“And do you intend to stay long?” continued the general politely.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Ah! That’s very nice, very…”
The general fell silent. Litvinov also held his peace. Both men had their hats in their hands and, inclining their bodies forward and grinning, looked at each other’s eyebrows.
“Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche,”* a half-blind general with a jaundiced complexion began to sing. He had an expression of constant irritation on his face, as if he could not forgive himself his appearance. Of course, he sang out of tune – we have yet to meet the Russian nobleman who did not sing out of tune. Alone among his companions, he did not resemble a rose.
“Why don’t you sit down, Grigory Mikhailovich?” said Irina at last.
Litvinov obeyed and sat down.
“I say, Valérien, give me some fire,”* said another general, also young but already stout, with immobile eyes apparently fixed in space and thick, silky side-whiskers in which he was slowly burying his snow-white fingers. Ratmirov handed him a silver matchbox.
“Avez-vous des papiros?”* one of the ladies asked with a lisp.
“De vrais papelitos, comtesse.”*
“Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche,” the half-blind general struck up again, almost grinding his teeth in the process.
“You must visit us without fail,” Irina was saying to Litvinov meanwhile. We are staying at the Hôtel de l’Europe.* I’m always at home from four to six. We haven’t seen you for a long time.”
Litvinov glanced at Irina; she did not lower her eyes.
“Yes, Irina Pavlovna. A long time since Moscow.”
“Since Moscow, since Moscow,” she repeated haltingly. “Do come. We’ll have a talk and remember the old days. But do you know, Grigory Mikhailovich, you haven’t changed much.”
“Really? But you have changed, Irina Pavlovna.”
“I’ve got older.”
“No, I didn’t mean that.”
“Irène?” one of the ladies, with a yellow hat on her yellow hair, asked, with a preliminary whisper and giggle to the gentleman sitting beside her. “Irène?”
“I’ve got older,” continued Irina, without answering the lady, “but I haven’t changed in any way. No, no, I haven’t changed in any way.”
“Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche,” broke out again. The irritable gentleman could only remember the first line of the well-known song.
“You know, it still niggles somewhat, Your Excellency,” said the stout general with the side-whiskers loudly, emphasizing all his “O” sounds. He was probably alluding to an amusing story, well-known throughout the beau monde. Then, with a brief wooden laugh he again stared into space. The rest of the party also burst out laughing.
“What a sad dog you are, Boris,” Ratmirov remarked in an undertone. He pronounced the name “Boris” in the English fashion.
“Irène?” the lady in the yellow hat asked for the third time. Irina quickly turned to her.
“Eh bien, quoi? Que me voulez-vous?”*
“Je vous le dirai plus tard,”* said the lady coyly. Although her appearance was highly unattractive, she assumed an affected, simpering manner; some wit had said of her that she “minaudait dans le vide” – simpered in a vacuum.
Irina frowned and shrugged impatiently.
“Mais que fait donc Monsieur Verdier? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas?”* exclaimed one lady with the drawn-out emphases which are so insufferable to the French ear.
“Akh, vooey, akh, vooey. M’sieu Verdier,” groaned another lady, born and bred in Arzamas.
“Tranquillisez-vous, mesdames,” Ratmirov interposed. “Verdier a promis de venir se mettre à vos pieds.”*
“Hee-hee-hee.” The ladies began to fan themselves. The waiter brought several glasses of beer.
“Bayerisch Bier?” asked the general with the side-whiskers, deliberately lowering his voice and pretending to be startled. “Guten Morgen.”*
“Well, is Count Pavel still there?” asked one young general of another in a cold, insipid tone.
“He is,” answered the other equally coldly. “Mais c’est provisoire.* They say Serge will replace him.”
“Aha!” said the first, through gritted teeth.
“Ye-s,” said the second, also through gritted teeth.
“I can’t understand,” said the general who had been singing the song, “I can’t understand Paul’s desire to justify himself, to adduce all sorts of different reasons. All right, so he harassed a merchant a bit, il lui a fait rendre gorge.* What of it? He might have had his own reasons.”
“He was afraid… of exposure in the press,” muttered someone.
The irritable general flared up.
“Well, that’s the limit. The press! Exposure! If it depended on me, I would only allow them to publish the taxes on meat or bread and small ads for fur coats and boats.”
“And auctions of manorial estates,” Ratmirov put in.
“Certainly, in present circumstances. But what sort of a conversation is this, in Baden, au Vieux Château?”
