A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  Litvinov tried to go on . . . and could not. He only pinched his hands together so that his fingers cracked. Irina was bending forward and seemed turned to stone.

  “Oh! I love you!” broke at last with a low groan from Litvinov’s breast, and he turned away, as though he would hide his face.

  “What? Grigory Mihalitch, you” . . . Irina, too, could not finish her sentence, and leaning back in her chair, she put both her hands to her eyes. “You . love me?” “Yes . . . yes . . . yes,” he repeated with bitterness, turning his head further and further away.

  Everything was silent in the room; a butterfly that had flown in was fluttering its wings and struggling between the curtain and the window.

  The first to speak was Litvinov. “That, Irina Pavlovna,” he began, “that is the misfortune, which . . . has befallen me, which I ought to have foreseen and avoided, if I had not now just as in the Moscow days been carried off my feet at once. It seems fate is pleased to force me once again through you to suffer tortures, which one would have thought should not be repeated again. . . . It was not without cause I struggled. . . . I tried to struggle; but of course there’s no escaping one’s fate. And I tell you all this to put an end at once to this . . . this tragic farce,” he added with a fresh outburst of shame and bitterness. Litvinov was silent again; the butterfly was struggling and fluttering as before. Irina did not take her hands from her face.

  “And you are not mistaken?” her whisper sounded from under those white, bloodless - looking hands. “I am not mistaken,” answered Litvinov in a colorless voice. “I love you, as I have never loved any one but you. I am not going to reproach you; that would be too foolish; I’m not going to tell you that perhaps nothing of all this would have happened if you yourself had behaved differently with me. . . . Of course, I alone am to blame, my self - confidence has been my ruin; I am deservedly punished, and you could not have anticipated it. Of course you did not consider that it would have been far less dangerous for me if you had not been so keenly alive to your wrong. . . . your supposed wrong to me; and had not wished to make up for it . . . but what’s done can’t be undone. I only wanted to make clear my position to you; it’s hard enough as it is. . . . But at least there will be, as you say, no misunderstanding, while the openness of my confession will soften, I hope, the feeling of offense which you cannot but feel.”

  Litvinov spoke without raising his eyes, but even if he had glanced at Irina, he could not have seen what was passing in her face, as she still as before kept her hands over her eyes. But what was passing over her face meanwhile would probably have astounded him; both alarm and delight were apparent on it, and a kind of blissful helplessness and agitation; her eyes hardly glimmered under their overhanging lids, and her slow, broken breathing was chill upon her lips, that were parted as though with thirst. . . .

  Litvinov was silent, waiting for, a response, some sound. . . . Nothing!

  “There is one thing left for me,” he began again, “to go away; I have come to say good - by to you.”

  Irina slowly dropped her hands on to her knees.

  “But I remember, Grigory Mihalitch,” she began; “that . . . that person of whom you spoke to me, she was to have come here? You are expecting her?”

  “Yes; but I shall write to her . . . she will stop somewhere on the way . . . at Heidelberg, for instance.”

  “Ah! Heidelberg. . . . Yes. . . . It’s nice there. But all this must upset your plans. Are you perfectly certain, Grigory Mihalitch, that you are not exaggerating, et que ce n’est pas une fausse alarme?”

  Irina spoke softly, almost coldly, with short pauses, looking away towards the window. Litvinov made no answer to her last question.

  “Only, why did you talk of offense?” she went on. “I am not offended . . . oh, no! and if one or other of us is to blame, in any case it’s not you; not you alone. . . . Remember our last conversations, and you will be convinced that it’s not you who are to blame?” “I have never doubted your magnanimity,” Litvinov muttered between his teeth, “but I should like to know, do you approve of my intention?”

  “To go away?”

  “Yes.”

  Irina continued to look away.

  “At the first moment, your intention struck me as premature . . but now I have thought over what you have said . . . and if you are really not mistaken, then I suppose that you ought to go away. It will be better so . . . better for us both.”

  Irina’s voice had grown lower and lower, and her words, too, came more and more slowly. “General Ratmirov, certainly, might notice,” Litvinov was beginning. .

  Irina’s eyes dropped again, and something strange quivered about her lips, quivered and died away.

  “No; you did not understand me,” she interrupted him. “I was not thinking of my husband. Why should I? And there is nothing to notice. But I repeat, separation is necessary for us both.”

