Litvinov did not keep his promise of returning later; he reflected that
it would be better to defer his visit till the following day. When he
went into the too familiar drawing-room at about twelve o’clock, he
found there the two youngest princesses, Viktorinka and Kleopatrinka. He
greeted them, and then inquired, ‘Was Irina Pavlovna better, and could
he see her?’
‘Irinotchka has gone away with mammy,’ replied Viktorinka; she lisped a
little, but was more forward than her sister.
‘How ... gone away?’ repeated Litvinov, and there was a sort of still
shudder in the very bottom of his heart. ‘Does she not, does she not
look after you about this time, and give you your lessons?’
‘Irinotchka will not give us any lessons any more now,’ answered
Viktorinka. ‘Not any more now,’ Kleopatrinka repeated after her.
‘Is your papa at home?’ asked Litvinov.
‘Papa is not at home,’ continued Viktorinka, ‘and Irinotchka is not
well; all night long she was crying and crying....’
‘Crying?’
‘Yes, crying ... Yegorovna told me, and her eyes are so red, they are
quite in-inflamed....’
Litvinov walked twice up and down the room shuddering as though with
cold, and went back to his lodging. He experienced a sensation like that
which gains possession of a man when he looks down from a high tower;
everything failed within him, and his head was swimming slowly with a
sense of nausea. Dull stupefaction, and thoughts scurrying like mice,
vague terror, and the numbness of expectation, and curiosity--strange,
almost malignant--and the weight of crushed tears in his heavy laden
breast, on his lips the forced empty smile, and a meaningless
prayer--addressed to no one.... Oh, how bitter it all was, and how
hideously degrading! ‘Irina does not want to see me,’ was the thought
that was incessantly revolving in his brain; ‘so much is clear; but why
is it? What can have happened at that ill-fated ball? And how is such a
change possible all at once? So suddenly....’ People always see death
coming suddenly, but they can never get accustomed to its suddenness,
they feel it senseless. ‘She sends no message for me, does not want to
explain herself to me....’
‘Grigory Mihalitch,’ called a strained voice positively in his ear.
Litvinov started, and saw before him his servant with a note in his
hand. He recognised Irina’s writing.... Before he had broken the seal,
he had a foreknowledge of woe, and bent his head on his breast and
hunched his shoulders, as though shrinking from the blow.
He plucked up courage at last, and tore open the envelope all at once.
On a small sheet of notepaper were the following lines:
‘Forgive me, Grigory Mihalitch. All is over between us; I am going away
to Petersburg. I am dreadfully unhappy, but the thing is done. It seems
my fate ... but no, I do not want to justify myself. My presentiments
have been realised. Forgive me, forget me; I am not worthy of
you.--Irina. Be magnanimous: do not try to see me.’
Litvinov read these five lines, and slowly dropped on to the sofa, as
though some one had dealt him a blow on the breast. He dropped the note,
picked it up, read it again, whispered ‘to Petersburg,’ and dropped it
again; that was all. There even came upon him a sense of peace; he even,
with his hands thrown behind him, smoothed the pillow under his head.
‘Men wounded to death don’t fling themselves about,’ he thought, ‘as it
has come, so it has gone. All this is natural enough: I always expected
it....’ (He was lying to himself; he had never expected anything like
it.) ‘Crying?... Was she crying?... What was she crying for? Why, she
did not love me! But all that is easily understood and in accordance
with her character. She--she is not worthy of me.... That’s it!’ (He
laughed bitterly.) ‘She did not know herself what power was latent in
her,--well, convinced of it in her effect at the ball, was it likely she
would stay with an insignificant student?--all that’s easily
understood.’
But then he remembered her tender words, her smile, and those eyes,
those never to be forgotten eyes, which he would never see again, which
used to shine and melt at simply meeting his eyes; he recalled one
swift, timorous, burning kiss--and suddenly he fell to sobbing, sobbing
convulsively, furiously, vindictively; turned over on his face, and
choking and stifling with frenzied satisfaction as though thirsting to
tear himself to pieces with all around him, he turned his hot face in
the sofa pillow, and bit it in his teeth.
