Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 2

I

ON one of the clear, frosty twelve nights of Christmas in January of the year 18—, a cab drawn by a pair of lean and broken-down horses was rolling at a jerky trot down the Kuznetsky Most, in Moscow.

Only the lofty dark-blue sky scattered with stars hurtling through space, the hoarfrosted beard of the cabman as he snatched a breath, the air stinging your face and the crunch of the wheels on the frosty snow – only these things would have reminded you of those cold yet poetic Christmases which from childhood on have become associated in our minds with a confusion of feelings – affection for the cherished traditions of older times and the folk customs of the simple, uneducated people, but also the expectation that something mysterious, something extraordinary is about to happen …

Here there are no great white drifts of powdery snow heaped up against doors, fences and windows, no narrow paths beaten between the drifts, no tall black trees with rime-covered branches, no infinite expanses of dazzling white fields lit by a bright winter moon, none of the magical silence of an inexpressibly lovely night in the countryside. Here in the city the tall, oppressively regular buildings block out the horizon and weary the eye with their monotony; the steady urban rumble of wheels never ceases, and inspires in the soul a kind of nagging, intolerable anguish; a patchy, dung-strewn layer of snow lies on the streets, illuminated here and there by lamplight falling from the wide window of a shop, or by a dim streetlight against which a grimy-looking policeman has placed his stepladder and is trying to adjust the light. The whole scene makes a sharp and dismal contrast with the endless, sparkling covering of snow which we associate with a Christmas night. God’s world, man’s world.

The cab drew up before a brightly lit shop. Out of it jumped a fine, well-proportioned young fellow – of about eighteen, to judge by his appearance – wearing a round hat and an overcoat with a beaver fur collar which partly revealed a white evening tie; ringing the bell, he hurriedly entered the shop.

‘Une paire de gants, je vous prie,’¹ he replied to the interrogative ‘Bonsoir Monsieur?’ with which he was greeted by a skinny Frenchwoman seated at a writing-desk.

‘Vot’ numéro?’²

‘Six et demie,’³ he replied, showing her a small, almost femininely delicate hand.

The young man seemed to be in a great hurry to get somewhere: he paced up and down the shop, then started to put on the gloves so carelessly that he managed to split one pair. With a childish movement of annoyance which was also an indication of the energy within him, he flung the offending glove on the floor and began to stretch another one.

‘Is that you, my boy?’ said a pleasant-sounding, confident voice from the next room. ‘Come in here.’

At the sound of the voice, and especially at the appellation ‘my boy’, the young man realized that this was an acquaintance of his, and went into the adjoining room.

His friend was a tall, unusually thin man of about thirty, with ginger side-whiskers extending from mid-cheek to the corners of his mouth and the sharp upturned points of his collar. He had a long, fleshless nose, tranquil, rather deep-set blue eyes expressive of intelligence and humour, and exceptionally thin, pale lips which, except when opening in an appealing smile to reveal a set of fine white teeth, had about them an air of firmness and resolution.

He was sitting, his long legs stretched out, in front of a large pier-glass in which he seemed to be regarding with pleasure the reflection of the young man’s handsome face, and giving Monsieur Charles every opportunity to display his coiffeuring skills. The latter, expertly twirling a pair of curling-tongs in his pomaded hands, shouted for Ernest, who came and took them from him so that he could, in his own words, give ‘un coup de peigne à la plus estimable de ses pratiques’.⁴

‘Well, is it a ball you are off to, dear boy?’

‘Yes, Prince; and you?’

‘I too have to go out, – as you see,’ he added, indicating his white waistcoat and tie, but still in such a gloomy tone of voice that the young man asked with surprise whether he was in fact unwilling to go, and if so, what he would prefer to spend the evening doing.

‘Sleeping,’ he replied calmly and without the least affectation.

‘That I cannot believe!’

‘Neither would I have believed it, ten years ago: in those days I was ready to gallop three hundred versts by post-chaise and go without sleep for ten nights just to attend one ball; but of course I was young then, and accustomed to falling in love at every ball, and, even more important – I was cheerful then: because I knew that I was good-looking and whichever way they turned me round no one would see a bald patch or a hairpiece or a false tooth …

‘And who is it you are running after, my boy?’ he added, standing in front of the mirror and straightening his shirt collar.

This question, delivered in such a straightforward conversational tone, appeared to take the young man by surprise and to throw him into such confusion that, blushing and stammering, he was scarcely able to get out the words: ‘I’m not … running after … I mean I’ve never … run after … anyone.’

