в 3 ui ччч ■И Ш ЯЯэ ЙБ5 ''-''■■ ■■'' 813 Злей '"v--.>. ; '.'■■■ ; ' жжжжжж 1Ш£ЖД$М£$ ■! BERKELEY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SMOKE The Novels of Ivan Turgenev Large Type Fine-Paper Edition, price 2s. net each in Cloth, 3^. net in Leather. I. RUDIN. II. A HOUSE OF GENTLEFOLK. III. ON THE EVE. IV. FATHERS AND CHILDREN. V. SMOKE. VI. & VII. VIRGIN SOIL. 2 Vols. VIII. & IX. A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES. 2 Vols. X. DREAM TALES AND PROSE POEMS. XI. THE TORRENTS OF SPRING, ETC. XII. A LEAR OF THE STEPPES. XIII. THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN, ETC. XIV. A DESPERATE CHARACTER, ETC. XV. THE JEW, ETC. Also Large Paper Edition, in fifteen volumes, sold only in sets, illustrated with forty-eight plates in photogravure, price ,£3 net. LONDON : WILLIAM HEINEMANN SMOKE H IRovel BY IVAN TURGENEV Translated from the Russian By CONSTANCE GARNETT LARGE TYPE FINE-PAPER EDITION LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN 1914 First Edition, iSgb. New Impressio?is, igoi, 1QO4, iqoj. Large Type Fine-paper Edition, iqo?. New Impressions, 1910, 1914. LOAN STACK [All rights reserved"] PQ ^чл/ V9 „ 1914- INTRODUCTION 'Smoke' was first published in 1867, several years after Turgenev had fixed his home in Baden, with his friends the Viardots. Baden at this date was a favourite resort for all circles of Russian society, and Turgenev was able to study at his leisure his countrymen as they appeared to foreign critical eyes. The novel is therefore the most cosmopolitan of all Tur- genev's works. On a veiled background of the great world of European society, little groups of representative Russians, members of the aristocratic and the Young Russia parties, are etched with an incisive, unfaltering hand. Smoke, as an historical study, though it yields in importance to Fathers and Children and Virgin Soil, is of great significance to Russians. It might with truth have been named Transi- tion, for the generation it paints was then mid- way between the early philosophical Nihilism V ; SMOKE of the sixties and the active political Nihilism of the seventies. Markedly transitional, however, as was the Russian mind of the days of Smoke, Turgenev, with the faculty that distinguishes the great artist from the artist of second rank, the faculty of seeking out and stamping the essential under confused and fleeting forms, has once and for ever laid bare the fundamental weakness of the Slav nature, its weakness of will. Smoke is an attack, a deserved attack, not merely on the Young Russia Party, but on all the Parties ; not on the old ideas or the new ideas, but on the proneness of the Slav nature to fall a prey to a consuming weakness, a moral stagnation, a feverish ennui, the Slav nature that analyses everything with force and brilliancy, and ends, so often, by doing nothing. Smoke is the attack, bitter yet sympathetic, of a man who, with grow- ing despair, has watched the weakness of his countrymen, while he loves his country all the more for the bitterness their sins have brought upon it. Smoke \$ the scourging of a babbling generation, by a man who, grown sick to death of the chatter of reformers and reactionists, is visiting the sins of the fathers on the children, vi INTRODUCTION with a contempt out of patience for the heredi- tary vice in the Slav blood. And this time the author cannot be accused of partisanship by any blunderer. ' A plague o' both your houses/ is his message equally to the Bureaucrats and the Revolutionists. And so skilfully does he wield the thong, that every lash falls on the back of both parties. An exquisite piece of political satire is Smoke ; for this reason alone it would stand unique among novels. The success of Smoke was immediate and great ; but the hue-and-cry that assailed it was even greater. The publication of the book marks the final rupture between Turgenev and the party of Young Russia. The younger generation never forgave him for drawing Gubar- yov and Bambaev, Voroshilov and Madame Suhantchikov — types, indeed, in which all revolutionary or unorthodox parties are pain- fully rich. Or, perhaps, Turgenev was forgiven for it when he was in his grave, a spot where forgiveness flowers to a late perfection. And yet the fault was not Turgenev's. No, his last novel, Virgin Soil, bears splendid witness that it was Young Russia that was one-eyed. Let the plain truth here be set down. Smoke vii SMOKE is not a complete picture of the Young Russia of the day; it was not yet time for that picture ; and that being so, Turgenev did the next best thing in attacking the windbags, the charlatans and their crowd of shallow, chattering followers, as well as the empty formulas of the laissez- faire party. It was inevitable that the attack should bring on him the anger of all young enthusiasts working for f the Cause ' ; it was in- evitable that ' the Cause ' of reform in Russia should be mixed up with the Gubaryovs, just as reforms in France a few years ago were mixed up with Boulanger ; and that Turgenev's waning popularity for the last twenty years of his life should be directly caused by his honesty and clear-sightedness in regard to Russian Liberal- ism, was inevitable also. To be crucified by those you have benefited is the cross of honour of all great, single-hearted men. But though the bitterness of political life flavours Smoke, although its points of departure and arrival are wrapped in the atmosphere of Russia's dark and insoluble problems, never- theless the two central figures of the book, Litvinov and Irina, are not political figures. Luckily for them, in Gubaryovs words, they viii INTRODUCTION belong * to the undeveloped.' Litvinov himself may be dismissed in a sentence. He is Tur- genev's favourite type of man, a character much akin to his own nature, gentle, deep, and sym- pathetic. Turgenev often drew such a char- acter; Lavretsky, for example, in A House of Gentlefolk, is a first cousin to Litvinov, an older and a sadder man. But Irina — Irina is unique ; for Turgenev has in her perfected her type till she reaches a destroying witchery of fascination and subtlety. Irina will stand for ever in the long gallery of great creations, smiling with that enigmatical smile which took from Litvinov in a glance half his life, and his love for Tatyana. The special triumph of her creation is that she com- bines that exact balance between good and evil which makes good women seem insipid •beside her and bad women unnatural. And, by nature irresistible, she is made doubly so to the imagination by the situation which she recreates between Litvinov and herself. She ardently desires to become nobler, to possess all that the ideal of love means for the heart of woman ; but she has only the power given to her of enervating the man she loves. Can ix SMOKE she become a Tatyana to him? No, to no man. She is born to corrupt, yet never to be corrupted. She rises mistress of herself after the first measure of fatal delight. And, never giving her whole heart absolutely to her lover, she, nevertheless, remains ever to be desired. Further, her wit, her scorn, her beauty pre- serve her from all the influences of evil she does not deliberately employ. Such a woman is as old and as rare a type as Helen of Troy. It is most often found among the great mistresses of princes, and it was from a mistress of Alexander II. that Turgenev modelled Irina. Of the minor characters, Tatyana is an astonishing instance of Turgenev's skill in drawing a complete character with half-a-dozen strokes of the pen. The reader seems to have known her intimately all his life : her family life, her girlhood, her goodness and individual ways to the smallest detail ; yet she only speaks on two or three occasions. Potugin is but a weary shadow of Litvinov, but it is difficult to say how much this is a telling refinement of art. The shadow of this prematurely exhausted man is cast beforehand by Irina across Lit- vinov's future. For Turgenev to have drawn INTRODUCTION Potugin as an ordinary individual would have vulgarised the novel and robbed it of its skil- ful proportions, for Potugin is one ©f those shadowy figures which supply the chiaroscuro to a brilliant etching. As a triumphant example of consummate technical skill, Smoke will repay the most exact scrutiny. There are a lightness and a grace about the novel that conceal its actual strength. The political argument glides with such ease in and out of the love story, that the hostile critic is absolutely baffled ; and while the most intri- cate steps are executed in the face of a crowd of angry enemies, the performer lands smiling and in safety. The art by which Irina's dis- astrous fascination results in falsity, and Lit- vinov's desperate striving after sincerity ends in rehabilitation, — the art by which these two threads are spun, till their meaning colours the faint political message of the book, is so delicate that, like the silken webs which gleam only for the first fresh hours in the forest, it leaves no trace, but becomes a dream in the memory. And yet this book, which has the freshness of windy rain and the whirling of autumn leaves, is a story of ignominious weakness of the xi SMOKE passion that kills, that degrades, that renders life despicable, as Turgenev himself says. Smoke is the finest example in literature of a subjective psychological study of passion rendered clearly and objectively in terms of French art. Its character, we will not say its superiority, lies in the extraordinary clear- ness with which the most obscure mental phenomena are analysed in relation to the ordinary values of daily life. At the precise point of psychological analysis where Tolstoi wanders and does not convince the reader, and at the precise point where Dostoievsky's analy- sis seems exaggerated and obscure, like a figure looming through the mist, Turgenev throws a ray of light from the outer to the inner world of man, and the two worlds are revealed in the natural depths of their connection. It is in fact difficult to find among the great modern artists men whose natural balance of intellect can be said to equalise their special genius. The Greeks alone present to the world a spectacle of a triumphant harmony in the critical and creative mind of man, and this is their great pre-eminence. But Smoke presents the curious feature of a novel (Slav in virtue of its modern xii INTRODUCTION psychological genius) which is classical in its treatment and expression throughout : the bal- ance of Turgenev's intellect reigns ever supreme over the natural morbidity of his subject. And thus Smoke in every sense of the word is a classic for all time. EDWARD GARNETT. January 1896. Kill THE NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS IN ТНГ BOOK Grig6ry [Grishal alovitch LixvfNOV Tat-yana [Tanya] l g <6vna Shest6v. Kapitolina Markov^ a. Rostislav Bambaev. semy6n yakovlevitch voroshflov. Stepan Nikolaevitch Gubar-y6v. Matr6na Semy6novna Suhantchikov. Tit Bindasov. PlSH-TCHALKIN. Soz6nt Ivanitch Potugin. Irina Pavlovna Osinin. Valerian VladImirovitch Ratmirov. In transcribing the Russian names into English — a has the sound of a in father e „ j, а 'трапе, z ,, ,, ее. и „ „ oo. у is always consonantal except when it is the last letter of the word. g is always hard. XV PRESERVATION REPLACEMENT REVIEW. I On the ioth of August 1862, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a great number of people were thronging before the well-known Konversation in Baden-Baden. The weather was lovely ; everything around — the green trees, the bright houses of the gay city, and the undulating outline of the mountains — everything was in holiday mood, basking in the rays of the kindly sunshine ; everything seemed smiling with a sort of blind, confiding delight ; and the same glad, vague smile strayed over the human faces too, old and young, ugly and beautiful alike. Even, the blackened and whitened visages of the Parisian demi-monde could not destroy the general impression of bright con- tent and elation, while their many-coloured ribbons and feathers and the sparks of gold and steel on their hats and veils involuntarily recalied the intensified brilliance and light fluttering of birds in spring, with their rain- bow-tinted wings. But the dry, guttural snap- I A SMOKE ping of the French jargon, heard on all sides could not equal the song of birds, nor be com- pared with it. Everything, however, was going on in its ac- customed way. The orchestra in the Pavilion played first a medley from the Traviata, then one of Strauss's waltzes, then ' Tell her,' a Russian song, adapted for instruments by an obliging conductor. In the gambling saloons, round the green tables, crowded the same familiar figures, with the same dull, greedy, half-stupefied, half-exasperated, wholly rapa- cious expression, which the gambling fever lends to all, even the most aristocratic, features. The same well-fed and ultra-fashionably dressed Russian landowner from Tambov with wide staring eyes leaned over the table, and with uncomprehending haste, heedless of the cold smiles of the croupiers themselves, at the very instant of the cry ' rien ne va plus] laid with perspiring hand golden rings of louis cTor oh all the four corners of the roulette, depriving him- self by so doing of every possibility of gaining anything, even in case of success. This did not in the least prevent him the same evening from affirming the contrary with disinterested indignation to Prince Кокб, one of the well- known leaders of the aristocratic opposition, the Prince Кокб, who in Paris at the salon SMOKE of the Princess Mathilde, so happily remarked in the presence of the Emperor : ' Madame \ le principe de la propriete est profondement ebranle en Russie! At the Russian tree, a Farbre Russe, our dear fellow-countrymen and countrywomen were assembled after their wont. They approached haughtily and carelessly in fashionable style, greeted each other with dignity and elegant ease, as befits beings who find themselves at the topmost pinnacle of contemporary culture. But when they had met and sat down together, they were abso- lutely at a loss for anything to say to one another, and had to be content with a pitiful interchange of inanities, or with the exceedingly indecent and exceedingly insipid old jokes of a hopelessly stale French wit, once a journalist, a chattering buffoon with Jewish shoes on his paltry little legs, and a contemptible little beard on his mean little visage. He retailed to them, a ces princes russes, all the sweet ab- surdities from the old comic almanacs Charivari and Tintamarre, and they, ces princes rtisses, burst into grateful laughter, as though forced in spite of themselves to recognise the crush- ing superiority of foreign wit, and their own hopeless incapacity to invent anything amus- ing. Yet here were almost all the 'finefleur* of our society, ' all the high-life and mirrors of 3 SMOKE fashion.' Here was Count X., our incomparable dilettante, a profoundly musical nature, who so divinely recites songs on the piano, but cannot in fact take two notes correctly without fumb- ling at random on the keys, and sings in a style something between that of a poor gypsy singer and a Parisian hairdresser. Here was our enchanting Baron Q., a master in every line : literature, administration, oratory, and card-sharping. Here, too, was Prince Y., the friend of religion and the people, who in the blissful epoch when the spirit-trade was a monopoly, had made himself betimes a huge fortune by the sale of vodka adulterated with belladonna ; and the brilliant General О. O., who had achieved the subjugation of something, and the pacification of something else, and who is nevertheless still a nonenity, and does not know what to do with himself. And R. R. the amusing fat man, who regards himself as a great invalid and a great wit, though he is, in fact, as strong as a bull, and as dull as a post. . . . This R. R. is almost the only man in our day who has preserved the traditions of the dandies of the forties, of the epoch of the ' Hero of our Times,' and the Countess Vorotinsky. He has preserved, too, the special gait with the swing on the heels, and le culte de la pose (it cannot even be put into words in Russian), the un- 4 SMOKE natural deliberation of movement, the sleepy dignity of expression, the immovable, offended- looking countenance, and the habit of inter- rupting other people's remarks with a yawn, gazing at his own finger-nails, laughing through his nose, suddenly shifting his hat from the back of his head on to his eyebrows, etc. Here, too, were people in government circles, diplomats, big-wigs with European names, men of wisdom and intellect, who imagine that the Golden Bull was an edict of the Pope, and that the English poor-tax is a tax levied on the poor. And here, too, were the hot-blooded, though tongue-tied, devotees of the dames mix camellias, young society dandies, with superb partings down the back of their heads, and splendid drooping whiskers, dressed in real London costumes, young bucks whom one would fancy there was nothing to hinder from becoming as vulgar as the illustri- ous French wit above mentioned. But no ! our home products are not in fashion it seems ; and Countess S., the celebrated arbitress of fashion and grand genre, by spiteful tongues nicknamed ' Queen of the Wasps/ and ' Medusa in a mob-cap/ prefers, in the absence of the French wit, to consort with the Italians, Mol- davians, American spiritualists, smart secretaries of foreign embassies, and Germans of effeminate, 5 SMOKE but prematurely circumspect, physiognomy, of whom the place is full. The example of the Countess is followed by the Princess Babette, she in whose arms Chopin died (the ladies in Europe in whose arms he expired are to be reckoned by thousands) ; and the Princess Annette, who would have been perfectly capti- vating, if the simple village washerwoman had not suddenly peeped out in her at times, like a smell of cabbage wafted across the most delicate perfume ; and Princess Pachette, to whom the following mischance had occurred : her hus- band had fallen into a good berth, and all at once, Dieu salt pourquot, he had thrashed the provost and stolen 20,000 roubles of public money ; and the laughing Princess Zizi ; and the tearful Princess Zozo. They all left their com- patriots on one side, and were merciless in their treatment of them. Let us too leave them on one side, these charming ladies, and walk away from the renowned tree near which they sit in such costly but somewhat tasteless costumes, and God grant them relief from the boredom consuming them ! II A FEW paces from the ' Russian tree/ at a little table in front of Weber's coffee-house, there was sitting a good-looking man, about thirty, of medium height, thin and dark, with a manly and pleasant face. He sat bending forward with both arms leaning on his stick, with the calm and simple air of a man to whom the idea had not occurred that any one would notice him or pay any attention to him. His large expressive golden-brown eyes were gazing deliberately about him, sometimes screwed up to keep the sunshine out of them, and then watching fixedly some eccentric figure that passed by him while a childlike smile faintly stirred his fine moustache and lips, and his prominent short chin. He wore a roomy coat of German cut, and a soft grey hat hid half of his high forehead. At the first glance he made the impression of.an honest, sensible, rather self-confident young man such as there are many in the world. He seemed to be resting from prolonged labours and to be 7 SMOKE deriving all the more simple-minded amuse- ment from the scene spread out before him because his thoughts were far away, and be- cause they moved too, those thoughts, in .a world utterly unlike that which surrounded him at the moment. He was a Russian ; his name was Grigory Mihalovitch Litvinov. We have to make his acquaintance, and so it will be well to relate in a few words his past, which presents little of much interest