The next day, towards one o’clock, Litvinov made his way to the Osinins. He found only the Prince at home, who immediately announced that Irina had a headache, was in bed, would not be getting up before evening and, moreover, that such indisposition was not surprising after a first ball.
“C’est très naturel, vous savez, dans les jeunes filles,”* he added in French, which somewhat disconcerted Litvinov, who, at the same instant, noticed that the Prince was not wearing a dressing gown, as was his wont, but a frock coat. “And furthermore,” Osinin continued, “how could she fail to be unwell after the events of yesterday?”
“Events?” Litvinov muttered.
“Yes, yes, de vrais événements.* You can’t imagine, Grigory Mikhailovich, quel succès elle a eu.* The whole court noticed her! Prince Alexander Fyodorovich said that her place was not here and that she reminded him of the Duchess of Devonshire*… you know, the famous… And old Count Blasenkrampf announced for all to hear that Irina was ‘la reine du bal’,* and wished to be introduced to her. He introduced himself to me – that is to say, he told me he remembered me as a hussar and asked me where I was now serving. He’s very amusing, that count, and such an adorateur du beau sexe.* But who am I to speak? My wife, the Princess – they didn’t give her any peace either. Natalya Nikitishna herself talked to her. What else? Irina danced avec tous les meilleurs cavaliers.* They were presented to me one after the other – I even lost count. Can you believe it? There were crowds of them all around; they chose only her for the mazurka. One foreign diplomat, on learning that she was a Muscovite, said to the Tsar: ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘décidément c’est Moscou qui est le centre de votre empire,’* while another diplomat added: ‘C’est une vraie révolution – révolution ou révélation,’* something like that. Yes… Yes… It’s… It was something unusual, I can tell you.”
“What about Irina Pavlovna herself?” Litvinov asked; his hands and feet had grown cold while the Prince was speaking. “Did she enjoy herself? Did she seem pleased?”
“Of course she enjoyed herself and how could she not be pleased? Besides, you know, you won’t understand her all at once. Everyone was telling me yesterday: ‘How surprising it is! Jamais on ne dirait que mademoiselle votre fille est à son premier bal.’* Count Reisenbach, incidentally… but you probably know him.”
“No, I don’t know him and never have.”
“My wife’s cousin.”
“I don’t know him.”
“A rich man, a Kammerherr,* lives in Petersburg, a man at the centre of things, very influential in Livonia. Up to now he’s looked down on us, but that’s all right with me. J’ai l’humeur facile, comme vous savez.* Well, he comes in, sits down next to Irina, chats with her for a quarter of an hour, no more, and then says to my Princess: ‘Ma cousine,’ he says, ‘votre fille est une perle, c’est une perfection.’* Everyone congratulates me on my niece. And then I see he’s gone up to an important personage and speaks, while looking at Irina the whole time, and the important personage looks at her.”
“And yet Irina Pavlovna won’t be appearing all day?” Litvinov again asked.
“No she won’t. She’s got a very bad headache. She gave orders to present her compliments to you and to thank you for the bouquet qu’on a trouvé charmant.* She needs to rest. The Princess is paying visits. I myself am…”
The Prince coughed and shuffled his feet, as if having difficulty in finding anything to add. Litvinov took his hat and, saying he had no intention of incommoding him and that he would call later to enquire about Irina’s health, withdrew.
A few yards from the Osinins’ house he saw a fashionable two-seater carriage which had stopped in front of a police post. A footman, also fashionable, was leaning down casually from the box and asking a Finnish policeman where Pavel Vasilyevich Osinin lived. Litvinov glanced into the carriage, in which sat a middle-aged man with a haemorrhoidal complexion, a haughty, wrinkled face, a Grecian nose and mean-looking lips. He was wrapped in a sable jacket and was, to all appearances, an important man.
9
Litvinov did not keep his promise to call later, thinking it better to postpone the visit to the following day. About midday, on entering the all-too-familiar drawing room, he found the two young princesses Viktorinka and Kleopatrinka. He greeted them, then asked whether Irina Pavlovna was better and whether he could see her.
