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Title: After the Dance
Author: Leo Tolstoy
Date: 1911
Language: en
Topics: fiction
Source: Original text source from http://www.revoltlib.com/?id=10330, 2021. Written 1903, first published 1911.

Leo Tolstoy

After the Dance

“—And you say that a man cannot, of himself, understand what is good and

evil; that it is all environment, that the environment swamps the man.

But I believe it is all chance. Take my own case ...”

Thus spoke our excellent friend, Ivan Vasilievich, after a conversation

between us on the impossibility of improving individual character

without a change of the conditions under which men live. Nobody had

actually said that one could not of oneself understand good and evil;

but it was a habit of Ivan Vasilievich to answer in this way the

thoughts aroused in his own mind by conversation, and to illustrate

those thoughts by relating incidents in his own life. He often quite

forgot the reason for his story in telling it; but he always told it

with great sincerity and feeling.

He did so now.

“Take my own case. My whole life was molded, not by environment, but by

something quite different.”

“By what, then?” we asked.

“Oh, that is a long story. I should have to tell you about a great many

things to make you understand.”

“Well, tell us then.”

Ivan Vasilievich thought a little, and shook his head.

“My whole life,” he said, “was changed in one night, or, rather,

morning.”

“Why, what happened?” one of us asked.

“What happened was that I was very much in love. I have been in love

many times, but this was the most serious of all. It is a thing of the

past; she has married daughters now. It was Varinka B——.” Ivan

Vasilievich mentioned her surname. “Even at fifty she is remarkably

handsome; but in her youth, at eighteen, she was exquisite—tall,

slender, graceful, and stately. Yes, stately is the word; she held

herself very erect, by instinct as it were; and carried her head high,

and that together with her beauty and height gave her a queenly air in

spite of being thin, even bony one might say. It might indeed have been

deterring had it not been for her smile, which was always gay and

cordial, and for the charming light in her eyes and for her youthful

sweetness.”

“What an entrancing description you give, Ivan Vasilievich!”

“Description, indeed! I could not possibly describe her so that you

could appreciate her. But that does not matter; what I am going to tell

you happened in the forties. I was at that time a student in a

provincial university. I don’t know whether it was a good thing or no,

but we had no political clubs, no theories in our universities then. We

were simply young and spent our time as young men do, studying and

amusing ourselves. I was a very gay, lively, careless fellow, and had

plenty of money too. I had a fine horse, and used to go tobogganing with

the young ladies. Skating had not yet come into fashion. I went to

drinking parties with my comrades—in those days we drank nothing but

champagne—if we had no champagne we drank nothing at all. We never drank

vodka, as they do now. Evening parties and balls were my favorite

amusements. I danced well, and was not an ugly fellow.”

“Come, there is no need to be modest,” interrupted a lady near him. “We

have seen your photograph. Not ugly, indeed! You were a handsome

fellow.”

“Handsome, if you like. That does not matter. When my love for her was

at its strongest, on the last day of the carnival, I was at a ball at

the provincial marshal’s, a good-natured old man, rich and hospitable,

and a court chamberlain. The guests were welcomed by his wife, who was

as good-natured as himself. She was dressed in puce-colored velvet, and

had a diamond diadem on her forehead, and her plump, old white shoulders

and bosom were bare like the portraits of Empress Elizabeth, the

daughter of Peter the Great.

“It was a delightful ball. It was a splendid room, with a gallery for

the orchestra, which was famous at the time, and consisted of serfs

belonging to a musical landowner. The refreshments were magnificent, and

the champagne flowed in rivers. Though I was fond of champagne I did not

drink that night, because without it I was drunk with love. But I made

up for it by dancing waltzes and polkas till I was ready to drop—of

course, whenever possible, with Varinka. She wore a white dress with a

pink sash, white shoes, and white kid gloves, which did not quite reach

to her thin pointed elbows. A disgusting engineer named Anisimov robbed

me of the mazurka with her—to this day I cannot forgive him. He asked

her for the dance the minute she arrived, while I had driven to the

hair-dresser’s to get a pair of gloves, and was late. So I did not dance

the mazurka with her, but with a German girl to whom I had previously

paid a little attention; but I am afraid I did not behave very politely

to her that evening. I hardly spoke or looked at her, and saw nothing

but the tall, slender figure in a white dress, with a pink sash, a

flushed, beaming, dimpled face, and sweet, kind eyes. I was not alone;

they were all looking at her with admiration, the men and women alike,

although she outshone all of them. They could not help admiring her.

