No More Learning

"But why are you standing? You'll get tired. Can't you find a seat? "

"That's just it, I can't," I answered, more occupied with my grievance
than with the beauty's sparkling eyes, and rejoicing in earnest at
having found a kind heart to whom I could confide my troubles. "I have
looked everywhere, but all the chairs are taken," I added, as though
complaining to her that all the chairs were taken.

"Come here," she said briskly, quick to act on every decision, and,
indeed, on every mad idea that flashed on her giddy brain, "come here,
and sit on my knee. "

"On your knee," I repeated, taken aback. I have mentioned already that I
had begun to resent the privileges of childhood and to be ashamed of
them in earnest. This lady, as though in derision, had gone ever so much
further than the others. Moreover, I had always been a shy and bashful
boy, and of late had begun to be particularly shy with women.

"Why yes, on my knee. Why don't you want to sit on my knee? " she
persisted, beginning to laugh more and more, so that at last she was
simply giggling, goodness knows at what, perhaps at her freak, or
perhaps at my confusion. But that was just what she wanted.

I flushed, and in my confusion looked round trying to find where to
escape; but seeing my intention she managed to catch hold of my hand to
prevent me from going away, and pulling it towards her, suddenly, quite
unexpectedly, to my intense astonishment, squeezed it in her mischievous
warm fingers, and began to pinch my fingers till they hurt so much that
I had to do my very utmost not to cry out, and in my effort to control
myself made the most absurd grimaces. I was, besides, moved to the
greatest amazement, perplexity, and even horror, at the discovery that
there were ladies so absurd and spiteful as to talk nonsense to boys,
and even pinch their fingers, for no earthly reason and before
everybody. Probably my unhappy face reflected my bewilderment, for the
mischievous creature laughed in my face, as though she were crazy, and
meantime she was pinching my fingers more and more vigorously. She was
highly delighted in playing such a mischievous prank and completely
mystifying and embarrassing a poor boy. My position was desperate. In
the first place I was hot with shame, because almost every one near had
turned round to look at us, some in wonder, others with laughter,
grasping at once that the beauty was up to some mischief. I dreadfully
wanted to scream, too, for she was wringing my fingers with positive
fury just because I didn't scream; while I, like a Spartan, made up my
mind to endure the agony, afraid by crying out of causing a general
fuss, which was more than I could face. In utter despair I began at last
struggling with her, trying with all my might to pull away my hand, but
my persecutor was much stronger than I was. At last I could bear it no
longer, and uttered a shriek--that was all she was waiting for!
Instantly she let me go, and turned away as though nothing had happened,
as though it was not she who had played the trick but some one else,
exactly like some schoolboy who, as soon as the master's back is turned,
plays some trick on some one near him, pinches some small weak boy,
gives him a flip, a kick, or a nudge with his elbows, and instantly
turns again, buries himself in his book and begins repeating his lesson,
and so makes a fool of the infuriated teacher who flies down like a hawk
at the noise.

But luckily for me the general attention was distracted at the moment by
the masterly acting of our host, who was playing the chief part in the
performance, some comedy of Scribe's. Every one began to applaud; under
cover of the noise I stole away and hurried to the furthest end of the
room, from which, concealed behind a column, I looked with horror
towards the place where the treacherous beauty was sitting. She was
still laughing, holding her handkerchief to her lips. And for a long
time she was continually turning round, looking for me in every
direction, probably regretting that our silly tussle was so soon over,
and hatching some other trick to play on me.

That was the beginning of our acquaintance, and from that evening she
would never let me alone. She persecuted me without consideration or
conscience, she became my tyrant and tormentor. The whole absurdity of
her jokes with me lay in the fact that she pretended to be head over
ears in love with me, and teased me before every one. Of course for a
wild creature as I was all this was so tiresome and vexatious that it
almost reduced me to tears, and I was sometimes put in such a difficult
position that I was on the point of fighting with my treacherous
admirer. My naïve confusion, my desperate distress, seemed to egg her on
to persecute me more; she knew no mercy, while I did not know how to get
away from her. The laughter which always accompanied us, and which she
knew so well how to excite, roused her to fresh pranks. But at last
people began to think that she went a little too far in her jests. And,
indeed, as I remember now, she did take outrageous liberties with a
child such as I was.

