Smoke (Alma Classics)

by Ivan Turgenev

  By around ten o’clock Litvinov had developed a violent headache and he slipped away unnoticed, taking advantage of a general upsurge of general shouting. Sukhanchikova had recalled a new injustice perpetrated by Prince Barnaulov – he had very nearly ordered someone’s ear to be bitten off.

  The fresh night air gently wafted Litvinov’s inflamed face and poured in a fragrant stream into his parched lips. “What is all this?” he thought as he walked along the dark avenue. “What am I doing here? Why have they gathered? Why were they yelling, cursing and blowing their tops? To what end is all this?” Litvinov shrugged his shoulders and made his way to Weber’s, where he picked up a newspaper and ordered an ice cream. The newspaper was full of the Roman question* and the ice cream turned out to be revolting. He was on the point of going home when he was suddenly approached by a stranger wearing a broad-brimmed hat who said, in Russian: “I’m not disturbing you, am I?” and sat down at his table. Only then did Litvinov, having examined the stranger more closely, recognize the stout gentleman who had wedged himself into a corner at Gubaryov’s and had fixed his gaze so attentively on him when politics were discussed. Throughout the whole evening the gentleman had not opened his mouth, but now, removing his hat and taking his place next to Litvinov, he looked at him in a friendly and somewhat embarrassed manner.

  5

  “Mr Gubaryov, at whose place I had the pleasure of seeing you today,” he began, “did not introduce me to you. So, if you’ll allow me, I’ll introduce myself. Potugin, retired Court Councillor,* formerly of the Ministry of Finance in Petersburg. I hope you will not find this strange – I don’t make a habit of striking up acquaintance so suddenly. But in your case…”

  At this point Potugin broke off and asked the waiter to bring him a glass of cherry brandy. “To give me courage,” he added with a smile.

  Litvinov looked with redoubled attention at this latest of all the new people he had chanced upon that day. He immediately thought: “This one is different from the others.”

  He certainly was different. Before Litvinov sat, running his hands along the edge of the table, a broad-shouldered man with a wide trunk, short legs, a drooping head of curly hair, very intelligent and sorrowful eyes under thick eyebrows, a large, regular mouth, bad teeth and that kind of purely Russian nose to which the word “potato” is often attached. He was a man awkward and even somewhat uncouth to look at, yet was, in truth, out of the ordinary. He was casually dressed: an old-fashioned jacket sat on him like a sack and his cravat was askew. His sudden trustfulness not only did not seem brazen to Litvinov; on the contrary, he felt flattered by it. One could not fail to see that this man was not in the habit of imposing himself on strangers. He produced a strange impression on Litvinov, evoking in him feelings of respect, sympathy and a certain involuntary compassion.

  “So I’m not disturbing you?” he repeated in his soft, weak, rather hoarse voice, which accorded well with his whole demeanour.

  “Please,” Litvinov returned. “On the contrary, I’m delighted.”

  “Really? Well then, I too am delighted. I’ve heard a lot about you. I know what you do and what your intentions are. I like what you are doing. The fact is you kept quiet today.”

  “You didn’t seem to say much yourself,” Litvinov remarked.

  Potugin sighed.

  “The others did an awful lot of discussing. I was listening. Well now,” he added after a short pause, somehow arranging his eyebrows in an odd manner, “did you like our Tower of Babel?”

  “Tower of Babel indeed. Well said. I kept wanting to ask those gentlemen why they made so much fuss.”

  Potugin again sighed.

  “That’s the nub of the matter – they don’t know themselves. In former times people would have said of them: ‘They claim to be the blind instruments of higher purposes’ – now we use sharper epithets! Mind you, I have no intention of blaming them. I’ll say rather that they are all, or almost all, excellent people. For example, I certainly know a great deal of good concerning Madame Sukhanchikova. She gave away the last of her money to two impoverished nieces. Even supposing that a desire to show off, to pose, was operating in this instance, you must agree that it was a remarkable act of self-sacrifice in a woman who is not rich herself. Concerning Mr Pishchalkin there’s nothing more to be said; in time his local peasants will undoubtedly bring him a silver goblet in the shape of a watermelon and an icon depicting his guardian angel, and although he will tell them in his speech of thanks that he does not deserve such an honour, he will not be telling the truth. He does deserve it. Your friend Mr Bambayev has a wonderful heart; it’s true that, like the poet Yazykov* who, so it is said, extolled debauchery while reading a book and drinking water, he is a man of unfocused delight; nevertheless it is delight. Mr Voroshilov, too, is one of the kindest. He, like all people on the school honours board, has been assigned as a kind of orderly to science and civilization. He even keeps silent eloquently, but he’s still so young! Yes, yes, these are all excellent people, but nothing will ever come of them. The victuals are top-class, but don’t put the dish in your mouth!”

