Bertha von Suttner, Memoirs (1876-1885) - Part 2

Baroness Bertha Felicitas Sophie Freifrau von Suttner, née Gräfin Kinsky von Wchinitz und Tettau (1843-1914) was an Austrian writer, activist and pacifist. In 1905 she was the first woman (and only the 7th laureate) to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. 

Born into a noble but impoverished family in Prague, she excelled in education, mastering several languages and becoming a talented piano player. In 1870s, she began to work as a governess to the wealthy Suttner family but soon became engaged to the Suttners' youngest son Arthur Gundaccar Freiherr von Suttner but his family bitterly opposed the marriage and forced the couple to leave.  In 1876, Bertha and Arthur left Austria and moved, at the invitation of Princess Ekaterine Dadiani of Mingrelia, to Georgia, where they remained for eight years. Despite acute financial problems, the couple enjoyed their stay in Georgia and earned their living by writing novels and translations. In the 1880s, the Suttner family reconciled with the couple, allowing it to return to Austria where they settled at the Harmannsdorf Castle. Bertha became actively involved in peace and conflict issues and wrote extensively on pacifism. In 1889 she wrote  Die Waffen nieder! ["Lay Down Your Arms!"], which turned her into one of the leading figures of the pacifist movement. She continued to publish and gain international repute that resulted in her receiving the Nobel Peace prize in 1905. She died of cancer in June 1914, just one week short of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand that unleashed the World War I.

In 1910 Bertha von Suttner authorized the publication of the English edition of her memoirs, in which she devoted the entire part IV (chapters 17 through 21) to her stay in Georgia. 

In part 1, Bertha von Suttner described how, after eloping with her husband, she travelled to Georgia where he was welcomed by the Dadiani family in Kutaisi.

And now the next morning we started for the goal of our journey, for Gordi, situated on a high plateau among the mountains. Count Rosmorduc chartered a troika and escorted us. It was jolly riding behind that spike team; the more the springless vehicle shook us up, the more fun we had out of it. The way was splendid; all the hedges were abloom with cascades of wild roses. At the same time the heat was frightful. All the more delightful the prospect that we were going among the mountains, where, as Count Rosmorduc assured us, cool and almost raw winds blow all the time.

After a journey of several hours across the plain we came to Pompey's Bridge; this is that place where one must leave the carriage and ride horseback the rest of the way. We were now at the entrance of the defile, and the peaks of the mountains which we were to climb stood out steeply against the azure sky. The stream which roared and foamed under Pompey's Bridge roared perhaps twice as loud in our ears because it had been described to us as the "Hippus" of the ancients; what classic craft — doubtless even Jason's Argo when he went to capture the Golden Fleece — must it not have rocked on its billows! This was the place, I remembered from the Dedopali's letters, where the young princely couple on their home journey had dismounted from the carriage, where the bridge had been spread with a carpet, and a triumphal arch of flowers had marked the boundary line of Mingrelia.

There was no triumphal arch awaiting us at Pompey's Bridge, but there was a pleasing surprise: Prince Niko, accompanied by a great retinue, had ridden down to the threshold of his dominion to welcome the "Contessina" and her husband. Under a tent a table was spread with refreshments. There we had breakfast first and a toast of welcome was drunk, and then we addressed ourselves to the ascent. Horses were in readiness also for us and Count Rosmorduc; for me a gentle pacer. Prince Niko lifted me to the saddle, and now we had to ride up the seven kilometers of serpentine road, while the cavalcade of the princely escort, in their picturesque costume, were around us performing all sorts of feats of horsemanship in their high saddles, springing up and down the steep sides of the pass, and offering a perfectly wonderful spectacle.