Alas! the gentleman whom Litvinov had seen the day before in the
carriage was no other than the cousin of the Princess Osinin, the rich
chamberlain, Count Reisenbach. Noticing the sensation produced by Irina
on certain personages of the highest rank, and instantaneously
reflecting what advantages might _mit etwas Accuratesse_ be derived from
the fact, the count made his plan at once like a man of energy and a
skilful courtier. He decided to act swiftly, in Napoleonic style. ‘I
will take that original girl into my house,’ was what he meditated, ‘in
Petersburg; I will make her my heiress, devil take me, of my whole
property even; as I have no children. She is my niece, and my countess
is dull all alone.... It’s always more agreeable to have a pretty face
in one’s drawing-room.... Yes, yes; ... that’s it; _es ist eine Idee, es
ist eine Idee!_’ He would have to dazzle, bewilder, and impress the
parents. ‘They’ve not enough to eat’--the count pursued his reflection
when he was in the carriage and on his way to Dogs’ Place--‘so, I
warrant, they won’t be obstinate. They’re not such over-sentimental
folks either. I might give them a sum of money down into the bargain.
And she? She will consent. Honey is sweet--she had a taste of it last
night. It’s a whim on my part, granted; let them profit by it, ... the
fools. I shall say to them one thing and another ... and you must
decide--otherwise I shall adopt another--an orphan--which would be
still more suitable. Yes or no--twenty-four hours I fix for the
term--_und damit Punctum_.’
And with these very words on his lips, the count presented himself
before the prince, whom he had forewarned of his visit the evening
before at the ball. On the result of this visit it seems hardly worth
while to enlarge further. The count was not mistaken in his
prognostications: the prince and princess were in fact not obstinate,
and accepted the sum of money; and Irina did in fact consent before the
allotted term had expired. It was not easy for her to break off her
relations with Litvinov; she loved him; and after sending him her note,
she almost kept her bed, weeping continually, and grew thin and wan. But
for all that, a month later the princess carried her off to Petersburg,
and established her at the count’s; committing her to the care of the
countess, a very kind-hearted woman, but with the brain of a hen, and
something of a hen’s exterior.
Litvinov threw up the university, and went home to his father in the
country. Little by little his wound healed. At first he had no news of
Irina, and indeed he avoided all conversation that touched on Petersburg
and Petersburg society. Later on, by degrees, rumours--not evil
exactly, but curious--began to circulate about her; gossip began to be
busy about her. The name of the young Princess Osinin, encircled in
splendour, impressed with quite a special stamp, began to be more and
more frequently mentioned even in provincial circles. It was pronounced
with curiosity, respect, and envy, as men at one time used to mention
the name of the Countess Vorotinsky. At last the news came of her
marriage. But Litvinov hardly paid attention to these last tidings; he
was already betrothed to Tatyana.
Now, the reader can no doubt easily understand exactly what it was
Litvinov recalled when he cried, ‘Can it be she?’ and therefore we will
return to Baden and take up again the broken thread of our story.
X
Litvinov fell asleep very late, and did not sleep long; the sun had only
just risen when he got out of bed. The summits of dark mountains visible
from his windows stood out in misty purple against the clear sky. ‘How
cool it must be there under the trees!’ he thought; and he dressed in
haste, and looked with indifference at the bouquet which had opened more
luxuriantly after the night; he took a stick and set off towards the
‘Old Castle’ on the famous ‘Cliffs.’ Invigorating and soothing was the
caressing contact of the fresh morning about him. He drew long breaths,
and stepped out boldly; the vigorous health of youth was throbbing in
every vein; the very earth seemed springy under his light feet. With
every step he grew more light-hearted, more happy; he walked in the dewy
shade in the thick sand of the little paths, beside the fir-trees that
were fringed with the vivid green of the spring shoots at the end of
every twig. ‘How jolly it is!’ he kept repeating to himself. Suddenly
he heard the sound of familiar voices; he looked ahead and saw
Voroshilov and Bambaev coming to meet him. The sight of them jarred upon
him; he rushed away like a school-boy avoiding his teacher, and hid
himself behind a bush.... ‘My Creator!’ he prayed, ‘mercifully remove my
countrymen!’ He felt that he would not have grudged any money at the
moment if only they did not see him.... And they actually did not see
him: the Creator was merciful to him. Voroshilov, in his self-confident
military voice, was holding forth to Bambaev on the various phases of
Gothic architecture, and Bambaev only grunted approvingly; it was
obvious that Voroshilov had been dinning his phrases into him a long
while, and the good-natured enthusiast was beginning to be bored.
