“But at night, is it really you, Bahou? Is it you who sends me these visions, like the saints of the believers who pray and fall asleep on their tombs? Where are you now? Do you come down from the gardens of paradise to visit me in my dreams?

“In my dreams, you are no longer there in body and voice. You are the river that flows beneath the bridge at Ghimri, you are the Andi Koysu that roils and rumbles and breaks against the boulders. You are not deserted, you are not empty. Mirrors of gold, plates, bracelets, sabers and their sheaths rise from your depths. The crests of your waves carry alabaster dishes, as white and pure as the foam. The most beautiful kinjals are swept along with the flow. They drift and swirl between the rocks. But you, the river of Ghimri, instead of sending them to disappear at the bottom, you throw them at my feet, on the riverbank. Then you recede, leaving me alone with this treasure that sparkles blindingly, and you forget about me. You have given me the lost sabers of the khans but you continue on your way, pure and limpid. What are you trying to tell me? I searched in the Book, but I found no answer. I asked the mullah, also in vain.

“Compared to Sheik Jamaluddin al Ghumuqi, he knows nothing, and I don’t trust him. When I asked him why music is forbidden for the true believers, why I should not listen to the song of a piano, why I should not learn how to play, he told me that, on the contrary, music is the creaking of the hinges that open the doors to paradise. But if that were true, my father would not have pierced all the drums. So he tells me that there are different sorts of music. That some can excite the soul and lead it to places it shouldn’t go. That what may seem right in the Caucasus, what we feel is good, isn’t necessarily so in Saint Petersburg. How can this be? There is only one law, the Sharia—and the Sharia forbids music and dance.

“According to him, life is so hard in our mountains and time so precious that men cannot permit themselves to be softened, their attention to God distracted, by music. But here in Petersburg, where time isn’t quite so dear, where the day goes on all through the night, where war is far away, music opens the heart and elevates it. He says that music here is a hymn to the Almighty, a way of thanking Allah for the life he has granted us. He says that all of the wonderful things that surround us here are a gift of the Lord, and that by naming his son Jamal, which means ‘beauty,’ and Eddin, which signifies ‘religion,’ my father agrees with him.

“I don’t believe it. He’s lying. He serves the infidels. And that is why the infidels have made him our guide. So he will trick us, mislead us, and send us down the wrong path.

“When he says that the Russians here are not like the Russians at home, on this point, he’s right. If my father were to meet the czar, I am sure that he would love him and respect him. The czar is noble and just and generous. Look at the way he treats his prisoners. See how he treats me. The giaours are not all as worthless as we think, Bahou. Yes, their women dance, they wear perfume and décolletés. And yet the empress conducts herself with the utmost modesty and dignity. She behaves honorably, and her sons respect her.

“Is this an illusion? An artifice of the devil? Should I despise her and all the other giaours? Buxhöwden’s friendship, and Milyutin’s, are they a trap? Should I not trust them? Bahou, answer me, tell me how to act. All this treasure at my feet, the gold borne on the waves, should I throw it back into the Andi Koysu or should I pick it up and keep it? Tell me, what do you ask of me?”

The Palace of Count Kiselyev in Saint Petersburg on the day of the feast of Saint Dmitri September 21, 1845

“This place is a regular boarding house,” Count Pavel Dmitrievitch Kiselyev commented as he watched the flames of the smoking room ceiling light flicker with the resounding cavalcade upstairs.

The pink-and-white reflection of the sumptuous Zurova-Kiselyev Palace on the Moïka Quay shimmered in the water of the canal. This year, the feast of Saint Dmitri had taken on a special luster, and with good reason. For Count Pavel Dmitrievitch, this twenty-first of September, 1845, there was more to celebrate than just the memory of the family’s patron saint. Tonight he was welcoming home his beloved nephew, who had just returned from his second campaign in the Caucasus. Dmitri Alexeyevitch came home as perplexed as the first time, but now he was also in love, married, and full of plans for the future.

Two years earlier, he had fallen for Natalia, the daughter of General Poncet, and they had hastily married just before he was called back to his post. Their newlywed bliss had been ephemeral. His young wife had stayed in Saint Petersburg, while he had been forced to leave her for a solitary and tragic reunion with the mountains of Dagestan. But those dark days were over, and Dmitri was alive.

