Litvinov did not sleep all night, and did not undress. He was very
miserable. As an honest and straightforward man, he realised the force
of obligations, the sacredness of duty, and would have been ashamed of
any double dealing with himself, his weakness, his fault. At first he
was overcome by apathy; it was long before he could throw off the gloomy
burden of a single half-conscious, obscure sensation; then terror took
possession of him at the thought that the future, his almost conquered
future, had slipped back into the darkness, that his home, the
solidly-built home he had only just raised, was suddenly tottering about
him....
He began reproaching himself without mercy, but at once checked his own
vehemence. ‘What feebleness!’ he thought. ‘It’s no time for
self-reproach and cowardice; now I must act. Tanya is my betrothed, she
has faith in my love, my honour, we are bound together for life, and
cannot, must not, be put asunder.’ He vividly pictured to himself all
Tanya’s qualities, mentally he picked them out and reckoned them up; he
was trying to call up feeling and tenderness in himself. ‘One thing’s
left for me,’ he thought again, ‘to run away, to run away directly,
without waiting for her arrival, to hasten to meet her; whether I
suffer, whether I am wretched with Tanya--that’s not likely--but in any
case to think of that, to take that into consideration is useless; I
must do my duty, if I die for it! But you have no right to deceive her,’
whispered another voice within him. ‘You have no right to hide from her
the change in your feelings; it may be that when she knows you love
another woman, she will not be willing to become your wife? Rubbish!
rubbish!’ he answered, ‘that’s all sophistry, shameful double-dealing,
deceitful conscientiousness; I have no right not to keep my word, that’s
the thing. Well, so be it.... Then I must go away from here, without
seeing the other....’
But at that point Litvinov’s heart throbbed with anguish, he turned
cold, physically cold, a momentary shiver passed over him, his teeth
chattered weakly. He stretched and yawned, as though he were in a fever.
Without dwelling longer on his last thought, choking back that thought,
turning away from it, he set himself to marvelling and wondering in
perplexity how he could again ... again love that corrupt worldly
creature, all of whose surroundings were so hateful, so repulsive to
him. He tried to put to himself the question: ‘What nonsense, do you
really love her?’ and could only wring his hands in despair. He was
still marvelling and wondering, and suddenly there rose up before his
eyes, as though from a soft fragrant mist, a seductive shape, shining
eyelashes were lifted, and softly and irresistibly the marvellous eyes
pierced him to the heart and a voice was singing with sweetness in his
ears, and resplendent shoulders, the shoulders of a young queen, were
breathing with voluptuous freshness and warmth....
* * * * *
Towards morning a determination was at last fully formed in Litvinov’s
mind. He decided to set off that day to meet Tatyana, and seeing Irina
for the last time, to tell her, since there was nothing else for it, the
whole truth, and to part from her for ever.
He set in order and packed his things, waited till twelve o’clock, and
started to go to her. But at the sight of her half-curtained windows
Litvinov’s heart fairly failed him ... he could not summon up courage to
enter the hotel. He walked once or twice up and down Lichtenthaler
Allee. ‘A very good day to Mr. Litvinov!’ he suddenly heard an ironical
voice call from the top of a swiftly-moving ‘dogcart.’ Litvinov raised
his eyes and saw General Ratmirov sitting beside Prince M., a well-known
sportsman and fancier of English carriages and horses. The prince was
driving, the general was leaning over on one side, grinning, while he
lifted his hat high above his head. Litvinov bowed to him, and at the
same instant, as though he were obeying a secret command, he set off at
a run towards Irina’s.
She was at home. He sent up his name; he was at once received. When he
went in, she was standing in the middle of the room. She was wearing a
morning blouse with wide open sleeves; her face, pale as the day before,
but not fresh as it had been then, expressed weariness; the languid
smile with which she welcomed her visitor emphasised that expression
even more clearly. She held out her hand to him in a friendly way, but
absent-mindedly.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she began in a plaintive voice, and she sank into a
low chair. ‘I am not very well this morning; I spent a bad night. Well,
what have you to say about last night? Wasn’t I right?’
Litvinov sat down.
‘I have come to you, Irina Pavlovna,’ he began.
She instantly sat up and turned round; her eyes simply fastened upon
Litvinov.
‘What is it,’ she cried. ‘You’re pale as death, you’re ill. What’s the
matter with you?’
Litvinov was confused.
‘With me, Irina Pavlovna?’
‘Have you had bad news? Some misfortune has happened, tell me, tell
me----’
Litvinov in his turn looked at Irina.
‘I have had no bad news,’ he brought out not without effort, ‘but a
misfortune has certainly happened, a great misfortune ... and it has
brought me to you.’
‘A misfortune? What is it?’
‘Why ... that----’
Litvinov tried to go on ... and could not. He only pinched his hands
together so that his fingers cracked. Irina was bending forward and
seemed turned to stone.
‘Oh! I love you!’ broke at last with a low groan from Litvinov’s breast,
and he turned away, as though he would hide his face.
‘What, Grigory Mihalitch, you’ ... Irina too could not finish her
sentence, and leaning back in her chair, she put both her hands to her
eyes. ‘You ... love me.’
‘Yes ... yes ... yes,’ he repeated with bitterness, turning his head
further and further away.
Everything was silent in the room; a butterfly that had flown in was
fluttering its wings and struggling between the curtain and the window.
The first to speak was Litvinov.
