She was a girl whose face and form were sufficient to excuse the infatuation of a man of Brodsky's type. Surmounting a figure built on heroic lines, her noble head seemed as if it must be drawn backward by the weight of her hair; which she wore without any of the elaborate side-curls then in fashion, but parted, and coiled low upon her neck, in unconscious harmony with her classic type. Her creamy skin, her great, blue eyes, and generously-moulded features, gave one the impression of a soul similar in size. And, indeed, at this period of her career, there was little in Irina Petrovna to suggest the sordid, selfish, degraded woman of later years. To-night she and Ivan, standing close together in the candle-light, made a noble picture of youth.
Just now, however, appearance was the last thought in either mind. And, as Ivan remained nervously silent, the girl presently began:
"First of all—let me thank you for doing—what I asked. I have very little time, now. I must catch the train at one o'clock.—It has just been put on, you know: and I believe Fóma Vassilyitch got it done for—for me. He doesn't know, of course, that I am in this tent. Grigory, his orderly, is always sent to Krasnoë with me. But Grigory is my friend; and has always let me go and come alone.—I cannot endure the—the stares, the whispers of the men; and the awful scandal! But I came here, Lieutenant Gregoriev, to tell you the truth about myself."
"Sit down, mademoiselle, I beg of you! And let me take your cloak.—So. Now may I offer you anything?—A glass of claret?"
"Nothing, thank you! I must tell you—about myself, and ask your advice before I go. For I have no one in the world to help me. Listen:
"You think, of course, that I am—a dreadful woman. But I swear to you, by the Virgin, by the spirit of my mother, that I am—as yet—- absolutely innocent of the wrong I am being forced into! You do not know the struggle I have made! You don't know what I endured before I consented to receive Colonel Brodsky's help, two years ago; and again, before I would let him visit me in Petersburg; and then before I came here—here, to this place, where every man in the camp thinks me—Oh! I believe, now, that that is why my father insisted:—that, knowing what every one thought of me, I might become reckless, and—let go. But I will not—never!—for that creature!" Irina's eyes blazed and her voice grew vibrant with passionate anger.
"Pardon, Lieutenant. I will try to tell the story quietly, now. You must know that we are very poor. My mother is dead; my brother in Moscow; and I was left to keep the three rooms that my father could afford to rent with his wages from the orchestra and the few lessons he gives. Two years ago, when I was sixteen, they discovered that I had a voice. My father, delighted, first gave me lessons himself; and then took me to the Conservatoire, to Zaremba, I hoped there to get a scholarship. But somehow my voice didn't develop as they hoped; and, at the competition, I failed. I was in despair. We already owed money for my lessons; and there was no hope of my earning anything. All my work seemed wasted. It was then, of course, that Colonel Brodsky—he had just had his promotion—came to my father about me.—He had been watching me for months, he says.—At that time, I knew nothing about it:—about the horrible promises my father made him, when he proposed to finish my musical education, and secure me a début at the opera.—They say now that my voice isn't nearly big enough for great parts. But at that time, I never knew this. I planned all sorts of splendid things that I was to do as a prima-donna; and I never dreamed that I couldn't pay everything I owed to—him!
"And now—" she gave a dreary little laugh—"now, look at me! I've not only ruined myself and my father, but even a whole regiment!—My God, Monsieur Gregoriev, what can I do? I have refused and refused and refused that hideous man. But my father owes him nearly five thousand roubles for my lessons and my theatrical wardrobe; and we cannot possibly pay him. He is willing to cancel the debt in another way:—the way you know. In fact, that is what he has intended all along. My father cares nothing for my feelings. He is as furious with me as is Brodsky. And I can't imagine how I have managed to keep away from him for so long.—Ah! If it were—if it were only easier to die!—But I'm a coward, you see."
"I do not think you are a coward, mademoiselle," replied Ivan, gravely.
"Ah, monsieur, you do not know! Months ago I understood that the world has no room for a young woman who is poor and yet—not ugly. We should be better out of it."