“Not at all . . . the ministry indeed! But real! one can’t refuse to recognize things.”
Boris plunged his fingers again into his whiskers and stared into the air. “Social life is very important, because in the development of the people, in the destinies, so to speak of the country - - “
“Valérien,” interrupted Boris reprovingly, “il y a des dames ici. I did not expect this of you, or do you want to get on to a committee?”
“But they are all closed now, thank God,” put in the irritable general, and he began humming again “Deux gendarmes on beau dimanche.”
Ratmirov raised a cambric handkerchief to his nose and gracefully retired from the discussion; the condescending general repeated “Rascal! rascal!” but Boris turned to the lady who “grimaced upon the desert air” and without lowering his voice, or a change in the expression of his face, began to ply her with questions as to when “she would reward his devotion,” as though he were desperately in love with her and suffering tortures on her account.
At every moment during this conversation Litvinov felt more and more ill at ease. His pride, his clean plebeian pride, was fairly in revolt.
What had he, the son of a petty official, in common with these military aristocrats of Petersburg? He loved everything they hated; he hated everything they loved; he was only too vividly conscious of it, he felt it in every part of his being. Their jokes he thought dull, their tone intolerable, every gesture false; in the very smoothness of their speeches he detected a note of revolting contemptuousness - - and yet he was, as it were, abashed before them, before these creatures, these enemies. “Ugh! how disgusting! I am in their way, I am ridiculous to them,” was the thought that kept revolving in his head. “Why am I stopping? Let me escape at once, at once.” Irina’s presence could not retain him; she, too, aroused melancholy emotions in him. He got up from his seat and began to take leave.
“You are going already?” said Irina, but after a moment’s reflection she did not press him to stay, and only extracted a promise from him that he would not fail to come and see her. General Ratmirov took leave of him with the same refined courtesy, shook hands with him and accompanied him to the end of the platform. . . . But Litvinov had scarcely had time to turn round the first bend in the road when he heard a general roar of laughter behind him. This laughter had no reference to him, but was occasioned by the long - expected Monsieur Verdier, who suddenly made his appearance on the platform, in a Tyrolese hat, and blue blouse, riding a donkey, but the blood fairly rushed into Litvinov’s cheeks, and he felt intense bitterness: his tightly compressed lips seemed as though drawn by wormwood. “Despicable, vulgar creatures,” he muttered, without reflecting that the few minutes he had spent in their company had not given him sufficient ground for such severe criticism. And this was the world into which Irina had fallen, Irina, once his Irina! In this world she moved, and lived, and reigned; for it, she had sacrificed her personal dignity, the noblest feelings of her heart. . . . It was clearly as it should be; it was clear that she had deserved no better fate! How glad he was that she had not thought of questioning him about his intentions! He might have opened his heart before “them” in “their” presence. . . . “For nothing in the world! never murmured Litvinov, inhaling deep draughts of the fresh air and descending the road towards Baden almost at a run. He thought of his betrothed, his sweet, good, sacred Tatyana, and how pure, how noble, how true she seemed to him. With what unmixed tenderness he recalled her features, her words, her very gestures . . . with what impatience he looked forward to her return.
The rapid exercise soothed his nerves. Returning home he sat down at the table and took up a book; suddenly he let it fall, even with a shudder. . . . What had happened to him? Nothing had happened, but Irina . . . Irina. . . . All at once his meeting with her seemed something marvelous, strange, extraordinary. Was it possible? he had met, he had talked with the same Irina. . . . And why was there no trace in her of that hateful worldliness which was so sharply stamped upon all these others? Why did he fancy that she seemed, as it were, weary, or sad, or sick of her position? She was in their camp, but she was not an enemy. And what could have impelled her to receive him joyfully, to invite him to see her? Litvinov started. “O Tanya, Tanya!” he cried passionately, “you are my guardian angel, you only, my good genius. I love you only and will love you for ever. And I will not go to see her. Forget her altogether! Let her amuse herself with her generals.” Litvinov set to his book again.
