Two turtle-doves will show
Thee,—my cold grave,
Their mournful cooing will tell
Thee,—that I died in tears.
This is as nearly as we can give it in English, though we must confess that the original was also deficient in poetical composition. However, it was to the purpose, and quite in the spirit of the day. There was no signature at the bottom—no Christian name, nor family name, nor was the month or date mentioned. However, there was a postscript—whoever is accustomed to receive letters from ladies is of course aware they are in the habit never to post their epistles without the addition of a P.S.; and as for my fair readers they know best why they never omit it. The postscript of the fair unknown to our hero went on to say that his own heart ought to tell him who she was, and that she would be at the Lord-Lieutenant's ball the next night, and that it was there that he should behold the original.
This epistle considerably excited and pre-occupied the mind of our hero. In this anonymous communication there was so much that was mysterious and provoked curiosity, that Tchichikoff could not resist reading it a second and then again a third time, and at last said, "I am really curious to know who the fair writer might be!" In a word, the affair, to judge from appearances, promised to become a serious one. For more than an hour after he continued to think of it; at last, stretching out his arms and leaning his head on one side, he exclaimed:
"I must confess the letter has been written very feelingly indeed."
Then, and as a matter of course, the letter was carefully folded up and placed in his writing-desk, close to an old play-bill and an invitation to a wedding, which he had kept there for these last seven years in the same apartment. Half an hour later he positively received an invitation to the ball of the Governor of Smolensk, in which there was nothing unusual, for at the seat of the provincial administration, where the Lord-Lieutenant resides, there are rejoicings and balls, else he could not depend upon the powerful support of the country nobility and gently.
From the instant he received the invitation to the ball all else was set aside, and he began immediately to devote all his attention to the preparations for the evening party; because there were now many inciting and pleasant reasons. And for such reasons, perhaps, was there since the creation of the world, never so much time employed in the preparations for an evening party. More than an hour was exclusively devoted to the examination of his face in a looking-glass. He attempted to execute a variety of expressions; at first he tried to assume an air of importance and propriety, then again a proud respectfulness, mingled with a smile, and again simply an air of respectfulness without a smile; a few bows and inclinations were addressed to the looking-glass, accompanied by indistinct sounds, in some instances very much resembling the French language, though Tchichikoff did not understand French at all.
He presented himself with numerous pleasant surprises, moved his eyebrows up and down, contracted his lips, and even seemed to smack his tongue; in a word, what does a person not do when alone, especially when under the impression that he is good-looking, and convinced that there is no indiscreet person to glimpse at him through the keyhole?
At last, he pinched slightly his chin, and said, "Oh, you little rogue," and then he began to dress. It was in the best of humours that he accomplished his evening toilette. Whilst putting on his braces, or tying his cravat, he began to scratch compliments with his feet, and bow forward with unusual grace, and though he was no dancer, he nevertheless executed an entrechat. This entrechat produced a slight but innocent effect; it shook the chest of drawers, and his hair-brush fell from the sofa.