Smoke (Alma Classics)

by Ivan Turgenev

  “Herein.”*

  The door was opened quietly, and into the room came Potugin.

  Litvinov was extremely pleased to see him.

  “This is nice!” he said, firmly grasping the hand of his unexpected guest. “Thank you. I would definitely have visited you, but you didn’t want to tell me where you live. Do sit down please and take your hat off. Sit down, won’t you?”

  Potugin did not reply to Litvinov’s kind words, but stood, shuffling from foot to foot, in the middle of the room, merely laughing and shaking his head. Litvinov’s hearty greeting had obviously touched him, but there was something constrained about the expression on his face.

  “A small misunderstanding,” he said haltingly. “Of course, it’s always a pleasure for me… but I’ve been sent to see you.”

  “So you’re trying to say,” said Litvinov in a plaintive voice, “that, left to your own devices, you wouldn’t have come to me?”

  “Oh, no. Please! But I… I perhaps would not have decided to disturb you if I hadn’t been asked to call on you. In a word, I have a message for you.”

  “From whom, may I ask?”

  “From a person known to you – from Irina Pavlovna Ratmirova. A couple of days ago you promised to visit her and didn’t come.”

  Litvinov stared at Potugin in astonishment.

  “Do you know Madame Ratmirova?”

  “Yes, as you can see.”

  “Do you know her well?”

  “To a certain extent I’m her friend.”

  Litvinov said nothing.

  “Allow me to ask you,” he began finally, “if you know why Irina Pavlovna wishes to see me.”

  Potugin went up to the window.

  “I do know, to a certain extent. As far as I can judge, she was delighted to meet you and, well, she wants to restore relations with you.”

  “To restore them,” Litvinov echoed. “Excuse my immodesty, but allow me to ask you once again. Do you know the nature of these relations?”

  “Frankly, no, I don’t know. But I suppose,” Potugin added suddenly, turning to Litvinov and bestowing a friendly look on him, “I suppose they were good. Irina Pavlovna was full of praise for you, and I had to give her my word that I would bring you. Will you come?”

  “When?”

  “Now. At once.”

  Litvinov merely threw up his hands.

  “Irina Pavlovna,” Potugin continued, “supposes that the, so to speak, milieu in which you found her a couple of days ago must not have occasioned particular sympathy in you; but she told me to tell you that the Devil is not as black as he is painted.”

  “Hmm. This phrase refers expressly to that… milieu?”

  “Yes. And more generally.”

  “Hmm. And what is your opinion of the Devil, Sozont Ivanovich?”

  “I think, Grigory Mikhailovich, that at any rate he is not what he is painted.”

  “He’s better?”

  “It’s difficult to decide whether he’s better or worse, but he’s not as he is painted. Well, then, shall we go?”

  “First, sit yourself down for a bit. I must confess it still seems somewhat strange…”

  “What does, if I may make so bold?”

  “How you, you in particular, were able to become a friend of Irina Pavlovna.”

  Potugin cast a look at himself.

  “With my appearance, with my position in society, you’re right – it is unlikely. But you know what Shakespeare said: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…’* and so on. Life does not like to joke. Here’s a comparison for you: a tree stands before you and there is no wind. How will a leaf from the lowest branch touch a leaf from the highest branch? Impossible. But a storm arose, everything got moved around – and those two leaves touched.”

  “Aha! So there were storms?”

  “And how! Can one survive without them? But away with philosophy. I must go.”

  Litvinov still hesitated

  “Good Heavens,” exclaimed Potugin with a comical grimace. “What’s come over young men today? The most delightful of ladies invites them round, sends envoys and special messengers for them, and they come over all shy. You should be ashamed, my dear sir, ashamed. Here is your hat. Take it and ‘vorwärts’,* as our passionate German friends say.”

  For a little while longer Litvinov stood deep in thought, but finally he took his hat and left the room with Potugin.

  12

  They arrived at one of the best hotels in Baden and asked to see General Ratmirov’s wife. The porter first took their names, then immediately replied: “Die Frau Fürstin ist zu Hause.”* He led them upstairs, knocked on the door and announced them. “Die Frau Fürstin” received them at once. She was alone; her husband had gone off to Karlsruhe to meet an important and influential dignitary who was passing through.

  Irina was sitting at a small table, sewing on canvas, when Potugin and Litvinov entered the room. She hurriedly discarded the sewing, pushed the table away, and stood up. An expression of unfeigned pleasure spread over her features. She was wearing a high-necked morning dress; the splendid outlines of her shoulders and arms could be seen through the light material; a carelessly plaited braid had come undone and fell low over her slender neck. Irina threw a quick glance at Potugin, whispered “merci” and, affectionately extending her hand to Litvinov, reproved him for his forgetfulness. “But you’re still an old friend,” she added.