or com- plexity. He was the son of an honest retired official of plebeian extraction, but he was educated, not as one would naturally expect, in the town, but in the country. His mother was of noble family, and had been educated in a govern- ment school. She was a good-natured and very enthusiastic creature, not devoid of character, however. Though she was twenty years younger than her husband, she remodelled him, as far as she could, drew him out of the petty official groove into the landowner's way of life, and softened and refined his harsh and stubborn character. Thanks to her, he began to dress with neatness, and to behave with decorum ; he came to respect learned men and learning, though, of course, he never took a single book in his hand ; he gave up swearing, and tried in every way not to demean himself. He SMOKE even arrived at walking more quietly and speak- ing in a subdued voice, mostly of elevated subjects, which cost him no small effort. ' Ah ! they ought to be flogged, and that 's all about it ! ' he sometimes thought to himself, but aloud he pronounced : ' Yes, yes, that 's so ... of course ; it is a great question.' Litvinov's mothei set her household too upon a European footing ; she addressed the servants by the plural ' you ' instead of the familiar ' thou/ and never allowed any one to gorge himself into a state of lethargy at her table. As regards the property belonging to her, neither she nor her husband was capable of looking after it at all. It had been long allowed to run to waste, but there was plenty of land, with all sorts of useful appurtenances, forest- lands and a lake, on which there had once stood a factory, which had been founded by a zealous but unsystematic owner, and had flourished in the hands of a scoundrelly merchant, and gone utterly to ruin under the superintendence of a conscientious German manager. Madame Litvinov was contented so long as she did not dissipate her fortune or contract debts. Un- luckily she could not boast of good health, and she died of consumption in the very year that her son entered the Moscow university. He did not complete his course there owing to circum- stances of which the reader will hear more later 9 SMOKE on, and went back to his provincial home, where he idled away some time without work and with- out ties, almost without acquaintances. Thanks to the disinclination for active service of the local gentry, who were, however, not so much pene- trated by the Western theory of the evils of 1 absenteeism/ as by the home-grown conviction that ' one's own shirt is the nearest to one's skin/ he was drawn for military service in 1855, and almost died of typhus in the Crimea, where he spent six months in a mud-hut on the shore of the Putrid Sea, without ever seeing a single ally. After that, he served, not of course without unpleasant experiences, on the councils of the nobility, and after being a little time in the country, acquired a passion for farming. He realised that his mother's property, under the indolent and feeble management of his infirm old father, did not yield a tenth of the revenue it might yield, and that in experienced and skilful hands it might be converted into a perfect gold mine. But he realised, too, that experience and skill were just what he lacked — and he went abroad to study agriculture and technology — to learn them from the first rudiments. More than four years he had spent in Mecklenburg, in Silesia, and in Carlsruhe, and he had travelled in Belgium and in England. He had worked conscientiously and accumulated information ; 10 SMOKE йе had not acquired it easily ; but he had per- severed through his difficulties to the end, and now with confidence in himself, in his future, and in his usefulness to his neighbours, perhaps even to the whole countryside, he was prepar- ing to return home, where he was summoned with despairing prayers and entreaties in every letter from his father, now completely bewildered by the emancipation, the re-division of lands, and the terms of redemption — by the new regime in short. But why was he in Baden ? Well, he was in Baden because he was from day to day expecting the arrival there of his cousin and betrothed, Taty ana Petrovna Shestov He had known her almost from childhood, and had spent the spring and summer with her at Dresden, where she was living with her aunt. He felt sincere love and profound respect for his young kinswoman, and on the conclusion of his dull preparatory labours, when he was pre- paring to enter on a new field, to begin real, unofficial duties, he proposed to her as a woman dearly loved, a comrade and a friend, to unite her life with his — for happiness and for sorrow, for labour and for rest, ' for better, for worse ' as the English say. She had consented, and he had returned to Carlsruhe, where his books, papers and properties had been left. . . . But why was he at Baden, you ask again ? и SMOKE Well, he was at Baden, because Tatyana's aunt, who had brought her up, Kapitoiina MarkovnaShestov,an old unmarried lady of fifty- rlve, a most good-natured, honest, eccentric soul, a free thinker, all aglow with the fire of self- sacrifice and abnegation, an esprit fort (she read Strauss, it is true she concealed the fact from her niece) and a democrat, sworn opponent of aristocracy and fashionable society, could not resist the temptation of gazing for once on this aristocratic society in such a fashionable place as Baden. . . . Kapitoiina Markovna wore no crinoline and had her white hair cut in a round crop, but luxury and splendour had a secret fascination for her, and it was her favourite pastime to rail at them and express her contempt of them. How could one refuse to gratify the good old lady ? But Litvinov was so quiet and simple, he gazed so self-con- fidently about him, because his life lay so clearly mapped out before him, because his career was defined, and because he was proud of this career, and rejoiced in it as the work of his own hands. i? Ill HULLO ! hullo ! here he is ! ' he suddenly heard a squeaky voice just above his ear, and a plump hand slapped him on the shoulder. He lifted his head, and perceived one of his few Moscow acquaintances, a certain Bambaev, a good-natured but good-for-nothing fellow. He was no longer young, he had a flabby nose and soft cheeks, that looked as if they had been boiled, dishevelled greasy locks, and a fat squat person. Everlastingly short of cash, and everlastingly in raptures over something, Rostislav Bambaev wandered, aimless but ex- clamatory, over the face of our long-suffering mother- earth. ' Well, this is something like a meeting ! ' he repeated, opening wide his sunken eyes, and drawing down his thick lips, over which the straggling dyed moustaches seemed strangely out of place. ' Ah, Baden ! All the world runs here like black-beetles ! How did you come here, Grisha?' i3 SMOKE There was positively no one in the world Bam- baev did not address by his Christian name. ' I came here three days ago.' 1 From where ? ' 1 Why do you ask ? ' ' Why indeed ? But stop, stop a minute, Grisha. You are, perhaps, not aware who has just arrived here ! Gubaryov himself, in per- son ! That 's who 's here ! He came yesterday from Heidelberg. You know him of course ? ' ' I have heard of him.' 1 Is that all ? Upon my word ! At once, this very minute we will haul you along to him. Not know a man like that ! And by the way here 's Voroshilov. . . . Stop a minute, Grisha, perhaps you don't know him either ? I have the honour to present you to one another. Both learned men ! He 's a phcenix indeed ! Kiss each other ! ' And uttering these words, Bambaev turned to a good-looking young man standing near him with a fresh and rosy, but prematurely demure face. Litvinov got up, and, it need hardly be said, did not kiss him, but exchanged a cursory bow with the phcenix, who, to judge from the severity of his demeanour, was not overpleased at this unexpected introduction. 1 I said a phcenix, and I will not go back from my word,' continued Bambaev ; ' go to 14 SMOKE Petersburg, to the military school, and look at the golden board; whose name stands first there ? The name of Voroshilov, Semyon Yakovlevitch ! But, Gubaryov, Gubaryov, my dear fellow ! It 's to him we must fly ! I absolutely worship that man ! And I 'm not alone, every one 's at his feet ! Ah, what a work he is writing, О — О —О l } ' What is his work about ? ' inquired Litvinov. 1 About everything, my dear boy, after the style of Buckle, you know . . . but more pro- found, more profound. . . . Everything will be solved and made clear in it ? 1 And have you read this work yourself? ' ' No, I have not read it, and indeed it 's a secret, which must not be spread about ; but from Gubaryov one may expect everything, every- thing ! Yes ! ' Bambaev sighed and clasped his hands. * Ah, if we had two or three intellects like that growing up in Russia, ah, what mightn't we see then, my God ! I tell you one thing, Grisha ; whatever pursuit you may have been engaged in in these latter days — and I don't even know what your pursuits are in general — what- ever your convictions may be — I don't know them either — from him, Gubaryov, you will find something to learn. Unluckily, he is not here for long. We must make the most of him we must go. To him, to him 1 '5 SMOKE A passing dandy with reddish curls and a blue ribbon on his low hat, turned round and stared through his eyeglass with a sarcastic smile at Bambaev. Litvinov felt irritated. 1 What are you shouting for ? ' he said ; ' one would think you were hallooing dogs on at a hunt ! I have not had dinner yet' ' Well, think of that ! we can go at once to Weber's . . . the three of us . . . capital ! You have the cash to pay for me ? ' he added in an undertone. * Yes, yes ; only, I really don't know ' 1 Leave off, please ; you will thank me for it, and he will be delighted. Ah, heavens ! ' Bambaev interrupted himself. ' It 's the finale from Ernani they 're playing. How delicious ! . . . A som . . . mo Carlo. . . . What a fellow I am, though! In tears in a minute. Well, Semyon Yakovlevitch ! Voroshilov ! shall we go, eh ? ' Voroshilov, who had remained all the while standing with immovable propriety, still main- taining his former haughty dignity of de- meanour, dropped his eyes expressively, frowned, and muttered something between his teeth . . . But he did not refuse ; and Litvinov thought, * Well, we may as well do it, as I Ve plenty of time on my hands.' Bambaev took his arm, but before turning towards the cafe he beckoned to Isabellethe renowned flower-girl of 16 SMOKE the Jockey Club : he had conceived the idea of buying a bunch of flowers of her. But the aristocratic flower-girl did not stir ; and, indeed, what should induce her to approach a gentle- man without gloves, in a soiled fustian jacket, streaky cravat, and boots trodden down at heel, whom she had not even seen in Paris? Then Voroshilov in his turn beckoned to her. To him she responded, and he, taking a tiny bunch of violets from her basket, flung her a florin. He thought to astonish her by his munificence, but not an eyelash on her face quivered, and when he had turned away, she pursed up her mouth contemptuously. Vor- oshilov was dressed very fashionably, even exquisitely, but the experienced eye of the Parisian girl noted at once in his get-up and in his bearing, in his very walk, which showed traces of premature military drill, the absence of genuine, pure-blooded 'chic.' When they had taken their seats in the principal dining-hall at Weber's, and ordered dinner, our friends fell into conversation. Bambaev discoursed loudly and hotly upon the immense importance of Gubaryov, but soon he ceased speaking, and, gasping and chewing noisily, drained off glass after glass. Voroshilov eat and drank little, and as it were reluctantly, and after questioning Litvinov as to the nature 17 в SMOKE of his interests, fell to giving expression to his own opinions — not so much on those interests, as on questions of various kinds in general. . . . All at once he warmed ' up, and set off at a gallop like a spirited horse, boldly and decisively assigning to every syllable, every letter, its due weight, like a confident cadet going up for his ' final ' examination, with vehement, but inappropriate gestures. At every instant, since no one interrupted him, he became more eloquent, more emphatic ; it seemed as though he were reading a dissertation or lecture. The names of the most recent scientific authorities — with the addition of the dates of the birth or death of each of them — the titles of pamphlets that had only just appeared, and names, names, names . . . fell in showers together from his tongue, affording himself intense satisfaction, reflected in his glowing eyes. Voroshilov, seemingly, despised everything old, and attached value only to the cream of culture, the latest, most advanced points of science ; to mention, how- ever inappropriately, a book of some Doctor Zauerbengel on Pennsylvanian prisons, or yesterday's articles in the Asiatic Journal on the Vedas and Puranas (he pronounced it Journal in the English fashion, though he certainly did not know English) was for him a real joy, a felicity. Litvinov listened and r8 SMOKE listened to him, and could not make out what could be his special line. At one moment his talk was of the part played by the Celtic race in history ; then he was carried away to the ancient world, and discoursed upon the ^Egine- tan marbles, harangued with great warmth on the sculptor living earlier than Phidias, Onetas, who was, however, transformed by him into Jonathan, which lent his whole discourse a half-Biblical, half-American flavour ; then he suddenly bounded away to political economy and called Bastiat a fool or a block- head, 'as bad as Adam Smith and all the physiocrats.' ' Physiocrats,' murmured Bam- baev after him . . . ' aristocrats ? ' Among other things Voroshilov called forth an expres- sion of bewilderment on Bambaev's face by a criticism, dropped casually in passing, of Macaulay, as an old-fashioned writer, super- seded by modern historical science ; as for Gneist, he declared he need scarcely refer to him, and he shrugged his shoulders. Bambaev shrugged his shoulders too. ' And all this at once, without any inducement, before strangers, in a cafe ' — Litvinov reflected, looking at the fair hair, clear eyes, and white teeth of his new acquaintance (he was specially embarrassed by those large sugar-white teeth, and those \ hands with their inappropriate gesticulations), 19 SMOKE 'and he doesn't once smile ; and with it all, he would seem to be a nice lad, and absolutely inexperienced.' Voroshilov began to calm down at last, his voice, youthfully resonant and shrill as a young cock's, broke a little . . . Bambaev seized the opportunity to declaim verses and again nearly burst into tears, which scandalised one table near them, round which was seated an English family, and set another tittering ; two Parisian cocottes were dining at this second table with a creature who resembled an ancient baby in a wig. The waiter brought the bill ; the friends paid it. ' Well/ cried Bambaev, getting heavily up from his chair, ' now for a cup of coffee, and quick march. There she is, our Russia,' he added, stopping in the doorway, and pointing almost rapturously with his soft red hand to Voroshilov and Litvinov. , , . 'What do you think of her ? . . . ' ' Russia, indeed/ thought Litvinov ; and Voroshilov, whose face had by now regained its concentrated expression, again smiled conde- scendingly, and gave a little tap with his heels. Within five minutes they were all three mount- ing the stairs of the hotel where Stepan Nikol- aitch Gubaryov was staying. ... A tall slender lady, in a hat with a short black veil, was coming quickly down the same staircase. 20 SMOKE Catching sight of Litvinov she turned suddenly round to him, and stopped still as though struck by amazement. Her face flushed instantaneously, and then as quickly grew pale under its thick lace veil ; but Litvinov did not observe her, and the lady ran down the wide steps more quickly than before. 21 IV 'GRIGORY Litvinov, a brick, a true Russian heart. I commend him to you/ cried Bambaev, conducting Litvinov up to a short man of the figure of a country gentleman, with an unbuttoned collar, in a short jacket, grey morn- ing trousers and slippers, standing in the middle of a light, and very well-furnished room ; 'and this/ he added, addressing himself to Litvinov, ' is he, the man himself, do you under- stand ? Gubaryov, then, in a word.' Litvinov stared with curiosity at ' the man himself.' He did not at first sight find in him anything out of the common. He saw before him a gentleman of respectable, somewhat dull exterior, with a broad forehead, large eyes, full lips, a big beard, and a thick neck, with a fixed gaze, bent sidelong and downwards. This gentleman simpered, and said, ' Mmm. . . . ah . . . very pleased, . . / raised his hand to his own face, and at once turning his back on Litvinov, took a few paces upon the carpet, 22 SMOKE with a slow and peculiar shuffle, as though he were trying to slink along unseen. Gubaryov had the habit of continually walking up and down, and constantly plucking and combing his beard with the tips of his long hard nails. Besides Gubaryov, there was also in the room a lady of about fifty, in a shabby silk dress, with an excessively mobile face almost as yellow as a lemon, a little black moustache on her upper lip, and eyes which moved so quickly that they seemed as though they were jumping out of her head; there was too a broad-shouldered man sitting bent up in a corner. 'Well, honoured Matrona Semyonovna/ began Gubaryov, turning to the lady, and apparently not considering it necessary to introduce Litvinov to her, 'what was it you were beginning to tell us ? ' The lady (her name was Matrona Semyon- ovna Suhantchikov — she was a widow, childless, and not rich, and had been travelling from country to country for two years past) began with peculiar exasperated vehemence : ' Well, so he appears before the prince and says to him : " Your Excellency," he says, " in such an office and such a position as yours, what will it cost you to alleviate my lot? You," he says, " cannot but respect the purity of my ideas ! And is it possible," he says, " in 23 SMOKE these days to persecute a man for his ideas ? " And what do you suppose the prince did, that cultivated dignitary in that exalted position? ' " ' Why, what did he do ? ' observed Gubaryov, lighting a cigarette with a meditative air. The lady drew herself up and held out her bony right hand, with the first finger separated from the rest. ' He called his groom and said to him, " Take off that man's coat at once, and keep it your- self. I make you a present of that coat ! " ' ' And did the groom take it ? ' asked Bambaev, throwing up his arms. * He took it and kept it. And that was done by Prince Barnaulov, the well-known rich grandee, invested with special powers, the re- presentative of the government. What is one to expect after that ! ' The whole frail person of Madame Suhant- chikov was shaking with indignation, spasms passed over her face, her withered bosom was heaving convulsively under her flat corset ; of her eyes it is needless to speak, they were fairly leaping out of her head. But then they were always leaping, whatever she might be talking about. ' A crying shame, a crying shame ! ' cried Bambaev. ' No punishment could be bad enough ! ' 24 SMOKE ' Mmm. . . . Mmm. . . . From top to bottom it 's all rotten,' observed Gubaryov, without raising his voice, however. In that case punish- ment is not . . . that needs . . . other measures.' 1 But is it really true ? ' commented Litvinov. ' Is it true ? ' broke in Madame Suhantchikov. * Why, that one can't even dream of doubting . . . can't even d — d — d — ream of it.' She pro- nounced these words with such energy that she was fairly shaking with the effort. 