“Mais pas du tout, pas du tout!” lisped the lady in the yellow hat. “J’adore les questions politiques.”*
“Madame a raison,”* interposed another general, with a pleasant and somehow girlish face. “Why should we avoid such questions… even in Baden?”
So saying, he glanced politely at Litvinov and smiled superciliously. “A regular fellow must never in any circumstances resile from his convictions. Isn’t that right?”
“Of course,” said the irritable general, also turning his gaze on Litvinov and seemingly reproaching him obliquely, “but I don’t see the need—”
“No, no,” the supercilious general interrupted with his former mildness, “our friend here, Valerian Vladimirovich, mentioned the sale of manorial estates. Well – is it not a fact?”
“But now it’s impossible to sell them: no one needs them!” the irritable general exclaimed.
“Maybe, maybe. Therefore this sad fact must be proclaimed at every step. We are ruined – very well. We are humiliated – there can be no argument about that. But we, the major landowners, nevertheless represent a principle – un principe. To support this principle is our duty. Pardon, madame, you seem to have dropped your handkerchief. When a certain, so to speak, gloominess, takes possession of even the highest intellects, we must indicate – indicate with humility” (the general extended his finger) “the abyss towards which everything is heading. We must forewarn, we must say with respectful firmness: ‘Turn! Turn back!’ That’s what we must say.”
“It’s impossible, however, to turn back completely,” observed Ratmirov thoughtfully.
The supercilious general merely grinned.
“Completely. Completely back, mon très cher.* The further back, the better.”
The general again glanced politely at Litvinov, who could tolerate it no longer.
“Are we to return to the Era of the Seven Boyars, Your Excellency?”*
“If need be! I express my opinion without hesitation. We must redo… yes… redo everything that has been done.”
“Even the nineteenth of February?”*
“Even the nineteenth of February, as far as that’s possible. On est patriote ou on ne l’est pas.* ‘What about freedom?’ you will ask me. Do you think the people find this freedom sweet? Ask them.”
“Just you try,” Litvinov riposted, “just you try to take that freedom from them.”
“Comment nommez-vous ce monsieur?”* the general whispered to Ratmirov.
“What are you talking about here?” the stout general spoke up suddenly. He clearly played the role of the spoilt child in this company. “Are you still on about the press? About scribblers? Let me tell you a funny thing that happened to me with a scribbler – it was wonderful. I was told
that un folliculaire* had written a piece lampooning me. Well, naturally, I immediately sought him out. They brought the wretched man to me. ‘How come,’ I said, ‘my fine feathered folliculaire, that you write lampoons? Did your patriotism get the better of you?’ ‘It did,’ he said. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘do you like money, Monsieur Folliculaire?’ ‘I do,’ he said. Then, my dear sirs, I made him smell the pommel of my stick. ‘And do you like that, my angel?’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t like that.’ ‘Well, you just have a good sniff of it, I’ve got clean hands.’ ‘I don’t like it,’ he said, and that was that. ‘But I like it a lot, my dear,’ I said, ‘only not for myself. Do you understand this allegory, my treasure?’ ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Then see you’re a good boy in future. Now here’s a silver rouble for you. Off you go and remember to bless me night and day.’ And the folliculaire departed.
The general laughed, and again everyone laughed after him, except Irina, who did not even smile and gazed somewhat morosely at the speaker.
The supercilious general clapped Boris on the shoulder.
“You made all that up, friend of my heart. As if you would threaten someone with your stick. You haven’t even got a stick. C’est pour faire rire ces dames.* To sound good. But that’s not what matters. I’ve just said that we must go back completely. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not an enemy of so-called progress; but all these universities, seminaries and elementary schools, all these students, sons of priests, plebeian intellectuals, all this small fry, tout ce fond du sac, la petite propriété, pire que le prolétariat” (the general spoke in an effeminate, almost enervated voice) “voilà ce qui m’effraie.* That’s where we must come to a halt and put a stop to things.” (He again threw a kindly glance towards Litvinov.) “Don’t forget that no one in Russia is demanding anything. Self-government, for example. Are you asking for that, or you, or you? Or you, mesdames? As it is, you not only rule yourselves, you rule all of us.” (The general’s handsome face became animated with an amused smile.) “My kind friends, why start running like hares? You enjoy democracy and it is ready to serve your aims, but surely it’s a two-edged sword. The old ways, the former ways, are better and much more certain. Don’t allow the lower classes to be clever, but put your trust in the aristocracy: there alone lies strength. In all truth, it will be better. As for progress, I myself have nothing against progress, only don’t give us lawyers, jurors and zemstvo* officials and then there is discipline – above all don’t touch discipline. You can build bridges, embankments and hospitals, and why not light the streets with gas?”
