“Today? But I thought you told me you wanted to write a letter first…”
“I sent a telegram.”
“Ah! You found it necessary to hurry. And when are you leaving? At what time, that is.”
“At seven o’clock this evening.”
“Oh! At seven. And you’ve come to say goodbye?”
“Yes, Irina Pavlovna, to say goodbye.”
Irina was silent for a moment.
“I must thank you, Grigory Mikhailovich. It probably wasn’t easy for you to come here.”
“No, Irina Pavlovna, it wasn’t easy.”
“Living in general isn’t easy, Grigory Mikhailovich. What do you think?”
“It depends, Irina Pavlovna.”
Irina was again silent, as if deep in thought.
“You’ve proved your friendship to me by coming,” she said finally. “Thank you. I absolutely approve of your intention to end everything as quickly as possible, because every delay… because… because I, the same person you reproached for coquetry, whom you called a self-dramatist – that’s what you called me, I think.”
Irina stood up quickly and, moving to another armchair, bent low and pressed her face and hands to the edge of the table.
“Because I love you,” she whispered through clenched fingers.
Litvinov staggered, as if someone had hit him in the chest.
Irina dejectedly turned her head away from him and rested it on the table, as if wanting, in her turn, to hide her face.
“Yes, I love you, I love you, and you know it.”
“I? I know it?” said Litvinov finally. “I?”
“Well, now you can see,” Irina continued, “that you do indeed need to leave, that you can’t delay. It’s dangerous. It’s terrible. Goodbye!” she added, rising abruptly from the armchair, “Goodbye.”
She took a few steps towards the door of her room and, putting her hand behind her back, made a hasty movement with it through the air, as if wanting to locate Litvinov’s hand and shake it; but he was standing, as if transfixed, some distance from her. Once again she said: “Goodbye. Forget me,” and rushed out, with never a backward glance.
Left alone, Litvinov still could not collect himself. Finally he recovered, hurried up to the door of Irina’s room and uttered her name, once, twice, three times. He had already grasped the door handle when he heard the voice of Ratmirov coming from the hotel lobby.
Litvinov pulled his hat over his eyes and went out onto the stairs. The elegant general was standing in front of the porter’s lodge and explaining to him in bad German that he wanted to hire a carriage for the whole of the following day. Seeing Litvinov, he again raised his hat unnaturally high and again paid his “respects”. It was obvious mockery, but Litvinov did not care. He scarcely responded to Ratmirov’s bow and, on reaching his rooms, halted before his already packed and closed bag. His head was spinning and his heart vibrated like a string. What was there to do now? Could he have foreseen this? Yes, he had foreseen this, however improbable that may seem. It had stunned him like a thunderbolt, but he had foreseen this, although he did not dare to admit it. Indeed, he knew nothing for certain. Everything within him was a jumble of confusion; he had lost the thread of his own thoughts. He remembered Moscow, remembered how “it” had come upon him like a sudden storm. He gasped for breath; rapture, but joyless and hopeless rapture tore at his breast. Not for anything in the world would he have agreed that the words spoken by Irina should have remained unsaid. But what of it? The words could not change the decision he had taken. It did not waver, and stood as firm as ever, like a dropped anchor. Litvinov had lost the thread of his own thoughts… yes, that was true; but he still had the will and had taken charge of himself as he would a dependent subordinate. He rang for the waiter, asked for the bill and booked a seat on the evening horse omnibus; he was deliberately cutting off all escape routes. “Even if I die in the process,” he kept repeating, as he had done during the previous, sleepless night; this phrase was particularly to his liking. “Even if I die in the process,” he repeated, pacing up and down the room. Only occasionally did he close his eyes involuntarily and hold his breath, whenever Irina’s words burst into his soul and burned it with fire. “It’s clear you won’t love twice,” he thought. “Another life has entered yours; you allowed it in and you’ll never get rid of this poison; you’ll not break these bonds! Well, what does that prove? Happiness – is it really possible? You love her, let us assume… and she… she loves you…”
But then he had to take himself in hand again. Like a traveller who, on a dark night, on seeing a light in front of him and afraid of losing his way, does not take his eyes off it for a moment, so too Litvinov focused all his attention on one point, on one goal. To appear to his fiancée, or even not actually to her (he was trying not to think of her), but to appear in the room of the Heidelberg Hotel – that’s what stood unwaveringly before him, like a guiding light. What the future held he did not know. One thing was beyond doubt: he would not be coming back. “Even if I die in the process,” he repeated for the tenth time and looked at the clock.
