On reaching home Véretyeff did not undress, and a couple of hours later,
when the flush of dawn was just colouring the sky, he was no longer in
the house.
Half-way between his estate and Ipátoff’s, on the very brink of a broad
ravine, stood a small birch grove. The young trees grew very close
together, and no axe had yet touched their graceful trunks; a shadow
which was not dense, but continuous, spread from the tiny leaves on the
soft, thin grass, all mottled with the golden heads of buttercups,[23]
the white dots of wood-campanula, and the tiny deep-crimson crosses of
wild pinks. The recently-risen sun flooded the whole grove with a
powerful though not brilliant light; dewdrops glittered everywhere,
while here and there large drops kindled and glowed red; everything
exhaled freshness, life, and that innocent triumph of the first moments
of the morning, when everything is still so bright and still so silent.
The only thing audible was the carolling voices of the larks above the
distant fields, and in the grove itself two or three small birds were
executing, in a leisurely manner, their brief songs, and then,
apparently, listening to see how their performance had turned out. From
the damp earth arose a strong, healthy scent; a pure, light breeze
fluttered all about in cool gusts. Morning, glorious morning, breathed
forth from everything--everything looked and smiled of the morning, like
the rosy, freshly-washed face of a baby who has just waked up.
Not far from the ravine, in the middle of a small glade, on an outspread
cloak, sat Véretyeff. Márya Pávlovna was standing beside him, leaning
against a birch-tree, with her hands clasped behind her.
Both were silent. Márya Pávlovna was gazing fixedly into the far
distance; a white scarf had slipped from her head to her shoulders, the
errant breeze was stirring and lifting the ends of her hastily-knotted
hair. Véretyeff sat bent over, tapping the grass with a small branch.
“Well,”--he began at last,--“are you angry with me?”
Márya Pávlovna made no reply.
Véretyeff darted a glance at her.
“Másha, are you angry?”--he repeated.
Márya Pávlovna scanned him with a swift glance from head to foot turned
slightly away, and said:
“Yes.”
“What for?”--asked Véretyeff, and flung away his branch.
Again Márya Pávlovna made no reply.
“But, as a matter of fact, you have a right to be angry with me,”--began
Véretyeff, after a brief pause.--“You must regard me as a man who is not
only frivolous, but even....”
“You do not understand me,”--interrupted Márya Pávlovna.--“I am not in
the least angry with you on my own account.”
“On whose account, then?”
“On your own.”
Véretyeff raised his head and laughed.
“Ah! I understand!”--he said.--“Again! again the thought is beginning to
agitate you: ‘Why don’t I make something of myself?’ Do you know what,
Másha, you are a wonderful being; by Heaven, you are! You worry so much
about other people and so little about yourself. There is not a bit of
egoism in you; really, really there isn’t. There’s no other girl in the
world like you. It’s a pity about one thing: I decidedly am not worthy
of your affection; I say that without jesting.”
“So much the worse for you. You feel and do nothing.”--Again Véretyeff
laughed.
“Másha, take your hand from behind your back, and give it to me,”--he
said, with insinuating affection in his voice.
Márya Pávlovna merely shrugged her shoulders.
“Give me your beautiful, honest hand; I want to kiss it respectfully and
tenderly. Thus does a giddy-pated scholar kiss the hand of his
condescending tutor.”
And Véretyeff reached out toward Márya Pávlovna.
“Enough of that!”--said she. “You are always laughing and jesting, and
you will jest away your life like that.”
“H’m! jest away my life! A new expression! But I hope, Márya Pávlovna,
that you used the verb ‘to jest’ in the active sense?”
Márya Pávlovna contracted her brows.
“Enough of that, Véretyeff,”--she repeated.
“To jest away life,”--went on Véretyeff, half rising;--“but you are
imagining me as worse than I am; you are wasting your life in
seriousness. Do you know, Másha, you remind me of a scene from Púshkin’s
‘Don Juan.’ You have not read Púshkin’s ‘Don Juan’?”
“No.”