But that was her character; she was a spoilt child in every respect. I
heard afterwards that her husband, a very short, very fat, and very
red-faced man, very rich and apparently very much occupied with
business, spoilt her more than any one. Always busy and flying round, he
could not stay two hours in one place. Every day he drove into Moscow,
sometimes twice in the day, and always, as he declared himself, on
business. It would be hard to find a livelier and more good-natured face
than his facetious but always well-bred countenance. He not only loved
his wife to the point of weakness, softness: he simply worshipped her
like an idol.

He did not restrain her in anything. She had masses of friends, male and
female. In the first place, almost everybody liked her; and secondly,
the feather-headed creature was not herself over particular in the
choice of her friends, though there was a much more serious foundation
to her character than might be supposed from what I have just said about
her. But of all her friends she liked best of all one young lady, a
distant relation, who was also of our party now. There existed between
them a tender and subtle affection, one of those attachments which
sometimes spring up at the meeting of two dispositions often the very
opposite of each other, of which one is deeper, purer and more austere,
while the other, with lofty humility, and generous self-criticism,
lovingly gives way to the other, conscious of the friend's superiority
and cherishing the friendship as a happiness. Then begins that tender
and noble subtlety in the relations of such characters, love and
infinite indulgence on the one side, on the other love and respect--a
respect approaching awe, approaching anxiety as to the impression made
on the friend so highly prized, and an eager, jealous desire to get
closer and closer to that friend's heart in every step in life.

These two friends were of the same age, but there was an immense
difference between them in everything--in looks, to begin with. Madame
M. was also very handsome, but there was something special in her beauty
that strikingly distinguished her from the crowd of pretty women; there
was something in her face that at once drew the affection of all to her,
or rather, which aroused a generous and lofty feeling of kindliness in
every one who met her. There are such happy faces. At her side everyone
grew as it were better, freer, more cordial; and yet her big mournful
eyes, full of fire and vigour, had a timid and anxious look, as though
every minute dreading something antagonistic and menacing, and this
strange timidity at times cast so mournful a shade over her mild, gentle
features which recalled the serene faces of Italian Madonnas, that
looking at her one soon became oneself sad, as though for some trouble
of one's own. The pale, thin face, in which, through the irreproachable
beauty of the pure, regular lines and the mournful severity of some mute
hidden grief, there often flitted the clear looks of early childhood,
telling of trustful years and perhaps simple-hearted happiness in the
recent past, the gentle but diffident, hesitating smile, all aroused
such unaccountable sympathy for her that every heart was unconsciously
stirred with a sweet and warm anxiety that powerfully interceded on her
behalf even at a distance, and made even strangers feel akin to her. But
the lovely creature seemed silent and reserved, though no one could have
been more attentive and loving if any one needed sympathy. There are
women who are like sisters of mercy in life. Nothing can be hidden from
them, nothing, at least, that is a sore or wound of the heart. Any one
who is suffering may go boldly and hopefully to them without fear of
being a burden, for few men know the infinite patience of love,
compassion and forgiveness that may be found in some women's hearts.
Perfect treasures of sympathy, consolation and hope are laid up in these
pure hearts, so often full of suffering of their own--for a heart which
loves much grieves much--though their wounds are carefully hidden from
the curious eye, for deep sadness is most often mute and concealed. They
are not dismayed by the depth of the wound, nor by its foulness and its
stench; any one who comes to them is deserving of help; they are, as it
were, born for heroism. . . . Mme. M. was tall, supple and graceful, but
rather thin. All her movements seemed somehow irregular, at times slow,
smooth, and even dignified, at times childishly hasty; and yet, at the
same time, there was a sort of timid humility in her gestures, something
tremulous and defenceless, though it neither desired nor asked for
protection.

