he distance
dancing with the accomplished and graceful officers.

Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector--a narrow,
spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head,
and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education; there
had been a time when he used to read progressive literature and
sing students' songs, but now, as he said of himself, he was a
tax-collector and nothing more.

He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his wife,
Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long nose and a
pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully powdered, she
danced without pausing for breath--danced till she was ready to
drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in body, her spirit
was inexhaustible. . . . One could see as she danced that her
thoughts were with the past, that faraway past when she used to
dance at the "College for Young Ladies," dreaming of a life of
luxury and gaiety, and never doubting that her husband was to be a
prince or, at the worst, a baron.

The tax-collector watched, scowling with spite. . . .

It was not jealousy he was feeling. He was ill-humoured--first,
because the room was taken up with dancing and there was nowhere
he could play a game of cards; secondly, because he could not endure
the sound of wind instruments; and, thirdly, because he fancied the
officers treated the civilians somewhat too casually and disdainfully.
But what above everything revolted him and moved him to indignation
was the expression of happiness on his wife's face.

"It makes me sick to look at her!" he muttered. "Going on for forty,
and nothing to boast of at any time, and she must powder her face
and lace herself up! And frizzing her hair! Flirting and making
faces, and fancying she's doing the thing in style! Ugh! you're a
pretty figure, upon my soul!"

Anna Pavlovna was so lost in the dance that she did not once glance
at her husband.

"Of course not! Where do we poor country bumpkins come in!" sneered
the tax-collector.

"We are at a discount now. . . . We're clumsy seals, unpolished
provincial bears, and she's the queen of the ball! She has kept
enough of her looks to please even officers. . . They'd not object
to making love to her, I dare say!"

During the mazurka the tax-collector's face twitched with spite. A
black-haired officer with prominent eyes and Tartar cheekbones
danced the mazurka with Anna Pavlovna. Assuming a stern express