time
gripping his dagger,
His hand on the
hilt.
The woman could not
speak,
Though her face looked
calm.
Jokhala walked all
round her,
Waiting for what she
might say.
By
Had slowly come to
her senses.
She said to Jokhala:
‘What is all this?
Why are you so
troubled?
Why do you imagine
What has no reality?
It’s all
illusion…husband
I’ve not seen a
living soul.
Who would dare do
that to me?
Don’t I wear a
bride’s head-scarf?
I returned from the
graveyard
I was searching for
your horse in the ravine
Instead of a horse,
alas
I met with giants.
One dressed in a
black felt cloak,
With an enormous
body:
(Lightning in my
eyes,
The reek of its
flesh)
With vast ears, and
teeth,
Loathsome, and black
in colour.
He reached out his
hands,
His enormous hands,
On his head like a
mountain-top
Was a dark hat of
leather,
He said: “Come with
me,
Live with me, woman,
I have a heap of
gold and silver
I’ll hide nothing
from you.”
I ran in fear from
him,
The giant too was
running and howling,
The earth was
shaking
Under his lumbering
feet;
The voice scared me,
the mountains
And valleys too,
Winding this way and
that,
I barely reached
here to tell you,
Out of breath and
suffering.
Jokhala said: ‘Besides
this giant,
There must have been
something else,
I can’t believe what
you say,
My thoughts are
confused.
Why were you crying?
Tears have flowed
down your cheeks;
Tell me now, tell me
truthfully,
Or I’ll lose
patience!
Some sorrow, some
vital
Feeling has pierced
your heart.
You can’t hide from
my eyes
Every trace of that
feeling;
There is no way to
erase
Every trace of drink
from the cup!...’
‘Why should I hide
it from you, Jokhala,
What in my words
could enrage you?’
The wife said,
tremulous
Quivering in her
voice,
‘I sacrificed my tears
To that guest of
yours.
I felt pity for that
unfortunate man
Dying here in a
foreign place,
With no kin, no
brother by,
To feel pity for
him!
Who when he was
struck by the sword,
Never even flinched.
Perhaps I sinned
against you, and God,
Yet I cried for him,
what could I do!...’
‘Why would I be
angered at that?
To speak truth is
better than lying.
You shed tears? You
have shown mercy!
Who am I to judge
that a wrong?
It is always fitting a woman
Should mourn a brave
man.’
IX
Next morning, Aghaza
Drives out the
cattle,
Birds are swooping,
Attracted by the
corpse;
Aghaza too is drawn
To the rocky heights
of the graveyard,
From which she
scares the ravens,
The vultures, wings beating,
The insatiable eagles,
Feasting on the spoils of the dead;
With furtive movements of her hand,
Her eyes glittering like the sun,
She throws pebbles from the rocks,
While seeming to be knitting,
So cleverly, that no one
Can guess at her thoughts.
X
News reached Biso,
Like a clap of thunder:
‘They have killed Zviadauri,
One like sunlight from the sky,
The shield and sword of Pshav-Khevsureti,
Our vital defence!’
Those
hearing the black news
The women, gathered;
In Biso his aged mother is crying,
Lamenting, sobbing bitterly,
‘Oh, why am I still alive?
Bury me too in the earth!
Show me my son’s
limbs,
Bring him, let me
touch them!
With my son’s right
hand
Throw earth on my
heart!
Oh, why am I still
living?
Why am I still treading the earth?
Oh, why have the dead, failed
To order me to their realm?
How
can I, remain
On
sacrilegious soil?
Brave men heard the news,
Heard it in sorrow,
Grappled
with each other
Grieved, roused by anger…
Hardly surprising; their defender
They now mourned with bitter tears!
They brandished spears,
Sharpened and
greased the blades,
Donned shields and swords,
Gathered their
forces for the morning.
Nothing strange indeed
If blood flows in
torrents.
Apareka cried:
You’ll need rations
for a week!’
‘A man from every
clan!’
Babarauli yelled.
It was the din of men
roused for battle,
Not the music of the
flute!
XI
‘Run outside,
Jokhala,
Don’t lie there
calmly by the hearth,
See the force that has reached
Our mountain
heights!