I have mentioned already that the outrageous teasing of the treacherous
fair lady abashed me, flabbergasted me, and wounded me to the quick. But
there was for that another secret, strange and foolish reason, which I
concealed, at which I shuddered as at a skeleton. At the very thought of
it, brooding, utterly alone and overwhelmed, in some dark mysterious
corner to which the inquisitorial mocking eye of the blue-eyed rogue
could not penetrate, I almost gasped with confusion, shame and fear--in
short, I was in love; that perhaps is nonsense, that could hardly have
been. But why was it, of all the faces surrounding me, only her face
caught my attention? Why was it that it was only she whom I cared to
follow with my eyes, though I certainly had no inclination in those days
to watch ladies and seek their acquaintance? This happened most
frequently on the evenings when we were all kept indoors by bad weather,
and when, lonely, hiding in some corner of the big drawing-room, I
stared about me aimlessly, unable to find anything to do, for except my
teasing ladies, few people ever addressed me, and I was insufferably
bored on such evenings. Then I stared at the people round me, listened
to the conversation, of which I often did not understand one word, and
at that time the mild eyes, the gentle smile and lovely face of Mme. M.
(for she was the object of my passion) for some reason caught my
fascinated attention; and the strange vague, but unutterably sweet
impression remained with me. Often for hours together I could not tear
myself away from her; I studied every gesture, every movement she made,
listened to every vibration of her rich, silvery, but rather muffled
voice; but strange to say, as the result of all my observations, I felt,
mixed with a sweet and timid impression, a feeling of intense curiosity.
It seemed as though I were on the verge of some mystery.

Nothing distressed me so much as being mocked at in the presence of Mme.
M. This mockery and humorous persecution, as I thought, humiliated me.
And when there was a general burst of laughter at my expense, in which
Mme. M. sometimes could not help joining, in despair, beside myself with
misery, I used to tear myself from my tormentor and run away upstairs,
where I remained in solitude the rest of the day, not daring to show my
face in the drawing-room. I did not yet, however, understand my shame
nor my agitation; the whole process went on in me unconsciously. I had
hardly said two words to Mme. M. , and indeed I should not have dared to.
But one evening after an unbearable day I turned back from an expedition
with the rest of the company. I was horribly tired and made my way home
across the garden. On a seat in a secluded avenue I saw Mme. M. She was
sitting quite alone, as though she had purposely chosen this solitary
spot, her head was drooping and she was mechanically twisting her
handkerchief. She was so lost in thought that she did not hear me till I
reached her.

Noticing me, she got up quickly from her seat, turned round, and I saw
her hurriedly wipe her eyes with her handkerchief. She was crying.
Drying her eyes, she smiled to me and walked back with me to the house.
I don't remember what we talked about; but she frequently sent me off on
one pretext or another, to pick a flower, or to see who was riding in
the next avenue. And when I walked away from her, she at once put her
handkerchief to her eyes again and wiped away rebellious tears, which
would persist in rising again and again from her heart and dropping from
her poor eyes. I realized that I was very much in her way when she sent
me off so often, and, indeed, she saw herself that I noticed it all, but
yet could not control herself, and that made my heart ache more and more
for her. I raged at myself at that moment and was almost in despair;
cursed myself for my awkwardness and lack of resource, and at the same
time did not know how to leave her tactfully, without betraying that I
had noticed her distress, but walked beside her in mournful
bewilderment, almost in alarm, utterly at a loss and unable to find a
single word to keep up our scanty conversation.

This meeting made such an impression on me that I stealthily watched
Mme. M. the whole evening with eager curiosity, and never took my eyes
off her. But it happened that she twice caught me unawares watching her,
and on the second occasion, noticing me, she gave me a smile. It was the
only time she smiled that evening. The look of sadness had not left her
face, which was now very pale. She spent the whole evening talking to an
ill-natured and quarrelsome old lady, whom nobody liked owing to her
spying and backbiting habits, but of whom every one was afraid, and
consequently every one felt obliged to be polite to her. . . .

