Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (94 page)

IX

LITVINOV did not keep his promise of returning; later; he reflected that it would he 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, an 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 recognized 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 realized. 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 her self what power was latent in her, -
 
- weIl, 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 him self 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 other than 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 might
mit etwas Accuratesse
be derived from the fact, the count made his plan at once like a man of energy and a skillful 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 -
 
- otherwise I 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, rumors -
 
- 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 splendor, 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.

X

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!” he kept 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 him self 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 sit down 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 overgrown 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 be smiled and looked around; 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 recognized
 
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 -
 
- gray trousers of fancy material, and very glossy town hats. A narrow black cravat closely fettered 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 marvelous 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 his own 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 recognize 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 they were 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 match box.

“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 Hotel 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!”
was heard 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 whole
beau 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? quol? 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 done 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.”