“Irina hath gone off with Mama,” Viktorinka answered. Although she lisped, she was bolder than her sister.
“What? Gone off?” Litvinov repeated, feeling a quiet tremor in the innermost depths of his being. “Surely… surely… surely she works with you about this time and gives you lessons.”
“Irina won’t be giving uth lethons any more,” replied Viktorinka.
“There won’t be one now,” Kleopatrinka repeated after her.
“But is your papa at home?” asked Litvinov.
“Papa’th not at home either,” Viktorinka went on, “and Irina ithn’t well. All night she cried and cried.”
“Cried?”
“Yes, cried. Yegorovna told me. She said her eyes were so red they were all swollen.”
Litvinov paced the room a couple of times, shivering slightly as if from cold, then returned to his rooms. He experienced a sensation like that which takes possession of a man when he looks down from a high tower; he felt faint in his innards and his head swam quietly and sickeningly. Dull bewilderment, a scurrying of thoughts, vague horror and mute expectation, strange, almost malevolent curiosity, the bitter taste of unshed tears in his constricted throat, the effort of forced smiles on his lips and prayer, senseless prayer addressed to no one – oh, how cruel it all was, how humiliatingly ugly! The words “Irina does not want to see me” revolved ceaselessly in his head. “That much is clear, but why? What could have happened at that fateful ball? How does such an unexpected change become possible? So sudden…” (People constantly see how death comes suddenly, but cannot accustom themselves at all to its suddenness, which they find senseless.) “Not to have me be told anything, not to want an explanation with me.”
“Grigory Mikhailovich,” said a tense voice right above his head.
Litvinov started and saw his servant standing in front of him with a note in his hands. He recognized Irina’s handwriting. Even before he unsealed the note he had a sense of foreboding. He lowered his head and raised his shoulders, as if fending off a blow.
At last he pulled himself together and tore open the envelope. On a small sheet of writing paper were the following words:
Forgive me, Grigory Mikhailovich. Everything is over between us. I’m moving to Petersburg. My heart is terribly heavy, but the deed is done. It’s clear that my fate… But no, I don’t want to justify myself. My presentiments have all come to pass. Forgive me. Forget me. I am not worthy of you.
Irina
Be magnanimous. Do not try to see me.
Litvinov read these lines and sank slowly onto the sofa as if someone had kicked him in the chest. He dropped the note, picked it up, read the words, whispered: “To Petersburg”, and dropped it. That was all. A stillness settled on him. With his hands thrown back he even straightened the pillow under his head. “People who are mortally wounded don’t toss and turn,” he thought. “Easy come, easy go. This is all natural. I always expected it.” He was lying to himself: he had never expected anything of the kind. “Did she weep? Did she weep? What did she weep about? After all, she did not love me. Moreover, all this is understandable and accords with her character. She… She is not worthy of me… Well, well.” He smiled bitterly. “She herself did not know what strength lay within her, but once she had seen the impression she made at the ball, why should she bother with an insignificant student? It’s all understandable.”
But then he remembered her tender words, her smiles and those eyes, those unforgettable eyes, which he would never see again, which both lit up and melted simply on meeting
his eyes. He also remembered a quick, timid, burning kiss – and suddenly he began to sob convulsively, dementedly, venomously. He turned over and, choking and gasping for breath, with savage relish, as if eager to tear apart both himself and everything around him, buried his face in the pillow and bit it.