‘Forgive me. I had forgotten that at your time of life you don’t pursue women, you fall in love with them, so do at least tell me, – who are you in love with?’

‘You know, Prince,’ said the young man with a smile, ‘that I really have no idea what it means to pursue someone, to faire la cour …’⁵

‘Then I will proceed to explain to you. You know what it means to be in love?’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Well, to pursue a woman means doing the exact opposite of what you would do if you were in love with her – expressing your feelings little by little, trying to make her fall in love with you. You really have to do the opposite of what you do in a relationship with some sweet little débardeur⁶ with whom you are in love.’

The young man blushed once more.

‘I was talking to your cousin about you only this morning, and she revealed your secret to me. Why haven’t you got yourself presented to her yet?’

‘I have not had an opportunity.’

‘How can there possibly have been no opportunity? No, it would be truer to say that you haven’t been able to make up your mind to do it; I realize that true love, especially if it is first love, is always bashful. That is no good at all.’

‘My cousin promised me not long ago that she would introduce me to her,’ said the young man, with a shy, childlike smile.

‘No, no, you must allow me to introduce you, my dear boy. Believe me, I would do it far better than your cousin would – you see, I shall do it with my own special lightness of touch,’ he added as he put on his overcoat and his hat. ‘Let us go together.’

‘To be sucessful with women,’ he went on in a didactic manner as he headed towards the door, ignoring both Monsieur Charles’ bow and the smile of the demoiselle de comptoir⁷ who was listening to what he was saying. ‘To be successful with women you need to be enterprising, and to be enterprising you need to be successful with women, particularly in the case of a first love; and to be successful in first love you need to be enterprising. You see, it is a cercle vicieux.’⁸

II

The young man’s name was Seriozha Ivin. He was a first-rate fellow with a soul as yet unshadowed by the consciousness of mistakes made in life, and thus full of radiant fantasies and noble motives. Having completed his course at the —– College when still a child in mind and body, he had come to Moscow to be with his mother, a deeply gentle woman born in the last century who loved him as any mother does her only son in whom she takes great pride.

Once in Moscow he almost unwittingly and imperceptibly came to feel at ease in the genial, one might even say familial atmosphere of Muscovite society, in which people of an acknowledged pedigree, whatever their outward qualities, are accepted in all respects as kith and kin; and this with particular confidence and enthusiasm when, like Ivin, they do not carry with them any sort of unknown past. It is hard to say whether this was a piece of good fortune for him or not. From one point of view Moscow society gave him many genuine pleasures, and to be able to enjoy oneself at this period of one’s early manhood when every gratifying experience makes its impression on the youthful spirit and sets the fresh strings of happiness vibrating – this is already a great blessing. From the contrary point of view, however, Moscow society developed in him that dreadful moral infection which establishes itself in every department of the soul and which is known by the name of vanity. Not that purely social vanity which is never content with the circle in which it lives, and is constantly seeking and attaining some new one in which it will feel awkward and ill at ease. Moscow society is notably indulgent and agreeable, in that its judgements of people are kindly and independent: once a man finds himself accepted in it, then he is accepted everywhere and considered by everyone in the same light, and there is nothing further for him to aspire to: live as you wish and as it pleases you. No, Seriozha’s vanity, despite the fact that he was a clever and energetic young fellow, was the vanity of youth. Absurdly enough, he who was among the best dancers in Moscow dreamed of how he might get into the tedious social set of G.O. on the cheap, and how he, innocent and bashful as a young girl, could gain an entrée to the scandalous evening parties given by Madame Z., and strike up an intimacy with the debauched and corrupt bachelor Dolgov. Beautiful dreams of love and friendship, and ridiculous dreams of vanity and the power of youthful attraction filled his imagination and became strangely mingled within him.

At the various balls held that winter, which were the first in his experience, he several times encountered Countess Schöfing, whom Prince Kornakov (who gave nicknames to all and sundry) referred to as the sweet little débardeur. Once, when he found himself dancing opposite her, Seriozha’s eyes had met the ingenuously curious gaze of the Countess and this gaze of hers had so struck him and given him such delight that he could not understand why he was not already head over heels in love with her, and it filled him, heaven knows why, with such trepidation that he began to regard her as some sort of exceptional, higher being with whom he was unworthy to have anything in common, and for this reason he had several times avoided the chance of being presented to her.

