The Torrents Of Spring

XL
The play lasted over an hour longer, but Maria Nikolaevna and Sanin
soon gave up looking at the stage. A conversation sprang up between
them again, and went on the same lines as before; only this time Sanin
was less silent. Inwardly he was angry with himself and with Maria
Nikolaevna; he tried to prove to her all the inconsistency of her ‘theory,’
as though she cared for theories! He began arguing with her, at which
she was secretly rejoiced; if a man argues, it means that he is giving in or
will give in. He had taken the bait, was giving way, had left off keeping
shyly aloof! She retorted, laughed, agreed, mused dreamily, attacked
him … and meanwhile his face and her face were close together, his eyes
no longer avoided her eyes… . Those eyes of hers seemed to ramble,
seemed to hover over his features, and he smiled in response to them – a
smile of civility, but still a smile. It was so much gained for her that he
had gone off into abstractions, that he was discoursing upon truth in personal
relations, upon duty, the sacredness of love and marriage… . It is
well known that these abstract propositions serve admirably as a beginning
… as a starting-point… .
People who knew Maria Nikolaevna well used to maintain that when
her strong and vigorous personality showed signs of something soft and
modest, something almost of maidenly shamefacedness, though one
wondered where she could have got it from … then … then, things were
taking a dangerous turn.
Things had apparently taken such a turn for Sanin… . He would have
felt contempt for himself, if he could have succeeded in concentrating his
attention for one instant; but he had not time to concentrate his mind nor
to despise himself.
She wasted no time. And it all came from his being so very good-looking!
One can but exclaim, No man knows what may be his making or his
undoing!
The play was over. Maria Nikolaevna asked Sanin to put on her shawl
and did not stir, while he wrapped the soft fabric round her really
queenly shoulders. Then she took his arm, went out into the corridor,
and almost cried out aloud. At the very door of the box Dönhof sprang
up like some apparition; while behind his back she got a glimpse of the
figure of the Wiesbaden critic. The ‘literary man’s’ oily face was positively
radiant with malignancy.
117