And as we rode upward the temperature grew cooler and cooler, and the prospect over abysses and valleys more and more magnificent. The sun had already disappeared behind the mountains when we arrived at our destination. Gordi is situated on a great plateau, in the background of which, buttressed by a mountain wall, stands the prince's castle, a wide edifice flanked with towers and adorned with numerous balconies and terraces. On the right and left at intervals were small, neat wooden villas. One of them was occupied by the dowager princess; one by Niko himself, because his castle was another that was not yet completed; one was for us; and the rest served as quarters for the other guests and neighbors.

The Dedopali was standing on the terrace of her villa to welcome us. Around her stood her women, her almoner, her private secretary, and her bodyguard. She took me into her arms and bade me welcome. "Présentez-moi votre cher mari, ma petite contessina, ou faut-il dire 'baronessina' maintenant?" She kissed my husband on the forehead, in Russian fashion, when he bent over her hand after the introduction.

We were soon conducted over to our little house, where we were to rest and dress for dinner. The small guest villa, built on a level with the ground, consisted of a sitting-room hung with gay cretonne and provided with furniture of the same, a bedchamber, and rooms for the man and maid who had been put wholly at our disposition. The dinner was served at the Dedopali's villa, on a broad open veranda. After dinner the company — there had been about thirty at the table — went out on the plateau, which lay in full moonlight; and now dances were performed, rockets were set off, choral songs were sung, and not till midnight did we retire. That was our reception at Gordi.

Our wedding excursion to the Caucasus lasted nine years. A long honeymoon! The first summer we spent uninterruptedly in Gordi, where we were kept until the family themselves went away—Niko to St. Petersburg, the Dedopali to Zugdidi. But the illusion regarding a position at the Russian court had shown itself to be an illusion. At first Niko took kindly to the idea, but soon it became apparent that if an attempt should be made to turn it into a reality, impossibilities would be encountered. So what was to be done? That life of nothing but pleasure and festivity which we had led there in the mountains could not be kept up without end, and to be forever "an always welcome guest" is really not a vocation. 

We had broken with Harmannsdorf—or rather the parents had broken with us: they could not pardon us for our reckless step. Neither did we seek pardon. We had defiantly announced that we would make our way, and now we had to do it. We had kept up a most affectionate correspondence with the brothers and sisters, but the parents sent us a wrathy letter of reproach and repudiation, and never another word. My mother, to whom My Own [husband Arthur] had made a visit before our journey, had not indeed approved of the whole match and of the erratic elopement; but in a few days she had taken My Own into her heart, and her blessing accompanied us.

We now decided to settle in Kutais, and, for the time being, until Prince Niko had found a suitable situation for us (which he still treated as a possibility), to earn our living there by giving lessons in music and the languages. A cousin of the princess, who had been visiting at Gordi with us and whose home was in Kutais, promised to get pupils for us in her circles. These were certainly not exhilarating prospects, but our inner exhilaration was invulnerable. The whole life, the whole country seemed to us so interesting that the intensified sense of travel and adventure with which we had started out remained ever vivid; and, moreover, we were so unspeakably happy in each other that really (just as there are conditions in which one envies all people) we pitied all people who were not ourselves. The most delightful thing was that we felt our love not only not diminishing, but all the time increasing.

So, after the general breaking up of the party at Gordi, we went to Kutais, where another friend of the Dedopali — General Hagemeister — took us into his house as guests to remain until we should find a house and pupils. In a few weeks we were established in a little home of our own, and a number of the daughters of noble families in Kutais had presented themselves to me for piano and singing lessons. My Own gave a few lessons in German.

Now rumors of war [between Russia and the Ottoman Empire] began to buzz through the air. The year before [1876] an insurrection had broken out in Bulgaria. (It was asserted in other than Russian countries that this was fomented by Russian agents.) Russia demanded of Turkey reforms and guaranties for the safety of the Christians. Now the great powers met in conference — from November, 1876, until January, 1877, in Constantinople; in March, 1877, in London; but their decrees were refused by Turkey. Would Russia now declare war? This portentous question was on every tongue. The troops were waiting in expectation on the border.

