Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (96 page)

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. Pishtchalkin 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 afterwards 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.

“Well, that is excellent,” she said aloud; “now my conscience is at rest then, and I can satisfy my curiosity.”

“Curiosity,” repeated Litvinov, as though puzzled.

“Yes, yes. . . . I want above all things to know what you have been doing all this time, what plans you have; I want to know all, how, what, when . . . all, all. And you will have to tell me the truth, for I must warn you, I have not lost sight of you . . . so far as I could.”

“You did not lose sight of me, you . . . there. . . in Petersburg?”

“In the midst of the splendor which surrounded me, as you expressed it just now. Positively, yes, I did not. As for that splendor we will talk about that again; but now you must tell me, you must tell me so much, at such length, no one will disturb us. Ah, how delightful it will be,” added Irina, gayly sitting down and arranging herself at her ease in an armchair. “Come, begin.” “Before telling my story, I have to thank you,” began Litvinov.

“What for?”

“For the bouquet of flowers, which made its appearance in my room.”

“What bouquet? I know nothing about it.”

“What?”

“I tell you I know nothing about it. . . . But I am waiting. . . . I am waiting for your story Ah, what a good fellow that Potugin is, to have brought you!”

Litvinov pricked up his ears.
 

“Have you known this Mr. Potugin long?” he queried.

“Yes, a long while . . . but tell me your story.”

“And do you know him well?”

“Oh, yes!” Irina sighed. “There are special reasons. . . . You have heard, of course, of Eliza Byelsky. . . . Who died, you know, the year before last, such a dreadful death? . . . Ah, to be sure, I’d forgotten you don’t know all our scandals. . . . It is well, it is well, indeed, that you don’t know them.
O queue chance!
at last, at last, a man, a live man, who knows nothing of us! And to be able to talk Russian with him, bad Russian of course, but still Russian, not that everlasting mawkish, sickening French patter of Petersburg.”

“And Potugin, you say, was connected with -
 
- “

“It’s very painful for me even to refer to it,” Irina broke in. “Eliza was my greatest friend at school, and afterwards in Petersburg we saw each other continually. She confided all her secrets to me, she was very unhappy, she suffered much. Potugin behaved splendidly in the affair, with true chivalry. He sacrificed himself. It was only then I learned to appreciate him! But we have drifted away again. I am waiting for your story, Grigory Mihalitch.”

“But my story cannot interest you the least, Irina Pavlovna.”

“That’s not your affair.”

“Think, Irina Pavlovna, we have not seen each other for ten years, ten whole years. How much water has flowed by since then.”

“Not water only! not water only!” she repeated with a peculiar bitter expression; “that’s just why I want to hear what you are going to tell me.”

“And beside I really don’t know where to begin.”
 

“At the beginning. From the very time when you . . . when I went away to Petersburg. You left Moscow then. . . . Do you know I have never been back to Moscow since!”

“Really?”

“It was impossible at first; and afterwards when I was married -
 
- “

“Have you been married long?”

“Four years.”

“Have you no children?”

“No,” she answered dryly.

Litvinov was silent for a little.

“And did you go on living at that, what was his name, Count Reisenbach’s, till your marriage?” Irina looked steadily at him, as though she were trying to make up her mind why he asked that question.

“No,” . . . was her answer at last.

“I suppose, your parents. . . . By the way, I haven’t asked after them. Are they -
 
- “

“They are both well.”

“And living at Moscow as before?”

“At Moscow as before.”

“And your brothers and sisters?”

“They are all right; I have provided for all of them.”

“Ah!” Litvinov glanced up from under his brows at Irina. “In reality, Irina Pavlovna, it’s not I who ought to tell my story, but you, if only -
 
- “ He suddenly felt embarrassed and stopped.

Irina raised her hands to her face and turned her wedding - ring round upon her finger.

“Well? I will not refuse,” she assented at last. “Some day . . . perhaps. . . . But first you . . . because, do you see, though I tried to follow you up, I
 
know scarcely anything of you; while of me . . . well, of me you have heard enough certainly. Haven’t you? I suppose you have heard of me, tell me?”

“You, Irina Pavlovna, occupied too conspicuous a place in the world, not to be the subject of talk . . . especially in the provinces, where I have been and where every rumor is believed.”

“And do you believe the rumors? And of what kind were the rumors?”

“To tell the truth, Irina Pavlovna, such rumors very seldom reach me. I have led a very solitary life.”

“How so? why, you were in the Crimea, in the militia?”

“You know that, too?”

“As you see. I tell you, you have been watched.”

Again Litvinov felt puzzled.

“Why am I to tell you what you know without me?” said Litvinov in an undertone.

“Why . . . to do what I ask you. You see, I ask you, Grigory Mihalitch.”

Litvinov bowed his head and began . . . began in rather a confused fashion to recount in rough outline to Irina his uninteresting adventures. He often stopped and looked inquiringly at Irina, as though to ask whether he had told enough. But she insistently demanded the continuation of his narrative and pushing her hair back behind her ears, her elbows on the arm of her chair, she seemed to be catching every word with strained attention. Looking at her from one side and following the expression on her face, any one might perhaps have imagined she did not hear what Litvinov was saying at all, hut was only deep in meditation. . . . But it was not of Litvinov she was meditating,
 
though he grew confused and red under her persistent gaze. A whole life was rising up before her, a very different one, not his life, but her own.

Litvinov did not finish his story, but stopped short under the influence of an unpleasant sense of growing inner discomfort. This time Irina said nothing to him, and did not urge him to go on, but pressing her open hand to her eyes, as though she were tired, she leaned slowly back in her chair, and remained motionless. Litvinov waited for a little; then, reflecting that his visit had already lasted more than two hours, he was stretching out his hand for his hat, when suddenly in an adjoining room there was the sound of the rapid creak of thin kid boots, and preceded by the same exquisite aristocratic perfume, there entered Valerian Vladimirovitch Ratmirov.