Litvinov found rather many guests at Irina’s. In a corner at a
card-table were sitting three of the generals of the picnic: the stout
one, the irascible one, and the condescending one. They were playing
whist with dummy, and there is no word in the language of man to express
the solemnity with which they dealt, took tricks, led clubs and led
diamonds ... there was no doubt about their being statesmen now! These
gallant generals left to mere commoners, _aux bourgeois_, the little
turns and phrases commonly used during play, and uttered only the most
indispensable syllables; the stout general however permitted himself to
jerk off between two deals: ‘_Ce satané as de pique!_’ Among the
visitors Litvinov recognised ladies who had been present at the picnic;
but there were others there also whom he had not seen before. There was
one so ancient that it seemed every instant as though she would fall to
pieces: she shrugged her bare, gruesome, dingy grey shoulders, and,
covering her mouth with her fan, leered languishingly with her
absolutely death-like eyes upon Ratmirov; he paid her much attention;
she was held in great honour in the highest society, as the last of the
Maids of Honour of the Empress Catherine. At the window, dressed like a
shepherdess, sat Countess S., ‘the Queen of the Wasps,’ surrounded by
young men. Among them the celebrated millionaire and beau Finikov was
conspicuous for his supercilious deportment, his absolutely flat skull,
and his expression of soulless brutality, worthy of a Khan of Bucharia,
or a Roman Heliogabalus. Another lady, also a countess, known by the pet
name of _Lise_, was talking to a long-haired, fair, and pale
spiritualistic medium. Beside them was standing a gentleman, also pale
and long-haired, who kept laughing in a meaning way. This gentleman also
believed in spiritualism, but added to that an interest in prophecy,
and, on the basis of the Apocalypse and the Talmud, was in the habit of
foretelling all kinds of marvellous events. Not a single one of these
events had come to pass; but he was in no wise disturbed by that fact,
and went on prophesying as before. At the piano, the musical genius had
installed himself, the rough diamond, who had stirred Potugin to such
indignation; he was striking chords with a careless hand, _d’une main
distraite_, and kept staring vaguely about him. Irina was sitting on a
sofa between Prince Kokó and Madame H., once a celebrated beauty and
wit, who had long ago become a repulsive old crone, with the odour of
sanctity and evaporated sinfulness about her. On catching sight of
Litvinov, Irina blushed and got up, and when he went up to her, she
pressed his hand warmly. She was wearing a dress of black crépon,
relieved by a few inconspicuous gold ornaments; her shoulders were a
dead white, while her face, pale too, under the momentary flood of
crimson overspreading it, was breathing with the triumph of beauty, and
not of beauty alone; a hidden, almost ironical happiness was shining in
her half-closed eyes, and quivering about her lips and nostrils....
Ratmirov approached Litvinov and after exchanging with him his customary
civilities, unaccompanied however by his customary playfulness, he
presented him to two or three ladies: the ancient ruin, the Queen of the
Wasps, Countess Liza ... they gave him a rather gracious reception.
Litvinov did not belong to their set; but he was good-looking, extremely
so, indeed, and the expressive features of his youthful face awakened
their interest. Only he did not know how to fasten that interest upon
himself; he was unaccustomed to society and was conscious of some
embarrassment, added to which the stout general stared at him
persistently. ‘Aha! lubberly civilian! free-thinker!’ that fixed heavy
stare seemed to be saying: ‘down on your knees to us; crawl to kiss our
hands!’ Irina came to Litvinov’s aid. She managed so adroitly that he
got into a corner near the door, a little behind her. As she addressed
him, she had each time to turn round to him, and every time he admired
the exquisite curve of her splendid neck, he drank in the subtle
fragrance of her hair. An expression of gratitude, deep and calm, never
left her face; he could not help seeing that gratitude and nothing else
was what those smiles, those glances expressed, and he too was all aglow
with the same emotion, and he felt shame, and delight and dread at once
... and at the same time she seemed continually as though she would ask,
‘Well? what do you think of them?’ With special clearness Litvinov heard
this unspoken question whenever any one of the party was guilty of some
vulgar phrase or act, and that occurred more than once during the
evening. Once she did not even conceal her feelings, and laughed aloud.
Countess Liza, a lady of superstitious bent, with an inclination for
everything extraordinary, after discoursing to her heart’s content with
the spiritualist upon Home, turning tables, self-playing concertinas,
and so on, wound up by asking him whether there were animals which could
be influenced by mesmerism.
‘There is one such animal any way,’ Prince Kokó declared from some way
off. ‘You know Melvanovsky, don’t you? They put him to sleep before me,
and didn’t he snore, he, he!’