And, sure enough, on the 24th of April came the Russian declaration of war, and, simultaneously, the crossing of the Pruth and of the Armenian border. The news was the more exciting for the reason that the Caucasus itself served as one of the two theaters of the war, and an invasion of Kutais by the Turks was one of the possible dangers.

I do not remember that we felt anxious. Nor did I have any feeling of protest against war in general, any more than in the years '66 [Austro-Prussian War] and '70 [Franco-Prussian War]. My Own likewise looked upon the war that had broken out as merely an elemental event, yet one of especial historical importance. To be in the midst of it gives one personally an irradiation of this importance.

We received from my mother, from my sisters-in-law, letter after letter, telegram after telegram: we must make our escape! We did not think of such a thing; on the contrary we wanted to make ourselves useful, and we offered our services to the governor, Prince [Dmitrii Ivanovich Svyatopolk-] Mirsky, as voluntary nurses of the wounded. Only one condition we made, — that we should work in the same place, if possible in the same hospital. That was not possible; they wanted to use him here and me there, and so we withdrew our offer. For to separate, especially in such perilous circumstances, no price would tempt us! So we remained in Kutais. 

Our sympathies (at that time we still had "sympathies" in war) were with the Russians. The word was, "to free our Slav brethren"; that was the common talk all around us, and we accepted it in perfect faith. Moreover, a second watchword was in the air, raised by the Mohammedans [Muslims] living in the Caucasus, by the wild mountain tribes, Shamyl's comrades: revolt — shaking off the Russian yoke. All this sounded very heroic. But no insurrection broke out; the Caucasus proved to be satisfactorily Russianized and loyal. The sons of the land, looking very handsome in their Cossack uniforms, went to the front as one man to beat the Turks. "Sotnias," as bodies of a hundred mounted noblemen were called, joined the army as volunteers, and we saw them riding away under our windows.

The first death announced in the war bulletins was that of a young fellow whom we knew in Kutais, the only son of a Russian general's widow.

Of course, in all the neighborhood everybody who remained behind was seized with the Red Cross fever: making bandages, sending off supplies of tea and tobacco, treating the regiments that went through with food and drink, collecting money, planning and executing enterprises of beneficence,— all for the good of the poor soldiers. To-day it seems to me there might be something still better than this good,— not to send them out! To-day, too, we know from Tolstoi, the man who has the courage of truth, what the case was with the "dear Slav brethren" at that time... 

[A lengthy quote from Tolstoy's "Patriotism and Christianity," follows.]

Well, at that time we two believed in this Slavonic brother love. My husband sent to the Neue Freie Presse at Vienna a series of letters about those events of the war of which the echo reached us. These were gratefully accepted for a time, but at length were found to be too pro-Russian — the Neue Freie Presse took the side of the Turks — and were declined.

As far as I was concerned, since I could not take care of the wounded, at least I helped diligently in the enterprises got up by the ladies of Kutais in their behalf. I remember an evening garden-party which assembled the inhabitants of the city on the "Boulevard," as a promenade in the middle of the town, shaded by trees, is called. There were Chinese lanterns, orchestral music ("God save the Tsar," a potpourri from Glinka's opera Zhizn dlya Tsarya, the Balkan March, Slavonic songs, and the like), sale booths, and a tombola. Between two trees, brilliantly lighted up, had been placed a great painting of a touching scene on the battlefield: in the foreground a wonderfully beautiful Russian sister of charity, with tears on her cheeks, bending tenderly over a wounded Turkish soldier, whose head she was raising in order to give him nourishment; in the background a tent, powder smoke, dead horses, and bursting shells. I myself shed a tear or two as I stood in front of that picture; and at the tombola, where I bought chances till my pocketbook was drained, I won a small earthen vase, which I had them raffle off again. And thus I believed that I had paid my tribute of sympathy for the tragedy of the Balkans.

The war took its course. We received very sad letters from the Dedopali; she was worried about her two sons, who had gone with the army.