XI
LITVINOV took up his book again, but he could not read. He went out of the house, walked a little, listened to the music, glanced in at the gambling, returned again to his room, and tried again to read - - still without success. The time seemed to drag by with peculiar dreariness. Pishtchalkin, the well - intentioned peaceable mediator, came in and sat with him for three hours. He talked, argued, stated questions, and discoursed intermittently, first of elevated, and then of practical topics, and succeeded in diffusing around him such an atmosphere of dullness that poor Litvinov was ready to cry. In raising dullness - - agonizing, chilling, helpless, hopeless dullness - - to a fine art, Pishtchalkin was absolutely unrivaled even among persons of the highest morality, who are notoriously masters in that line. The there sight of his well - cut and well - brushed head, his clear lifeless eyes, his benevolent nose, produced an involuntary despondency, and his deliberate, drowsy, lazy tone seemed to have been created only to state with conviction and lucidity such sententious truths as that twice two makes four and not five or three, that water is liquid, and benevolence laudable; that to the private individual, no less than to the state, and to the state no less than to the private individual, credit is absolutely indispensable for financial operations. And with all this he was such an excellent man! But such is the sentence the fates have passed on Russia; among us, good men are dull, Pishtchalkin retreated at last; he was replaced by Bindasov, who, without any beating about the bush, asked Litvinov with great effrontery for a loan of a hundred guldens, and the latter gave it him, in spite of the fact that Bindasov was not only unattractive, but even repulsive to him, that he knew for certain that he would never get his money back and was, besides, himself in need of it. What made him give him the money then, the reader will inquire. Who can tell! That is another Russian weakness. Let the reader lay his hand on his heart and remember how many acts in his own life have had absolutely no other reason. And Bindasov did not even thank Litvinov; he asked for a glass of red Baden wine, and without wiping his lips departed, loudly and offensively tramping with his boots. And how vexed Litvinov was with himself already, as he watched the red nape of the retreating sharper’s neck! Before evening he received a letter from Tatyana in which she informed him that as her aunt was not well, she could not come to Baden for five or six days. This news had a depressing influence on Litvinov; it increased his vexation, and he went to bed early in a disagreeable frame of mind. The following day turned out no better, if not worse, than the preceding. From early morning Litvinov’s room was filled with his own countrymen; Bambaev, Voroshilov, Pishtchalkin, the two officers, the two Heidelberg students, all crowded in at once, and yet did not go away right up till dinner time, though they had soon said all they had to say and were obviously bored. They simply did not know what to do with themselves, and having got into Litvinov’s lodgings they “stuck” there, as they say. First they discussed the fact that Gubaryov had gone back to Heidelberg, and that they would have to go after him; then they philosophized a little, and touched on the Polish question; then they advanced to reflections on gambling and cocottes, and fell to repeating scandalous anecdotes; at last the conversation sank into a discussion of all sorts of “strong men” and monsters of obesity and gluttony. First, they trotted out all the ancient stories of Lukin, of the deacon who ate no less than thirty - three herrings for a wager, of the Uhlan colonel, Ezyedinov, renowned for his corpulence, and of the soldier who broke the shin - bone on his own forehead; then followed unadulterated lying. Pish
tchalkin himself related with a yawn that he knew a peasant woman in Little Russia, who at the time of her death had proved to weigh half a ton and some pounds, and a landowner who had eaten three geese and a sturgeon for luncheon; Bambaev suddenly fell into an ecstatic condition, and declared he himself was able to eat a whole sheep, “with seasoning” of course; and Voroshilov burst out with something about a comrade, an athletic cadet, so grotesque that every one was reduced to silence, and after looking at each other, they took up their hats, and the party broke up. Litvinov, when he was left alone, tried to occupy him self, but he felt just as if his head was full of smoldering soot; he could do nothing that was of any use, and the evening, too, was wasted. The next morning he was just preparing for lunch, when some one knocked at his door. “Good Lord,” thought Litvinov, “one of yesterday’s dear friends again,” and not with out some trepidation he pronounced:
“Herein!” The door opened slowly and in walked Potugin. Litvinov was exceedingly delighted to see him.