“Yes, I had forgotten, you see, that you do not read verses.--In that
poem guests come to a certain Laura; she drives them all away and
remains alone with Carlos. The two go out on the balcony; the night is
wonderful. Laura admires, and Carlos suddenly begins to demonstrate to
her that she will grow old in course of time.--‘Well,’ replies Laura,
‘it may be cold and rainy in Paris now, but here, with us, “the night is
redolent of orange and of laurel.” Why make guesses at the future?’ Look
around you, Másha; is it not beautiful here? See how everything is
enjoying life, how young everything is. And aren’t we young ourselves?”
Véretyeff approached Márya Pávlovna; she did not move away from him, but
she did not turn her head toward him.
“Smile, Másha,”--he went on;--“only with your kind smile, not with your
usual grin. I love your kind smile. Raise your proud, stern eyes.--What
ails you? You turn away. Stretch out your hand to me, at least.”
“Akh, Véretyeff,”--began Másha;--“you know that I do not understand how
to express myself. You have told me about that Laura. But she was a
woman, you see.... A woman may be pardoned for not thinking of the
future.”
“When you speak, Másha,”--returned Véretyeff,--“you blush incessantly
with self-love and modesty: the blood fairly flows in a crimson flood
into your cheeks. I’m awfully fond of that in you.”
Márya Pávlovna looked Véretyeff straight in the eye.
“Farewell,”--she said, and threw her scarf over her head.
Véretyeff held her back. “Enough, enough. Stay!”--he cried.--“Come, why
are you going? Issue your commands! Do you want me to enter the service,
to become an agriculturist? Do you want me to publish romances with
accompaniment for the guitar; to print a collection of poems, or of
drawings; to busy myself with painting, sculpture, dancing on the rope?
I’ll do anything, anything, anything you command, if only you will be
satisfied with me! Come, really now, Másha, believe me.”
Again Márya Pávlovna looked at him.
“You will do all that in words only, not in deeds. You declare that you
will obey me....”
“Of course I do.”
“You obey, but how many times have I begged you....”
“What about?”
Márya Pávlovna hesitated.
“Not to drink liquor,”--she said at last.
Véretyeff laughed.
“Ekh, Másha! And you are at it, too! My sister is worrying herself to
death over that also. But, in the first place, I’m not a drunkard at
all; and in the second place, do you know why I drink? Look yonder, at
that swallow.... Do you see how boldly it manages its tiny body,--and
hurls it wherever it wishes? Now it has soared aloft, now it has darted
downward. It has even piped with joy: do you hear? So that’s why I
drink, Másha, in order to feel those same sensations which that swallow
experiences.... Hurl yourself whithersoever you will, soar wheresoever
you take a fancy....”
“But to what end?”--interrupted Másha.
“What do you mean by that? What is one to live on then?”
“But isn’t it possible to get along without liquor?”
“No, it is not; we are all damaged, rumpled. There’s passion ... it
produces the same effect. That’s why I love you.”
“Like wine.... I’m much obliged to you.”
“No, Másha, I do not love you like wine. Stay, I’ll prove it to you
sometime,--when we are married, say, and go abroad together. Do you
know, I am planning in advance how I shall lead you in front of the
Venus of Milo. At this point it will be appropriate to say:
“And when she stands with serious eyes
Before the Chyprian of Milos--
Twain are they, and the marble in comparison
Suffers, it would seem, affront....
“What makes me talk constantly in poetry to-day? It must be that this
morning is affecting me. What air! ’Tis exactly as though one were
quaffing wine.”
“Wine again,”--remarked Márya Pávlovna.
“What of that! A morning like this, and you with me, and not feel
intoxicated! ‘With serious eyes....’ Yes,”--pursued Véretyeff, gazing
intently at Márya Pávlovna,--“that is so.... For I remember, I have
beheld, rarely, but yet I have beheld these dark, magnificent eyes, I
have beheld them tender! And how beautiful they are then! Come, don’t
turn away, Másha; pray, smile at least ... show me your eyes merry, at
all events, if they will not vouchsafe me a tender glance.”
