“Permettez... but what is the good of that sort of thing here... All I need say is: I engage you for the mazurka”...
“Very well!” she replied in a trembling voice, throwing a beseeching glance around. Alas! Her mother was a long way off, and not one of the cavaliers of her acquaintance was near. A certain aide-de-camp apparently saw the whole scene, but he concealed himself behind the crowd in order not to be mixed up in the affair.
“What?” said the drunken gentleman, winking to the captain of dragoons, who was encouraging him by signs. “Do you not wish to dance then?... All the same I again have the honour to engage you for the mazurka... You think, perhaps, that I am drunk! That is all right!... I can dance all the easier, I assure you”...
I saw that she was on the point of fainting with fright and indignation.
I went up to the drunken gentleman, caught him none too gently by the arm, and, looking him fixedly in the face, requested him to retire. “Because,” I added, “the Princess promised long ago to dance the mazurka with me.”
“Well, then, there’s nothing to be done! Another time!” he said, bursting out laughing, and he retired to his abashed companions, who immediately conducted him into another room.
I was rewarded by a deep, wondrous glance.
The Princess went up to her mother and told her the whole story. The latter sought me out among the crowd and thanked me. She informed me that she knew my mother and was on terms of friendship with half a dozen of my aunts.
“I do not know how it has happened that we have not made your acquaintance up to now,” she added; “but confess, you alone are to blame for that. You fight shy of everyone in a positively unseemly way. I hope the air of my drawingroom will dispel your spleen... Do you not think so?”
I uttered one of the phrases which everybody must have ready for such an occasion.
The quadrilles dragged on a dreadfully long time.
At last the music struck up from the gallery, Princess Mary and I took up our places.
I did not once allude to the drunken gentleman, or to my previous behaviour, or to Grushnitski. The impression produced upon her by the unpleasant scene was gradually dispelled; her face brightened up; she jested very charmingly; her conversation was witty, without pretensions to wit, vivacious and spontaneous; her observations were sometimes profound... In a very involved sentence I gave her to understand that I had liked her for a long time. She bent her head and blushed slightly.
“You are a strange man!” she said, with a forced laugh, lifting her velvet eyes upon me.
“I did not wish to make your acquaintance,” I continued, “because you are surrounded by too dense a throng of adorers, in which I was afraid of being lost to sight altogether.”
“You need not have been afraid; they are all very tiresome”...
“All? Not all, surely?”
She looked fixedly at me as if endeavouring to recollect something, then blushed slightly again and finally pronounced with decision:
“All!”
“Even my friend, Grushnitski?”
“But is he your friend?” she said, manifesting some doubt.
“Yes.”
“He, of course, does not come into the category of the tiresome”...
“But into that of the unfortunate!” I said, laughing.
“Of course! But do you consider that funny? I should like you to be in his place”...
“Well? I was once a cadet myself, and, in truth, it was the best time of my life!”
“Is he a cadet, then?”... she said rapidly, and then added: “But I thought”...
“What did you think?”...
“Nothing! Who is that lady?”
Thereupon the conversation took a different direction, and it did not return to the former subject.
And now the mazurka came to an end and we separated—until we should meet again. The ladies drove off in different directions. I went to get some supper, and met Werner.
“Aha!” he said: “so it is you! And yet you did not wish to make the acquaintance of Princess Mary otherwise than by saving her from certain death.”
“I have done better,” I replied. “I have saved her from fainting at the ball”...
“How was that? Tell me.”
“No, guess!—O, you who guess everything in the world!”
CHAPTER VI. 30th May.
ABOUT seven o’clock in the evening, I was walking on the boulevard. Grushnitski perceived me a long way off, and came up to me. A sort of ridiculous rapture was shining in his eyes. He pressed my hand warmly, and said in a tragic voice:
“I thank you, Pechorin... You understand me?”
“No; but in any case it is not worth gratitude,” I answered, not having, in fact, any good deed upon my conscience.
“What? But yesterday! Have you forgotten?... Mary has told me everything”...
“Why! Have you everything in common so soon as this? Even gratitude?”...
“Listen,” said Grushnitski very earnestly; “pray do not make fun of my love, if you wish to remain my friend... You see, I love her to the point of madness... and I think—I hope—she loves me too... I have a request to make of you. You will be at their house this evening; promise me to observe everything. I know you are experienced in these matters, you know women better than I... Women! Women! Who can understand them? Their smiles contradict their glances, their words promise and allure, but the tone of their voice repels... At one time they grasp and divine in a moment our most secret thoughts, at another they cannot understand the clearest hints... Take Princess Mary, now: yesterday her eyes, as they rested upon me, were blazing with passion; to-day they are dull and cold”...
“That is possibly the result of the waters,” I replied.
“You see the bad side of everything... materialist,” he added contemptuously. “However, let us talk of other matters.”
And, satisfied with his bad pun, he cheered up.
At nine o’clock we went to Princess Ligovski’s together.
Passing by Vera’s windows, I saw her looking out. We threw a fleeting glance at each other. She entered the Ligovskis’ drawing-room soon after us. Princess Ligovski presented me to her, as a relation of her own. Tea was served. The guests were numerous, and the conversation was general. I endeavoured to please the Princess, jested, and made her laugh heartily a few times. Princess Mary, also, was more than once on the point of bursting out laughing, but she restrained herself in order not to depart from the role she had assumed. She finds languor becoming to her, and perhaps she is not mistaken. Grushnitski appears to be very glad that she is not infected by my gaiety.
After tea we all went into the drawingroom.
“Are you satisfied with my obedience, Vera?” I said as I was passing her.
She threw me a glance full of love and gratitude. I have grown accustomed to such glances; but at one time they constituted my felicity. The Princess seated her daughter at the pianoforte, and all the company begged her to sing. I kept silence, and, taking advantage of the hubbub, I went aside to the window with