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