  Litvinov picked up his hat, which had fallen on the ground.

  “Everything is over,” he thought, “I must go. And so it only remains for me to say good - by to you, Irina Pavlovna,” he said aloud, and suddenly felt a pang, as though he were preparing to pronounce his own sentence on himself. “It only remains for me to hope that you will not remember evil against me, and . . . and that if we ever - - “

  Irina again cut him short.

  “Wait a little, Grigory Mihalitch, don’t say good - by to me yet. That would be too hurried.”

  Something wavered in Litvinov, but the burning pain broke out again and with redoubled violence in his heart.

  “But I can’t stay,” he cried. “What for? Why prolong this torture?”

  “Don’t say good - by to me yet,” repeated Irina. “I must see you once more. . . . Another such dumb parting as in Moscow again - - no, I don’t want that. You can go now, but you must promise me, give me your word of honor that you won’t go away without seeing me once more.”

  “You wish that?”

  “I insist on it. If you go away without saying good - by to me, I shall never forgive it, do you hear, never! Strange!” she added as though to herself, “I cannot persuade myself that I am in Baden. . . . I keep feeling that I am in Moscow. . . . Go now.”

  Litvinov got up.

  “Irina Pavlovna,” he said, “give me your hand.”

  Irina shook her head.

  “I told you that I don’t want to say good - by to you. . . .”

  “I don’t ask it for that.”

  Irina was about to stretch out her hand, but she glanced at Litvinov for the first time since his avowal, and drew it back.

  “No, no,” she whispered, “I will not give you my hand. No . . . no. Go now.”

  Litvinov bowed and went away. He could not tell why Irina had refused him that last friendly handshake. . . . He could not know what she feared. He went away, and Irina again sank into the armchair and again covered her face.

  XVII

  LITVINOV did not return home; he went up to the hills, and getting into a thick copse, he flung himself face downwards on the earth, and lay there about an hour. He did not suffer tortures, did not weep; he hank into a kind of heavy, oppressive stupor. Never had he felt anything like it; it was an insufferably aching and gnawing sensation of emptiness, emptiness in himself, his surroundings, everywhere. . . . He thought neither of Irina nor of Tatyana. He felt one thing only: a blow had fallen and life was sundered like a cord, and all of him was being drawn along in the clutches of something chill and unfamiliar. Sometimes it seemed to him that a whirlwind had swooped down upon him, and he had the sensation of its swift whirling round and the irregular beating of its dark wings. But his resolution did not waver. To remain in Baden . . . that could not even be considered. In thought he had already gone, he was already sitting in the rattling, snorting train, hurrying, hurrying into the dumb, dead distance. He got up at last, and leaning his head against a tree, stayed motionless; only with one hand, he all unconsciously snatched and swung in rhythm the topmost frond of a fern.
The sound of approaching footsteps drew him out of his stupor: two charcoal - burners were making their way down the steep path with large sacks on their shoulders. “It’s time!” whispered Litvinov, and he followed the charcoal - burners to the town, turned into the railway station, and sent off a telegram to Tatyana’s aunt, Kapitolina Markovna. In this telegram he informed her of his immediate departure, and appointed as a meeting - place, Schrader’s hotel in Heidelberg.

  “Make an end, make an end at once,” he thought; “it’s useless putting it off till to - morrow.” Then he went to the gambling saloon, stared with dull curiosity at the faces of two or three gamblers, got a back view of Bindasov’s ugly head in the distance, noticed the irreproachable countenance of Pishtchalkin, and after waiting a little under the colonnade, he set off deliberately to Irina’s. He was not going to her through the force of sudden, involuntary temptation; when he made up his mind to go away, he also made up his mind to keep his word and see her once more. He went into the hotel unobserved by the porter, ascended the staircase, not meeting any one, and without knocking at the door, he mechanically pushed it open and went into the room.

  In the room, in the same armchair, in the same dress, in precisely the same attitude as three hours before, was sitting Irina. . . . It was obvious that she had not moved from the place, had not stirred all that time. She slowly raised her head, and seeing Litvinov, she trembled all over and clutched the arm of the chair. “You frightened me,” she whispered.

  Litvinov looked at her with speechless bewilderment. The expression of her face, her lusterless eyes, astounded him.

