Considered simply as stories, "Fathers and Sons" and "Smoke"
are to all intents and purposes independent of each other, yet
in important particulars the latter is a sequel to the first.
Once on his arrival at St. Petersburg, Turgenev was met with
the words, "Just see what your Nihilists are doing! They have
almost gone so far as to burn the city." Thus again he took up
the question of social reform, and in "Smoke" ("Dim") he views
with apprehension the actions of the so-called
"intellectuals," who would make themselves responsible for the
shaping of future Russia. Charlatans among the leaders of the
new thought, and society dilettantism, both came under his
merciless lash. In his opinion the men and ideas in the two
camps are no more than smoke--dirty, evil-smelling smoke. The
entire atmosphere is gloomy, and throughout is only relieved
by the character of Irina, the most exquisite piece of
feminine psychology in the whole range of Turgenev's novels.
_I.--A Broken Idyll_
Early in the fifties there was living in Moscow, in very straitened
circumstances, almost in poverty, the numerous family of the Princes
Osinin. These were real princes--not Tartar-Georgians, but pure-blooded
descendants of Rurik. Time, however, had dealt hardly with them. They
had fallen under the ban of the Empire, and retained nothing but their
name and the pride of their nobility.
The family of Osinins consisted of a husband and wife and five children.
It was living near the dog's place, in a one-storied little wooden house
with a striped portico looking on to the street, green lions on the
gates, and all the other pretensions of nobility, though it could hardly
make both ends meet, was constantly in debt at the green-grocer's, and
often sitting without firewood or candles in the winter. Though their
pride kept them aloof from the society of their neighbours, their
straitened circumstances compelled them to receive certain people to
whom they were under obligations. Among the number of these was Grigory
Mihalovitch Litvinov, a young student of Moscow, the son of a retired
official of plebeian extraction, who had once lent the Osinins three
hundred roubles. Litvinov called frequently at the house, and fell
desperately in love with the eldest daughter, Irina.
Irina was only seventeen, and as beautiful as the dawn. Her thick fair
hair was mingled with darker tresses; the languid curves of her lovely
neck, and her smile--half indifferent, half weary--betrayed the nervous
temperament of a delicate girl; but in the lines of those fine, faintly
smiling lips there was something wilful and passionate, something
dangerous to herself and others. Her dark grey eyes, with shining lashes
and bold sweep of eyebrow, had a strange look in them; they seemed
looking out intently and thoughtfully--looking out from some unknown
depth and distance. Litvinov fell in love with Irina from the moment he
saw her (he was only three years older than she was), but for a long
while he failed to obtain not only a response, but even a hearing. She
treated him with hostility, and the more he showed his love, the greater
was her coldness, the more malignant her indifference. She tortured him
in this way for two months. Then everything was transformed in one day.
Worn out by this cold torture, Litvinov was one night about to depart in
despair. Without saying good-bye, he began to look for his hat. "Stay,"
sounded suddenly in a soft whisper. With throbbing heart he looked
round, hardly believing his ears. Before him he saw Irina, transformed.
"Stay," she repeated; "don't go. I want to be with you."
From that moment of the discovery of her love, Irina was changed. She,
who before had been proud and cruel, became at once as docile as a lamb,
as soft as silk, and boundlessly kind.
"Ah, love me, love me, my sweet, my saviour," she would whisper to him,
with her arms about his neck.
In this new dream of happiness the days flew, the weeks passed; the
future came ever nearer with the glorious hope of their happiness, and
then, suddenly, an event occurred which scattered all their dreams and
plans like light roadside dust. The Court came to Moscow, and the
Osinins, despite their poverty, determined to attend the customary great
ball in the Hall of Nobility. At first Irina resolutely refused to go,
and Litvinov was called in by the prince to use his persuasion.
"Very well, then, I will go," she said, when she had listened to his
arguments; "only remember, it is you yourself who desired it."
She spoke so strangely that he feared he had offended her.
"Irina, darling, you seem to be angry."
Irina laughed.
"Oh, no! I am not angry. Only, Grisha..." (She fastened her eyes on him,
and he thought he had never before seen such an expression in them.)