“Although I was not nominally her partner for the mazurka, I did as a

matter of fact dance nearly the whole time with her. She always came

forward boldly the whole length of the room to pick me out. I flew to

meet her without waiting to be chosen, and she thanked me with a smile

for my intuition. When I was brought up to her with somebody else, and

she guessed wrongly, she took the other man’s hand with a shrug of her

slim shoulders, and smiled at me regretfully.

“Whenever there was a waltz figure in the mazurka, I waltzed with her

for a long time, and breathing fast and smiling, she would say,

‘Encore’; and I went on waltzing and waltzing, as though unconscious of

any bodily existence.”

“Come now, how could you be unconscious of it with your arm round her

waist? You must have been conscious, not only of your own existence, but

of hers,” said one of the party.

Ivan Vasilievich cried out, almost shouting in anger: “There you are,

moderns all over! Nowadays you think of nothing but the body. It was

different in our day. The more I was in love the less corporeal was she

in my eyes. Nowadays you think of nothing but the body. It was different

in our day. The more I was in love the less corporeal was she in my

eyes. Nowadays you set legs, ankles, and I don’t know what. You undress

the women you are in love with. In my eyes, as Alphonse Karr said—and he

was a good writer—’ the one I loved was always draped in robes of

bronze.’ We never thought of doing so; we tried to veil her nakedness,

like Noah’s good-natured son. Oh, well, you can’t understand.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him. Go on,” said one of them.

“Well, I danced for the most part with her, and did not notice how time

was passing. The musicians kept playing the same mazurka tunes over and

over again in desperate exhaustion—you know what it is towards the end

of a ball. Papas and mamas were already getting up from the card-tables

in the drawing-room in expectation of supper, the men-servants were

running to and fro bringing in things. It was nearly three o’clock. I

had to make the most of the last minutes. I chose her again for the

mazurka, and for the hundredth time we danced across the room.

“‘The quadrille after supper is mine,’ I said, taking her to her place.

“‘Of course, if I am not carried off home,’ she said, with a smile.

“‘I won’t give you up,’ I said.

“‘Give me my fan, anyhow,’ she answered.

“‘I am so sorry to part with it,’ I said, handing her a cheap white fan.

“‘Well, here’s something to console you,’ she said, plucking a feather

out of the fan, and giving it to me.

“I took the feather, and could only express my rapture and gratitude

with my eyes. I was not only pleased and gay, I was happy, delighted; I

was good, I was not myself but some being not of this earth, knowing

nothing of evil. I hid the feather in my glove, and stood there unable

to tear myself away from her.

“‘Look, they are urging father to dance,’ she said to me, pointing to

the tall, stately figure of her father, a colonel with silver epaulets,

who was standing in the doorway with some ladies.

“‘Varinka, come here!’ exclaimed our hostess, the lady with the diamond

ferronniere and with shoulders like Elizabeth, in a loud voice.

“‘Varinka went to the door, and I followed her.

“‘Persuade your father to dance the mazurka with you, ma chere.—Do,

please, Peter Valdislavovich,’ she said, turning to the colonel.

“Varinka’s father was a very handsome, well-preserved old man. He had a

good color, mustaches curled in the style of Nicolas I., and white

whiskers which met the mustaches. His hair was combed on to his

forehead, and a bright smile, like his daughter’s, was on his lips and

in his eyes. He was splendidly set up, with a broad military chest, on

which he wore some decorations, and he had powerful shoulders and long

slim legs. He was that ultra-military type produced by the discipline of

Emperor Nicolas I.

“When we approached the door the colonel was just refusing to dance,

saying that he had quite forgotten how; but at that instant he smiled,

swung his arm gracefully around to the left, drew his sword from its

sheath, handed it to an obliging young man who stood near, and smoothed

his suede glove on his right hand.

“‘Everything must be done according to rule,’ he said with a smile. He

took the hand of his daughter, and stood one-quarter turned, waiting for

the music.

“At the first sound of the mazurka, he stamped one foot smartly, threw

the other forward, and, at first slowly and smoothly, then buoyantly and

impetuously, with stamping of feet and clicking of boots, his tall,

imposing figure moved the length of the room. Varinka swayed gracefully

beside him, rhythmically and easily, making her steps short or long,

with her little feet in their white satin slippers.

