by Leo Tolstoy
‘I did come, Anna Fëdorovna, but you had already gone, and I left some of the very best comfits for you,’ said the young man, who – despite his tallness – spoke in a very high-pitched voice.
‘You always find excuses! … I don’t want your bonbons. Please don’t imagine —’
‘I see, Anna Fëdorovna, that you have changed towards me and I know why. But it’s not right,’ he added, evidently unable to finish his speech because a strong inward agitation caused his lips to quiver in a very strange and rapid manner.
Anna Fëdorovna did not listen to him, but continued to follow Túrbin with her eyes.
The master of the house, the stout, toothless, stately old Marshal, came up to the count, took him by the arm, and invited him into the study for a smoke and a drink. As soon as Túrbin left the room Anna Fëdorovna felt that there was absolutely nothing to do there and went out into the dressing-room arm-in-arm with a friend of hers, a bony, elderly, maiden lady.
‘Well, is he nice?’ asked the maiden lady.
‘Only he bothers so!’ Anna Fëdorovna replied walking up to the mirror and looking at herself.
Her face brightened, her eyes laughed, she even blushed, and suddenly, imitating the ballet-dancers she had seen during the elections, she twirled round on one foot, then laughed her guttural but pleasant laugh and even bent her knees and gave a jump.
‘Just fancy, what a man! He actually asked me for a keepsake,’ she said to her friend, ‘but he will get no-o-o-thing.’ She sang the last word and held up one finger in her kid glove which reached to her elbow.
In the study, where the Marshal had taken Túrbin, stood bottles of different sorts of vodka, liqueurs, champagne, and zakúska.15 The nobility, walking about or sitting in a cloud of tobacco smoke, were talking about the elections.
‘When the whole worshipful society of our nobility has honoured him by their choice,’ said the newly elected Captain of Police who had already imbibed freely, ‘he should on no account transgress in the face of the whole society – he ought never …’
The count’s entrance interrupted the conversation. Everybody wished to be introduced to him and the Captain of Police especially kept pressing the count’s hand between his own for a long time, and repeatedly asked him not to refuse to accompany him to the new restaurant where he was going to treat the gentlemen after the ball, and where the gipsies were going to sing. The count promised to come without fail, and drank some glasses of champagne with him.
‘But why are you not dancing, gentlemen?’ said the count, as he was about to leave the room.
‘We are not dancers,’ replied the Captain of Police, laughing. ‘Wine is more in our line, Count.… And besides, I have seen all those young ladies grow up, Count! But I can walk through an écossaise now and then, Count … I can do it, Count.’
‘Then come and walk through one now,’ said Túrbin. ‘It will brighten us up before going to hear the gipsies.’
‘Very well, gentlemen! Let’s come and gratify our host.’
And three or four of the noblemen who had been drinking in the study since the commencement of the ball, put on gloves of black kid or knitted silk, and with red faces were just about to follow the count into the ball-room when they were stopped by the scrofulous young man who, pale and hardly able to restrain his tears, accosted Túrbin.
‘You think that because you are a count you can jostle people about as if you were in the market-place,’ he said, breathing with difficulty, ‘but that is impolite …’
And again, do what he would, his quivering lips checked the flow of his words.
‘What?’ cried Túrbin, suddenly frowning. ‘What?… You brat!’ he cried, seizing him by the arms and squeezing them so that the blood rushed to the young man’s head not so much from vexation as from fear. ‘What? Do you want to fight? I am at your service!’
Hardly had Túrbin released the arms he had been squeezing so hard, than two nobles caught hold of them and dragged the young man towards the back door.
‘What! Are you out of your mind? You must be tipsy! Suppose we were to tell your papa! What’s the matter with you?’ they said to him.
‘No, I’m not tipsy, but he jostles one and does not apologize. He’s a swine, that’s what he is!’ squealed the young man, now quite in tears.
But they did not listen to him and someone took him home.
On the other side the Captain of Police and Zavalshévski were exhorting Túrbin: ‘Never mind him, Count, he’s only a child. He still gets whipped, he’s only sixteen.… What can have happened to him? What bee has stung him? And his father such a respectable man – and our candidate.’