Alas! The gentleman whom Litvinov had seen the previous evening in the carriage was indeed the rich cousin of Countess Osinina, the Kammerherr Count Reisenbach. Having observed the impression produced on highly placed personages by Irina and instantly realizing what advantage could be derived from this fact “mit etwas Accuratesse”,* the Count, being an energetic and amenable man, immediately formulated his plan. He decided to act quickly, like Napoleon. “I’ll take this original of a girl into my Petersburg house,” he mused. “I’ll make her my heir, dammit, though maybe not of the whole estate. Besides, I have no children of my own and she is my niece. Moreover, it is more pleasant when there is a pretty face in the drawing room. Yes, yes, that is the case. Es ist eine Idee, ist eine Idee.* I would have to blind, befuddle and overcome the parents. It’s all the same to them.” The Count continued his musing as he sat in his carriage and made his way to Sobachka Square. “They probably won’t resist. They’re not so sensitive. I could also give a sum of money. And she? She’ll agree too. Honey is sweet – she sampled it yesterday. Let’s assume it’s just a whim of mine; let them take advantage of it, the fools. I’ll tell them: ‘Decide. If you don’t, I’ll take in another girl, an orphan. That would be even more convenient. Yes or no? There’s a deadline of twenty-four hours und damit Punctum.’”*
With these words on his lips the Count presented himself to the Prince, whom he had forewarned about his visit the previous evening. There seems to be no point in expatiating on the consequences of this visit. The Count was not mistaken in his calculations. The Prince and Princess did not raise any objections. They took the sum of money and Irina did indeed consent before the deadline had expired. It was not easy for her to break off her relationship with Litvinov. She loved him and, after sending him the note, all but took to her bed, wept incessantly and grew thin and sallow. But, notwithstanding all this, a month later the Princess took her off to Petersburg and placed her with the Count, entrusting her to the care of the Countess, a very kind woman, but with the mind and appearance of a chicken.
Litvinov then abandoned university and went off to join his father in the country. Little by little his wound healed. At first he received no news from Irina and, moreover, avoided conversations about Petersburg and Petersburg society. Then a few rumours began to circulate about her, not bad ones, but strange ones. She became a topic of conversation. The name of “young Princess Osinina”, marked with a special brilliance, began to be mentioned more and more in provincial circles. It was pronounced with curiosity, with envy, as the name of Countess Vorotynskaya* was once pronounced. At last, news spread of her marriage, but Litvinov scarcely paid any attention to this latest piece of information: he was already engaged to Tatyana.
Now the reader has probably realized what it was that Litvinov recalled when he cried: “Can it be her?” We will therefore return to Baden and take up the thread of our interrupted story again.
10
Litvinov fell asleep very late and slept briefly; the sun had only just risen when he got up from his bed. The peaks of the dark mountains, which were visible from his window, showed wet and crimson against a clear sky. “How fresh it must be beneath the trees there!” he thought. He dressed quickly, glanced distractedly at the bouquet of flowers which had opened up even more luxuriantly in the course of the night, took his walking cane and set off for the Old Castle and the well-known Cliffs.* The morning enfolded him in its peaceful, powerful embrace. He breathed boldly, he moved boldly; youthful health coursed through his every vein; even the earth itself seemed to lighten his footfall and with every step he became more free, more happy. He walked in the dewy shade, over the coarse sand of paths, past fir trees, the ends of whose branches were fringed with the green of vernal shoots. “How splendid!” he kept repeating to himself. Suddenly he heard familiar voices; he looked ahead and saw Voroshilov and Bambayev coming to meet him. He was extremely startled: like a schoolboy running away from a teacher he veered off to the side and hid behind a bush. “O Creator, take Thou my compatriots past.” It seems there was nothing he would not have paid at that moment to avoid being seen. And in fact they did not see him. The Creator took Litvinov’s compatriots past. Voroshilov, in his self-satisfied, officer-cadet voice, was explaining to Bambayev the different “phases” of Gothic architecture, while Bambayev merely grunted approvingly. It was clear that Voroshilov had been going on at him for a long time about “phases”, and the good-natured enthusiast was beginning to get bored. For a long time, biting his lip and craning his neck, Litvinov listened to their retreating steps; for a long time bursts of sermonizing, now guttural, now nasal, resounded. Litvinov sighed, emerged from his hiding place and went on his way.