“This is nice!” he began, warmly shaking hands with his unexpected visitor, “this is good of you! I should certainly have looked you up myself, but you would not tell me where you live. Sit down, please, put down your hat. Sit down.” Potugin made no response to Litvinov’s warm welcome, and remained standing in the middle of the room, shifting from one leg to the other; he only laughed a little and shook his head. Litvinov’s cordial reception obviously touched him, but there was some constraint in the expression of his face.
“There’s . . . some little misunderstanding,” he began, not without hesitation. “Of course, it would always be . . . a pleasure . . . to me . . . but I have been sent . . . especially to you.”
“That is to say, do you mean,” commented Litvinov in an injured voice, “that you would not have come to me of your own accord?” “Oh, no, . . . indeed! But I . . . I should, perhaps, not have made up my mind to intrude on you to day, if I had not been asked to come to you. In fact, I have a message for you.”
“From whom, may I ask?”
“From a person you know, from Irina Pavlovna Ratmirov. You promised three days ago to go and see her and you have not been.”
Litvinov stared at Potugin in amazement.
“You know Madame Ratmirov?”
“As you see.”
“And you know her well?”
“I am to a certain degree a friend of hers.”
Litvinov was silent for a little.
“Allow me to ask you,” he began at last, “do you know why Irina Pavlovna wants to see me?”
Potugin went up to the window.
“To a certain degree I do. She was, as far as I can judge, very pleased at meeting you, - - well, - - and she wants to renew your former relations.” “Renew,” repeated Litvinov. “Excuse my indiscretion, but allow me to question you a little more. Do you know what was the nature of those relations?”
“Strictly speaking . . . no, I don’t know. But I imagine,” added Potugin, turning suddenly to Litvinov and looking affectionately at him, “I imagine that they were of some value. Irina Pavlovna spoke very highly of you, and I was obliged to promise her I would bring you. Will you come?”
“When?”
“Now . . . at once.”
Litvinov merely made a gesture with his hand.
“Irina Pavlovna,” pursued Potugin, “supposes that the . . . how can I express it . . . the environment, shall we say, in which you found her the other day, was not likely to be particularly attractive to you; but she told me to tell you, that the devil is not so black as he is fancied.”
“Hm. . . . Does that saying apply strictly to the environment?”
“Yes . . . and in general.”
“Hm. . . . Well, and what is your opinion, Sozont Ivanitch, of the devil?”
“I think, Grigory Mihalitch, that he is in any case not what he is fancied.”
“Is he better?”
“Whether better or worse it’s, hard to say, but certainly he is not the same as he is fancied. Well, shall we go?”
“Sit here a little first. I must own that it still seems rather strange to me.”
“What seems strange, may I make bold to inquire?”
“In what way can you have become a friend of Irina Pavlovna?”
Potugin scanned himself.
“With my appearance, and my position in society, it certainly does seem rather incredible; but you know - - Shakespeare has said already, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, etc.’ Life, too, is not to be trifled with. Here is a simile for you; a tree stands before you when there is no wind; in what way can a leaf on a lower branch touch a leaf on an upper branch? It’s impossible. But when the storm rises it is all changed . . . and the two leaves touch.”
“Aha! So there were storms?”
“I should think so! Can one live without them? But enough of philosophy. It’s time to go.”
Litvinov was still hesitating.
“O good Lord!” cried Potugin with a comic face, “what are young men coming to nowadays! A most charming lady invites them to see her, sends messengers after them on purpose, and they raise difficulties. You ought to be ashamed, my dear sir, you ought to be ashamed. Here’s your hat. Take it and ‘Vorwärts,’ as our ardent friends, the Germans, say.”
Litvinov still stood irresolute for a moment, but he ended by taking his hat and going out of the room with Potugin.
XII
THEY went to one of the best hotels in Baden and asked for Madame Ratmirov. The porter first inquired their names, and then answered at once that “die Frau Fürstin ist zu Hause,” and went himself to conduct them up the staircase and knock at the door of the apartment and announce them. “Die Frau Fürstin” received them promptly: she was alone, her husband had gone off to Carlsruhe for an interview with a great official, an influential personage who was passing through that town.