‘Well, let him go to the devil if he does not wish …’
And the count returned to the ball-room and danced the écossaise with the pretty widow as gaily as before, laughed with all his heart as he watched the steps performed by the gentlemen who had come with him out of the study, and burst into peals of laughter that rang across the room when the Captain of Police slipped and measured his full length in the midst of the dancers.
V
WHILE the count was in the study Anna Fëdorovna had approached her brother, and supposing that she ought to pretend to be very little interested in the count began by asking:
‘Who is that hussar who was dancing with me? Can you tell me, brother?’
The cavalryman explained to his sister as well as he could what a great man the hussar was, and told her at the same time that the count was only stopping in the town because his money had been stolen on the way, and that he himself had lent him a hundred rubles, but that that was not enough, so that perhaps ‘sister’ would lend another couple of hundred. Only Zavalshévski asked her on no account to mention the matter to anyone – especially not to the count. Anna Fëdorovna promised to send her brother the money that very day and to keep the affair secret, but somehow during the écossaise she felt a great longing herself to offer the count as much money as he wanted. She took a long time making up her mind, and blushed, but at last with a great effort broached the subject as follows:
‘My brother tells me that a misfortune befell you on the road, Count, and that you have no money by you. If you need any, won’t you take it from me? I should be so glad.’
But having said this, Anna Fëdorovna suddenly felt frightened of something and blushed. All gaiety instantly left the count’s face.
‘Your brother is a fool!’ he said abruptly. ‘You know when a man insults another man they fight; but when a woman insults a man, what does he do then – do you know?’
Poor Anna Fëdorovna’s neck and ears grew red with confusion. She lowered her eyes and said nothing.
‘He kisses the woman in public,’ said the count in a low voice, leaning towards her ear. ‘Allow me at least to kiss your little hand,’ he added in a whisper after a prolonged silence, taking pity on his partner’s confusion.
‘But not now!’ said Anna Fëdorovna, with a deep sigh.
‘When then? I am leaving early to-morrow and you owe it me.’
‘Well then it’s impossible,’ said Anna Fëdorovna with a smile.
‘Only allow me a chance to meet you to-night to kiss your hand. I shall not fail to find an opportunity.’
‘How can you find it?’
‘That is not your business. In order to see you everything is possible.… It’s agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
The écossaise ended. After that they danced a mazurka and the count was quite wonderful: catching handkerchiefs, kneeling on one knee, striking his spurs together in a quite special Warsaw manner, so that all the old people left their game of boston and flocked into the ball-room to see, and the cavalryman, their best dancer, confessed himself eclipsed. Then they had supper after which they danced the ‘Grandfather’, and the ball began to break up. The count never took his eyes off the little widow. It was not pretence when he said he was ready to jump through a hole in the ice for her sake. Whether it was whim, or love, or obstinacy,
all his mental powers that evening were concentrated on the one desire – to meet and love her. As soon as he noticed that Anna Fëdorovna was taking leave of her hostess he ran out to the footmen’s room, and thence – without his fur cloak – into the courtyard to the place where the carriages stood.
‘Anna Fëdorovna Záytseva’s carriage!’ he shouted.
A high four-seated closed carriage with lamps burning moved from its place and approached the porch.
‘Stop!’ he called to the coachman, and plunging knee-deep into the snow ran to the carriage.
‘What do you want?’ said the coachman.
‘I want to get into the carriage,’ replied the count opening the door and trying to get in while the carriage was moving. ‘Stop, I tell you, you fool!’
‘Stop, Váska!’ shouted the coachman to the postilion, and pulled up the horses. ‘What are you getting into other people’s carriages for? This carriage belongs to my mistress, to Anna Fëdorovna, and not to your honour.’
‘Shut up, you blockhead! Here’s a ruble for you; get down and close the door,’ said the count. But as the coachman did not stir he lifted the steps himself and, lowering the window, managed somehow to close the door. In the carriage, as in all old carriages, especially in those in which yellow galloon is used, there was a musty odour something like the smell of decayed and burnt bristles. The count’s legs were wet with snow up to the knees and felt very cold in his thin boots and riding-breeches; in fact the winter cold penetrated his whole body. The coachman grumbled on the box and seemed to be preparing to get down. But the count neither heard nor felt anything. His face was aflame and his heart beat fast. In his nervous tension he seized the yellow window strap and leant out of the side window, and all his being merged into one feeling of expectation.
