THE CAUCASUS
We went to Tiflis towards the middle of May. On the way I made the
acquaintance of two cadets of the _corps des pages_, grandsons of the
Shah of Persia. The youngest prince, Rouknadine-Mirza, a charming chap
with exquisite oriental eyes, took particularly my fancy. He had already
fallen a little under my spell, and I looked upon him as a kind of
blessed invention for my entertainment on this trip. As for his eldest
brother, he seemed to be of rather a quiet disposition, and I did not
care a rap for him.
It was almost dark when we reached Tiflis. The Staritzkis received us in
the friendliest way. We were also kindly greeted by my aunt, Nathalie
Roerberg, the wife of the Chief of the Military Engineers of the
Caucasus. She wanted me to come and see her just as often as I could. I
can’t say how good and kind she was, we got on admirably.
It became my favourite pastime to watch through the iron-barred gate of
the Roerbergs’ garden, opening on the summer-theatre, the endless string
of people promenading between the acts. My guilty curiosity was noticed
by an elegant swell, whom I saw staring and making eyes at me. I met him
a few days afterwards at a dancing party in the casino. He was quick to
seize the chance of talking to me and exclaimed, “How happy I am to meet
you! I have desired it so tremendously!” Impudent fellow! As I was not a
bit disposed to be gracious to him I stopped his effusions, turning my
back pointedly. When I met that brazen-faced individual after that in the
streets, he raised his hat in vain to me; I pretended not to perceive him.
I found a jolly companion in the person of my cousin Nathaly Staritzki.
One evening we went to see _La Traviata_ sung in Armenian, which rather
disagreed with Italian music. Nathaly was, like me, easily moved to
laughter. As the opera proceeded we became more and more hilarious,
and our behaviour was such that caused many disapproving glances
to be cast in our direction. At the most pathetic moment, when the
prima-donna breathed her last breath, we ran out of our box, putting our
handkerchiefs to our mouths and overturning the chairs on our passage.
I used to see a great deal of the Persian princes; Rouknadine-Mirza was
rapidly losing his heart to me. One day we went out riding together, and
whilst our horses were galloping at full speed, the idea came to me to
make my page gather a wild flower growing in the grass. He managed to
do it, but during that acrobatic exercise his _casque_ rolled off, and
instead of treating him commiseratingly I only snubbed him for his pains.
Horsemanship was my ruling passion. I easily found partners to accompany
me in my rides, and careered through the streets of Tiflis, followed by
my cavaliers, enjoying to overtake them like a cyclone. I cantered home
in high spirits, with a heated face and my hair coming down, most of it
outside my cap, not in it. I frequently brought my cavaliers home to tea,
and if they didn’t happen to be particularly interesting, I proceeded
straight to bed, and the Staritzkis had to sit with my guests and
entertain them as best they could, whilst I slept the sleep of the just.
One day, in turning over an album, I came upon a photograph the sight
of which made me exclaim: “Oh, who is that good-looking officer?” “That
is Serge Michailovitch Doukhovskoy, a young general attached to the
person of the Grand-Duke Michael, commander-in-chief of the army of the
Caucasus,” said my aunt Roerberg. She told me that he was the youngest
general in the Russian army, being only six-and-thirty years old, that he
had a splendid career before him, and was in short everything desirable;
she added that now I had a capital opportunity of making a brilliant
match, and that I must spread my net to catch that big fish and set
immediately to work to captivate him. That was enough to set me against
the general; there was something very distasteful in the idea of such
a marriage, and I was not at all willing to sacrifice my youth to the
advantage of rank and money.
When first General Doukhovskoy was introduced to me I was slightly
disappointed; he was so reserved in manner and did not condescend to take
much notice of me, a method of treatment to which I was not accustomed,
being brought up with the idea that I was to be petted and bowed down
to by men; I had been adored all my young life and this indifference
stung my vanity. I was far from the idea of falling in love with General
Doukhovskoy, nevertheless I was annoyed by the coolness with which he
regarded me; admiration was my daily bread, he failed to offer it to me
and that instantly aroused in me an intention of making him display some
interest in me. Serge Michailovitch was quite unlike all the men I had
ever met before, he was immovable as a stone, and didn’t look like the
sort of man whose head could be easily turned, and would surely never
become a girl’s plaything. Nevertheless there was something which drew
me towards him, and day by day he got hold of me and I meant to win his
heart if it only could be done. All my passing fancies only kindled the
spark that was to burn for another man’s benefit. But why, oh why, was
this iceberg of a human being incapable of understanding? He was so
queer; I did not know how to manage him; it was impossible to draw him
into the mildest flirtation, we were on the polite conversation footing,
nothing else.
In mid-June I was left all of a sudden on my aunt Roerberg’s hands.