4 I was told of that by a very trustworthy man. And you, Stepan Nikolaitch, know him — Elistratov, Kapiton. He heard it himself from eyewit- nesses, spectators of this disgraceful scene.' 'What Elistratov? ' inquired Gubaryov. 'The one who was in Kazan ? ' ' Yes. I know, Stepan Nikolaitch, a rumour was spread about him that he took bribes there from some contractors or distillers. But then who is it says so ? Pelikanov ! And how can one believe Pelikanov, when every one knows he is simply — a spy ! ' ' No, with your permission, Matrona Sem- yonovna,' interposed Bambaev, ' I am friends with Pelikanov, he is not a spy at all.' 1 Yes, yes, that 's just what he is, a spy ! ' 1 But wait a minute, kindly ' ' A spy, a spy ! ' shrieked Madame Suhant- chikov. 4 SMOKE I No, no, one minute, I tell you what,' shrieked Bambaev in his turn. 'A spy, a spy/ persisted Madame Suhant- chikov. ' No, no ! There 's Tentelyev now, that 's a different matter,' roared Bambaev with all the force of his lungs. Madame Suhantchikov was silent for a moment. I I know for a fact about that gentleman,' he continued in his ordinary voice, ' that when he was summoned before the secret police, he grovelled at the feet of the Countess Blazen- krampff and kept whining, " Save me, intercede for me ! " But Pelikanov never demeaned himself to baseness like that.' 1 Mm. . . . Tentelyev . . .' muttered Gubar- yov, ' that . . . that ought to be noted.' Madame Suhantchikov shrugged her shoul- ders contemptuously. 1 They 're one worse than another,' she said, 1 but I know a still better story about Tentelyev. He was, as every one knows, a most horrible despot with his serfs, though he gave himself out for an emancipator. Well, he was once at some friend's house in Paris, and suddenly in comes Madame Beecher Stowe — you know, Uncle Tonis Cabin. Tentelyev, who's an awfully pushing fellow, began asking the host to present him ; but directly she heard his name. " What?" 26 SMOKE she said, " he presumes to be introduced to the author of Uncle Tom ? " And she gave him a slap on the cheek ! " Go away ! " she says, " at once ! " And what do you think ? Ten- telyev took his hat and slunk away, pretty crestfallen.' ' Come, I think that 's exaggerated,' observed Bambaev. ' " Go away " she certainly did say, that 's a fact, but she didn't give him a smack ! ' 1 She did, she did ! ' repeated Madam Suhant- chikov with convulsive intensity : ' I am not talking idle gossip. And you are friends with men like that ! ' 1 Excuse me, excuse me, Matrona Semyon- ovna, I never spoke of Tentelyev as a friend of mine ; I was speaking of Pelikanov.' ' Well, if it 's not Tentelyev, its another. Mihnyov, for example.' 'What did he do then?' asked Bambaev, already showing signs of alarm. ' What ? Is it possible you don't know ? He exclaimed on the Poznesensky Prospect in the hearing of all the world that all the liberals ought to be in prison ; and what 's more, an old schoolfellow came to him, a poor man of course, and said, " Can I come to dinner with you ? " And this was his answer. " No, impossible ; I have two counts dining with me to-day . . , get along with you ! " ' 27 SMOKE 1 But that 's slander, upon my word ! ' voci- ferated Bambaev. 'Slander? . . . slander? In the first place, Prince Vahrushkin, who was also dining at your Mihnyov's ' ' Prince Vahrushkin/ Gubaryov interpolated severely, ' is my cousin ; but I don't allow him to enter my house. ... So there is no need to mention him even.' L In the second place/ continued Madame Suhantchikov, with a submissive nod in Gubar- yov's direction, ' Praskovya Yakovlevna told me so herself.' 1 You have hit on a fine authority to quote ! Why, she and Sarkizov are the greatest scandal- mongers going/ 1 I beg your pardon, Sarkizov is a liar, certainly. He filched the very pall of brocade off his dead father's coffin. I will never dispute that ; but Praskovya Yakovlovna — there 's no comparison ! Remember how magnanimously she parted from her husband ! But you, I know, are always ready — — ' 'Come, enough, enough, Matrona Semyon- ovna, said Bambaev, interrupting her, ' let us give up this tittle-tattle, and take a loftier flight. I am not new to the work, you. know. Have you read Mile, de la Quintinie ? That 's something charming now ! And quite 28 SMOKE in accord with your principles at the same time ! ' 1 1 never read novels now/ was Madame Suhantchikov's dry and sharp reply. ' Why ? ' ' Because I have not the time now ; I have no thoughts now but for one thing, sewing machines.' ' What machines ? ' inquired Litvinov. * Sewing, sewing ; all women ought to provide themselves with sewing-machines, and form societies ; in that way they will all be enabled to earn their living, and will become independent at once. In no other way can they ever be emancipated. That is an important, most important social question. I had such an argu- mentaboutit with BoleslavStadnitsky. Boleslav Stadnitsky is a marvellous nature, but he looks at these things in an awfully frivolous spirit. He does nothing but laugh. Idiot!' • All will in their due time be called to account, from all it will be exacted/ pronounced Gubar- yov deliberately, in a tone half- professorial, half-prophetic. 1 Yes, yes/ repeated Bambaev, * it will be exacted, precisely so, it will be exacted. But, Stepan Nikolaitch/ he added, dropping his voice, ' how goes the great work ? ' 1 I am collecting materials/ replied Gubaryov, 29 SMOKE knitting his brows; and, turning to Litvinov, whose head began to swim from the medley of unfamiliar names, and the frenzy of backbiting, he asked him what subjects he was interested in. Litvinov satisfied his curiosity. 1 Ah ! to be sure, the natural sciences. That is useful, as training ; as training, not as an end in itself. The end at present should be . . . mm. . . . should be . . . different. Allow me to ask what views do you hold ? ' 1 What views ? ' * Yes, that is, more accurately speaking, what are your political views ? ' Litvinov smiled. 4 Strictly speaking, I have no political views.' The broad-shouldered man sitting in the corner raised his head quickly at these words and looked attentively at Litvinov. ' How is that ? ' observed Gubaryov with peculiar gentleness. ' Have you not yet re- flected on the subject, or have you grown weary of it ? ' * How shall I say ? It seems to me that for us Russians, it is too early yet to have political views or to imagine that we have them. Ob- serve that I attribute to the word " political " the meaning which belongs to it by right, and that ' 30 SMOKE 1 Aha ! he belongs to the undeveloped/ Gubaryov interrupted him, with the same gentleness, and going up to Voroshilov, he asked him : ' Had he read the pamphlet he had given him ? ' Voroshilov, to Litvinov's astonishment, had not uttered a word ever since his entrance, but had only knitted his brows and rolled his eyes (as a rule he was either speechifying or else per- fectly dumb). He now expanded his chest in soldierly fashion, and with a tap of his heels, Qodded assent. 1 Well, and how was it ? Did you like it ? ■ 1 As regards the fundamental principles, I liked it ; but I did not agree with the inferences.' ' Mmm. . . . Andrei Ivanitch praised that pamphlet, however. You must expand your doubts to me later.' 1 You desire it in writing ? ' Gubaryov was obviously surprised ; he had not expected this ; however, after a moment's thought, he replied : ' Yes, in writing. By the way, I will ask you to explain to me your views also . . in regard to ... in regard to associations.' ' Associations on Lassalle's system, do you desire, or on the system of Schulze-Delitzsch ? ' 1 Mmm. ... on both. For us Russians, you understand, the financial aspect of the matter 3i SMOKE Is specially important. Yes, and the artel . . . as the germ. . , . All that, one must take note of. One must go deeply into it. And the question, too, of the land to bt apportioned to the peasants. . . .' ' And you, Stepan Nikolaitch, what is your view as to the number of acres suitable ? ' in- quired Voroshilov, with reverential delicacy in his voice. 'Mmm. . . . and the commune?' articulated Gubaryov, deep in thought, and biting a tuft of his beard he stared at the table-leg. ' The commune ! . . . Do you understand. That is a grand word ! Then what is the significance of these conflagrations ? these . . . these government measures against Sunday-schools, reading-rooms, journals? And the refusal of the peasants to sign the charters regulating their position in the future? And finally, what of what is happening in Poland ? Don't you see that . . . mmm. . . . that we . . we have to unite with the people . . . find out . . . find out their views ' Suddenly a heavy, almost a wrathful emotion seemed to take possession of Gubaryov ; he even grew black in the face and breathed heavily, but still did not raise his eyes, and continued to gnaw at his beard. 4 Can't you see ' ' Yevseyev is a wretch ! ' Madame Suhantchi- 32 SMOKE kov burst out noisily all of a sudden. Bambaev had been relating something to her in a voice lowered out of respect for their host. Gubaryov turned round swiftly on his heels, and again began limping about the room. Fresh guests began to arrive ; towards the end of the evening a good many people were assembled. Among them came, too, Mr. Yevseyev whom Madame Suhantchikov had vilified so cruelly. She entered into conversa- tion with him very cordially, and asked him to escort her home ; there arrived too a certain Pishtchalkin, an ideal mediator, one of those men of precisely whom perhaps Russia stands in need — a man, that is, narrow, of little infor- mation, and no great gifts, but conscientious, patient, and honest ; the peasants of his district almost worshipped him, and he regarded him- self very respectfully as a creature genuinely deserving of esteem. A few officers, too, were there, escaped for a brief furlough to Europe, and rejoicing — though of course warily, and ever mindful of their colonel in the back- ground of their brains — in the opportunity of dallying a little with intellectual — even rather dangerous — people ; two lanky students from Heidelberg came hurrying in, one looked about him very contemptuously, the other giggled spasmodically . . . both were very ill at ease; 33 С SMOKE after them a Frenchman — a so-called petit jeune homme — poked his nose in ; a nasty, silly, pitiful little creature, . . . who enjoyed some repute among his fellow commis-voyageurs on the theory that Russian countesses had fallen in love with him ; for his own part, his reflec- tions were centred more upon getting a supper gratis ; the last to appear was Tit Bindasov, in appearance a rollicking German student, in reality a skinflint, in words a terrorist, by vocation a police-officer, a friend of Russian merchants' wives and Parisian cocottes ; bald, toothless, and drunken; he arrived very red and sodden, affirming that he had lost his last farthing to that blackguard Benazet ; in reality, he had won sixteen guldens. ... In short, there were a number of people. Remarkable — really remarkable — was the respect with which all these people treated Gubaryov as a preceptor or chief ; they laid their ideas before him, and submitted them to his judgment ; and he replied by muttering, plucking at his beard, averting his eyes, or by some disconnected, meaningless words, which were at once seized upon as the utterances of the loftiest wisdom Gubaryov himself seldom interposed in the discussions ; but the others strained their lungs to the utmost to make up for it. It happened more than once that three or four were shouting 34 SMOKE for ten minutes together, and all were content and understood. The conversation lasted till after midnight, and was as usual distinguished by the number and variety of the subjects discussed. Madame Suhantchikov talked about Garibaldi, about a certain Karl Ivanovitch, who had been flogged by the serfs of his own household, about Napoleon III., about women's work, about a merchant, Pleskatchov, who had designedly caused the death of twelve work- women, and had received a medal for it with the inscription ' for public services ' ; about the proletariat, about the Georgian Prince Tchuktcheulidzov, who had shot his wife with a cannon, and about the future of Russia. Pishtchalkin, too, talked of the future of Russia, and of the spirit monopoly, and of the signifi- cance of nationalities, and of how he hated above everything what was vulgar. There was an out- burst all of a sudden from Voroshilov ; in a single breath, almost choking himself, he men- tioned Draper, Virchow, Shelgunov, Bichat, Helmholtz, Star, St. Raymund, Johann Muller the physiologist, and Johann Muller the historian ■ — obviously confounding them — Taine, Renan, Shtchapov ; and then Thomas Nash, Peele, Greene. . . . * What sort of queer fish may they be?' Bambaev muttered bewildered, Shake- speare's predecessors having the same relation 35 SMOKE to him as the ranges of the Alps to Mont Blanc. Voroshilov replied cuttingly, and he too touched on the future of Russia. Bambaev also spoke of the future of Russia, and even depicted it in glowing colours: but he was thrown into special raptures over the thought of Russian music, in which he saw something. ' Ah ! great indeed ! ' and in confirmation he began humming a song of Varlamov's, but was soon interrupted by a general shout, ' He is singing the Miserere from the Trovatore, and singing it excruciatingly too.' One little officer was reviling Russian literature in the midst of the hubbub ; another was quot- ing verses from Sparks ; but Tit Bindasov went even further ; he declared that all these swindlers ought to have their teeth knocked out, . . . and that 's all about it, but he did not particularise who were the swindlers alluded to. The smoke from the cigars became stifling ; all were hot and exhausted, every one was hoarse, all eyes were growing dim, and the perspiration stood out in drops on every face. Bottles of iced beer were brought in and drunk off in- stantaneously. 'What was I saying?' remarked one ; ' and with whom was I disputing, and about what?' inquired another. And among all the uproar and the smoke, Gubaryov walked indefatigably up and down as before, swaying from side to side and twitching at his beard ; 36 SMOKE now listening, turning an ear to some contro- versy, now putting in a word of his own ; and every one was forced to feel that he, Gubaryov, was the source of it all, that he was the master here, and the most eminent personality. . . . Litvinov, towards ten o'clock, began to have a terrible headache, and, taking advantage of a louder outburst of general excitement, went off quietly unobserved. Madame Suhantchikov had recollected a fresh act of injustice of Prince Barnaulov ; he had all but given orders to have some one's ears bitten off. The fresh night air enfolded Litvinov's flushed face caressingly, the fragrant breeze breathed on his parched lips. ' What is it/ he thought as he went along the dark avenue, ' that I have been present at? Why were they met together? What were they shouting, scolding, and making such a pother about? What was it all for?' Litvinov shrugged his shoulders, and turning into Weber's, he picked up a newspaper and asked for an ice. The newspaper was taken up with a discussion on the Roman question, and the ice turned out to be very nasty. He was already preparing to go home, when suddenly an unknown person in a wide- brimmed hat drew near, and saying in Russian : ' I hope I am not in your way ? ' sat down at his table. Only then, after a closer glance at 37 SMOKE the stranger, Litvinov recognised him as the broad-shouldered gentleman hidden away in a corner at Gubaryov's, who had stared at him with such attention when the conversation had turned on political views. During the whole evening this gentleman had not once opened his mouth, and now, sitting down near Litvinov, and taking off his hat, he looked at him with an expression of friendliness and some em- barrassment 38 V 1 Mr. GUBARYOV, at whose rooms I had the pleasure of meeting you to-day/ he began, ' did not introduce me to you ; so that, with your leave, I will now introduce myself — Potugin, retired councillor. I was in the department of finances in St. Petersburg. I hope you do not think it strange. ... I am not in the habit as a rule of making friends so abruptly . . . but with you. . . .' Here Potugin grew rather mixed, and he asked the waiter to bring him a little glass of kirsch-wasser. ' To give me courage/ he added with a smile. Litvinov looked with redoubled interest at the last of all the new persons with whom it had been his lot to be brought into contact that day. His thought was at once, * He is not the same as those.' Certainly he was not. There sat before him, drumming with delicate fingers on the edge of 39 SMOKE the table, a broad-shouldered man, with an ample frame on short legs, a downcast head of curly hair, with very intelligent and very mourn- ful eyes under bushy brows, a thick well-cut mouth, bad teeth, and that purely Russian nose to which is assigned the epithet ' potato ' ; a man of awkward, even odd exterior ; at least, he was certainly not of a common type. He was carelessly dressed ; his old-fashioned coat hung on him like a sack, and his cravat was twisted awry. His sudden friendliness, far from striking Litvinov as intrusive, secretly flattered him ; it was impossible not to see that it was not a common practice with this man to attach himself to strangers. He made a curious im- pression on Litvinov ; he awakened in him respect and liking, and a kind of involuntary compassion. ' I am not in your way then ? ' he repeated in a soft, rather languid and faint voice, which was marvellously in keeping with his whole per- sonality. 1 No, indeed,' replied Litvinov ; ' quite the contrary, I am very glad.' ' Really ? Well, then, I am glad too. I have heard a great deal about you ; I know what you are engaged in, and what your plans are. It 's a good work. That 's why you were silent this evening.' 