Countess Schöfing united in herself all those elements calculated to inspire love, especially in a young boy such as Seriozha. She was unusually attractive, attractive both as a woman and as a child: enchanting shoulders and bosom, a shapely, supple waist endowed with a fluid grace of movement; and an utterly childlike little face which breathed meekness and good-humour. Apart from all this she possessed the allure of a woman whose position is at the very top of the best society; and nothing lends a woman greater charm than to have the reputation of being a charming woman. Countess Schöfing had a further magic shared by very few, the magic of simplicity – not simplicity the opposite of affectation, but rather that endearing naïve simplicity so rarely encountered, which gives a most attractive quality of originality to a society woman. Every question she asked, she asked simply, and replied likewise to all questions which were put to her; she expressed everything which came into her charming, clever little head, and everything came out with extraordinary niceness. She was one of those uncommon women who are loved by all, even by those who ought to have been envious of her.

The strange thing was that such a woman should have given her hand with no regrets to Count Schöfing. But of course she could not know that beyond those sweet compliments paid her by her husband there existed other forms of speech; that beyond the merits of dancing excellently, being a devoted civil servant, and being the favourite of all respectable old ladies – merits which Count Schöfing possessed in the highest degree – there existed other merits; that beyond this decorous sociable and social life which her husband arranged for her, there existed another life in which it was possible to find love and happiness. That aside, one must be fair to Count Schöfing and acknowledge that he was in all respects the best of husbands: even Natalya Apollonovna herself was heard to say in her best nasal French accent, ‘C’est un excellent parti, ma chère.’⁹ What more could she have desired? All the young men she had so far met in society were so similar to her Jean, and indeed were no better than he was; so that falling in love never entered her head – she imagined that she loved her husband – and her life had turned out so well. She loved dancing, and she danced; she loved to charm people, and she charmed them; she loved all her good friends, and everyone loved her in return.

III

Why bother to record all the details of the ball? Who does not remember the strange, striking impression produced on him by the blinding brightness of a thousand lights illuminating things from all sides at once and casting no shadow: the shine of diamonds, eyes, flowers, silk, velvet, bare shoulders, black evening coats, white waistcoats, satin slippers, multicoloured uniforms and liveries; the scent of flowers and women’s perfumes; the noise of hundreds of feet and voices, muffled by the captivating, intoxicating music of waltzes and polkas; and the continual, almost fantastic intermingling of all these elements? Who does not remember how impossible it was to separate one detail from another, how all these impressions blended together, leaving only one predominant feeling – of merriment, in which everything seemed so gay and light and joyful, and the heart beat fast with delight; or its opposite, in which everything seemed dreadfully heavy and oppressive, and full of sadness?

And the feelings aroused in our two friends by this ball were indeed utterly different, one from the other.

Such was Seriozha’s agitation that one could almost see how fast and strongly his heart was beating beneath his white waistcoat; and for some reason he appeared short of breath as he made his way in the wake of Prince Kornakov through the diverse and seething crowd of guests both known and unknown, to approach the mistress of the house. His excitement grew still more intense when he drew near to the spacious ballroom, from which the strains of a waltz could now more clearly be heard. Inside the ballroom itself everything was noisier, brighter, hotter and more crowded than it had been in the first room. He scanned the crowd in search of Countess Schöfing and the light-blue dress in which he had seen her at the previous ball. (This impression was so vivid in his memory that he was incapable of imagining her in any other dress.) There was a blue dress over there – but that hair was not hers: it was horrible red hair, and what ugly shoulders and coarse features: how could he have been so mistaken? There is a woman in blue dancing the waltz: wasn’t that her? But the waltzing couple drew level with him – and what a disappointment! Certainly this woman was by no means unattractive, but to Seriozha she seemed uglier than sin, so hard was it for any beauty to stand comparison with the image of his love which his imagination had built up with all the magical power of memory. Could she really not be here yet? How tedious and empty was this ball! What boring faces all these people had! And whatever had brought them all here? But over there was a small group of people, different from all the others: there were not many in this circle, but how many onlookers there seemed to be, gazing enviously from the outside but unable to get into it. Strange that these spectators, for all the strength of their desire, apparently could not step across the boundary into this magic circle. But Seriozha pushes his way through into the space in the centre. There are more of his acquaintances there, some smiling at him from a distance, some shaking his hand: but who is this in the white gown with a simple green headdress, standing next to Prince Kornakov, her head with its light-brown hair thrown back, looking naïvely into his eyes as she talks to him? It is she! The poetry-filled image of a woman in a blue dress which has haunted him since the last ball changes in an instant into an image which seems to him even more alluring and full of life – the image of this woman in white with her green headdress. But why does he suddenly feel ill at ease? He is not quite sure whether to hold his hat in his left hand or his right, and he looks anxiously round in search of his cousin or some good friend with whom to strike up a conversation and so hide his confusion; but alas, all the faces surrounding him are the faces of strangers and in their expression he seems to read the words ‘Comme le petit Ivine est ridicule.’¹⁰ Thank heavens, there is his cousin beckoning to him, and he goes across to dance with her.