“All the people in the room followed every movement of the couple. As

for me I not only admired, I regarded them with enraptured sympathy. I

was particularly impressed with the old gentleman’s boots. They were not

the modern pointed affairs, but were made of cheap leather,

squared-toed, and evidently built by the regimental cobbler. In order

that his daughter might dress and go out in society, he did not buy

fashionable boots, but wore home-made ones, I thought, and his square

toes seemed to me most touching. It was obvious that in his time he had

been a good dancer; but now he was too heavy, and his legs had not

spring enough for all the beautiful steps he tried to take. Still, he

contrived to go twice round the room. When at the end, standing with

legs apart, he suddenly clicked his feet together and fell on one knee,

a bit heavily, and she danced gracefully around him, smiling and

adjusting her skirt, the whole room applauded.

“Rising with an effort, he tenderly took his daughter’s face between his

hands. He kissed her on the forehead, and brought her to me, under the

impression that I was her partner for the mazurka. I said I was not.

‘Well, never mind. just go around the room once with her,’ he said,

smiling kindly, as he replaced his sword in the sheath.

“As the contents of a bottle flow readily when the first drop has been

poured, so my love for Varinka seemed to set free the whole force of

loving within me. In surrounding her it embraced the world. I loved the

hostess with her diadem and her shoulders like Elizabeth, and her

husband and her guests and her footmen, and even the engineer Anisimov

who felt peevish towards me. As for Varinka’s father, with his home-made

boots and his kind smile, so like her own, I felt a sort of tenderness

for him that was almost rapture.

“After supper I danced the promised quadrille with her, and though I had

been infinitely happy before, I grew still happier every moment.

“We did not speak of love. I neither asked myself nor her whether she

loved me. It was quite enough to know that I loved her. And I had only

one fear—that something might come to interfere with my great joy.

“When I went home, and began to undress for the night, I found it quite

out of the question. held the little feather out of her fan in my hand,

and one of her gloves which she gave me when I helped her into the

carriage after her mother. Looking at these things, and without closing

my eyes I could see her before me as she was for an instant when she had

to choose between two partners. She tried to guess what kind of person

was represented in me, and I could hear her sweet voice as she said,

‘Pride—am I right?’ and merrily gave me her hand. At supper she took the

first sip from my glass of champagne, looking at me over the rim with

her caressing glance. But, plainest of all, I could see her as she

danced with her father, gliding along beside him, and looking at the

admiring observers with pride and happiness.

“He and she were united in my mind in one rush of pathetic tenderness.

“I was living then with my brother, who has since died. He disliked

going out, and never went to dances; and besides, he was busy preparing

for his last university examinations, and was leading a very regular

life. He was asleep. I looked at him, his head buried in the pillow and

half covered with the quilt; and I affectionately pitied him, pitied him

for his ignorance of the bliss I was experiencing. Our serf Petrusha had

met me with a candle, ready to undress me, but I sent him away. His

sleepy face and tousled hair seemed to me so touching. Trying not to

make a noise, I went to my room on tiptoe and sat down on my bed. No, I

was too happy; I could not sleep. Besides, it was too hot in the rooms.

Without taking off my uniform, I went quietly into the hall, put on my

overcoat, opened the front door and stepped out into the street.

“It was after four when I had left the ball; going home and stopping

there a while had occupied two hours, so by the time I went out it was

dawn. It was regular carnival weather—foggy, and the road full of

water-soaked snow just melting, and water dripping from the eaves.

Varinka’s family lived on the edge of town near a large field, one end

of which was a parade ground: at the other end was a boarding-school for

young ladies. I passed through our empty little street and came to the

main thoroughfare, where I met pedestrians and sledges laden with wood,

the runners grating the road. The horses swung with regular paces

beneath their shining yokes, their backs covered with straw mats and

their heads wet with rain; while the drivers, in enormous boots,

splashed through the mud beside the sledges. All this, the very horses

themselves, seemed to me stimulating and fascinating, full of

suggestion.

“When I approached the field near their house, I saw at one end of it,

in the direction of the parade ground, something very huge and black,

and I heard sounds of fife and drum proceeding from it. My heart had

been full of song, and I had heard in imagination the tune of the

mazurka, but this was very harsh music. It was not pleasant.

“‘What can that be?’ I thought, and went towards the sound by a slippery

path through the center of the field. Walking about a hundred paces, I

began to distinguish many black objects through the mist. They were

evidently soldiers. ‘It is probably a drill,’ I thought.

“So I went along in that direction in company with a blacksmith, who

wore a dirty coat and an apron, and was carrying something. He walked

ahead of me as we approached the place. The soldiers in black uniforms

stood in two rows, facing each other motionless, their guns at rest.

Behind them stood the fifes and drums, incessantly repeating the same

unpleasant tune.