‘You are very naughty, _mon prince_; I am speaking of real animals, _je
parle des bêtes_.’
‘_Mais moi aussi, madame, je parle d’une bête...._’
‘There are such,’ put in the spiritualist; ‘for instance--crabs; they
are very nervous, and are easily thrown into a cataleptic state.’
The countess was astounded. ‘What? Crabs! Really? Oh, that’s awfully
interesting! Now, that I should like to see, M’sieu Luzhin,’ she added
to a young man with a face as stony as a new doll’s, and a stony collar
(he prided himself on the fact that he had bedewed the aforesaid face
and collar with the sprays of Niagara and the Nubian Nile, though he
remembered nothing of all his travels, and cared for nothing but Russian
puns...). ‘M’sieu Luzhin, if you would be so good, do bring us a crab
quick.’
M’sieu Luzhin smirked. ‘Quick must it be, or quickly?’ he queried.
The countess did not understand him. ‘_Mais oui_, a crab,’ she repeated,
‘_une écrevisse_.’
‘Eh? what is it? a crab? a crab?’ the Countess S. broke in harshly. The
absence of M. Verdier irritated her; she could not imagine why Irina had
not invited that most fascinating of Frenchmen. The ancient ruin, who
had long since ceased understanding anything--moreover she was
completely deaf--only shook her head.
‘_Oui, oui, vous allez voir._ M’sieu Luzhin, please....’
The young traveller bowed, went out, and returned quickly. A waiter
walked behind him, and grinning from ear to ear, carried in a dish, on
which a large black crab was to be seen.
‘_Voici, madame_,’ cried Luzhin; ‘now we can proceed to the operation on
cancer. Ha, ha, ha!’ (Russians are always the first to laugh at their
own witticisms.)
‘He, he, he!’ Count Kokó did his duty condescendingly as a good patriot,
and patron of all national products.
(We beg the reader not to be amazed and indignant; who can say
confidently for himself that sitting in the stalls of the Alexander
Theatre, and infected by its atmosphere, he has not applauded even worse
puns?)
‘_Merci, merci_,’ said the countess. ‘_Allons, allons, Monsieur Fox,
montrez nous ça._’
The waiter put the dish down on a little round table. There was a slight
movement among the guests; several heads were craned forward; only the
generals at the card-table preserved the serene solemnity of their pose.
The spiritualist ruffled up his hair, frowned, and, approaching the
table, began waving his hands in the air; the crab stretched itself,
backed, and raised its claws. The spiritualist repeated and quickened
his movements; the crab stretched itself as before.
‘_Mais que doit-elle donc faire?_’ inquired the countess.
‘_Elle doâ rester immobile et se dresser sur sa quiou_,’ replied Mr.
Fox, with a strong American accent, and he brandished his fingers with
convulsive energy over the dish; but the mesmerism had no effect, the
crab continued to move. The spiritualist declared that he was not
himself, and retired with an air of displeasure from the table. The
countess began to console him, by assuring him that similar failures
occurred sometimes even with Mr. Home.... Prince Kokó confirmed her
words. The authority on the Apocalypse and the Talmud stealthily went up
to the table, and making rapid but vigorous thrusts with his fingers in
the direction of the crab, he too tried his luck, but without success;
no symptom of catalepsy showed itself. Then the waiter was called, and
told to take away the crab, which he accordingly did, grinning from ear
to ear, as before; he could be heard exploding outside the door....
There was much laughter afterwards in the kitchen _über diese Russen_.
