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 mammas 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 epaulettes, 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 colour, moustaches curled in the style of Nicolas I., and white whiskers which met the moustaches.  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.