At ten o'clock Mme. M. 's husband arrived. Till that moment I watched her
very attentively, never taking my eyes off her mournful face; now at the
unexpected entrance of her husband I saw her start, and her pale face
turned suddenly as white as a handkerchief. It was so noticeable that
other people observed it. I overheard a fragmentary conversation from
which I guessed that Mme. M. was not quite happy; they said her husband
was as jealous as an Arab, not from love, but from vanity. He was before
all things a European, a modern man, who sampled the newest ideas and
prided himself upon them. In appearance he was a tall, dark-haired,
particularly thick-set man, with European whiskers, with a
self-satisfied, red face, with teeth white as sugar, and with an
irreproachably gentlemanly deportment. He was called a _clever man_.
Such is the name given in certain circles to a peculiar species of
mankind which grows fat at other people's expense, which does absolutely
nothing and has no desire to do anything, and whose heart has turned
into a lump of fat from everlasting slothfulness and idleness. You
continually hear from such men that there is nothing they can do owing
to certain very complicated and hostile circumstances, which "thwart
their genius," and that it was "sad to see the waste of their talents. "
This is a fine phrase of theirs, their _mot d'ordre_, their watchword, a
phrase which these well-fed, fat friends of ours bring out at every
minute, so that it has long ago bored us as an arrant Tartuffism, an
empty form of words. Some, however, of these amusing creatures, who
cannot succeed in finding anything to do--though, indeed, they never
seek it--try to make every one believe that they have not a lump of fat
for a heart, but on the contrary, something _very deep_, though what
precisely the greatest surgeon would hardly venture to decide--from
civility, of course. These gentlemen make their way in the world through
the fact that all their instincts are bent in the direction of coarse
sneering, short-sighted censure and immense conceit. Since they have
nothing else to do but note and emphasize the mistakes and weaknesses of
others, and as they have precisely as much good feeling as an oyster, it
is not difficult for them with such powers of self-preservation to get
on with people fairly successfully. They pride themselves extremely upon
that. They are, for instance, as good as persuaded that almost the whole
world owes them something; that it is theirs, like an oyster which they
keep in reserve; that all are fools except themselves; that every one is
like an orange or a sponge, which they will squeeze as soon as they want
the juice; that they are the masters everywhere, and that all this
acceptable state of affairs is solely due to the fact that they are
people of so much intellect and character. In their measureless conceit
they do not admit any defects in themselves, they are like that species
of practical rogues, innate Tartuffes and Falstaffs, who are such
thorough rogues that at last they have come to believe that that is as
it should be, that is, that they should spend their lives in
knavishness; they have so often assured every one that they are honest
men, that they have come to believe that they are honest men, and that
their roguery is honesty. They are never capable of inner judgment
before their conscience, of generous self-criticism; for some things
they are too fat. Their own priceless personality, their Baal and
Moloch, their magnificent _ego_ is always in their foreground
everywhere. All nature, the whole world for them is no more than a
splendid mirror created for the little god to admire himself continually
in it, and to see no one and nothing behind himself; so it is not
strange that he sees everything in the world in such a hideous light. He
has a phrase in readiness for everything and--the acme of ingenuity on
his part--the most fashionable phrase. It is just these people, indeed,
who help to make the fashion, proclaiming at every cross-road an idea in
which they scent success. A fine nose is just what they have for
sniffing a fashionable phrase and making it their own before other
people get hold of it, so that it seems to have originated with them.
They have a particular store of phrases for proclaiming their profound
sympathy for humanity, for defining what is the most correct and
rational form of philanthropy, and continually attacking romanticism, in
other words, everything fine and true, each atom of which is more
precious than all their mollusc tribe. But they are too coarse to
recognize the truth in an indirect, roundabout and unfinished form, and
they reject everything that is immature, still fermenting and unstable.
The well-nourished man has spent all his life in merry-making, with
everything provided, has done nothing himself and does not know how hard
every sort of work is, and so woe betide you if you jar upon his fat
feelings by any sort of roughness; he'll never forgive you for that, he
will always remember it and will gladly avenge it. The long and short of
it is, that my hero is neither more nor less than a gigantic, incredibly
swollen bag, full of sentences, fashionable phrases, and labels of all
sorts and kinds.