The self-taught genius, who had gone on striking notes during the
experiments with the crab, dwelling on melancholy chords, on the ground
that there was no knowing what influence music might have--the
self-taught genius played his invariable waltz, and, of course, was
deemed worthy of the most flattering applause. Pricked on by rivalry,
Count H., our incomparable dilettante (see Chapter I.), gave a little
song of his own composition, cribbed wholesale from Offenbach. Its
playful refrain to the words: ‘_Quel œuf? quel bœuf?_’ set almost all
the ladies’ heads swinging to right and to left; one went so far as to
hum the tune lightly, and the irrepressible, inevitable word,
‘_Charmant! charmant!_’ was fluttering on every one’s lips. Irina
exchanged a glance with Litvinov, and again the same secret, ironical
expression quivered about her lips.... But a little later it was still
more strongly marked, there was even a shade of malice in it, when
Prince Kokó, that representative and champion of the interests of the
nobility, thought fit to propound his views to the spiritualist, and, of
course, gave utterance before long to his famous phrase about the shock
to the principle of property, accompanied naturally by an attack on
democrats. The spiritualist’s American blood was stirred; he began to
argue. The prince, as his habit was, at once fell to shouting at the top
of his voice; instead of any kind of argument he repeated incessantly:
‘_C’est absurde! cela n’a pas le sens commun!_’ The millionaire Finikov
began saying insulting things, without much heed to whom they referred;
the Talmudist’s piping notes and even the Countess S.’s jarring voice
could be heard.... In fact, almost the same incongruous uproar arose as
at Gubaryov’s; the only difference was that here there was no beer nor
tobacco-smoke, and every one was better dressed. Ratmirov tried to
restore tranquillity (the generals manifested their displeasure, Boris’s
exclamation could be heard, ‘_Encore cette satanée politique!_’), but
his efforts were not successful, and at that point, a high official of
the stealthily inquisitorial type, who was present, and undertook to
present _le résumé en peu de mots_, sustained a defeat: in fact he so
hummed and hawed, so repeated himself, and was so obviously incapable of
listening to or taking in the answers he received, and so unmistakably
failed to perceive himself what precisely constituted _la question_ that
no other result could possibly have been anticipated. And then too Irina
was slily provoking the disputants and setting them against one another,
constantly exchanging glances and slight signs with Litvinov as she did
so.... But he was sitting like one spell-bound, he was hearing nothing,
and waiting for nothing but for those splendid eyes to sparkle again,
that pale, tender, mischievous, exquisite face to flash upon him
again.... It ended by the ladies growing restive, and requesting that
the dispute should cease.... Ratmirov entreated the dilettante to sing
his song again, and the self-taught genius once more played his
waltz....
Litvinov stayed till after midnight, and went away later than all the
rest. The conversation had in the course of the evening touched upon a
number of subjects, studiously avoiding anything of the faintest
interest; the generals, after finishing their solemn game, solemnly
joined in it: the influence of these statesmen was at once apparent. The
conversation turned upon notorieties of the Parisian demi-monde, with
whose names and talents every one seemed intimately acquainted, on
Sardou’s latest play, on a novel of About’s, on Patti in the _Traviata_.
Some one proposed a game of ‘secretary,’ _au secrétaire_; but it was
not a success. The answers given were pointless, and often not free from
grammatical mistakes; the stout general related that he had once in
answer to the question: _Qu’est-ce que l’amour?_ replied, _Une colique
remontée au cœur_, and promptly went off into his wooden guffaw; the
ancient ruin with a mighty effort struck him with her fan on the arm; a
flake of plaster was shaken off her forehead by this rash action. The
old crone was beginning a reference to the Slavonic principalities and
the necessity of orthodox propaganda on the Danube, but, meeting with no
response, she subsided with a hiss. In reality they talked more about
Home than anything else; even the ‘Queen of the Wasps’ described how
hands had once crept about her, and how she had seen them, and put her
own ring on one of them. It was certainly a triumph for Irina: even if
Litvinov had paid more attention to what was being said around him, he
still could not have gleaned one single sincere saying, one single
clever thought, one single new fact from all their disconnected and
lifeless babble. Even in their cries and exclamations, there was no note
of real feeling, in their slander no real heat. Only at rare intervals
under the mask of assumed patriotic indignation, or of assumed contempt
and indifference, the dread of possible losses could be heard in a
plaintive whimper, and a few names, which will not be forgotten by
posterity, were pronounced with gnashing of teeth ... And not a drop of
living water under all this noise and wrangle! What stale, what
unprofitable nonsense, what wretched trivialities were absorbing all
these heads and hearts, and not for that one evening, not in society
only, but at home too, every hour and every day, in all the depth and
breadth of their existence! And what ignorance, when all is said! What
lack of understanding of all on which human life is built, all by which
life is made beautiful!
On parting from Litvinov, Irina again pressed his hand and whispered
significantly, ‘Well? Are you pleased? Have you seen enough? Do you like
it?’ He made her no reply, but merely bowed low in silence.
Left alone with her husband, Irina was just going to her bedroom.... He
stopped her.
‘_Je vous ai beaucoup admirée ce soir, madame_,’ he observed, smoking a
cigarette, and leaning against the mantelpiece, ‘_vous vous êtes
parfaitement moquée de nous tous_.’
‘_Pas plus cette fois-ci que les autres_,’ she answered indifferently.
‘How do you mean me to understand you?’ asked Ratmirov.
‘As you like.’
‘Hm. _C’est clair._’ Ratmirov warily, like a cat, knocked off the ash of
the cigarette with the tip of the long nail of his little finger. ‘Oh,
by the way! This new friend of yours--what the dickens is his name?--Mr.
Litvinov--doubtless enjoys the reputation of a very clever man.’
At the name of Litvinov, Irina turned quickly round.
