“Well,” exclaimed Bambayev, rising ponderously from his chair. “A cup of coffee, and off we go. But here it is, our Mother Russia,” he added, halting in the doorway and, with something close to delight, indicating Voroshilov and Litvinov with his soft red hand. “What is she like?”
“Yes, Mother Russia,” thought Litvinov, while Voroshilov, who had once again managed to give his face a concentrated expression, smiled superciliously and clicked his heels lightly.
Some five minutes later all three were climbing the staircase of the hotel where Stepan Nikolayevich Gubaryov was staying. A tall graceful lady wearing a hat with a short black veil was hurrying down the same staircase. Catching sight of Litvinov, she suddenly turned to him and halted as though dumbfounded. Her face, behind the fine lace mesh, became momentarily flushed and then turned pale just as quickly. Litvinov, however, did not notice her, and the lady began to run down the broad staircase more hurriedly than before.
4
“Grigory Mikhailovich Litvinov, a nice fellow, a Russian soul. I commend him to you,” exclaimed Bambayev, leading Litvinov up to a man of slight stature and the appearance of a landowner: he had an unbuttoned collar, was wearing a short jacket, grey morning trousers and slippers, and was standing in the middle of a bright, exquisitely furnished room. “And this,” he added, turning to Litvinov, “this is him, the very same, you understand?” Filled with curiosity, Litvinov fixed his eyes on “the very same”. At first sight he did not find anything unusual in him. He saw before him a gentleman of respectable and somewhat unintelligent appearance, with a prominent beard, forehead, eyes and lips, a thick neck and an oblique glance directed downwards. This gentleman bared his teeth and said “Hmm, yes, that’s good. I like it”, raised his hand to his face and, turning his back on Litvinov, immediately paced up and down the carpet several times, rolling slowly and strangely from side to side, as if creeping stealthily. Gubaryov had the habit of pacing constantly up and down, intermittently playing with and combing his beard with the ends of his long, strong fingernails. Besides Gubaryov there was a lady in the room. She was about fifty, was dressed in a worn silk dress and had an extremely mobile, lemon-like face; she had little black hairs on her upper lip and quick eyes which seemed ready to jump out of her head. There was also a stout man, sitting hunched in the corner.
“Well, my dear Matryona Semyonovna,” Gubaryov began, turning to the lady and evidently considering it unnecessary to introduce her to Litvinov, “what was it you were about to tell us?”
The lady (she was called Matryona Semyonovna Sukhanchikova) was a childless widow, not rich, who for two years had been wandering from country to country; she immediately began to speak with a kind of venomous enthusiasm.
“Well, he appears before the Prince and says to him: ‘Your Excellency,’ he says, ‘you have the rank and position, so what does it cost you to alleviate my lot? You,’ he says, ‘cannot fail to respect the purity of my convictions! Is it possible, in this day and age,’ he says, ‘to persecute someone for their convictions.’ And what do you think the Prince did, that educated and highly placed dignitary?”
“Well, what did he do?” said Gubaryov thoughtfully, lighting a cigarette.
The lady drew herself up and extended her bony right hand, clenched but for her index finger.
“He summoned his lackey and said ‘Remove this man’s jacket and take it for yourself. I’m making a present of it to you.’”
“And the lackey removed it?” asked Bambayev, wringing his hands.
“He removed it and took it. And this was done by Prince Barnaulov, well-known for his riches, invested with special power, a representative of the government. After that, what else can we expect?”
The whole of Madame Sukhanchikova’s puny body shuddered with disgust, convulsions ran across her face and her consumptive bosom heaved beneath her flat corset. Needless to say, her eyes were jumping, but they always jumped, whatever she was talking about.
“Appalling, an appalling business!” exclaimed Bambayev. “Capital punishment would not be enough!”
“Hmm… hmm… The rot starts from the top,” observed Gubaryov, without, however, raising his voice. “It’s not capital punishment that’s needed. What’s needed… is some other measure.”
“But wait, is this true?” said Litvinov.
“Is it true?” retorted Sukhanchikova. “You can’t think of doubting this, you can’t think of it.” She said this word with such force that her body became contorted. “I was told this by an extremely reliable fellow. You know him, Stepan Nikolayevich – Kapiton Yelistratov. He’d heard it from eyewitnesses to the outrageous scene.”