“Stop, Véretyeff,”--said Márya Pávlovna.--“Release me! It is time for me
to go home.”
“But I’m going to make you laugh,”--interposed Véretyeff; “by Heaven, I
will make you laugh. Eh, by the way, yonder runs a hare....”
“Where?”--asked Márya Pávlovna.
“Yonder, beyond the ravine, across the field of oats. Some one must have
startled it; they don’t run in the morning. I’ll stop it on the instant,
if you like.”
And Véretyeff whistled loudly. The hare immediately squatted, twitched
its ears, drew up its fore paws, straightened itself up, munched,
sniffed the air, and again began to munch with its lips. Véretyeff
promptly squatted down on his heels, like the hare, and began to twitch
his nose, sniff, and munch like it. The hare passed its paws twice
across its muzzle and shook itself,--they must have been wet with
dew,--stiffened its ears, and bounded onward. Véretyeff rubbed his hands
over his cheeks and shook himself also.... Márya Pávlovna could not
hold out, and burst into a laugh.
“Bravo!”--cried Véretyeff, springing up. “Bravo! That’s exactly the
point--you are not a coquette. Do you know, if any fashionable young
lady had such teeth as you have she would laugh incessantly. But that’s
precisely why I love you, Másha, because you are not a fashionable young
lady, don’t laugh without cause, and don’t wear gloves on your hands,
which it is a joy to kiss, because they are sunburned, and one feels
their strength.... I love you, because you don’t argue, because you are
proud, taciturn, don’t read books, don’t love poetry....”
“I’ll recite some verses to you, shall I?”--Márya Pávlovna interrupted
him, with a certain peculiar expression on her face.
“Verses?”--inquired Véretyeff, in amazement.
“Yes, verses; the very ones which that Petersburg gentleman recited last
night.”
“‘The Upas-Tree’ again?... So you really were declaiming in the garden,
by night? That’s just like you.... But does it really please you so
much?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Recite it.”
Márya Pávlovna was seized with shyness....
“Recite it, recite it,”--repeated Véretyeff.
Márya Pávlovna began to recite; Véretyeff stood in front of her, with
his arms folded on his breast, and bent himself to listen. At the first
line Márya Pávlovna raised her eyes heavenward; she did not wish to
encounter Véretyeff’s gaze. She recited in her even, soft voice, which
reminded one of the sound of a violoncello; but when she reached the
lines:
“And the poor slave expired at the feet
Of his invincible sovereign....”
her voice began to quiver, her impassive, haughty brows rose
ingenuously, like those of a little girl, and her eyes, with involuntary
devotion, fixed themselves on Véretyeff....
He suddenly threw himself at her feet and embraced her knees.
“I am thy slave!”--he cried.--“I am at thy feet, thou art my sovereign,
my goddess, my ox-eyed Hera, my Medea....”
Márya Pávlovna attempted to repulse him, but her hands sank helplessly
in his thick curls, and, with a smile of confusion, she dropped her head
on her breast....
V
Gavríla Stepánitch Akílin, at whose house the ball was appointed,
belonged to the category of landed proprietors who evoked the
admiration of the neighbours by their ingenuity in living well on very
insignificant means. Although he did not own more than four hundred
serfs, he was in the habit of entertaining the whole government in a
huge stone mansion, with a tower and a flag on the tower, erected by
himself. The property had descended to him from his father, and had
never been distinguished for being well ordered; Gavríla Stepánitch had
been an absentee for a long time--had been in the service in Petersburg.
At last, twenty-five years before the date of our story, he returned to
his native place, with the rank of Collegiate Assessor,[24] and, with a
wife and three daughters, had simultaneously undertaken reorganisation
and building operations, had gradually set up an orchestra, and had
begun to give dinners. At first everybody had prophesied for him speedy
and inevitable ruin; more than once rumours had become current to the
effect that Gavríla Stepánitch’s estate was to be sold under the hammer;
but the years passed, dinners, balls, banquets, concerts, followed each
other in their customary order, new buildings sprang out of the earth
like mushrooms, and still Gavríla Stepánitch’s estate was not sold under
the hammer, and he himself continued to live as before, and had even
grown stout of late.