Suddenly there arose the rumor that the plague had broken out in a place not far away. That filled us with real dismay. When the news came I burst out in self-reproaches. "Oh, where have I brought you? It is my fault that you came here, My Own." He comforted me: "Not for a moment have I regretted it. If only nothing happens to you! But even if we must perish now, still we have had our share of happiness."

The pestilence, however did not spread. The fate of being carried off by the terrible angel of destruction, to which we had resigned ourselves, was spared us.

In other respects things were going very badly with us. In the disorder caused by the events of the war no one any longer thought of taking lessons, and we were fearfully pinched. There were days when we actually made the acquaintance of the specter Hunger. But everything that befell us, whether joy or sorrow, brought us closer and closer together, and later we were grateful to Fate for having enriched us with such experiences. Without doubt they were essential to the strengthening of our characters, and to educating us into that sympathy with the sorrows of humanity, with the wretchedness of the people, which in days to come formed the basis of our united work in the service of mankind, and which awakened in each of us feelings that gave delight to the other.

The war moved toward its end. On March 3, 1878, the Peace of San Stefano was signed. The Dedopali's two sons had come out unscathed; the older — with the rank of colonel —had fought at Plevna in the emperor's suite; the younger, then a captain, had taken part in the storming of Kars. In Kutais many families were in mourning. The returning sotnias ("hundreds") did not return as hundreds.

Bertha von Suttner, Memoirs (1876-1885) - Part 1

Baroness Bertha Felicitas Sophie Freifrau von Suttner, née Gräfin Kinsky von Wchinitz und Tettau (1843-1914) was an Austrian writer, activist and pacifist. In 1905 she was the first woman (and only the 7th laureate) to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. 

Born into a noble but impoverished family in Prague, she excelled in education, mastering several languages and becoming a talented piano player. In 1870s, she began to work as a governess to the wealthy Suttner family but soon became engaged to the Suttners' youngest son Arthur Gundaccar Freiherr von Suttner but his family bitterly opposed the marriage and forced the couple to leave.  In 1876, Bertha and Arthur left Austria and moved, at the invitation of Princess Ekaterine Dadiani of Mingrelia, to Georgia, where they remained for eight years. Despite acute financial problems, the couple enjoyed their stay in Georgia and earned their living by writing novels and translations. In the 1880s, the Suttner family reconciled with the couple, allowing it to return to Austria where they settled at the Harmannsdorf Castle. Bertha became actively involved in peace and conflict issues and wrote extensively on pacifism. In 1889 she wrote  Die Waffen nieder! ["Lay Down Your Arms!"], which turned her into one of the leading figures of the pacifist movement. She continued to publish and gain international repute that resulted in her receiving the Nobel Peace prize in 1905. She died of cancer in June 1914, just one week short of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand that unleashed the World War I.

In 1910 Bertha von Suttner authorized the publication of the English edition of her memoirs, in which she devoted the entire part IV (chapters 17 through 21) to her stay in Georgia. 

One afternoon, at the music, Herr von Konigswarter said to us, "The Princess of Mingrelia has a keen desire to make the acquaintance of the ladies."

We had long known who the Princess of Mingrelia was, since we saw her daily in the Kurpark and at the theater, and since Herr von Konigswarter, who was on friendly terms with her, had told us as much as he knew of the story of her life. Ekaterina Dadiani, formerly princess of the Caucasian country (now incorporated in the Russian empire) of Mingrelia, was a very elegant lady of about forty-six or forty-seven, still goodly to look upon, and must in her youth have been a dazzling beauty of the genuine Georgian type. She had for some years been living in Europe, alternately Paris and St. Petersburg, for the sake of her children's education; in summer she came regularly to drink the health-giving waters of Homburg. Every morning at seven o'clock she went to the spring; she often made the round of the gambling-rooms, but never played; at the afternoon concert she used to sit in a particular place on the Kurhaus terrace, always surrounded by a whole little court. Her family consisted of two sons and a daughter. Her oldest son Nikolaus, called Niko, was at that time seventeen years old, her daughter Salome sixteen, and her youngest son Andre fourteen. Her household (she occupied the whole ground floor of the Weckerlin house) comprised a secretary, the governess for her daughter, the tutor for the boys, a valet, and two maids.

