Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 2 полностью

That is why I say that card-playing is an excellent invention. During the game it is possible to converse a little and flatter one’s self-esteem, to let fall some charming little mot, without being obliged to continue in the same vein, as one would have to do in a society where there was nothing but conversation available.

It is essential to keep back your final volley of wit for the last circle of acquaintances you encounter that evening, just as you are taking your hat: this is the moment to squander all the reserves you have been holding on to. Like a horse in the final straight going all out to win. Otherwise you will appear feeble and colourless; and I have noticed that people who are not merely clever, but capable of shining in society, have failed because they have misjudged the level of their remarks. If you say something in the heat of the moment before anyone has had time to get tired of you, and then, feeling bored, you do not wish to converse further, that is how you will be seen as you depart: the final impression is the one which will stick, and people will say ‘How difficult he is …’ But when a card-game is going on no such thing can happen. One is allowed to remain silent without being censured for it.

Besides, if women (young women) are playing, there begins to be something better to aim at – to spend two or three hours in close proximity to the right woman.—And of course if the right woman simply happens to be there, then that is already satisfaction enough.

So there I was playing cards, sitting now on her right, now on her left, now opposite her, and wherever I sat it was all wonderful.

This mode of entertainment went on until a quarter to twelve. Three rubbers had been completed. Why does this woman love me? – how I should like to be able to write that! but I must write instead – Why does this woman love to put me in embarrassing situations? And that apart, I am already hardly in command of myself when I am in her presence: at one moment it seems to me that my hands are really dirty, at another that I am sitting awkwardly, at another that I am tormented by a pimple on my cheek precisely on the side where she can see it.

However, I feel that none of this is her fault – I never feel quite myself when I am with people whom I either dislike or love very much. Why should this be? It is surely because one wants to show one person that one does not like them, and to show another that one loves them, but to show what one wants to show is very difficult. In my case it always comes out the wrong way round: you wish to appear chilly, but then you feel you are overdoing it, and you make yourself too affable; and although being with people you really and truly love is delightful, the idea that they may think you love them in a dishonourable way confounds you, and you end up making your manner curt and abrupt.

She is the woman for me because she possesses those sweet qualities which compel me to love them, or better still, to love her, for I do love her; but not because she would be capable of giving herself to a lover. That thought does not enter my head. She has the unpleasing habit of billing and cooing with her husband in the presence of others, but that is no business of mine; it would be all the same to me if she were to choose to kiss the stove or the table – she is simply playing with her husband, as a swallow might play with a wisp of fluff, because she has a kindly soul and this makes her cheerful.—

She is a coquette; no, not a coquette, but she does enjoy being liked, and turning men’s heads. I would not call her a coquette, because either the word itself is bad, or the connotations attached to it are bad. People apply the term ‘coquetry’ to the display of bare flesh, or falseness in love – this is not coquetry, but insolent and ill-bred behaviour.—No, but the desire to please and to turn heads is a fine and attractive thing, it harms no one, because there are no Werthers here, and it gives her and others innocent pleasure. Here am I, for example, utterly content that she pleases me and desiring nothing further. And then there is intelligent coquetry and stupid coquetry: the intelligent sort is when the coquetry is unobtrusive and there is no villain to be caught red-handed; the stupid sort is just the opposite, where nothing is concealed. And this is how it finds expression: ‘I may not be particularly beautiful in myself, but just look what pretty feet I have! Just look: do you see? Well, do you like them?’—Your feet are perhaps pretty, but I did not take any notice of your feet, because you deliberately made a display of them.—Intelligent coquetry says: ‘It is all one and the same to me whether you look at me or you don’t, but I feel warm, so I have taken off my hat.’—I look at you all the time.—‘And why should I mind?’ Hers is the innocent and intelligent sort.