Compressing his lips and craning his neck, Litvinov listened a long
while to their retreating footsteps; for a long time the accents of
instructive discourse--now guttural, now nasal--reached his ears; at
last, all was still again. Litvinov breathed freely, came out of his
ambush, and walked on.
For three hours he wandered about the mountains. Sometimes he left the
path, and jumped from rock to rock, slipping now and then on the smooth
moss; then he would sit down on a fragment of the cliff under an oak or
a beech, and muse on pleasant fancies to the never-ceasing gurgle of the
little rills over-grown with ferns, the soothing rustle of the leaves,
and the shrill notes of a solitary blackbird. A light and equally
pleasant drowsiness began to steal over him, it seemed to approach him
caressingly, and he dropped asleep ... but suddenly he smiled and looked
round; the gold and green of the forest, and the moving foliage beat
down softly on his eyes--and again he smiled and again closed them. He
began to want breakfast, and he made his way towards the old castle
where for a few kreutzers he could get a glass of good milk and coffee.
But he had hardly had time to establish himself at one of the little
white-painted tables set on the platform before the castle, when the
heavy tramping of horses was heard, and three open carriages drove up,
out of which stepped a rather numerous company of ladies and
gentlemen.... Litvinov at once recognised them as Russians, though they
were all talking French ... just because they were all talking French.
The ladies’ dresses were marked by a studied elegance; the gentlemen
wore close-fitting coats with waists--which is not altogether usual
nowadays--grey trousers of fancy material, and very glossy town hats. A
narrow black cravat closely fettered the neck of each of these
gentlemen, and something military was apparent in their whole
deportment. They were, in fact, military men; Litvinov had chanced upon
a picnic party of young generals--persons of the highest society, of
weight and importance. Their importance was clearly expressed in
everything: in their discreet nonchalance, in their amiably
condescending smiles, in the intense indifference of their expression,
the effeminate little movements of their shoulders, the swing of the
figure, and the crook of the knees; it was expressed, too, in the sound
of their voices, which seemed to be affably and fastidiously thanking a
subservient multitude. All these officers were superlatively washed and
shaved, and thoroughly saturated with that genuine aroma of nobility and
the Guards, compounded of the best cigar smoke, and the most marvellous
patchouli. They all had the hands too of noblemen--white and large, with
nails firm as ivory; their moustaches seemed positively polished, their
teeth shone, and their skin--rosy on their cheeks, bluish on their
chins--was most delicate and fine. Some of the young generals were
frivolous, others were serious; but the stamp of the best breeding was
on all of them. Each of them seemed to be deeply conscious of his own
dignity, and the importance of his own future part in the government,
and conducted himself with severity and ease, with a faint shade of that
carelessness, that ‘deuce-take-it’ air, which comes out so naturally
during foreign travel. The party seated themselves with much noise and
ostentation, and called the obsequious waiters. Litvinov made haste to
drink off his glass of milk, paid for it, and putting his hat on, was
just making off past the party of generals....
‘Grigory Mihalitch,’ he heard a woman’s voice. ‘Don’t you recognise me?’
He stopped involuntarily. That voice ... that voice had too often set
his heart beating in the past.... He turned round and saw Irina.
She was sitting at a table, her arms folded on the back of a chair drawn
up near; with her head bent on one side and a smile on her face, she was
looking at him cordially, almost with delight.
Litvinov knew her at once, though she had changed since he saw her that
last time ten years ago, though she had been transformed from a girl
into a woman. Her slim figure had developed and reached its perfection,
the lines of her once narrow shoulders now recalled the goddesses that
stand out on the ceilings of ancient Italian palaces. But her eyes
remained the same, and it seemed to Litvinov that they were looking at
him just as in those days in the little house in Moscow.