40 SMOKE 1 Yes : you too said very little, I fancy/ ob- served Litvinov. Potugin sighed. ' The others said enough and to spare. I listened. Well/ he added, after a moment's pause, raising his eyebrows with a rather humorous expression, ' did you like our building of the Tower of Babel ? ' ' That 's just what it was. You have expressed it capitally. I kept wanting to ask those gentle- men what they were in such a fuss about.' Potugin sighed again. ( That 's the whole point of it, that they don't know that themselves. In former days the expression used about them would have been : " they are the blind instruments of higher ends " ; well, nowadays we make use of sharper epithets. And take note that I am not in the least in- tending to blame them ; I will say more, they are all . . . that is, almost all, excellent people. Of Madame Suhantchikov, for instance, I know for certain much that is good ; she gave away the last of her fortune to two poor nieces. Even admitting that the desire of doing something picturesque, of showing herself off, was not without its influence on her, still you will agree that it was a remarkable act of self-sacrifice in a woman not herself well-off! Of Mr. Pish- tchalkin there is no need to speak even ; the peasants of his district will certainly in time 4i SMOKE present him with a silver bowl like a pumpkin, and perhaps even a holy picture representing his patron saint, and though he will tell them in his speech of thanks that he does not deserve such an honour, he won't tell the truth there ; he does deserve it. Mr. Bambaev, your friend, has a wonderfully good heart ; it 's true that it 's with him as with the poet Yazikov, who they say used to sing the praises of Bacchic revelry, sitting over a book and sipping water ; his enthusiasm is completely without a special object, still it is enthusiasm ; and Mr. Voroshilov, too, is the most good-natured fellow ; like all his sort, all men who've taken the first prizes at school, he 's an aide-de-camp of the sciences, and he even holds his tongue sententiously, but then he is so young. Yes, yes, they are all ex- cellent people, and when you come to results, there 's nothing to show for it ; the ingredients are all first-rate, but the dish is not worth eating/ Litvinov listened to Potugin with growing astonishment : every phrase, every turn of his slow but self-confident speech betrayed both the power of speaking and the desire to speak. Potugin did, in fact, like speaking, and could speak well ; but, as a man in whom life had succeeded in wearing away vanity, he waited 42 SMOKE with philosophic calm for a good opportunity, a meeting with a kindred spirit. * Yes, yes/ he began again, with the special dejected but not peevish humour peculiar to him, * it is all very strange. And there is some- thing else I want you to note. Let a dozen Englishmen* for example, come together, and they will at once begin to talk of the sub- marine telegraph, or the tax on paper, or a method of tanning rats' skins, — of something, that 's to say, practical and definite ; a dozen Germans, and of course Schleswig-Holstein and the unity of Germany will be brought on the scene ; given a dozen Frenchmen, and the conversation will infallibly turn upon amorous adventures, however much you try to divert them from the subject ; but let a dozen Russians meet together, and instantly there springs up the question — you had an opportunity of being convinced of the fact this evening — the question of the significance and the future of Russia, and in terms so general, beginning with creation, without facts or conclusions. They worry and worry away at that unlucky subject, as children chew away at a bit of india-rubber — neither for pleasure nor profit, as the saying is. Well, then, of course the rotten West comes in for its share. It 's a curious thing, it beats us at every point, this West — but yet we declare 43 SMOKE that it 's rotten ! And if only we had a genuine contempt for it/ pursued Potugin, ' but that 's really all cant and humbug. We can do well enough as far as abuse goes, but the opinion of the West is the only thing we value, the opinion, that 's to say, of the Parisian loafers. ... I know a man — a good fellow, I fancy — the father of a family, and no longer young ; he was thrown into deep dejection for some days because in a Parisian restaurant he had asked for une portion de biftek aux pommes de terre, and a real French- man thereupon shouted : Garcon! biftek pommes! My friend was ready to die with shame, and after that he shouted everywhere, Biftek pommes ! and taught others to do the same. The very cocottes are surprised at the reverential trepidation with which our young barbarians enter their shame- ful drawing-rooms. " Good God ! " they are thinking, " is this really where I am, with no less a person than Anna Deslions herself! " ' 1 Tell me, pray,' continued Litvinov, ' to what do you ascribe the influence Gubaryov undoubt- edly has over all about him ? Is it his talent, his abilities ? ' 1 No, no ; there is nothing of that sort about him. . . .' 1 His personal character is it, then ? ' 1 Not that either, but he has a strong will. We Slavs, for the most part, as we all know, 44 SMOKE . are badly off for that commodity, and we grovel before it. It is Mr. Gubaryov's will to be a ruler, and every one has recognised him as a ruler. What would you have? The government has freed us from the dependence of serfdom — and many thanks to it ! but the habits of slavery are too deeply ingrained in us ; we can- not easily be rid of them. We want a master in everything and everywhere ; as a rule this master is a living person, sometimes it is some so-called tendency which gains authority over us. . . . At present, for instance, we are all the bondslaves of natural science. . . . Why, owing to what causes, we take this bondage upon us, that is a matter difficult to see into ; but such seemingly is our nature. But the great thing is, that we should have a master. Well, here he is amongst us ; that means he is ours, and we can afford to despise everything else ! Simply slaves ! And our pride is slavish, and slavish too is our humility. If a new master arises — it 's all over with the old one. Then it was Yakov, and now it is Sidor ; we box Yakov's ears and kneel to Sidor ! Call to mind how many tricks of that sort have been played amongst us ! We talk of scepticism as our special characteristic ; but even in our scepticism we are not like a free man fighting with a sword, but like a lackey hitting out with his fist, and 45 SMOKE very likely he is doing even that at his master's bidding. Then, we are a soft people too ; it 's not difficult to keep the curb on us. So that 's the way Mr. Gubaryov has become a power among us ; he has chipped and chipped away at one point, till he has chipped himself into success. People see that he is a man who has a great opinion of himself, who believes in him- self, and commands. That 's the great thing, that he can command ; it follows that he must be right, and we ought to obey him. All our sects, our Onuphrists and Akulinists, were founded exactly in that way. He who holds the rod is the corporal.' Potugin's cheeks were flushed and his eyes grew dim ; but, strange to say, his speech, cruel and even malicious as it was, had no touch of bitterness, but rather of sorrow, genuine and sincere sorrow. 4 How did you come to know Gubaryov ? ' asked Litvinov. 1 1 have known him a long while. And observe, another peculiarity among us ; a certain writer, for example, spent his whole life in inveighing in prose and verse against drunken- ness, and attacking the system of the drink monopoly, and lo and behold ! he went and bought two spirit distilleries and opened a hun- dred drink-shops — and it made no difference ! 46 SMOKE Any other man might have been wiped off the face of the earth, but he was not even reproached for it. And here is Mr. Gubaryov ; he is a Slavo- phil and a democrat and a socialist and anything you like, but his property has been and is still managed by his brother, a master of the old style, one of those who were famous for their fists. And the very Madame Suhantchikov, who makes Mrs. Beecher Stowe box Tentel- yev's ears, is positively in the dust before Gubaryov's feet. And you know the only thing he has to back him is that he reads clever books, and always gets at the pith of them. You could see for yourself to-day what sort of gift he has for expression ; and thank God, too, that he does talk little, and keeps in his shell. For when he is in good spirits, and lets himself go, then it's more than even I, patient as I am, can stand. He begins by coarse joking and telling filthy anecdotes . . . yes, really, our majestic Mr. Gubaryov tells filthy anecdotes, and guffaws so revoltingly over them all the time.' 1 Are you so patient ? ' observed Litvinov. * I should have supposed the contrary. But let me ask your name and your father's name ? ' Potugin sipped a little kirsch-wasser. 1 My name is Sozont. . . . Sozont Ivanitch. They gave me that magnificent name in honour of a kinsman, an archimandrite, to whom I am 47 SMOKE indebted for nothing else. I am, if I may ven- ture so to express myself, of most reverend stock. And as for your doubts about my patience, they are quite groundless : I am very patient. I served for twenty-two years under the authority of my own uncle, an actual coun- cillor of state, Irinarh Potugin. You don't know him?' 4 No.' 'I congratulate you. No, I am patient. " But let us return to our first head," as my esteemed colleague, who was burned alive some centuries ago, the protopope Avvakum, used to say. I am amazed, my dear sir, at my fellow-countrymen. They are all depressed, they all walk with down- cast heads, and at the same time they are all filled with hope, and on the smallest excuse they lose their heads and fly off into ecstasies. Look at the Slavophils even, among whom Mr. Gubaryov reckons himself: they are most excellent people, but there is the same mixture of despair and exultation, they too live in the future tense. Everything will be, will be, if you please. In reality there is nothing done, and Russia for ten whole centuries has created nothing of its own, either in government, in law, in science, in art, or even in handicraft. . . . But wait a little, have patience ; it is all coming. And why is it coming ; give us leave to inquire ? Why 48 SMOKE because we, to be sure, the cultured classes are all worthless ; but the people . . . Oh, the great people ! You see that peasant's smock ? That is the source that everything is to come from. All the other idols have broken down ; let us have faith in the smock-frock. Well, but sup- pose the smock-frock fails us ? No, it will not fail. Read Kohanovsky, and cast your eyes up to heaven ! Really, if I were a painter, I would paint a picture of this sort : a cultivated man standing before a peasant, doing him homage : heal me, dear master-peasant, I am perishing of disease ; and a peasant doing homage in his turn to the cultivated man : teach me, dear master- gentleman, Г am perishing from ignorance. Well, and of course, both are standing still. But what we ought to do is to feel really humble for a little — not only in words — and to borrow from our elder brothers what they have invented already before us and better than us ! Waiter, noch ein Gldschen Kirsch ! You mustn't think I 'm a drunkard, but alcohol loosens my tongue.' 1 After what you have just said/ observed Litvinov with a smile, ' I need not even inquire to which party you belong, and what is your opinion about Europe. But let me make one observation to you. You say that we ought to borrow from our elder brothers : but how can 49 d SMOKE we borrow without consideration of the condi- tions of climate and of soil, the local and national peculiarities? My father, I recollect, ordered from Butenop a cast-iron thrashing machine highly recommended ; the machine was very good, certainly — but what happened ? For five long years it remained useless in the barn, till it was replaced by a wooden American one — far more suitable to our ways and habits, as the American machines are as a rule. One cannot borrow at random, Sozont Ivanitch.' Potugin lifted his head. * I did not expect such a criticism as that from you, excellent Grigory Mihalovitch/ he began, after a moment's pause. ' Who wants to make you borrow at random ? Of course you steal what belongs to another man, not because it is some one else's, but because it suits you ; so it follows that you consider, you make a selection. And as for results, pray don't let us be unjust to ourselves ; there will be originality enough in them by virtue of those very local, climatic, and other conditions which you mention. Only lay good food before it, and the natural stomach will digest it in its own way ; and in time, as the organism gains in vigour, it will give it a sauce of its own. Take our language even as an instance. Peter the Great deluged it with thousands of foreign words, Dutch, French, and 50 SMOKE German ; those words expressed ideas with which the Russian people had to be familiar- ised ; without scruple or ceremony Peter poured them wholesale by bucketsful into us. At first, of course, the result was something of a monstrous product ; but later there began precisely that process of digestion to which I have alluded. The ideas had been introduced and assimilated ; the foreign forms evaporated gradually, and the language found substitutes for them from within itself; and now your humble servant, the most mediocre stylist, will undertake to translate any page you like out of Hegel — yes, indeed, out of Hegel — without making use of a single word not Slavonic. What has happened with the language, one must hope will happen in other departments. It all turns on the question : is it a nature of strong vitality ? and our nature — well, it will stand the test ; it has gone through greater trials than that. Only nations in a state of nervous debility, feeble nations, need fear for their health and their independence, just as it is only weak-minded people who are capable of falling into triumphant rhapsodies over the fact that we are Russians. I am very careful over my health, but I don't go into ecstasies over it : I should be ashamed.' ' That is all very true, Sozont Ivan itch,' ob- served Litvinov in his turn ; ' but why inevitably 5i SMOKE expose ourselves to such tests ? You say your- self that at first the result was monstrous ! Well, what if that monstrous product had per- sisted ? Indeed it has persisted, as you know yourself.' 1 Only not in the language — and that means a great deal ! And it is our people, not I, who have done it ; I am not to blame because they are destined to go through a discipline of this kind. " The Germans have developed in a normal way," cry the Slavophils, " let us too have a normal development ! " But how are you to get it when the very first historical step taken by our race — the summoning of a prince from over the sea to rule over them — is an irregularity, an abnormality, which is repeated in every one of us down to the present day ; each of us, at least once in his life, has cer- tainly said to something foreign, not Russian : " Come, rule and reign over me ! " I am ready, of course, to agree that when we put a foreign substance into our own body we cannot tell for certain what it is we are putting there, bread or poison ; yet it is a well-known thing that you can never get from bad to good through what is better, but always through a worse state of transition, and poison too is useful in medicine. It is only fit for fools or knaves to point with triumph to the poverty of the peasants after the 52 SMOKE emancipation, and the increase of drunkenness since the abolition of the farming of the spirit- tax. . . . Through worse to better ! ' Potugin passed his hand over his face. ' You asked me what was my opinion of Europe/ he began again : ' I admire her, and am devoted to her principles to the last degree, and don't in the least think it necessary to conceal the fact. I have long — no, not long — for some time ceased to be afraid to give full expression to my con- victions — and I saw that you too had no hesitation in informing Mr. Gubaryov of your own way of thinking. Thank God I have given up paying attention to the ideas and points of view and habits of the man I am con- versing with. Really, I know of nothing worse than that quite superfluous cowardice, that cringing desire to be agreeable, by virtue of which you may see an important dignitary among us trying to ingratiate himself with some little student who is quite insignificant in his eyes, positively playing down to him, with all sorts of tricks and devices. Even if we admit that the dignitary may do it out of desire for popularity, what induces us common folk to shuffle and degrade ourselves. Yes, yes, I am a Westerner, I am devoted to Europe : that 's to say, speaking more accurately, I am devoted to culture — the culture at which they make fun so 53 SMOKE wittily among us just now — and to civilisation — yes, yes, that is a better word — and I love it with my whole heart and believe in it, and I have no other belief, and never shall have. That word, ci-vi-li-sa-tion (Potugin pronounced each syllable with full stress and emphasis), is intelligible, and pure, and holy, and all the other ideals, nationality, glory, or what you like — they smell of blood. . . . Away with them ! ' * Well, but Russia, Sozont Ivanitch, your country — you love it ? ' Potugin passed his hand over his face. ' I love her passionately and passionately hate her.' Litvinov shrugged his shoulders. ' That 's stale, Sozont Ivanitch, that 's a commonplace.' ' And what of it ? So that 's what you 're afraid of! A commonplace! I know many excellent commonplaces. Here, for example, Law and Liberty is a well-known commonplace. Why, do you consider it's better as it is with us, lawlessness and bureaucratic tyranny ? And, besides, all those phrases by which so many young heads are turned : vile bourgeoisie, souverainete du peuple y right to labour, aren't they commonplaces too ? And as for love, inseparable from hate . . . ' 1 Byronism/ interposed Litvinov, * the roman- ticism of the thirties.' 54 " SMOKE 1 Excuse me, you 're mistaken ; such a ming- ling of emotions was first mentioned by Catullus, the Roman poet Catullus, 1 two thousand years ago. I have read that, for I know a little Latin, thanks to my clerical origin, if so I may venture to express myself. Yes, indeed, I both love and hate my Russia, my strange, sweet, nasty, precious country. I have left her just now. I want a little fresh air after sitting for twenty years on a clerk's high stool in a govern- ment office ; I have left Russia, and I am happy and contented here ; but I shall soon go back again : I feel that. It 's a beautiful land of gardens — but our wild berries will not grow here.' ' You are happy and contented, and I too like the place,' said Litvinov, ' and I came here to study ; but that does not prevent me from seeing things like that' He pointed to two cocottes who passed by, attended by a little group of members of the Jockey Club, grimacing and lisping, and to the gambling saloon, full to overflowing in spite of the lateness of the hour. 'And who told you I am blind to that?' Potugin broke in. ' But pardon my saying it, your remark reminds me of the triumphant * Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio: sed fieri sentio, et excrucior. — Catull lxxxvi. 55 SMOKE allusions made by our unhappy journalists at the time of the Crimean war, to the defects in the English War Department, exposed in the Times. I am not an optimist myself, and all humanity, all our life, all this comedy with tragic issues presents itself to me in no roseate colours : but why fasten upon the West what is perhaps ingrained in our very human nature? That gambling hall is disgusting, certainly ; but is our home-bred card-sharping any lovelier, think you ? No, my dear Grigory Mihalovitch, let us be more humble, more retiring. A good pupil sees his master's faults, but he keeps a respectful silence about them ; these very faults are of use to him, and set him on the right path. But if nothing will satisfy you but sharpening your teeth on the unlucky West, there goes Prince Koko at a gallop, he will most likely lose in a quarter of an hour over the green table the hardly earned rent wrung from a hun- dred and fifty families ; his nerves are upset, for I saw him at Marx's to-day turning over a pam- phlet of Vaillot. . . . He will be a capital person for you to talk to ! ' * But, please, please/ said Litvinov hurriedly, seeing that Potugin was getting up from his place, ' I know Prince Кокб very little, and besides, of course, I greatly prefer talking to you.' * Thanks very much,' Potugin interrupted 56 SMOKE him, getting up and making a bow ; 'but I have already had a good deal of conversation with you ; that 's to say, really, I have talked alone, and you have probably noticed yourself that a man is always as it were ashamed and awkward when he has done all the talking, especially so on a first meeting, as if to show what a fine fellow one is. Good-bye for the present. And I repeat I am very glad to have made your acquaintance.' 1 But wait a minute, Sozont Ivanitch, tell me at least where you live, and whether you intend to remain here long.' Potugin seemed a little put out. * I shall remain about a week in Baden. We can meet here though, at Weber's or at Marx's, or else I will come to you.' ' Still I must know your address.' 1 Yes. But you see I am not alone/ 'You are married?' asked Litvinov suddenly. 1 No, good heavens ! . . . what an absurd idea ! But I have a girl with me.' . . . 1 Oh ! ' articulated Litvinov, with a face of studied politeness, as though he would ask pardon, and he dropped his eyes. 1 She is only six years old/ pursued Potugin. 