“Which Yelistratov?” asked Gubaryov. “The one who was in Kazan?”
“The very same. I know, Stepan Nikolayevich, that he was the subject of a rumour to the effect that he took money from some contractors or distillers or something. But who says that? Pelikanov! But is Pelikanov to be believed when everyone knows he is simply – a spy!”
“No, begging your pardon, Matryona Semyonovna,” Bambayev interposed. “I’m a friend of Pelikanov. What do you mean, he’s a spy?”
“Yes, yes, he really is a spy!”
“Wait a minute, with respect—”
“A spy, a spy!” Sukhanchikova yelled.
“No, no, wait a minute. I’ll tell you something,” Bambayev yelled in his turn.
“A spy. A spy!” Sukhanchikova repeated.
“No! No! Now that Tentelyeyev, that’s another matter,” roared Bambayev at the top of his voice.
Sukhanchikova instantly fell silent.
“With regard to that gentleman, I know for a fact,” he continued in his normal voice, “that when he was summoned to the Third Section* he grovelled at the feet of Countess Blasenkrampf and kept squealing: ‘Save me! Intercede!’ Pelikanov never stooped to such baseness.”
“Hmm… Tentelyeyev,” muttered Gubaryov. “That… that is something we must take note of.”
Sukhanchikova shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.
“They’re both as bad as each other,” she said, “only I know an even better anecdote about Tentelyeyev. As everyone knows, he was the most horrible of tyrants with his peasants, although at the same time he passed himself off as an emancipator. Once, he was sitting with friends in Paris when suddenly in comes Madame Beecher Stowe. You know, Uncle Tom’s Cabin.* Tentelyeyev, an extremely vain man, asked his host to introduce him, but, as soon as she heard his name, Madame Beecher Stowe said, ‘What? How dare you seek to make the acquaintance of the author of Uncle Tom!’ And wallop! She slapped his face. ‘Get out,’ she said, ‘at once!’ And what do you think? Tentelyeyev took his hat and slunk out, his tail between his legs.”
“Well, that seems far-fetched to me,” observed Bambayev. “She did say ‘Get out’ to him – that’s a fact – but she didn’t slap his face.”
“She slapped his face! She slapped his face!” Sukhanchikova repeated with convulsive excitement. “I’m not talking rubbish. And you’re friends with such people!”
“Begging your pardon, begging your pardon, Matryona Semyonovna, I never made Tentelyeyev out to be a friend of mine. I was talking about Pelikanov.”
“Well, if it wasn’t him, it was someone else. Mikhnyov, for example.”
“What did he do?” asked Bambayev, already quailing in anticipation.
“What? You really don’t know? On Voznesensky Prospect* he proclaimed to all and sundry that all liberals should be jailed. Then an old school friend came up to him – a poor man naturally – and said: ‘Can I have dinner at your place?’ In reply Mikhnyov said: ‘I’ve got two counts coming to dinner today. Clear off!’”
“But, with respect, that’s scandalous gossip,” shrieked Bambayev.
“Scandalous gossip? Scandalous gossip? Firstly, Prince Vakhrushkin, who was also dining with your Mikhnyov—”
&nbs
p; “Prince Vakhrushkin,” put in Gubaryov sternly, “is my cousin, but I don’t allow him in. So there’s no point even mentioning him.”
“Secondly,” Sukhanchikova continued, bowing her head submissively in Gubaryov’s direction, “Praskovya Yakovlevna herself told me.”
“That’s a reliable source you’ve found! She, together with Sarkizov, are fantasists of the first water.”
“Well, sir, excuse me. Sarkizov is a liar; it’s true, he swiped the linen shroud off his dead father, there’s no disputing the fact. But Praskovya Yakovlevna, what a comparison! Remember how nobly she divorced her husband. But you, I know, are always ready…”
“That’s enough, that’s enough, Matryona Semyonovna,” Bambayev interrupted. “Let’s drop these squabbles and rise to higher things. I’m a man of the old school. Have you read Mademoiselle de la Quintinie?* Charming! And absolutely in accord with your principles.”