Irina was sitting at a small table, embroidering on canvas when Potugin and Litvinov crossed the threshold. She quickly flung her embroidery aside, pushed away the little table and got up; an expression of genuine me pleasure overspread her face. She wore a morning dress, high at the neck; the superb lines of her shoulders and arms could be seen through the thin stuff her carelessly - coiled hair had come loose and fell low on her slender neck. Irina flung a swift glance Potugin, murmured “merci,” and holding out her hand to Litvinov reproached him amicably for forgetfulness.
“And you such an old friend!” she added.
Litvinov was beginning to apologize. “C’est bien, c’est bien,” she assented hurriedly and, taking his hat from him, with friendly insistence made him sit down. Potugin, too, was sitting down, but got up again directly, and saying that he had an engagement he could not put off, and that he would come in again after dinner, he proceeded to take leave. Irina again flung him a rapid glance, and gave him a friendly nod, but she did not try to keep him, and directly he had vanished behind the portiére, she turned with eager impatience to Litvinov.
“Grigory Mihalitch,” she began, speaking Russian in her soft musical voice, “here we are alone at last, and I can tell you how glad I am at our meeting, because it
it gives me a chance . . .” (Irina looked him straight in the face) “of asking your forgiveness.” Litvinov gave an involuntary start. He had not expected so swift an attack. He had not expected she would herself turn the conversation upon old times.
“Forgiveness . . . for what?” . . . he muttered.
Irina flushed.
“For what? . . . you know for what,” she said, and she turned slightly away. “I wronged you, Grigory Mihalitch . . . though, of course, it was my fate” (Litvinov was reminded of her letter) “and I do not regret it . . . it would be in any case too late; but, meeting you so unexpectedly, I said to myself that we absolutely must become friends, absolutely . . . and I should feel it deeply, if it did not come about . . . and it seems to me for that we must have an explanation, without putting it off, and once for all, so that afterwa
rds there should be no . . . gêne, no awkwardness, once for all, Grigory Mihalitch; and that you must tell me you forgive me, or else I shall imagine you feel . . . de la rancune. Voilà! It is perhaps a great piece of fatuity on my part, for you have probably forgotten everything long, long ago, but no matter, tell me, you have forgiven me.”
Irina uttered this whole speech without taking breath, and Litvinov could see that there were tears shining in her eyes . . . yes, actually tears.
“Really, Irina Pavlovna,” he began hurriedly, “how can you beg my pardon, ask forgiveness? . . That is all past and buried, and I can only feel astounded that, in the midst of all the splendor which surrounds you, you have still preserved, a recollection of the obscure companions of your youth. . . .”
“Does it astound you?” said Irina softly.
“It touches me,” Litvinov went on, “because I could never have imagined - - - - “
“You have not told me you have forgiven me, though,” interposed Irina. “I sincerely rejoice at your happiness, Irina Pavlovna. With my whole heart I wish you all that is best on earth. . . .”
“And you will not remember evil against me?”
“I will remember nothing but the happy moments for which I was once indebted to you.”
Irina held out both hands to him; Litvinov clasped them warmly, and did not at once let them go. Something that long had not been, secretly stirred in his heart at that soft contact. Irina was again looking straight into his face; but this time she was smiling. . . . And he for the first time gazed directly and intently at her. . . . Again he recognized the features once so precious, and those deep eyes, with their marvelous lashes, and the little mole on her cheek, and the peculiar growth of her hair on her forehead, and her habit of somehow sweetly and humorously curving her lips and faintly twitching her eyebrows, all, all he recognized. . . . But how beautiful she had grown! What fascination, what power in her fresh, woman’s body! And no rouge, no touching up, no powder, nothing false on that fresh pure face. . . . Yes, this was a beautiful woman. A mood of musing came upon Litvinov. . . . He was still looking at her, but his thoughts were far away. . . Irina perceived it.
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Page 84