Prince Kornakov, on the other hand, made his way quite calmly through the first room, bowing to the gentlemen and ladies he knew, entered the great ballroom and joined the little circle of the elect, just as if he had been walking into his own room and with the same foreknowledge of what to expect as a civil servant who arrives at his Department and makes for his familiar corner and his own particular chair. He knows each one of them so well, and they him, that he is able to have some striking, interesting or amusing remark ready for each person, and on a subject which will appeal to them. In almost every case he offers a promising opening gambit, some little witticism, a few generalized recollections. Not only does he not feel awkward or ill at ease, like Seriozha, as he walks through the three reception rooms thronged with guests, but he finds it intolerable to see all these familiar individuals whom he has long since appraised at their true value, and who would never revise their opinion of him, no matter what he did; yet he still cannot avoid going up to them and talking to them as if by some strange habit, saying things of no interest to either party, which they have in any case already heard and said on several previous occasions. So this is what he does; nevertheless it is boredom which is the predominant feeling in his soul.

Even his observations of men and women – the sole interest for a man like the Prince who takes no direct part in the ball as a card-player or a dancer – even these cannot afford him anything new or arresting. If he goes up to the groups of chatterers in the reception rooms, they are all composed of the same people and the frame of their conversation is always the same. Here is Madame D., a lady with a reputation for being a Moscow beauty, and indeed her dress, her face, her shoulders are all lovely beyond reproach; but there is something tediously impassive in her look and her continual smile, and her beauty produces in him a reaction of irritation. Deep down he finds D. the most intolerable woman in the world yet he still pursues her, simply because she is the first lady of Moscow society. Next to her, as always, is a group of hangers-on: young M., who is said to be a thoroughly bad character – but on the other hand he is exceptionally witty and agreeable; also with her is the Petersburg dandy F., dedicated to looking down disdainfully on Moscow society, with the result that no one can stand him … And here is the delightful Moscow aristocrat Annette Z., who, goodness knows why, has been failing to marry for such a long time; and consequently, somewhere here too is her last hope, a baron with a monocle and appallingly bad French who has been intending for a whole year past to marry her, but naturally will not get round to doing so. Here is the small, swarthy adjutant with a large nose who is convinced that the essence of civility in this modern age is to spout obscenities, and who is now splitting his sides as he relates something to the elderly but emancipated maiden lady G. Here is the stout old lady R., whose behaviour has been unseemly for so long that it has ceased to be original and has become simply disgusting; yet around her there still revolve an officer of hussars and a young student who imagine, poor things, that this will elevate them in the eyes of society. And if Prince Kornakov goes over to the card tables he will find the same tables in the same place they have occupied these five years or more, with the same people sitting at them. Even their particular ways of shuffling the cards, dealing, taking tricks and exchanging little jokes about gambling have all long since become familiar to him. Here is the old general who invariably loses heavily, however angry he gets and however much he shouts for the whole room to hear, but in particular the dried-up little man who sits opposite him in silence, hunched over the table and granting him an occasional sullen look from under his eyebrows. Here too is a young man who hopes to prove, by the fact of playing cards, that he has been doing this kind of thing for years. And here are the three high-born old ladies who have won two copecks each from their unlucky fellow-player, and the poor man is about to give up all the money he has in his pocket to pay them.

Kornakov approaches the tables with the intention of acquiring some winnings; some of the players fail to notice him, some shake his hand without looking round, a few invite him to join them for a while … Should he go into the rooms where the dancing is in progress? There he can see five or six students whirling round, a couple of newly arrived Guards officers, and the eternal striplings, young in years but already veterans of the Moscow parquet – Negichev, Gubkov, Tamarin; and two or three ageing Moscow lions who have already given up dancing in favour of paying compliments, but who are now either summoning up the courage to ask a lady to dance, or asking her with the sort of expression that seems to say ‘Look, what a gay dog I am.’