  Irina gave a forced smile and smoothed her ruffled hair. “Never mind. . . . I really don’t know. . . . I think I must have fallen asleep here.” “I beg your pardon, Irina Pavlovna,” began Litvinov. “I came in unannounced. . . . I wanted to do what you thought fit to require of me. So as I am going away to - day - - - - “

  “To - day? But I thought you told me that you meant first to write a letter - - “

  “I have sent a telegram.”

  “Ah! you found it necessary to make haste. And when are you going? What time, I mean?”

  “At seven o’clock this evening.”

  “Ah! at seven o’clock! And you have come to say good - by?”

  “Yes, Irina Pavlovna, to say good - by.”

  Irina was silent for a little.

  “I ought to thank you, Grigory Mihalitch, it was probably not easy for you to come here.”

  “No, Irina Pavlovna, it was anything but easy.”

  “Life is not generally easy, Grigory Mihalitch; what do you think about it?”

  “It depends, Irina Pavlovna.”

  Irina was silent again for a little; she seemed sunk in thought. “You have proved your affection for me by coming,” she said at last, “I thank you. And I fully approve of your decision to put an end to everything as soon as possible . . . because any delay . . . because . . . because I, even I whom you have reproached as a flirt, called an actress . . . that, I think, was what you called me? . . .”

  Irina got up swiftly, and, sitting down in another chair, stooped down and pressed her face and arms on the edge of the table.

  “Because I love you . . .” she whispered between her clasped fingers.

  Litvinov staggered, as though some one had dealt him a blow in the chest. Irina turned her head dejectedly away from him, as though she in her turn wanted to hide her face from him, and laid it down on the table.

  “Yes, I love you . . . I love you . . . and you know it.”

  “I? I know it?” Litvinov said at last; “I?” “Well, now you see,” Irina went on, “that you certainly must go, that delay’s impossible . . . both for you, and for me delay’s impossible. It’s dangerous, it’s terrible . . . good - by!” she added, rising impulsively from her chair, “good - by!”

  She took a few steps in the direction of the door of her boudoir, and putting her hand behind her back, made a hurried movement in the air, as though she would find and press the hand of Litvinov; but he stood like a block of wood, at a distance. . . . Once. more she said, “Good - by, forget me,” and without looking round she rushed away.

  Litvinov remained alone, and yet still could not come to himself. He recovered himself at last, went quickly to the boudoir door, uttered Irina’s name once, twice, three times. . . . He had already his hand on the lock. . . . From the hotel stairs rose the sound of Ratmirov’s sonorous voice.

  Litvinov pulled down his hat over his eyes, and went out on the staircase. The elegant general was standing before the Swiss porter’s box and explaining to him in bad German that he wanted a hired carriage for the whole of the next day. On catching sight of Litvinov, he again lifted his hat unnaturally high, and again wished him “a very good - day”; he was obviously jeering at him, but Litvinov had no thoughts for that. He hardly responded to Ratmirov’s bow, and, making his way to his lodging, he stood still before his already packed and closed trunk. His head was turning round and his heart vibrating like a harp - string. What was to be done now? And could he have foreseen this?”

  Yes, he had foreseen it, however unlikely it seemed. It had stunned him like a clap of thunder, yet he had foreseen it, though he had not courage even to acknowledge it. Besides he knew nothing now for certain. Everything was confusion and turmoil within him; he had lost the thread of his own thoughts. He remembered Moscow, he remembered how then, too, “it” had come upon him like a sudden tempest. He was breathless; rapture, but a rapture comfortless and hopeless, oppressed and tore his heart. For nothing in the world would he have consented that the words uttered by Irina should not have actually been uttered by her. . . . But then? those words could not for all that change the resolution he had taken. As before, it did not waver; it stood firm like an anchor. Litvinov had lost the thread of his own thoughts . . . yes; but his will still remained to him, and he disposed of himself as of another man dependent on him. He rang for the waiter, asked him for the bill, bespoke a place in the evening omnibus; designedly he cut himself off from all paths of retreat. “If I die for it after!” he declared, as he had in the previous sleepless night; that phrase seemed especially to his taste. “Then even if I die for it!” he repeated, walking slowly up and down the room, and only at rare intervals, unconsciously, he shut his eyes and held his breath, while those words, those words of Irina’s forced their way into his soul, and set it aflame. “It seems you won’t love twice,” he thought; “another life came to you, you let it come into yours - - never to be rid of that poison to the end, you will never break those bonds! Yes; but what does that prove? Happiness? . . . Is it possible? You love her, granted . . . and she . . . she loves you. . . .”