After her husband's death she had taken the reins of government as her son's guardian. Once, hard pressed by the Turks, she herself went against the enemy at the head of her horsemen. But it had been impossible for her to hold her ground, and she had to accept the protection of Russia, a protection that was practically annexation. The heir was allowed to keep his title of Prince of Mingrelia, and his lands, but in the form of a majorat; the throne he must forego. A considerable appanage was set apart for the dowager princess, and at the Russian court she was allowed the rank of a foreign sovereign. She was content, for those Caucasian principalities and kingdoms — Georgia, Imeretia, Mingrelia, etc.— were always threatened by Mohammedan enemies, and under Russian safeguard they could develop peacefully, thrive, and remain true to their ancestral standards of life, their customs, their languages, and their dress.

Ekaterine Dadiani

In the princess's company there were frequently to be seen a few Caucasian ladies wearing their picturesque home costume; she herself ordered her gowns from Worth and wore them with all the chic and elegance of a genuine grande dame. She spoke French fluently, even though it was with a strong Russian accent; with her children she conversed mostly in the Georgian language.

The desired acquaintance was made. I brought the interesting woman girlish admiration, and she took me to her heart. Soon I became almost a child of the house. At first I only sat in the great circle during the concert; then the princess invited me to accompany her to the spring in the morning, to come and see her at her apartments, to dine with her. My mother held aloof: a few formal calls made and returned, that was all. I, on the other hand, was taken into the intimacy of the princess, who had a great predilection for young people. Salome, her daughter, far nearer to me in years, came in contact with me much less than did her mother; she, with her hardly completed sixteen summers, was still rated as a child, and had to stay with her governess most of the time.

By her fellow-countrymen the princess was addressed as "Dedopali"; this means queen, literally "mother of mothers," and is in that country the correct title for every female sovereign. I was generally called by the family "la contessina." A friend of the Dadiani household, the Italian Marchese Almorini, had thus addressed me, and the designation had stuck to me. He was a comical sight, this Almorini. An old beau, always paying compliments, always skipping about, always aux petits soins with the ladies. He did not show his age: he wore a coal-black wig and dyed his beard. He could relate so many stories and chronicles of times long gone by that there had grown up a standing joke that he had been centuries in the world, like Cagliostro.

The princess's secretary, who was likewise her courier, major-domo, shawl-bearer, — in a word, factotum,— bore the name of Monsieur Ferry, and was a Frenchman. He was the picture of devotion. Since one cannot all the time be bending the upper part of the body forward as in reverential salutations, he stood with his hip sloping to one side when he spoke to his mistress, and always addressed her as "Altesse." He was a man of about forty, with a reddish imperial and side whiskers. The old valet, called Monsieur David, a fat, smooth-shaven Swiss, had been one of the household for twenty years, had served the late prince in Mingrelia, and was the genuine type of the devoted old servant, possessing the absolute confidence of his mistress and the love of her children.

Innumerable and clear-cut are the recollections which the hours that I spent in the Dedopali's house and in her company have left in my mind. The oriental, exotic quality, commingled with the Russian and Parisian tone of high society, spiced with romance and surrounded with the glitter of wealth, exercised a peculiar fascination upon me; I was truly downright happy in this relationship, it was to me like the coming true of indefinite, long-cherished dreams. When I entered her apartments in the Weckerlin house at any hour I had a glad and buoyant feeling. From the front room one entered a large dining-room with three windows and a balcony; at its right there was a corner drawing-room in which the princess spent most of her time, and back of that was her sleeping-room. At the left of the dining-room were the children's rooms. It was only an ordinary appartement meuble, though a high-grade one; nothing of princely splendor about it; but yet by the many personal objects scattered about, by the flowers, by the fashion in which the furniture was placed, the whole had a private and characteristic stamp of its own; the very odor that filled these rooms — a mixture of orange-flower perfume, Russian cigarettes, and leather—had something personal about it. In the course of years I met the Dedopali in many places, and everywhere that she stayed this same odor hovered about her rooms and adhered to all her possessions.

