At the various balls held that winter, which were the first in his experience, he several times encountered Countess Schöfing, whom Prince Kornakov (who gave nicknames to all and sundry) referred to as the sweet little débardeur. Once, when he found himself dancing opposite her, Seriozha’s eyes had met the ingenuously curious gaze of the Countess and this gaze of hers had so struck him and given him such delight that he could not understand why he was not already head over heels in love with her, and it filled him, heaven knows why, with such trepidation that he began to regard her as some sort of exceptional, higher being with whom he was unworthy to have anything in common, and for this reason he had several times avoided the chance of being presented to her.
Countess Schöfing united in herself all those elements calculated to inspire love, especially in a young boy such as Seriozha. She was unusually attractive, attractive both as a woman and as a child: enchanting shoulders and bosom, a shapely, supple waist endowed with a fluid grace of movement; and an utterly childlike little face which breathed meekness and good-humour. Apart from all this she possessed the allure of a woman whose position is at the very top of the best society; and nothing lends a woman greater charm than to have the reputation of being a charming woman. Countess Schöfing had a further magic shared by very few, the magic of simplicity – not simplicity the opposite of affectation, but rather that endearing naïve simplicity so rarely encountered, which gives a most attractive quality of originality to a society woman. Every question she asked, she asked simply, and replied likewise to all questions which were put to her; she expressed everything which came into her charming, clever little head, and everything came out with extraordinary niceness. She was one of those uncommon women who are loved by all, even by those who ought to have been envious of her.
The strange thing was that such a woman should have given her hand with no regrets to Count Schöfing. But of course she could not know that beyond those sweet compliments paid her by her husband there existed other forms of speech; that beyond the merits of dancing excellently, being a devoted civil servant, and being the favourite of all respectable old ladies – merits which Count Schöfing possessed in the highest degree – there existed other merits; that beyond this decorous sociable and social life which her husband arranged for her, there existed another life in which it was possible to find love and happiness. That aside, one must be fair to Count Schöfing and acknowledge that he was in all respects the best of husbands: even Natalya Apollonovna herself was heard to say in her best nasal French accent, ‘C’est un excellent parti, ma chère.’9 What more could she have desired? All the young men she had so far met in society were so similar to her Jean, and indeed were no better than he was; so that falling in love never entered her head – she imagined that she loved her husband – and her life had turned out so well. She loved dancing, and she danced; she loved to charm people, and she charmed them; she loved all her good friends, and everyone loved her in return.
III
Why bother to record all the details of the ball? Who does not remember the strange, striking impression produced on him by the blinding brightness of a thousand lights illuminating things from all sides at once and casting no shadow: the shine of diamonds, eyes, flowers, silk, velvet, bare shoulders, black evening coats, white waistcoats, satin slippers, multicoloured uniforms and liveries; the scent of flowers and women’s perfumes; the noise of hundreds of feet and voices, muffled by the captivating, intoxicating music of waltzes and polkas; and the continual, almost fantastic intermingling of all these elements? Who does not remember how impossible it was to separate one detail from another, how all these impressions blended together, leaving only one predominant feeling – of merriment, in which everything seemed so gay and light and joyful, and the heart beat fast with delight; or its opposite, in which everything seemed dreadfully heavy and oppressive, and full of sadness?
And the feelings aroused in our two friends by this ball were indeed utterly different, one from the other.
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 ‘Comme le petit Ivine est ridicule.’10 Thank heavens, there is his cousin beckoning to him, and he goes across to dance with her.
Prince Kornakov, on the other hand, made his way quite calmly through the first room, bowing to the gentlemen and ladies he knew, entered the great ballroom and joined the little circle of the elect, just as if he had been walking into his own room and with the same foreknowledge of what to expect as a civil servant who arrives at his Department and makes for his familiar corner and his own particular chair. He knows each one of them so well, and they him, that he is able to have some striking, interesting or amusing remark ready for each person, and on a subject which will appeal to them. In almost every case he offers a promising opening gambit, some little witticism, a few generalized recollections. <For him nothing can come as a surprise: he is too decent a man, living in too decent a society, to encounter any sort of unpleasantness; and he has long since outgrown the habit of expecting to derive any pleasure from a ball.> Not only does he not feel awkward or ill at ease, like Seriozha, as he walks through the three reception rooms thronged with guests, but he finds it intolerable to see all these familiar individuals whom he has long since appraised at their true value, and who would never revise their opinion of him, no matter what he did; yet he still cannot avoid going up to them and talking to them as if by some strange habit, saying things of no interest to either party, which they have in any case already heard and said on several previous occasions. So this is what he does; nevertheless it is boredom which is the predominant feeling in his soul.