Mamma started off for Russia for a few weeks, and the Staritzkis went to
Beloy-Kloutch, their summer residence, and as I did not like to leave
Serge Michailovitch behind, I preferred to remain in Tiflis. Day by day
the general’s visits grew more frequent. One evening he got up a picnic
in his garden to which he invited us. Whilst we had tea laid under the
trees, I remarked that a change was coming over our host; he seemed in a
boyish mood, and altogether forgetful of his usual careful correctness,
and put aside all his reserve; he lay at my feet and tickled my cheek
with a blade of grass. This was the hour of my triumph! I caught his
eyes and they said quite plainly “I like you.” Could he be catching fire
at last? I saw now that I was not wholly indifferent to him; he was
looking at me with new eyes, the eyes of an awakened sleeper. Was it the
awakening germ of some deeper feeling, perhaps? In parting he squeezed
my hand and held it in his for a few seconds longer than the conventions
allowed. Every day drew me closer to Serge Michailovitch; the more I saw
him, the more my affection deepened, and I soon found that he was for me
the dearest of created beings.
The heat in Tiflis was very trying, there was scarcely air enough to
breathe, and my aunt decided to go to Borjom, the summer residence of the
Grand-Duke Michael, a delightful watering-place buried in verdure and
surrounded by mountains covered with thick forests. Serge Michailovitch
came round occasionally to see how we got on. I looked forward eagerly
to his visits; his society became very dear to me for he succeeded in
winning my love; my heart had spoken at last and I was sensible of the
tremendous power he exercised over me. I was beginning to know that I
too, had a little power over him. Serge Michailovitch appeared so pleased
when he saw me; his hand trembled when it touched mine. His affection
seemed to rise with extraordinary rapidity from zero to boiling point,
and it was whispered that General Doukhovskoy had serious views towards
me; my aunt with her all-seeing eyes had perceived for some time already
the turn events had taken.
In July the general had to go to Russia for a short time; On the eve of
his departure he came to Borjom. That evening altered the course of my
life. He managed to get me away from the others on the terrace; we were
so happy to be left alone and drew closer to each other, watching the
glow-worms’ fairy lamps amidst the shrubs below. For some time there was
no conversation between us, but there was no need for words, we looked
into each other’s eyes and found that one can kiss even with looks.
Suddenly Serge Michailovitch bent over me, his face drawn with emotion,
and asked me if I cared for him a little bit? The moment was decisive;
my head dropped on my arms on the table and tears were my only answer. I
felt assured of one thing now, that he loved me; yet, what had he said to
me? Nothing and yet everything!
On the next day, when Serge Michailovitch came to bid us good-bye, he
seemed quite altered; he was changed altogether, exceedingly cool and
formal in his manner to me, his greeting was gravely courteous, that was
all. What was this sudden change in him, in voice and eyes? His entirely
incomprehensible attitude made me horribly unhappy; had he changed his
mind at the last moment? All through his visit he maintained his air
of frigid reserve; he was so cold that he froze me. An icy feeling
crept over me and I suddenly had the sensation of being a great way off
from him. I could not help feeling hurt and wounded and struggled hard
to keep the tears from my eyes; not for worlds would I have appeared
disappointed. Serge Michailovitch went away saying good-bye frigidly, and
we parted upon very cold terms. When he had gone, I missed him more than
I could have imagined possible; his face haunted my dreams and my waking,
and I thought of him the first thing in the morning, the last thing at
night. I see now that I didn’t know what love meant until I met Serge
Michailovitch. How I longed for his first letter, but the days slipped
away without a word or sign from him. I was so horribly disappointed and
tortured with doubt. Had he forgotten then all about me? I began to feel
extremely uncomfortable, seeing him slipping away from me and wished I
had not let him go.
I could bear it no longer and wrote a volume to him, telling him I wanted
him to cheer me up, and that I was looking forward impatiently to seeing
him soon. Day by day I waited for his answer; at last the post brought
me a letter from him. I tore the envelope open, with trembling hands and
scarlet cheeks, but there was nothing in it to gladden my longing eyes
or to fill my empty heart. His letter was short and scrappy, with no
words of endearment; it might have been written to a sister. He told me
so little about himself, and hardly anything at all about myself, and
addressed me in such a formal way, ending his letter with sincere regards
to me. (I hated sincere regards)!
I continued to be quite in the dark as to his plans for the future and
didn’t like at all to be fed upon chance scraps, I wanted a whole bone.