“I don’t read novels any more,” replied Sukhanchikova drily and sharply.
“Why not?”
“Because now is not the time. I’ve got one thing on my mind: sewing machines.”*
“What sort of machines?” asked Litvinov.
“Sewing machines, sewing machines. All women must be equipped with sewing machines and form societies. In this way they will all earn their daily bread and become instantly independent. Otherwise there is no way they can be liberated. This is an important question, an important social question. Bolesław Stadnicki and I had such an argument about this. Bolesław Stadnicki is a wonderful character, but he takes such a terribly frivolous view of these things. He’s always laughing… The fool!”
“Everyone will be called to account in due time; from each will it be exacted,” said Gubaryov slowly in a tone which was part didactic, part prophetic.
“Yes, yes,” repeated Bambayev, “it will indeed be exacted.” Well, Stepan Nikolayevich,” he added, lowering his voice, “is your article progressing?”
“I’m collecting materials,” Gubaryov replied, knitting his brows, and, turning to Litvinov, whose head was beginning to spin from this mishmash of unfamiliar names, from this frenzy of slander, asked him what his subject was.
Litvinov satisfied his curiosity.
“Ah, that means natural sciences. That’s useful as training. As training, not as an aim. The aim now must be, hmm, must be different. Allow me to enquire: you don’t subscribe to any opinions?”
“What opinions?”
“That is, in essence, what are your political convictions?”
Litvinov smiled.
“Well, in essence, I don’t have any political convictions.”
The stout man sitting in the corner suddenly raised his head at these words and fixed his gaze on Litvinov.
“How so?” said Gubaryov with strange mildness. “Have you not thought about it yet or are you already tired of it?”
“How can I put it? It seems to me that it is too soon for us Russians to have political convictions or to imagine that we have. Notice that I ascribe to the word political the meaning that it rightly has and that—”
“Aha! Someone who is not mature enough,” Gubaryov interrupted him with the same mildness. Then, going up to Voroshilov, he asked him whether he had read the pamphlet he had given him.
Voroshilov, who, to Litvinov’s surprise, had not uttered a single word since his arrival but had simply frowned and rolled his eyes significantly (in general he either played the orator or remained silent), puffed out his chest military fashion, clicked his heels, and nodded affirmatively.
“Well, were you happy with it?”
“As far as the basic assumptions go, I’m happy. But I don’t agree with the conclusions.”
“Hmm. Andrei Ivanovich, however, recommended the pamphlet to me. Later you must set out your doubts for me.”
“Do you want me to do so in writing?”
Gubaryov was apparently surprised; he had not expected this. However, after a moment’s thought, he said:
“Yes, in writing. Incidentally, I’ll ask you to set out your thoughts on… associations as well.”
“Do you want me to use Lassalle’s method or Schulze-Delitzsch’s?”*
“Hmm. Both. You realize that for Russians the financial side is especially important. And the cooperative workshop is like the seed corn. All this must be taken into account, must be thoroughly gone into. Then there’s the question of the peasants’ allocation of land.”*
“And what is your opinion, Stepan Nikolayevich, as to the amount of land each peasant should have?” Voroshilov asked in a tone of respectful delicacy.
“Hmm. But what of the peasant commune?”* said Gubaryov gravely, chewing a tuft of his beard and staring at the table leg. “The commune… Do you understand? That’s a great word. Then what do these fires* mean, these… these governmental measures against Sunday schools, reading rooms, periodicals?* And the peasants’ refusal to sign the statutory documents?* And finally, the things that are happening in Poland.* Surely you can see where all this is leading… can see that we must link up with the common people… must find out… must find out what they think.” Gubaryov was suddenly overcome with a kind of intense, almost malevolent excitement; he even turned brown in the face and his breathing became laboured, but he still did not raise his eyes and continued to chew his beard. “Surely you can see…”
“Yevseyev is a scoundrel,” Sukhanchikova suddenly blurted out; out of respect for his host, Bambayev had been saying something to her in an undertone. Gubaryov turned sharply on his heels and again began to hobble round the room.
