I will repeat once again. Among us there was also preserved a small group of prudent persons who had secluded themselves at the very beginning and even locked themselves in. But what lock can stand against a law of nature? In the same way, even in the most prudent families, young ladies grow up who have a need to go dancing. And so all these persons, too, ended up by subscribing for the governesses. And the ball promised to be so magnificent, boundless; wonders were being told; rumors spread about visiting princes with lorgnettes, about ten ushers, all young cavaliers, with bows on their left shoulders; about Petersburg movers of some sort; about Karmazinov consenting to augment the collection by reading Merci in the costume of a governess from our province; about the planned "quadrille of literature," also all in costume, with each costume representing some tendency. Finally, also in costume, some sort of "honest Russian thought" would perform a dance—which in itself was a complete novelty. How could one not subscribe? Everyone subscribed.
II
According to the program, the festive day was divided into two parts: the literary matinée, from noon till four, and then the ball, from nine o'clock on through the night. But this arrangement itself concealed germs of disorder. First, from the very beginning a rumor established itself among the public about a luncheon right after the literary matinée, or even during it, with a break especially arranged for that purpose—a free luncheon, naturally, as part of the program, and with champagne. The enormous price of the ticket (three roubles) contributed to this rumor's taking root. "Because why should I subscribe for nothing? The fête is supposed to go on round the clock, so they'll have to feed us. People will get hungry"—thus the reasoning went. I must admit that it was Yulia Mikhailovna herself who planted this pernicious rumor through her own light-mindedness. About a month earlier, still under the initial enchantment of the grand design, she had babbled about her fête with whoever happened along, and about the fact that toasts would be proposed she had even sent a notice to one of the metropolitan newspapers. She had been seduced mainly by these toasts then: she wanted to propose them herself, and kept devising them in anticipation. They were to explain our chief banner (what banner? I bet the poor dear never devised anything), to be passed on in the form of reports to the metropolitan newspapers, to touch and charm the higher authorities, and then to go winging over all the provinces, arousing astonishment and imitation. But for toasts champagne was necessary, and since one could not really drink champagne on an empty stomach, a luncheon, of itself, also became necessary. Later, when through her efforts a committee had been formed and they got down to business more seriously, it was proved to her at once and clearly that if one were dreaming of banquets, very little would be left for the governesses, even with the most abundant collection. The question thus presented two solutions: either a Belshazzar's feast
[168] with toasts and about ninety roubles left for the governesses, or the realization of a significant collection, with the fête being, so to speak, only for form. The committee only wanted to give her a scare, however, and, of course, came up with a third solution, conciliatory and sensible—that is, quite a proper fête in all respects, only without champagne, and thus with quite a decent sum as a balance, much more than ninety roubles. But Yulia Mikhailovna did not agree; her character despised the philistine middle. She resolved then and there, since the first idea was unfeasible, to rush immediately and entirely to the opposite extreme—that is, to realize a colossal collection that would be the envy of all the provinces. "For the public must finally understand," she concluded her fiery committee speech, "that the achievement of universal human goals is incomparably loftier than momentary physical pleasures, that the fête is essentially only a proclamation of the great idea, and therefore one must be content with the most economical little German ball, solely as an allegory, since it's impossible to do without this obnoxious ball altogether!"—so much did she suddenly hate it. But she was finally calmed down. It was then, for example, that they thought up and suggested the "quadrille of literature" and other aesthetic things to replace physical pleasures. It was then, too, that Karmazinov finally agreed to read Merci (until then he had only hemmed and hawed), and thereby annihilate even the very idea of food in the minds of our incontinent public. In this way the ball was again becoming a most magnificent festivity, though no longer of the same sort. And so as not to go soaring off completely into the clouds, it was decided that at the beginning of the ball they would serve tea with lemon and little round cookies, then orgeat and lemonade, and lastly even ice cream, but that was all. For those who, always and everywhere, inevitably feel hungry and, above all, thirsty—a special buffet would be opened at the far end of the suite of rooms, to be taken charge of by Prokhorych (the head cook at the club), who—though under strict supervision by the committee—would serve whatever anyone liked, but for a separate price, and to that end a written announcement would be posted at the door of the reception hall that the buffet was outside the program. But for the matinée they decided not to open the buffet at all, so as not to interfere with the reading, even though the buffet would be located five rooms away from the white hall in which Karmazinov had consented to read Merci. Curiously, it seems this event—that is, the reading of Merci—was seen by the committee as being all too colossally significant, and even by the most practical people. As for the more poetical people, the wife of the marshal of nobility announced to Karmazinov, for instance, that after the reading she would at once order a marble plaque to be fixed to the wall of her white hall with an inscription in gold saying that on such-and-such a day and year, here, on this spot, the great Russian and European writer, as he laid down his pen, read Merci and thus for the first time bade farewell to the Russian public in the persons of the representatives of our town, and that everyone would be able to read this inscription at the ball, that is, only five hours after Merci was read. I know for certain that it was chiefly Karmazinov who demanded that there be no buffet at the matinée, while he was reading, on any account whatsoever, despite the remarks of some committee members that this was not quite our way of doing things.