I don’t know when in all my life I had been more vexed and had shed
such hot passionate tears; but pride arose, forbidding my heart to ache
for the loss of his love. What was the use of crying my eyes out? I was
determined to forget Serge Michailovitch, putting him as much as possible
out of my thoughts and passing a sponge over our love affair. To keep
my spirits up, I rushed into all sorts of adventures, exposing myself
to ill-natured comments. People began to say nasty things of me, and my
aunt Roerberg implored me to put a stop to my disgraceful flirtations,
warning me that the talk would reach the ears of Serge Michailovitch. She
tried to excuse his conduct in my eyes and said that, as his experiences
were much wider than mine, he was more cool-headed, and knew what he
was about, therefore he could not act inconsiderately in such a serious
matter as marriage. Yes, but as for me, being prompt and vivacious I
hated delays, and could not possibly just take time and think things over
like him, I can’t. I can’t stop and wait!
I continued to wear a steel armour over my heart, and I now spent much
of my time out of doors, riding. Serge Michailovitch had permitted me,
during his absence, to mount his lovely arab, a young and spirited horse
who proved sufficiently troublesome the first time I mounted him. I had
to spring hastily into my saddle, the horse gave a bound when the groom
left his head, and set off galloping like the wind. My hand was nearly
dislocated with the strain of holding him; I succeeded in managing my
fiery steed and brought him to a stand-still before a villa inhabited
by Mrs. Blicks, a charming lady whom I knew only by sight. She happened
to be on her balcony just then, and invited me to dismount, in order to
recover myself from my fright. My wrist was aching a good deal and had
begun to swell. After Mrs. Blicks had bound it up, I remounted my arab
who behaved perfectly well on our way home. After my first break-neck
ride I succeeded to be mistress of my horse; he went like a lamb now, and
I felt as much at home on his back as in a rocking-chair.
I liked Mrs. Blicks and her two daughters very much, and often dropped
in for a chat. I met in their house two school-boys, a prince and a
simple mortal. I kept the prince in the background and displayed a marked
preference for the simple mortal, welcoming him as a relief to threatened
monotony. There was nothing particularly entrancing in him, but he was
still better than no lover at all, and I began to flirt with him until
he was half mad. We wandered away from the others on every available
occasion, and sauntered together into the park; he drew my arm within
his and pressed it tenderly to his heart, whilst our eyes met, speaking
volumes. In that moment we seemed very much in love with one another, and
wanted to put off as long as possible getting back home. I took a fancy,
one day, on visiting Mrs. Blicks, to stimulate a fainting-fit. I lay at
full length on a low sofa, wrapped up in a loose white dressing-gown
belonging to Mrs. Blicks, whilst my affrighted school-boys made a great
fuss over me; they bathed my temples with eau-de-cologne and put a
bottle of sal-volatile under my nose. I took delight in prolonging that
mystification as long as I could, surveying them out of the corners of my
half-closed eyes.
Though it was only September, the weather suddenly turned cold and wet;
the sky was low and grey, a gusty wind was driving the fallen leaves
across the park. We decided to return to Tiflis; mamma was back already
from Russia, and soon after I heard that Serge Michailovitch had come
also.
We met at a dinner-party a few days after his arrival. At the sight of
him my heart began to beat very quickly. Do what I would to banish him
from my thoughts, I never ceased to love him; but he looked so frigid
when he came up to me that I was cut to the quick. Surely he might look
a little more pleased at seeing me! Was he doing it to provoke me? I
felt that something had broken between us and that we should never be
the same to each other after that night. My anger rose against him and I
tried to look stolidly indifferent, and if possible, to be more frigid
than he was. I ignored Serge Michailovitch the whole evening and behaved
shockingly, talking a lot of stupid nonsense; I did not know myself what
I was saying and mamma looked disapprovingly at me across the table. I
own that my behaviour was shameful and that I deserved to have lost the
best husband that ever a woman desired. When I got home the evil spirit
went out of me and I felt awfully remorseful. I would not lose Serge
Michailovitch for anyone or anything in this world. I was not going to
run away from my happiness, and at any price I had to see him again and
make it up with him; whatever happened, I must not let him go. I resolved
therefore upon the desperate step of writing to him, and it had to be
done at once or my courage would fail me. I sat down and scribbled a
few lines telling him that I wanted to apologise for my extremely silly
conduct. His answer contained an appointment for the following afternoon
at four o’clock; he asked me to come out for a ride with him. I passed
a restless night glowing with impatience at the next day’s rendezvous.
I wanted to see him so much, yet I dreaded the ordeal. How could I meet
him? How could I look into his face again?
I got up nervous and excited. The whole morning I had been in a fever;
my hands were as cold as ice and my cheeks burned like fire. How slowly
the hours did pass! When Serge Michailovitch was announced I went hot
all over, and my emotion was so uncontrollable that I fled into my room,
in which I felt more safe. My cousin Nathaly dragged me out by force
and the next minute we came face to face, Serge Michailovitch and I.
