The fact is that you, with your narrow, provincial views and silly vanity, must needs always be surrounded by men dancing attendance on you, so that you may be able to boast about it to your lady friends in what you are pleased to call ‘Society.’
And possibly you think I have not understood the purpose of your ostentatiously familiar manner with me at the regimental soirees, your tender glances, etc., the intimately dictatorial tone you always assume when we are seen together.
Yes, precisely the chief object was that people should notice the free-and-easy way in which you treated me.
Except for this all your game would not have had the slightest meaning, for no real love or affection on my part has ever formed part of your—programme.”
“Even if such had been the case I might well have chosen a better and more worthy object than you,” replied Raisa, in a haughty and scornful tone.
“Such an answer from you is too ridiculous to insult me; for, listen, I repeat once more, your absurd vanity demands that some slave should always be dancing attendance on you.
But the years come and go, and the number of your slaves diminishes.
Finally, in order not to be entirely without admirers, you are forced to sacrifice your plighted troth, your duties as wife and mother.”
“No; but that’s quite sufficient. You shall most certainly hear from me,” whispered Raisa, in a significant tone and with glittering eyes.
At that moment, Captain Peterson came across the room with many absurd skips and shuffles in order to avoid colliding with the dancers.
He was a thin, consumptive man with a yellow complexion, bald head, and black eyes, in the warm and moist glance of which lurked treachery and malice.
It was said of him that, curiously enough, he was to such an extent infatuated with his wife that he played the part of intimate friend, in an unctuous and sickening way, with all her lovers.
It was likewise common knowledge that he had tried by means of acrimonious perfidy and the most vulgar intrigues to be revenged on every single person who had, with joy and relief, turned his back on the fair Raisa’s withered charms.
He smiled from a distance at his wife and Romashov with his bluish, pursed lips.
“Are you dancing, Romashov?
Well, how are you, my dear Georgi?
Where have you been all this time?
My wife and I were so used to your company that we have been quite dull without you.”
“Been awfully busy,” mumbled Romashov.
“Ah, yes, we all know about those military duties,” replied Captain Peterson, with a little insinuating whistle that was directly changed into an amicable smile.
His black eyes with their yellow pupils wandered, however, from Raisa to Romashov inquisitively.
“I have an idea that you two have been quarrelling.
Why do you both look so cross?
What has happened?”
Romashov stood silent whilst he gazed, worried and embarrassed, at Raisa’s skinny, dark, sinewy neck.
Raisa answered promptly, with the easy insolence she invariably displayed when lying:
“Yuri Alexievich is playing the philosopher.
He declares that dancing is both stupid and ridiculous, and that he has seen his best days.”
“And yet he dances?” replied the Captain, with a quick, snake-like glance at Romashov.
“Dance away, my children, and don’t let me disturb you.”
He had scarcely got out of earshot before Raisa Alexandrovna, in a hypocritical, pathetic tone, burst out with,
“And I have deceived this saint, this noblest of husbands.
And for whom?—Oh, if he knew all, if he only knew!”
“Mazurka generale,” shrieked Bobetinski.
“Gentlemen, resume your partners.”
The violently perspiring bodies of the dancers and the dust arising from the parquet floor made the air of the ballroom close, and the lights in the lamps and candelabra took a dull yellow tint.
The dancing was now in full swing, but as the space was insufficient, each couple, who every moment squeezed and pushed against one another, was obliged to tramp on the very same spot.
This figure—the last in the quadrille—consisted in a gentleman, who was without a partner, pursuing a couple who were dancing.
If he managed to come face to face with a lady he clapped her on the hand, which meant that the lady was now his booty.
The lady’s usual partner tried, of course, to prevent this, but by this arose a disorder and uproar which often resulted in some very brutal incidents.
“Actress,” whispered Romashov hoarsely, as he bent nearer to Raisa.
“You’re as pitiable as you are ridiculous.”
“And you are drunk,” the worthy lady almost shrieked, giving Romashov at the same time a glance resembling that with which the heroine on the stage measures the villain of the piece from head to foot.
“It only remains for me to find out,” pursued Romashov mercilessly, “the exact reason why I was chosen by you. But this, however, is a question which I can answer myself.
You gave yourself to me in order to get a hold on me.
Oh, if this had been done out of love or from sentiment merely!
But you were actuated by a base vanity.
Are you not frightened at the mere thought of the depths into which we have both sunk, without even a spark of love that might redeem the crime?
You must understand that this is even more wretched than when a woman sells herself for money.
Then dire necessity is frequently the tempter. But in this case—the memory of this senseless, unpardonable crime will always be to me a source of shame and loathing.”