"Perhaps it must be," she added, in an undertone.
"But, Irina, you love me, dear?"
"I love you," she answered, with almost solemn gravity, and she clasped
his hand firmly like a man.
She went to the ball in a simple white dress, wearing a bunch of
heliotrope, the gift of her lover. When he called the following day,
Litvinov heard from the prince of the impression Irina had created; how
all the great noblemen from St. Petersburg, and even the Czar himself,
had commented upon her beauty. But Irina herself he did not see. She had
a bad headache, the prince explained. The following day he was again
denied a sight of her, and as he turned once more from the house he saw
a great personage drive up in a magnificent carriage. A dread foreboding
seized him. Dull stupefaction, and thoughts scurrying like mice, vague
terror, and the numbness of expectation 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....
As he walked down the street his servant touched him on the shoulder,
handing him a note. He recognised Irina's writing. He tore open the
envelope all at once. On a small sheet of notepaper were the following
lines:
"Forgive me, Grigory Mihalovitch. 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."
The blow almost broke Litvinov's heart. A rich cousin of the Princess
Osinin, struck by the impression created by the girl at the ball, had
taken her to Petersburg, to use her as a pawn in his struggle for power.
Utterly crushed, Litvinov threw up the University and went home to his
father in the country. He heard of her occasionally, encircled in
splendour. Her name was mentioned with curiosity, respect, and envy, and
at last came the news of her marriage to General Ratmirov.
_II--Temptation_
Ten years had passed--ten years during which much had happened to
Litvinov. He had served in the Crimea, and, after almost dying of
typhus, had been invalided home. Observation had shown him that his
father's management of their property was so old-fashioned that it did
not yield a tenth of the revenue it might yield in skillful hands. He
determined to go abroad to study agriculture and technology, so that he
might properly manage the estate. In various parts of Europe, in England
as well, he had travelled and studied, and now he found himself at
Baden, his work concluded, ready to take up his duties.
He was at Baden for two reasons: first, because he was espoused to his
cousin, Tatyana Petrovna Shestov, whom he had grown to dearly love, and
who had promised to be his comrade and friend "for better or worse," as
the English say. And he was at Baden, also, because Tatyana's aunt,
Kapitolina Markovna Shestov, an old unmarried lady of fifty-five, a
good-natured, honest, eccentric soul--a democrat, sworn opponent of
aristocracy and fashionable society--could not resist the temptation of
gazing for once on the aristocratic society which sunned itself in such
a fashionable place as Baden.
While he was expecting the arrival of his betrothed, Litvinov found
himself compelled to pass his time in the society of his
fellow-countrymen--ardent young Russian Liberals of both sexes, bubbling
over with new theories and enthusiasm, and ready to talk for hours
together on the political and social regeneration of their native
country. As far as possible, he avoided their society, and escaped into
the solitudes of the mountains. It was during one of these lonely
excursions that, feeling hungry, he made his way to the old castle, and,
seating himself at one of the little white-painted tables of the
restaurant, ordered a light breakfast. While he was seated there, there
was a loud tramping of horses, and a party of young Russian
generals--persons of the highest society, of weight and
importance--arrived, and with much noise and ostentation summoned the
obsequious waiters to attend to their wants. 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 Mihalovitch," 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.
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.
"Irina Pavlovna," he uttered, irresolutely.
"You know me? How glad I am! how glad--" She stopped, blushing. "Let me
introduce you to my husband."
One of the young generals, Ratmirov by name, almost the most elegant of
all, got up from his seat at the introduction, and bowed with a
dandified air. Litvinov would have escaped, but Irina insisted on his
sitting down. For a time he had to listen to the empty, meaningless talk
of the company, hardly able to say a word to Irina. At last his clean
plebeian pride revolted. He rose to his feet, somehow took leave of
Irina and her husband, and walked rapidly away, trying to brace and
soothe his nerves by violent exercise.
"Oh, Tatyana, Tatyana!" he cried passionately to himself. "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."
