At the time with which our story is concerned, there was in Moscow a
certain widow, a Georgian princess, a person of somewhat dubious, almost
suspicious character. She was close upon forty; in her youth she had
probably bloomed with that peculiar Oriental beauty, which fades so
quickly; now she powdered, rouged, and dyed her hair yellow. Various
reports, not altogether favourable, nor altogether definite, were in
circulation about her; her husband no one had known, and she had never
stayed long in any one town. She had no children, and no property, yet
she kept open house, in debt or otherwise; she had a salon, as it is
called, and received a rather mixed society, for the most part young men.
Everything in her house from her own dress, furniture, and table, down
to her carriage and her servants, bore the stamp of something shoddy,
artificial, temporary,... but the princess herself, as well as her guests,
apparently desired nothing better. The princess was reputed a devotee
of music and literature, a patroness of artists and men of talent, and
she really was interested in all these subjects, even to the point of
enthusiasm, and an enthusiasm not altogether affected. There was an
unmistakable fibre of artistic feeling in her. Moreover she was very
approachable, genial, free from presumption or pretentiousness, and,
though many people did not suspect it, she was fundamentally good-natured,
soft-hearted, and kindly disposed.... Qualities rare--and the more precious
for their rarity--precisely in persons of her sort! ‘A fool of a woman!’ a
wit said of her: ‘but she’ll get into heaven, not a doubt of it! Because
she forgives everything, and everything will be forgiven her.’ It was said
of her too that when she disappeared from a town, she always left as many
creditors behind as persons she had befriended. A soft heart readily turned
in any direction.
Kupfer, as might have been anticipated, found his way into her house, and
was soon on an intimate--evil tongues said a too intimate--footing with
her. He himself always spoke of her not only affectionately but with
respect; he called her a heart of gold--say what you like! and firmly
believed both in her love for art and her comprehension of art! One day
after dinner at the Aratovs’, in discussing the princess and her evenings,
he began to persuade Yakov to break for once from his anchorite seclusion,
and to allow him, Kupfer, to present him to his friend. Yakov at first
would not even hear of it. ‘But what do you imagine?’ Kupfer cried at last:
‘what sort of presentation are we talking about? Simply, I take you, just
as you are sitting now, in your everyday coat, and go with you to her for
an evening. No sort of etiquette is necessary there, my dear boy! You’re
learned, you know, and fond of literature and music’--(there actually was
in Aratov’s study a piano on which he sometimes struck minor chords)--‘and
in her house there’s enough and to spare of all those goods!... and you’ll
meet there sympathetic people, no nonsense about them! And after all, you
really can’t at your age, with your looks (Aratov dropped his eyes and
waved his hand deprecatingly), yes, yes, with your looks, you really can’t
keep aloof from society, from the world, like this! Why, I’m not going to
take you to see generals! Indeed, I know no generals myself!... Don’t be
obstinate, dear boy! Morality is an excellent thing, most laudable.... But
why fall a prey to asceticism? You’re not going in for becoming a monk!’
Aratov was, however, still refractory; but Kupfer found an unexpected ally
in Platonida Ivanovna. Though she had no clear idea what was meant by the
word asceticism, she too was of opinion that it would be no harm for dear
Yasha to take a little recreation, to see people, and to show himself.
‘Especially,’ she added, ‘as I’ve perfect confidence in Fyodor Fedoritch!
He’ll take you to no bad place!...’ ‘I’ll bring him back in all his maiden
innocence,’ shouted Kupfer, at which Platonida Ivanovna, in spite of her
confidence, cast uneasy glances upon him. Aratov blushed up to his ears,
but ceased to make objections.
It ended by Kupfer taking him next day to spend an evening at the
princess’s. But Aratov did not remain there long. To begin with, he found
there some twenty visitors, men and women, sympathetic people possibly,
but still strangers, and this oppressed him, even though he had to do very
little talking; and that, he feared above all things. Secondly, he did not
like their hostess, though she received him very graciously and simply.
Everything about her was distasteful to him: her painted face, and her
frizzed curls, and her thickly-sugary voice, her shrill giggle, her way
of rolling her eyes and looking up, her excessively low-necked dress, and
those fat, glossy fingers with their multitude of rings!... Hiding himself
away in a corner, he took from time to time a rapid survey of the faces
of all the guests, without even distinguishing them, and then stared
obstinately at his own feet. When at last a stray musician with a worn
face, long hair, and an eyeglass stuck into his contorted eyebrow sat down
to the grand piano and flinging his hands with a sweep on the keys and his
foot on the pedal, began to attack a fantasia of Liszt on a Wagner motive,
Aratov could not stand it, and stole off, bearing away in his heart a
vague, painful impression; across which, however, flitted something
incomprehensible to him, but grave and even disquieting.