Of the unquestionable dignitaries of our town, only one turned up at the ball—that same important retired general I have already described once, who, at the marshal's wife's, after the duel between Stavrogin and Gaganov, had "opened the door for public impatience."
He pompously strutted about the rooms, looked and listened, and tried to make it seem as if he had come more to observe morals than for any indubitable pleasure. He ended by attaching himself wholly to Yulia Mikhailovna and would not go a step away from her, apparently trying to reassure her and calm her. He was undoubtedly a most kind man, a great dignitary, and so very old that one could even tolerate his pity. But to confess to herself that this old babbler dared to pity her and almost to patronize her, understanding that he was honoring her with his presence, was extremely vexing. And the general would not leave off but kept babbling nonstop.
"A city, they say, cannot stand without seven righteous men... seven, I think, I don't remember the re-com-men-ded number.[180]How many of these seven... indubitably righteous men of our town... have the honor of attending your ball, I don't know, but in spite of their presence I am beginning to feel myself unsafe. Vous me pardonnerez, charmante dame, n'est-ce pas?[clii] I am speaking al-le-gor-i-cally, but I went to the buffet and am glad to have come back in one piece ... Our inestimable Prokhorych is out of place there, and it looks as though his kiosk will be pulled down before morning. I'm joking, however. I'm only waiting to see how this 'quadrille of lit-er-ature' turns out, and then to bed. Forgive a gouty old man, I retire early, and I'd advise you to go 'bye-bye,' too, as they say aux enfants. In fact, I came for the young beauties ... whom, of course, I can meet nowhere else in such rich assortment, except in this place here... They're all from across the river, and I don't go there. There's the wife of one officer ... of the chasseurs, I think... not bad, not bad at all, and... and she knows it herself. I spoke with the minx—a pert thing, and... well, and the girls are fresh, too; but that's about it; apart from the freshness—nothing. Still, it's a pleasure. There are some sweet little buds; only they have thick lips. Generally, the Russian beauty of women's faces has little of that regularity and... and comes down to something like a pancake... Vous me pardonnerez, n 'est-ce pas ... with nice eyes, however... pretty, laughing eyes. These little buds are cha-a-arming for about two years of their youth, even three... well, and then they spread out forever... producing in their husbands that lamentable in-dif-fer-entism which contributes so much to the development of the woman question ... if I understand that question correctly ... Hm. The hall is nice; the décor isn't bad. Could be worse. The music could be much worse ... not to say it should be. Generally, having so few ladies produces a bad impression. I o-mit all men-tion of costume. It's bad that that one in the gray trousers allows himself to can-can-ize so openly. If it's from joy, I'll forgive him, and also because he's the local apothecary... but before eleven is still too early even for an apothecary... Two men had a fight there in the buffet, and they weren't taken out. Before eleven the fighters ought to be taken out, whatever the morals of the public... not to say past two; there we must yield to public opinion—if this ball survives until two o'clock. Varvara Petrovna, however, didn't keep her promise and supply the flowers. Hm, she can't be bothered with flowers, pauvre mère! And poor Liza, have you heard? A mysterious story, they say, and... and Stavrogin is back in the arena... Hm. I'd like to go home to bed... I'm dropping off. And when is this 'quadrille of lit-er-ature'?"
At last the "quadrille of literature" began.[181] In town lately, whenever a conversation about the coming ball started up somewhere, it would inevitably come round to this "quadrille of literature," and since no one could imagine what it was, it aroused boundless curiosity. Nothing could have been a greater threat to its success, and—what a disappointment it turned out to be!
The side doors to the White Hall, hitherto locked, were now opened, and several maskers suddenly appeared. The public eagerly surrounded them. The entire buffet to the last man poured into the hall at once. The maskers took up their positions for the dance. I managed to squeeze to the front and settled myself just behind Yulia Mikhailovna, von Lembke, and the general. Here Pyotr Stepanovich, who had been missing so far, sprang over to Yulia Mikhailovna.
"I've been in the buffet all this time, watching," he whispered, with the air of a guilty schoolboy, assumed on purpose, however, to tease her even more. She flushed with anger.
"Stop deceiving me now, at least, you brazen man!" escaped her, almost aloud, so that it was heard in the public. Pyotr Stepanovich sprang away, extremely pleased with himself.
It would be hard to imagine a more pathetic, trite, giftless, and insipid allegory than this "quadrille of literature." Nothing less suited to our public could have been devised; and yet it was said to have been devised by Karmazinov. True, it was arranged by Liputin, with advice from that lame teacher who had been at Virginsky's party. But, all the same, Karmazinov had supplied the idea, and it was said that he even wanted to dress up himself and take some special and independent role. The quadrille consisted of six pairs of pathetic maskers—almost not even maskers, because they were wearing the same clothes as everyone else. Thus, for example, one elderly gentleman, short, in a tailcoat— dressed like everyone else, in a word—with a venerable gray beard (tied on, this constituting the whole costume), was shuffling in place as he danced, with a solid expression on his face, trotting with rapid, tiny steps, and almost without moving from his place. He was producing some sounds in a moderate but husky bass, and it was this huskiness of his voice that was meant to signify one of the well-known newspapers. Opposite this masker danced a pair of giants, X and Z, with those letters pinned to their tailcoats, but what the X and Z signified remained unclear. "Honest Russian thought" was presented as a middle-aged gentleman in spectacles, tailcoat, gloves, and—in fetters (real fetters). Under this thought's arm was a briefcase containing some "dossier." Out of his pocket peeked an unsealed letter from abroad, which included an attestation, for all who doubted it, of the honesty of "honest Russian thought." All this was filled in orally by the ushers, since it was hardly possible to read a letter sticking out of someone's pocket. In his raised right hand "honest Russian thought" was holding a glass, as if he wished to propose a toast. Close to him on either side two crop-haired nihilist girls were trotting, while vis-à-vis danced some gentleman, also elderly, in a tailcoat, but with a heavy club in his hand, supposedly representing the non-Petersburg but formidable publication: One Swat—A Wet Spot. But, in spite of his club, he was quite unable to endure the spectacles of "honest Russian thought" staring fixedly at him and tried to avert his eyes, and as he performed the pas de deux, he twisted and fidgeted and did not know what to do with himself—so greatly, no doubt, did his conscience torment him... However, I cannot recall all these dumb little inventions;
everything was in the same vein, so that I finally felt painfully ashamed. And precisely the same impression as if of shame showed in all the public, even on the most sullen physiognomies from the buffet. For some time everyone was silent and watched in angry perplexity. An ashamed man usually begins to get angry and is inclined to cynicism. Gradually our public began to buzz: