Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (95 page)

“He was afraid . . . of being shown up in the newspapers,” muttered some one.

The irritable general grew hot.

“Well, it is too much! Newspapers! Shown up! If it depended on me, I would not let anything be printed in those papers but the taxes on meat or bread, and announcements of sales of boots or furs.”

“And gentlemen’s properties up for auction,” put in Ratmirov.

“Possibly under present circumstances. . What a conversation, though, in Baden au Vieux - Château.”

“Mais pas du tout! pas du tout!”
replied the lady in the yellow hat,
“j’adore les questions politiques.”

“Madame a raison,”
interposed another general with an exceedingly pleasant and girlish - looking face. “Why should we avoid those questions . . even in Baden?”

As he said these words he looked urbanely at Litvinov and smiled condescendingly. “A man of honor ought never under any circumstances to disown his convictions. Don’t you think so?”

“Of course,” rejoined the irritable general, darting a look at Litvinov, and as it were indirectly attacking him, “but I don’t see the necessity. . . .”

“No, no,” the condescending general interposed with the same mildness, “your friend, Valerian Vladimirovitch,
 
just referred to the sale of gentlemen’s estates. Well? Is not that a fact?”

“But it’s impossible to sell them nowadays; nobody wants them!” cried the irritable general.

“Perhaps . . . perhaps. For that very reason we ought to proclaim that fact . . . that sad fact at every step. We are ruined . . . very good; we are beggared . . . there’s no disputing about that; but we, the great owners, we still represent a principle. . .
un principe.
To preserve that principle is our duty.
Pardon, madame,
I think you dropped your handkerchief. When some, so to say, darkness has come over even the highest minds, we ought submissively to point out (the general held out his finger) with the finger of a citizen the abyss to which everything is tending. We ought to warn, we ought to say with respectful firmness, ‘turn back, turn back. . . That is what we ought to say.’“ “There’s no turning back altogether, though,” observed Ratmirov moodily.

The condescending general only grinned.

“Yes, altogether, altogether,
mon très cher.
The further back the better.”

The general again looked courteously at Litvinov. The latter could not stand it.

“Are we to return as far as the Seven Boyars, your excellency?” “Why not? I express my opinion without hesitation; we must undo . . . yes . . . undo all that has been done.”

“And the emancipation of the serfs.”

“And the emancipation . . . as far as that is possible.
On est patriote ou on ne l’est pas.
“And freedom?” they say to me. Do you suppose that freedom is prized by the people? Ask them -
 
- “
 

“Just try,” broke in Litvinov, “taking that freedom away again.”

“Comment nommez - vous ce monsieur?”
whispered the general to Ratmirov.

“What are you discussing here?” began the stout general suddenly. He obviously played the part of the spoiled child of the party. “Is it all about the newspapers? About penny - a - liners? Let me tell you a little anecdote of what happened to me with a scribbling fellow -
 
- such a lovely thing. I was told he had written a libel on me. Well, of course, I at once had him brought before me. They brought me the penny - a - liner. ‘How was it,’ said I, ‘my dear chap, you came to write this libel? Was your patriotism too much for you?’ ‘Yes, it was too much,’ says he. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘and do you like money?’ ‘Yes,’ says he. Then, gentlemen, I gave him the knob of my cane to sniff at. ‘And do you like that, my angel?’ ‘No,’ says he, ‘I don’t like that.’ ‘But sniff it as you ought,’ says I, ‘my hands are clean.’ ‘I don’t like it,’ says he, ‘and that’s all.’ ‘But I like it very much, my angel,’ says I, ‘though not for myself. Do you understand that allegory, my treasure?’ ‘Yes,’ says he. ‘Then mind and be a good boy for the future, and now here’s a ruble sterling for you; go away and be grateful to me night and day,’ and so the scribbling chap went off.”

The general burst out laughing and again every one followed his example -
 
- every one except Irina, who did not even smile and looked darkly at the speaker.

The condescending general slapped Boris on the shoulder.

“That’s all your invention, O friend of my bosom. . . . You threatening any one with a stick. . . . You haven’t got a stick.
C’est pour faire rire ces dames.
For the sake of a good story. But that’s not the point.
 
I said just now that we must turn back completely. Understand me. I am not hostile to so - called progress, but all these universities and seminaries, and popular schools, these students, priests’ sons, and commoners, all these small fry,
tout ce fond du sac, la petite pro priété pire que le prolétariat
(the general uttered this in a languishing, almost faint voice)
voilà ce que m’effraie
. . . that’s where one ought to draw the line, and make other people draw it too.” (Again he gave Litvinov a genial glance.) “Yes, one must draw the line. Don’t forget that among us no one makes any demand, no one is asking for anything. Local government, for instance -
 
- who asks for that? Do you ask for it? or you, or you? or you,
mesdames?
You rule not only yourselves but all of us, you know.” (The general’s handsome face was lighted up by a smile of amusement.) “My dear friends, why should we curry favor with the multitude? You like democracy, it flatters you, and serves your ends . . . but you know it’s a double weapon. It is better in the old way, as before . . . far more secure. Don’t deign to reason with the herd, trust in the aristocracy, in that alone is power. . . . Indeed, it will be better. And progress . . . I certainly have nothing against progress. Only don’t give us lawyers and sworn juries and elective officials . . . only don’t touch discipline, discipline before all things -
 
- you may build bridges, and quays, and hospitals, and why not light the streets with gas?”