  Litvinov listened to Potugin with growing surprise. All the devices, all the turns of his leisurely but self-confident speech, revealed both an ability and a willingness to talk.

  Potugin was indeed both willing and able to speak but, as a man who had had all self-esteem knocked out of him by life, he waited with philosophical calm for the right occasion, for a meeting of minds.

  “Yes, yes,” he began again with a characteristically gloomy, though not jaundiced, humour, “this is all very strange, sir. And there’s something else I ask you to note. If, for example, ten Englishmen come together, they’ll immediately start talking about the underwater telegraph,* the tax on newspapers,* the method of tanning rat skins* – that is to say, they’ll talk about something positive, something definite. If ten Germans come together, well, naturally, Schleswig-Holstein* and German unity will be on the agenda. If ten Frenchmen come together the conversation will inevitably turn to something salacious, whichever way they start. But if ten Russians come together, the question instantly arises – you had the opportunity today to verify this – of the significance and future of Russia, but only in the most general of terms, from the dawn of creation, without proving anything or coming to any conclusion. They chew away at this hapless question like children chew on a piece of India rubber: no result, no sense. Eventually, of course, the rotten West catches it. Just imagine what a sermon we get. This West beats us at every end and turn – and it’s rotten. And even if we really did despise it,” Potugin continued, “nevertheless this is all lies and empty talk. We curse it, but its opinion is the only one that we value, yet in essence it’s the opinion of Parisian layabouts. I have an acquaintance, a good fellow seemingly, a family man, no longer young. He was depressed for several days because in a Paris restaurant he ordered une portion de bifteck aux pommes de terre,* while a real Frenchman at once shouted Garçon! Bifteck pommes! My friend was consumed with shame. After that he would shout Bifteck pommes! everywhere and taught me to do so. Even the cocottes are surprised by the reverential tremor with which our young inhabitants of the steppe enter their shameful salons. ‘Good Heavens!’ our Russians think. ‘Where am I? At Anna Deslions’s* place perhaps?’”

  “Tell me, please,” said Litvinov, “to what do you attribute Gubaryov’s undoubted influence on all those around him? Not to his gifts or his abilities?”

  “No, sir. No, sir. He’s got none of those.”

  “To his character then?”

  “He has none of that either, but he does have a great deal of will-power.” As you know, we Slavs are not over-endowed with this, and defer to it. Mr Gubaryov wanted to be the leader and everybody acknowledged him as leader. What can you do? The government has, thankfully, liberated us from servile dependence, but servile habits are too deeply ingrained in us. We will not rid ourselves of them i
n a hurry. Everywhere, and in everything, we need a master: for the most part this master is a living being; sometimes some form of so-called tendency takes hold of us. Now, for example, we are in thrall to the natural sciences… Why, by virtue of what, we enthral ourselves, is deeply obscure. Such, evidently, is our nature. But the main thing is that we should have a master. Well, there we have one: that means he’s ours and we don’t give a hang for anything else! Slaves through and though. Both slavish pride and slavish debasement. A new master is born. Down with the old one! First there was Yakov, now there is Sidor; box Yakov’s ear and fall at Sidor’s feet. Bear in mind what things we’ve had like this before. We talk of repudiation as being our defining characteristic, but we don’t repudiate like a freeman does, smiting with his sword, but like a lackey brandishing his fists and, moreover, doing so at his master’s behest. And, sir, we are also a soft people. It’s not difficult to take us in hand. That’s how Mr Gubaryov became a master; he bashed away at the same spot and bashed his way through. People see a man who has a high opinion of himself, believes in himself and gives orders – that’s the main thing – gives orders. He must be right and we must obey him. That’s the basis of all our religious sects, the likes of those founded by some Onufry or Akulina.* Whoever has the stick is in charge.”

  Potugin’s cheeks grew red and his eyes dull, but, strange to relate, his words, bitter and even malevolent, were imbued not with bile but rather with sorrow, genuine, sincere sorrow.

  “How did you get to know Gubaryov?” Litvinov asked.

  “I’ve known him for a long time, sir. And note another oddity of ours. Some writer, for instance, spends his whole life denouncing drunkenness in verse and prose, denounces liquor-tax farming – then suddenly goes and buys two wineries and rents a hundred taverns. And no one cares. Someone else would be wiped off the face of the earth, but he is not even reproached. Take Mr Gubaryov: he’s a Slavophile,* a democrat, a socialist, anything you like, but his brother ran his estate and still runs it – an old-style landlord, one of those they used to call a “bruiser”. And the same Madame Sukhanchikova, who forced Beecher Stowe to slap Tentelyeyev’s face, almost grovels before Gubaryov. And yet all he has to recommend him is that he reads learned books and is always striving for profundity. You wouldn’t credit today what a gift of the gab he has. Thank Heavens he says so little and merely curls up like a hedgehog. Because when he’s on form and in full flow even I, a patient man, feel ill. He’ll start to joke and tell dirty stories. Yes, yes, our great Mr Gubaryov tells dirty stories and laughs coarsely while doing so.”