  Litvinov was on the point of apologizing. “C’est bien, c’est bien,”* she said hastily and, removing his hat with a mixture of gentleness and firmness, made him sit down. Potugin also sat down, but at once stood up again and, saying that he had business which could not be put off and that he would drop by after dinner, began to take his leave. Irina again threw a quick glance at him and nodded amiably in his direction. She did not, however, detain him and, as soon as he had disappeared beyond the portière, turned to Litvinov with lively impatience.

  “Grigory Mikhailovich,” she said in Russian in her soft, resonant voice, “at last we’re alone together and I can tell you that our meeting makes me very happy, because it gives me the possibility” (Irina looked him straight in the eye) “to ask forgiveness of you.”

  Litvinov shuddered involuntarily. He had not expected such a rapid onslaught. He had not expected that she herself would turn the conversation to former days.

  “Forgiveness? For what?” he muttered.

  Irina blushed.

  “For what? You know for what,” she said, turning away slightly. “I am guilty before you, Grigory Mikhailovich… although, of course, that’s what Fate decreed for me” (Litvinov recalled her letter) “and I don’t repent. In any case, it would be too late. But, having met you so unexpectedly, I told myself that we must become friends without fail, without fail… and it would have been very painful for me if we had not succeeded. It seems to me, Grigory Mikhailovich, that in order to do this, an explanation is needed between us without delay, once and for all, so that there should be no subsequent gêne, no awkwardness; that you must tell me you forgive me, otherwise I shall presume that you harbour de la rancune. Voilà.* Perhaps that’s a big claim on my part, because you’ve probably forgotten everything a long time ago; nevertheless, tell me you’ve forgiven me.”

  Irina uttered this whole speech without drawing breath and Litvinov noticed that tears, real tears, had begun to glisten in her eyes.

  “Please, Irina Pavlovna,” he began hastily, “you should be ashamed of apologizing, of begging forgiveness. It’s all water under the bridge and it only remains for me to be surprised how you, amid the glitter which surrounds you, could retain the memory of an obscure companion of your early youth.”

  “That surprises you?” Irina said quietly.

  “It touches me,” returned Litvinov, “because I couldn’t imagine it at all.”

 
; “All the same, you haven’t told me you’ve forgiven me,” Irina interrupted.

  “I rejoice sincerely in your happiness, Irina Pavlovna. With my whole heart I wish you all the best in the world.”

  “And you don’t remember the bad?”

  “I remember only the wonderful moments for which I was once indebted to you.”

  Irina extended both hands to him. Litvinov squeezed them hard and did not release them at once. Something long dormant secretly stirred in his heart as a result of this soft touch. Irina again looked him full in the face, but this time she was smiling. For the first time he looked at her, directly and intently. He again recognized features which had once been so dear to him: those deep eyes, with their extraordinary lashes, the birthmark on her cheek, the particular shape of her hair above her forehead, her habit of twisting her lips in a manner both affectionate and amusing, and of twitching her eyebrows – he recognized everything, everything. But how her looks had improved! What charm, what power there was in her young womanly form. On her face there was no rouge, no paint, no pencil, no powder; there was no artifice at all. Yes, it was true: she was a beautiful woman.

  Litvinov had become pensive. He was still looking at her, but already his thoughts were far away. Irina noticed this.

  “Well, that’s fine, then,” she said loudly. “Now my conscience is clear and I can satisfy my curiosity.”

  “Curiosity,” Litvinov repeated, seemingly puzzled.

  “Yes, yes. I simply must know what you’ve been doing all this time, what your plans are. I want to know everything: how, what, when… everything. And you must tell me the truth, because I warn you, I didn’t lose sight of you, as far as that was possible.”

  “You didn’t lose sight of me, you, there, in Petersburg?”

  “Amid the glitter which surrounded me, as you put it just now. No, indeed I did not. You and I will talk more about the glitter, but now you must do the talking, lots of it, at length. No one will stop you. Ah, how marvellous that will be!” Irina added, sitting down cheerfully in the armchair and preening herself. “Well then, begin.”

  “Before I say anything, I must thank you,” Litvinov began.

  “What for?”

  “For the bouquet of flowers that is in my room.”

  “What bouquet? I know nothing about it.”

  “How so?”

  “I tell you, I know nothing about it. But I’m waiting… I’m waiting for your story. Ah, that Potugin is a clever man to have brought you here.”

