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By Root 280 0

finishings; the fur on my hat isn’t too long, too short; leggings and high boots fitted to utter exactitude; a white beshmet, and a dark-brown cherkeska.7 I have long studied the mountain riding style: nothing would flatter my vanity more than an acknowledgment of my art in the Caucasian manner of horsemanship. I keep four horses: one for myself, three for friends, to avoid the boredom of roaming about the fields on one’s own. They take my horses with pleasure and never go out together with me. It was already six hours after midday when I realized it was time to dine. My horse was worn out. I went out onto the road that leads from Pyatigorsk to the German colony where the spa community often goes en pique-nique. The road goes meandering between shrubs, descending into small gullies where brooks flow under the canopy of the long grasses. The blue masses of the peaks—Beshtau, Zmeinaya, Zheleznaya, and Lisaya8—tower above and around like an amphitheater. Having descended into one of the gullies, called balkas in the local dialect, I stopped to let my horse drink. At that moment a noisy and shiny cavalcade appeared on the road. There were ladies in light-blue and black riding habits, and cavaliers in outfits made up of a mixture of Circassian and Nizhny Novgorod styles; and Grushnitsky rode at the front with Princess Mary.

Ladies of the spa still believe in the possibility of attacks by Circassians in broad daylight—that’s probably why Grushnitsky hung a saber and a pair of pistols over his soldier’s greatcoat. He was rather amusing-looking in these heroic vestments. A tall bush hid me from them, but through its leaves I could see everything and could guess from the expressions on their faces that their conversation was sentimental in nature. At last they approached the slope; Grushnitsky took the reins of the princess’s horse, and then I heard the end of their conversation.

“And do you want to spend your whole life in the Caucasus?” the princess was saying.

“What is Russia to me!” replied her cavalier. “A country where thousands of people will look at me with contempt since they are richer than I am, when here, here, this thick greatcoat didn’t prevent me from making acquaintance with you . . .”

“Quite the opposite . . .” said the princess, blushing.

Grushnitsky’s face showed pleasure. He continued:

“Here my life flows past noisily, imperceptibly, and quickly, under the gunfire of savages, and if God would send me a bright female gaze every year, a gaze like the one . . .”

At that moment they came up beside me; I struck my horse with my whip and came out of the bush . . .

“Mon dieu, un Circassien!”9 the princess cried out in horror.

In order to completely disabuse her of this, I replied in French, slightly bowing:

“Ne craignez rien, madame—je ne suis pas plus dangereux que votre cavalier.”10

She was embarrassed—but by what? By her mistake or by my reply, which may have seemed audacious to her? I would hope that the latter suggestion is correct. Grushnitsky threw me a look of displeasure.

Late that evening, at eleven o’clock that is, I went out for a stroll along the linden alley of the boulevard. The city was sleeping, the lights of fires flashed in a few windows. Craggy crests loomed black on three sides: the ridges of Mount Mashuk, on whose peaks lay a sinister little cloud. The moon smoked in the east. In the distance the snowy mountains sparkled with a silver fringe. The calls of the sentries alternated with noises from the hot springs, which are released at night. From time to time, the ringing clatter of horses scattered along the street, accompanied by the creaking of a Nogay wagon,11 and doleful Tatar song. I sat on a bench and became lost in my thoughts . . . I felt the necessity to give vent to my thoughts in a conversation with a friend . . . but with whom?

“What is Vera doing right now?” I thought . . . I would give dearly to be holding her hand at this moment. Suddenly I hear quick and uneven steps . . . It’s probably Grushnitsky . . . It is!

“Where have you come from?”

“From the Princess Ligovsky,