Читать книгу Sketches of Central Asia (1868) - Armin Vambéry - Страница 9

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The evening in the Khalata desert, when, after having endured for two days the torments of thirst, I felt, with the last drop of water, my vital energies gradually ebbing away. Around me were lying many of my fellow-travellers, suffering, probably, as acutely as myself, to judge from their wild, haggard looks, and rigid features. Raising my heavy head with the greatest effort, I met the glance of those near me. They all seemed to be looking at me with expressions of bitter resentment, for during the afternoon I had heard the old ascetic, Kari Messud, repeat several times, "We are, alas! the propitiatory victims for some great evil-doer who is amongst us in our caravan." Possibly not one of them referred to me, but I felt, nevertheless, full of anxiety. Meanwhile the hour of evening prayer was approaching. Only a few could join in it. The sun was fast setting, and, as the last rays lit up the unhappy group of sufferers in that vast desert, I could not help casting a look towards the spot, where from the horizon he sent his last beams towards me—that spot, which we call the west, the beloved west, which I had little hope to live to see the next morning again; and with unspeakable sadness I clung to the word 'west;' my half-exhausted senses revived anew, for with the word returned the thought of Europe, of my beloved home, my early departure from this world, the hard struggles of my past life, the wreck of all my aspirations, of all my pleasant hopes. My heart nearly broke with the burden of this great sorrow; I longed to weep, but could not. This moment is one of imperishable memory; the terror of that scene has impressed itself indelibly on my mind, and whenever my thoughts turn towards the Khalata desert it will rise and haunt me like a phantom.