by Leo Tolstoy
‘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 a
nd 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.
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 to
o 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.