M. M. , however, had a speciality and was a very remarkable man; he was a
wit, good talker and story-teller, and there was always a circle round
him in every drawing-room. That evening he was particularly successful
in making an impression. He took possession of the conversation; he was
in his best form, gay, pleased at something, and he compelled the
attention of all; but Mme. M. looked all the time as though she were
ill; her face was so sad that I fancied every minute that tears would
begin quivering on her long eyelashes. All this, as I have said,
impressed me extremely and made me wonder. I went away with a feeling of
strange curiosity, and dreamed all night of M. M. , though till then I
had rarely had dreams.

Next day, early in the morning, I was summoned to a rehearsal of some
tableaux vivants in which I had to take part. The tableaux vivants,
theatricals, and afterwards a dance were all fixed for the same evening,
five days later--the birthday of our host's younger daughter. To this
entertainment, which was almost improvised, another hundred guests were
invited from Moscow and from surrounding villas, so that there was a
great deal of fuss, bustle and commotion. The rehearsal, or rather
review of the costumes, was fixed so early in the morning because our
manager, a well-known artist, a friend of our host's, who had consented
through affection for him to undertake the arrangement of the tableaux
and the training of us for them, was in haste now to get to Moscow to
purchase properties and to make final preparations for the fête, as
there was no time to lose. I took part in one tableau with Mme. M. It
was a scene from mediæval life and was called "The Lady of the Castle
and Her Page. "

I felt unutterably confused on meeting Mme. M. at the rehearsal. I kept
feeling that she would at once read in my eyes all the reflections, the
doubts, the surmises, that had arisen in my mind since the previous day.
I fancied, too, that I was, as it were, to blame in regard to her, for
having come upon her tears the day before and hindered her grieving, so
that she could hardly help looking at me askance, as an unpleasant
witness and unforgiven sharer of her secret. But, thank goodness, it
went off without any great trouble; I was simply not noticed. I think
she had no thoughts to spare for me or for the rehearsal; she was
absent-minded, sad and gloomily thoughtful; it was evident that she was
worried by some great anxiety. As soon as my part was over I ran away to
change my clothes, and ten minutes later came out on the verandah into
the garden. Almost at the same time Mme. M. came out by another door,
and immediately afterwards coming towards us appeared her self-satisfied
husband, who was returning from the garden, after just escorting into it
quite a crowd of ladies and there handing them over to a competent
_cavaliere servente_. The meeting of the husband and wife was evidently
unexpected. Mme. M. , I don't know why, grew suddenly confused, and a
faint trace of vexation was betrayed in her impatient movement. The
husband, who had been carelessly whistling an air and with an air of
profundity stroking his whiskers, now, on meeting his wife, frowned and
scrutinized her, as I remember now, with a markedly inquisitorial stare.

"You are going into the garden? " he asked, noticing the parasol and book
in her hand.

"No, into the copse," she said, with a slight flush.

"Alone? "

"With him," said Mme. M. , pointing to me. "I always go a walk alone in
the morning," she added, speaking in an uncertain, hesitating voice, as
people do when they tell their first lie.

"H'm . . . and I have just taken the whole party there. They have all met
there together in the flower arbour to see N. off. He is going away, you
know. . . . Something has gone wrong in Odessa. Your cousin" (he meant the
fair beauty) "is laughing and crying at the same time; there is no
making her out. She says, though, that you are angry with N. about
something and so wouldn't go and see him off. Nonsense, of course? "

"She's laughing," said Mme. M.
, coming down the verandah steps.

"So this is your daily _cavaliere servente_," added M. M. , with a wry
smile, turning his lorgnette upon me.