Then the neighbours’ gossip took another direction; they began to hint
at certain vast sums which were said to be concealed; they talked of a
treasure.... “And if he were only a good farmer, ...” so argued the
nobles among themselves; “but that’s just what he isn’t, you know! Not
at all! So it is deserving of surprise, and incomprehensible.” However
that may have been, every one went very gladly to Gavríla Stepánitch’s
house. He received his guests cordially, and played cards for any stake
they liked. He was a grey-haired little man, with a small, pointed head,
a yellow face, and yellow eyes, always carefully shaven and perfumed
with eau-de-cologne; both on ordinary days and on holidays he wore a
roomy blue dress-coat, buttoned to the chin, a large stock, in which he
had a habit of hiding his chin, and he was foppishly fastidious about
his linen; he screwed up his eyes and thrust out his lips when he took
snuff, and spoke very politely and softly, incessantly employing the
letter _s_.[25]
In appearance, Gavríla Stepánitch was not distinguished by vivacity,
and, in general, his exterior was not prepossessing, and he did not look
like a clever man, although, at times, craft gleamed in his eye. He had
settled his two elder daughters advantageously; the youngest was still
at home, and of marriageable age. Gavríla Stepánitch also had a wife, an
insignificant and wordless being.
At seven o’clock in the evening, Vladímir Sergyéitch presented himself
at the Ipátoffs’ in dress-suit and white gloves. He found them all
entirely dressed; the little girls were sitting sedately, afraid of
mussing their starched white frocks; old Ipátoff, on catching sight of
Vladímir Sergyéitch in his dress-suit, affectionately upbraided him, and
pointed to his own frock-coat; Márya Pávlovna wore a muslin gown of a
deep rose colour, which was extremely becoming to her. Vladímir
Sergyéitch paid her several compliments. Márya Pávlovna’s beauty
attracted him, although she was evidently shy of him; he also liked
Nadézhda Alexyéevna, but her free-and-easy manners somewhat disconcerted
him. Moreover, in her remarks, her looks, her very smiles, mockery
frequently peeped forth, and this disturbed his citified and well-bred
soul. He would not have been averse to making fun of others with her,
but it was unpleasant to him to think that she was probably capable of
jeering at himself.
The ball had already begun; a good many guests had assembled, and the
home-bred orchestra was crashing and booming and screeching in the
gallery, when the Ipátoff family, accompanied by Vladímir Sergyéitch,
entered the hall of the Akílin house. The host met them at the very
door, thanked Vladímir Sergyéitch for his tender procuration of an
agreeable surprise,--that was the way he expressed himself,--and, taking
Ipátoff’s arm, he led him to the drawing-room, to the card-tables.
Gavríla Stepánitch had received a bad education, and everything in his
house, both the music and the furniture and the food and the wines, not
only could not be called first-class, but were not even fit to be ranked
as second-class. On the other hand, there was plenty of everything, and
he himself did not put on airs, was not arrogant ... the nobles demanded
nothing more from him, and were entirely satisfied with his
entertainment. At supper, for instance, the caviare was served cut up in
chunks and heavily salted; but no one objected to your taking it in your
fingers, and there was plenty wherewith to wash it down: wines which
were cheap, it is true, but were made from grapes, nevertheless, and not
some other concoction. The springs in Gavríla Stepánitch’s furniture
were rather uncomfortable, owing to their stiffness and inflexibility;
but, not to mention the fact that there were no springs whatever in many
of the couches and easy-chairs, any one could place under him a worsted
cushion, and there was a great number of such cushions lying about,
embroidered by the hands of Gavríla Stepánitch’s spouse herself--and
then there was nothing left to desire.
In a word, Gavríla Stepánitch’s house could not possibly have been
better adapted to the sociable and unceremonious style of ideas of the
inhabitants of *** county, and it was solely owing to Mr. Akílin’s
modesty that at the assemblies of the nobility he was not elected
Marshal, but a retired Major Podpékin, a greatly respected and worthy
man, despite the fact that he brushed his hair over to the right temple
from the left ear, dyed his moustache a lilac hue, and as he suffered
from asthma, had of late fallen into melancholy.
