Smoke (Alma Classics)

by Ivan Turgenev

  Yours, yours, yours,

  Irina

  The blood beat like a hammer in Litvinov’s head, but then sank slowly and heavily to his heart, and there cooled like a stone. He reread Irina’s letter and, as on that previous occasion in Moscow, fell onto the sofa and remained motionless.

  A dark abyss surrounded him on all sides, and he gazed uncomprehendingly and desperately into this darkness. And so again, once again, there was deceit – or no, worse than deceit – lies and baseness. His life was shattered; everything utterly torn up by the roots, and the only thing which he could still hang on to, his last support, was also in pieces. “‘Follow us to Petersburg,’” he kept repeating, with a bitter, silent laugh. “‘We’ll find employment for you there.’ What, will they promote me to head clerk? And who are these we? That’s when her past came out, that hideous secret, of which I am ignorant, but which she tried to erase and burn, as if in a fire. Here is that world of intrigue and secret relationships, of stories of the Belskys and the Dolskys. And what future, what splendid role awaits me? To live near her, to visit her, to share with her the debauched melancholy of a lady of fashion who is burdened with and bored by society, but who cannot exist outside its circle; to be a welcome friend of hers and, of course, of His Excellency’s… until … until the whim passes, the plebeian friend loses his appeal and the stout general or Mr Finikov replaces him. That’s what is possible, pleasant and perhaps useful. She talks about the good use of my talents! But that idea’s completely impracticable.” In Litvinov’s soul there kept arising, like sudden gusts of wind before a thunderstorm, momentary bursts of rage. Every expression in Irina’s letter aroused his disgust and her very assurances as to the constancy of her feelings offended him. “I can’t leave things like this,” he exclaimed finally. “I won’t allow her to toy with my life so mercilessly.”

  Litvinov leapt up and snatched his hat. But what was he to do? Run to her? Answer her letter? He stopped and dropped his hands.

  Yes, what was he to do?

  Had not he himself proposed this fateful choice to her? It had not turned out as he wanted. Every choice is subject to this danger. It was true she had changed her decision, that it was she who had first announced that she would abandon everything and follow him. But she did not deny her culpability and unequivocally referred to herself as a weak woman. She did not wish to deceive him; she had deceived herself. What rejoinder could be made to that? At least she was not pretending, was not tricking him. She was frank with him, mercilessly frank. Nothing was compelling her to speak out, nothing was preventing her from fobbing him off with promises, from dragging things out and leaving him in ignorance until her actual departure… her departure for Italy with her husband! But she had destroyed his life; she had destroyed two lives! So what did it matter she was not pretending?

  But it was he, not she, who was guilty before Tatyana, he, and only he, Litvinov, and he had no right to shrug off the responsibility which his guilt had laid on him like an iron yoke. All this was true, but what else could he do?

  Once again he flung himself onto the sofa and again the minutes rushed past, darkly, dully, untraceably, with voracious speed. “Should I obey her?” flashed through his head. “She loves me, she is mine, and in our very attraction to one another, in this passion which, after so many years, has erupted with such force and emerged into the open, is there not something inevitable, irresistible, like a law of Nature? To live in Petersburg. Well, will I be the first to find myself in such a situation? And where else could she and I have taken refuge?”

  He pondered this and the image of Irina, in the form in which it had imprinted itself for ever on his memory, appeared quietly before him. But not for long. He bethought himself and, with a new surge of disgust, spurned both the memory and that alluring image.

  “You gave me a drink from a golden cup,” he cried, “but there is poison in your drink and your white wings are spattered with filth. Away! To remain with you after I have banished my fiancée would be dishonourable.” He clenched his hands bitterly, and another face, with the imprint of suffering on its immobile features and with a silent reproach in its parting glance, rose from the depths.

  Litvinov tormented himself thus for a long time; for a long time, his thoughts tossed and turned like a very sick man. Finally he calmed down. Finally he took a decision. From the very first moment he had had forebodings about this decision. At first it appeared to him like a distant, scarcely perceptible dot among the turmoil and gloom of his inner struggle. Then it began to draw nearer and ended by slicing into his heart like a cold blade.

  Litvinov again dragged his case out of the corner and again packed all his things, without haste and even with a certain dull care, rang for the waiter, paid his bill and sent off a note to Irina. It was in Russian and said the following:

  I don’t know whether you are now more guilty before me than you were then. I don’t know whether the latest blow is more powerful. This is the end. You say to me “I cannot” and I echo your words: “I cannot… do what you want. I cannot and do not want to.” Don’t reply. You’re in no state to give me the sole answer I would accept. I’m leaving early tomorrow, by the first train. Goodbye, good fortune. We probably will not see each other again.

  Litvinov did not leave his room before nightfall. Was he waiting for something? Heaven only knows. About seven o’clock in the evening a veiled lady in a mantilla twice approached the foyer of the hotel. Moving a little to one side and gazing somewhere into the distance, she suddenly gestured decisively and, for a third time, made for the foyer.

  “Where are you going, Irina Pavlovna?” came a strained voice from behind her.