"Page! " I cried, angered by the lorgnette and the jeer; and laughing
straight in his face I jumped down the three steps of the verandah at
one bound.

"A pleasant walk," muttered M. M. , and went on his way.

Of course, I immediately joined Mme. M. as soon as she indicated me to
her husband, and looked as though she had invited me to do so an hour
before, and as though I had been accompanying her on her walks every
morning for the last month. But I could not make out why she was so
confused, so embarrassed, and what was in her mind when she brought
herself to have recourse to her little lie? Why had she not simply said
that she was going alone? I did not know how to look at her, but
overwhelmed with wonder I began by degrees very naïvely peeping into her
face; but just as an hour before at the rehearsal she did not notice
either my looks or my mute question. The same anxiety, only more intense
and more distinct, was apparent in her face, in her agitation, in her
walk. She was in haste, and walked more and more quickly and kept
looking uneasily down every avenue, down every path in the wood that led
in the direction of the garden. And I, too, was expecting something.
Suddenly there was the sound of horses' hoofs behind us. It was the
whole party of ladies and gentlemen on horseback escorting N. , the
gentleman who was so suddenly deserting us.

Among the ladies was my fair tormentor, of whom M. M. had told us that
she was in tears. But characteristically she was laughing like a child,
and was galloping briskly on a splendid bay horse. On reaching us N.
took off his hat, but did not stop, nor say one word to Mme. M. Soon all
the cavalcade disappeared from our sight. I glanced at Mme. M. and
almost cried out in wonder; she was standing as white as a handkerchief
and big tears were gushing from her eyes. By chance our eyes met: Mme.
M. suddenly flushed and turned away for an instant, and a distinct look
of uneasiness and vexation flitted across her face. I was in the way,
worse even than last time, that was clearer than day, but how was I to
get away?

And, as though guessing my difficulty, Mme. M. opened the book which she
had in her hand, and colouring and evidently trying not to look at me
she said, as though she had only suddenly realized it--

"Ah! It is the second part. I've made a mistake; please bring me the
first. "

I could not but understand. My part was over, and I could not have been
more directly dismissed.

I ran off with her book and did not come back. The first part lay
undisturbed on the table that morning. . . .

But I was not myself; in my heart there was a sort of haunting terror. I
did my utmost not to meet Mme. M. But I looked with wild curiosity at
the self-satisfied person of M. M. , as though there must be something
special about him now. I don't understand what was the meaning of my
absurd curiosity. I only remember that I was strangely perplexed by all
that I had chanced to see that morning. But the day was only just
beginning and it was fruitful in events for me.

Dinner was very early that day. An expedition to a neighbouring hamlet
to see a village festival that was taking place there had been fixed for
the evening, and so it was necessary to be in time to get ready. I had
been dreaming for the last three days of this excursion, anticipating
all sorts of delights. Almost all the company gathered together on the
verandah for coffee. I cautiously followed the others and concealed
myself behind the third row of chairs. I was attracted by curiosity, and
yet I was very anxious not to be seen by Mme. M. But as luck would have
it I was not far from my fair tormentor. Something miraculous and
incredible was happening to her that day; she looked twice as handsome.
I don't know how and why this happens, but such miracles are by no means
rare with women. There was with us at this moment a new guest, a tall,
pale-faced young man, the official admirer of our fair beauty, who had
just arrived from Moscow as though on purpose to replace N. , of whom
rumour said that he was desperately in love with the same lady. As for
the newly arrived guest, he had for a long time past been on the same
terms as Benedick with Beatrice, in Shakespeare's _Much Ado about
Nothing_. In short, the fair beauty was in her very best form that day.
Her chatter and her jests were so full of grace, so trustfully naïve, so
innocently careless, she was persuaded of the general enthusiasm with
such graceful self-confidence that she really was all the time the
centre of peculiar adoration. A throng of surprised and admiring
listeners was continually round her, and she had never been so
fascinating. Every word she uttered was marvellous and seductive, was
caught up and handed round in the circle, and not one word, one jest,
one sally was lost. I fancy no one had expected from her such taste,
such brilliance, such wit. Her best qualities were, as a rule, buried
under the most harum-scarum wilfulness, the most schoolboyish pranks,
almost verging on buffoonery; they were rarely noticed, and, when they
were, were hardly believed in, so that now her extraordinary brilliancy
was accompanied by an eager whisper of amazement among all. There was,
however, one peculiar and rather delicate circumstance, judging at least
by the part in it played by Mme. M. 's husband, which contributed to her
success. The madcap ventured--and I must add to the satisfaction of
almost every one or, at any rate, to the satisfaction of all the young
people--to make a furious attack upon him, owing to many causes,
probably of great consequence in her eyes. She carried on with him a
regular cross-fire of witticisms, of mocking and sarcastic sallies, of
that most illusive and treacherous kind that, smoothly wrapped up on the
surface, hit the mark without giving the victim anything to lay hold of,
and exhaust him in fruitless efforts to repel the attack, reducing him
to fury and comic despair.

