In 1835, an anonymous Russian traveller to the Caucasus wrote, with what must have seemed even then an infelicitous turn of phrase, that the region was "to Russian nobles what Mecca is for Muslims." At the same time, the Russian army was doing battle with native rebel forces resisting inclusion within the Russian empire. That struggle, like today's, was a bloody one, costing the lives of thousands on both sides, including many civilians. However, by the time the Caucasian war ended in 1864, the region had already been a favourite holiday destination for Russians for almost half a century. More than that, it had inspired a host of literary and artistic works, which are still viewed as central to Russian identity. Putin's hardline approach to the Chechen problem, and the Russian population's bellicose support for it, have their roots in a 200-year-old imperialist love affair.
Between 1820 and 1845, the Caucasian theme inspired dozens of writers and poets, all infused with the spirit of Romanticism. At either end of this movement stand two of Russia's most important cultural figures: Pushkin and Lermontov. Pushkin's Prisoner of the Caucasus and Lermontov's Demon and Mtsyri are the products of a worldview that delighted in noble savagery, sublime nature and raw emotion.
But the engagement of these writers with the culture and peoples of the Caucasus was superficial. While writing of sultry Circassian girls and fearsome clansmen, both writers spent much of their time in the network of Russian spa towns. They, along with their compatriots, took the waters, attended balls, played cards and enjoyed holiday romances like visitors to Bath, Baden and Vichy. The visitors to these resorts did go on walks and picnics, and sometimes spent entire days in the company of peaceful Caucasian tribespeople. Mostly, however, they learned of their neighbours through the romantic narratives that they read.
It is perhaps difficult to see the relevance of these literary confections of the past to the current problems of the Caucasus. Just as educated British people would not read EM Forster's Passage to India to gain an insight into the character of present-day Indians, so Russians do not automatically equate literary stereotypes of the Romantic era with their problematic countrymen of today. However, these narratives did establish ways of seeing and experiencing the Caucasus that persist in the present. Moreover, the resorts of the northern Caucasus remain among Russia's most popular tourist attractions; now, as then, war has only slightly dented their ability to attract holidaymakers. They are viewed with pride by the Russian population, who, with some justice, see them as their own. Millions of Russians have personal attachments to the region: the place where they received a cure from rheumatism, or visited with friends, or first had sex. Russian tourists today see the Caucasian resorts in a hinterland that stretches from the Black sea to the Caspian, intact and indivisible.
In the last 15 years, Russians have surrendered the deeds to many other beloved holiday destinations: Yalta in the Crimea, the resorts along the Baltic coast and the Soviet sunshine state of Georgia. The north Caucasus, not only part of the Russian and Soviet empires, but a province of Russia itself, will not be given up without a fight. While the possession of Ireland long ago ceased to hold any spiritual value for most British people, the Caucasus retains its emotional significance for Russians. In their response to the tragedy in Beslan, the Russian government and people will act to preserve their national playground and their right to continue to visit it, and enjoy it just as they wish.
