That winter the court visited Moscow. One festivity followed another; in its turn came the customary great ball in the Hall of Nobility. The news of this ball, only, it is true, in the form of an announcement in thePolitical Gazette, reached even the little house in Dogs’ Place. The prince was the first to be roused by it; he decided at once that he must not fail to go and take Irina, that it would be unpardonable to let slip the opportunity of seeing their sovereigns, that for the old nobility this constituted indeed a duty in its own way. He defended his opinion with a peculiar warmth, not habitual in him; the princess agreed with him to some extent, and only sighed over the expense; but a resolute opposition was displayed by Irina. ‘It is not necessary, I will not go,’ she replied to all her parents’ arguments. Her obstinacy reached such proportions that the old prince decided at last to beg Litvinov to try to persuade her, by reminding her among otherreasons that it was not proper for a young girl to avoid society, that she ought to ‘have this experience,’ that no one ever saw her anywhere, as it was. Litvinov undertook to lay these ‘reasons’ before her. Irina looked steadily and scrutinisingly at him, so steadily and scrutinisingly that he was confused, and then, playing with the ends of her sash, she said calmly:
‘Do you desire it, you?’
‘Yes.... I suppose so,’ replied Litvinov hesitatingly. ‘I agree with your papa.... Indeed, why should you not go ... to see the world, and show yourself,’ he added with a short laugh.
‘To show myself,’ she repeated slowly. ‘Very well then, I will go.... Only remember, it is you yourself who desired it.’
‘That’s to say, I——.’ Litvinov was beginning.
‘You yourself have desired it,’ she interposed. ‘And here is one condition more; you must promise me that you will not be at this ball.’
‘But why?’
‘I wish it to be so.’
Litvinov unclasped his hands.
‘I submit ... but I confess I should so have enjoyed seeing you in all your grandeur, witnessing the sensation you are certain to make.... How proud I should be of you!’ he added with a sigh.
Irina laughed.
‘All the grandeur will consist of a white frock, and as for the sensation.... Well, any way, I wish it.’
‘Irina, darling, you seem to be angry?’
Irina laughed again.
‘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.
All the following days Irina was busily occupied over her dress and her coiffure; on the day before the ball she felt unwell, she could not sit still, and twice she burst into tears in solitude; before Litvinov she wore the same uniform smile.... She treated him, however, with her old tenderness, but carelessly, and was constantly looking at herself in the glass. On the day of the ball she was silent and pale, but collected. At nine o’clock in the evening Litvinov came to look at her. When she came to meet him in a white tarlatan gown, with a spray of small blue flowers in her slightly raised hair, he almost uttered a cry; she seemed to him solovely and stately beyond what was natural to her years. ‘Yes, she has grown up since this morning!’ he thought, ‘and how she holds herself! That’s what race does!’ Irina stood before him, her hands hanging loose, without smiles or affectation, and looked resolutely, almost boldly, not at him, but away into the distance straight before her.
‘You are just like a princess in a story book,’ said Litvinov at last. ‘You are like a warrior before the battle, before victory.... You did not allow me to go to this ball,’ he went on, while she remained motionless as before, not because she was not listening to him, but because she was following another inner voice, ‘but you will not refuse to accept and take with you these flowers?’
He offered her a bunch of heliotrope. She looked quickly at Litvinov, stretched out her hand, and suddenly seizing the end of the spray which decorated her hair, she said:
‘Do you wish it, Grisha? Only say the word, and I will tear off all this, and stop at home.’
Litvinov’s heart seemed fairly bursting. Irina’s hand had already snatched the spray....
‘No, no, what for?’ he interposed hurriedly, in a rush of generous and magnanimous feeling, ‘I am not an egoist.... Why should Irestrict your freedom ... when I know that your heart——’
‘Well, don’t come near me, you will crush my dress,’ she said hastily.
Litvinov was disturbed.
‘But you will take the nosegay?’ he asked.
‘Of course; it is very pretty, and I love that scent.Merci—I shall keep it in memory——’
‘Of your first coming out,’ observed Litvinov, ‘your first triumph.’
Irina looked over her shoulder at herself in the glass, scarcely bending her figure.
‘And do I really look so nice? You are not partial?’
Litvinov overflowed in enthusiastic praises. Irina was already not listening to him, and holding the flowers up to her face, she was again looking away into the distance with her strange, as it were, overshadowed, dilated eyes, and the ends of her delicate ribbons stirred by a faint current of air rose slightly behind her shoulders like wings.