I don't know for certain, but I fancy the whole proceeding was not
improvised but premeditated. This desperate duel had begun earlier, at
dinner. I call it desperate because M. M. was not quick to surrender. He
had to call upon all his presence of mind, all his sharp wit and rare
resourcefulness not to be completely covered with ignominy. The conflict
was accompanied by the continual and irrepressible laughter of all who
witnessed and took part in it. That day was for him very different from
the day before. It was noticeable that Mme. M. several times did her
utmost to stop her indiscreet friend, who was certainly trying to depict
the jealous husband in the most grotesque and absurd guise, in the guise
of "a bluebeard" it must be supposed, judging from all probabilities,
from what has remained in my memory and finally from the part which I
myself was destined to play in the affair.

I was drawn into it in a most absurd manner, quite unexpectedly. And as
ill-luck would have it at that moment I was standing where I could be
seen, suspecting no evil and actually forgetting the precautions I had
so long practised. Suddenly I was brought into the foreground as a sworn
foe and natural rival of M. M. , as desperately in love with his wife, of
which my persecutress vowed and swore that she had proofs, saying that
only that morning she had seen in the copse. . . .

But before she had time to finish I broke in at the most desperate
minute. That minute was so diabolically calculated, was so treacherously
prepared to lead up to its finale, its ludicrous _dénouement_, and was
brought out with such killing humour that a perfect outburst of
irrepressible mirth saluted this last sally. And though even at the time
I guessed that mine was not the most unpleasant part in the performance,
yet I was so confused, so irritated and alarmed that, full of misery and
despair, gasping with shame and tears, I dashed through two rows of
chairs, stepped forward, and addressing my tormentor, cried, in a voice
broken with tears and indignation:

"Aren't you ashamed . . . aloud . . . before all the ladies . . . to tell such
a wicked . . . lie? . . . Like a small child . . . before all these men. . . .
What will they say? . . . A big girl like you . . . and married! . . . "

But I could not go on, there was a deafening roar of applause. My
outburst created a perfect furore. My naïve gesture, my tears, and
especially the fact that I seemed to be defending M. M. , all this
provoked such fiendish laughter, that even now I cannot help laughing at
the mere recollection of it. I was overcome with confusion, senseless
with horror and, burning with shame, hiding my face in my hands rushed
away, knocked a tray out of the hands of a footman who was coming in at
the door, and flew upstairs to my own room. I pulled out the key, which
was on the outside of the door, and locked myself in. I did well, for
there was a hue and cry after me. Before a minute had passed my door was
besieged by a mob of the prettiest ladies. I heard their ringing
laughter, their incessant chatter, their trilling voices; they were all
twittering at once, like swallows. All of them, every one of them,
begged and besought me to open the door, if only for a moment; swore
that no harm should come to me, only that they wanted to smother me with
kisses. But . . . what could be more horrible than this novel threat? I
simply burned with shame the other side of the door, hiding my face in
the pillows and did not open, did not even respond. The ladies kept up
their knocking for a long time, but I was deaf and obdurate as only a
boy of eleven could be.

