THE COMPLETE NOVELLAS & SHORT STORIES OF FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

got up solemnly and addressed himself to her with a most affable smile.

      “Very, very much pleased to make your acquaintance,” he pronounced with a most aristocratic half-bow, “especially on such a day….”

      He gave a meaning smile. There was an agreeable flutter among the ladies.

      “Charmé,” the lady in the velvet dress pronounced, almost aloud.

      The bride was a match for Pseldonimov. She was a thin little lady not more than seventeen, pale, with a very small face and a sharp little nose. Her quick, active little eyes were not at all embarrassed; on the contrary, they looked at him steadily and even with a shade of resentment. Evidently Pseldonimov was marrying her for her beauty. She was dressed in a white muslin dress over a pink slip. Her neck was thin, and she had a figure like a chicken’s with the bones all sticking out. She was not equal to making any response to the general’s affability.

      “But she is very pretty,” he went on, in an undertone, as though addressing Pseldonimov only, though intentionally speaking so that the bride could hear.

      But on this occasion, too, Pseldonimov again answered absolutely nothing, and did not even wriggle. Ivan Ilyitch fancied that there was something cold, suppressed in his eyes, as though he had something peculiarly malignant in his mind. And yet he had at all costs to wring some sensibility out of him. Why, that was the object of his coming.

      “They are a couple, though!” he thought.

      And he turned again to the bride, who had seated herself beside him on the sofa, but in answer to his two or three questions he got nothing but “yes” or “no,” and hardly that.

      “If only she had been overcome with confusion,” he thought to himself, “then I should have begun to banter her. But as it is, my position is impossible.”

      And as ill-luck would have it, Akim Petrovitch, too, was mute; though this was only due to his foolishness, it was still unpardonable.

      “My friends! Haven’t I perhaps interfered with your enjoyment?” he said, addressing the whole company.

      He felt that the very palms of his hands were perspiring.

      “No … don’t trouble, your Excellency; we are beginning directly, but now … we are getting cool,” answered the officer.

      The bride looked at him with pleasure; the officer was not old, and wore the uniform of some branch of the service. Pseldonimov was still standing in the same place, bending forward, and it seemed as though his hooked nose stood out further than ever. He looked and listened like a footman standing with the greatcoat on his arm, waiting for the end of his master’s farewell conversation. Ivan Ilyitch made this comparison himself. He was losing his head; he felt that he was in an awkward position, that the ground was giving way under his feet, that he had got in somewhere and could not find his way out, as though he were in the dark.

       Suddenly the guests all moved aside, and a short, thickset, middle-aged woman made her appearance, dressed plainly though she was in her best, with a big shawl on her shoulders, pinned at her throat, and on her head a cap to which she was evidently unaccustomed. In her hands she carried a small round tray on which stood a full but uncorked bottle of champagne and two glasses, neither more nor less. Evidently the bottle was intended for only two guests.

      The middle-aged lady approached the general.

      “Don’t look down on us, your Excellency,” she said, bowing. “Since you have deigned to do my son the honour of coming to his wedding, we beg you graciously to drink to the health of the young people. Do not disdain us; do us the honour.”

      Ivan Ilyitch clutched at her as though she were his salvation. She was by no means an old woman — forty-five or forty-six, not more; but she had such a goodnatured, rosy-cheeked, such a round and candid Russian face, she smiled so goodhumouredly, bowed so simply, that Ivan Ilyitch was almost comforted and began to hope again.

      “So you are the moother of your so-on?” he said, getting up from the sofa.

      “Yes, my mother, your Excellency,” mumbled Pseldonimov, craning his long neck and thrusting forward his long nose again.

      “Ah! I am delighted — de-ligh-ted to make your acquaintance.”

      “Do not refuse us, your Excellency.”

      “With the greatest pleasure.”

      The tray was put down. Pseldonimov dashed forward to pour out the wine. Ivan Ilyitch, still standing, took the glass.

      “I am particularly, particularly glad on this occasion, that I can ..,” he began, “that I can … testify before all of you…. In short, as your chief … I wish you, madam” (he turned to the bride), “and you, friend Porfiry, I wish you the fullest, completest happiness for many long years.”

      And he positively drained the glass with feeling, the seventh he had drunk that evening. Pseldonimov looked at him gravely and even sullenly. The general was beginning to feel an agonising hatred of him.

      “And that scarecrow” (he looked at the officer) “keeps obtruding himself. He might at least have shouted ‘hurrah!’ and it would have gone off, it would have gone off….”

      “And you too, Akim Petrovitch, drink a glass to their health,” added the mother, addressing the head clerk. “You are his superior, he is under you. Look after my boy, I beg you as a mother. And don’t forget us in the future, our good, kind friend, Akim Petrovitch.”

      “How nice these old Russian women are,” thought Ivan Ilyitch. “She has livened us all up. I have always loved the democracy….”

      At that moment another tray was brought to the table; it was brought in by a maid wearing a crackling cotton dress that had never been washed, and a crinoline. She could hardly grasp the tray in both hands, it was so big. On it there were numbers of plates of apples, sweets, fruit meringues and fruit cheeses, walnuts and so on, and so on. The tray had been till then in the drawing-room for the delectation of all the guests, and especially the ladies. But now it was brought to the general alone.

      “Do not disdain our humble fare, your Excellency. What we have we are pleased to offer,” the old lady repeated, bowing.

      “Delighted!” said Ivan Ilyitch, and with real pleasure took a walnut and cracked it between his fingers. He had made up his mind to win popularity at all costs.

      Meantime the bride suddenly giggled.

      “What is it?” asked Ivan Ilyitch with a smile, encouraged by this sign of life.

      “Ivan Kostenkinitch, here, makes me laugh,” she answered, looking down.

      The general distinguished, indeed, a flaxen-headed young man, exceedingly good-looking, who was sitting on a chair at the other end of the sofa, whispering something to Madame Pseldonimov. The young man stood up. He was apparently very young and very shy.

      “I was telling the lady about a ‘dream book,’ your Excellency,” he muttered as though apologising.

      “About what sort of ‘dream book’?” asked Ivan Ilyitch condescendingly.

      “There is a new ‘dream book,’ a literary one. I was telling the lady that to dream of Mr. Panaev means spilling coffee on one’s shirt front.”

      “What innocence!” thought Ivan Ilyitch, with positive annoyance.

      Though the young man flushed very red as he said it, he was incredibly delighted that he had said this about Mr. Panaev.

      “To be sure, I have heard of it…,” responded his Excellency.

      “No, there is something better than that,” said a voice quite close to Ivan Ilyitch. “There is a new encyclopædia being published, and they say Mr. Kraevsky will write articles… and satirical literature.”

      This was said by a young man who was by no means embarrassed, but rather free and easy. He was wearing gloves and a white