Act 2 — ACT II., SCENE 2. MRS. INDOLENT, ÚLINKA, WEATHERVANE

Weathervane. Ma charmante Úlinka! Oh, how beautiful you are! Tous ces gens, how stupid, how dishonest, and they will not see in your eyes what I see.

Úlinka. And what do you see?

Weathervane. Friponne! As if you did not know yourself that it is not possible to hate you, that you are fairer than heaven! (Úlinka courtesies.) You courtesy! How elegant! What a consolation to have such a daughter! (To Mrs. Indolent.) Is it not so, Maman?

Mrs. Indolent. I must confess that her education is what her birth demands, and as she has all liberty in her movements, as behooves a daughter born of me, she is, sir, removed from all coarseness; and keeping herself aloof from everything, as our dignity demands, she knows neither how to sew nor weave, leaving such occupations to common people; she dances like a peacock, sings like a nightingale, and, knowing French like a Frenchwoman, she would like to forget her Russian; she retires at three o’clock, rises at twelve, and passes two hours at her toilet.

Weathervane. Bravo, madam! That’s the way it ought to be before the world and men,—ah, how do you call it? pour les gens du haut ton. You must pardon me a little, madam, if I too, duly cautious of my honour, regard our language to be nothing but a jargon, in which it is not possible properly to express your thoughts, and where you have to wear yourself out mercilessly in the attempt of finding your ideas. Only out of compulsion do I speak that language to my lackey, coachman and with all common people, where there is no need to exert yourself in thinking. But with our distinguished people it would be to appear a fool, not to speak French to them. Pray tell me, how could I fall in love? Je brûle, je languis! How could I express that in Russian to charming Úlinka: I faint, I burn,—fi donc! I must assume that you speak French, and so does your époux....

Mrs. Indolent (perplexed). Of course, of course! Comment vous portez-vous?

Weathervane. Bravo, madam!

Mrs. Indolent. I am now a little out of practice, but formerly I never prattled in Russian.

Weathervane. You will hardly believe how poor I am in Russian! In Russian my intelligence is so narrow, so small! But in French: o, que le diable m’emporte! My intelligence at once walks in by the grande porte. I’ll tell you what once happened to me. I was once sitting with a young lady who did not know two words of French, and that caused ma tête horriblement to ache, so that I had to pass a whole day at home in undress.

Mrs. Indolent. I should not think the harm could be so great. The pain, no doubt, was caused through nagimation.

Weathervane. Imagination you meant to say?

Mrs. Indolent. That’s it. You see, though I am a little out of practice, I am still able to adorn our coarse tongue, which I despise, with French morsels. My époux has always seemed such an odd fellow to me because, though he knows French like a Frenchman, he does not care to amuse himself with that charming language.

Weathervane. That, madam, I cannot understand. A nobleman....

Mrs. Indolent. Oh! His race is as distinguished as the ace of trumps, and nobody can compare with him in antiquity of origin: he can recount his ancestors a thousand years back.

Weathervane. And so there is not the least obstacle, ma charmante Úlinka, for regarding you as my own! (Úlinka makes a courtesy.) Everything is equal in us: the graces, and pleasures, and intelligence, je m’en flatte, and even our families. (Úlinka courtesies.) How delicate your courtesying at the mention of family! Courtesying takes the place of redundant language, de discours frivoles, superfluous babbling. She knows how to say everything in a charming manner, and with modesty to express an immodest wish, who knows how to courtesy like Úlinka. (Noticing Mrs. Indolent’s husband.) Please tell me who is that bear that is walking towards us?

Mrs. Indolent. My husband.

Weathervane. You are joking! Is it not rather his ancestor who a thousand years ago began his race?

Mrs. Indolent. The exterior, you know, does not tell much. In this world, sir, it is not rare for hidden nobility to deceive the eye: though the diamond does not shine in the dark, yet it is a diamond. He is, I assure you, a nobleman of ancient race, and, forgive me, a bit of a philosopher.

Weathervane. Is it not a shame to rank yourself with asses? Is it an occupation for a nobleman to philosophise?

Mrs. Indolent (to Úlinka). Now, Úlinka, you cannot stay here; we have to talk with father about you. (Úlinka courtesies. Exit.)