Quarter-past six! How much longer he still had to wait. Again he paced up and down. The sun was setting, the sky had turned ruddy above the trees and a scarlet half-light was coming into his darkened room through the narrow windows. Suddenly Litvinov fancied that the door had opened quickly and quietly behind him, and had closed again just as quickly. He turned round; by the door stood a woman wrapped in a black mantilla…
“Irina!” he cried, throwing up his hands.
She raised her head and fell on his breast.
Two hours later he was sitting on the sofa in his room. His suitcase, opened and empty, lay in the corner; on the table, amidst various things strewn about in disorderly fashion, was a letter from Tatyana, which Litvinov had just received. She wrote that she had decided to bring forward her departure from Dresden, since her aunt had completely recovered her health, and that, if they encountered no obstacles, they would both arrive in Baden by noon the next day. They hoped he would come to meet them off the train. Rooms had been booked for them in the same hotel where he was staying.
That same evening he sent a note to Irina and the next morning he received an answer from her. “A day later, a day earlier,” she wrote, “it was inevitable. But I repeat to you what I said yesterday; my life is in your hands. Do as you wish with me. I don’t want to inhibit your freedom, but know that, if you need me, I’ll abandon everything and will follow you to the ends of the earth. We’ll see each other tomorrow, won’t we? Your Irina.”
The last two words were written in a large, bold, resolute hand.
18
Among the people who had gathered on the station square by noon on 18th August was Litvinov. Shortly before that he had met Irina; she was sitting in an open carriage with her husband and an elderly gentleman. She saw Litvinov and he noticed the fact. A dark shadow ran across her eyes, but she immediately hid herself from him with her parasol.
A strange change had taken place in him since the previous day – in his whole outer appearance, in his movements, in the expression on his face – and he himself felt a different man. His self-confidence had vanished, as had his calm and his self-respect. Of his former spiritual state nothing remained. Recent indelible impressions had blotted out everything else. A kind of strange sensation, powerful and sweet – and sinister – had appeared; a mysterious guest had found its way into the shrine, taken possession of it and settled there, silently and ubiquitously, like the host at a housewarming party. Litvinov was no longer feeling ashamed, but cowardly – and at the same time he was fired with desperate courage. To the captive and the vanquished this mixture of opposing feelings is familiar; it is not unfamiliar either to the thief after his first robbery. And Litvinov had been vanquished, vanquished suddenly, and what had become of his honesty?
The train was seve
ral minutes late. Litvinov’s anxiety became agonizing: he could not remain standing in one spot and, his face all pale, wandered about among the crowd. “My God,” he thought. “Oh, for another twenty-four hours.” His first sight of Tanya – Tanya’s first sight of him – that’s what terrified him, that’s what had to be got through as quickly as possible. And then? And then – what will be, will be. Already he was taking no decisions, already he was not answering for himself. Yesterday’s phrase flashed painfully into his mind… And that’s how he was meeting Tanya!
At last, a prolonged whistle sounded, a heavy rumble, growing louder every minute was heard and a train appeared, rolling slowly round a bend in the line. The crowd went to meet it and Litvinov followed, dragging his feet like a condemned man. Faces and ladies’ hats began to appear from the carriages; in one window a white handkerchief could be seen… Kapitolina Markovna was waving it… That was that: she had seen Litvinov and he had recognized her. The train halted. Litvinov hurried to the door and opened it. Tatyana was standing by her aunt and, with a radiant smile, extended her hand.