But what could I do now? Everything was laid bare, everything had been
exposed, everything I had so jealously guarded and concealed! . . .
Everlasting disgrace and shame had fallen on me! But it is true that I
could not myself have said why I was frightened and what I wanted to
hide; yet I was frightened of something and had trembled like a leaf at
the thought of _that something's_ being discovered. Only till that
minute I had not known what it was: whether it was good or bad, splendid
or shameful, praiseworthy or reprehensible? Now in my distress, in the
misery that had been forced upon me, I learned that it was _absurd_ and
_shameful_. Instinctively I felt at the same time that this verdict was
false, inhuman, and coarse; but I was crushed, annihilated;
consciousness seemed checked in me and thrown into confusion; I could
not stand up against that verdict, nor criticize it properly. I was
befogged; I only felt that my heart had been inhumanly and shamelessly
wounded, and was brimming over with impotent tears. I was irritated; but
I was boiling with indignation and hate such as I had never felt before,
for it was the first time in my life that I had known real sorrow,
insult, and injury--and it was truly that, without any exaggeration. The
first untried, unformed feeling had been so coarsely handled in me, a
child. The first fragrant, virginal modesty had been so soon exposed and
insulted, and the first and perhaps very real and æsthetic impression
had been so outraged. Of course there was much my persecutors did not
know and did not divine in my sufferings. One circumstance, which I had
not succeeded in analysing till then, of which I had been as it were
afraid, partly entered into it. I went on lying on my bed in despair and
misery, hiding my face in my pillow, and I was alternately feverish and
shivery. I was tormented by two questions: first, what had the wretched
fair beauty seen, and, in fact, what could she have seen that morning in
the copse between Mme. M. and me? And secondly, how could I now look
Mme. M. in the face without dying on the spot of shame and despair?

An extraordinary noise in the yard roused me at last from the state of
semi-consciousness into which I had fallen. I got up and went to the
window. The whole yard was packed with carriages, saddle-horses, and
bustling servants. It seemed that they were all setting off; some of the
gentlemen had already mounted their horses, others were taking their
places in the carriages. . . . Then I remembered the expedition to the
village fête, and little by little an uneasiness came over me; I began
anxiously looking for my pony in the yard; but there was no pony there,
so they must have forgotten me. I could not restrain myself, and rushed
headlong downstairs, thinking no more of unpleasant meetings or my
recent ignominy. . . .

Terrible news awaited me. There was neither a horse nor seat in any of
the carriages to spare for me; everything had been arranged, all the
seats were taken, and I was forced to give place to others. Overwhelmed
by this fresh blow, I stood on the steps and looked mournfully at the
long rows of coaches, carriages, and chaises, in which there was not the
tiniest corner left for me, and at the smartly dressed ladies, whose
horses were restlessly curvetting.

One of the gentlemen was late. They were only waiting for his arrival to
set off. His horse was standing at the door, champing the bit, pawing
the earth with his hoofs, and at every moment starting and rearing. Two
stable-boys were carefully holding him by the bridle, and every one else
apprehensively stood at a respectful distance from him.

A most vexatious circumstance had occurred, which prevented my going. In
addition to the fact that new visitors had arrived, filling up all the
seats, two of the horses had fallen ill, one of them being my pony. But
I was not the only person to suffer: it appeared that there was no horse
for our new visitor, the pale-faced young man of whom I have spoken
already. To get over this difficulty our host had been obliged to have
recourse to the extreme step of offering his fiery unbroken stallion,
adding, to satisfy his conscience, that it was impossible to ride him,
and that they had long intended to sell the beast for its vicious
character, if only a purchaser could be found.

But, in spite of his warning, the visitor declared that he was a good
horseman, and in any case ready to mount anything rather than not go.
Our host said no more, but now I fancied that a sly and ambiguous smile
was straying on his lips.