CHAPTER X
THE CAUCASUS
We went to Tiflis towards the middle of May. On the way I made the acquaintance of two cadets of the corps des pages, grandsons of the Shah of Persia. The youngest prince, Rouknadine-Mirza, a charming chap with exquisite oriental eyes, took particularly my fancy. He had already fallen a little under my spell, and I looked upon him as a kind of blessed invention for my entertainment on this trip. As for his eldest brother, he seemed to be of rather a quiet disposition, and I did not care a rap for him.
It was almost dark when we reached Tiflis. The Staritzkis received us in the friendliest way. We were also kindly greeted by my aunt, Nathalie Roerberg, the wife of the Chief of the Military Engineers of the Caucasus. She wanted me to come and see her just as often as I could. I can’t say how good and kind she was, we got on admirably.
It became my favourite pastime to watch through the iron-barred gate of the Roerbergs’ garden, opening on the summer-theatre, the endless string of people promenading between the acts. My guilty curiosity was noticed by an elegant swell, whom I saw staring and making eyes at me. I met him a few days afterwards at a dancing party in the casino. He was quick to seize the chance of talking to me and exclaimed, “How happy I am to meet you! I have desired it so tremendously!” Impudent fellow! As I was not a bit disposed to be gracious to him I stopped his effusions, turning my back pointedly. When I met that brazen-faced individual after that in the streets, he raised his hat in vain to me; I pretended not to perceive him.
I found a jolly companion in the person of my cousin Nathaly Staritzki. One evening we went to see La Traviata sung in Armenian, which rather disagreed with Italian music. Nathaly was, like me, easily moved to laughter. As the opera proceeded we became more and more hilarious, and our behaviour was such that caused many disapproving glances to be cast in our direction. At the most pathetic moment, when the prima-donna breathed her last breath, we ran out of our box, putting our handkerchiefs to our mouths and overturning the chairs on our passage.
I used to see a great deal of the Persian princes; Rouknadine-Mirza was rapidly losing his heart to me. One day we went out riding together, and whilst our horses were galloping at full speed, the idea came to me to make my page gather a wild flower growing in the grass. He managed to do it, but during that acrobatic exercise his casque rolled off, and instead of treating him commiseratingly I only snubbed him for his pains.
Horsemanship was my ruling passion. I easily found partners to accompany me in my rides, and careered through the streets of Tiflis, followed by my cavaliers, enjoying to overtake them like a cyclone. I cantered home in high spirits, with a heated face and my hair coming down, most of it outside my cap, not in it. I frequently brought my cavaliers home to tea, and if they didn’t happen to be particularly interesting, I proceeded straight to bed, and the Staritzkis had to sit with my guests and entertain them as best they could, whilst I slept the sleep of the just.
One day, in turning over an album, I came upon a photograph the sight of which made me exclaim: “Oh, who is that good-looking officer?” “That is Serge Michailovitch Doukhovskoy, a young general attached to the person of the Grand-Duke Michael, commander-in-chief of the army of the Caucasus,” said my aunt Roerberg. She told me that he was the youngest general in the Russian army, being only six-and-thirty years old, that he had a splendid career before him, and was in short everything desirable; she added that now I had a capital opportunity of making a brilliant match, and that I must spread my net to catch that big fish and set immediately to work to captivate him. That was enough to set me against the general; there was something very distasteful in the idea of such a marriage, and I was not at all willing to sacrifice my youth to the advantage of rank and money.
When first General Doukhovskoy was introduced to me I was slightly disappointed; he was so reserved in manner and did not condescend to take much notice of me, a method of treatment to which I was not accustomed, being brought up with the idea that I was to be petted and bowed down to by men; I had been adored all my young life and this indifference stung my vanity. I was far from the idea of falling in love with General Doukhovskoy, nevertheless I was annoyed by the coolness with which he regarded me; admiration was my daily bread, he failed to offer it to me and that instantly aroused in me an intention of making him display some interest in me. Serge Michailovitch was quite unlike all the men I had ever met before, he was immovable as a stone, and didn’t look like the sort of man whose head could be easily turned, and would surely never become a girl’s plaything. Nevertheless there was something which drew me towards him, and day by day he got hold of me and I meant to win his heart if it only could be done. All my passing fancies only kindled the spark that was to burn for another man’s benefit. But why, oh why, was this iceberg of a human being incapable of understanding? He was so queer; I did not know how to manage him; it was impossible to draw him into the mildest flirtation, we were on the polite conversation footing, nothing else.