Also in the circle of gentlemen one can see as ever those unknown and unmoving figures in dress coats who simply stand and look; heaven alone knows what has made them come – only occasionally is there a movement among them as some bold spirit emerges, walks modestly or perhaps too boldly across the empty space in the centre and invites a lady – possibly the only one he knows – to dance, executes a few turns of the waltz with her, though she is clearly finding it an unpleasant experience, and returns to hide again behind the wall of standing gentlemen. Usually in Moscow society the men fall into two categories – the inexperienced youngsters who gaze at the social whirl with excessive seriousness; and the social lions well past their prime who look on, or appear to look on, with an exaggerated degree of disdain.

Some pathetic fellows, not knowing anyone, who have been invited only through the machinations of the hostess’s female relatives, sit around the walls of the ballroom, mortified with anger that despite their elegant turn-out which has cost them as much as a month’s earnings, no lady is willing to dance with them.—So the tale goes on, and the fact is that Prince Kornakov finds it all too drearily familiar. Although during his time in society many old people have departed and many young ones have entered the social arena, the attitudes, conversations and activities of these people have remained exactly the same. The physical arrangements of the ball, down to the buffet, the supper, the music, the furnishing of the rooms, are all so familiar to the Prince that he sometimes feels an unbearable repugnance at being faced with the same old thing for the twentieth time. Prince Kornakov was one of those wealthy middle-aged bachelors for whom social life has become the most inevitable and tedious of obligations: inevitable, because having in his early youth effortlessly achieved a leading place in this society, his self-esteem has never permitted him to try out his talents in any other, unknown path of life, or even to admit the possibility that some other mode of life might exist; tedious, because he was too intelligent not to have perceived long ago all the emptiness of the social relations of people who are not bound together by any common interest or noble feeling, but who assume that the purpose of life can be found in the artificial maintenance of these same endless social relations. His soul was constantly filled with unconscious sadness for a past squandered to no purpose and a future which promised nothing, but his ennui did not find expression in anguish or repentance, but in irritability and social gossip – sometimes trenchant, sometimes vacuous, but always intelligent and distinguished by its originality. He took so little part in the doings of society, regarding it with such indifference, as if à vol d’oiseau,¹¹ that he was incapable of coming into conflict with anybody; so that no one liked him and no one disliked him, but everyone regarded him with the special respect accorded to those men who constitute society.

IV

Passion

‘Encore un tour, je t’en prie,’¹² said Seriozha to his cousin as he clasped her slender waist and, flushed of face, lightly and gracefully sailed into the waltz for the tenth circuit of the ballroom.

‘No, that is enough, I am already tired,’ replied his charming cousin with a smile, disengaging his hand from her shoulder.

Seriozha was obliged to stop, and to stop right by the doorway where Prince Kornakov was leaning casually with his customary expression of self-satisfied composure, saying something to the charming little Countess Schöfing.

‘Here he is in person,’ he said with a glance in Seriozha’s direction. ‘Do come and join us,’ he added, at the same time bowing respectfully to the pretty cousin. ‘The Countess would like you to be presented to her.’

‘I have wanted for a very long time to have this honour,’ said Seriozha with every appearance of youthful confusion, and bowed.

‘But there was really no need to wait until now to say so,’ replied the Countess, looking at him with an ingenuous smile.

Seriozha did not answer but, growing redder and redder, racked his brains to think of something to say other than banalities.

Prince Kornakov seemed to be regarding the young man’s genuine embarrassment with great pleasure, but observing that his embarrassment was continuing, and despite the Countess’s social experience, was even beginning to affect her too, he said:

‘Accordez-vous un tour de valse, Madame la Comtesse?’¹³ The Countess, aware that he had not danced for a long time, looked at him in surprise.

‘Pas à moi, Madame la Comtesse; je me sens trop laid et trop vieux pour prétendre à cet honneur.’¹⁴

‘You will forgive me, my dear boy, for taking on myself the role of your interpreter,’ he added to Seriozha. Seriozha bowed. The Countess stood up and faced him, silently crooked her pretty arm and raised it to shoulder level, but just as Seriozha had put his arm round her the music stopped, and they stood there until the musicians, seeing the signs the Prince was making to them, again struck up the waltz. Seriozha would never forget those few seconds in which he twice took hold of and twice relinquished his lady’s waist.

