Amusing!...Yes,I have already passed that period of spiritual life when happiness alone is sought,when the heart feels the urgent necessity of violently and passionately loving somebody.Now my only wish is to be loved,and that by very few.I even think that I would be content with one constant attachment.Awretched habit of the heart!...
One thing has always struck me as strange.Ihave never made myself the slave of the woman I have loved.On the contrary,I have always acquired an invincible power over her will and heart,without in the least endeavouring to do so.
Why is this?Is it because I never esteem any-thing highly,and she has been continually afraid to let me out of her hands?Or is it the magnetic influence of a powerful organism?Or is it,simply,that I have never succeeded in meeting a woman of stubborn character?
I must confess that,in fact,I do not love women who possess strength of character.What business have they with such a thing?
Indeed,I remember now.Once and once only did I love a woman who had a firm will which Iwas never able to vanquish...We parted as enemies --and then,perhaps,if I had met her five years later we would have parted other-wise...
Vera is ill,very ill,although she does not admit it.I fear she has consumption,or that disease which is called "fievre lente"--a quite un-Russian disease,and one for which there is no name in our language.
The storm overtook us while in the grotto and detained us half an hour longer.Vera did not make me swear fidelity,or ask whether I had loved others since we had parted...She trusted in me anew with all her former unconcern,and Iwill not deceive her:she is the only woman in the world whom it would never be within my power to deceive.I know that we shall soon have to part again,and perchance for ever.We will both go by different ways to the grave,but her memory will remain inviolable within my soul.I have always repeated this to her,and she believes me,although she says she does not.
At length we separated.For a long time Ifollowed her with my eyes,until her hat was hidden behind the shrubs and rocks.My heart was painfully contracted,just as after our first parting.Oh,how I rejoiced in that emotion!
Can it be that youth is about to come back to me,with its salutary tempests,or is this only the fare-well glance,the last gift --in memory of itself?...
And to think that,in appearance,I am still a boy!My face,though pale,is still fresh;my limbs are supple and slender;my hair is thick and curly,my eyes sparkle,my blood boils...
Returning home,I mounted on horseback and galloped to the steppe.I love to gallop on a fiery horse through the tall grass,in the face of the desert wind;greedily I gulp down the fragrant air and fix my gaze upon the blue distance,endeavouring to seize the misty outlines of objects which every minute grow clearer and clearer.Whatever griefs oppress my heart,whatever disquietudes torture my thoughts --all are dispersed in a moment;my soul becomes at ease;the fatigue of the body vanquishes the disturbance of the mind.There is not a woman's glance which I would not forget at the sight of the tufted mountains,illumined by the southern sun;at the sight of the dark-blue sky,or in hearkening to the roar of the torrent as it falls from cliff to cliff.
I believe that the Cossacks,yawning on their watch-towers,when they saw me galloping thus needlessly and aimlessly,were long tormented by that enigma,because from my dress,I am sure,they took me to be a Circassian.I have,in fact,been told that when riding on horseback,in my Circassian costume,I resemble a Kabardian more than many a Kabardian himself.And,indeed,so far as regards that noble,warlike garb,I am a perfect dandy.I have not a single piece of gold lace too much;my weapon is costly,but simply wrought;the fur on my cap is neither too long nor too short;my leggings and shoes are matched with all possible accuracy;my tunic is white;my Circassian jacket,dark-brown.I have long studied the mountaineer seat on horseback,and in no way is it possible to flatter my vanity so much as by acknowledging my skill in horsemanship in the Cossack mode.I keep four horses --one for myself and three for my friends,so that I may not be bored by having to roam about the fields all alone;they take my horses with pleasure,and never ride with me.
It was already six o'clock in the evening,when Iremembered that it was time to dine.My horse was jaded.I rode out on to the road leading from Pyatigorsk to the German colony,to which the society of the watering-place frequently rides en piquenique.The road meanders between bushes and descends into little ravines,through which flow noisy brooks beneath the shade of tall grasses.All around,in an amphitheatre,rise the blue masses of Mount Beshtau and the Zmeiny,Zhelezny and Lysy Mountains.Descending into one of those ravines,I halted to water my horse.At that moment a noisy and glittering cavalcade made its appearance upon the road --the ladies in black and dark-blue riding habits,the cavaliers in costumes which formed a medley of the Circassian and Nizhegorodian.In front rode Grushnitski with Princess Mary.
The Snake,the Iron and the Bald Mountains.
Nizhegorod is the "government"of which Nizhniy-Novgorod is the capital.
The ladies at the watering-place still believe in attacks by Circassians in broad daylight;for that reason,doubtless,Grushnitski had slung a sabre and a pair of pistols over his soldier's cloak.He looked ridiculous enough in that heroic attire.
I was concealed from their sight by a tall bush,but I was able to see everything through the leaves,and to guess from the expression of their faces that the conversation was of a sentimental turn.At length they approached the slope;Grushnitski took hold of the bridle of the Princess's horse,and then I heard the conclusion of their conversation:
"And you wish to remain all your life in the Caucasus?"said Princess Mary.