“‘What are they doing?’ I asked the blacksmith, who halted at my side.

“‘A Tartar is being beaten through the ranks for his attempt to desert,’

said the blacksmith in an angry tone, as he looked intently at the far

end of the line.

“I looked in the same direction, and saw between the files something

horrid approaching me. The thing that approached was a man, stripped to

the waist, fastened with cords to the guns of two soldiers who were

leading him. At his side an officer in overcoat and cap was walking,

whose figure had a familiar look. The victim advanced under the blows

that rained upon him from both sides, his whole body plunging, his feet

dragging through the snow. Now he threw himself backward, and the

subalterns who led him thrust him forward. Now he fell forward, and they

pulled him up short; while ever at his side marched the tall officer,

with firm and nervous pace. It was Varinka’s father, with his rosy face

and white mustache.

“At each stroke the man, as if amazed, turned his face, grimacing with

pain, towards the side whence the blow came, and showing his white teeth

repeated the same words over and over. But I could only hear what the

words were when he came quite near. He did not speak them, he sobbed

them out,—”‘Brothers, have mercy on me! Brothers, have mercy on me!’ But

the brothers had no mercy, and when the procession came close to me, I

saw how a soldier who stood opposite me took a firm step forward and

lifting his stick with a whir, brought it down upon the man’s back. The

man plunged forward, but the subalterns pulled him back, and another

blow came down from the other side, then from this side and then from

the other. The colonel marched beside him, and looking now at his feet

and now at the man, inhaled the air, puffed out his cheeks, and breathed

it out between his protruded lips. When they passed the place where I

stood, I caught a glimpse between the two files of the back of the man

that was being punished. It was something so many-colored, wet, red,

unnatural, that I could hardly believe it was a human body.

“‘My God!”’ muttered the blacksmith.

The procession moved farther away. The blows continued to rain upon the

writhing, falling creature; the fifes shrilled and the drums beat, and

the tall imposing figure of the colonel moved along-side the man, just

as before. Then, suddenly, the colonel stopped, and rapidly approached a

man in the ranks.

“‘I’ll teach you to hit him gently,’ I heard his furious voice say.

‘Will you pat him like that? Will you?’ and I saw how his strong hand in

the suede glove struck the weak, bloodless, terrified soldier for not

bringing down his stick with sufficient strength on the red neck of the

Tartar.

“‘Bring new sticks!’ he cried, and looking round, he saw me. Assuming an

air of not knowing me, and with a ferocious, angry frown, he hastily

turned away. I felt so utterly ashamed that I didn’t know where to look.

It was as if I had been detected in a disgraceful act. I dropped my

eyes, and quickly hurried home. All the way I had the drums beating and

the fifes whistling in my ears. And I heard the words, ‘Brothers, have

mercy on me!’ or ‘Will you pat him? Will you?’ My heart was full of

physical disgust that was almost sickness. So much so that I halted

several times on my way, for I had the feeling that I was going to be

really sick from all the horrors that possessed me at that sight. I do

not remember how I got home and got to bed. But the moment I was about

to fall asleep I heard and saw again all that had happened, and I sprang

up.

“‘Evidently he knows something I do not know,’ I thought about the

colonel. ‘If I knew what he knows I should certainly

grasp—understand—what I have just seen, and it would not cause me such

suffering.’

“But however much I thought about it, I could not understand the thing

that the colonel knew. It was evening before I could get to sleep, and

then only after calling on a friend and drinking till I was quite drunk.

“Do you think I had come to the conclusion that the deed I had witnessed

was wicked? Oh, no. Since it was done with such assurance, and was

recognized by every one as indispensable, they doubtless knew something

which I did not know. So I thought, and tried to understand. But no

matter, I could never understand it, then or afterwards. And not being

able to grasp it, I could not enter the service as I had intended. I

don’t mean only the military service: I did not enter the Civil Service

either. And so I have been of no use whatever, as you can see.”

“Yes, we know how useless you’ve been,” said one of us. “Tell us,

rather, how many people would be of any use at all if it hadn’t been for

you.”

“Oh, that’s utter nonsense,” said Ivan Vasilievich, with genuine

annoyance.

“Well; and what about the love affair?

“My love? It decreased from that day. When, as often happened, she

looked dreamy and meditative, I instantly recollected the colonel on the

parade ground, and I felt so awkward and uncomfortable that I began to

see her less frequently. So my love came to naught. Yes; such chances

arise, and they alter and direct a man’s whole life,” he said in summing

up. “And you say ...”