And meanwhile in the White Hall three skimpy little quadrilles had been formed, with the prince's participation. The young ladies were dancing, and their parents were rejoicing over them. But here, too, many of these respectable persons were already thinking of how, after letting their girls have fun, they could clear out in time, and not be there "once it starts." Decidedly everyone was certain that it was inevitably going to start. It would be difficult for me to describe the state of mind of Yulia Mikhailovna herself; I did not speak with her, though I came quite close to her. She did not respond to my bow on entering, because she did not notice me (really did not notice). Her face was pained, her glance haughty and disdainful, yet wandering and anxious. She was controlling herself with visible suffering—for what and for whom? She ought certainly to have left, and, above all, to have taken her husband away, yet she stayed! One could tell just by the look of her that her eyes had been "fully opened" and she had nothing more to wait for. She did not even call Pyotr Stepanovich over to her (he seemed to be avoiding her himself; I saw him in the buffet, in an exceedingly gay mood). But nevertheless she stayed at the ball and would not let Andrei Antonovich leave her side even for a moment. Oh, to the last minute she would have rejected with genuine indignation any hint at his health, even that morning, but now her eyes were to be opened in this respect as well. As for me, it seemed to me from the first glance that Andrei Antonovich looked worse than in the morning. It seemed he was in some sort of oblivion and was not quite sure where he was. Sometimes he would suddenly look around with unexpected sternness, a couple of times at me, for example. Once he tried to talk about something, began in a loud voice, and did not finish, almost throwing a scare into one humble old official who happened to be near him. But even this humble part of the public present in the White Hall gloomily and timorously avoided Yulia Mikhailovna, at the same time casting extremely strange glances at her husband, glances all too out of harmony, in their intent candor, with the fearfulness of these people.

"It was this trait that pierced me through and made me suddenly begin to guess about Andrei Antonovich," Yulia Mikhailovna privately confessed to me afterwards.

Yes, again she was to blame! Probably earlier, when, after my flight, she and Pyotr Stepanovich had decided that the ball would be and that she would be at the ball—probably she had gone again to the study of Andrei Antonovich, now finally "shaken" at the "reading," again employed all her seductions, and thus drew him along with her. But how tormented she must have been now! And still she would not leave! Whether she was tormented by pride, or was simply lost—I do not know. For all her haughtiness, she did try with humiliation and smiles to make conversation with some of the ladies, but they at once became confused, got off with a laconic, mistrustful "yes, ma'am" or "no, ma'am," and visibly avoided her.

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.