The whole ball passed for the infatuated Seriozha like a wonderful and captivating dream, the sort of dream one passionately wishes to be real. The Countess had only the sixth quadrille left unclaimed, and she danced it with him. Their conversation was of the kind usual at balls; but for Seriozha every word possessed a special meaning, as did every smile and glance and movement. During another quadrille an acknowledged admirer of the Countess’s, one D., sat down near them. Seriozha for some reason interpreted this as a sign that D. took him for a mere boy, and was filled with the most hostile feelings towards him; but the Countess was particularly charming and kind to her new acquaintance, speaking in the most cursory manner to D., then at once turning to Seriozha with a smile and a look which clearly expressed her pleasure. There are no two things which are so intimately connected, yet frequently destructive of one another, as are love and self-love. But at this moment these two passions were combined to turn Seriozha’s head completely and utterly. In the mazurka the Countess chose him twice and he chose her twice. During one of the figures she handed him her bouquet. Seriozha pulled out a sprig from it and hid it in his glove. The Countess saw him do it, and smiled.
The Countess was not able to stay for supper. Seriozha accompanied her as far as the steps.
‘I hope we shall see you at our house,’ she said, giving him her hand.
‘And when may I come?’
‘At any time.’
‘At any time?!’ he repeated in a voice filled with emotion, and involuntarily squeezed the delicate little hand which lay so trustfully in his. The Countess blushed, her hand quivered – was she trying to reply to his pressure, or to free her hand? Heaven knows – a shy smile trembling on her rosy little mouth, she walked away down the steps.
Seriozha was inexpressibly happy. The emotion of love, aroused in his youthful soul for the first time, could not confine itself to one object, but overflowed on to all human beings and everything around him. Everyone seemed to him so kind, so loving and so worthy of being loved. He stopped on the staircase, took the torn-off sprig out of his glove, and with a rapture which brought the tears to his eyes, pressed it several times to his lips.
‘Well, and are you pleased with your
‘Oh, how grateful I am to you! I have never been so happy,’ he answered ardently, pressing the Prince’s hand.
VII
On arriving home the Countess enquired out of habit about the Count. He had not yet returned. For the first time she felt pleased that he was not there. She wanted for a few hours at least to set a distance between herself and the reality which seemed to her now, after this evening, oppressive, and to spend a short while alone with her dreams. And her dreams were delightful.
Seriozha was so unlike all the men who had hitherto surrounded her that he could not fail to catch her attention. His movements, his voice, his look, all bore the special stamp of youth, of openness and warmth of spirit. The type of the innocent boy who has yet to experience the upsurge of the passions and of sensual enjoyments, a type which ought to be such a normal one among people who have not strayed from the law of nature but which is, alas, so rarely met with among them, proved to be for the Countess, who had spent her whole life in this unnatural sphere called society, a most fascinating and delightful novelty.
In my opinion the Countess looked even better in her white house-coat and cap than she had done in her ball gown. Reclining with her feet upon the double bed and leaning her elbows on the pillow, she gazed into the pale light of the lamp. A half-sad smile still lingered on her lovely little mouth.
‘Liza, may I come in?’ asked the Count’s voice from the other side of the door.
‘Please do,’ she answered without changing her position.
‘Did you enjoy yourself this evening, my dear?’ enquired the Count, kissing her.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Then why are you looking so sad, Liza – you aren’t angry with me, are you?’
The Countess remained silent and her lips started to tremble, like the lips of a child about to cry.
‘I’m sure you are in fact angry with me – on account of my gambling. Well, you can set your mind at rest, my dearest: tonight I have just won back everything, and I shall not play again …
‘What is the matter?’ he asked again, gently kissing her hands:
The Countess made no reply but the tears trickled from her eyes. However much the Count caressed her and questioned her, she would not tell him why she was weeping; but she cried more and more bitterly.