‘Irina Pavlovna,’ he uttered irresolutely.
‘You know me? How glad I am! how glad----’
She stopped short, slightly blushing, and drew herself up.
‘This is a very pleasant meeting,’ she continued now in French. ‘Let me
introduce you to my husband. _Valérien, Monsieur Litvinov, un ami
d’enfance_; Valerian Vladimirovitch Ratmirov, my husband.’
One of the young generals, almost the most elegant of all, got up from
his seat, and with excessive courtesy bowed to Litvinov, while the rest
of his companions faintly knitted their brows, or rather each of them
withdrew for an instant into himself, as though protesting betimes
against any contact with an extraneous civilian, and the other ladies
taking part in the picnic thought fit to screw up their eyes a little
and simper, and even to assume an air of perplexity.
‘Have you--er--been long in Baden?’ asked General Ratmirov, with a
dandified air utterly un-Russian. He obviously did not know what to talk
about with the friend of his wife’s childhood.
‘No, not long!’ replied Litvinov.
‘And do you intend to stay long?’ pursued the polite general.
‘I have not made up my mind yet.’
‘Ah! that is very delightful ... very.’
The general paused. Litvinov, too, was speechless. Both held their hats
in their hands and bending forward with a grin, gazed at the top of each
other’s heads.
‘_Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche_,’ began humming--out of tune of
course, we have never come across a Russian nobleman who did not sing
out of tune--a dull-eyed and yellow-faced general, with an expression of
constant irritability on his face, as though he could not forgive
himself for his own appearance. Among all his companions he alone had
not the complexion of a rose.
‘But why don’t you sit down, Grigory Mihalitch,’ observed Irina at last.
Litvinov obeyed and sat down.
‘_I say, Valérien, give me some fire_,’ remarked in English another
general, also young, but already stout, with fixed eyes which seemed
staring into the air, and thick silky whiskers, into which he slowly
plunged his snow-white fingers. Ratmirov gave him a silver matchbox.
‘_Avez vous des papiros?_’ asked one of the ladies, with a lisp.
‘_De vrais papelitos, comtesse._’
‘_Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche_,’ the dull-eyed general hummed again,
with intense exasperation.
‘You must be sure to come and see us,’ Irina was saying to Litvinov
meantime; ‘we are staying at the Hôtel de l’Europe. From four to six I
am always at home. We have not seen each other for such a long time.’
Litvinov looked at Irina; she did not drop her eyes.
‘Yes, Irina Pavlovna, it is a long time--ever since we were at Moscow.’
‘At Moscow, yes, at Moscow,’ she repeated abruptly. ‘Come and see me, we
will talk and recall old times. Do you know, Grigory Mihalitch, you have
not changed much.’
‘Really? But you have changed, Irina Pavlovna.’
‘I have grown older.’
‘No, I did not mean that.’
‘_Irène?_’ said a lady in a yellow hat and with yellow hair in an
interrogative voice after some preliminary whispering and giggling with
the officer sitting near her. ‘_Irène?_’
‘I am older,’ pursued Irina, without answering the lady, ‘but I am not
changed. No, no, I am changed in nothing.’
‘_Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche!_’ was heard again. The irritable
general only remembered the first line of the well-known ditty.
‘It still pricks a little, your excellency,’ observed the stout general
with the whiskers, with a loud and broad intonation, apparently quoting
from some amusing story, well-known to the whole _beau monde_, and, with
a short wooden laugh he again fell to staring into the air. All the rest
of the party laughed too.
‘What a sad dog you are, Boris!’ observed Ratmirov in an undertone. He
spoke in English and pronounced even the name ‘Boris’ as if it were
English.
‘_Irène?_’ the lady in the yellow hat said inquiringly for the third
time. Irina turned sharply round to her.
‘_Eh bien? quoi? que me voulez-vous?_’
‘_Je vous dirai plus tard_,’ replied the lady, mincing. With a very
unattractive exterior, she was for ever mincing and grimacing. Some wit
said of her that she ‘_minaudait dans le vide_,’ ‘grimaced upon the
desert air.’
