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 and 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 ‘