That very evening Irina sent him a message, asking him to come and see
her, and, in spite of all his determinations, he went. She saw him alone
in a room in one of the best hotels in Baden. "Grigory Mihalovitch," she
cried, as soon as he had closed the door behind him, "here we are alone
at last, and I can tell you how glad I am at our meeting, because it...
gives me a chance... of asking your forgiveness."
Litvinov started involuntarily at this unexpected reference to old
times.
"Forgiveness... for what?" he muttered.
"For what? I wronged you, though of course it was my fate, and I do not
regret it. You must tell me you forgive me, or else I shall imagine you
feel... _de la rancune_."
As he looked into her beautiful eyes, shining with tears, Litvinov's
senses seemed to swim.
"I will remember nothing," he managed to say; "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.... They fell into
conversation, he learning from her something of her life, she extracting
from him in fragments the details of his career. General Ratmirov's
arrival put an end to their converse, and Litvinov rose to depart. At
the door Irina stopped him.
"You have told me everything," she said, "but the chief thing you have
concealed. You are going to be married, I am told."
Litvinov blushed up to his ears. As a fact, he had intentionally not
referred to Tatyana.
"Yes, I am going to be married," he said at last, and at once withdrew.
He came away, swearing to himself that he would never see her again.
Next day he met her on his way to the mountains, but pretended not to
see her. On his return he found her sitting alone on a bench in the
fashionable walk. She stopped him, insisting, with an unsteady voice, on
speaking to him. He tried to be frank with her, pointing out that their
paths lay far apart, that she belonged to a society which he did not
understand, that she was above him, beyond him. But her passionate
appeal that they should at least be friends melted his determination,
and he left her with a promise to call again that very night.
When he returned once more to his rooms, he made a desperate effort to
recover his senses. Taking out a picture of Tatyana, he placed it in
front of him, and stared at it long and eagerly. Suddenly he pushed it
gently away, and clutched his head in both hands.
"All is at an end," he whispered at last. "Irina! Irina!"
He realised in an instant that he was irrevocably, senselessly, in love
with her.
"But Tatyana, Tatyana, my guardian, Tatyana, Tatyana!" he repeated,
while Irina's shape, as he had seen her last, rose before his eyes with
a radiant calm of victory on her marble-white face.
Next day he told her of his love. For answer she threw her arms round
his neck and whispered in his ear, "I love you, too.... I love you...
and you know it."
"You must go," she went on suddenly, moving away from him and turning
impulsively toward the door. "It's dangerous, it's terrible....
Good-bye."
Litvinov stood, like a block of wood, at a distance. Once more she said,
"Good-bye, forget me," and, without looking round, rushed away.
As he left the hotel, like a man in a fog, he passed Ratmirov on the
stairs. The general lifted his hat unnecessarily high, and wished him a
very good day in a voice which was obviously ironical.
He hardly responded to Ratmirov's bow, but rushed back to his lodgings.
His head was turning round, and his heart vibrating like a harp-string.
He tried to pull himself together. He would fly from her. "If I die for
it," he muttered to himself. He packed his bag and trunk with furious
energy, determined to go that very night. As he was in the midst of his
preparations, a note was brought him from Irina.
"Sooner or later," she wrote, "it must have been. My life is in your
hands. If necessary, I will throw up everything and follow you to the
ends of the earth. We shall see each other to-morrow, of course. Your
Irina."
Two hours later he was sitting in his room on the sofa. His box stood in
the corner, open and empty.
_III--A Ruined Life_
Tatyana and her aunt arrived the following day at twelve o'clock.
Litvinov was at the station to meet them--a different Litvinov from the
one who a few days before had been so self-confident, so spiritual, so
calm and content. His whole appearance, his movements, the expression of
his face, had been transformed. Some sensation, unknown before, had
come, strong, sweet--and evil; the mysterious guest had made its way to
the innermost shrine, and taken possession and lain down in it in
silence, but, in all its magnitude, like the owner in a new house.
Litvinov was no longer ashamed, he was afraid; he had been vanquished,
vanquished suddenly... and what had become of his honesty? The first
look at Tatyana, the first look of Tatyana... that was what filled him
with terror, that was what he had to live through directly... and
afterwards?... afterwards?... Come what may come!