This expectancy did not last long. Someone called from the porch: ‘Záytseva’s carriage!’ The coachman shook the reins, the body of the carriage swayed on its high springs, and the illuminated windows of the house ran one after another past the carriage windows.
‘Mind, fellow,’ said the count to the coachman, putting his head out of the front window, ‘if you tell the footman I’m here, I’ll thrash you, but hold your tongue and you shall have another ten rubles.’
Hardly had he time to close the window before the body of the carriage shook more violently and then stopped. He pressed close into the corner, held his breath, and even shut his eyes, so terrified was he lest anything should balk his passionate expectation. The door opened, the carriage steps fell noisily one after the other, he heard the rustle of a woman’s dress, a smell of frangipane perfume filled the musty carriage, quick little feet ran up the carriage steps, and Anna Fëdorovna, brushing the count’s leg with the skirt of her cloak which had come open, sank silently onto the seat beside him breathing heavily.
Whether she saw him or not no one could tell, not even Anna Fëdorovna herself, but when he took her hand and said: ‘Well, now I will kiss your little hand,’16 she showed very little fear, gave no reply, but yielded her arm to him, which he covered much higher than the top of her glove with kisses. The carriage started.
‘Say something! Art thou angry?’ he said.
She silently pressed into her corner, but suddenly something caused her to burst into tears and of her own accord she let her head fall on his breast.
VI
THE newly elected Captain of Police and his guests the cavalryman and other nobles had long been listening to the gipsies and drinking in the new restaurant when the count, wearing a blue cloth cloak lined with bearskin which had belonged to Anna Fëdorovna’s late husband, joined them.
‘Sure, your excellency, we have been awaiting you impatiently!’ said a dark cross-eyed gipsy, showing his white teeth, as he met the count at the very entrance and rushed to help him off with his cloak. ‘We have not seen you since the fair at Lebedyáni … Stëshka is quite pining away for you.’
Stëshka, a young, graceful little gipsy with a brick-red glow on her brown face and deep, sparkling black eyes shaded by long lashes, also ran out to meet him.
‘Ah, little Count! Dearest! Jewel! This is a joy!’ she murmured between her teeth, smiling merrily.
Ilyúshka himself ran out to greet him, pretending to be very glad to see him. The old women, matrons, and maids, jumped from their places and surrounded the guest, some claiming him as a fellow god-father, some as brother by baptism.17
Túrbin kissed all the young gipsy girls on their lips; the old women and the men kissed him on his shoulder or hand. The noblemen were also glad of their visitor’s arrival, especially as the carousal, having reached its zenith, was beginning to flag, and everyone was beginning to feel satiated. The wine having lost its stimulating effect on the nerves merely weighed on the stomach. Each one had already let off his store of swagger, and they were getting tired of one another; the songs had all been sung and had got mixed in everyone’s head, leaving a noisy, dissolute impression behind. No matter what strange or dashing thing anyone did, it began to occur to everyone that there was nothing agreeable or funny in it. The Captain of Police, who lay in a shocking state on the floor at the feet of an old woman, began wriggling his legs and shouting: ‘Champagne! … The count’s come! … Champagne! … He’s come … now then, champagne! … I’ll have a champagne bath and bathe in it! Noble gentlemen! … I love the society of our brave old nobility … Stëshka, sing The Pathway.’
The cavalryman was also rather tipsy, but in another way. He sat on a sofa in the corner very close to a tall handsome gipsy girl, Lyubásha; and feeling his eyes misty with drink he kept blinking and shaking his head and, repeating the same words over and over again in a whisper, besought the gipsy to fly with him somewhere. Lyubásha, smiling and listening as if what he said were very amusing and yet rather sad, glanced occasionally at her husband – the cross-eyed Sáshka who was standing behind the chair opposite her – and in reply to the cavalryman’s declarations of love, stooped and whispering in his ear asked him to buy her some scent and ribbons on the quiet, so that the others should not notice.
