Two days later the Governor’s ball took place. Matvei Ilyich was the real hero of the occasion. The marshal of nobility announced to all and sundry that he had come only out of respect for him, while the governor, even at the ball, and even while he was standing still, continued to “make arrangements.” The amiability of Matvei Ilyich’s manner was equaled only by his dignity. He behaved graciously to everyone, to some with a shade of disgust, to others with a shade of respect, he was gallant, “en vrai chevalier fran?ais,/” to all the ladies, and was continually bursting into hearty resounding laughter, in which no one else joined, as befits a high official. He slapped Arkady on the back and called him “nephew” loudly, bestowed on Bazarov — who was dressed in a shabby frock coat — an absent-minded but indulgent sidelong glance, and an indistinct but affable grunt in which the words “I” and “very” were vaguely distinguishable; held out a finger to Sitnikov and smiled at him though his head had already turned round to greet someone else; even to Madame Kukshina, who appeared at the ball without a crinoline, wearing dirty gloves and a bird of paradise in her hair, he said “enchanté/.” There were crowds of people and plenty of men dancers; most of the civilians stood in rows along the walls, but the officers danced assiduously, especially one who had spent six weeks in Paris, where he had mastered several daring exclamations such as — zut, Ah fichtre, pst, pst, mon bibi,and so on. He pronounced them perfectly with real genuine Parisian chic, and at the same time he said “si j’aurais“ instead of “si j’avais,/” and “absolument“ in the sense of “absolutely,” expressed himself in fact in that great Russo-French jargon which the French laugh at when they have no reason to assure us that we speak French like angels — ”comme des anges.”

Arkady danced badly, as we already know, and Bazarov did not dance at all. They both took up their position in a corner, where Sitnikov joined them. With an expression of contemptuous mockery on his face, he uttered one spiteful remark after another, looked insolently around him, and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Suddenly his face changed, and turning to Arkady he said in a rather embarrassed tone, “Odintsova has arrived.”

Arkady looked round and saw a tall woman in a black dress standing near the door. He was struck by her dignified bearing. Her bare arms lay gracefully across her slim waist; light sprays of fuchsia hung from her shining hair over her sloping shoulders; her clear eyes looked out from under a prominent white forehead; their expression was calm and intelligent — calm but not pensive — and her lips showed a scarcely perceptible smile. A sort of affectionate and gentle strength emanated from her face.

“Do you know her?” Arkady asked Sitnikov.

“Very well. Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Please . . . after this quadrille.”

Bazarov also noticed Madame Odintsov.

“What a striking figure,” he said. “She’s not like the other females.”

When the quadrille was over, Sitnikov led Arkady over to Madame Odintsov. But he hardly seemed to know her at all, and stumbled over his words, while she looked at him in some surprise. But she looked pleased when she heard Arkady’s family name, and she asked him whether he was not the son of Nikolai Petrovich.

“Yes!”

“I have seen your father twice and heard a lot about him,” she went on. “I am very glad to meet you.”

At this moment some adjutant rushed up to her and asked her for a quadrille. She accepted.

“Do you dance then?” asked Arkady respectfully.

“Yes, and why should you suppose I don’t dance? Do you think I’m too old?”

“Please, how could I possibly . . . but in that case may I ask you for a mazurka?”

Madame Odintsov smiled graciously. “Certainly,” she said, and looked at Arkady, not exactly patronizingly but in the way married sisters look at very young brothers. She was in fact not much older than Arkady — she was twenty-nine — but in her presence he felt like a schoolboy, so that the difference in their ages seemed to matter much more. Matvei Ilyich came up to her in a majestic manner and started to pay her compliments. Arkady moved aside, but he still watched her; he could not take his eyes off her even during the quadrille. She talked to her partner as easily as she had to the grand official, slightly turning her head and eyes, and once or twice she laughed softly. Her nose — like most Russian noses — was rather thick, and her complexion was not translucently clear; nevertheless Arkad............