the
poets should be most deeply grateful) women have been called angels so
many times that, in very truth, in their simplicity of soul, they have
believed the compliment, forgetting that, for money, the same poets have
glorified Nero as a demigod...

It would be unreasonable were I to speak of women with such malignity--I
who have loved nothing else in the world--I who have always been ready
to sacrifice for their sake ease, ambition, life itself... But, you see,
I am not endeavouring, in a fit of vexation and injured vanity, to pluck
from them the magic veil through which only an accustomed glance can
penetrate. No, all that I say about them is but the result of

"A mind which coldly hath observed,

A heart which bears the stamp of woe." [29]

Women ought to wish that all men knew them as well as I because I have
loved them a hundred times better since I have ceased to be afraid of
them and have comprehended their little weaknesses.

By the way: the other day, Werner compared women to the enchanted forest
of which Tasso tells in his "Jerusalem Delivered." [30]

"So soon as you approach," he said, "from all directions terrors, such
as I pray Heaven may preserve us from, will take wing at you: duty,
pride, decorum, public opinion, ridicule, contempt... You must simply go
straight on without looking at them; gradually the monsters disappear,
and, before you, opens a bright and quiet glade, in the midst of which
blooms the green myrtle. On the other hand, woe to you if, at the first
steps, your heart trembles and you turn back!"

CHAPTER XV. 24th June.

THIS evening has been fertile in events. About three versts from
Kislovodsk, in the gorge through which the Podkumok flows, there is
a cliff called the Ring. It is a naturally formed gate, rising upon
a lofty hill, and through it the setting sun throws its last flaming
glance upon the world. A numerous cavalcade set off thither to gaze at
the sunset through the rock-window. To tell the truth, not one of them
was thinking about the sun. I rode beside Princess Mary. On the way
home, we had to ford the Podkumok. Mountain streams, even the
smallest, are dangerous; especially so, because the bottom is a perfect
kaleidoscope: it changes every day owing to the pressure of the current;
where yesterday there was a rock, to-day there is a cavity. I took
Princess Mary's horse by the bridle and led it into the water, which
came no higher than its knees. We b