  “Have you known this Mr Potugin for a long time?” Litvinov asked.

  “A long time. But your story…”

  “Are you closely acquainted with him?”

  “Oh, yes!” Irina sighed. “There are particular reasons for that. You’ve heard of Eliza Belskaya, naturally. The one who died such a horrible death a couple of years ago. Oh, I’d forgotten you don’t know our stories. It’s fortunate you don’t. Oh, quelle chance!* At last, a human being, a living human being, who knows nothing of us. And one can speak Russian to him. It may be bad Russian, but it’s Russian, not that revolting non-stop saccharine Petersburg French.”

  “And you say Potugin was involved?”

  “It’s very painful for me to recall that,” Irina interrupted. “Eliza was my best friend at school, and afterwards we used to meet constantly au château* in Petersburg. She confided all her secrets to me; she was very unhappy and suffered a great deal. In this saga Potugin behaved splendidly, like a real gentleman. He sacrificed himself. Only then did I appreciate him. But we’ve wandered off the subject again. I’m waiting for your story, Grigory Mikhailovich.”

  “But my story cannot be of any interest to you, Irina Pavlovna.”

  “That’s no concern of yours.”

  “Irina Pavlovna, remember we haven’t seen each other for ten years, a whole ten years. How much water has gone under the bridge since then?”

  “Not only water! Not only water!” She repeated the words with an expression of particular bitterness. “That’s why I want to listen to you.”

  “What’s more, to be truthful, I don’t know where to begin.”

  “From the beginning. From the time when you… when I moved to Petersburg. Do you know, since then I’ve never returned to Moscow!”

  “Really?”

  “Previously, it was not possible. Then, when I got married…”

  “Have you been married long?”

  “More than three years.”

  “You’ve no children?”

  “No,” she replied drily.

  Litvinov was briefly silent.

  “Before your marriage, you lived with that, what’s his name, Count Reisenbach all the time?”

  Irina looked fixedly at him, as if trying to comprehend why he asked this question.

  “No,” she said finally.

  “Perhaps your parents… By the way, I haven’t even asked after them. How are they?”

  “They are both well.”

  “Do they live in Moscow as they did before?”

  “In Moscow, as before.”

  “And your brothers and sisters?”

  “They’re fine. I made provision for them all.”

  “Ah!” Litvinov gave Irina a quizzical look. “Really, Irina Pavlovna, it’s not me who should be talking, but you, if only…”

  He suddenly checked himself and fell silent.

  Irina put her hands to her face and twisted her wedding ring on her finger.

  “What? I’ve no objection,” she said finally. Sometime… perhaps… But first you… because, you see, although I kept track of you, I know almost nothing about you. You’ve probably heard enough about me. Is that not so? You have heard about me, haven’t you?”

  “Irina Pavlovna, you occupied too prominent a place in society not to give rise to rumours, especially in the provinces, where I was and where every rumour is believed.”

  “But did you believe those rumours? What was the nature of them?”

  “I have to admit, Irina Pavlovna, these rumours reached me very infrequently. I was leading a very secluded life.”

  “How so? You were in the militia in the Crimea, weren’t you?”

  “You know that too?”

  “As you see. I’m telling you, we kept track of you.”

  Again it fell to Litvinov to be amazed.

  “Why should I tell you what you know anyway?” said Litvinov in an undertone.

  “To… to comply with my request. After all, I’m asking you, Grigory Mikhailovich.”

  Litvinov inclined his head and began – began, somewhat discursively and in general terms, to relate his less than colourful adventures to Irina. He often paused and looked interrogatively at Irina, as if to ask whether that was enough. But she insisted on his continuing the story and, pushing her hair back behind her ears and leaning on the arm of the chair, seemingly tried to catch every word with redoubled attention. Looking at her from the side and following the expression on her face, one might possibly have thought that she was not listening to anything Litvinov said to her and was merely sinking into a state of contemplation. But it was not Litvinov that she was contemplating, although he was blushingly disconcerted under her steadfast gaze. Before her arose a whole new life, another life, not his, but her own.

  Litvinov did not finish, but fell silent under the influence of an unpleasant feeling of growing inner awkwardness. This time Irina said nothing, did not ask him to continue and, pressing the palm of her hand to her eyes as if she were tired, slowly leant back in the armchair and remained motionless. Litvinov waited a moment, then, realizing that his visit had already gone on for more than two hours, was about to reach for his hat when, suddenly, from the next room, came the rapid squeak of patent-leather boots and, preceded by the now familiar scent of the Guards and the nobility, there entered Valeri
an Vladimirovich Ratmirov.