He is rather witty and his epigrams are frequently amusing but never pointed or malicious-he will never annihilate a person with a single word. He knows neither people nor their weak spots, for all his life he has been preoccupied with himself alone. His object in life is to become the hero of a romance. So often has he tried to make others believe he is a being never intended for this world and hence doomed to some kind of occult suffering that he has practically convinced himself of it. That is why he shows off his heavy soldier's overcoat. I see through him and he dislikes me for it, though on the face of it we are on the friendliest of terms. Grushnitsky has a reputation for superb courage. I have seen him in action: he brandishes his saber, and dashes forward shouting with his eyes shut. There is something very un-Russian in that brand of gallantry!

I don't like him either, and I feel we are bound to fall foul of each other one day with sorry consequences for one of us.

His coming to the Caucasus too was the result of his romantic fanaticism. I am certain that on the eve of his departure from his father's village he tragically announced to some pretty neighbor that he was not going merely to serve in the army, but to seek death, because... at this point he probably covered his eyes with his hand and went on like this: "No, you must not know the reason! Your pure soul would shudder at the thought! And why should you? What am I to you? Could you understand me?" and so on and so forth.

He told me himself that the reason why he enlisted in the K- regiment will forever remain a secret between him and his Maker.

And yet when he discards his tragic role, Grushnitsky can be quite pleasant and amusing. I would like to see him in the company of women, for I imagine that's when he'd try to be at his best.

We greeted each other as old friends. I began to ask him many questions concerning life at the spa and the interesting people there were to be met.

"We lead a rather prosaic life," he sighed. "Those who drink the waters in the mornings are listless like all invalids, and those who drink wine in the evenings are unbearable like all people who enjoy good health. There is feminine company, but it offers little consolation. They play whist, dress badly and speak terrible French. This year Princess Ligovskaya with her daughter are the only visitors from Moscow, but I haven't met them. My overcoat is like a brand of ostracism. The sympathy it evokes is as unwelcome as charity."

Just then two ladies walked past us toward the spring, one middle-aged, the other young and slender. I couldn't see their faces for the bonnets, but they were dressed in strict conformity with the very best taste: everything was as it should be. The young woman wore a high-necked pearl-gray dress. A dainty silk scarf encircled her supple neck. A pair of dark-brown shoes encased her slender little feet up to the ankles so daintily that even one uninitiated into the mysteries of beauty would have caught his breath, if only in amazement. Her light but dignified gait had something virginal about it that eluded definition yet was tangible enough to the eye. As she walked past us, that subtle fragrance was wafted from her which sometimes is exhaled by a billet-doux[85] from a charming woman.

"That's Princess Ligovskaya," said Grushnitsky, "and her daughter, whom she calls Mary in the English manner. They've been here only three days."

"You seem to know her name already."

"Heard it quite by accident," he replied, blushing. "I must confess I have no desire to meet them. These haughty aristocrats look upon us army men as savages. What's it to them if there's an intellect under a numbered cap and a heart beneath a thick overcoat?"

"Poor overcoat," said I, smiling. "And who is the gentleman going up to them and so obligingly offering them a glass?"

"Oh, that's the Moscow dandy Rayevich! He's a gambler, as you can see by the heavy gold chain across his blue vest. And look at that thick cane-just like Robinson Crusoe's! Or the beard he sports, and the haircut à la moujik[86]."

"You seem to bear a grudge against the whole human race."

"And with good reason..."

"Really?"

By this time the ladies had left the well and were again passing us. Grushnitsky hurried to strike a dramatic pose with the help of his crutch and replied loudly to me in French: "Mon cher, je haïs les hommes pour ne pas les mépriser, car autrement la vie serait une farce trop dégoûtante.[87]"

The attractive young princess turned and bestowed on the speaker a long and searching glance. It was an obscure kind of look, but without a trace of mockery. I mentally congratulated him on it from the bottom of my heart.

"This Princess Mary's extremely pretty," I said to him. "Her eyes are like velvet, yes, velvet. I'd advise you to adopt this expression when you talk about her eyes: the eyelashes, both upper and lower, are so long that the sunbeams find no reflection in her pupils. I love eyes like that-without a shine in them, and so soft that they seem to be caressing you... By the way, I think they are the only good point in her face... And are her teeth white? That's very important! It's a pity she didn't smile at your grandiloquence."

"You talk about a pretty woman as if she were an English thoroughbred," said Grushnitsky indignantly.

"Mon cher," i replied, trying to fall into his tone, "je méprise les femmes pour ne pas les aimer, car autrement la vie serait un mélodrame trop ridicule.[88]"

I turned and walked off. For half an hour I strolled along the vine-clad walks, along the limestone rocks and among the low bushes between them, until it grew hot and I hurried home. As I passed by the sulfur spring I stopped to rest in the shade of the covered gallery and thus became a witness of a rather interesting spectacle. This is how the actors were placed. The elder princess was sitting with the Moscow dandy on a bench in the gallery and seemed to be engaged in a serious conversation. The young princess, having apparently drunk her last glass full of water, was strolling thoughtfully up and down by the spring. Grushnitsky was standing at the well. There was no one else around.

I went up closer and hid behind a corner of the gallery. Just then Grushnitsky dropped his glass on the sand and tried to stoop to pick it up, but his wounded leg made it hard for him. Poor man! How he tried, leaning on his crutch, but failed. His expressive face actually registered pain.

Princess Mary saw all this better than I did.

Quicker than a bird she was at his side, bent down, picked up the glass and handed it to him with an inexpressibly sweet gesture. Then she blushed furiously and cast a glance in the direction of the gallery, but, seeing that her mother had not noticed anything, immediately regained her composure. When Grushnitsky opened his mouth to thank her she was already far away. A minute later she left the gallery in the company of her mother and the dandy, but as she passed Grushnitsky she assumed a most prim and proper air, not even turning her head in his direction or noticing the fervent gaze with which he escorted her until she disappeared behind the lime trees of the boulevard at the foot of the hill... He caught a last glimpse of her bonnet on the other side of the street as she hurried into the gateway of one of the finest houses in Pyatigorsk. Behind her walked her mother, who bid farewell to Rayevich at the gate.

Only now did the poor smitten cadet become aware of my presence.