1 She 's an orphan . . . the daughter of a lady . . . a good friend of mine. So we had better meet here Good-bye/ 57 SMOKE flowers. Again something stirred in Litvinov's memory. He asked the man what the lady looked like, and the servant informed him that she was tall and grandly dressed and had a veil over her face. * A Russian countess most likely/ he added. 1 What makes you think that ? ' asked Lit- vinov. ' She gave me two guldens/ responded the servant with a grin. Litvinov dismissed him, and for a long while after he stood in deep thought before the window ; at last, however, with a wave of his hand, he began again upon the letter from the country. His father poured out to him his usual complaints, asserting that no one would take their corn, even for nothing, that the people had got quite out of all habits of obedience, and that probably the end of the world was coming soon. ' Fancy/ he wrote, among other things, 1 my last coachman, the Kalmuck boy, do you remember him ? has been bewitched, and the fellow would certainly have died, and I should have had none to drive me, but, thank goodness, some kind folks suggested and advised to send the sick man to Ryazan, to a priest, well- known as a master against witchcraft : and his cure has actually succeeded as well as possible, in confirmation of which I lay before you the 60 SMOKE letter of the good father as a document.' Litvinov ran through this document with curi- osity. In it was set forth : ' that the serving- man Nicanor Dmitriev was beset with a malady which could not be touched by the medical faculty ; and this malady was the work of wicked people; but he himself, Nicanor, was the cause of it, since he had not fulfilled his promise to a certain girl, and therefore by the aid of others she had made him unfit for anything, and if I had not appeared to aid him in these circumstances, he would surely have perished utterly, like a worm ; but I, trusting in the All-seeing Eye, have become a stay to him in his life ; and how I accomplished it, that is a mystery ; I beg your excellency not to counte- nance a girl who has such wicked arts, and even to chide her would be no harm, or she may again work him a mischief.' Litvinov fell to musing over this document ; it brought him a whiff of the desert, of the steppes, of the blind darkness of the life mould- ering there, and it seemed a marvellous thing that he should be reading such a letter in Baden, of all places. Meanwhile it had long struck midnight ; Litvinov went to bed and put out his light. But he could not get to sleep ; the faces he had seen, the talk he had heard, kept coming back and revolving, 61 SMOKE strangely interwoven and entangled in his burning head, which ached from the fumes of tobacco. Now he seemed to hear Gubaryov's muttering, and fancied his eyes with their dull, persistent stare fastened on the floor ; then suddenly those eyes began to glow and leap, and he recognised Madame Suhantchikov, and listened to her shrill voice, and involuntarily repeated after her in a whisper, ' she did, she did, slap his face.' Then the clumsy figure of Potugin passed before him ; and for the tenth, and the twentieth time he went over every word he had uttered ; then, like a jack in the box, Voroshilov jumped up in his trim coat, which fitted him like a new uniform ; and Pishtchalkin gravely and sagaciously nodded his well-cut and truly well-intentioned head ; and then Bindasov bawled and swore, and Bambaev fell into tearful transports. . . . And above all — this scent, this persistent, sweet, heavy scent gave him no rest, and grew more and more powerful in the darkness, and more and more importunately it reminded him of something which still eluded his grasp. . . . The idea occurred to Litvinov that the scent of flowers at night in a bedroom was injurious, and he got up, and groping his way to the nosegay, carried it into the next room ; but even from there the oppressive fragrance penetrated to 62 SMOKE him on his pillow and under the counterpane, and he tossed in misery from side to side. A slight delirium had already begun to creep over him ; already the priest, ' the master against witchcraft ' had twice run across his road in the guise of a. very playful hare with a beard and a pig-tail, and Voroshilov was trilling before him, sitting in a huge general's plumed cock-hat like a nightingale in a bush. . . . When suddenly he jumped up in bed, and clasping his hands, cried, ' Can it be she ? it can't be ! ' But to explain this exclamation of Litvinov's we must beg the indulgent reader to go back a few years with us. 63 VII EARLY in the fifties, there was living in Moscow, in very straitened ctrcumstances, almost in poverty, the numerous family of the Princes Osinin. These were real princes — not Tartar- Georgians, but pure-blooded descendants of Rurik. Their name is often to be met with in our chronicles under the first grand princes of Moscow, who created a united Russia. They possessed wide acres and many domains. Many a time they were rewarded for ' service and blood and disablement.' They sat in the Coun- cil of Boyars. One of them even rose to a very high position. But they fell under the ban of the empire through the plots of enemies ' on a charge of witchcraft and evil philtres/ and they were ruined ' terribly and beyond recall.' They were deprived of their rank, and banished to re- mote parts ; the Osinins fell and had never risen again, had never attained to power again. The ban was taken off in time, and they were even reinstated in their Moscow house and belong- 64 SMOKE mgs, but it was of no avail. Their family was impoverished, ' run to seed ' ; it did not revive under Peter, nor under Catherine ; and con- stantly dwindling and growing humbler, it had by now reckoned private stewards, managers of wine-shops, and ward police-inspectors among its members. The family of Osinins, of whom we have made mention, consisted of a husband and wife and five children. It was living near the Dogs' Place, in a one-storied little wooden house, with a striped portico looking on to the street, green lions on the gates, and all the other pretensions of nobility, though it could hardly make both ends meet, was constantly in debt at the green-grocer's, and often sitting without firewood or candles in the winter. The prince himself was a dull, indolent man, who had once been a handsome dandy, but had gone to seed completely. More from regard for his wife, who had been a maid-of-honour, than from respect for his name, he had been presented with one of those old-fashioned Moscow posts that have a small salary, a queer-sounding name, and abso- lutely no duties attached. He never meddled in anything, and did nothing but smoke from morning till night, breathing heavily, and always wrapped in a dressing-gown. His wife was a sickly irritable woman, for ever worried over domestic trifles — over getting her children 65 e SMOKE placed in government schools, and keeping up her Petersburg connections ; she could never accustom herself to her position and her remoteness from the Court. Litvinov's father had made acquaintance with the Osinins during his residence at Moscow, had had occasion to do them some services, and had once lent them three hundred roubles ; and his son often visited them while he was a student ; his lodging happened to be at no great distance from their house. But he was not drawn to them simply as near neighbours, nor tempted by their comfortless way of living. He began to be a frequent visitor at their house after he had fallen in love with their eldest daughter Irina. She had then completed her seventeenth year; she had only just left school, from which her mother withdrew her through a disagreement with the principal. This disagreement arose from the fact that Irina was to have delivered at a public function some verses in French, complimentary to the curator, and just before the performance her place was filled by another girl, the daughter of a very rich spirit-contractor. The princess could not stomach this affront ; and indeed Irina herself never forgave the principal for this act of injustice ; she had been dreaming beforehand of how she would rise 66 - • I :-: E re the eyes of everyone, attracting universal attention, and would deliver her speech, and how Moscow would talk about her afterwards ! . . . And, indeed, Moscow would have talked about her afterwards. She was a tall, slim girl, with a somewhat hollow chest and narrow un- formed shoulders, with a skin of a dead-white, rare at her age, and pure and smooth as china, with thick fair hair ; there were darker tresses _, r led in a very original way with the light ones. Her features — exquisitely, almost too perfectly, correct — had not yet quite lost the innocent expression that belongs to childhood ; the languid curves of her lovely neck, and her smile — half-indifferent, half-weary — betrayed the nervous temperament of a delicate girl ; but in the lines of those fine, faintly-smiling lips, of that small, falcon, slightly-narrow nose, there was something wilful and passionate, something dangerous for herself and others. Astounding, rea". were her eyes, dark grey with greenish lights, languishing, almond-shaped as an Egyptian goddess's, with shining lashes and bold sweep of eyebrow. There was a strange look in those eyes ; they seemed looking out intently and thoughtfully — looking out from some unknown depth and distance. At school, Irina had been reputed one of the best pupils for intelligence and abilities, but of uneven 67 SMOKE temper, fond of power, and headstrong ; one class-mistress prophesied that her passions would be her ruin — l vos passions vous perdronV ; on the other hand, another class-mistress cen- sured her for coldness and want of feeling, and called her ' une jeune fille sans coeur! Irina's companions thought her proud and reserved : her brothers and sisters stood a little in awe of her : her mother had no confidence in her : and her father felt ill at ease when she fastened her mysterious eyes upon him. But she inspired a feeling of involuntary respect in both her father and her mother, not so much through her qualities, as from a peculiar, vague sense of expectations which she had, in some undefined way, awakened in them. * You .will see, Praskovya Danilovna/ said the old prince one day, taking his pipe out of his mouth, ' our chit of an Irina will give us all a lift in the world yet/ The princess got angry, and told her husband that he made use of ' des expressions insuppor- tables ' ; afterwards, however, she fell to musing over his words, and repeated through her teeth : 'Well . . and it would be a good thing if we did get a lift/ Irina enjoyed almost unlimited freedom in her parents' house; they did not spoil her, they even avoided her a little, but they did not 68 SMOKE thwart her, and that was all she wanted. . , . Sometimes — during some too humiliating scene — when some tradesman would come and keep shouting, to be heard over the whole court, that he was sick of coming after his money, or their own servants would begin abusing their masters to their face, with ' fine princes you are, to be sure ; you may whistle for your supper, and go hungry to bed ' — Irina would not stir a muscle ; she would sit un- moved, an evil smile on her dark face ; and her smile alone was more bitter to her parents than any reproaches, and they felt themselves guilty — guilty, though guiltless — towards this being on whom had been bestowed, as it seemed, from her very birth, the right to wealth, to luxury, and to homage. Litvinov fell in love with Irina from the moment he saw her (he was only three years older than she was), but for a long while he failed to obtain not only a response, but even a hearing. Her manner to him was even over- cast with a shade of something like hostility ; he did in fact wound her pride, and she con- cealed the wound, and could never forgive it. He was too young and too modest at that time to understand what might be concealed under this hostile, almost contemptuous severity. Often, forgetful of lectures and exercises, he 69 SMOKE would sit and sit in the Osinins* cheerless drawing-room, stealthily watching Irina, his heart slowly and painfully throbbing and suffo- cating him ; and she would seem angry or bored, would get up and walk about the room, look coldly at him as though he were a table or chair, shrug her shoulders, and fold her arms. Or for a whole evening, even when talking with Litvinov, she would purposely avoid looking at him, as though denying him even that grace. Or she would at last take up a book and stare at it, not reading, but frowning and biting her lips. Or else she would suddenly ask her father or brother aloud : ' What 's the German for patience ? ' He tried to tear himself away from the enchanted circle in which he suffered and struggled impotently like a bird in a trap ; he went away from Moscow for a week. He nearly went out of his mind with misery and dulness ; he returned quite thin and ill to the Osinins'. . . . Strange to say, Irina too had grown perceptibly thinner during those days ; her face had grown pale, her cheeks were wan. . . . But she met him with still greater coldness, with almost malignant indifference ; as though he had intensified that secret wound he had dealt at her pride. . . . She tortured him in this way for two months. Then everything was transformed in one day. It was as though love 7o SMOKE had broken into flame with the heat, or had dropped down from a storm-cloud. One day — long will he remember that day — he was once more sitting in the Osinins' drawing-room at the window, and was looking mechanically into the street. There was vexation and weariness in his heart, he despised himself, and yet he could not move from his place. . . He thought that if a river ran there under the window, he would throw himself in, with a shudder of fear, but without a regret. Irina placed herself not far from him, and was somehow strangely silent and motionless. For some days now she had not talked to him at all, or to any one else ; she kept sitting, leaning on her elbows, as though she were in perplexity, and only rarely she looked slowly round. This cold torture was at last more than Litvinov could bear ; he got up, and without saying good-bye, he began to look for his hat. ' Stay/ sounded suddenly, in a soft whisper. Litvinov's heart throbbed, he did not at once recognise Irina's voice ; in that one word, there was a ring of something that had never been in it before. He lifted his head and was stupefied ; Irina was looking fondly — yes, fondly at him. * Stay/ she repeated ; ' don't go. I want to be with you/ Her voice sank still lower. ' Don't go. ... I wish it.' Under- standing nothing, not fully conscious what he 71 SMOKE was doing, he drew near her, stretched out his hands. . . . She gave him both of hers at once, then smiling, flushing hotly, she turned away, and still smiling, went out of the room. She came back a few minutes later with her youngest sister, looked at him again with the same prolonged tender gaze, and made him sit near her. ... At first she could say nothing; she only sighed and blushed ; then she began, timidly as it were, to question him about his pursuits, a thing she had never done before. In the evening of the same day, she tried several times to beg his forgiveness for not having done him justice before, assured him she had now become quite different, astonished him by a sudden out- burst of republicanism (he had at that time a positive hero-worship for Robespierre, and did not presume to criticise Marat aloud), and only a week later he knew that she loved him. Yes ; he long remembered that first day . . . but he did not forget those that came after either — those days, when still forcing himself to doubt, afraid to believe in it, he saw clearly, with transports of rapture, almost of dread, bliss un- hoped for coming to life, growing, irresistibly carrying everything before it, reaching him at last Then followed the radiant moments of first love — moments which are not destined to be, and could not fittingly be, repeated in the 72 SMOKE same life. Irina became all at once as docile as a lamb, as soft as silk, and boundlessly kind ; she began giving lessons to her younger sisters — not on the piano, she was no musician, but in French and English ; she read their school-books with them, and looked after the housekeeping ; everything was amusing and interesting to her; she would sometimes chatter incessantly, and sometimes sink into speechless tenderness ; she made all sorts of plans, and was lost in endless anticipations of what she would do when she was married to Litvinov (they never doubted that their marriage would come to pass), and how together they would . . . ' Work ? ' prompted Litvinov. . . . ' Yes ; work/ repeated Irina, ' and read . . . but travel before all things/ She particularly wanted to leave Moscow as soon as possible, and when Litvinov reminded her that he had not yet finished his course of study at the university, she always replied, after a moment's thought, that it was quite possible to finish his studies at Berlin or . . . somewhere or other. Irina was very little reserved in the expression of her feel- ings, and so her relations with Litvinov did not long remain a secret from the prince and princess. Rejoice they could not ; but, taking all circumstances into consideration, they saw no necessity for putting a veto on 73 SMOKE ( it at once. Litvinov's fortune was consider- able. . . . 1 But his family, his family ! ' . . . protested the princess. 'Yes, his family, of course,' replied the prince ; ' but at least he 's not quite a plebeian ; and, what's the principal point, Irina, you know, will not listen to us. Has there ever been a time when she did not do what she chose ? Vous connaissez sa violence ! Besides, there is nothing fixed definitely yet.' So reasoned the prince, but mentally he added, however : ' Madame Litvinov — is that all ? I had expected something else.' Irina took com- plete possession of her future fiance, and indeed he himself eagerly surrendered himself into her hands. It was as if he had fallen into a rapid river, and had lost himself. . . . And bitter and sweet it was to him, and he regretted nothing and heeded nothing. To reflect on the signifi- cance and the duties of marriage, or whether he, so hopelessly enslaved, could be a good husband, and what sort of wife Irina would make, and whether their relations to one another were what they should be — was more than he could bring himself to. His blood was on fire, he could think of nothing, only — to follow her, be with her, for the future without end, and then — let come what may ! But in spite of the complete absence of 74 SMOKE opposition on Litvinov's side, and the wealth of impulsive tenderness on Irina's, they did not get on quite without any misunderstandings and quarrels. One day he ran to her straight from the university in an old coat and ink- stained hands. She rushed to meet him with her accustomed fond welcome ; suddenly she stopped short ' You have no gloves,' she said abruptly, and added directly after : ' Fie ! what a student you are!' 'You are too particular, Irina/ remarked Litvinov. ' You are a regular student,' she repeated. 1 Vous n'etes pas distingue' ; and turning her back on him she went out of the room. It is true that an hour later she begged him to for- give her. ... As a rule she readily censured herself and accused herself to him ; but, strange to say, she often almost with tears blamed her- self for evil propensities which she had not, and obstinately denied her real defects. Another time he found her in tears, her head in her hands, and her hair in disorder ; and when, all in agitation, he asked her the cause of her grief, she pointed with her finger at her own bosom without speaking. Litvinov gave an involuntary shiver. * Consumption ! ' flashed through his brain, and he seized her hand. 75 SMOKE ' Are you ill, Irina ? ' he articulated in a shaking voice. (They had already begun on great occasions to call each other by their first names.) ' Let me go at once for a doctor/ But Irina did not let him finish ; she stamped with her foot in vexation. ' I am perfectly well. . . . but this dress . . . don't you understand ? ' 1 What is it ? . . . this dress/ he repeated in bewilderment. * What is it ? Why, that I have no other, and that it is old and disgusting, and I am obliged to put on this dress every day . . . even when you — Grisha — Grigory, come here. . . . You will leave off loving me, at last, seeing me so slovenly ! ' * For goodness sake, Irina, what are you say- ing ? That dress is very nice. . . . It is dear to me too because I saw you for the first time in it, darling.' Irina blushed. 