The prince made his appearance, his hair well becurled, in a white tie, and a shabby black evening coat, with the medal of nobility on a Vladimir ribbon in his buttonhole. After him came the princess in a china silk dress of antique cut, and with the anxious severity under which mothers try to conceal their agitation,set her daughter to rights behind, that is to say, quite needlessly shook out the folds of her gown. An antiquated hired coach with seats for four, drawn by two shaggy hacks, crawled up to the steps, its wheels grating over the frozen mounds of unswept snow, and a decrepit groom in a most unlikely-looking livery came running out of the passage, and with a sort of desperate courage announced that the carriage was ready.... After giving a blessing for the night to the children left at home, and enfolding themselves in their fur wraps, the prince and princess went out to the steps; Irina in a little cloak, too thin and too short—how she hated the little cloak at that moment!—followed them in silence. Litvinov escorted them outside, hoping for a last look from Irina, but she took her seat in the carriage without turning her head.
About midnight he walked under the windows of the Hall of Nobility. Countless lights of huge candelabra shone with brilliant radiance through the red curtains; and the whole square, blocked with carriages, was ringing with the insolent, festive, seductive strains of a waltz of Strauss’.
The next day at one o’clock, Litvinov betook himself to the Osinins’. He found no one at home but the prince, who informed him atonce that Irina had a headache, that she was in bed, and would not get up till the evening, that such an indisposition was however little to be wondered at after a first ball.
‘C’est très naturel, vous savez, dans les jeunes filles,’ he added in French, somewhat to Litvinov’s surprise; the latter observed at the same instant that the prince was not in his dressing-gown as usual, but was wearing a coat. ‘And besides,’ continued Osinin, ‘she may well be a little upset after the events of yesterday!’
‘Events?’ muttered Litvinov.
‘Yes, yes, events, events,de vrais événements. You cannot imagine, Grigory Mihalovitch,quel succès elle a eu!The whole court noticed her! Prince Alexandr Fedorovitch said that her place was not here, and that she reminded him of CountessDevonshire. You know ... that ... celebrated.... And old Blazenkrampf declared in the hearing of all, that Irina wasla reine du bal, and desired to be introduced to her; he was introduced to me too, that’s to say, he told me that he remembered me a hussar, and asked me where I was holding office now. Most entertaining man that Count, and such anadorateur du beau sexe!But that’s not all; my princess ... they gave her no peace either: Natalya Nikitishna herself conversed with her ... what more could we have? Irinadancedavec tous les meilleurs cavaliers;they kept bringing them up to me.... I positively lost count of them. Would you believe it, they were all flocking about us in crowds; in the mazurka they did nothing but seek her out. One foreign diplomatist, hearing she was a Moscow girl, said to the Tsar: ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘décidément c’est Moscou qui est le centre de votre empire!’ and another diplomatist added: ‘C’est une vraie révolution, Sire—révélationorrévolution... something of that sort. Yes, yes, it was. I tell you it was something extraordinary.’
‘Well, and Irina Pavlovna herself?’ inquired Litvinov, whose hands and feet had grown cold hearing the prince’s speech, ‘did she enjoy herself, did she seem pleased?’
‘Of course she enjoyed herself; how could she fail to be pleased? But, as you know, she’s not to be seen through at a glance! Every one was saying to me yesterday: it is really surprising!jamais on ne dirait que mademoiselle votre fille est a son premier bal. Count Reisenbach among the rest ... you know him most likely.’
‘No, I don’t know him at all, and have never heard of him.’
‘My wife’s cousin.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘A rich man, a chamberlain, living in Petersburg, in the swim of things; in Livonia every one is in his hands. Hitherto he has neglected us ... but there, I don’t bear him ill-will for that.J’ai l’humeur facile, comme vous savez.Well, that’s the kind of man he is. He sat near Irina, conversed with her for a quarter of an hour, not more, and said afterwards to my princess: “Ma cousine,” he says, “votre fille est une perle; c’est une perfection, every one is congratulating me on such a niece....” And afterwards I look round—and he had gone up to a ... a very great personage, and was talking, and kept looking at Irina ... and the personage was looking at her too.’...
‘And so Irina Pavlovna will not appear all day?’ Litvinov asked again.
‘Quite so; her head aches very badly. She told me to greet you from her, and thank you for your flowers,qu’on a trouvé charmant. She needs rest.... The princess has gone out on a round of visits ... and I myself ... you see....’
The prince cleared his throat, and began to fidget as though he were at a loss what to add further. Litvinov took his hat, and saying he did not want to disturb him, and would call again later to inquire after her health, he went away.