So, then, the ball had already begun. They were dancing a quadrille of
ten pairs. The cavaliers were the officers of a regiment stationed close
by, and divers not very youthful squires, and two or three officials
from the town. Everything was as it should be, everything was proceeding
in due order. The Marshal of the Nobility was playing cards with a
retired Actual Councillor of State,[26] and a wealthy gentleman, the
owner of three thousand souls. The actual state councillor wore on his
forefinger a ring with a diamond, talked very softly, kept the heels of
his boots closely united, and did not move them from the position used
by dancers of former days, and did not turn his head, which was half
concealed by a capital velvet collar. The wealthy gentleman, on the
contrary, was constantly laughing at something or other, elevating his
eyebrows, and flashing the whites of his eyes. The poet Bodryakóff, a
man of shy and clumsy aspect, was chatting in a corner with the learned
historian Evsiukóff: each had clutched the other by the button. Beside
them, one noble, with a remarkably long waist, was expounding certain
audacious opinions to another noble who was timidly staring at his
forehead. Along the wall sat the mammas in gay-hued caps; around the
doors pressed the men of simple cut, young fellows with perturbed faces,
and elderly fellows with peaceable ones; but one cannot describe
everything. We repeat: everything was as it should be.
Nadézhda Alexyéevna had arrived even earlier than the Ipátoffs; Vladímir
Sergyéitch saw her dancing with a young man of handsome appearance in a
dandified dress-suit, with expressive eyes, thin black moustache, and
gleaming teeth; a gold chain hung in a semicircle on his stomach.
Nadézhda Alexyéevna wore a light-blue gown with white flowers; a small
garland of the same flowers encircled her curly head; she was smiling,
fluttering her fan, and gaily gazing about her; she felt that she was
the queen of the ball. Vladímir Sergyéitch approached her, made his
obeisance, and looking her pleasantly in the face, he asked her whether
she remembered her promise of the day before.
“What promise?”
“Why, that you would dance the mazurka with me.”
“Yes, of course I will dance it with you.”
The young man who stood alongside Nadézhda Alexyéevna suddenly flushed
crimson.
“You have probably forgotten, mademoiselle,”--he began,--“that you had
already previously promised to-day’s mazurka to me.”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna became confused.
“Akh! good heavens, what am I to do?”--she said:--“excuse me, pray,
M’sieu Steltchínsky, I am so absent-minded; I really am ashamed....”
M’sieu Steltchínsky made no reply, and merely dropped his eyes; Vladímir
Sergyéitch assumed a slight air of dignity.
“Be so good, M’sieu Steltchínsky,”--went on Nadézhda Alexyéevna; “you
and I are old acquaintances, but M’sieu Astákhoff is a stranger among
us; do not place me in an awkward position: permit me to dance with
him.”
“As you please,”--returned the young man.--“But you must begin.”
“Thanks,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, and fluttered off to meet her
vis-à-vis.
Steltchínsky followed her with his eyes, then looked at Vladímir
Sergyéitch. Vladímir Sergyéitch, in his turn, looked at him, then
stepped aside.
The quadrille soon came to an end. Vladímir Sergyéitch strolled about
the hall a little, then he betook himself to the drawing-room and
paused at one of the card-tables. Suddenly he felt some one touch his
hand from behind; he turned round--before him stood Steltchínsky.
“I must have a couple of words with you in the next room, if you will
permit,”--said the latter, in French, very courteously, and with an
accent which was not Russian.
Vladímir Sergyéitch followed him.
Steltchínsky halted at a window.
“In the presence of ladies,”--he began, in the same language as
before,--“I could not say anything else than what I did say; but I hope
you do not think that I really intend to surrender to you my right to
the mazurka with M-lle Véretyeff.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch was astounded.
“Why so?”--he asked.
“Because, sir,”--replied Steltchínsky, quietly, laying his hand on his
breast and inflating his nostrils,--“I don’t intend to,--that’s all.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch also laid his hand on his breast, but did not
inflate his nostrils.