I spent many hours in that corner drawing-room and listened to the words of the princess, who related to me much that was romantic in her career. She would stay in Europe a few years more, and then return to her own country with her sons.

[...]

[In 1876 Bertha and Arthur decided to leave Austria and travel abroad.] Our goal was the land whither Jason went in his quest for the Golden Fleece. I think there was much of the Jason mood in us both at that time: a mingling of delight in adventure, confidence of conquest, the intoxication of hope. Before us lay a world of things new and surprising; we were going to set foot on a land consecrated by the most classical legends, and experiences which we could not even well imagine beckoned us onward.

We knew that we were expected and should be received with open arms. I had written from Vienna to the Dedopali [Ekaterine Dadiani], and to Prince Niko, who also was at that time sojourning in the Caucasus, telling our whole romance and announcing our visit. A joyous "Welcome" was wired back to us. We both thought it likely that my old friend Niko would secure for My Own [Arthur von Suttner] a position as aide to the emperor or something of the sort. And altogether we were so inordinately enraptured at being together, our bold stroke had aroused in us such an intense feeling of happiness, everything thus far had gone so sur des roulettes, that we looked forward to a constan

Nicholas Dadiani

t increase in our good fortune. One day we should return home in triumph; but it would be a long time before we should want to return home; for the present, out into the wide, beautiful, rich, wonderful world! we were after the Golden Fleece. Nor did we need it — that was the best part. Whatever treasures the world might grant or deny us, we had in each other measureless riches. And My Own felt all this even more keenly than I. He was only twenty-six years old, and this was his first journey into the Unknown. I had already experienced so much disillusionment, and had already, with my thirty-three years, emerged in a measure from that state of intoxication which is called youth; but I caught the contagion of his youthful enthusiasm, and was as childish as he.

After a calm passage our steamboat landed us on the Asiatic shore. A different continent — it fills the comparatively inexperienced traveler with a peculiar pride, a pride upon which old globe-trotters look down with a smile. My Own [Arthur] set his foot on the un-European soil with the haughtiness of a conqueror. "So," said he exultingly, "here we are in Asia!" Whether Asia or Australia, whether earth or Mars, cried the exultation within me, we are together, and that is the main thing.

A messenger from the princess was on the landing place to meet us. He handed me a letter from his mistress with a renewed welcome and the request that we should delay our arrival at Gordi — the summer residence — for a week, till our hosts, who as yet were still at Zugdidi, had had time to establish themselves in their mountain abode. We were to trust ourselves to the direction of her messenger, who would conduct us to the town of Kutais, where we might put up at the hotel for the time being. So we turned the arrangements over to this factotum, a Georgian steward, who spoke a little broken French. He wore the national costume: long caftan, cartridge shells across the chest, bashlyk on head, dagger in belt.

There would not be another train for Kutais that day, hence we had to spend the night at Poti. The place had only a very simple inn, to be sure, but que faire? — This phrase, adopted from the Russian chto dyelat, often came to our ears in that country; it imports that resignation, coupled with a shrug of the shoulders, which does not so much enunciate the question what one is to do in order to contend against something as intimate rather that nothing can be done.

The inn was in truth very simple: we spent the night in chairs because the beds proved to be too thickly inhabited [by lice], and when we wanted to make our toilets and looked for a washstand there was none to be found. I rang for the chambermaid. One appeared in the form of a barefooted peasant with a scrubby beard and a forest of curly black hair. We could not make him understand what we wanted, and called to our aid our factotum, who had also put up at this palace hotel of Poti. Then it was made known to us that the house possessed only one tin wash dish, which was carried from one room to another as it was needed, and with it the towel — in what a condition !