Seriozha could not feel his feet gliding over the parquet: it seemed to him that he was being transported farther and farther away from the many-coloured crowd all around him. All his vital energies were concentrated in his sense of hearing, which made him obey the sounds of the music, now causing him to moderate the vigour of his movements, now to whirl round faster and faster as he felt the Countess’s waist conforming so wonderfully to his every movement that it seemed to be melting into him, becoming one with him; concentrated too in his gaze, which with an inexplicable blend of delight and dread rested at one moment on the Countess’s white shoulder, and at the next on her radiant blue eyes covered with the lightest film of moisture which lent them an indescribable expression of languor and passion.

‘Just look there, if you please – what could be finer than that young couple?’ said Prince Kornakov, turning to Seriozha’s cousin. ‘You know what a passion I have for bringing attractive young people together.’

‘Yes, now Serge does look really happy.’

‘And not only Serge – I am sure the Countess too finds it far more agreeable to be dancing with him than with an old man like me.’

‘You obviously want me to tell you that you are not yet “an old man”.’

‘Whatever can you take me for? I am well aware that I am not yet old: but I am something worse than that – I am bored, I am played out, just like all these gentlemen here, though they are utterly incapable of realizing it; but in the first place Seriozha is a novelty for me, and in the second place it seems to me that no woman could imagine or desire a better man than he is. Just look, what a delight to see!’ he went on, looking at them with a smile of satisfaction. ‘And how adorable she is! I really am quite in love with them both …’

‘I shall of course warn Liza at once.’ (Liza was the Countess’s name.)

‘No, I have of course long ago apologized to the Countess for not having fallen in love with her – and she knows that it is only because I am quite incapable of falling in love; but I am in love with them both – the pair of them.’

Prince Kornakov was not the only one to admire Seriozha and Countess Schöfing as they waltzed round the floor: all who were not dancing could not help following the couple with their eyes – some with pure delight at the sight of something lovely, others with envy and annoyance.

Seriozha was so deeply stirred by the combined impressions of dancing, music and love, that when Countess Schöfing asked him to escort her back to her seat, and having thanked him with a smile took her hand from his shoulder, he suddenly felt an almost irresistible desire to seize the opportunity of the moment, and to kiss her.

[V]

[Innocence]

VI

Love

The whole ball passed for the infatuated Seriozha like a wonderful and captivating dream, the sort of dream one passionately wishes to be real. The Countess had only the sixth quadrille left unclaimed, and she danced it with him. Their conversation was of the kind usual at balls; but for Seriozha every word possessed a special meaning, as did every smile and glance and movement. During another quadrille an acknowledged admirer of the Countess’s, one D., sat down near them. Seriozha for some reason interpreted this as a sign that D. took him for a mere boy, and was filled with the most hostile feelings towards him; but the Countess was particularly charming and kind to her new acquaintance, speaking in the most cursory manner to D., then at once turning to Seriozha with a smile and a look which clearly expressed her pleasure. There are no two things which are so intimately connected, yet frequently destructive of one another, as are love and self-love. But at this moment these two passions were combined to turn Seriozha’s head completely and utterly. In the mazurka the Countess chose him twice and he chose her twice. During one of the figures she handed him her bouquet. Seriozha pulled out a sprig from it and hid it in his glove. The Countess saw him do it, and smiled.

The Countess was not able to stay for supper. Seriozha accompanied her as far as the steps.

‘I hope we shall see you at our house,’ she said, giving him her hand.

‘And when may I come?’

‘At any time.’

‘At any time?!’ he repeated in a voice filled with emotion, and involuntarily squeezed the delicate little hand which lay so trustfully in his. The Countess blushed, her hand quivered – was she trying to reply to his pressure, or to free her hand? Heaven knows – a shy smile trembling on her rosy little mouth, she walked away down the steps.

Seriozha was inexpressibly happy. The emotion of love, aroused in his youthful soul for the first time, could not confine itself to one object, but overflowed on to all human beings and everything around him. Everyone seemed to him so kind, so loving and so worthy of being loved. He stopped on the staircase, took the torn-off sprig out of his glove, and with a rapture which brought the tears to his eyes, pressed it several times to his lips.

‘Well, and are you pleased with your charming débardeur?’ asked Prince Kornakov.

‘Oh, how grateful I am to you! I have never been so happy,’ he answered ardently, pressing the Prince’s hand.

VII

And she could be happy too

On arriving home the Countess enquired out of habit about the Count. He had not yet returned. For the first time she felt pleased that he was not there. She wanted for a few hours at least to set a distance between herself and the reality which seemed to her now, after this evening, oppressive, and to spend a short while alone with her dreams. And her dreams were delightful.

