In the end, was this the best solution for Russia? To send Jamal Eddin back to his own people, to work for peace, as he had always planned?
The emperor mulled all this over for a long time.
“Despite Shamil’s despicable methods,” he said decisively, “I don’t see any political obstacle to returning his son to him.”
Milyutin then rapidly conveyed the message that the war minister had entrusted to him.
“In the case that His Imperial Majesty has no objections—this is from our headquarters at Tiflis—the princes humbly request that His Imperial Majesty obtain a response as quickly as possible. In only three weeks, the princesses are to be distributed to the naïbs, in their auls. Even a definitive refusal is preferable to silence. A refusal would leave room for the slim hope of reopening negotiations on new terms. But in the absence of a clear response regarding the return—or not—of the imam’s son, Prince Chavchavadze has no choice but to bid farewell to his wife and children, forever.”
“Good. Jamal Eddin should be informed of the kidnapping and given the choice to stay in Russia or return to his father’s home. It is up to him. I’m not going to say, like Pontius Pilate, that I wash my hands of the affair, but personally I’m neither for nor against his return. Therefore I will make no decision in this matter. He must express his wishes. The choice is his. I leave him free to make it.”
From: Count Nicholas Mikhaïlevitch Muravyev,
General of the Armies of the West
To: Major General Dmitri Alexeyevitch Milyutin,
First Secretary, Ministry of War
“[…] A week ago, on the 30th of October, I received a letter from His Imperial Highness the Czarevitch Alexander commanding me in the name of the Emperor to urgently summon Lieutenant Shamil to my headquarters.
“The Vladimirsky Lancers are bivouacked two hundred versts from Warsaw, near Lublin. Lieutenant Shamil made haste and reported to my office this morning, November 8. He had ridden all night, and I received him within the hour. Since he did not know the reason for his urgent recall, he was concerned about those close to him. He asked after the health of Her Imperial Majesty the Empress, whom he knows to be ill, and that of the family of the painter Piotr Alexeyevitch Olenin at Torjok. I reassured him on both counts with a simple question that amounted to, ‘Would you be willing to return to your home in exchange for the princesses who have been kidnapped by your father?’ He seemed astonished, I would even say stunned, by my question. He turned very pale. When he had recovered a bit from his surprise, he questioned me about the kidnapping. I gave him all the details he asked for. I did not hide the threat to the honor and the lives of the hostages, but I emphasized the fact that His Majesty had left him entirely free to decide. He could not hide his dismay. I told him that he could take his time to think things over and give me his answer; the mail for Saint Petersburg did not leave until late morning, and all he had to do was to knock on my door when he was ready.
“He left the antechamber. I had several visits this morning. He did not seem to notice. Every time I received someone, I saw him there, standing very still against the wall in the shadow of a corner, oblivious to everyone coming and going around him.
“Although he remained standing, perfectly straight, he seemed devastated, as though stricken.”
Prisoners in a Caucasian village.
His mind raced; he could not get hold of himself. What, exactly, did the general say? That Anna and Varenka, their children and their servants were being held captive on the promontory of Akulgo. No, wait, the general had not mentioned Akulgo.
An abyss yawned before him. He felt dizzy, as though he were on the edge of a precipice. He felt nauseous as his mouth filled with the taste of blood and dust and he breathed in the odor of rotting flesh—the taste, the stench of Akulgo. What other name had the general mentioned? Prisoners at Veden. The seraglio of Dargo-Veden. He said the words over to himself. Varenka was Shamil’s hostage. Jumping from one detail to the next, drawing his mind back to the objective facts, he tried to penetrate the reality, understand the meaning, and measure the consequences. But in his turmoil, he was unable to identify the nature of the shock that had struck him. He could not express the actual pain. He clung to a kind of generalized suffering, an overall view, and to snatches of the conversation that came back to him. The princesses were to be distributed. The princesses were to be sold. Varenka would become the servant of a naïb. Varenka, the slave of a Shibshiev! The reality of that image appeared before his mind’s eye in all its horror, and he could follow it no further. Varenka, the prey of a vermin such as Shibshiev. Yes, of course it was Shibshiev who was behind the whole plot—the kidnapping and the blackmail. That sneak hadn’t wasted a minute informing his master.
“I should have crushed him like a cockroach on that first day in Poland. I should have chased him and slit his throat in the forest, with Lisa, the last time.”
Lisa, the last time? Until this moment, he hadn’t dared contemplate the link between Varenka and Lisa. Of course he knew, he had instantly made the connection: returning to his father’s side meant losing Lisa. Going home meant giving up love, happiness, and the future, everything he had once believed was possible.
But not returning meant killing the princesses.
Whether he stayed or left, there was no solution.
He was caught in a vise, torn between two impossible choices.
“If I obey my father, maybe he will free his hostages. And then what? I will take my place beside him among the warriors of Allah. Just as before.”
He dared not imagine what his life would be like in the Caucasus. He had come such a long way in Russia.
How could he go back?
“How do I unlearn all that I have learned here? How do I unlearn the books and physics and mathematics, unlearn the music? Destiny is so strange. At the very moment I accepted all the advantages of studies and civilization, at the precise moment I was preparing to devote myself to them, fate throws me back into the heart of ignorance. I shall probably have to forget all that I have known and walk backward, like a crab.
“But what does it matter? Without Lisa, what does anything matter? Without Lisa, the rest is immaterial. How can I unlearn loving her? Happiness with her seemed so close. Her parents had consented, the czar had consented. Nothing stood in our way. Who is forcing me to sacrifice her today? Who is making me sever myself from her? No one. The czar has left me to be master of my own destiny. Who is forcing me to leave Lisa? Who is forcing me to abandon my regiment, leave my friends, disown Russia? No one. Why should I sacrifice Lisa for the princesses, if no one asks it of me? Why should I break the heart of the woman I love in the name of hatred? Out of duty? Come, now. What duty? Filial duty? I can recognize no sense of duty toward a father who turned his son over to his enemies. For the son that the imam supposedly claims today was not captured by the infidels at Akulgo. He was given to them. He was abandoned for fifteen years without any news, even though Shamil was evidently powerful enough to place informers in his midst to spy on him. Of all the traitors and hypocrites, my father is the greatest; he speaks of love, but his acts express only vengeance and hatred. My only duty today is to Czar Nicholas, my benefactor. And to Lisa, my wife. Why should I sacrifice her to the cruelty of men? Why should I sacrifice her to the conflicts of the past and the uncertainties of the future? What can that possibly accomplish? She has nothing whatever to do with the tragedy of the princesses. If the imam has the audacity to carry out his threats, then he alone is responsible. I have no part whatsoever in his brutality. I am free to make my own choices, free to choose my destiny. I am a free agent.”