DOLGIK
During the summer manœuvres a squadron was quartered in our village. The
chief, a provincial “lady killer,” with a face upon which high-thinking
had never been expressed, was the possessor of a very inflammable heart;
he fell a victim to my blue eyes, and it wouldn’t have been me if I
hadn’t tried to get up a flirtation with him, though he was ridiculous
to the highest degree, and saluted me so funnily, bringing his heels
together with a snap. He used every means in his power to conquer me
and made the most wonderful eyes at me; (when mamma was not looking of
course). He began to be immensely sentimental and sang to me to a guitar
accompaniment, old love songs, something very pleading and lamentable,
with a burden of “I love thee so!” turning up his eyes a good deal as if
he was in pain. He was not gifted with much perception of time and tune,
my Troubadour, and I could hardly keep serious when he looked so doleful,
with his hand pressed to his breast and his eyes devouring me with a
passionate gaze.
I used to ride on horseback a great deal, accompanied by my sentimental
officer. One day, whilst my white mare was galloping wildly across the
open moors, my saddle unbuckled and I felt it turning with me; I slipt
out of it and found myself sitting on the grass, unhurt, and was on my
legs all right in a moment, having luckily disengaged my foot from the
stirrup.
A few days afterwards I escaped from another danger. We were to take a
drive in the woods that evening; Mr. K., a friend of my brothers, asked
me to take him with me in my dog-cart. As I didn’t care particularly for
his company, I contrived to put off our drive for some time and suggested
a game of croquet. In the middle of our game Mr. K. uttered a piercing
scream and fell down in a violent fit of epilepsy. I was dreadfully
frightened and scrambled, without ceremony, over the fence of the
croquet-ground. None of us had before suspected Mr. K. to be epileptic,
and if I hadn’t delayed our drive, this attack would have happened in my
dog-cart and the consequences might have been terribly disastrous. It
makes me shudder when I think of it!
I went out driving one day with a dashing young officer, Count
Podgoritchany, his sister Mary and my dolorous Troubadour. I was in a
mood just then to do something foolish, and it struck me that it would
be charming fun to take a ride astride on the horse which drove us, and
thus, becoming deaf to Mary’s frantic remonstrance and casting dignity to
the winds, I perched myself on our steed, who broke into a gallop, whilst
my cavaliers ran by my side holding me steadily. That was certainly very
unladylike and shocking of me!
We were near neighbours with the Podgoritchany’s, their estate is within
a few miles from Dolgik. The young count was always devoted to me; he
believed that we were destined for one another, and it was the hope of
his life to make me his wife, but my heart was still entirely at my own
disposal and I never gave him more than a passing thought, being hard to
catch as a sunbeam. It wasn’t very fair, however, to keep him dangling
after me like that if I didn’t mean that it should come to anything. One
day, as I was practising one my favourite Chopin’s Etudes, the count came
in and leant on the piano, his eyes dwelling upon me with a passionate
expression; suddenly he seized my right hand and kissed it, whilst I
played accords with my left one. I knew quite well what he was going to
say. He implored me to marry him, but I had not yet made up my mind to
part with my liberty and said “No” point blank, telling him he would
have to get on as best he could without me. His face fell and he looked
very miserable, my rejected lover, his matrimonial hopes being rudely
shattered.
A wealthy country squire, the possessor of a fine adjoining estate, who
had the reputation of being a very good catch, came to pay us a visit.
I made no attempt whatever to show off my best points and made up my
mind, on the contrary, to make a guy of myself, putting on my most
unbecoming gown and dressing my hair unfashionably, so that he might see
me at my worst. Our guest was all sentiment and poetry, his language
was “music spoken,” and I responded by the most crude prose. He asked
me at luncheon: “_Mademoiselle aime les fleurs._” “_Oh, non, monsieur,
je préfère le jambon!_” I answered, helping myself to a second portion
of ham. Mamma looked very annoyed indeed at this unromantic turn of
conversation.
I surely had not the vocation of a domestic paragon; when I poured out
tea it was done the reverse of neatly, and the spotless teacloth was
spotless no longer, for I poured more water on to it than into the cups,
and mamma regretfully decided that I hadn’t got the right turn for
housekeeping. My culinary efforts were also not to meet approval, and
the cakes that I amused myself in baking, one day, were recognised, I am
aggrieved to say, as not being fit to eat.