“Petersburg has been set on fire from one end to the other, so there you have your progress!” hissed the irritable general.

“Yes, you’re a mischievous fellow, I can see,” said the stout general, shaking his head lazily; “you would do for a chief - prosecutor, hut in my opinion
avec Orphée aux enfers le progrès a dit son dernier mot.”
 

“Vous dites toujours des bêtises,”
giggled the lady from Arzamass.

The general looked dignified.

“Je ne suis jamais plus sérieux, madame, que quand je dis des bêtises.”
“Monsieur Verdier has uttered that very phrase several times already,” observed Irina in a low voice.
“De la poigne et des formes,”
cried the stout general,
“de la poigne surtout.
And to translate into Russian; be civil, but don’t spare Your fists.” “Ah, you’re a rascal, an incorrigible rascal,” interposed the condescending general.
“Mesdames,
don’t listen to him, please. A barking dog does not bite. He cares for nothing but flirtation.”

“That’s not right, though, Boris,” began Ratmirov, after exchanging a glance with his wife, “it’s all very well to be mischievous, but that’s going too far. Progress is a phenomenon of social life, and this is what we must not forget; it’s a symptom. It’s what we must watch.” “All right, I say,” observed the stout general, wrinkling up his nose; “we all know you are aiming at the ministry.”

“Not at all . . . the ministry indeed! But real! one can’t refuse to recognize things.”

Boris plunged his fingers again into his whiskers and stared into the air. “Social life is very important, because in the development of the people, in the destinies, so to speak of the country -
 
- “

“Valérien,”
interrupted Boris reprovingly,
“il y a des dames ici.
I did not expect this of you, or do you want to get on to a committee?”

“But they are all closed now, thank God,” put in the
 
irritable general, and he began humming again
“Deux gendarmes on beau dimanche.”

Ratmirov raised a cambric handkerchief to his nose and gracefully retired from the discussion; the condescending general repeated “Rascal! rascal!” but Boris turned to the lady who “grimaced upon the desert air” and without lowering his voice, or a change in the expression of his face, began to ply her with questions as to when “she would reward his devotion,” as though he were desperately in love with her and suffering tortures on her account.

At every moment during this conversation Litvinov felt more and more ill at ease. His pride, his clean plebeian pride, was fairly in revolt.

What had he, the son of a petty official, in common with these military aristocrats of Petersburg? He loved everything they hated; he hated everything they loved; he was only too vividly conscious of it, he felt it in every part of his being. Their jokes he thought dull, their tone intolerable, every gesture false; in the very smoothness of their speeches he detected a note of revolting contemptuousness -
 
- and yet he was, as it were, abashed before them, before these creatures, these enemies. “Ugh! how disgusting! I am in their way, I am ridiculous to them,” was the thought that kept revolving in his head. “Why am I stopping? Let me escape at once, at once.” Irina’s presence could not retain him; she, too, aroused melancholy emotions in him. He got up from his seat and began to take leave.

“You are going already?” said Irina, but after a moment’s reflection she did not press him to stay, and only extracted a promise from him that he would not fail to come and see her. General Ratmirov took leave of him with the same refined courtesy, shook hands
 
with him and accompanied him to the end of the platform. . . . But Litvinov had scarcely had time to turn round the first bend in the road when he heard a general roar of laughter behind him. This laughter had no reference to him, but was occasioned by the long - expected Monsieur Verdier, who suddenly made his appearance on the platform, in a Tyrolese hat, and blue blouse, riding a donkey, but the blood fairly rushed into Litvinov’s cheeks, and he felt intense bitterness: his tightly compressed lips seemed as though drawn by wormwood. “Despicable, vulgar creatures,” he muttered, without reflecting that the few minutes he had spent in their company had not given him sufficient ground for such severe criticism. And this was the world into which Irina had fallen, Irina, once his Irina! In this world she moved, and lived, and reigned; for it, she had sacrificed her personal dignity, the noblest feelings of her heart. . . . It was clearly as it should be; it was clear that she had deserved no better fate! How glad he was that she had not thought of questioning him about his intentions! He might have opened his heart before “them” in “their” presence. . . . “For nothing in the world! never murmured Litvinov, inhaling deep draughts of the fresh air and descending the road towards Baden almost at a run. He thought of his betrothed, his sweet, good, sacred Tatyana, and how pure, how noble, how true she seemed to him. With what unmixed tenderness he recalled her features, her words, her very gestures . . . with what impatience he looked forward to her return.

The rapid exercise soothed his nerves. Returning home he sat down at the table and took up a book; suddenly he let it fall, even with a shudder. . . . What had happened to him? Nothing had happened, but
 
Irina . . . Irina. . . . All at once his meeting with her seemed something marvelous, strange, extraordinary. Was it possible? he had met, he had talked with the same Irina. . . . And why was there no trace in her of that hateful worldliness which was so sharply stamped upon all these others? Why did he fancy that she seemed, as it were, weary, or sad, or sick of her position? She was in their camp, but she was not an enemy. And what could have impelled her to receive him joyfully, to invite him to see her? Litvinov started. “O Tanya, Tanya!” he cried passionately, “you are my guardian angel, you only, my good genius. I love you only and will love you for ever. And I will not go to see
her.
Forget her altogether! Let her amuse herself with her generals.” Litvinov set to his book again.