‘That, Irina Pavlovna,’ he began, ‘that is the misfortune, which ... has
befallen me, which I ought to have foreseen and avoided, if I had not
now just as in the Moscow days been carried off my feet at once. It
seems fate is pleased to force me once again through you to suffer
tortures, which one would have thought should not be repeated again....
It was not without cause I struggled.... I tried to struggle; but of
course there’s no escaping one’s fate. And I tell you all this to put an
end at once to this ... this tragic farce,’ he added with a fresh
outburst of shame and bitterness.
Litvinov was silent again; the butterfly was struggling and fluttering
as before. Irina did not take her hands from her face.
‘And you are not mistaken?’ her whisper sounded from under those white,
bloodless-looking hands.
‘I am not mistaken,’ answered Litvinov in a colourless voice. ‘I love
you, as I have never loved any one but you. I am not going to reproach
you; that would be too foolish; I’m not going to tell you that perhaps
nothing of all this would have happened if you yourself had behaved
differently with me.... Of course, I alone am to blame, my
self-confidence has been my ruin; I am deservedly punished, and you
could not have anticipated it. Of course you did not consider that it
would have been far less dangerous for me if you had not been so keenly
alive to your wrong ... your supposed wrong to me; and had not wished to
make up for it ... but what’s done can’t be undone. I only wanted to
make clear my position to you; it’s hard enough as it is.... But at
least there will be, as you say, no misunderstanding, while the openness
of my confession will soften, I hope, the feeling of offence which you
cannot but feel.’
Litvinov spoke without raising his eyes, but even if he had glanced at
Irina, he could not have seen what was passing in her face, as she still
as before kept her hands over her eyes. But what was passing over her
face meanwhile would probably have astounded him; both alarm and delight
were apparent on it, and a kind of blissful helplessness and agitation;
her eyes hardly glimmered under their overhanging lids, and her slow,
broken breathing was chill upon her lips, that were parted as though
with thirst....
Litvinov was silent, waiting for a response, some sound.... Nothing!
‘There is one thing left for me,’ he began again, ‘to go away; I have
come to say good-bye to you.’
Irina slowly dropped her hands on to her knees.
‘But I remember, Grigory Mihalitch,’ she began; ‘that ... that person of
whom you spoke to me, she was to have come here? You are expecting her?’
‘Yes; but I shall write to her ... she will stop somewhere on the way
... at Heidelberg, for instance.’
‘Ah! Heidelberg.... Yes.... It’s nice there.... But all this must upset
your plans. Are you perfectly certain, Grigory Mihalitch, that you are
not exaggerating, _et que ce n’est pas une fausse alarme_?’
Irina spoke softly, almost coldly, with short pauses, looking away
towards the window. Litvinov made no answer to her last question.
‘Only, why did you talk of offence?’ she went on. ‘I am not offended ...
oh, no! and if one or other of us is to blame, in any case it’s not you;
not you alone.... Remember our last conversations, and you will be
convinced that it’s not you who are to blame.’
‘I have never doubted your magnanimity,’ Litvinov muttered between his
teeth, ‘but I should like to know, do you approve of my intention?’
‘To go away?’
‘Yes.’
Irina continued to look away.
‘At the first moment, your intention struck me as premature ... but now
I have thought over what you have said ... and if you are really not
mistaken, then I suppose that you ought to go away. It will be better so
... better for us both.’
Irina’s voice had grown lower and lower, and her words too came more and
more slowly.
‘General Ratmirov, certainly, might notice,’ Litvinov was beginning....
Irina’s eyes dropped again, and something strange quivered about her
lips, quivered and died away.
‘No; you did not understand me,’ she interrupted him. ‘I was not
thinking of my husband. Why should I? And there is nothing to notice.
But I repeat, separation is necessary for us both.’
Litvinov picked up his hat, which had fallen on the ground.
‘Everything is over,’ he thought, ‘I must go. And so it only remains for
me to say good-bye to you, Irina Pavlovna,’ he said aloud, and suddenly
felt a pang, as though he were preparing to pronounce his own sentence
on himself. ‘It only remains for me to hope that you will not remember
evil against me, and ... and that if we ever----’
Irina again cut him short.
‘Wait a little, Grigory Mihalitch, don’t say good-bye to me yet. That
would be too hurried.’
Something wavered in Litvinov, but the burning pain broke out again and
with redoubled violence in his heart.
‘But I can’t stay,’ he cried. ‘What for? Why prolong this torture?’
‘Don’t say good-bye to me yet,’ repeated Irina. ‘I must see you once
more.... Another such dumb parting as in Moscow again--no, I don’t want
that. You can go now, but you must promise me, give me your word of
honour that you won’t go away without seeing me once more.’
‘You wish that?’
‘I insist on it. If you go away without saying good-bye to me, I shall
never forgive it, do you hear, never! Strange!’ she added as though to
herself, ‘I cannot persuade myself that I am in Baden.... I keep feeling
that I am in Moscow.... Go now.’
Litvinov got up.
‘Irina Pavlovna,’ he said, ‘give me your hand.’
Irina shook her head.
‘I told you that I don’t want to say good-bye to you....’
‘I don’t ask it for that.’
Irina was about to stretch out her hand, but she glanced at Litvinov for
the first time since his avowal, and drew it back.
‘No, no,’ she whispered, ‘I will not give you my hand. No ... no. Go
now.’
Litvinov bowed and went away. He could not tell why Irina had refused
him that last friendly handshake.... He could not know what she feared.
He went away, and Irina again sank into the armchair and again covered
her face.