“Permit me to remark to you, my dear sir,”--he began,--“that by this
course you may drag M-lle Véretyeff into unpleasantness, and I
assume....”
“That would be extremely unpleasant to me, but no one can prevent your
declining, declaring that you are ill, or going away....”
“I shall not do it. For whom do you take me?”
“In that case, I shall be compelled to demand satisfaction from you.”
“In what sense do you mean ... satisfaction?”
“The sense is evident.”
“You will challenge me to a duel?”
“Precisely so, sir, if you do not renounce the mazurka.”
Steltchínsky endeavoured to utter these words as negligently as
possible. Vladímir Sergyéitch’s heart set to beating violently. He
looked his wholly unexpected antagonist in the face. “Phew, O Lord, what
stupidity!” he thought.
“You are not jesting?”--he articulated aloud.
“I am not in the habit of jesting in general,”--replied Steltchínsky,
pompously;--“and particularly with people whom I do not know. You will
not renounce the mazurka?”--he added, after a brief pause.
“I will not,”--retorted Vladímir Sergyéitch, as though deliberating.
“Very good! We will fight to-morrow.”
“Very well.”
“To-morrow morning my second will call upon you.”
And with a courteous inclination, Steltchínsky withdrew, evidently well
pleased with himself.
Vladímir Sergyéitch remained a few minutes longer by the window.
“Just look at that, now!”--he thought.--“This is the result of thy new
acquaintances! What possessed me to come? Good! Splendid!”
But at last he recovered himself, and went out into the hall.
In the hall they were already dancing the polka. Before Vladímir
Sergyéitch’s eyes Márya Pávlovna flitted past with Piótr Alexyéitch,
whom he had not noticed up to that moment; she seemed pale, and even
sad; then Nadézhda Alexyéevna darted past, all beaming and joyous, with
some youthful, bow-legged, but fiery artillery officer; on the second
round, she was dancing with Steltchínsky. Steltchínsky shook his hair
violently when he danced.
“Well, my dear fellow,”--suddenly rang out Ipátoff’s voice behind
Vladímir Sergyéitch’s back;--“you’re only looking on, but not dancing
yourself? Come, confess that, in spite of the fact that we live in a
dead-calm region, so to speak, we aren’t badly off, are we, hey?”
“Good! damn the dead-calm region!” thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, and
mumbling something in reply to Ipátoff, he went off to another corner of
the hall.
“I must hunt up a second,”--he pursued his meditations;--“but where the
devil am I to find one? I can’t take Véretyeff; I know no others; the
devil only knows what a stupid affair this is!”
Vladímir Sergyéitch, when he got angry, was fond of mentioning the
devil.
At this moment, Vladímir Sergyéitch’s eyes fell upon The Folding Soul,
Iván Ílitch, standing idly by the window.
“Wouldn’t he do?”--he thought, and shrugging his shoulders, he added
almost aloud:--“I shall have to take him.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch stepped up to him.
“A very strange thing has just happened to me,”--began our hero with a
forced smile:--“just imagine some young man or other, a stranger to me,
has challenged me to a duel; it is utterly impossible for me to refuse;
I am in indispensable need of a second: will not you act?”
Although Iván Ílitch was characterised, as we know, by imperturbable
indifference, yet such an unexpected proposition startled even him.
Thoroughly perplexed, he riveted his eyes on Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Yes,”--repeated Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“I should be greatly indebted to
you. I am not acquainted with any one here. You alone....”
“I can’t,”--said Iván Ílitch, as though just waking up;--“I absolutely
can’t.”
“Why not? You are afraid of unpleasantness; but all this will, I hope,
remain a secret....”
As he spoke these words, Vladímir Sergyéitch felt himself blushing and
growing confused.
“Excuse me, I can’t possibly,”--repeated Iván Ílitch, shaking his head
and drawing back, in which operation he again overturned a chair.
For the first time in his life it was his lot to reply to a request by a
refusal; but then, the request was such a queer one!