A few steps from the Osinins’ house he saw an elegant carriage for two persons standing before the police sentry-box. A groom in livery, equally elegant, was bending negligently from the box, and inquiring of the Finnish police-sergeant whereabouts Prince Pavel Vassilyevitch Osinin lived. Litvinov glanced at the carriage; in it sat a middle-aged man of bloated complexion, with a wrinkled and haughty face, a Greek nose, and an evil mouth, muffled in a sable wrap, by all outward signs a very great man indeed.
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 otherthan 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 mightmit etwas Accuratessebe 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—otherwiseI 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.
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!’ hekept 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 sitdown 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 closelyfettered 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 hisown 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 theywere 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!’ washeard 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 wholebeau 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 Badenau 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 drawthe 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 myopinionavec 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 andtook 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 seeher. Forget her altogether! Let her amuse herself with her generals.’ Litvinov set to his book again.
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 hisboots. 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 andcocottes, and fell to repeating scandalous anecdotes; at last the conversation sank into a discussion of all sorts of ‘strong men’ and monsters of obesity andgluttony. 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 insociety, 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.
They went to one of the best hotels in Baden and asked for Madame Ratmirov. The porter first inquired their names, and then answered at once that ‘die Frau Fürstin ist zu Hause,’ and went himself to conduct them up the staircase and knock at the door of the apartment and announce them. ‘Die Frau Fürstin’ received them promptly: she was alone, her husband had gone off to Carlsruhe for an interview with a great official, an influential personage who was passing through that town.
Irina was sitting at a small table, embroidering on canvas when Potugin and Litvinov crossed the threshold. She quickly flung her embroidery aside, pushed away the little table and got up; an expression of genuine pleasure overspread her face. She wore a morning dress, high at the neck; the superb lines of her shoulders and arms could be seen through the thin stuff; her carelessly-coiled hair had come loose and fell low on her slender neck. Irinaflung a swift glance at Potugin, murmured ‘merci,’ and holding out her hand to Litvinov reproached him amicably for forgetfulness.
‘And you such an old friend!’ she added.
Litvinov was beginning to apologise. ‘C’est bien, c’est bien,’ she assented hurriedly and, taking his hat from him, with friendly insistence made him sit down. Potugin, too, was sitting down, but got up again directly, and saying that he had an engagement he could not put off, and that he would come in again after dinner, he proceeded to take leave. Irina again flung him a rapid glance, and gave him a friendly nod, but she did not try to keep him, and directly he had vanished behind the portière, she turned with eager impatience to Litvinov.
‘Grigory Mihalitch,’ she began, speaking Russian in her soft musical voice, ‘here we are alone at last, and I can tell you how glad I am at our meeting, because it ... it gives me a chance...’ (Irina looked him straight in the face) ‘of asking your forgiveness.’
Litvinov gave an involuntary start. He had not expected so swift an attack. He had not expected she would herself turn the conversation upon old times.
‘Forgiveness ... for what?’ ... he muttered.
Irina flushed.
‘For what? ... you know for what,’ she said, and she turned slightly away. ‘I wronged you, Grigory Mihalitch ... though, of course, it was my fate’ (Litvinov was reminded of her letter) ‘and I do not regret it ... it would be in any case too late; but, meeting you so unexpectedly, I said to myself that we absolutely must become friends, absolutely ... and I should feel it deeply, if it did not come about ... and it seems to me for that we must have an explanation, without putting it off, and once for all, so that afterwards there should be no ...gêne, no awkwardness, once for all, Grigory Mihalitch; and that you must tell me you forgive me, or else I shall imagine you feel ...de la rancune.Voilà!It is perhaps a great piece of fatuity on my part, for you have probably forgotten everything long, long ago, but no matter, tell me, you have forgiven me.’
Irina uttered this whole speech without taking breath, and Litvinov could see that there were tears shining in her eyes ... yes, actually tears.
‘Really, Irina Pavlovna,’ he began hurriedly, ‘how can you beg my pardon, ask forgiveness?... That is all past and buried, and I can only feel astounded that, in the midst of all the splendour which surrounds you, you have stillpreserved a recollection of the obscure companions of your youth....’
‘Does it astound you?’ said Irina softly.
‘It touches me,’ Litvinov went on, ‘because I could never have imagined——’
‘You have not told me you have forgiven me, though,’ interposed Irina.
‘I sincerely rejoice at your happiness, Irina Pavlovna. With my whole heart I wish you all that is best on earth....’
‘And you will not remember evil against me?’