  She turned round with convulsive speed. Potugin was running towards her.

  She halted and, after a moment’s thought, rushed towards him, took him by the arm and led him to one side.

  “Take me away, take me away,” she kept repeating, gasping for breath.

  “What’s the matter, Irina Pavlovna?” he mumbled in astonishment.

  “Take me away,” she repeated with redoubled force, “if you don’t want me to remain for ever… there!”

  Potugin bowed his head submissively, and the two left the scene hastily.

  Early the following morning, Litvinov was about to set off on his journey, when Potugin entered the room.

  Without speaking, Potugin went up to him and, still without speaking, shook his hand. Litvinov also said nothing. Both men had long faces and both were making vain efforts to smile.

  “I’ve come to wish you a safe journey,” said Potugin finally.

  “But how do you know I’m leaving today?” asked Litvinov.

  Potugin looked at the floor around him.

  “The fact became known to me… as you see. Our last conversation took on such a strange direction towards the end. I didn’t want to take my leave of you without expressing my sincere sympathy.”

  “You sympathize with me now… when I’m leaving?”

  Potugin looked sorrowfully at Litvinov.

  “Ah, Grigory Mikhailovich, Grigory Mikhailovich,” he began with a short sigh. We’ve no time for that now, no time for subtleties and squabbling. As far as I can observe you are fairly indifferent towards our national literature and therefore perhaps have no concept of Vaska Buslayev.”

  “Of whom?”

  “Vaska Buslayev, Novgorod’s champion – in Kirsha Danilov’s collection.”*

  “What Buslayev?” said Litvinov, somewhat discomfited by such an unexpected twist to the conversation. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, never mind. That’s what I wanted to draw your attention to. Vaska Buslayev, after he’s taken his fellow Novgorodians on pilgrimage to Jerusalem and there, to their horror, bathed naked in the holy River Jordan, for he wasn’t superstitious – this logical Vaska Buslayev climbs Mount Tabor, and at the top of the mountain lies a large stone, over which peop
le of every kind attempt to jump. Vaska also wants to try his luck. On the road he comes across a human skull; he kicks it and the skull says to him: ‘Why are you kicking? I knew how to live and I also know how to lie about in the dust – and so will you.’ And that’s exactly what happens. Vaska leaps over the stone and almost clears it, but catches his heel and breaks his head. And here it is apposite for me to note that my Slavophile friends, who are very keen on kicking skulls and mouldering nations,* would do well to ponder this old story.”

  “But what’s all this leading to?” Litvinov interrupted impatiently. “I must go. Excuse me.”

  “It’s leading to,” replied Potugin, his eyes flashing with a friendliness such as Litvinov had not expected from him, “it’s leading to the fact that you don’t reject a dead skull and will, perhaps, for your kindness, succeed in jumping across the fateful stone. I won’t detain you further, but allow me a farewell embrace.”

  “I won’t even try to jump,” said Litvinov, kissing Potugin three times,* and to the doleful sensations which were filling his soul was added, for a brief moment, sympathy for this lonely, hapless man. “But I must go, must go.” He began to pace the room.

  “Do you want me to bring you something?” Potugin offered.

  “No, thank you. Don’t worry, I’ll do it myself.” He put on his hat and picked up his bag. “So,” he asked, already standing on the threshold, “you say you’ve seen her?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Well… and how is she?”

  Potugin fell silent.

  “She expected you yesterday… and will expect you today.”

  “Ah! In that case tell her, ‘No, it’s not necessary. Nothing’s necessary.’ Goodbye. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Grigory Mikhailovich. Allow me to say one more word to you. You’ll still have time to hear me out – there’s more than half an hour to go before the train leaves. You’re returning to Russia. There – in time – you will act. Allow a garrulous old fool – for I am, alas, nothing but a garrulous old fool – to give you some parting advice. Every time you have occasion to take on something, ask yourself: are you serving civilization – in the precise and strict sense of the word – are you championing one of its principles; does your work have that pedagogical, European character which alone is useful today in Russia? If so – go boldly forward; you are on the right path and your work is a boon. Thank Heavens, you’re not alone now. You won’t be a ‘sower in the desert’.* Men of action, pioneers, have appeared in Russia too. But that’s of no interest to you now. Goodbye. Don’t forget me!”

  Litvinov ran downstairs, flung himself into a carriage and went to the railway station without the semblance of a backward glance at the town where so much of his life remained. It was as if he surrendered to a wave; it picked him up and carried him, and he was firmly resolved not to resist its force. He renounced all other manifestations of will.

  He was on the point of boarding the train when from behind him came a beseeching whisper: “Grigory Mikhailovich, Grigory.”

  He shuddered. Was it really Irina? Indeed it was she. Wrapped in her maid’s shawl, with a travelling hat on her unkempt hair, she was standing on the platform and watching him with lustreless eyes. “Come back. Come back. I’ve come for you,” said those eyes. And what did those eyes not promise? She did not move and did not have the strength to add anything. Everything about her, the very disorder of her clothing, seemed a plea for mercy.

