It is three days since I arrived in Kislovodsk. I see Vera every day at the spring or on the promenade. When I wake up in the morning I sit at the window and direct eyeglasses at her balcony. Having dressed long before, she waits for the signal agreed upon, and we meet as if by accident in the garden, which slopes down to the spring from our houses. The invigorating mountain air has brought the color back to her cheeks and given her strength. It is not for nothing that Narzan[101] is called the source of heroes. The local inhabitants claim that the air in Kislovodsk is conducive to love and that all the love affairs that ever began at the foot of Mashuk have invariably reached their ending here. And, indeed, everything here breathes of seclusion. Everything is mysterious-the dense shadows of the lime trees bordering the torrent which, falling noisily and frothily from flag to flag, cuts its way through the green mountains, and the gorges, full of gloom and silence, that branch out from here in all directions. And the freshness of the fragrant air, laden with the aroma of the tall southern grasses and the white acacia[102], and the incessant deliciously drowsy babble of the cool brooks which, mingling at the end of the valley, rush onward to hurl their waters into the Podkumok River. On this side the gorge is wider and spreads out into a green depression, and through it meanders a dusty road. Each time I look at it, I seem to see a carriage approaching and a pretty rosy-cheeked face looking out of its window. Many a carriage has already rolled along that road – but there still is no sign of that particular one. The settlement beyond the fort is now densely populated; from the restaurant, built on a hill a few paces from my apartment, lights have begun to glimmer in the evenings through the double row of poplars, and the noise and the clinking of glasses can be heard until late at night.

Nowhere is there so much Kakhetian wine and mineral water drunk up as here.

Grushnitsky and his gang whoop it up daily in the saloon. He barely acknowledges me now.

He arrived only yesterday, but he's already managed to pick a quarrel with three old men who wanted to take their baths before him. Bad luck's decidedly developing a bellicose spirit in him.

At last they've arrived. I was sitting at the window when I heard their carriage drive up, and my heart jumped. What does it mean? Could I be in love? So senselessly am I constructed that it might indeed be expected of me.

I had dinner with them. Princess Ligovskaya eyed me very tenderly and did not leave her daughter's side-a bad sign that! But Vera is jealous of Princess Mary. I have managed to bring about that happy state after all! What would a woman not do to hurt a rival! I recall one woman who loved me simply because I was in love with another. Nothing is more paradoxical than the feminine mind. It is hard to convince women of anything-they must be brought to a point where they will convince themselves. The means of supplying evidence by which they finish off their prejudices is highly original, and to get to know their dialectic one must rid the mind of all academic rules of logic. For example, the ordinary method is this:

This man loves me; but I am married; hence, I must not love him.

The feminine method is this:

I must not love him because I am married; but he loves me, and hence...

Here follows a pregnant pause, for reason is now dumb, and all the talking is mainly done by the tongue, eyes, and eventually the heart, if there is one.

What if these notes should fall into a woman's hands some day? "Slander!" she will cry indignantly.

Ever since poets began to write and women to read them (for which they must be heartily thanked), the latter have been called angels so often that in the simplicity of their hearts they have actually come to believe in this compliment, forgetting that for money the very same poets exalted Nero as a semigod.

It might appear not quite right that I should speak of them with such malice-I, who have never loved anything else under the sun-I, who have always been ready to sacrifice my peace of mind, ambition and life for their sake... Yet it is not in a fit of annoyance or injured vanity that I try hard to draw aside that magic veil which only the accustomed eye can penetrate. No, all that I say about them is only the result of

Women should wish all men to know them as well as I do, for I have loved them a hundred times more since I overcame my fear of them and discovered their petty frailties.

Incidentally, Werner the other day compared women with the enchanted forest described by Tasso in his Jerusalem Delivered[105].

"You have but to approach it," he said, "to be assaulted from all sides by ungodly terrors: duty, pride, respectability, public opinion, ridicule, contempt... You must not heed them, but go straight on. Little by little the monsters vanish and before you opens a quiet, sunny glade with green myrtle blooming in its midst. But woe to you if your heart quails when you take those first steps and you turn back!"

This evening was full of many events. Some two miles out of Kislovodsk, in the gorge where the Podkumok flows, there is a crag called The Ring, forming a natural gateway that towers above a high hill. Through it the setting sun casts its last fiery glance at the world. A large cavalcade set out to watch the sunset through the rocky window. To tell the truth, though, none of us was thinking of the sunset. I rode next to Princess Mary. On the way back we had to ford the Podkumok. Even the shallowest mountain streams are dangerous, chiefly because their beds are a perfect kaleidoscope, changing day by day under the action of the current-where there was a rock yesterday, there may be a pit today. I took the princess's horse by the bridle and led it to the water, which did not rise above the knees. We started crossing slowly at an angle against the current. It is a well-known fact that in crossing rapids one should not look down at the water because it makes you dizzy. I forgot to warn Princess Mary of this.

We were already in midstream, where the current is the swiftest, when she suddenly swayed in the saddle. "I feel faint!" she gasped. Quickly I bent over toward her and put my arm around her supple waist.

"Look up!" I whispered to her. "Don't be afraid, it's quite all right; I am with you."

She felt better and wanted to free herself from my arm, but I tightened my embrace about her soft slender waist. My cheek almost touched hers. I could feel a fiery glow from her.

"What are you doing to me? My God!"

I paid no heed to her quivering confusion and my lips touched her soft cheek. She jumped, but said nothing. We were riding behind the others-no one saw us. When we clambered ashore, everyone set off at a trot. The princess, however, reined in her horse, and I remained with her. It was obvious that she was worried by my silence, but I swore to myself not to say a word-out of sheer curiosity. I wanted to see how she would get herself out of this embarrassing situation.