Litvinov helped them both down, uttered a few unfinished and unclear words of greeting and at once began to bustle about taking their tickets, travel bags and rugs; he ran to find a porter and hailed a cab. Around him other people were bustling about and he was glad of their presence, their noise and their cries. Tatyana moved a little to one side and, still smiling, calmly awaited the end of his hurried arrangements. Kapitolina Markovna, on the other hand, could not remain in one spot; she still could not believe that she had finally arrived in Baden. Suddenly she shouted: “But the parasols! Tanya, where are the parasols?” not noticing that she was holding them firmly under her arm. Then she began to say a loud and prolonged goodbye to another lady with whom she had become acquainted during the journey from Heidelberg to Baden. This lady was none other than Madame Sukhanchikova, who is already familiar to us. She had taken herself to Heidelberg in accordance with Gubaryov’s wishes and was returning “with instructions”. Kapitolina Markovna was wearing a somewhat strange multicoloured mantilla and a circular mushroom-shaped travelling hat, from which short-cut white hair poked untidily; spare and small in stature, she was flushed from the journey and spoke Russian in a penetrating sing-song voice. She was noticed at once.
Litvinov sat her and Tatyana in a carriage and took his place opposite them. The horses moved off. Questions were asked, handshakes, mutual smiles and greetings renewed. Litvinov heaved a sigh of relief; the first moments had passed without incident. Clearly, nothing about him had shocked or fazed Tanya; she looked with the same clear and trustful look, she blushed with the same charm and laughed with the same goodness of heart. Finally, Litvinov decided to look at her, not askance and fleetingly but directly and steadfastly; until then his eyes had not obeyed him. An involuntary tenderness gripped his heart; the tranquil expression of that honest, open face was a bitter reproach to him. “So, you’ve arrived, poor girl,” he thought, “you whom I’ve so waited for and so called for, you, with whom I wanted to spend my entire life, you’ve arrived. You believed in me… while I… while I…” He bowed his head, but Kapitolina Markovna gave him no chance to ponder; she bombarded him with questions.
“What’s that building with the columns? Where do people gamble here? Who’s that walking along? Tanya, Tanya, look! What crinolines! And who’s that there? There must be more and more French girls from Paris here. Good Lord! What kind of hat is that? Can you find anything here, like in Paris? Only I imagine everything is horribly expensive. Oh, what an outstandingly clever woman I got to know. You know her, Grigory Mikhailovich; she told me she’d met you at the house of a certain Russian who is also amazingly clever. She promised to visit us. How she berates all these aristocrats – it’s simply marvellous. Who’s that gentleman with the grey moustache? The King of Prussia? Tanya, Tanya, look, it’s the King of Prussia. No? Not the King of Prussia? The Dutch ambassador? I can’t hear you – the wheels are clattering too much. Oh, what wonderful trees!”
“Yes, Auntie, wonderful,” Tanya agreed. “And how green everything is here, how cheerful! Isn’t that so, Grigory Mikhailovich?”
“Yes, cheerful,” he replied, through gritted teeth.
At last the cab stopped in front of the hotel. Litvinov accompanied both travellers to the rooms he had reserved for them, promised to call in an hour and returned to his room. The enchantment which had momentarily subsided took hold of him the moment he entered. Here, in this room, Irina had reigned since the previous day; everything spoke of her and the very air seemed to have preserved the secret traces of her visit. Litvinov again felt himself her slave. He took out her handkerchief, which he had hidden in his bosom, and pressed his lips to it; ardent memories began to course through his veins like a subtle poison. He realized that there was no turning back, no choice; the doleful tenderness awakened in him by Tatyana had melted, like snow on a fire, and his remorse died away… to such an extent that even his inner agitation was stilled and the possibility of deception, which had entered his mind, did not trouble him. Love, Irina’s love, had become his truth, his law and his conscience. The prudent, sensible Litvinov did not even think about how to extricate himself from this situation, the horror and ugliness of which he somehow felt lightly and indirectly.