'Do not remind me, if you please, Grigory Mihalovitch, that I had no other dress even then.' ' But I assure you, Irina Pavlovna, it suits you so exquisitely.' 1 No, it is horrid, horrid,' she persisted, nervously pulling at her long, soft curls. ' Ugh, this poverty, poverty and squalor ! How is one 76 SMOKE to escape from this sordidness ! How get out of this squalor ! ' Litvinov did not know what to say, and slightly turned away from her. All at once Irina jumped up from her chair, and laid both her hands on his shoulders. * But you love me, Grisha ? You love me ? ' she murmured, putting her face close to him, and her eyes, still rilled with tears, sparkled with the light of happiness, ' You love me, dear, even in this horrid dress ? ' Litvinov flung himself on his knees before her. 1 Ah, love me, love me, my sweet, my saviour,' she whispered, bending over him. So the days flew, the weeks passed, and though as yet there had been no formal declara- tion, though Litvinov still deferred his demand for her hand, not, certainly, at his own desire, but awaiting directions from Irina (she remarked sometimes that they were both ridiculously young, and they must add at least a few weeks more to their years), still everything was moving to a conclusion, and the future as it came nearer grew more and more clearly defined, when suddenly an event occurred, which scat- tered all their dreams and plans like light roadside dust. 77 VIII THAT winter the court visited Moscow. One festivity followed another ; in its turn came the customary great ball in the Hall of Nobility. The news of this ball, only, it is true, in the form of an announcement in the Political Gazette, reached even the little house in Dogs' Place. The prince was the first to be roused by it ; he decided at once that he must not fail to go and take Irina, that it would be unpardon- able to let slip the opportunity of seeing their sovereigns, that for the old nobility this consti- tuted indeed a duty in its own way. He de- fended his opinion with a peculiar warmth, not habitual in him ; the princess agreed with him to some extent, and only sighed over the ex- pense ; but a resolute opposition was displayed by Irina. ' It is not necessary, I will not go/ she replied to all her parents' arguments. Her obstinacy reached such proportions that the old prince decided at last to beg Litvinov to try to persuade her, by reminding her among other 78 SMOKE reasons that it was not proper for a young girl to avoid society, that she ought to ' have this experience/ that no one ever saw her anywhere, as it was. Litvinov undertook to lay these ' reasons ' before her. Irina looked steadily and scrutinisingly at him, so steadily and scrutinis- ingly that he was confused, and then, playing with the ends of her sash, she said calmly : 1 Do you desire it, you ? ' 'Yes. ... I suppose so,' replied Litvinov hesitatingly. ' I agree with your papa. . . . In- deed, why should you not go . . to see the world, and show yourself/ he added with a short laugh. ' To show myself/ she repeated slowly. ' Very well then, I will go. . . . Only remember, it is you yourself who desired it.' ■ That's to say, I / Litvinov was beginning. 1 You yourself have desired it/ she interposed. 1 And here is one condition more ; you must promise me that you will not be at this ball/ ' But why ? ' ' 1 wish it to be so/ Litvinov unclasped his hands. ' I submit . . . but I confess I should so have enjoyed seeing you in all your grandeur, wit- nessing the sensation you are certain to make. . . . How proud I should be of you ! ' he added with a sigh. 79 SMOKE Irina laughed. ( All the grandeur will consist of a white frock, and as for the sensation. . . . Well, any- way, I wish it.' 1 Irina, darling, you seem to be angry? 3 Irina laughed again. * Oh, no ! I am not angry. Only, Grisha . . . (She fastened her eyes on him, and he thought he had never before seen such an ex- pression in them.) ' Perhaps, it must be/ she added in an undertone. 'But, Irina, you love me, dear?' ' I love you/ she answered with almost solemn gravity, and she clasped his hand firmly like a man. All the following days Irina was busily occu- pied over her dress and her coiffure ; on the day before the ball she felt unwell, she could not sit still, and twice she burst into tears in solitude ; before Litvinov she wore the same uniform smile. . . . She treated him, however, with her old tenderness, but carelessly, and was con- stantly looking at herself in the glass. On the day of the ball she was silent and pale, but col- lected. At nine o'clock in the evening Litvinov came to look at her. When she came to meet him in a white tarlatan gown, with a spray of small blue flowers in her slightly raised hair, he almost uttered a cry ; she seemed to him so 80 SMOKE lovely and stately beyond what was natural to her years. ' Yes, she has grown up since this morning ! ' he thought, ' and how she holds her- self! That's what race does ! ' Irina stood before him, her hands hanging loose, without smiles or affectation, and looked resolutely, almost boldly, not at him, but away into the distance straight before her. ' You are just like a princess in a story book/ said Litvinov at last. ' You are like a warrior before the battle, before victory. . . . You did not allow me to go to this ball/ he went on, while she remained motionless as before, not because she was not listening to him, but because she was following another inner voice, 1 but you will not refuse to accept and take with you these flowers ? ' He offered her a bunch of heliotrope. She looked quickly at Litvinov, stretched out her hand, and suddenly seizing the end of the spray which decorated her hair, she said : ' Do you wish it, Grisha ? Only say the word, and I will tear off all this, and stop at home.' Litvinov's heart seemed fairly bursting. Irina's hand had already snatched the spray. . . . 1 No, no, what for?' he interposed hurriedly, in a rush of generous and magnanimous feel- ing, VI am not an egoist. , . . Why should I 8l F SMOKE restrict your freedom . . . when I know that your heart ' 1 Well, don't come near me, you will crush my dress/ she said hastily. Litvinov was disturbed. ' But you will take the nosegay?' he asked. 1 Of course ; it is very pretty, and I love that scent. Merci — I shall keep it in memory ' ' Of your first coming out,' observed Litvinov, ' your first triumph.' Irina looked over her shoulder at herself in the glass, scarcely bending her figure. 1 And do I really look so nice ? You are not partial ? ' Litvinov overflowed in enthusiastic praises. Irina was already not listening to him, and holding the flowers up to her face, she was again looking away into the distance with her strange, as it were, overshadowed, dilated eyes, and the ends of her delicate ribbons stirred by a faint current of air rose slightly behind her shoulders like wings. The prince made his appearance, his hair well becurled, in a white tie, and a shabby black evening coat, with the medal of nobility on a Vladimir ribbon in his buttonhole. After him came the princess In a china silk dress of antique cut, and with the anxious severity under which mothers try to conceal their agitation, 82 SMOKE set her daughter to rights behind, that is to say, quite needlessly shook out the folds of her gown. An antiquated hired coach with seats for four, drawn by two shaggy hacks, crawled up to the steps, its wheels grating over the frozen mounds of unswept snow, and a decrepit groom in a most unlikely-looking livery came running out of the passage, and with a sort of desperate courage announced that the carriage was ready. . . . After giving a blessing for the night to the children left at home, and enfolding themselves in their fur wraps, the prince and princess went out to the steps ; Irina in a little cloak, too thin and too short — how she hated the little cloak at that moment ! — followed them in silence. Litvinov escorted them outside, hoping for a last look from Irina, but she took her seat in the carriage without turning her head. About midnight he walked under the win- dows of the Hall of Nobility. Countless lights of huge candelabra shone with brilliant radiance through the red curtains ; and the whole square, blocked with carriages, was ringing with the insolent, festive, seductive strains of a waltz of Strauss.' The next day at one o'clock, Litvinov betook himself to the Osinins'. He found no one at home but the prince, who informed him at 83 SMOKE once that Irina had a headache, that she was in bed, and would not get up till the evening, that such an indisposition was however little to be wondered at after a first ball. ' О est tres naturel, vous savez, dans les jeunes filles! he added in French, somewhat to Lit- vinov's surprise ; the latter observed at the same instant that the prince was not in his dressing-gown as usual, but was wearing a coat. 1 And besides/ continued Osinin, ' she may well be a little upset after the events of yesterday ! ' 'Events?' muttered Litvinov. 1 Yes, yes, events, events, de vrais tenements . You cannot imagine, Grigory Mihalovitch, quel succes elle a eu ! The whole court noticed her ! Prince Alexandr Fedorovitch said that her place was not here, and that she reminded him of Countess Devonshirse. You know . . . that . . . celebrated. . . . And old Blazenkrampf declared in the hearing of all, that Irina was la reine du bal, and desired to be introduced to her ; he was introduced to me too, that 's to say, he told me that he remembered me a hussar, and asked me where I was holding office now. Most entertaining man that Count, and such an adorateur du beau sexe ! But that 's not all ; my princess . . . they gave her no peace either : Natalya Nikitishna herself conversed with her . . . what more could we have ? Irina 84 SMOKE danced avec tons les meilleurs cavaliers ; they kept bringing them up to me. ... I positively lost count of them. Would you believe it, they were all flocking about us in crowds ; in the mazurka they did nothing but seek her out. One foreign diplomatist, hearing she was a Moscow girl, said to the Tsar : ' Sire,' he said, i decidemenl c'est Moscou qui est le centre de voire empire ! ' and another diplomatist added : * С est une vraie revolution, Sire — revelation or revolution . . . something of that sort. Yes, yes, it was. I tell you it was something extra- ordinary.' 4 Well, and Irina Pavlovna herself?' inquired Litvinov, whose hands and feet had grown cold hearing the prince's speech, ' did she enjoy her- self, did she seem pleased?' 1 Of course she enjoyed herself ; how could &he fail to be pleased ? But, as you know, she's not to be seen through at a glance ! Every one was saying to me yesterday : it is really sur- prising ! jamais on ne dirait que mademoiselle voire fille est a son premier bal. Count Reisen- bach among the rest . . . you know him most likely.' I No, I don't know him at all, and have nevei heard of him/ * My wife's cousin/ I I don't know him/ 85 SMOK E 1 A rich man, a chamberlain, living in Peters- burg, in the swim of things ; in Livonia every- one is in his hands. Hitherto he has neglected us . . . but there, I don't bear him ill-will for that. f'ai Vhumeur facile, comme vous savez. Well, that's the kind of man he is. He sat near Irina, conversed with her for a quarter of an hour, not more, and said afterwards to my princess : " Ma cousine" he says, " votre fille est une perle ; с' est une perfection, every one is con- gratulating me on such a niece. . . ." And afterwards I look round — and he had gone up to a ... a very great personage, and was talking, and kept looking at Irina . . . and the personage was looking at her too.' . . » ■ And so Irina Pavlovna will not appear all day ? ' Litvinov asked again. 1 Quite so ; her head aches very badly. She told me to greet you from her, and thank you for your flowers, qiion a trouve charmant. She needs rest. . . . The princess has gone out on a round of visits . . . and I myself . . . you see. . . .' The prince cleared his throat, and began to fidget as though he were at a loss what to add further. Litvinov took his hat, and saying he did not want to disturb him, and would call again later to inquire after her health, he went away. 86 SMOKE A few steps from the Osinins' house he saw an elegant carnage for two persons standing before the police sentry-box. A groom in livery, equally elegant, was bending negligently from the box, and inquiring of the Finnish police-sergeant whereabouts Prince Pavel Vassil- yevitch Osinin lived. Litvinov glanced at the carriage ; in it sat a middle-aged man of bloated complexion, with a wrinkled and haughty face, a Greek nose, and an evil mouth, muffled in a sable wrap, by all outward signs a very great man indeed 87 IX LiTViNOV did not keep his promise of return- ing later ; he reflected that it would be 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 Kleopat- rinka. He greeted them, and then inquired, ' Was Irina Pavlovna better, and could he see her?' 1 Irinotchka has gone away with mammy/ replied Viktorinka ; she lisped a little, but was more forward than her sister. ' How . . . gone away ? ' repeated Litvinov, and 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 ? ' 1 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. 88 SMOKE { Papa is not at home/ continued Viktorinka, 'and Irinotchka is not well ; all night long she was crying and crying. . . .' 1 Crying ? ' 1 Yes, crying . . . Yegorovna told me, and her eyes are so red, they are quite in-in- flamed. . . ! 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 stupefac- tion, 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 sense- 89 SMOKE less. '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 recognised 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 Peters- burg. 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 realised. Forgive me, forget me ; I am not worthy of you. — Irina. Be magnani- mous : 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. 90 ^мокв 1 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 accord- ance with her character. She — she is not worthy of me. . . . That 'sit!' (He laughed bitterly.) ' She did not know herself what power was latent in her, — well, 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 for- gotten eyes, which he would never see again, which used to shine and melt at simply meeting his eyes ; he recalled one swift, timorous, burn- ing 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 himself 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 9i SMOKE than the cousin of the Princess Osinin, the rich chamberlain, Count Reisenbach. Noticing the sensation produced by Irina on certain per- sonages 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 skilful 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 92 SMOKE 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 prognosti- cations : 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 con- versation that touched on Petersburg and Petersburg society. Later on, by degrees, 93 SMOKE rumours — 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 splendour, 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 under- stand 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. 94 X LlTVTNOV 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 moun- tains 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 in- difference 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 95 SMOKE 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 himself behind a bush. . 1 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 in- structive 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 96 SMOKE 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 over- grown with ferns, the soothing rustle of the leaves, and the shrill notes of a solitary black- bird. A light and equally pleasant drowsiness began to steal over him, it seemed to approach him caressingly, and he dropped asleep . . . but suddenly he smiled and looked round ; 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. . . . Lrtvinov at once recognised 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 now- adays — grey trousers of fancy material, and very glossy town hats. A narrow black cravat closely 97 g SMOKE 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 im- portance was clearly expressed in everything: in their discreet nonchalance, in their amiably condescending smiles, in the intense indifference of their expression, the effeminate little move- ments 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 marvellous 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 98 SMOKE own future part in the government, and con- ducted 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 recognise 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 99 SMOKE were looking at him just as in those days in the little house in Moscow. 1 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 con- tinued now in French. ' Let me introduce you to my husband. Va/erien, Monsieur Litvinov, un ami denfance; 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 be- times 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 per- plexity. 1 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 child- hood. ' No, not long ! ' replied Litvinov. IOO SMOKE 1 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. 1 Deux gendarmes un beau dimanchel 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 irrita- bility 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. I But why don't you sit down, Grigory Miha- litch/ observed Irina at last. Litvinov obeyed and sat down. I I say, Valerien, give me some firel 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. 1 Avez vous des papiros?' asked one of the ladies, with a lisp. IOI SMOKE 1 De vrais papelitos, comtesse.* 1 Deux gendarmes un beau dimanchel the dull- eyed general hummed again, with intense exas- peration. ' 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. 1 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 Miha- litch, you have not changed much.' ' Really ? But you have changed, Irina Pav- lovna.' ' I have grown older.' ' No, I did not mean that.' I Irene ? ' 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. * Irene f ' I I am older/ pursued Irina, without answer- ing the lady, ' but I am not changed. No, no, I am changed in nothing.' ' Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche / ' was I02 SMOKE heard again. The irritable general only re- membered 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. 1 What a sad dog you are, Boris ! ' observed Ratmirov in an undertone. He spoke in Eng- lish and pronounced even the name ' Boris ' as if it were English. 1 Irene?' the* lady in the yellow hat said inquiringly for the third time. Irina turned sharply round to her. ' Eh bien ? quoi ? que me voulez-vous t ' 1 Je vous dirai plus tardl 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 f 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. 103 SMOKE 'Ah, voo, ah, voo, mossoo Verdew, mossoo Verdew/ sighed another lady, whose birthplace was Arzamass. ' Tranquillisez -vous, mesdamesl interposed Ratmirov. ' Monsieur Verdier m'a promis de venir se mettre a vos pieds! 