Seriozha was so unlike all the men who had hitherto surrounded her that he could not fail to catch her attention. His movements, his voice, his look, all bore the special stamp of youth, of openness and warmth of spirit. The type of the innocent boy who has yet to experience the upsurge of the passions and of sensual enjoyments, a type which ought to be such a normal one among people who have not strayed from the law of nature but which is, alas, so rarely met with among them, proved to be for the Countess, who had spent her whole life in this unnatural sphere called society, a most fascinating and delightful novelty.

In my opinion the Countess looked even better in her white house-coat and cap than she had done in her ball gown. Reclining with her feet upon the double bed and leaning her elbows on the pillow, she gazed into the pale light of the lamp. A half-sad smile still lingered on her lovely little mouth.

‘Liza, may I come in?’ asked the Count’s voice from the other side of the door.

‘Please do,’ she answered without changing her position.

‘Did you enjoy yourself this evening, my dear?’ enquired the Count, kissing her.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then why are you looking so sad, Liza – you aren’t angry with me, are you?’

The Countess remained silent and her lips started to tremble, like the lips of a child about to cry.

‘I’m sure you are in fact angry with me – on account of my gambling. Well, you can set your mind at rest, my dearest: tonight I have just won back everything, and I shall not play again …

‘What is the matter?’ he asked again, gently kissing her hands:

The Countess made no reply but the tears trickled from her eyes. However much the Count caressed her and questioned her, she would not tell him why she was weeping; but she cried more and more bitterly.

Let her alone, you man without heart, without conscience. She is weeping precisely because you are caressing her and because you have the right to do so; and because the comforting fancies which filled her imagination have been dissipated like vapour by the touch of reality – the reality to which she was so indifferent until this evening, but which now has become repulsive and frightful to her from the moment when she realized the possibility of genuine love, and happiness.

VIII

We meet a universally respected nobleman

‘What, are you bored, my dear boy?’ said Prince Kornakov to Seriozha, who was wandering from room to room with a strange expression of indifference and agitation, taking no part in the dancing or the conversations.

‘Yes,’ he replied with a smile, ‘I would like to leave.’

‘Let us go to my house then – nous causerons.’¹⁵

‘I trust you are not staying here for supper, Kornakov?’ asked a man passing by. He was a tall, stout man of about forty with a puffy, decidedly unattractive yet pleasingly impudent face, who passed through the crowd with a firm and confident step and now paused in the doorway, his hat in his hand.

‘Have you finished your card game already?’

‘I managed to get that over before suppertime, thank God, and now I am fleeing from a deadly mayonnaise with Russian truffles, a tainted sturgeon, and other suchlike attractions,’ he shouted to practically the whole ballroom.

‘Where are you going for supper?’

‘Either to Trakhmanov’s, if he’s not asleep yet, or to the Novotroitsky inn. Why don’t you come with us? Atalov here is going too.’

‘Well, shall we go, Ivin?’ said Prince Kornakov. ‘By the way, are you acquainted?’ he added, addressing the stout man.

Seriozha shook his head.

‘This is Sergei Ivin, Marya Ivanovna’s son,’ said the Prince.

‘Delighted,’ said the stout gentleman without looking at him and proffering a podgy hand as he continued to make for the exit.

‘Come along quickly now.’

I presume that no one requires a detailed description of the type of this stout gentleman, who was in fact called N. N. Dolgov. Every one of my readers, even if he does not know him, has probably seen him or heard of N.N.: it should therefore be enough to supply a few essential features, for this person to spring to life in the reader’s imagination in all the fullness of his base and worthless nature. So, at least, it seems to me. Wealth, aristocratic birth, social sophistication, great and varied talents – all vitiated or disfigured by idleness and vice. A cynical mind which questions everything without limits, and resolves every question to the advantage of the lowest passions. A complete lack of conscience, shame, and any notion of morality in one’s pleasures. The blatant egoism of vice. A gift for coarse and harsh language. Sensuality, gluttony and drunkenness; contempt for everyone, himself excepted. A view of things from two aspects only – the satisfaction they can give him, and their defects. And two principal traits: a useless, aimless, thoroughly idle life, and the most vile depravity, which he not only does not bother to conceal, but flaunts openly with great satisfaction. People say that he is a wicked man; but always and everywhere he is respected, and people are proud to be linked with him; he is aware of this, and laughs, and despises them all the more. And how could he fail also to despise what is known as virtue, when all his life he has trampled on it, yet for all that is happy after his fashion – that is to say, his passions are gratified and people respect him.