Other visitors began to appear; by the end of the evening a considerable number of people had gathered. Among them there was even Mr Yevseyev, who had been so cruelly reviled by Sukhanchikova. She conversed with him in a very friendly manner and even asked him to accompany her home. A certain Mr Pishchalkin arrived, an ideal arbitrator,* the type of man of which, perhaps, Russia really does have need – that is to say, limited, ignorant and talentless, but conscientious, patient and honest; the peasants in his area almost worshipped him and he regarded himself as being worthy of genuine respect. Several young officers arrived, on brief leave in Europe and, of course, delighted to have the opportunity of amusing themselves, discreetly, of course, and with the regimental commander firmly in mind, with the company of clever and even somewhat dangerous people. Two lank-haired students from Heidelberg rushed in. One of them kept looking round contemptuously, the other kept guffawing convulsively. Both of them felt very awkward. After them a little Frenchman found his way in, a so-called petit jeune homme;* he was renowned among his companions for the fact that Russian countesses fell in love with him, but he himself had his thoughts more on a free dinner. Finally, Titus Bindasov, who had the appearance of a noisy Bursch* but who was, in reality, a wealthy peasant and a skinflint, by his rhetoric, a terrorist, by calling, a policeman, a friend of Russian merchants’ wives and Parisian cocottes, bald, toothless and drunk. He arrived extremely red and repulsive, claiming to have lost his last kopeck to “that scoundrel Bénazet”,* whereas in fact he had won sixteen guilder… In a word, many people had gathered. Remarkable, truly remarkable, was the respect which all the visitors accorded Gubaryov, as their mentor or leader. They set out their doubts to him, subjecting them to his judgement. He answered with a mooing noise, a twitch of his beard, a rolling of his eyes or with disjointed, meaningless words which were seized upon as utterances of the very highest wisdom. Gubaryov himself rarely intervened in debates; by contrast the others strained their lungs enthusiastically. It happened more than once that three or four people were shouting in unison for ten minutes on end, and everyone was content and everyone understood. The talk went on until after midnight and was distinguished, as is customary, by the scope and variety of subjects. Sukhanchikova talked about Garibaldi* and about some Karl Ivanovich who had been flogged by his own house serfs, abo
ut Napoleon III, about female labour, about the merchant Pleskachov, who had notoriously worked twelve female workers to death and had received a medal for this inscribed “for useful deeds”, about the proletariat, about the Georgian Prince Chukeulidzev, who shot his wife with a cannon, and about the future of Russia. Pishchalkin also spoke about the future of Russia, about liquor-tax farming, about the significance of nationalities and about the fact that above all he hated anything base. Voroshilov suddenly exploded, naming in a single breath, almost choking, Draper, Virchow, Mr Shelgunov, Bichat, Helmholtz, Stahr, Štúr, Reumont, Johannes Müller the physiologist, Johannes Müller the historian, clearly confusing the two, Taine, Renan, Mr Shchapov, then Thomas Nashe, Peele and Greene.* “What sort of birds are those?” muttered Bambayev in astonishment. “Precursors of Shakespeare, who relate to him as the outliers of the Alps relate to Mont Blanc,” Voroshilov answered cuttingly and also touched on the future of Russia. Bambayev also talked about the future of Russia and even painted it in glowing colours, but he took particular delight in his thoughts on Russian music, in which he saw some “real oomph”; as proof of this he began to sing a romance by Varlamov,* but was interrupted by a general cry of “he’s singing the Miserere from Il trovatore* and singing it abysmally.” In the general hubbub an officer began to berate Russian literature, another produced some doggerel from Iskra,* while Bindasov acted rather more straightforwardly: he announced that all these blighters should have their teeth knocked out and – basta!* Incidentally, he did not specify who these blighters actually were. Cigar smoke hung stiflingly; everyone was hot and weary; everyone became hoarse, their eyes misted over. Sweat poured liberally from every face. Bottles of cold beer appeared and were instantly consumed. “What was I saying?” one kept repeating. “But who was I arguing with just now, and what about?” asked another. And in the midst of all these fumes and all this hubbub Gubaryov paced about indefatigably, rolling from side to side and fiddling with his beard; one minute he would listen attentively to someone’s opinion, then he would put in a word himself and everyone involuntarily felt that he, Gubaryov, was the kingpin and that here he was both host and pre-eminent personality.
Smoke (Alma Classics) Page 3