“Petersburg has been set alight from all four sides – that’s progress for you,” hissed the irritable general.
“I see you’re in a bad mood,” said the stout general, swaying lazily. “It would be a good idea to promote you to chief prosecutor but, in my opinion, avec Orphée aux enfers le progrès a dit son dernier mot.”*
“Vous dites toujours des bêtises,”* giggled the lady from Arzamas.
The general drew himself up to his full height.
“Je ne suis jamais plus sérieux, madame, que quand je dis des bêtises.”*
“Monsieur Verdier has already used this phrase several times,” Irina remarked in an undertone.
“De la poigne et des formes,” exclaimed the stout general. “De la poigne surtout.* This can be translated as ‘politely, but right in the teeth’.”
“Oh, you’re a rogue, an incorrigible rogue,” said the supercilious general. “Mesdames, don’t listen to him please. He wouldn’t hurt a flea. He’s satisfied with devouring hearts.”
“You’re wrong, Boris,” Ratmirov began, exchanging a look with his wife. “Roguishness is one thing, but this is exaggeration. Progress is a manifestation of social life – that’s what must not be forgotten. It’s a symptom, and must be watched.”
“Well, yes,” retorted the stout general, screwing up his nose. It’s well known that you’re aiming to be a statesman.”
“To be a statesman? Absolutely not. What have statesmen got to do with it? But one cannot fail to recognize the truth.”
Boris again sank his fingers into his side-whiskers and stared into space.
“Social life is very important, because in the development of the people, in the fate of our country, so to speak—”
“Valérien,” interrupted Boris imposingly, “il y a des dames ici.* I didn’t expect this of you. Or do you want to get onto a committee?”
“They’re all shut down now, thank God,” rejoined the irritable general, and he again began to sing, “Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche.”
Ratmirov raised a cambric handkerchief to his nose and fell grandiosely silent. The supercilious general repeated: “Rogue, rogue.” But Boris turned to the lady who was simpering in a vacuum and, without lowering his voice or even changing the expression on his face, began to enquire of her whether she would “crown his flame”, since he was madly in love with her and was suffering greatly.
As each moment passed in the course of this conversation, Litvinov became ever more uncomfortable. His pride, his honest plebeian pride, was affronted. What was there in common between him, the son of a minor official and these military aristocrats from Petersburg? He loved everything which they hated; he was all too clearly conscious of this and felt it with his whole being. He found their jokes flat, their tone insufferable, their every movement false. In the very mildness of their words he detected an appalling contemptuousness. However, he was afraid of these people, afraid of these enemies. “Bah! What baseness! I cramp their style; they find me funny,” he thought. “Why am I staying here? I’ll go away, go away at once!” The presence of Irina could not detain him; she too aroused unhappy sensations in him. He rose from his chair and began to take his leave.
“You’re leaving already?” said Irina, but, after a little thought, she did not insist and merely obtained his word that he would visit her without fail. General Ratmirov bowed to him with his former exquisite politeness, shook his hand and accompanied him to the end of the terrace.
But scarcely had Litvinov turned the first corner in the road than there was a concerted outburst of laughter behind him. The laughter was not directed at him but at the long-expected Monsieur Verdier, who had suddenly appeared on the terrace, wearing a Tyrolean hat and a blue shirt and riding a donkey, but the blood rushed to Litvinov’s cheeks and he felt bitter, as if his clenched lips had been sealed with wormwood. “Despicable, vulgar people,” he muttered, ignoring the fact that a few minutes spent in their company gave him no cause to express himself so harshly. And Irina, the Irina of old, had fallen in with this world. In it she circulated, lived, reigned, and for it she had sacrificed her own worth and the best feelings of her heart. Clearly it was meant to be thus; clearly she deserved no better fate! How pleased he was that she had not thought to ask him about his intentions! He would have had to tell her in front of “them”, in “their” presence. “Not for anything! Never!” Litvinov whispered, taking a deep breath of fresh air and almost running down the road into Baden. He thought about his betrothed, his gentle, kind, saintly Tatyana, and how pure, noble, righteous she appeared to him. With what unfeigned tenderness he called to mind her features, her words, her very habits… and with what impatience he awaited her return.
