“Eugenia Nikolaevna will be there to-night,” one of my companions, a
student, remarked to me, without the slightest _arrière pensée._ He
could not know how that I had waited for her in the frost from seven to
half-past eight.
“Indeed,” I replied, as in deep thought, but within my soul there leapt
out: “Oh, the Dev——!” “There” meant at the Polozovs’ evening party. Now
the Polozovs were people with whom I was not upon visiting terms. But
this evening I would be there.
“You fellows!” I shouted cheerfully, “to-day is Christmas Day, when
everybody enjoys himself. Let us do so too.”
“But how?” one of them mournfully replied.
“And where?” continued another.
“We will dress up, and go round to all the evening parties,” I decided.
And these insensate individuals actually became cheerful. They shouted,
leapt, and sang. They thanked me for my suggestion, and counted up the
amount of “the ready” available. In the course of half an hour we had
collected all the lonely, disconsolate students in town; and when we
had recruited a cheerful dozen or so of leaping devils, we repaired to
a hair-dresser’s—he was also a costumier—and let in there the cold, and
youth, and laughter.
I wanted something sombre and handsome, with a shade of elegant
sadness; so I requested:
“Give me the dress of a Spanish grandee.”
Apparently this grandee had been very tall, for I was altogether
swallowed up in his dress, and felt there as absolutely alone as though
I had been in a wide, empty hall. Getting out of this costume, I asked
for something else.
“Would you like to be a clown? Motley with bells.”
“A clown, indeed!” I exclaimed with contempt.
“Well, then, a bandit. Such a hat and dagger!”
Oh! dagger! Yes, that would suit my purpose. But unfortunately the
bandit whose clothes they gave me had scarcely grown to full stature.
Most probably he had been a corrupt youth of eight years. His little
hat would not cover the back of my head, and I had to be dragged out of
his velvet breeks as out of a trap. A page’s dress was no go: it was
all spotted like the pard. The monk”s cowl was all in holes.
“Look sharp; it’s late,” said my companions, who were already dressed,
trying to hurry me up.
There was but one costume left—that of a distinguished Chinaman. “Give
me the Chinaman’s,” said I with a wave of my hand. And they gave it me.
It was the devil knows what! I am not speaking of the costume itself. I
pass over in silence those idiotic flowered boots, which were too short
for me, and reached only half-way to my knees; but in the remaining, by
far the most essential part, stuck out like two incomprehensible
adjuncts on either side of my feet. I say nothing of the pink rag which
covered my head like a wig, and was tied by threads to my ears, so that
they protruded and stood up like a bat’s. But the mask!
It was, if one may use the expression, a face _in the abstract._ It had
nose, eyes, and mouth all right enough, and all in the proper places;
but there was nothing human about it. A human being could not look so
placid—even in his coffin. It was expressive neither of sorrow, nor
cheerfulness, nor surprise—it expressed absolutely nothing! It looked
at you squarely, and placidly—and an uncontrollable laughter
overwhelmed you. My companions rolled about on the sofas, sank
impotently down on the chairs, and gesticulated.
“It will be the most original mask of the evening,” they declared.
I was ready to weep; but no sooner did I glance in the mirror than I
too was convulsed with laughter. Yes, it will be a most original mask!
“In no circumstances are we to take off our masks,” said my companions
on the way. “We will give our word.”
“Honour bright!”