Not especially refreshed by this resting-place, but in unruffled good spirits, we continued our journey the following morning in order to reach our next stop, Kutais, the capital of the province of the same name. There another messenger from the Mingrelian family was also awaiting us — the young prince's intendant, a portly, tumultuous Armenian, who likewise could speak broken French, and wore the European dress. He conducted us to the best inn of Kutais; this was certainly not a palace hotel either, but might be so regarded in comparison with the hole where we had been the day before, for here each guest had his own washbasin and even his own towel, and the rooms and beds were clean. But everything we saw and heard — and smelt — seemed to us so terribly exotic: the strange types of people, the strange costumes, the strange architecture of the buildings, and — as to the sense of smell — a quite peculiar and not disagreeable odor of sun-dried buffalo dung. The buffaloes themselves, which are used here to draw loads and as milch cattle, and which we had already seen idling in sundry mud-holes on our way to Kutais, were an exotic phenomenon to us.

The heat was frightful. One could hardly endure it in the rooms, and we spent our days and took our meals (consisting of mutton, mutton, mutton) on a wooden balcony which ran around the house over the court.

After two days our Armenian took his departure, and a third messenger came to be our guardian and protector. This time it was a family friend of the Dadianis, an old French nobleman de vieille roche, with the fine manners de l'ancien regime. His name was Comte de Rosmorduc. Born in Bretagne, he had come to the Caucasus some twenty-five years before (for what reason I do not know) and had settled down there for good. He had married a Mingrelian woman, and owned a house which he had himself built at Zugdidi. He was a welcome associate of the princess and her children, and later became a dear friend of ours also.

He now did us the honors of Kutais. He introduced us at the home of General Zeretelli [Tsereteli], the foremost house in the city. The Zeretellis were Caucasians and relatives of the Dadianis. They showed themselves very obliging, even arranging for a great reception in our honor on the following evening, to which all the notabilities and aristocratic families of the place were invited. The daughter, Nina, was a famous beauty, but as she was twenty-five she was regarded already as an old maid. Girls in the Caucasus usually marry at fifteen or sixteen. The Countess Rosmorduc, who was then thirty-five, had been married for twenty years. She also was a great beauty; but we did not make her acquaintance until the next year.

The soiree at the house of the Zeretellis left an ineffaceable impression on our minds, because it was the first time that we got a glimpse of the social life of the country. Here we saw ladies in their national costume and witnessed for the first time the performance of the national dance — the Lesginka. We also participated for the first time at a banquet where the fiery Kachetian wine was poured from slender silver flagons into great drinking-horns, and where a toastmaster, chosen to this honorable office, proposed the healths — on this occasion, as first of all, the health of the guests from Austria. The host and hostess did not sit down at table but helped serve. Among those present we found many who spoke French, and where that was not the case Count Rosmorduc, who had learned the language of the country, served as dragoman.

In the salon stood a piano. My husband sat down at it and played some of the waltzes which he had himself composed, and the Caucasian society was full of admiration and danced to this music with perfect grace. But they were most pleasing in the Lesginka. This dance is usually executed by only one couple, while the rest sit in a circle and clap their hands in time to the music. The accompaniment is provided by a small native instrument which endlessly repeats a certain melody three bars long, and by tambourines adorned with little bells, on which skillful hands thump with an increasingly lively rhythm. The dance itself is a pantomime of the immemorial play of love: pursuit, flight, enticement. The men perform artistic pas; the women fairly float along the floor, the long, heavy silken garment concealing the feet so that they look as if they were rolling on invisible casters; the veil which is attached to their headdress flows behind them, and from the arms, stretched out in circling gestures, float the long double sleeves. 

As a conclusion to the festivity I treated the company to an Italian bravura aria and then to Auber's Laughing-Song — Carlotta Patti's show piece; the laughter in the song infected everybody, and the whole ended with a chorus of laughter.