“At any rate,”--pursued Vladímir Sergyéitch, in an agitated voice, as he
grasped his hand,--“do me the favour not to speak to any one concerning
what I have said to you. I earnestly entreat this of you.”
“I can do that, I can do that,”--hastily replied Iván Ílitch;--“but the
other thing I cannot do, say what you will; I positively am unable to do
it.”
“Well, very good, very good,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“but do not
forget that I rely on your discretion.... I shall announce to-morrow to
that gentleman,” he muttered to himself with vexation,--“that I could
not find a second, so let him make what arrangements he sees fit, for I
am a stranger here. And the devil prompted me to apply to that
gentleman! But what else was there for me to do?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch was very, very unlike his usual self.
In the meantime, the ball went on. Vladímir Sergyéitch would have
greatly liked to depart at once, but departure was not to be thought of
until the end of the mazurka. How was he to give up to his delighted
antagonist? Unhappily for Vladímir Sergyéitch, the dances were in charge
of a free-and-easy young gentleman with long hair and a sunken chest,
over which, in semblance of a miniature waterfall, meandered a black
satin neckcloth, transfixed with a huge gold pin. This young gentleman
had the reputation, throughout the entire government, of being a man who
had assimilated, in their most delicate details, all the customs and
rules of the highest society, although he had lived in Petersburg only
six months altogether, and had not succeeded in penetrating any loftier
heights than the houses of Collegiate Assessor Sandaráki and his
brother-in-law, State Councillor Kostandaráki. He superintended the
dances at all balls, gave the signal to the musicians by clapping his
hands, and in the midst of the roar of the trumpets and the squeaking of
the violins shouted: “_En avant deux!_” or “_Grande chaîne!_” or “_A
vous, mademoiselle!_” and was incessantly flying, all pale and
perspiring, through the hall, slipping headlong, and bowing and
scraping. He never began the mazurka before midnight. “And that is a
concession,”--he was wont to say;--“in Petersburg I would keep you in
torment until two o’clock.”
This ball seemed very long to Vladímir Sergyéitch. He prowled about
like a shadow from hall to drawing-room, now and again exchanging cold
glances with his antagonist, who never missed a single dance, and
undertook to invite Márya Pávlovna for a quadrille, but she was already
engaged--and a couple of times he bandied words with the anxious host,
who appeared to be harassed by the tedium which was written on the
countenance of the new guest. At last, the music of the longed-for
mazurka thundered out. Vladímir Sergyéitch hunted up his lady, brought
two chairs, and seated himself with her, near the end of the circle,
almost opposite Steltchínsky.
The young man who managed affairs was in the first pair, as might have
been expected. With what a face he began the mazurka, how he dragged his
lady after him, how he beat the floor with his foot, and twitched his
head the while,--all this is almost beyond the power of human pen to
describe.
“But it seems to me, M’sieu Astákhoff, that you are bored,”--began
Nadézhda Alexyéevna, suddenly turning to Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“I? Not in the least. What makes you think so?”
“Why, because I do from the expression of your face.... You have never
smiled a single time since you arrived. I had not expected that of you.
It is not becoming to you positive gentlemen to be misanthropical and
to frown à la Byron. Leave that to the authors.”
“I notice, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, that you frequently call me a positive
man, as though mockingly. It must be that you regard me as the coldest
and most sensible of beings, incapable of anything which.... But do you
know, I will tell you something; a positive man is often very sad at
heart, but he does not consider it necessary to display to others what
is going on there inside of him; he prefers to hold his peace.”
“What do you mean by that?”--inquired Nadézhda Alexyéevna, surveying him
with a glance.
“Nothing, ma’am,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, with feigned
indifference, assuming an air of mystery.
“Really?”
“Really, nothing.... You shall know some day, later on.”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna wanted to pursue her questions, but at that moment a
young girl, the host’s daughter, led up to her Steltchínsky and another
cavalier in blue spectacles.
“Life or death?”--she asked in French.
“Life,”--exclaimed Nadézhda Alexyéevna; “I don’t want death just yet.”