  Litvinov could barely keep his balance and almost flung himself towards her. But the wave to which he had surrendered took its prize. He leapt into the train and, turning round, indicated to Irina the place beside him. She understood him. The moment had not yet passed. Just one step, one movement and two eternally united lives would hurtle into the unknown distance. While she hesitated there was a loud blast on the whistle and the train moved off.

  Litvinov threw himself back, while Irina tottered up to a bench and fell on it, to the great astonishment of a minor diplomat who had chanced to wander into the railway station. He was only slightly acquainted with Irina, but was very interested in her and, seeing that she was lying, apparently unconscious, thought she had had une attaque de nerfs.* He therefore deemed it his duty, the duty d’un galant chevalier,* to come to her aid. But his astonishment assumed much greater proportions when, at the first word addressed to her, she suddenly stood up, pushed away his proffered hand, ran out into the street and in a few seconds disappeared into the milky vapour of the fog which is so typical of the Black Forest climate during the first days of autumn.

  26

  We once chanced to enter the hut of a peasant woman who had just lost her only and much loved son and, to our considerable surprise, found her completely calm, almost cheerful. “Don’t tire her out,” said her husband, to whom, no doubt, our surprise was obvious, “she’s gone numb.” Litvinov likewise had “gone numb”. The same calmness settled on him during the first hours of the journey. Utterly crushed and hopelessly unhappy, he did, however, rest, rest after the alarms and torments of the previous week, after all the blows which had rained down on his head. They shook him all the more because he was not made for such storms. He really hoped for nothing now and tried not to remember; above all, not to remember. He was travelling to Russia. After all, he had to go somewhere. He was already making no assumptions concerning himself. He did not recognize himself and did not understand his own actions, as if he had lost his real “I”, and, indeed, he took little interest in this “I”. Sometimes he felt he was carrying his own corpse and only the occasional fleeting, and bitter, convulsions of incurable spiritual pain reminded him that his life carried on. At times he could not fathom how a man – a man! – could countenance such an influence on himself on the part of a woman or of love. “A shameful weakness,” he whispered, shaking his greatcoat and settling himself more comfortably. This, he thought, is the end of the Old and the beginning of the New. Another minute and he was merely smiling bitterly and wondering at himself. He began to look out of the window. The day was grey and damp; there was no rain, but the fog still persisted and low clouds covered the sky. The train was travelling into a headwind; whitish billows of steam, sometimes on their own, sometimes mixed with other, darker billows of smoke, streamed endlessly past the window at which Litvinov was sitting. He began to watch the steam and the smoke. Ceaselessly spiralling upwards, rising and falling, whirling and clinging to the grass and the bushes in fanciful patterns, lengthening, then melting, billow followed billow. They constantly changed, then resumed their shape… A monotonous, rushed, tedious game! Sometimes the wind changed, the line went round a bend and the mass of steam and smoke appeared outside the opposite window; then the vast plume again switched direction and obscured Litvinov’s view of the broad Rhine plain. He looked and looked, and fell to strange musing… He was sitting alone in the carriage; no one was disturbing him; “Smoke, smoke,” he repeated several times, and suddenly everything appeared to him to be smoke, everything: his own life, Russian life, everything human and especially everything Russian. “Everything is smoke and steam,” he thought. “Everything seems to change constantly; everywhere there are new images, and phenomena follow fast on phenomena, but in essence everything is the same, still the same. Everything is hurrying, rushing somewhere, then everything disappears without trace, achieving nothing. The wind starts to blow from another quarter and everything is thrown to the opposite side and there too the same non-stop, anxious and unnecessary game goes on. He recalled much which had thundered and crackled before his eyes in recent years. “Smoke,” he whispered, “smoke.” He recalled the heated arguments, discussions and shouting at Gubaryov’s and at the houses of other personages, highly placed and lowly placed, progressive and reactionary, old and young. “Smoke,” he repeated. “Smoke and steam.” Finally he recalled the famous picnic and the pronouncements and speeches of other statesmen, and even everything which Potugin had preached. “Smoke, smoke
, smoke, nothing more.” And his own aspirations, emotions, ventures and dreams? He dismissed them out of hand. Meanwhile the train raced ever onwards. Already, Rastatt, Karlsruhe and Bruchsal had been left behind. The mountains to the right of the train receded, retreated into the distance, then advanced again, but already they were less high and less frequently covered with forest. The train rounded a sharp bend, and there was Heidelberg. The carriages rolled up under the station awning; the cries of pedlars selling all sorts of magazines, even Russian ones, rang out. The passengers began to bustle about in their places, and then to emerge onto the platform, but Litvinov did not leave his corner, remaining in his seat, his head hanging. Suddenly someone called him by name. Bindasov’s ugly visage was poking through the window and behind it – or did he merely dream this? No there really were familiar faces from Baden: here were Sukhanchikova, Voroshilov and Bambayev. They all moved towards him and Bindasov yelled:

  “But where’s Pishchalkin? We’ve been waiting for him. Never mind, out you get, you drip. We’re all going to see Gubaryov. Yes, friend, Gubaryov is expecting us,” Bambayev repeated, stepping forward. “Out you get.”