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
dulness that poor Litvinov was ready to cry. In raising
dulness--agonising, chilling, helpless, hopeless dulness--to a fine art,
Pishtchalkin was absolutely unrivalled even among persons of the highest
morality, who are notoriously masters in that line. The mere 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 philosophised 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 himself, but
he felt just as if his head was full of smouldering 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 without 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’s 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.