I HAVE been in Kislovodsk three days now. Every day I see Vera at the
well and out walking. In the morning, when I awake, I sit by my window
and direct my lorgnette at her balcony. She has already been dressed
long ago, and is waiting for the signal agreed upon. We meet, as though
unexpectedly, in the garden which slopes down from our houses to the
well. The life-giving mountain air has brought back her colour and her
strength. Not for nothing is Narzan called the “Spring of Heroes.” The
inhabitants aver that the air of Kislovodsk predisposes the heart to
love and that all the romances which have had their beginning at the
foot of Mount Mashuk find their consummation here. And, in very
fact, everything here breathes of solitude; everything has an air of
secrecy--the thick shadows of the linden avenues, bending over the
torrent which falls, noisy and foaming, from flag to flag and cleaves
itself a way between the mountains now becoming clad with verdure--the
mist-filled, silent ravines, with their ramifications straggling away
in all directions--the freshness of the aromatic air, laden with
the fragrance of the tall southern grasses and the white acacia--the
never-ceasing, sweetly-slumberous babble of the cool brooks, which,
meeting at the end of the valley, flow along in friendly emulation, and
finally fling themselves into the Podkumok. On this side, the ravine is
wider and becomes converted into a verdant dell, through which winds
the dusty road. Every time I look at it, I seem to see a carriage coming
along and a rosy little face looking out of the carriage-window. Many
carriages have already driven by--but still there is no sign of that
particular one. The village which lies behind the fortress has become
populous. In the restaurant, built upon a hill a few paces distant from
my lodgings, lights are beginning to flash in the evening through the
double row of poplars; noise and the jingling of glasses resound till
late at night.
In no place are such quantities of Kakhetian wine and mineral waters
drunk as here.
“And many are willing to mix the two,
But that is a thing I never do.”
Every day Grushnitski and his gang are to be found brawling in the inn,
and he has almost ceased to greet me.
He only arrived yesterday, and has already succeeded in quarrelling with
three old men who were going to take their places in the baths before
him.
Decidedly, his misfortunes are developing a warlike spirit within him.