The train steamed in. Tatyana, standing near her aunt, smiled brightly
and held out her hand. He helped them to a fly and took a place in it
opposite them. He brought himself at last to look at Tatyana. His heart
throbbed with involuntary emotion; the serene expression of that honest,
candid face gave him a pang of bitter reproach. "So you are here, poor
girl," he thought. "You whom I have so longed for, so urged to come,
with whom I had hoped to spend my life to the end, you have come, you
believe in me... while I... while I..."
But Kapitolina Markoyna gave him no time for musing. She was full of
chatter, full of interest in everything that was going on, afire to see
all the fine aristocrats, though she abused them soundly.
After doing a round of the sights, Litvinov, his mind always on the
rack, led the ladies back to their hotel. As they entered a note was
handed to him. He tore open the envelope and read the words within,
scribbled in pencil: "Come to me this evening at seven, for one minute,
I entreat you. Irina."
After dinner Litvinov escorted the two ladies to their room, and, after
standing a little while at the window, with a scowl on his face, he
suddenly announced that he had to go out for a short time on business.
Tatyana said nothing; she turned pale and dropped her eyes. She was well
aware that Litvinov knew that her aunt took a nap after dinner; she had
expected him to take advantage of it to remain with her. He had not been
alone with her nor spoken frankly to her since her arrival. And now he
was going out! What was she to make of it? And, indeed, his whole
behaviour all along....
In a few minutes he was with Irina, holding her in his arms.
"I can't live without you, Irina," he whispered; "I am yours for ever
and always. I can only breathe at your feet."
He stooped down, all in a tremble, to kiss her hand. Irina gazed at his
bent head.
"Then let me say that I, too, am ready for anything; that I, too, will
consider no one and nothing. As you decide, so it shall be. I, too, am
for ever yours... yours."
He tore himself away with difficulty. He had turned his back on his
upright, well-organised, orderly future. The thing was done, but how was
he to face his judge? And if only his judge would come to meet him--an
angel with a flaming sword; that would be easier for a sinning heart...
instead of which, he had himself to plunge the knife in... infamous! but
to turn back, to abandon that other, to take advantage of the freedom
offered him, recognised as his... No, no! better to die! No, he would
have none of such loathsome freedom... but would humble himself in the
dust, and might those eyes look down on him with love.
Two hours later he was back again, trying to talk to the girl he
determined to deceive. He felt a continual gnawing of conscience;
whatever he said, it always seemed to him that he was telling lies, and
Tatyana was seeing through it. The girl was paler than usual, and,
replying to her aunt, she said she had a little headache.
"It's the journey," suggested Litvinov, and he positively blushed with
shame.
"Yes, the journey," repeated Tatyana, letting her eyes dwell for a
moment on his face.
In the night, at two o'clock, Kapitolina Markovna, who was sleeping in
the same room with her niece, suddenly lifted up her head and listened.
"Tatyana," she said, "you are crying?"
Tatyana did not at once answer.
"No, aunt," sounded her gentle voice; "I have caught cold."
In the course of that dreadful night Litvinov had arrived at a
resolution. He determined to tell Tatyana the truth, and in the morning
he steeled himself for the interview. He found her alone, and with an
effort stumbled out the introductory words of his confession. Tatyana
stopped him abruptly in the middle.
"Grigory Mihalovitch," she said in a measured voice, while a deathly
pallor overspread her whole face, "I will come to your assistance. You
no longer love me, and you don't know how to tell me so."
He flung himself on his knees before her.
"Tatyana," he cried, "could I dream that I should bring such a blow upon
you, my best friend, my guardian angel! I have come to tell you that
your friend is ruined, that he is falling into the pit, and would not
drag you down with him, but save me... no! even you cannot save me. I
should push you away; I am ruined, Tatyana, I am ruined past all help."
Tatyana's brow twitched. Her pale face darkened.
"Since you say yourself this passion is unalterable, it only remains for
me to give you back your word. I will ask you to leave me. I want to
collect myself a little.... Leave me alone... spare my pride."
Uttering these words, Tatyana hurriedly withdrew into an inner room.