The hour had not yet passed when a waiter presented himself to Litvinov on behalf of the newly arrived ladies; they requested his presence in the hotel lounge. He set off after the messenger and found the ladies already dressed and wearing their hats. Both of them expressed a wish to set off immediately to look round Baden, since the weather was so fine. Kapitolina Markovna especially was burning with impatience; she was even a little downcast when she learnt that the hour for the fashionable assembly in front of the Konversationshaus* had not yet come. Litvinov took her arm and an official promenade began. Tatyana, walking beside her aunt, looked about her with quiet curiosity; Kapitolina Markovna continued her questions. The sight of a roulette wheel and dignified-looking croupiers whom, had she met them elsewhere, she would probably have taken for ministers, the sight of their swift rakes, the little piles of silver and gold on the green cloth, the old women gambling and the cocottes in all their finery, brought Kapitolina Markovna to a state resembling dumbfounded frenzy. She had completely forgotten that she should be utterly disgusted and merely looked on, looked on intently, occasionally shuddering at the sound of each new exclamation. The whirring of the ivory ball in the depths of the roulette wheel entered every fibre of her being, and only when she was back in the fresh air did she find enough strength to heave a deep sigh and call gambling an immoral invention of the aristocracy. On Litvinov’s lips there appeared an immobile, unpleasant smile; he spoke curtly and dismissively, as if he were irritated or bored. But then he turned to Tatyana and was privately disconcerted; she was looking at him attentively and with an expression that suggested she was asking herself what kind of impression was being made on her. He hastened to nod in her direction; she answered in kind and again looked at him questioningly and not without a certain tenseness, as if he were standing much farther away from her than he actually was. Litvinov conducted the ladies away from the Konversationshaus, past the “Russian Tree”, under which two of his female compatriots were already taking their seats, and towards the Lichtentaler Allee. They had not yet reached that avenue when he caught sight of Irina in the distance.
She was coming towards them, together with her husband and Potugin. Litvinov turned as white as a sheet, but did not slacken his pace. Drawing level with her, he gave her a silent bow. She also bowed to him, politely but coldly, and, assessing Tatyana with a rapid glance, glided past. Ratmirov raised his hat high. Potugin muttered something.
“Who is that lady?” Tatyana asked suddenly. Up until then she had scarcely opened her mouth.
“That lady?” Litvinov echoed. “That lady? She’s a certain Madame Ratmirova.”
“A Russian?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get to know her here?”
“No, I’ve known her for a long time.”
“How beautiful she is!”
“Did you notice her outfit?” Kapitolina Markovna interposed. “You could feed ten families for a whole year on the money it took to buy her lace alone! Was that her husband walking with her?” she asked, turning to Litvinov.
“Yes.”
“He must be awfully rich.”
“I really don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“What rank is he?”
“A general.”
“What eyes she has,” said Tatyana, “and what a strange expression in them. Both thoughtful and penetrating – I’ve not seen eyes like that.”
Litvinov made no reply. It seemed to him that he could again feel Tatyana’s questioning look fixed on his face, but he was mistaken; she was looking down at the sand on the path.
“Good Lord! Who is that frightful-looking person?” Kapitolina Markovna cried suddenly, pointing to a low charabanc in which a red-haired, snub-nosed woman, wearing an unusually lavish outfit and purple stockings, was lolling insolently.
“That frightful-looking looking person? Please, that’s the famous Mademoiselle Cora.”
“Who?”
“Mademoiselle Cora… a Parisian celebrity.”
“What? That pug? But surely she’s hideous.”
“It’s clear that doesn’t hinder her.”
Kapitolina Markovna merely wrung her hands.
“Well, your Baden!” she said. “But can we sit down for a bit on a chair? I’m rather tired.”
“Of course we can, Kapitolina Markovna. That’s what the chairs are put there for.”
“Well, what do you know! In Paris, so they say, there are also chairs, but it’s not done to sit on them.”
Litvinov made no reply to Kapitolina Markovna; only then had it dawned on him that two paces away was the very place where he had had the explanation with Irina which had decided everything. Then today he remembered that he had seen a small pink mark on her cheek…
Smoke (Alma Classics) Page 14