Seriozha was in an exceptionally good humour. The presence of Prince Kornakov, whom he liked very much and who for some reason had a strong influence on him, gave him great satisfaction. And making the acquaintance of someone as notable as the stout gentleman tickled his vanity most pleasantly. At first the stout gentleman paid little attention to Seriozha, but when the Cossack waiter he had summoned on arriving at the Novotroitsky brought the pasties and wine he had ordered he grew more cordial, and noticing the young man’s relaxed mood he began chatting to him (there is nothing men of Dolgov’s stamp dislike more than shyness), patting him on the shoulder, and clinking glasses with him.

The thoughts and feelings of a young man in love are so powerfully focused on a single object that he has no time to observe and analyse the people he encounters; and of course nothing so much inhibits growing freedom and familiarity in social relations as the tendency, particularly in young men, not to accept people for what they seem to be, but to try to discover their inner, secret thoughts and motives. That evening Seriozha was in fact conscious of a powerful desire to be witty and amiable, and of the ability to be so without the slightest effort on his part.

Getting to know the retired General, a boon companion of Dolgov’s, which had at one time been a fantasy of his vanity, now ceased to give him any great satisfaction. On the contrary, he had the impression that he himself was bestowing honour and satisfaction on this General by speaking to him at all, since instead of speaking to the General he could have been speaking to her, or at least thinking about her. Until now he had never ventured to call Kornakov ‘thou’, although Kornakov frequently addressed him in the second person singular, but this evening he took the plunge, and using this intimate form of address gave him extraordinary pleasure. The Countess’s caressing look and her smile had given him a greater feeling of self-reliance than intelligence, academic distinction, good looks or constant praise could ever have done: in a single hour they had transformed him from boy to man. He suddenly felt within himself all those manly qualities which he had been only too well aware that he lacked: firmness, decision, courage, and a proud conviction of his own worth. An attentive observer might even have detected a change in his outward appearance that evening. His step had become more confident and freer, his body looked more upright, his arms no longer gave the impression that he was unsure what to do with them, his head was held higher, the childish softness and vagueness of his features was gone, the muscles of his brow and cheeks were more distinct, and his smile was bolder and firmer.

IX

Revelry

In a small and elegant back room of the Novotroitsky inn used only by patrons who were particularly well-known, our four acquaintances were sitting at a long table on which supper had been eaten.

‘You know who I want to drink to,’ said Seriozha to Prince Kornakov, pouring out a glass and raising it to his lips. Seriozha’s face was very red and his eyes had an oily, unnatural appearance.

‘Let us drink,’ replied Kornakov, his usual bored and impassive expression transformed by an affectionate smile.

This toast to an unnamed person was repeated several times. The General had taken off his tie and was lying on a divan with a bottle of cognac, a glass and some cheese beside him. His face was somewhat redder and puffier than usual and from his impudent and half screwed-up eyes it was evident that he was enjoying himself.

‘This is what I really like,’ he said, looking at Seriozha who was seated opposite him emptying one glass after another. ‘There was a time when I used to drink champagne, as you do. I would drink a whole bottle at supper at a ball, and then whatever happened I would dance and be even more charming than before.’

‘No, I have no regrets for those days,’ said N.N., leaning on his elbow and looking with a melancholy expression into Kornakov’s agreeably animated eyes. ‘I can still put away as many glasses as you could wish, but what of that? The only sad thing is that the time is long past when, like him, I would drink some lady’s health, and I would sooner have died than refuse to drink to anyone when I was dead set on reaching le fond de la bouteille,¹⁶ for I really believed that I would end up marrying the woman whose health I drank from this found de la bouteille. Oh, if only I could have married all the women to whom I’ve dedicated that last drop, how many wonderful wives I would have had! Ah yes, what wonderful wives – if you only knew, Seriozha …’ – and he waved his hand in the air. ‘Well, and here is your fond de la bouteille,’ he said, pouring out the last of the wine for him … ‘But what am I saying? You shouldn’t be doing this …’ – and he gave him a cheerful and affectionate smile.

‘Oh, don’t remind me. I had forgotten all about the things I should not be doing, and I don’t want to think about them, I feel so content here and now.’ And his eyes shone with the pure delight of a young man throwing himself fearlessly into his first passionate love.

‘Well, what about this, how delightful he is!’ said N.N., turning to the General. ‘You can’t imagine how much he reminds me of myself. Débouchons-le tout à fait.’¹⁷

‘Yes,’ said the General, ‘you know Allons au b …,¹⁸ and we’ll take him with us.’