‘What do you mean to say?’
The general smiled.
‘He keeps very quiet ... one can see he’s afraid of compromising
himself.’
Irina too smiled; it was a very different smile from her husband’s.
‘Better keep quiet than talk ... as some people talk.’
‘_Attrapé!_’ answered Ratmirov with feigned submissiveness. ‘Joking
apart, he has a very interesting face. Such a ... concentrated
expression ... and his whole bearing.... Yes....’ The general
straightened his cravat, and bending his head stared at his own
moustache. ‘He’s a republican, I imagine, of the same sort as your other
friend, Mr. Potugin; that’s another of your clever fellows who are
dumb.’
Irina’s brows were slowly raised above her wide open clear eyes, while
her lips were tightly pressed together and faintly curved.
‘What’s your object in saying that, Valerian Vladimiritch,’ she
remarked, as though sympathetically. ‘You are wasting your arrows on the
empty air.... We are not in Russia, and there is no one to hear you.’
Ratmirov was stung.
‘That’s not merely my opinion, Irina Pavlovna,’ he began in a voice
suddenly guttural; ‘other people too notice that that gentleman has the
air of a conspirator.’
‘Really? who are these other people?’
‘Well, Boris for instance----’
‘What? was it necessary for him too to express his opinion?’
Irina shrugged her shoulders as though shrinking from the cold, and
slowly passed the tips of her fingers over them.
‘Him ... yes, him. Allow me to remark, Irina Pavlovna, that you seem
angry; and you know if one is angry----’
‘Am I angry? Oh, what for?’
‘I don’t know; possibly you have been disagreeably affected by the
observation I permitted myself to make in reference to----’
Ratmirov stammered.
‘In reference to?’ Irina repeated interrogatively. ‘Ah, if you please,
no irony, and make haste. I’m tired and sleepy.’
She took a candle from the table. ‘In reference to----?’
‘Well, in reference to this same Mr. Litvinov; since there’s no doubt
now that you take a great interest in him.’
Irina lifted the hand in which she was holding the candlestick, till the
flame was brought on a level with her husband’s face, and attentively,
almost with curiosity, looking him straight in the face, she suddenly
burst into laughter.
‘What is it?’ asked Ratmirov scowling.
Irina went on laughing.
‘Well, what is it?’ he repeated, and he stamped his foot.
He felt insulted, wounded, and at the same time against his will he was
impressed by the beauty of this woman, standing so lightly and boldly
before him ... she was tormenting him. He saw everything, all her
charms--even the pink reflection of the delicate nails on her slender
finger-tips, as they tightly clasped the dark bronze of the heavy
candlestick--even that did not escape him ... while the insult cut
deeper and deeper into his heart. And still Irina laughed.
‘What? you? you jealous?’ she brought out at last, and turning her back
on her husband she went out of the room. ‘He’s jealous!’ he heard
outside the door, and again came the sound of her laugh.
Ratmirov looked moodily after his wife; he could not even then help
noticing the bewitching grace of her figure, her movements, and with a
violent blow, crushing the cigarette on the marble slab of the
mantelpiece, he flung it to a distance. His cheeks had suddenly turned
white, a spasm passed over the lower half of his face, and with a dull
animal stare his eyes strayed about the floor, as though in search of
something.... Every semblance of refinement had vanished from his face.
Such an expression it must have worn when he was flogging the White
Russian peasants.
Litvinov had gone home to his rooms, and sitting down to the table he
had buried his head in both hands, and remained a long while without
stirring. He got up at last, opened a box, and taking out a pocket-book,
he drew out of an inner pocket a photograph of Tatyana. Her face gazed
out mournfully at him, looking ugly and old, as photographs usually do.
Litvinov’s betrothed was a girl of Great Russian blood, a blonde, rather
plump, and with the features of her face rather heavy, but with a
wonderful expression of kindness and goodness in her intelligent, clear
brown eyes, with a serene, white brow, on which it seemed as though a
sunbeam always rested. For a long time Litvinov did not take his eyes
from the photograph, then he pushed it gently away and again clutched
his head in both hands. ‘All is at an end!’ he whispered at last,
‘Irina! Irina!’
Only now, only at that instant, he realised that he was irrevocably,
senselessly, in love with her, that he had loved her since the very day
of that first meeting with her at the Old Castle, that he had never
ceased to love her. And yet how astounded, how incredulous, how
scornful, he would have been, had he been told so a few hours back!
‘But Tanya, Tanya, my God! Tanya! Tanya!’ he repeated in contrition;
while Irina’s shape fairly rose before his eyes in her black almost
funereal garb, with the radiant calm of victory on her marble white
face.