They are coming to
visit,
They will soon be
our guests,
They will make our women
Rue their rocking of
the cradle,
They are driving off
the cattle,
What is all this
confusion!
See, their army has
seized
The heights of
Jaregi, and Samgori,
The wastelands of the shepherds,
They are descending
from the cliffs.
Go, help your kin,
They’re advancing on
the enemy,
Go too, Jokhala,
Go with all the
others.’
‘Follow them? What
are you saying, fool?
They won’t let me
near them!
I’ll have to fight alone,
Let all Jarega see it;
Who is loyal, who is not,
Let the country see it.
The Kists think I’m a traitor,
Renouncing my own cult,
They
think Jokhala,
Has sold himself for gain,
That I’ve betrayed Kisteti,
One careless of his own soul;
They
are bringing a gravestone
To set on my living heart.’
As Jokhala spoke,
He was donning his body-armour:
Strapping his sword to his waist,
Slinging his gun from his shoulder,
It
is not a Kist tradition
To wear a helmet on
the head.
He walks along by
himself,
Intent on meeting
With the foe.
The Kists are scattered over the heights.
XII
The army of the Khevsurs advances,
Their flag-bearer in
the lead;
They swarm towards
the graveyard,
The Kists’ house of silence:
They seek their dead warrior,
To gather his bones,
To put out the eyes
Of Zviadauri’s tormentors.
But they were met by the Kists,
Concealed at the gully’s edge;
Who grasp their guns,
They won’t yield
To
the Khevsurs.
Agile young men
On
both sides fire their guns
Shouting their battle cries,
Both sides suffer wounds,
Both sides fight on, regardless.
The
bullets had their fill
Of blood, harming many.
Still the Kists did not break,
They stood firm as a fortress.
Babarauli
of the Khevsurs,
Called for a sabre attack.
It came down to cold steel,
Shields gave way to sabres.
The
Khevsurs are seeking
Rich
treasure and spoils;
Shield, do not despise the sword
That hangs beside
you.
The Khevsurs scrambling down
Met an
insurmountable boulder.
Suddenly from behind
it,
Sprang a lone Kist
with a sabre,
Astounding the army of Kists,
By repulsing the
enemy force.
Some thought it a
mirage,
They called out, in
disbelief,
‘Who is attacking
the Khevsurs?
Is it one of us? Who
is he?’
‘It looks like
Jokhala,
Yes it’s him indeed!’
One shouted, others
agreed,
They all stared, dumbfounded.
At his disdain for
the enemy force,
Though they brandish
swords and daggers.
Then the enemy
killed him,
Pierced his chest
with their sabre tips.
At that the Kists
too rejoiced:
‘Let them kill him,
he deserves to die!
Even now he treats
us like fools,
As he has spurned us
before,
Daring to set
himself over all the rest,
And cover us in
shame.
He met the enemy
army alone,
And won over us by
chance.’
The
Khevsurs slaughtered Jokhala
On the rocky summit, on the heights.
They attacked the Kists,
Scattered over the slope.
A whirl of daggers and sabres,
Struck them in their chests;
The
ringing and clatter of shield and sword
Rose to God above.
The Kist army fled,
They went scurrying towards their towers,
The Khevsurs chasing after,
Their helms glittering;
They
gathered from the graveyard
The bones of Zviadauri:
Scattered some here, some there,
Torn apart by carrion birds.
They
put the bones in their saddle-bags,
And headed for home,
Their hearts’ desire achieved,
The vengeance they had sworn.
They gathered the sheep and cattle,
Drove them over the mountains;
They took revenge on
their foes,
Answering every
desire!
His bones they
carried with them,
Home from that
foreign soil,
The Hope of
Pshav-Khevsureti,
Their Fortress,
their Iron Door.
His brothers will cry for him,
For the dead,
according to custom,
They’ll inter his bones to lie
Beside his
ancestors:
The tears that ran down his chest,
Have exacted the
highest price!
XIII
‘Mourner of a stranger,
Khevsurs slew your
husband.
Go mourn him, Aghaza,
Bury him in his grave.
