Stars spiralled gracefully around the ballroom, above and below the polished floor.
Shimmering gowns and immaculate uniforms, sparkling jewels and gleaming buttons, and most especially, the few individuals who outshone their splendid attire. Of course, the brightest of them all was Darya Yurievna. Dusha - as her little sister had affectionately dubbed her - waltzed with a star's grace, easily continuing her heavenly orbit as if she had never descended to Earth.
And Captain Victor Ilyich Padorin was never given to exaggeration when it came to his favourite subject: the fairer sex. Even so, he disciplined himself against watching this wingless angel; the risk of falling in love was too great and he had no wish to play rival to his closest friend and fellow Hussar, Prince Alexander Yurievich Vishenkov.
Alexander's eyes shone for his adopted sister as the two sailed lightly around the parquet floor, and Padorin wondered what particular breed of love was returned in Dusha's radiant eyes. He fancied he could hear the rustle of her silks as a rich accompaniment to the orchestra, as well as her heartbeat setting the rhythm.
'You really are the most flattering of admirers,' chimed a faintly discordant voice at his side and he was suddenly reminded that he was engaged in conversation with the eldest of Alexander's real sisters, Irena. Turning his best smile on her, battling to recall the subject of their discussion, he was instantly reminded of Irena's own special charms. 'If I were surrounded by a dozen young men as attentive as you, Victor Ilyich,' she accused him, 'I should feel quite lonely.'
Irena's face was leaner and more sharply defined than that of her younger sister, Natasha, her statuesque figure invested with more height and a consequently more womanly gait. Beauty she had, and an understated aura around her pale skin. Her movements, even the smallest gestures of her hands, were executed with regal precision, which lent her a certain aloofness that, Padorin was sure, was only part of a desired effect. Her lustrous brown hair was arranged with ribbons so as to cascade behind her and spill smoothly over her bare shoulders on to the green of her gown.
'Forgive me, Princess.' Padorin bowed, wryly acknowledging how her title was emphasised in every mannerism. 'My poor behaviour merely serves to indicate that I am just the same as every other man in Moscow.'
Padorin ventured to be honest in all his dealings with the fair sex, and besides, any attempt to deceive the shrewd Irena would only succeed in making himself appear eminently foolish. Even so, he believed a little playful humour could do no harm. 'Any man will gaze in wonder on a painting provided that it is well executed and pleasing to the eye. To me, your adopted sister is no more than a Gainsborough, perhaps.' He let his eye wander to the far end of the room. 'Much as the Countess Bukharina is a Ucello.'
Irena was plainly unsure as to whether the Captain referred to the vivid colours of their hostess or her ill-proportioned figure, but laughter flickered across her face like candlelight. The Captain smiled on seeing his joke thus welcomed, and was surprised when Irena's eyes flashed with sudden anger.
'I am certain that if all the men in Moscow were aware of her origins, they would shun Dusha as the peasant girl she truly is.' She finished with the sweetest of smiles, coating the musket-ball with poison.
Padorin's face puckered in disbelief. He knew the story, of course, of how Dusha had found favour with the Vishenkovs and been welcomed as one of the family, but to hear Irena comment on it in public - and so very nearly audibly - was shocking.
'To look at her, few would credit it,' he argued.
'True, Victor Ilyich, but anyone may clothe a beggar in the finest silks and furnish her with an education, particularly if they are as influential and as blind as my poor father.' She leaned an inch or two closer, pivoting her royal head in the direction of the dancers, and Padorin inhaled her exquisite perfume. 'It is enough that she must be ma soeur, too much that she should also be ma belle soeur.'
'Such influence as I have over your brother is unfortunately confined to the battlefield,' Padorin apologised, regretting his first outright lie of the evening. He was the unworthy subject of the Prince's profound respect and admiration, in society as in the field.
Padorin's heroic exploits were tailored solely to impress a regiment of young females. He had told the Prince as much, in a musty tavern on the road to Moscow, hoping to deter the boy from similarly reckless behaviour. The Prince had merely laughed and declared that Padorin was still a courageous patriot and deserving of his highest regard. Well, Padorin was not about to scold Irena for her open display of jealousy. He was ultimately envious of Alexander himself and Irena's eyes were actually the more desirable for a tint of green.
'What influence will Irena have you exert over Sasha?' chirped the trim bird that flitted in from the hall: Natasha, just eighteen, her petite frame enveloped in silvery white muslin, adorned with lacy flowers and dainty pink ribbons. Her dark hair was suspended in ringlets, ´ la Grèque, leaving much of her cherubic face free of any border. She had bounded up to them and launched herself innocently into the conversation.
'I hope, Captain Padorin,' Irena excused her sister with a formality that Padorin found disappointing, 'that you may forgive a girl for refusing to grow up.'
Natasha appeared hurt at her sister's criticism, but this temporary wound was effectively healed when Captain Padorin, noting the imminent commencement of the next waltz, bent to kiss the hand of the youngest of the sisters. 'There is nothing to forgive except that she appeared very nearly too late to favour me with this promised dance.'
Natasha curtsied and smiled with a lifetime's love on Irena, who accepted her own abandonment with patient equanimity. Captain Padorin's glance signalled that he would, at least, be dancing the mazurka with her, but Irena appeared to have other matters on her mind. Spying two young countesses across the room, she manoeuvred her way towards them, greeting all the gentlemen on her way, but stopping for none.
'Your sister,' Padorin explained courteously, 'wishes me to shoot down Cupid like a common pheasant.' He arched his brow and nodded sideways to where Alexander and Dusha were retiring to the edge of the room, leaving the other dancers to offer polite applause to the musicians. 'To deter, en autres mots, your brother from his foolish notions of marrying Dusha.'
'Oh, but you must do nothing of the kind!' Natasha implored him in her mellow little songbird's voice. 'They are like - like two stars in heaven.'
'Bless your romantic imagination, little Natasha. In which case, I would never dream of doing anything to oppose the heavens.'
The music resumed, and Padorin slipped his arm around Natasha's waist to lead her in an intricate orbit of the ballroom. The girl's eyes were clear and blue as mountain springs. Natasha was no more than a delicate bird in his hands and he was oddly fearful of crushing her with too firm a pressure. True, she lacked Irena's refinement, but she possessed a freshness and vitality that, he sensed, the eldest sister would have preferred to keep caged.
As they spun, so did the room and all its occupants. Captain Padorin was flying on Natasha's delicate wings. But in the midst of the dreamlike blur, he was suddenly gazing down at her breasts, their more fascinating whiteness vibrating next to her gown. To his horror, his imagination was tearing open that bodice to expose the smooth flesh beneath.
His step faltered and he drew Natasha to a halt. She was gazing perplexedly at him, her lower lip atremble, but he was only vaguely aware of her.
'I - I'm sorry,' he managed lamely.
Neglecting to bow, he turned and hastened to the nearest door, casting Natasha adrift in the sea of dancers and maintaining his pace until he had broken out into the night air. He clutched furiously at his head, trying to strangle the demon of lust that had invaded his mind. The same demon mocked him from within and remained beyond his reach.
Then it receded. Vanished. Padorin shivered in the warm evening air. Whatever it had been, it left behind it a pounding headache and a stabbing remorse for the image of a pretty girl, spoiled forever.