  But at this point again he had to pull himself up. As a traveler on a dark night, seeing before him a light, and afraid of losing the path, never for an instant takes his eyes off it, so Litvinov continually bent all the force of his attention on a single point, a single aim. To reach his betrothed, and not precisely even his betrothed (he was trying not to think of her) but to reach a room in the Heidelberg hotel, that was what stood immovably before him, a guiding light. What would be later, he did not know, nor did he want to know. . . . One thing was beyond doubt, he would not come back. “If I die first!” he repeated for the tenth time, and he glanced at his watch.

  A quarter - past six! How long still to wait! He paced once more up and down. The sun was nearly setting, the sky was crimson above the trees, and the pink flush of twilight lay on the narrow windows of his darkening room. Suddenly Litvinov fancied the door had been opened quickly and softly behind him and as quickly closed again. . . . He turned round at the door, muffled in a dark cloak, was standing woman . . .

  “Irina,” he cried, and clapped his hands together in amazement. . . . She raised her head and fell upon his breast.

  Two hours later he was sitting in his room on the sofa. His box stood in the corner, open and empty, and on the table in the midst of things flung about in disorder, lay a
letter from Tatyana, just received by him. She wrote to him that she had decided to hasten her departure from Dresden, since her aunt’s health was completely restored, and that if nothing happened to delay them, they would both be in Baden the following day at twelve o’clock, and hoped that he would come to meet them at the station. Apartments had already been taken for them by Litvinov in the same hotel in which he was staying.

  The same evening he sent a note to Irina, and the following morning he received a reply from her, “Sooner or later,” she wrote, “it must have been. I tell you again what I said yesterday: my life is in your hands, do with me what you will. I do not want to hamper your freedom, but let me say, that if necessary, I will throw up everything, and follow you to the ends of the earth. We shall see each other to - morrow, of course. - - Your Irina.”

  The last two words were written in a large, bold, resolute hand.

  XVIII

  AMONG the persons assembled on the 18th of August at twelve o’clock on the platform at the railway station was Litvinov. Not long before, he had seen Irina: she was sitting in an open carriage with her husband and another gentleman, somewhat elderly. She caught sight of Litvinov, and he perceived that some obscure emotion flitted over her eyes; but at once she hid herself from him with her parasol.

  A strange transformation had taken place in him since the previous day - - in his whole appearance, his movements, the expression of his face; and indeed he felt himself a different man. His self - confidence had vanished, and his peace of mind had vanished, too, and his respect for himself; of his former spiritual condition nothing was left. Recent ineffaceable impressions obscured all the rest from him. Some sensation unknown before had come, strong, sweet - - and evil; the mysterious guest had made its way to the innermost shrine and taken possession and lain down in it, in silence, but in all its magnitude, like the owner in a new house. Litvinov was no longer ashamed, he was afraid; at the same time a desperate hardihood had sprung up in him; the captured, the vanquished know well this mixture of opposing feelings; the thief, too, knows something of it after his first robbery. Litvinov had been vanquished, vanquished suddenly . . . and what had become of his honesty? The train was a few minutes late. Litvinov’s suspense passed into agonizing torture; he could not stop still in one place, and, pale all over, moved about jostling in the crowd. “My God,” he thought, “if I only had another twenty - four hours.” . . . The first look at Tanya, the first look of Tanya . . . that was what filled him with terror . . . that was what he had to live through directly . . . And afterwards? Afterwards . . . come, what may come! . . . He now made no more resolutions, he could not answer for himself now. His phrase of yesterday flashed painfully through his head. . . . And this was how he was meeting Tanya. . . . A prolonged whistle sounded at last, a heavy momentarily increasing rumble was heard, and, slowly rolling around a bend in the line, the train came into sight. The crowd hurried to meet it, and Litvinov followed it, dragging his feet like a condemned man. Faces, ladies’ hats began to appear out of the carriages, at one window a white handkerchief gleamed. . Kapitolina Markovna was waving to him. . . . It was over; she had caught sight of Litvinov and he recognized her. The train stood still; Litvinov rushed to the carriage door, and opened it; Tatyana was standing near her aunt, smiling brightly and holding out her hand.