Irina frowned and shrugged her shoulders impatiently. ‘_Mais que fait
donc Monsieur Verdier? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas?_’ cried one lady with
that prolonged drawl which is the peculiarity of the Great Russian
accent, and is so insupportable to French ears.
‘Ah, voo, ah, voo, mossoo Verdew, mossoo Verdew,’ sighed another lady,
whose birthplace was Arzamass.
‘_Tranquillisez-vous, mesdames_,’ interposed Ratmirov. ‘_Monsieur
Verdier m’a promis de venir se mettre à vos pieds._’
‘He, he, he!’--The ladies fluttered their fans.
The waiter brought some glasses of beer.
‘_Baierisch-Bier?_’ inquired the general with whiskers, assuming a bass
voice, and affecting astonishment--‘_Guten Morgen._’
‘Well? Is Count Pavel still there?’ one young general inquired coldly
and listlessly of another.
‘Yes,’ replied the other equally coldly, ‘_Mais c’est provisoire_.
_Serge_, they say, will be put in his place.’
‘Aha!’ filtered the first through his teeth.
‘Ah, yes,’ filtered the second.
‘I can’t understand,’ began the general who had hummed the song, ‘I
can’t understand what induced Paul to defend himself--to bring forward
all sorts of reasons. Certainly, he crushed the merchant pretty well,
_il lui a fait rendre gorge_ ... well, and what of it? He may have had
his own motives.’
‘He was afraid ... of being shown up in the newspapers,’ muttered some
one.
The irritable general grew hot.
‘Well, it is too much! Newspapers! Shown up! If it depended on me, I
would not let anything be printed in those papers but the taxes on meat
or bread, and announcements of sales of boots or furs.’
‘And gentlemen’s properties up for auction,’ put in Ratmirov.
‘Possibly under present circumstances.... What a conversation, though,
in Baden _au Vieux-Château_.’
‘_Mais pas du tout! pas du tout!_’ replied the lady in the yellow hat,
‘_j’adore les questions politiques_.’
‘_Madame a raison_,’ interposed another general with an exceedingly
pleasant and girlish-looking face. ‘Why should we avoid those questions
... even in Baden?’
As he said these words he looked urbanely at Litvinov and smiled
condescendingly. ‘A man of honour ought never under any circumstances to
disown his convictions. Don’t you think so?’
‘Of course,’ rejoined the irritable general, darting a look at Litvinov,
and as it were indirectly attacking him, ‘but I don’t see the
necessity....’
‘No, no,’ the condescending general interposed with the same mildness,
‘your friend, Valerian Vladimirovitch, just referred to the sale of
gentlemen’s estates. Well? Is not that a fact?’
‘But it’s impossible to sell them nowadays; nobody wants them!’ cried
the irritable general.
‘Perhaps ... perhaps. For that very reason we ought to proclaim that
fact ... that sad fact at every step. We are ruined ... very good; we
are beggared ... there’s no disputing about that; but we, the great
owners, we still represent a principle ... _un principe_. To preserve
that principle is our duty. _Pardon, madame_, I think you dropped your
handkerchief. When some, so to say, darkness has come over even the
highest minds, we ought submissively to point out (the general held out
his finger) with the finger of a citizen the abyss to which everything
is tending. We ought to warn, we ought to say with respectful firmness,
‘turn back, turn back.... That is what we ought to say.’
‘There’s no turning back altogether, though,’ observed Ratmirov moodily.
The condescending general only grinned.
‘Yes, altogether, altogether, _mon très cher_. The further back the
better.’
The general again looked courteously at Litvinov. The latter could not
stand it.
‘Are we to return as far as the Seven Boyars, your excellency?’
‘Why not? I express my opinion without hesitation; we must undo ... yes
... undo all that has been done.’
‘And the emancipation of the serfs.’
‘And the emancipation ... as far as that is possible. _On est patriote
ou on ne l’est pas._ “And freedom?” they say to me. Do you suppose that
freedom is prized by the people? Ask them----’
‘Just try,’ broke in Litvinov, ‘taking that freedom away again.’
‘_Comment nommez-vous ce monsieur?_’ whispered the general to Ratmirov.