He was free now, free to go to Irina! That day Tatyana and her aunt left
Baden. There were no barriers between him and his soul's desire. He
hastened to Irina's side. He found her turning over some lace in a
cardboard box.
"Don't be angry with me, dear one," she said, "for attending to this
trash at the present moment. I am obliged to go to a ball at a certain
lady's. These bits of finery have been sent me, and I must choose
to-day. Ah! I am awfully wretched," she cried suddenly, and she laid her
face down on the edge of the box. Tears began falling from her eyes...
she turned away; the tears might spoil the lace.
He was uneasy at her tears and tried to comfort her, and she, putting
her arms around him, cried to him that she would do whatever he wished.
They should be free people. "Let us be free," she said. "The day is
ours. A lifetime is ours."
Litvinov spent the next twenty-four hours in making all arrangements for
their flight together. He raised as much money as he could, even
stooping to try his luck at roulette to increase his hoard. The
appointed moment of their departure approached. As he waited impatiently
in the hotel hall, a letter was brought him. It was a letter from Irina
in French.
"My dear one," she wrote, "I cannot run away with you. I have not the
strength to do it. I cannot leave this life; I see the poison has gone
too deeply into me. Oh, my dear one, think me a weak, worthless woman,
despise, but don't abandon me, don't abandon your Irina.... To leave
this life I have not the courage, but live it without you I cannot
either. Come soon to me. I shall not have an instant's peace until I see
you. Yours, yours, yours--I."
The blood beat like a sledgehammer in Litvinov's head, then slowly and
painfully sank to his heart, and was chill as a stone. And so again,
again deceit; no, worse than deceit--lying and baseness... and life
shattered, everything torn up by its roots utterly, and the sole thing
which he could cling to, the last prop, in fragments too. In Litvinov's
soul rose, like sudden gusts of wind before a storm, momentary impulses
of fury.
He determined to leave Baden at once. Getting a carriage, he took his
box to the station. He was just taking his seat in the railway carriage.
"Grigory Mihalovitch... Grigory..." he heard a supplicating whisper
behind him.
He started to see Irina standing on the platform, her eyes crying to him
to come back--to come back.... He jumped into the carriage, and turning
round, he motioned her to a place beside him. She understood him. There
was still time. One step, one movement, and two lives made one for ever
would have been hurried away into the uncertain distance.... While she
wavered, a loud whistle sounded, and the train moved off.
_IV.--Love's Reward_
A year had passed--a year spent by Litvinov on his father's estate, a
year of hard work, a year of devoting the knowledge he had acquired
abroad to the betterment of the property. Another year, and his toil
began to show its fruit. A third year was beginning. An uncle, who
happened to be a cousin of Kapitolina Markovna, and had been recently
staying with her, paid them a visit. He brought Litvinov a great deal of
news about Tatyana. The next day, after his departure, Litvinov sent her
a letter, the first since their separation.
He begged for permission to renew her acquaintance, at least by
correspondence, and also desired to learn whether he must forever give
up all idea of some day seeing her. Not without emotion he awaited the
answer... the answer came at last. Tatyana responded cordially to his
overture. "If you are disposed to pay us a visit," she finished up, "we
hope you will come; you know the saying, 'even the sick are easier
together than apart.'"
With a new lightness of heart, Litvinov set off on his journey. The
horses would not go quick enough for him. At last the house was in
view... and on the steps Kapitolina Markovna was standing, and, beside
herself with joy, was clapping her hands, crying, "I heard him! I knew
him first! It's he! it's he! I knew him."
Litvinov dashed into the house... before him, all shamefaced, stood
Tatyana. She glanced at him with kind, caressing eyes and gave him her
hand. But he did not take her hand. He fell on his knees before her,
kissing the hem of her dress. The tears started into her eyes. She was
frightened, but her whole face beamed with delight.
"Tatyana," Litvinov cried, "Tatyana, you have forgiven me? Tatyana!"
"Aunt, aunt, what is this?" cried Tatyana, turning to Kapitolina
Markovna as she came in.
"Don't hinder him, Tatyana," answered the kind old lady; "you see the
sinner has repented."
* * * * *