1 He, he, he ! ' — The ladies fluttered their fans. The waiter brought some glasses of beer. ' Baierisch-Bierf 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 Jest 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.' * He was afraid ... of being shown up in the newspapers/ muttered some one. 104 SMOKE 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.' 1 And gentlemen's properties up for auction/ put in Ratmirov. 'Possibly under present circumstances. . . . What a conversation, though, in Baden au Vieux- Chdteau* i Mais pas du tout I pas du tout /' replied the lady in the yellow hat/ f adore les questions politiques.' 1 Madame a raison] interposed another gen- eral 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 honour ought never under any circum- stances to disown his convictions.. Don't you think so?' ' Of course,' rejoined the irritable general, darting a look at Litvinov, and as it were in- directly attacking him, 'but I don't see the necessity . . .' * No, no/ the condescending general inter- posed with the same mildness, 'your friend, 105 SMOKE Valerian Vladimirovitch, just referred to the sale of gentlemen's estates. Well? Is not that a fact?' 1 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 disput- ing 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 handker- chief. 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/ 1 There 's no turning back altogether, though/ observed Ratmirov moodily. The condescending general only grinned. 1 Yes, altogether, altogether, топ tres 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 ? ' i об SMOKE * 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 Pest 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?* whis- pered the general to Ratmirov. 1 What are you discussing here ? ' began the stout general suddenly. He obviously played the part of the spoilt child of the party. * Is it all about the newspapers ? About penny-a-liners ? Let me tell you a little anecdote of what hap- pened 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 107 SMOKE like that." " But sniff it as you ought," says I v " 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 rouble 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. 1 That 's all your invention, О friend of my bosom. . . . You threatening any one with a stick. . . . You haven't got a stick. О est pour /aire 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 semi- naries, and popular schools, these students, priests' sons, and commoners, all these small fry, tout ce fond du sac, la petite propriete, pire que le proletariat (the general uttered this in a languishing, almost faint voice) voila ce qui m'effraie . . . that 's where one ought to draw 108 SMOKE 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, mesdamesT 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 favour 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 hospi- tals, 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 pro- gress ! ' 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, but in my 109 SMOKB opinion avec Orphee aux enfers le progres a dit son dernier mot! ' Vous dites toujours des detises' giggled the lady from Arzamass. The general looked dignified. 1 Je ne suis jamais phis se'rieux, madame, que quandje dis des betisesl ' 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 trans- late into Russian : be civil but don't spare your fists.' 1 Ah, you 're a rascal, an incorrigible rascal/ interposed the condescending general. ' Mes- dames, 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 phenome- non 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/ no SMOKE * Not at all . . . the ministry indeed ! But really one can't refuse to recognise 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 ' 1 Valerienl interrupted Boris reprovingly, 1 il у a des dames ici. I did not expect this of you, or do you want to get on to a committee ? ' 1 But they are all closed now, thank God,' put in the irritable general, and he began humming again ' Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche! Ratmirov raiseda 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 suffer- ing tortures on her account. At every moment during this conversation Lit- vinov 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 ; in SMOKE * 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 plat- form. . . . 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, 112 SMOKE 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 reflect- ing 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 per- sonal 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 113 н SMOKE 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 marvellous, strange, extra- ordinary. Was it possible ? he had met, he had talked with the same Irina. . . . And why was there no trace in her of that hateful world- liness 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. * О 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. 114 XI LlTViNOV took up his book again, but he could not read. He went out of the house, walked a little, listened to the music, glanced in at the gambling, returned again to his room, and tried again to read — still without success. The time seemed to drag by with peculiar dreariness. Pishtchalkin, the well-intentioned peaceable mediator, came in and sat with him for three hours. He talked, argued, stated questions, and discoursed intermittently, first of elevated, and then of practical topics, and succeeded in diffusing around him such an atmosphere of dulness that poor Litvinov was ready to cry. In raising dulness — agonising, chilling, helpless, hopeless dulness — to a fine art, Pishtchalkin was absolutely unrivalled even among persons of the highest morality, who are notoriously masters in that line. The mere sight of his well-cut and well-brushed head, his clear lifeless eyes, his benevolent nose, produced an involuntary despondency, and his deliberate, "5 SMOKE drowsy, lazy tone seemed to have been created only to state with conviction and lucidity such sententious truths as that twice two makes four and not five or three, that water is liquid, and benevolence laudable ; that to the private in- dividual, no less than to the state, and to the state no less than to the private individual, credit is absolutely indispensable for financial operations. And with all this he was such an excellent man ! But such is the sentence the fates have passed on Russia ; among us, good men are dull. Pishtchalkin retreated at last ; he was replaced by Bindasov, who, without any beating about the bush, asked Litvinov with great effrontery for a loan of a hundred guldens, and the latter gave it him, in spite of the fact that Bindasov was not only unattractive, but even repulsive to him, that he knew for certain that he would never get his money back ; and was, besides, himself in need of it. What made him give him the money then, the reader will inquire. Who can tell ! That is another Russian weakness. Let the reader lay his hand on his heart and remember how many acts in his own life have had absolutely no other reason. And Bindasov did not even thank Litvinov ; he asked for a glass of red Baden wine, and without wiping his lips de- parted, loudly and offensively tramping with his 116 SMOKE boots. And how vexed Litvinov was with him- self already, as he watched the red nape of the retreating sharper's neck ! Before evening he received a letter from Tatyana in which she informed him that as her aunt was not well, she could not come to Baden for five or six days. This news had a depressing influence on Litvinov ; it increased his vexation, and he went to bed early in a disagreeable frame of mind. The following day turned out no better, if not worse, than the preceding. From early morning Litvinov's room was filled with his own countrymen ; Bambaev, Voroshilov, Pisht- chalkin, the two officers, the two Heidelberg students, all crowded in at once, and yet did not go away right up till dinner time, though they had soon said all they had to say and were obviously bored. They simply did not know what to do with themselves, and having got into Litvinov's lodgings they ' stuck ' there, as they say. First they discussed the fact that Gubaryov had gone back to Heidelberg, and that they would have to go after him ; then they philosophised a little, and touched on the Polish question ; then they advanced to re- flections on gambling and cocottes, and fell to repeating scandalous anecdotes ; at last the conversation sank into a discussion of all sorts of ' strong men ' and monsters of obesity and 117 SMOKE gluttony. First, they trotted out all the ancient stones of Lukin, of the deacon who ate no less than thirty-three herrings for a wager, of the Uhlan colonel, Ezyedinov, renowned for his corpulence, and of the soldier who broke the shin-bone on his own forehead ; then followed unadulterated lying. Pishtchalkin himself re- lated with a yawn that he knew a peasant woman in Little Russia, who at the time of her death had proved to weigh half a ton and some pounds, and a landowner who had eaten three geese and a sturgeon for luncheon ; Bam- baev suddenly fell into an ecstatic condition, and declared he himself was able to eat a whole sheep, ' with seasoning ' of course ; and Voroshilov burst out with something about a comrade, an athletic cadet, so grotesque that every one was reduced to silence, and after look- ing at each other, they took up their hats, and the party broke up. Litvinov, when he was left alone, tried to occupy himself, but he felt just as if his head was full of smouldering soot ; he could do nothing that was of any use, and the evening too was wasted. The next morning he was just preparing for lunch, when some one knocked at his door. ' Good Lord,' thought Litvinov, ■ one of yesterday's dear friends again/ and not with- out some trepidation he pronounced : Herein / ' 118 SMOKE The door opened slowly and in walked Potugin. Litvinov was exceedingly delighted to see him. ' This is nice ! ' he began, warmly shaking hands with his unexpected visitor, ' this is good of you ! I should certainly have looked you up myself, but you would not tell me where you live. Sit down, please, put down your hat. Sit down.' Potugin made no response to Litvinov's warm welcome, and remained standing in the middle of the room, shifting from one leg to the other ; he only laughed a little and shook his head. Litvinov's cordial reception obviously touched him, but there was some constraint in the expression of his face. 'There's . . . some little misunderstanding/ he began, not without hesitation. ' Of course, it would always be ... a pleasure ... to me . . . but I have been sent . . . especially to you/ 'That's to say, do you mean/ commented Litvinov in an injured voice, ' that you would not have come to me of your own accord ? ' ' Oh, no, . . . indeed ! But I ... I should, perhaps, not have made up my mind to intrude on you to-day, if I had not been asked to come to you. In fact, I have a message for you.' * From whom, may I ask ? ' 119 SMOKE 1 From a person you know, from Irina Pavlovna Ratmirov. You promised three days ago to go and see her and you have not been/ Litvinov stared at Potugin in amazement. 'You know Madame Ratmirov?* * As you see.' ' And you know her well ? ' ' I am to a certain degree a friend of hers. 1 Litvinov was silent for a little. 4 Allow me to ask you,' he began at last, ' do you know why Irina Pavlovna wants to see me?' Potugin went up to the window. * To a certain degree I do. She was, as far as I can judge, very pleased at meeting you, — well, — and she wants to renew your former relations.' ■ Renew,' repeated Litvinov. * Excuse my indiscretion, but allow me to question you a little more. Do you know what was the nature of those relations ? ' * Strictly speaking . . . no, I don't know. But I imagine,' added Potugin, turning suddenly to Litvinov and looking affectionately at him, * I imagine that they were of some value. Irina Pavlovna spoke very highly of you, and I was obliged to promise her I would bring you. Will you come ? ' 1 When ? ' I20 SMOKE ' Now ... at once.' Litvinov merely made a gesture with his hand. ' Irina Pavlovna,' pursued Potugin, 'supposes that the . . . how can I express it . . . the environment, shall we say, in which you found her the other day, was not likely to be particularly attractive to you ; but she told me to tell you, that the devil is not so black as he is fancied.' ' Hm. . . . Does that saying apply strictly to the environment ? ' ' Yes . . . and in general.' / Hm. . . . Well, and what is your opinion, Sozont Ivanitch, of the devil ? ' ' I think, Grigory Mihalitch, that he is in any case not what he is fancied.' ' Is he better ? ' 'Whether better or worse it's hard to say, but certainly he is not the same as he is fancied. Well, shall we go ? ' ' Sit here a little first. I must own that it still seems rather strange to me.' ' What seems strange, may I make bold to inquire ? ' ' In what way can you have become a friend of Irina Pavlovna ? ' Potugin scanned himself. c W T ith my appearance, and my position in 121 SMOKE society, it certainly does seem rather incredible ; but you know — Shakespeare has said already, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, etc." Life too is not to be trifled with. Here is a simile for you ; a tree stands before you when there is no wind ; in what way can a leaf on a lower branch touch a leaf on an upper branch ? It 's impossible. But when the storm rises it is all changed . . . and the two leaves touch.' • Aha ! So there were storms ? ' 1 1 should think 50 ! Can one live without them? But enough of philosophy. It's time to go.' Litvinov was still hesitating. ' О good Lord ! ' cried Potugin with a comic face, ' what are young men coming to nowa- days ! A most charming lady invites them to see her, sends messengers after them on pur- pose, and they raise difficulties. You ought to be ashamed, my dear sir, you ought to be ashamed. Here's your hat. Take it and " Vorwarts," as our ardent friends the Germans say.' Litvinov still stood irresolute for a moment, but he ended by taking his hat and going out of the room with Potugin. 122 XII THEY went to one of the best hotels in Baden and asked for Madame Ratmirov. The porter first inquired their names, and then answered at once that ' die Frau Fiirstin ist zu Hausel apd went himself to conduct them up the staircase and knock at the door of the apart- ment and announce them. ' Die Frau Fiirstin ' received them promptly : she was alone, her husband had gone off to Carlsruhe for an inter- view with a great official, an influential per- sonage who was passing through that town. Irina was sitting at a small table, embroider- ing on canvas when Potugin and Litvinov crossed the threshold. She quickly flung her embroidery aside, pushed away the little table and got up ; an expression of genuine pleasure overspread her face. She wore a morning dress, high at the neck ; the superb lines of her shoulders and arms could be seen through the thin stuff; her carelessly-coiled hair had come loose and fell low on her slender neck. Irina 123 SMOKE flung a swift glance at Potugin, murmured ' merci] and holding out her hand to Litvinov reproached him amicably for forgetfulness. ■' And you such an old friend ! ' she added. Litvinov was beginning to apologise. ' С est bien, c'est bien] she assented hurriedly and, taking his hat from him, with friendly insist- ence made him sit down. Potugin, too, was sitting down, but got up again directly, and saying that he had an engagement he could not put off, and that he would come in again after dinner, he proceeded to take leave. Irina again flung him a rapid glance, and gave him a friendly nod, but she did not try to keep him, and directly he had vanished behind the portiere, she turned with eager impatience to Litvinov. ' Grigory Mihalitch/ she began, speaking Russian in her soft musical voice, 'here we are alone at last, and I can tell you how glad I am at our meeting, because it ... it gives me a chance . . .' (Irina looked him straight in the face) ' of asking your forgiveness.' Litvinov gave an involuntary start. He had not expected so swift an attack. He had not expected she would herself turn the conver- sation upon old times. * Forgiveness ... for what ? ' . . . he muttered. Irina flushed. 124 SMOKE 1 For what ? . . . you know for what/ she said, and she turned slightly away. ' I wronged you, Grigory Mihalitch . . . though, of course, it was my fate ' (Litvinov was reminded of her letter) ' and I do not regret it ... it would be in any case too late ; but, meeting you so un- expectedly, I said to myself that we absolutely must become friends, absolutely . . . and I should feel it deeply, if it did not come about . . . and it seems to me for that we must have an explanation, without putting it off, and once for all, so that afterwards there should be no .r . . gene^ no awkwardness, once for all, Grigory Mihalitch ; and that you must tell me you for- give me, or else I shall imagine you feel . . . de la rancune. Voila ! It is perhaps a great piece of fatuity on my part, for you have probably forgotten everything long, long ago, but no matter, tell me, you have for- given me/ Irina uttered this whole speech without taking breath, and Litvinov could see that there were tears shining in her eyes . . . yes, actually tears. 1 Really, Irina Pavlovna,' he began hurriedly, ' how can you beg my pardon, ask forgiveness ? . . . That is all past and buried, and I can only feel astounded that, in the midst of all the splendour which surrounds you, you have still 125 SMOKE preserved a recollection of the obscure com- panions of your youth. . . .' ' Does it astound you ? ' said Irina softly. .' It touches me/ Litvinov went on, ' because I could never have imagined ' 1 You have not told me you have forgiven me, though/ interposed Irina. * I sincerely rejoice at your happiness, Irina Pavlovna. With my whole heart I wish you all that is best on earth. . . / * And you will not remember evil against me?' I will remember nothing but the happy moments for which I was once indebted to you.' Irina held out both hands to him ; Litvinov clasped them warmly, and did not at once let them go. . . . Something that long had not been, secretly stirred in his heart at that soft contact. Irina was again looking straight into his face ; but this time she was smiling. . . . And he for the first time gazed directly and intently at her. . . , Again he. recognised the features once so precious, and those deep eyes, with their marvellous lashes, and the little mole on her cheek, and the peculiar growth of her hair on her forehead, and her habit of some- how sweetly and humorously curving her lips and faintly twitching her eyebrows, all, all he recognised. . . . But how beautiful she had 126 SMOKE grown ! What fascination, what power in her fresh, woman's body ! And no rouge, no touch- ing up, no powder, nothing false on that fresh pure face. . . Yes, this was a beautiful woman. A mood of musing came upon Litvinov. . . . He was still looking at her, but his thoughts were far away. . . . Irina perceived it. ' Well, that is excellent/ she said aloud ; 1 now my conscience is at rest then, and I can satisfy my curiosity.' ( Curiosity,' repeated Litvinov, as though puzzled. ' Yes, yes. ... I want above all things to know what you have been doing all this time, what plans you have ; I want to know all, how, what, when . . . all, all. And you will have to tell me the truth, for I must warn you, I have not lost sight of you ... so far as I could.' 4 You did not lose sight of me, you . . . there ... in Petersburg?' 1 In the midst of the splendour which sur- rounded me, as you expressed it just now. Posi- tively, yes, I did not. As for that splendour we will talk about that again ; but now you must tell me, you must tell me so much, at such length, no one will disturb us. Ah, how delightful it will be/ added Irina, gaily sitting down and arranging herself at her ease in an armchair. ' Come, begin/ 127 SMOKE 1 Before telling my story, I have to thank you/ began Litvinov. « What for ? ' 1 For the bouquet of flowers, which made its appearance in my room.' I What bouquet ? I know nothing about it.' « What ? ' I I tell you I know nothing about it. . . . But I am waiting. . . I am waiting for your story. . . . Ah, what a good fellow that Potugin is to have brought you ! ' Litvinov pricked up his ears. ' Have you known this Mr. Potugin long ? ' he queried. 