For some three hours he wandered through the mountains. Sometimes he left the path and jumped from stone to stone, occasionally slipping on the smooth moss. Sometimes he sat down on a boulder under an oak or a beech and thought pleasant thoughts to the accompaniment of the incessant babbling of streams overgrown with ferns, of the soothing rustle of leaves, of the resonant song of a solitary blackbird. A light and pleasant drowsiness crept over him, as if embracing him from behind, and he drifted off to sleep… Suddenly he smiled and looked about him; the forest air, the green and gold of the forest, weighed down on his eyes and, with another smile, he closed them again. He decided he needed some breakfast and set off for the Old Castle where, for a few kreutzers,* it was possible to get milky coffee. But no sooner had he installed himself at one of the white-painted tables that were set out on a terrace in front of the castle than the heavy snorting of horses was heard and three carriages appeared, from which there emerged a fairly large group of ladies and their escorts. Litvinov immediately recognized them as Russians, although they were all speaking French, or rather because they were all speaking French. The ladies’ outfits were notable for their stylishness; their escorts were wearing frock coats, brand-new, but tight-fitting and waisted, which is somewhat unusual nowadays, grey-striped trousers and extremely shiny town hats. A black cravat, tied low, constricted the neck of each of these gentlemen and there was something martial in their whole deportment. They were indeed military men; Litvinov had come across a picnic party of young generals, personages of considerable importance, from the top drawer of society. Their importance was everywhere manifest: in their restrained casualness, in their affably lordly smiles, in their tense, distracted looks, in the effeminate twitching of the shoulders, swaying of the waist and bending of the knees. It was manifest in the very sound of their voices, which appeared to be thanking a crowd of subordinates with affection and loathing. All these warriors were immaculately groomed, shaved and perfumed all over with a scent redolent of the nobility and the Guards, a mixture of the finest tobacco smoke and the most amazing patchouli. Even their hands, large and with strong, ivory-like nails, were upper-class; all their moustaches shone, their teeth gleamed and their delicate skin was tinged with red on their cheeks and blue on their chins. Some of the young generals were playful, others thoughtful, but the stamp of haughty decorum lay on all of them. Each of them seemed to be profoundly conscious of his own worth and the importance of his future role in the state. Each behaved with both strictness and freedom, with a slight touch of that “Devil may care” attitude which naturally occurs during trips abroad. Having seated themselves noisily and opulently, the party summoned the solicitous waiters. Litvinov hastily paid his bill and, jamming his hat down over his forehead, made to slip past the generals’ picnic party.
“Grigory Mikhailovich,” said a woman’s voice, “you don’t recognize me?
He halted involuntarily. That voice… That voice had often made his heart beat faster in the past. He turned round and saw
Irina.
She was sitting at a table, her arms crossed on the back of a chair which had been pulled out, her head inclined to one side, and was smiling and looking at him in a welcoming, almost joyful manner.
Litvinov immediately recognized her, although her appearance had altered in the time since he had last seen her, ten years previously, although she had changed from girl to woman.
Her slender figure had developed and blossomed, the outlines of her formerly narrow shoulders were now reminiscent of goddesses displayed on the ceilings of old Italian palaces. Her eyes, however, had remained the same, and it seemed to Litvinov that they looked at him in the same way they had before in the house in Moscow.
“Irina Pavlovna,” he said hesitantly.
“You recognized me? How glad I am! How…” She stopped, blushed and sat up straight. “This is a very happy meeting,” she continued, in French now. “Allow me to introduce you to my husband Valérien. Monsieur Litvinov, un ami d’enfance.* My husband, Valerian Vladimirovich Ratmirov.
One of the young generals, probably the most elegant of all of them, rose from his chair and bowed to Litvinov with extreme politeness, while his companions frowned slightly, or rather momentarily retreated, each into himself, as if protesting in advance against such proximity to a civilian outsider, while the ladies deemed it necessary to screw up their eyes, smile sardonically and even express bewilderment in their faces.
“Have you… have you been in Baden long?” asked General Ratmirov, preening himself in un-Russian fashion and clearly not knowing what to talk about with his wife’s childhood friend.
“Not long,” replied Litvinov.
Smoke (Alma Classics) Page 7
