ever been a man for much
contact with his fellow-beings, he had been aloof and reserved, generous
in his judgements of others, severe and narrow in his judgement of
himself. Above all, he had been proud of his strength....

Now he was threatened by something stronger than himself. He could have
managed it so long as he was aware only of his love for Vera.... Now,
when, since Nina's party, he knew that also Vera loved him, he had to
meet the tussle of his life.

That, at any rate, is the kind of figure that I give to his mood that
evening. He has told me much of what happened to him afterwards, but
nothing of that particular night, except once. "Do you remember that
'Masquerade' evening?... I was in hell that night...." which, for
Lawrence, was expressive enough.

Both the Baron and his wife were in great spirits. The Baron was more
than ever the evocation of the genius of elegance and order; he seemed
carved out of some coloured ivory, behind whose white perfection burnt a
shining resolute flame.

His clothes were so perfect that they would have expressed the whole of
him even though his body had not been there. He was happy. His eyes
danced appreciatively; he waved his white gloves at the scene as though
blessing it.

"Of course, Mr. Durward," he said to me, "this is nothing compared with
what we could do before the war--nevertheless here you see, for a
moment, a fragment of the old Petersburg--Petersburg as it shall be,
please God, again one day...."

I do not in the least remember who was present that evening, but it was,
I believe, a very distinguished company. The lights blazed, the jewels
flashed, and the chatter was tremendous. The horseshoe-shaped seats
behind the stalls clustered in knots and bunches of colour under the
great glitter of electricity about the Royal Box. Artists--Somoff and
Benois and Dobujinsky; novelists like Sologub and Merejkowsky; dancers
like Karsavina--actors from all over Petrograd--they were there, I
expect, to add criticism and argument to the adulation of friends and of
the carelessly observant rich Jews and merchants who had come simply to
display their jewellery. Petrograd, like every other city in the world,
is artistic only by the persistence of its minority.

I'm sure that there were Princesses and Grand Dukes and Grand Duchesses
for any one who needed them, and it was only in the gallery where the
students and their girl-friends were gathered that the name of Lermontov
w