CHAPTER IV
21st May.
NEARLY a week has passed, and I have not
yet made the Ligovskis'
acquaintance. I am
awaiting a
convenient opportunity. Grushnitski
follows Princess Mary everywhere like a shadow.
Their conversations are
interminable; but,
when will she be tired of him? . . . Her
mother pays no attention, because he is not
a man who is in a position to marry. Behold
the logic of mothers! I have caught two
or three tender glances -- this must be put a
stop to.
Yesterday, for the first time, Vera made
her appearance at the well. . . She has never
gone out of doors since we met in the
grotto. We let down our tumblers at the same
time, and as she bent forward she
whispered
to me:
"You are not going to make the Ligovskis'
acquaintance? . . . It is only there that we can
meet" . . .
A reproach! . . . How tiresome! But I have
deserved it. . .
By the way, there is a
subscription ball to-
morrow in the
saloon of the
restaurant, and I will
dance the mazurka with Princess Mary.
CHAPTER V
29th May.
THE
saloon of the
restaurant was converted
into the
assembly room of a Nobles' Club.
The company met at nine o'clock. Princess
Ligovski and her daughter were
amongst the
latest to make their appearance. Several of the
ladies looked at Princess Mary with envy and
malevolence, because she dresses with taste.
Those who look upon themselves as the aris-
tocracy of the place concealed their envy and
attached themselves to her train. What else
could be expected? Wherever there is a gathering
of women, the company is immediately divided
into a higher and a lower circle.
Beneath the window,
amongst a crowd of
people, stood Grushnitski, pressing his face to the
pane and never
taking his eyes off his divinity.
As she passed by, she gave him a hardly per-
ceptible nod. He beamed like the sun. . .
The first dance was a polonaise, after which the
musicians struck up a waltz. Spurs began to
jingle, and skirts to rise and whirl.
I was
standing behind a certain stout lady who
was overshadowed by rose-coloured feathers.
The
magnificence of her dress reminded me of
the times of the farthingale, and the motley hue
of her by no means smooth skin, of the happy
epoch of the black taffeta patch. An immense
wart on her neck was covered by a clasp. She was
saying to her
cavalier, a captain of dragoons:
"That young Princess Ligovski is a most
intolerable creature! Just fancy, she jostled
against me and did not apologise, but even turned
round and stared at me through her lorgn-
ette! . . . C'est impayable! . . . And what
has she to be proud of? It is time somebody
gave her a lesson" . . .
"That will be easy enough," replied the
obliging captain, and he directed his steps to the
other room.
I went up to Princess Mary immediately, and,
availing myself of the local customs which allowed
one to dance with a stranger, I invited her to
waltz with me.
She was scarcely able to keep from smiling and
letting her
triumph be seen; but quickly enough
she succeeded in assuming an air of perfect
indifference and even
severity. Carelessly she let
her hand fall upon my shoulder, inclined her head
slightly to one side, and we began to dance. I have
never known a waist more voluptuous and supple!
Her fresh
breath touched my face; at times a
lock of hair, becoming separated from its com-
panions in the eddy of the waltz, glided over my
burning cheek. . .
I made three turns of the ballroom (she
waltzes
surprisingly well). She was out of
breath,
her eyes were dulled, her half-open lips were
scarcely able to
whisper the indispensable:
"merci, monsieur."
After a few moments' silence I said to her,
assuming a very
humble air:
"I have heard, Princess, that although quite
unacquainted with you, I have already had the
misfortune to incur your
displeasure . . . that
you have considered me
insolent. Can that
possibly true?"
"Would you like to
confirm me in that
opinion now?" she answered, with an ironical
little grimace -- very becoming, however, to her
mobile countenance.
"If I had the
audacity to
insult you in any way,
then allow me to have the still greater
audacity to
beg your
pardon. . . And, indeed, I should
very much like to prove to you that you are
mistaken in regard to me" . . .
"You will find that a rather difficult task" . . .
"But why?" . . .
"Because you never visit us and, most
likely, there will not be many more of these
balls."
"That means," I thought, "that their doors
are closed to me for ever."
"You know, Princess," I said to her, with a
certain
amount of
vexation, "one should never
spurn a
penitentcriminal: in his
despair he may
become twice as much a
criminal as before . . .
and then" . . .
Sudden
laughter and
whispering from the
people around us caused me to turn my head and
to
interrupt my
phrase. A few paces away from
me stood a group of men,
amongst them the
captain of dragoons, who had manifested inten-
tions
hostile to the
charming Princess. He was
particularly well pleased with something or other,
and was rubbing his hands, laughing and ex-
changing meaning glances with his companions.
All at once a gentleman in an evening-dress coat
and with long moustaches and a red face separated
himself from the crowd and directed his uncertain
steps straight towards Princess Mary. He was
drunk. Coming to a halt opposite the em-
barrassed Princess and placing his hands behind
his back, he fixed his dull grey eyes upon her, and
said in a
hoarse treble:
"Permettez . . . but what is the good of that
sort of thing here. . . All I need say is: I en-
gage you for the mazurka" . . .
"Very well!" she replied in a trembling voice,
throwing a beseeching glance around. Alas! Her
mother was a long way off, and not one of the
cavaliers of her
acquaintance was near. A certain
aide-de-camp
apparently saw the whole scene,
but he concealed himself behind the crowd in
order not to be mixed up in the affair.
"What?" said the
drunken gentleman, wink-
ing to the captain of dragoons, who was encourag-
ing him by signs. "Do you not wish to dance
then? . . . All the same I again have the honour
to engage you for the mazurka. . . You think,
perhaps, that I am drunk! That is all right! . . .
I can dance all the easier, I assure you" . . .
I saw that she was on the point of fainting with
fright and indignation.
I went up to the
drunken gentleman, caught
him none too
gently by the arm, and, looking
him fixedly in the face, requested him to retire.
"Because," I added, "the Princess promised
long ago to dance the mazurka with me."
"Well, then, there's nothing to be done!
Another time!" he said, bursting out laughing,
and he
retired to his abashed companions, who
immediately conducted him into another room.
I was rewarded by a deep,
wondrous glance.
The Princess went up to her mother and told
her the whole story. The latter sought me out
among the crowd and thanked me. She informed
me that she knew my mother and was on terms of
friendship with half a dozen of my aunts.
"I do not know how it has happened that we
have not made your
acquaintance up to now," she
added; "but
confess, you alone are to blame for
that. You fight shy of
everyone in a positively
unseemly way. I hope the air of my drawing-
room will
dispel your spleen. . . Do you not
think so?"
I uttered one of the
phrases which everybody
must have ready for such an occasion.
The quadrilles dragged on a
dreadfully long
time.
At last the music struck up from the gallery,
Princess Mary and I took up our places.
I did not once
allude to the
drunken gentleman,
or to my
previous behaviour, or to Grushnitski.
The
impression produced upon her by the
unpleasant scene was gradually
dispelled; her
face brightened up; she jested very
charmingly;
her conversation was witty, without pretensions to
wit, vivacious and
spontaneous; her observations
were sometimes
profound. . . In a very involved
sentence I gave her to understand that I had
liked her for a long time. She bent her head and
blushed slightly.
"You are a strange man!" she said, with a
forced laugh, lifting her
velvet eyes upon me.
"I did not wish to make your
acquaintance," I
continued, "because you are surrounded by too
dense a
throng of adorers, in which I was afraid
of being lost to sight altogether."
"You need not have been afraid; they are all
very tiresome" . . .
"All? Not all, surely?"
She looked fixedly at me as if endeavouring to