The raven croaks at his head,
The wind sifts through his beard.’
(Aghaza) ‘May your enemies know
The bitterness of my bitter existence!
Nobody comes near me,
Nobody cares about me.
I buried him on top of the cliff,
And I dug his grave myself.
All turn their backs on me,
All stand aside.
They
even shut the graveyard,
Where I might bury my dead.’
‘Jokhala betrayed us,
That is the place for him,
Where he fought alone,
Spreader of poison amongst us,
Destroyer of our health,
Traitorous, unrelenting.’
‘Fire
is burning me, brothers, fire is burning me,
Flameless, unmoving;
It
slays my heart, confuses my mind,
With unfathomable thoughts!’
So the wife mourned Jokhala,
Shedding endless tears,
A chamois, with neck bent gracefully,
Loose hair, face like the moon,
She
was sewing herself, like a pearl button,
To her husband’s chest.
XIV
The night is dark,
rain pours,
The ground is
quivering.
God, take care of
those in torment,
Help them, have
mercy on them!
Good
is good despite all,
Show love to the wretched one!
Take
the prayers of the tormented
To your heart like roses!
If
you can’t help, accept
The souls of those in pain!...
Enough of this threatening sky
Dissipate, you clouds!
The river thunders, angrily,
Bursting over the boulders,
It’s wrath unchanged today,
Not knowing why it
laments.
It has no fear of
torment,
It knows nothing of death.
It only knows one thing:
Shedding its tears, and howling,
Endlessly joyless,
Forever howling and crying…
The
wind scours the ravines
Shouting from the mountain;
On the cliff, the woman, her hair unbound
Stands, gazing at
the river.
She
seems like a fading star,
In the gloom her trembling mouth.
Speaks
not a word…
She quivers, she stares at the river;
Dreadful the noise it makes,
Dreadful the way it flows!
Snarling,
severe,
The black torrent rages.
‘Do not drown yourself!’
If they would only call to her.
The woman shut her eyes,
Leapt swiftly into the depths.
‘Why live on, to what end?’
Such
were her last thoughts.
‘In
Kisteti no one cares for me,
Not one thing, not even a pebble.
Both of us harmed the Kists,
They damned my husband…
I bear a greater sin,
I shed tears for a stranger.’
The water took Aghaza,
Drowned her in its
silt and sand.
XV
On that cliff-top, where Jokhala
Was slain in the
fight with the Khevsurs,
At night they see an image,
Carved on the hill,
by an avalanche:
Jokhala stands high
on the boulder,
Shouting towards the
graveyard:
‘Zviadaur, my
brother,
Why won’t you show
your face?’
From the graveyard there comes
A ghost with sword
and shield,
He has crossed his arms
Over his heart,
He’ll come and greet
His brother
silently.
There Aghaza too will rise,
With a sad, mournful
face.
A fire burns beside
them,
Dimly smouldering on
the mountain.
Aghaza plays host to
her guests,
She roasts a ram
over the flames.
They are drinking to
courage,
To each others’
respect
For the rites of host and guest,
To comradeship,
brotherhood, sisterhood.
When you see them together
You can’t have
enough of gazing;
Yet something dark appears
Filling your sight,
Dense, black in
colour,
As the words of the
poet.
It shrouds it like
an enchantment,
No weapon can pierce
it,
No prayer can charm
it away,
Nor any hand remove
it.
Only the river’s
noise is heard,
Raging downwards, roaring,
While beauty stares into its depths
Her neck bent,
gracefully…
1893 წ.
Notes:
Vazha-Pshavela (July 26, 1861 – July 10, 1915) was the pen-name of
the Georgian poet and writer Luka P.
Razikashvili, a classic writer of the new Georgian school of literature.
He was born in a small village Chargali (in Pshavi, a mountainous province in
Host and Guest shows the ability of the ancient traditions of
hospitality towards the stranger to overcome differences of race and religion. The
Kist-Khevsur conflicts occurred during the 18th and 19th centuries. For further
information on the fascinating historical background to the Georgian tribal
areas, click the links to the Wikipedia articles on the Kist and Khevsur peoples.