The first step was made, we mounted our horses and set off at a trot;
soon after we walked them slowly, riding side by side. For some time
we did not exchange a word, then suddenly Serge Michailovitch put his
arm round me and drew me towards him till our lips met; he told me then
that he loved me and asked me if I cared enough for him to become his
wife. I only answered with my eyes, which spoke the plainest “yes,” and
thus, under the open sky, we pledged our troth, for a minute forgetting
everything but our two selves. I gave him with happiness the gift of
myself. Nothing could shake my faith in him now. For me that day marked
the red-letter day of my calendar. I rode back to Tiflis an engaged girl,
and announced our betrothal to mamma; I longed to inform the world at
large of it. Our betrothal was made known the next day, and hearty were
the congratulations addressed to us. I wrote to my father to ask for his
consent and blessing, which he gave with pleasure.
Our wedding was to take place at Dolgik in the beginning of April. Serge
Michailovitch, Sergy as I called him now, spent a good deal of his time
with me; we used to pass all our evenings together in the library, where
we contrived a sort of recess, furnished with a sofa, in which we could
talk in peace. Nothing will ever make me forget the hours we passed
together, hours which were all but too brief for us; we forgot that
clocks existed. Dear days! so long ago, yet so vivid to me! We sat on
the sofa with our heads very close together, pretending to read out of a
book that lay on my lap face downwards. One evening as I sat thus, side
by side with Sergy, my hand imprisoned in his, developing our plans for
our future happiness, the footsteps of my uncle Staritzki recalled us to
reality. Seeing that I held my book upside down, uncle went to fetch a
venerable calf-bound volume containing the code of laws, and gave it to
me saying laughingly that, perhaps we should be more interested with that
sort of literature.
I was the happiest girl on earth; it was so good to feel that Sergy
cared for me! He became my world, my all. I was no longer the same girl
I had been, my time of playing with the sentiments of men was over;
surely there were two _Vava Galitzines_: one that had been blessed with
the happy faculty of dismissing one love from her mind the moment that
she began to occupy herself with another, and one who, in spite of her
frivolous outside, loved only one man in the world—her Sergy!
Now and then I had little fits of ill-temper, days when I was out of
sorts with myself and everyone else. My griefs did not last long, but
while they lasted they were very strong. Sometimes, after short quarrels
between us, I would lock myself up in my room and flinging myself across
my bed, burst into stormy tears, my hair all dishevelled and hanging
loose like a repentant “Magdalena.” These sudden outbursts of passion
cleared off quickly, and I soon made it up with Sergy.
Nearly a month had passed since our engagement, and our visit was near
drawing to a close; it was time to start on our homeward journey. I left
Tiflis with heart-breaking regret; I hated to leave Sergy behind, he had
grown into my heart and I could not bear the idea of being separated
from him. I didn’t know how I was going to get along till April without
a sight of him; deprived of his company my life would be lonely beyond
words. Five months were such an awfully long time to wait! We promised to
write to each other every day, but that was a poor consolation.
We travelled to Russia _via_ Poti. Early the following morning our boat
was to leave that town and we had to pass the night at a hotel. I was
tired and depressed; directly after dinner I got into bed and cried
myself to sleep. When I woke up in the morning the wind moaned outside
and the rain poured down in torrents. I went to the window and looked at
the unquiet sea; great waves were tumbling over the pier; it was a very
unpleasant day indeed for a sail, therefore, we decided to travel back to
Tiflis, and afterwards take the carriage road that leads to Vladicaucasus.
We reached Tiflis in the evening and gave Sergy a pleasant surprise. Oh!
there was no mistake about his being glad to see me!
Much to my egotistical delight, the roads were encumbered by falls of
great masses of snow, and we were to have a whole week of each other’s
company until they were cleared away. In my secret heart I was cherishing
a wild hope that new avalanches would fall and that we should be the
longer together, but, alas, the roads were getting all right and the
dreaded day of our second separation rapidly approached. I grumbled a
good deal at having to leave Tiflis again; I had never been so sorry to
quit any place before.
The high road from Tiflis to Vladicaucasus is called the “Military
Georgian Road.” The scenery is magnificent but dreadfully wild, and I was
awfully frightened to see that we were within a yard of the brinks of
horrible precipices. As we got higher up in the mountains the air became
so rarified that it was difficult to breathe. Our sledge, drawn by two
horses, one in front of the other, dragged on slowly, rising. The blocks
of snow that bordered our way formed a prison wall between the road and
the world outside. Everything was a sort of wild, white sleepy stillness;
no sound arose but the clink of the harness. A large wooden cross rose
on the highest point of the road; a flock of black crows flew across the
leaden sky, and wheeled about it, croaking piercingly. Everything looked
so grey and cold; we found ourselves as in a bewitched icy kingdom in a
fairy tale. There was something very awe-inspiring about it all.
It was night when we arrived at Vladicaucasus, where we took the train to
Kharkoff.