Although seasoned by hardship, at twenty-nine, Dmitri still had the candid gaze of a much younger man. His thick, ash-blond curls had scarcely darkened and remained as unruly as ever, a neat part on the side and brilliantine notwithstanding. It was a bit too long at the nape of the neck for the count’s taste, but that was of no importance. Dmitri was there, seated beside him in the smoking room before the hearth. And this evening, Kiselyev was giving a big party in his honor.

There would be a dinner, a ball, and supper, festivities that all the generations could enjoy. On this occasion, the youngest of the Milyutin brothers, the fourteen-year-old Alexander Alexeyevitch—Sacha—had been given permission to invite one or two of his schoolmates from the First Cadet Corps. He had begged to extend the invitation to two more of his closest friends, pleading that Saint Dmitri’s fell on a Sunday and that, because their illustrious families were far away, these boys were consigned to remain at the corps every weekend of the year. It would only be charitable, kind Christian charity, to invite them to the celebration. Cleverly skirting the whole truth, he named only two of his guests: Grand Duke Mikhaïl Nicolaïevitch, who was his age, and Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaïevitch, who was a year younger. Their dear mama, the empress, had gone to Italy for her health at the beginning of the summer and their father, Czar Nicholas, unable to do without her, had followed. Czarevitch Alexander, who was filling in for the emperor as head of state during his absence, scarcely had time to take care of his little brothers.

The excellent company Sacha kept no doubt influenced the count. He did not ask for the names of the other two boys but simply signed his name, authorizing leave for all four of them.

Another rumble shook the ceiling light.

“What on earth are they doing up there? At fourteen, one should know how to behave! If they keep this up, they’ll make the candles fall and set the place on fire.”

“Sacha is so excited this evening,” Kiselyev said gaily, reassuming the tone that matched his mood, “I suppose he can’t wait to welcome you home.”

A smile played about the count’s lips.

“Unless it’s the prospect of being around all these demoiselles that has them all in such a state of excitement. I have invited a few girls their age. I’ve been told they’re as lovely as can be.”

Now it was Dmitri’s turn to smile. Women, his uncle’s great weakness. He had dreamed of them so and loved them so. Clearly he could imagine the excitement of the five adolescents getting ready upstairs, combing their hair in front of the mirror. The count would probably feel the same way when he dressed for the evening a short while later.

“You can go up and see your little brother in a little while. I told him to stay upstairs with his buddies and not to come down until the girls arrive. We can still enjoy a few hours of peace and quiet. My dear child, I’ve thought of you so much. I wanted to set aside a little time to have you all to myself. You were right, weren’t you? Things aren’t going well down there.”

In the past week since his return, Dmitri had avoided talking about the war, reluctant to bore his entourage with his tales. But the count had appealed to his patriotic feelings in an intimate conversation between officers, and he couldn’t resist the need to confide in him for long.

“Shamil has taken most of the mountain passes between Dagestan and Chechnya. He and his troops circulate freely between the two regions.”

Sitting on the couch behind the card tables that were already set for games, the count pulled on his big cigar. With his legs comfortably crossed, he listened attentively. He knew that Dmitri was thinking of leaving the army, but he thought that would be a mistake. A folly, especially when the young man’s career was just taking off. His courageous actions in the Chechen forests had earned him a promotion to captain, and he was being considered for the Cross of Saint George. Dmitri might criticize his superiors, but they appreciated him. Now he was toying with the idea of resigning from the army and finishing the work he had begun on those long nights of watch duty in his tent in Chechnya: a book on the Caucasus. Well, why not? With time, Dmitri had come to know the region well, both its geography and its customs. After every battle, when every massacre was over, he had recorded what he had seen, continuing with the reflections that he had begun after the siege of Akulgo. But his personal experience was not enough, and with his usual enthusiasm, he had begun to research the subject thoroughly, delving into documentary sources. He dreamed of offering his suggestions to the czar and helping Russia to end this war. His greatest hope was to conclude a lasting peace. Yes, why not?