Portrait of a Friend

Katherl Gilowska is not handsome but we all have a pockmark or two. Her eyebrows fly across her face like small, black crows’ wings and the mouth curves upwards with goodness and humour. Sometimes, one eye has a habit of wandering while the other watches you very carefully. They are beautiful, round eyes, like burnt walnuts. To me, she smells of fresh linen.

We are both twenty-six years old and not yet wed. We thrive on gossip, although sometimes she may misunderstand what is not obvious. That is not to say she has no mind. It is because it is an open and an honest one that subtlety is not a part of it. She and I sometimes play cards with both our families but when I am not busy practising my scales or writing in this diary, we often pass the time with archery and fancy dress. We attend the theatre and municipal balls together, we read sentimental poems aloud or visit the spa in Gastein to take the waters. I tell her stories when she is ill and she will fix me with her laughter when I am lying mulish in my bed. We quarrel at least twice a year. In short, we are good friends. N.