‘Hurrah!’ cried the cavalryman when the count entered.
The handsome young man was pacing up and down the room with laboriously steady steps and a careworn expression on his face, warbling an air from Il Seraglio.
An elderly paterfamilias, who had been tempted by the persistent entreaties of the nobles to come and hear the gipsies, as they said that without him the thing would be worthless and it would be better not to go at all, was lying on a sofa where he had sunk as soon as he arrived, and no one was taking any notice of him. Some official or other who was also there had taken off his swallow-tail coat and was sitting up on the table, feet and all, ruffling his hair, and thereby showing that he was very much on the spree. As soon as the count entered, this official unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and got still farther onto the table. In general on Túrbin’s arrival the carousal revived.
The gipsy girls, who had been wandering about the room, again gathered and sat down in a circle. The count took Stëshka, the leading singer, on his knee, and ordered more champagne.
Ilyúshka came and stood in front of Stëshka with his guitar, and the ‘dance’ commenced, i.e. the gipsy songs, When you go along the Street, O Hussars!, Do you hear, do you know?, and so on in a definite order. Stëshka sang admirably. The flexible sonorous contralto that flowed from her very chest, her smiles while singing, her laughing passionate eyes, and her foot that moved involuntarily in measure with the song, her wild shriek at the commencement of the chorus – all touched some powerful but rarely-reached chord. It was evident that she lived only in the song she was singing. Ilyúshka accompanied her on the guitar – his back, legs, smile, and whole being, expressing sympathy with the song – and eagerly watching her, raised and lowered his head as attentive and engrossed as though he heard the song for the first time. Then at the last melodious note he suddenly drew himself up, and as if feeling himself superior to everyone in the world, proudly an
d resolutely threw up his guitar with his foot, twirled it about, stamped, tossed back his hair, and looked round at the choir with a frown. His whole body from neck to heels began dancing in every muscle – and twenty energetic, powerful voices each trying to chime in more strongly and more strangely than the rest, rang through the air. The old women bobbed up and down on their chairs waving their handkerchiefs, showing their teeth, and vying with one another in their harmonious and measured shouts. The basses with strained necks and heads bent to one side boomed while standing behind the chairs.
When Stëshka took a high note Ilyúshka brought his guitar closer to her as if wishing to help her, and the handsome young man screamed with rapture, saying that now they were beginning the bémols.18
When a dance was struck up and Dunyásha, advancing with quivering shoulders and bosom, twirled round in front of the count and glided onwards, Túrbin leapt up, threw off his jacket, and in his red shirt stepped jauntily with her in precise and measured step, accomplishing such things with his legs that the gipsies smiled with approval and glanced at one another.
The Captain of Police sat down like a Turk, beat his breast with his fist, and cried ‘vivat!’ and then, having caught hold of the count’s leg, began to tell him that of two thousand rubles he now had only five hundred left, but that he could do anything he liked if only the count would allow it. The elderly paterfamilias awoke and wished to go away, but was not allowed to do so. The handsome young man began persuading a gipsy to waltz with him. The cavalryman, wishing to show off his intimacy with the count, rose and embraced Túrbin. ‘Ah, my dear fellow,’ he said, ‘why didst thou leave us, eh?’ The count was silent, evidently thinking of something else. ‘Where did you go to? Ah, you rogue of a count, I know where you went to!’
For some reason this familiarity displeased Túrbin. Without a smile he looked silently into the cavalryman’s face and suddenly launched at him such terrible and rude abuse that the cavalryman was pained, and for a while could not make up his mind whether to take the offence as a joke or seriously. At last he decided to take it as a joke, smiled, and went back to his gipsy, assuring her that he would certainly marry her after Easter. They sang another song and another, danced again, and ‘hailed the guests’, and everyone continued to imagine that he was enjoying it. There was no end to the champagne. The count drank a great deal. His eyes seemed to grow moist, but he was not unsteady. He danced even better than before, spoke firmly, even joined in the chorus extremely well, and chimed in when Stëshka sang Friendship’s Tender Emotions. In the midst of a dance the landlord came in to ask the guests to return to their homes as it was getting on for three in the morning.