In mid-June I was left all of a sudden on my aunt Roerberg’s hands. Mamma started off for Russia for a few weeks, and the Staritzkis went to Beloy-Kloutch, their summer residence, and as I did not like to leave Serge Michailovitch behind, I preferred to remain in Tiflis. Day by day the general’s visits grew more frequent. One evening he got up a picnic in his garden to which he invited us. Whilst we had tea laid under the trees, I remarked that a change was coming over our host; he seemed in a boyish mood, and altogether forgetful of his usual careful correctness, and put aside all his reserve; he lay at my feet and tickled my cheek with a blade of grass. This was the hour of my triumph! I caught his eyes and they said quite plainly “I like you.” Could he be catching fire at last? I saw now that I was not wholly indifferent to him; he was looking at me with new eyes, the eyes of an awakened sleeper. Was it the awakening germ of some deeper feeling, perhaps? In parting he squeezed my hand and held it in his for a few seconds longer than the conventions allowed. Every day drew me closer to Serge Michailovitch; the more I saw him, the more my affection deepened, and I soon found that he was for me the dearest of created beings.
The heat in Tiflis was very trying, there was scarcely air enough to breathe, and my aunt decided to go to Borjom, the summer residence of the Grand-Duke Michael, a delightful watering-place buried in verdure and surrounded by mountains covered with thick forests. Serge Michailovitch came round occasionally to see how we got on. I looked forward eagerly to his visits; his society became very dear to me for he succeeded in winning my love; my heart had spoken at last and I was sensible of the tremendous power he exercised over me. I was beginning to know that I too, had a little power over him. Serge Michailovitch appeared so pleased when he saw me; his hand trembled when it touched mine. His affection seemed to rise with extraordinary rapidity from zero to boiling point, and it was whispered that General Doukhovskoy had serious views towards me; my aunt with her all-seeing eyes had perceived for some time already the turn events had taken.
In July the general had to go to Russia for a short time; On the eve of his departure he came to Borjom. That evening altered the course of my life. He managed to get me away from the others on the terrace; we were so happy to be left alone and drew closer to each other, watching the glow-worms’ fairy lamps amidst the shrubs below. For some time there was no conversation between us, but there was no need for words, we looked into each other’s eyes and found that one can kiss even with looks. Suddenly Serge Michailovitch bent over me, his face drawn with emotion, and asked me if I cared for him a little bit? The moment was decisive; my head dropped on my arms on the table and tears were my only answer. I felt assured of one thing now, that he loved me; yet, what had he said to me? Nothing and yet everything!
On the next day, when Serge Michailovitch came to bid us good-bye, he seemed quite altered; he was changed altogether, exceedingly cool and formal in his manner to me, his greeting was gravely courteous, that was all. What was this sudden change in him, in voice and eyes? His entirely incomprehensible attitude made me horribly unhappy; had he changed his mind at the last moment? All through his visit he maintained his air of frigid reserve; he was so cold that he froze me. An icy feeling crept over me and I suddenly had the sensation of being a great way off from him. I could not help feeling hurt and wounded and struggled hard to keep the tears from my eyes; not for worlds would I have appeared disappointed. Serge Michailovitch went away saying good-bye frigidly, and we parted upon very cold terms. When he had gone, I missed him more than I could have imagined possible; his face haunted my dreams and my waking, and I thought of him the first thing in the morning, the last thing at night. I see now that I didn’t know what love meant until I met Serge Michailovitch. How I longed for his first letter, but the days slipped away without a word or sign from him. I was so horribly disappointed and tortured with doubt. Had he forgotten then all about me? I began to feel extremely uncomfortable, seeing him slipping away from me and wished I had not let him go.
I could bear it no longer and wrote a volume to him, telling him I wanted him to cheer me up, and that I was looking forward impatiently to seeing him soon. Day by day I waited for his answer; at last the post brought me a letter from him. I tore the envelope open, with trembling hands and scarlet cheeks, but there was nothing in it to gladden my longing eyes or to fill my empty heart. His letter was short and scrappy, with no words of endearment; it might have been written to a sister. He told me so little about himself, and hardly anything at all about myself, and addressed me in such a formal way, ending his letter with sincere regards to me. (I hated sincere regards)!
I continued to be quite in the dark as to his plans for the future and didn’t like at all to be fed upon chance scraps, I wanted a whole bone. I don’t know when in all my life I had been more vexed and had shed such hot passionate tears; but pride arose, forbidding my heart to ache for the loss of his love. What was the use of crying my eyes out? I was determined to forget Serge Michailovitch, putting him as much as possible out of my thoughts and passing a sponge over our love affair. To keep my spirits up, I rushed into all sorts of adventures, exposing myself to ill-natured comments. People began to say nasty things of me, and my aunt Roerberg implored me to put a stop to my disgraceful flirtations, warning me that the talk would reach the ears of Serge Michailovitch. She tried to excuse his conduct in my eyes and said that, as his experiences were much wider than mine, he was more cool-headed, and knew what he was about, therefore he could not act inconsiderately in such a serious matter as marriage. Yes, but as for me, being prompt and vivacious I hated delays, and could not possibly just take time and think things over like him, I can’t. I can’t stop and wait!
I continued to wear a steel armour over my heart, and I now spent much of my time out of doors, riding. Serge Michailovitch had permitted me, during his absence, to mount his lovely arab, a young and spirited horse who proved sufficiently troublesome the first time I mounted him. I had to spring hastily into my saddle, the horse gave a bound when the groom left his head, and set off galloping like the wind. My hand was nearly dislocated with the strain of holding him; I succeeded in managing my fiery steed and brought him to a stand-still before a villa inhabited by Mrs. Blicks, a charming lady whom I knew only by sight. She happened to be on her balcony just then, and invited me to dismount, in order to recover myself from my fright. My wrist was aching a good deal and had begun to swell. After Mrs. Blicks had bound it up, I remounted my arab who behaved perfectly well on our way home. After my first break-neck ride I succeeded to be mistress of my horse; he went like a lamb now, and I felt as much at home on his back as in a rocking-chair.
I liked Mrs. Blicks and her two daughters very much, and often dropped in for a chat. I met in their house two school-boys, a prince and a simple mortal. I kept the prince in the background and displayed a marked preference for the simple mortal, welcoming him as a relief to threatened monotony. There was nothing particularly entrancing in him, but he was still better than no lover at all, and I began to flirt with him until he was half mad. We wandered away from the others on every available occasion, and sauntered together into the park; he drew my arm within his and pressed it tenderly to his heart, whilst our eyes met, speaking volumes. In that moment we seemed very much in love with one another, and wanted to put off as long as possible getting back home. I took a fancy, one day, on visiting Mrs. Blicks, to stimulate a fainting-fit. I lay at full length on a low sofa, wrapped up in a loose white dressing-gown belonging to Mrs. Blicks, whilst my affrighted school-boys made a great fuss over me; they bathed my temples with eau-de-cologne and put a bottle of sal-volatile under my nose. I took delight in prolonging that mystification as long as I could, surveying them out of the corners of my half-closed eyes.
Though it was only September, the weather suddenly turned cold and wet; the sky was low and grey, a gusty wind was driving the fallen leaves across the park. We decided to return to Tiflis; mamma was back already from Russia, and soon after I heard that Serge Michailovitch had come also.