The speed of his movement soothed his nerves. On returning to his rooms he sat down at the table, took up a book, but suddenly dropped it and even shuddered. What had happened to him? Nothing had happened to him, but Irina… Irina. His meeting with her suddenly seemed surprising, strange, unusual. Was it possible? He had met and talked with Irina herself. Why did he not bear the revolting stamp of high society with which all the others were so sharply marked? Why did he imagine that she was, as it were, bored or sorrowful or burdened with her position? She was in their camp, but was no enemy. And what could have made her treat him with such delight and invite him to see her?
Litvinov started.
“Oh, Tanya, Tanya,” he exclaimed distractedly, “you alone are my angel, my good genie; it’s you alone I love and always will. And I won’t go and see her. To hell with her. Let her amuse herself with her generals!”
Litvinov again took up his book.
11
Litvinov took up his book but did not feel like reading. He left his hotel, walked around for a while, listened to the music, watched the gamblers, then again returned to his room and again tried to read, all to no avail. Time dragged by especially wearily. Pishchalkin, the well-intentioned arbitrator, came and stayed for some three hours. He chatted, held forth, posed questions and discussed an assortment of topics – some elevated, some utilitarian, eventually spreading such tedium that poor Litvinov almost howled. In the art of inducing tedium, dreary, cold, inescapable and hopeless tedium, Pishchalkin had no rivals even among people of the highest morality, who are acknowledged experts in this field. The mere sight of his close-cropped, smooth head, bright, lifeless eyes and benign nose evoked involuntary dejection, while his drawling, apparently somnolent, baritone voice seemed to have been created for the express purpose of making pronouncements, clearly and with conviction, to the effect that twice two is four, and not five or three, that water is wet and virtue laudable and that private individuals, just like the state, and the state, just like private individuals, invariably need credit for financial operations. And yet, for all that, he was an excellent fellow. But such is Russia’s fate: her excellent people are tedious. Pishchalkin departed and Bindasov replaced him. Immediately, and with maximum impertinence, he asked Litvinov for a loan of one hundred guilders, which Litvinov gave him, in spite of the fact that not only was he not interested in Bindasov, he actually loathed him and knew for certain that he would never get his money back; moreover, he needed the money himself. Why did he give him the money, the reader will ask. Heaven knows why! Russians are very good at this. Let the reader put his hand on his heart and remember how many actions in his own life had no reason whatsoever. Bindasov did not even thank Litvinov; he ordered a glass of Affentaler (the red wine of Baden) and left without wiping his lips, insolently clicking his heels. How annoyed Litvinov was upon contemplating the wealthy peasant’s red mane as he disappeared into the distance. Just before evening he received a letter from Tatyana, in which she informed him that, as a result of her aunt’s illness, it would be five or six days before she arrived in Baden. This news had an unpleasant effect on Litvinov: it increased his annoyance and he went to bed early and in a bad mood. The following day turned out no better than the previous one: if anything, it was worse. From early morning Litvinov’s room filled up with his compatriots: Bambayev, Voroshilov, Pishchalkin, two officers, two Heidelberg students – they all rolled up together and did not leave before dinner time, although they quickly exhausted their supply of chatter and were clearly bored. They simply did not know what to do with themselves and, having arrived in Litvinov’s room, they “stuck” there, as the saying goes. At first they talked about the fact that Gubaryov had gone back to Heidelberg and about what would have to be sent to him. Then they did a bit of philosophizing and touched on the Polish question;* then they turned to discussing gambling, cocottes and began telling scandalous anecdotes; finally, the conversation focused on strongmen, fat men and gluttons. Old anecdotes were trotted out about Lukin, the deacon who ate thirty-three herrings for a bet, about the uhlan Colonel Izyedinov, famous for his stoutness, about the soldier who broke a cow bone over his forehead; this was followed by a stream of total invention. Pishchalkin himself recounted with a yawn how he knew of a peasant woman in Ukraine who, on her death, turned out to weigh nearly half a ton, and a landlord who ate three geese and a sturgeon for lunch. Bambayev suddenly became ecstatic and announced that he himself was capable of eating an entire ram (with seasoning, of course), while Voroshilov barked something so incoherent about his friend, a strongman and cadet, that everyone fell silent, looked at one another, took their hats and wandered off in all directions. Left alone, Litvinov tried to occupy himself, but he felt as if his head were full of soot; he could do nothing sensible, and the evening, too, was wasted. The next morning he was about to have breakfast, when someone knocked at his door. “Good grief,” thought Litvinov, “one of my pals from yesterday again,” and, not without some trepidation, said:
Smoke (Alma Classics) Page 8