The year was the year '92—the year of leanness—the scene a spotbetween Sukhum and Otchenchiri, on the river Kodor, a spot so near tothe sea that amid the joyous babble of a sparkling rivulet the ocean'sdeep-voiced thunder was plainly distinguishable.
Also, the season being autumn, leaves of wild laurel were glisteningand gyrating on the white foam of the Kodor like a quantity ofmercurial salmon fry. And as I sat on some rocks overlooking the riverthere occurred to me the thought that, as likely as not, the cause ofthe gulls' and cormorants' fretful cries where the surf lay moaningbehind a belt of trees to the right was that, like myself, they keptmistaking the leaves for fish, and as often finding themselvesdisappointed.
Over my head hung chestnut trees decked with gold; at my feet lay amass of chestnut leaves which resembled the amputated palms of humanhands; on the opposite bank, where there waved, tanglewise, thestripped branches of a hornbeam, an orange-tinted woodpecker wasdarting to and fro, as though caught in the mesh of foliage, and, incompany with a troupe of nimble titmice and blue tree-creepers(visitors from the far-distant North), tapping the bark of the stemwith a black beak, and hunting for insects.
To the left, the tops of the mountains hung fringed with dense, fleecyclouds of the kind which presages rain; and these clouds were sendingtheir shadows gliding over slopes green and overgrown with boxwood andthat peculiar species of hollow beech-stump which once came near toeffecting the downfall of Pompey's host, through depriving hisiron-built legions of the use of their legs as they revelled in theintoxicating sweetness of the "mead" or honey which wild bees make fromthe blossoms of the laurel and the azalea, and travellers still gatherfrom those hollow stems to knead into lavashi or thin cakes of milletflour.
On the present occasion I too (after suffering sundry stings frominfuriated bees) was thus engaged as I sat on the rocks beneath thechestnuts. Dipping morsels of bread into a potful of honey, I wasmunching them for breakfast, and enjoying, at the same time, theindolent beams of the moribund autumn sun.
In the fall of the year the Caucasus resembles a gorgeous cathedralbuilt by great craftsmen (always great craftsmen are great sinners) toconceal their past from the prying eyes of conscience. Which cathedralis a sort of intangible edifice of gold and turquoise and emerald, andhas thrown over its hills rare carpets silk-embroidered by Turcomanweavers of Shemi