A Hero of Our Time - Mikhail IUr'evich Lermontov [62]
I depicted my affection, my anxieties, my raptures so vividly. I painted her behavior and character in such an advantageous light, that against her will, she had to forgive me for my flirtations with the princess.
She stood up, came and sat with us, and livened up . . . and it was not until two o’clock at night that we all remembered the doctor had ordered us to go to bed at eleven.
June 5
Half an hour before the ball began, Grushnitsky appeared at my place in the total brilliance of a full dress infantry uniform. There was a little bronze chain attached to his third button, on which hung a double lorgnette; his epaulets of incredible size were turned up like the little wings of Cupid; his boots squeaked; in his left hand he held brown kid-gloves and a military cap, and with his right hand he fluffed up the wavy tuft of his crested hair into little curls. His face expressed self-satisfaction with a touch of uncertainty. His festive appearance and his proud demeanor would have made me laugh if it had been in accordance with my plans.
He cast his military cap and gloves onto the table and started to pull down his coattails and to adjust himself in the mirror. He had an enormous black neckcloth, which was wound around an extremely high stiffener, the bristles of which supported his chin and stuck out half an inch above his collar. But it seemed to him that it showed too little so he pulled it up further, to his ears. Since the collar of his uniform was very tight, this great effort made his face fill with blood.
“They say that these days you are chasing after my princess awfully much,” he said rather carelessly, without looking at me.
“What would fools like us be doing drinking tea?” I replied, repeating the favorite proverb of one of the cleverest rakes of a previous era, as once extolled by Pushkin.13
“Tell me, does this uniform sit well on me? Oh, that damnable Jew! How this cuts into me under the arms! Do you not have any perfume?”
“For pity’s sake, do you need more? You already reek of rose pomade . . .”
“Never mind. Pass it here . . .”
He poured half the vial under his neckcloth, into his handkerchief and onto his sleeves.
“Are you going to dance?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“I am afraid that I will have to start the mazurka with the princess—and I barely know even one of the figures . . .”
“Have you reserved her for the mazurka?”
“Not yet . . .”
“Careful that you have not been preempted . . .”
“Really?” he said, clapping his hand on his forehead. “See you later . . . I am going to wait for her at the entrance.” He grabbed his military cap and ran off.
I set off half an hour later. The street was dark and empty; a crowd was squeezing around the hall or the tavern (whichever you’d like to call it); its windows were illuminated; the evening wind carried the sounds of a military band to me. I walked slowly. I was melancholy . . . Can it be that my single purpose on this earth is to destroy the hopes of others? Since I have been living and breathing, fate has somehow always led me into the dramatic climaxes of others’ lives, as if without me no one would be able to die, or to come to despair! I have been the necessary character of the fifth act; I have played the sorry role of executioner or traitor involuntarily. What was fate’s intent in all this? . . . Was I appointed the author of bourgeois tragedies and family novels—or collaborator to those who supply stories to the “Library for Reading”?14 . . . How could I know? How many people begin life thinking that they will end it like Alexander the Great or Lord Byron, and yet remain a titular counselor for the duration . . .
Entering the hall, I hid in a crowd of men and started to make my observations. Grushnitsky stood by the princess and was saying something with great heat; she was listening to him absentmindedly, looking from side to side, putting her fan to her lips; her face expressed impatience; her eyes were searching for someone. I quietly walked up behind them, in order to listen to their