‘I will remember 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. Irina was again looking straight into his face; but this time she was smiling.... And he for the first time gazed directly and intently at her.... Again he recognised the features once so precious, and those deep eyes, with their marvellous lashes, and the little mole on her cheek, and the peculiar growth of her hair on her forehead, and her habit of somehow sweetly and humorously curving her lips and faintly twitching her eyebrows, all, all he recognised.... But how beautiful she hadgrown! What fascination, what power in her fresh, woman’s body! And no rouge, no touching up, no powder, nothing false on that fresh pure face.... Yes, this was a beautiful woman. A mood of musing came upon Litvinov.... He was still looking at her, but his thoughts were far away.... Irina perceived it.
‘Well, that is excellent,’ she said aloud; ‘now my conscience is at rest then, and I can satisfy my curiosity.’
‘Curiosity,’ repeated Litvinov, as though puzzled.
‘Yes, yes ... I want above all things to know what you have been doing all this time, what plans you have; I want to know all, how, what, when ... all, all. And you will have to tell me the truth, for I must warn you, I have not lost sight of you ... so far as I could.’
‘You did not lose sight of me, you ... there ... in Petersburg?’
‘In the midst of the splendour which surrounded me, as you expressed it just now. Positively, yes, I did not. As for that splendour we will talk about that again; but now you must tell me, you must tell me so much, at such length, no one will disturb us. Ah, how delightful it will be,’ added Irina, gaily sitting down and arranging herself at her ease in an armchair. ‘Come, begin.’
‘Before telling my story, I have to thank you,’ began Litvinov.
‘What for?’
‘For the bouquet of flowers, which made its appearance in my room.’
‘What bouquet? I know nothing about it.’
‘What?’
‘I tell you I know nothing about it.... But I am waiting.... I am waiting for your story.... Ah, what a good fellow that Potugin is to have brought you!’
Litvinov pricked up his ears.
‘Have you known this Mr. Potugin long?’ he queried.
‘Yes, a long while ... but tell me your story.’
‘And do you know him well?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Irina sighed. ‘There are special reasons.... You have heard, of course, of Eliza Byelsky.... Who died, you know, the year before last, such a dreadful death?... Ah, to be sure, I’d forgotten you don’t know all our scandals.... It is well, it is well indeed, that you don’t know them.O quelle chance!at last, at last, a man, a live man, who knows nothing of us! And to be able to talk Russian with him, bad Russian of course, but still Russian, not that everlasting, mawkish, sickening French patter of Petersburg.’
‘And Potugin, you say, was connected with—’
‘It’s very painful for me even to refer to it,’ Irina broke in. ‘Eliza was my greatest friend at school, and afterwards in Petersburg we saw each other continually. She confided all her secrets to me, she was very unhappy, she suffered much. Potugin behaved splendidly in the affair, with true chivalry. He sacrificed himself. It was only then I learnt to appreciate him! But we have drifted away again. I am waiting for your story, Grigory Mihalitch.’
‘But my story cannot interest you the least, Irina Pavlovna.’
‘That’s not your affair.’
‘Think, Irina Pavlovna, we have not seen each other for ten years, ten whole years. How much water has flowed by since then.’
‘Not water only! not water only!’ she repeated with a peculiar bitter expression; ‘that’s just why I want to hear what you are going to tell me.’
‘And beside I really don’t know where to begin.’
‘At the beginning. From the very time when you ... when I went away to Petersburg. You left Moscow then.... Do you know I have never been back to Moscow since!’
‘Really?’
‘It was impossible at first; and afterwards when I was married——.’
‘Have you been married long?’
‘Four years.’
‘Have you no children?’
‘No,’ she answered drily.
Litvinov was silent for a little.
‘And did you go on living at that, what was his name, Count Reisenbach’s, till your marriage?’
Irina looked steadily at him, as though she were trying to make up her mind why he asked that question.
‘No,’ ... was her answer at last.
‘I suppose, your parents.... By the way, I haven’t asked after them. Are they——’
‘They are both well.’
‘And living at Moscow as before?’
‘At Moscow as before.’
‘And your brothers and sisters?’
‘They are all right; I have provided for all of them.’
‘Ah!’ Litvinov glanced up from under his brows at Irina. ‘In reality, Irina Pavlovna, it’s not I who ought to tell my story, but you, if only——’ He suddenly felt embarrassed and stopped.
Irina raised her hands to her face and turned her wedding-ring round upon her finger.
‘Well? I will not refuse,’ she assented at last. ‘Some day ... perhaps.... But first you ... because, do you see, though I tried to follow you up, I know scarcely anything of you; while of me ... well, of me you have heard enough certainly. Haven’t you? I suppose you have heard of me, tell me?’
‘You, Irina Pavlovna, occupied too conspicuous a place in the world, not to be the subject of talk ... especially in the provinces, where I have been and where every rumour is believed.’
‘And do you believe the rumours? And of what kind were the rumours?’