‘What are you discussing here?’ began the stout general suddenly. He
obviously played the part of the spoilt child of the party. ‘Is it all
about the newspapers? About penny-a-liners? Let me tell you a little
anecdote of what happened to me with a scribbling fellow--such a lovely
thing. I was told he had written a libel on me. Well, of course, I at
once had him brought before me. They brought me the penny-a-liner.
‘“How was it,” said I, “my dear chap, you came to write this libel? Was
your patriotism too much for you?” “Yes, it was too much,” says he.
“Well,” says I, “and do you like money?” “Yes,” says he. Then,
gentlemen, I gave him the knob of my cane to sniff at. “And do you like
that, my angel?” “No,” says he, “I don’t like that.” “But sniff it as
you ought,” says I, “my hands are clean.” “I don’t like it,” says he,
“and that’s all.” “But I like it very much, my angel,” says I, “though
not for myself. Do you understand that allegory, my treasure?” “Yes,”
says he. “Then mind and be a good boy for the future, and now here’s a
rouble sterling for you; go away and be grateful to me night and day,”
and so the scribbling chap went off.’
The general burst out laughing and again every one followed his
example--every one except Irina, who did not even smile and looked
darkly at the speaker.
The condescending general slapped Boris on the shoulder.
‘That’s all your invention, O friend of my bosom.... You threatening any
one with a stick.... You haven’t got a stick. _C’est pour faire rire ces
dames._ For the sake of a good story. But that’s not the point. I said
just now that we must turn back completely. Understand me. I am not
hostile to so-called progress, but all these universities and
seminaries, and popular schools, these students, priests’ sons, and
commoners, all these small fry, _tout ce fond du sac, la petite
propriété, pire que le prolétariat_ (the general uttered this in a
languishing, almost faint voice) _voilà ce qui m’effraie_ ... that’s
where one ought to draw the line, and make other people draw it too.’
(Again he gave Litvinov a genial glance.) ‘Yes, one must draw the line.
Don’t forget that among us no one makes any demand, no one is asking for
anything. Local government, for instance--who asks for that? Do you ask
for it? or you, or you? or you, _mesdames_? You rule not only yourselves
but all of us, you know.’ (The general’s handsome face was lighted up by
a smile of amusement.) ‘My dear friends, why should we curry favour with
the multitude. You like democracy, it flatters you, and serves your ends
... but you know it’s a double weapon. It is better in the old way, as
before ... far more secure. Don’t deign to reason with the herd, trust
in the aristocracy, in that alone is power.... Indeed it will be better.
And progress ... I certainly have nothing against progress. Only don’t
give us lawyers and sworn juries and elective officials ... only don’t
touch discipline, discipline before all things--you may build bridges,
and quays, and hospitals, and why not light the streets with gas?’
‘Petersburg has been set on fire from one end to the other, so there you
have your progress!’ hissed the irritable general.
‘Yes, you’re a mischievous fellow, I can see,’ said the stout general,
shaking his head lazily; ‘you would do for a 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 Arzamass.
The general looked dignified.
‘_Je ne suis jamais plus sérieux, madame, que quand je dis des
bêtises._’
‘Monsieur Verdier has uttered that very phrase several times already,’
observed Irina in a low voice.
‘_De la poigne et des formes_,’ cried the stout general, ‘_de la poigne
surtout_. And to translate into Russian: be civil but don’t spare your
fists.’
‘Ah, you’re a rascal, an incorrigible rascal,’ interposed the
condescending general. ‘_Mesdames_, don’t listen to him, please. A
barking dog does not bite. He cares for nothing but flirtation.’
‘That’s not right, though, Boris,’ began Ratmirov, after exchanging a
glance with his wife, ‘it’s all very well to be mischievous, but that’s
going too far. Progress is a phenomenon of social life, and this is what
we must not forget; it’s a symptom. It’s what we must watch.’
‘All right, I say,’ observed the stout general, wrinkling up his nose;
‘we all know you are aiming at the ministry.’
‘Not at all ... the ministry indeed! But really one can’t refuse to
recognise 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 un 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
marvellous, 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.