  “Are you really so patient?” asked Litvinov. “I supposed, on the contrary… But allow me to ask, what is your name and patronymic?”

  Potugin sipped a little cherry brandy.

  “My name is Sozont… Sozont Ivanovich. I was given this splendid name in honour of a relative, an archimandrite, to whom I am indebted solely for this. I, if I may make so bold as to put it this way, am of the priestly generation. And the doubts you harbour about my patience are futile. I am patient. For twenty-two years I served under my uncle, Actual State Councillor* Irinarkh Potugin. Do you know him at all?”

  “No.”

  “I congratulate you. Yes, I am patient. But let us return to the beginning, as my respected fellow priest, the martyred Archpriest Avvakum* said. My dear sir, I am amazed by my fellow countrymen. They are all despondent, walk around downcast, but at the same time they are filled with hope and climb up the wall at the slightest provocation. Take the Slavophiles, with whom Mr Gubaryov aligns himself: they are the most excellent of people, but have the same mixture of despair and enthusiasm, the same living in a state of doubt as to what will happen. Everything is in the future, they say. There is nothing substantive at all, and in the course of ten whole centuries old Russia has produced nothing of its own, in government, the judicial system, science, art, or even in crafts… But wait, be patient. Everything will happen. But, pardon my curiosity, why will it happen? Because, so they say, we educated people are rubbish, but the people… oh, they are a great people! Do you see this peasant coat? That will be the source of everything. All other idols are destroyed; let us believe in the peasant coat. But if the peasant coat betrays you? No, it won’t betray you. Read Kokhanovskaya* and you’re up and away! Really, if I were a painter, this is the picture I’d paint: an educated man stands before a peasant and bows low to him. ‘Heal me, good fellow,’ he says. ‘I’m dying from disease.’ The peasant, in his turn, bows low to the educated man. ‘Teach me, good sir,’ he says. ‘I’m dying from ignorance.’ Of course, neither of them moves from the spot. All we need to do is to be really humble – not just verbally – and borrow from our elder brothers what they have invented, better than us and before us. Kellner, noch ein Gläschen Kirsch!* Don’t imagine I’m a drunkard, but alcohol loosens my tongue.”

  “After what you have just said,” Litvinov said with a smile, “there’s no point in my asking which party you belong to and what your opinion is of Europe. But allow me to make one observation to you. You say that we need to study from our elder brothers, to adopt things from them; but how is it possible to adopt things without taking into account soil and climate conditions, as well as local and national characteristics? I remember that my father ordered an iron winnowing machine from the Butenop Brothers.* It came with excellent recommendations and was indeed very good – and what happened? It stood idly in a barn for five years until it was replaced with a wooden American one which was much better suited to our way of life and customs as, generally speaking, are all American machines. You can’t adopt things just for the sake of it, Sozont Ivanovich.”

  Potugin raised his head.

  “I didn’t expect such a riposte from you, my esteemed Grigory Mikhailovich,” he began after a short pause. “Who compels you to adopt things just for the sake of it? You borrow foreign things not because they are foreign, but because they suit your purpose. So you think about it and choose. As for the results, please don’t worry. Their particular quality will be due to those very same climatic and other conditions which you mentioned. You merely offer good food and the national stomach will digest it in its own way. In time, when the organism grows stronger, it will produce its own juice. Take our own language, for example. Peter the Great inundated it with thousands of words, Dutch, French and German. These words expressed concepts with which the Russian people needed to be acquainted. Without finessing and without ceremony Peter poured these words by the shovelful and the barrelful into our innards. Admittedly, at first something monstrous came of this, but then there began that digestive process of which I was speaking. Concepts took root and were assimilated; foreign forms gradually evaporated; the language found replacements for these from its own resources. Now your humble servant, an extremely mediocre stylist, undertakes to translate any page of Hegel* – yes, sir, of Hegel – without using a single non-Slavonic word. What has happened with the language will, one must hope, happen in other spheres too. The main question is whether our nature is strong. But our nature will be all right. It will survive. It hasn’t experienced all that many problems. Only neurotic and weak nations can fear for their health or their independence, just as only idle nations can foam at the mouth with delight at the fact that we are Russians. I’m very anxious about my health, but I don’t go into raptures about it. I’m ashamed to, sir.”