As regards those worldly delights to which I had intended, on entering the University, to surrender myself in imitation of my brother, I underwent a complete disillusionment that winter. Woloda danced a great deal, and Papa also went to balls with his young wife, but I appeared to be thought either too young or unfitted for such delights, and no one invited me to the houses where balls were being given. Yet, in spite of my vow¹ of frankness with Dimitri, I never told him (nor any one else) how much I should have liked to go to those dances, and how I felt hurt at being forgotten and (apparently²) taken for the philosopher that I pretended to be.

Nevertheless, a reception was to be given that winter at the Princess Kornakoff’s, and to it she sent us personal invitations — to myself among the rest! Consequently, I was to attend my first ball. Before starting, Woloda came into my room to see how I was dressing³ myself — an act on his part which greatly surprised me and took me aback. In my opinion (it must be understood) solicitude⁴ about one’s dress was a shameful⁵ thing, and should be kept under, but he seemed to think it a thing so natural and necessary that he said outright⁶ that he was afraid I should be put out of countenance⁷ on that score. Accordingly, he bid me don my patent leather boots, and was horrified⁸ to find that I wanted to put on gloves of peau de chamois. Next, he adjusted my watch-chain in a particular manner, and carried me off to a hairdresser’s near the Kuznetski Bridge to have my locks coiffured. That done, he withdrew to a little distance and surveyed me.

“Yes, he looks right enough now” said he to the hairdresser. “Only — couldn’t you smooth those tufts of his in front a little?” Yet, for all that Monsieur Charles treated my forelocks with one essence and another, they persisted in rising up again when ever I put on my hat. In fact, my curled and

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