'Yes, a long while . . . but tell me your story.' * And do you know him well ? ' 1 Oh, yes ! ' Irina sighed. ' There are special reasons. . . . You have heard, of course, of Eliza Byelsky. . . . Who died, you know, the year before last, such a dreadful death? . . Ah, to be sure, I 'd forgotten you don't know all our scandals. ... It is well, it is well in- deed, that you don't know them. О quelle chance ! at last, at last, a man, a live man, who knows nothing of us ! And to be able to talk Russian with him, bad Russian of course, but still Russian, not that everlasting mawkish, sickening French patter of Petersburg/ 128 SMOKE * And Potugin, you say, was connected with — ' 1 It 's very painful for me even to refer to it/ Irina broke in. c Eliza was my greatest friend at school, and afterwards in Petersburg we saw each other continually. She con- fided all her secrets to me, she was very unhappy, she suffered much. Potugin behaved splendidly in the affair, with true chivalry. He sacrificed himself. It was only then I learnt to appreciate him ! But we have drifted away again. I am waiting for your story, Grigory Mihalitch.' J ' But my story cannot interest you the least, Irina Pavlovna.' ' That 's not your affair.' 1 Think, Irina Pavlovna, we have not seen each other for ten years, ten whole years. How much water has flowed by since then.' ' Not water only ! not water only ! ' she re- peated with a peculiar bitter expression; * that 's just why I want to hear what you are going to tell me/ 'And beside I really don't know where to begin.' 1 At the beginning. From the very time when you . . . when I went away to Petersburg. You left Moscow then. . . . Do you know I have never been back to Moscow since ! ' 'Really?' 129 1 SMOKE ' It was impossible at first ; and afterwards when I was married — - — .' 4 Have you been married long?' 1 Four years.' ' Have you no children ? ' ■ No/ she answered drily. Litvinov was silent for a little. 'And did you go on living at that, what was his name, Count Reisenbach's, till your marriage ? ' Irina looked steadily at him, as though she were trying to make up her mirid why he asked that question. 1 No,' . . . was her answer at last. ' I suppose, your parents. . . . By the way, haven't asked after them. Are they ' 1 They are both well' 1 And living at Moscow as before ?' ' At Moscow as before/ 1 And your brothers and sisters ? ' ' They are all right ; I have provided for all of them.' ' Ah ! ' Litvinov glanced up from under his brows at Irina._ ' In reality, Irina Pavlovna, it 's not I who ought to tell my story, but you, if only ' He suddenly felt embarrassed and stopped. Irina raised her hands to her face and turned her wedding-ring round upon her finger. 130 SMOKE ' Well ? I will not refuse/ she assented at last. ' Some day . . . perhaps. . . But first you . . . because, do you see, though I tried to follow you up, I know scarcely anything of you ; while of me . . . well, of me you have heard enough certainly. Haven't you ? I suppose you have heard of me, tell me ? ' 1 You, Irina Pavlovna, occupied too con- spicuous a place in the world, not to be the subject of talk . . . especially in the provinces, where I have been and where every rumour is believed.' 'And do you believe the rumours? And of what kind were the rumours ? ' 1 To tell the truth, Irina Pavlovna, such rumours very seldom reached me. I have led a very solitary life.' ' How so ? why, you were in the Crimea, in the militia?' * You know that too ? ' 1 As you see. I tell you, you have been watched.' Again Litvinov felt puzzled. ' Why am I to tell you what you know with- out me ? ' said Litvinov in an undertone. ' Why ... to do what I ask you. You see I ask you, Grigory Mihalitch.' Litvinov bowed his head and began . . began in rather a confused fashion to recount 131 SMOKE in rough outline to Irina his uninteresting adventures. He often stopped and looked inquiringly at Irina, as though to ask whether he had told enough. But she insistently de- manded the continuation of his narrative and pushing her hair back behind her ears, her elbows on the arm of her chair, she seemed to be catching every word with strained attention. Looking at her from one side and following the expression on her face, any one might perhaps have imagined she did not hear what Litvinov was saying at all, but was only deep in medita- tion. . But it was not of Litvinov she was meditating, though he grew confused and red under her persistent gaze. A whole life was rising up before her, a very different one, not his life, but her own. Litvinov did not finish his story, but stopped short under the influence of an unpleasant sense of growing inner discomfort. This time Irina said nothing to him, and did not urge him to go on, but pressing her open hand to her eyes, as though she were tired, she leaned slowly back in her chair, and remained motionless. Litvinov waited for a little ; then, reflecting that his visit had already lasted more than two hours, he was stretching out his hand for his hat, when suddenly in an adjoining room there was the sound of the rapid creak of thin kid boots, and 132 SMOKE preceded by the same exquisite aristocratic perfume, there entered Valerian Vladimirovitch Ratmirov. Litvinov rose and interchanged bows with the good-looking general, while Irina, with no sign of haste, took her hand from her face, and looking coldly at her husband, remarked in French, ' Ah ! so you Ve come back I But what time is it ? ' ' Nearly four, ma chere amie y and you not dressed yet — the princess will be expecting us/ \ answered the general ; and with an elegant bend of his tightly-laced figure in Litvinov's direction, he added with the almost effeminate playful- ness of intonation characteristic of him, * It 's clear an agreeable visitor has made you forget- ful of time.' The reader will permit us at this point to give him some information about General Rat- mirov. His father was the natural . . . what do you suppose ? You are not wrong — but we didn't mean to say that . . .. the natural son of an illustrious personage of the reign of Alexander I. and of a pretty little French actress. The illustrious personage brought his son for- ward in the world, but left him no fortune, and the son himself (the father of our hero) had not time to grow rich ; he died before he had risen above the rank of a colonel in the police. A year be- 133 SMOKE fore his death he had married a handsome young widow who had happened to put herself under his protection. His son by the widow, Valerian Alexandrovitch, having got into the Corps of Pages by favour, attracted the notice of the authorities, not so much by his success in the sciences, as by his fine bearing, his fine manners, and his good behaviour (though he had been exposed to all that pupils in the government military schools were inevitably exposed to in former days) and went into the Guards. His career was a brilliant one, thanks to the discreet gaiety of his disposition, his skill in dancing, his excellent seat on horseback when an orderly at reviews, and lastly, by a kind of special trick of deferential familiarity with his superiors, of tender, attentive almost clinging subservience, with a flavour of vague liberalism, light as air. . . . This liberalism had not, however, prevented him from flogging fifty peasants in a White Russian village, where he had been sent to put down a riot His personal appearance was most prepossessing and singularly youthful-looking ; smooth-faced and rosy-cheeked, pliant and persistent, he made the most of his amazing suc- cess with women ; ladies of the highest rank and mature age simply went out of their senses over him. Cautious from habit, silent from motives of prudence, General Ratmirov moved constantly 134 SMOKE in the highest society, like the busy bee gather- ing honey even from the least attractive flowers — and without morals, without information of any kind, but with the reputation of being good at business ; with an insight into men, and a ready comprehension of the exigencies of the moment, and above all, a never-swerving desire for his own advantage, he saw at last all paths lying open before him. . . . Litvinov smiled constrainedly, while Irina merely shrugged her shoulders. ' Well/ she said in the same cold tone, ' did you see the Count ? ' ' To be sure I saw him. He told me to re- member him to you.' - Ah ! is he as imbecile as ever, that patron of yours ? ' General Ratmirov made no reply. He only smiled to himself, as though lenient to the over- hastiness of a woman's judgment. With just such a smile kindly-disposed grown-up people respond to the nonsensical whims of children. 'Yes,' Irina went on, ' the stupidity of your friend the Count is too striking, even when one has seen a good deal of the world.' * You sent me to him yourself,' muttered the general, and turning to Litvinov he asked him in Russian, ' Was he getting any benefit from the Baden waters ? ' 135 SMOKE e I am in perfect health, I 'm thankful to say/ answered Litvinov. ' That 's the greatest of blessings/ pursued the general, with an affable grimace ; l and indeed one doesn't, as a rule, come to Baden for the waters ; but the waters here are very effectual, je veux dire, efficaces ; and any one who suffers, as I do for instance, from a nervous cough ' Irina rose quickly. ' We will see each other again, Grigory Mihalitch, and I hope soon/ she said in French, contemptuously cutting short her husband's speech, ' but now I must go and dress. That old princess is insufferable with her everlasting parties de plaisir, of which nothing comes but boredom.' ' You 're hard on every one to-day/ muttered her husband, and he slipped away into the next room. Litvinov -was turning towards the door. . . . Irina stopped him. ' You have told me everything/ she said, ' but the chief thing you concealed.' * What 's that ? ' 1 You are going to be married, I 'm told ? ' Litvinov blushed up to his ears. . . . As a fact, he had intentionally not referred to Tanya; but he felt horribly vexed, first, that Irina knew about his marriage, and, secondly, that she had, as it were, convicted him of a desire to 136 SMOKE , conceal it from her. He was completely at a loss what to say, while Irina did not take her eyes off him. 1 Yes, I am going to be married/ he said at last, and at once withdrew. Ratmirov came back into the room. 1 Well, why aren't you dressed ? ' he asked. 1 You can go alone ; my head aches.' * But the princess - . .' Irina scanned her husband from head to foot in one look, turned her back upon him, and went away to her boudoir. 127 XIII Litvinov felt much annoyed with himself, as though he had lost money at roulette, or failed to keep his word. An inward voice told him that he — on the eve of marriage, a man of sober sense, not a boy — ought not to have given way to the promptings of curiosity, nor the allure- ments of recollection. ' Much need there was to go ! ' he reflected. ' On her side simply flirtation, whim, caprice. . . . She's bored, she's sick of everything, she clutched at me . . . as some one pampered with dainties will suddenly long for black bread . . . well, that 's natural enough. . . . But why did I go ? Can I feel anything but contempt for her?' This last phrase he could not utter even in thought without an effort. . . . ' Of course, there 's no kind of danger, and never could be/ he pursued his reflections. * I know whom I have to deal with. But still one ought not to play with fire. ... I '11 never set my foot in her place again.' Litvinov dared not, or could not 138 SMOKE as yet, confess to himself how beautiful Irina had seemed to him, how powerfully she had worked upon his feelings. Again the day passed dully and drearily. At dinner, Litvinov chanced to sit beside a majestic belhomme, with dyed moustaches, who said nothing, and only panted and rolled his eyes . . . but, being suddenly taken with a hiccup, proved himself to be a fellow-country- man, by at once exclaiming, with feeling, in Russian, ' There, I said I ought not to eat melons!' In the evening, too, nothing happened to compensate for a lost day ; Bindasov, before Litvinov's very eyes, won a sum four times what he had borrowed from him, but, far from repaying his debt, he positively glared in his face with a menacing air, as though he were prepared to borrow more from him just because he had been a witness of his winnings. The next morning he was again invaded by a host of his compatriots ; Litvinov got rid of them with difficulty, and setting off to the mountains, he first came across Irina — he pretended not to recognise her, and passed quickly by — and then Potugin. He was about to begin a conversation with Potugin, but the latter did not respond to him readily. He was leading by the hand a smartly dressed little girl, with fluffy, almost white curls, large black eyes, and a pale, sickly 139 SMOKE little face, with that peculiar peremptory and impatient expression characteristic of spoiled children. Litvinov spent two hours in the mountains, and then went back homewards along the Lichtenthaler Allee. ... A lady, sitting on a bench, with a blue veil over her face, got up quickly, and came up to him. . . . He recognised Irina. ' Why do you avoid me, Grigory Mihalitch ? ' she said, in the unsteady voice of one who is boiling over within. Litvinov was taken aback. * I avoid you, Irina Pavlovna ? ' * Yes, you . . . you ' Irina seemed excited, almost angry. I You are mistaken, I assure you.' ' No, I am not mistaken. Do you suppose this morning — when we met, I mean — do you suppose I didn't see that you knew me ? Do you mean to say you did not know me ? Tell me.' I I really . . . Irina Pavlovna 'Grigory Mihalitch, you're a straightforward man, you have always told the truth ; tell me, tell me, you knew me, didn't you ? you turned away on purpose ? ' Litvinov glanced at Irina. Her eyes shone with a strange light, while her cheeks and lips were of a deathly pallor under the thick net of 140 SMOK E her veil. In the expression of her face, in the very sound of her abruptly jerked-out whisper, there was something so irresistibly mournful, beseeching . . . Litvinov could not pretend any longer. I Yes ... I knew you/ he uttered not without effort. Irina slowly shuddered, and slowly dropped her hands. ' Why did you not come up to me ? ' she whispered. ' Why . . . why ! ' Litvinov moved on one side, away from the path, Irina followed him in silence. ' Why ? ' he repeated once more, and suddenly his face was aflame, and he felt his chest and throat choking with a passion akin to hatred. * You . . . you ask such a question, after all that has passed between us ? Not now, of course, not now; but there . . . there . . in Moscow.' ' But, you know, we decided ; you know, you promised ' Irina was beginning. I I have promised nothing ! Pardon the harshness of my expressions, but you ask for the truth — so think for yourself: to what but a caprice — incomprehensible, I confess, to me — to what but a desire to try how much power you still have over me, can I attribute your . . . I don't know what to call it , . . your 141 SMOKE persistence ? Our paths have lain so far apart ! I have forgotten it all, I Ve lived through all that suffering long ago, I 've become a different man completely ; you are married — happy, at least, in appearance — you fill an envied position in the world ; what 's the object, what 's the use of our meeting ? What am I to you ? what are you to me ? We cannot even understand each other now ; there is absolutely nothing in common between us now, neither in the past nor in the present ! Especially . . . especially in the past ! ' Litvinov uttered all this speech hurriedly, jerkily, without turning his head. Irina did not stir, except from time to time she faintly stretched her hands out to him. It seemed as though she were beseeching him to stop and listen to her, while, at his last words, she slightly bit her lower lip, as though to master the pain of a sharp, rapid wound. 'Grigory Mihalitch/ she began at last, in a calmer voice ; and she moved still further away from the path, along which people from time to time passed. Litvinov in his turn followed her. 'Grigory Mihalitch, believe me, if I could imagine I had one hair's-breadth of power over you left, I would be the first to avoid you. If I have not done so, if I made up my mind, in 142 SMOKE spite of my ... of the wrong I did you in the past, to renew my acquaintance with you, it was because . . . because ' I Because what ? ' asked Litvinov, almost rudely. 'Because,' Irina declared with sudden force — 'it's too insufferable, too unbearably stifling for me in society, in the envied position you talk about ; because meeting you, a live man, after all these dead puppets — you have seen samples of them three days ago, there au Vieux Chateau, — I rejoice over you as an oasis in the desert, while you suspect me of flirting, and despise me and repulse me on the ground that I wronged you — as indeed I did — but far more myself! ' ' You chose your lot yourself, Irina Pavlovna, Litvinov rejoined sullenly, as before not turning his head. I I chose it myself, yes . . . and I don't com- plain , I have no right to complain/ said Irina hurriedly ; she seemed to derive a secret con- solation from Litvinov's very harshness. ; I know that you must think ill of me, and I won't justify myself; I only want to explain my feeling to you, I want to convince you 1 am in no flirting humour now. . . . Me flirting with you ! Why, there is no sense in it. . . . When I saw you, all that was good, that was young in 143 SMOKE me, revived . . . that time when I had not yet chosen my lot, everything that lies behind in that streak of brightness behind those ten years. . . .' 1 Come, really, Irina Pavlovna ! So far as I am aware, the brightness in your life began precisely with the time we separated. . . .' Irina put her handkerchief to her lips. * That's very cruel, what you say, Grigory Mihalitch ; but I can't feel angry with you. Oh, no, that was not a bright time, it was not for happiness I left Moscow ; I have known not one moment, not one instant of happiness . . . believe me, whatever you have been told. If I were happy, could I talk to you as I am talking now. ... I repeat to you, you don't know what these people are. . . . Why, they understand nothing, feel for nothing ; they Ve no intelli- gence even, hi esprit ni intelligence, nothing but tact and cunning ; why, in reality, music and poetry and art are all equally remote from them. . . . You will say that I was rather indifferent to all that myself; but not to the same degree, Grigory Mihalitch . . . not to the same degree! It's not a woman of the world before you now, you need only look at me — not a society queen. . . . That 's what they call us, I believe . . . but a poor, poor creature, really deserving of pity. Don't wonder at my words. 144 SMOKE ... I am beyond feeling pride now ! I hold out my hand to you as a beggar, will you understand, just as a beggar. ... I ask for chanty/ she added suddenly, in an involun- tary, irrepressible outburst, ' I ask for charity, and you ' Her voice broke. Litvinov raised his head and looked at Irina; her breathing came quickly, her lips were quivering. Suddenly his heart beat fast, and the feeling of hatred vanished. 1 You say that our paths have lain apart,' Irina went on. ' I know you are about to marry from inclination, you have a plan laid out for your whole life ; yes, that 's all so, but we have not become strangers to one another, Grigory Mihalitch ; we can still understand each other. Or do you imagine I have grown altogether dull — altogether debased in the mire? Ah, no, don't think that, please ! Let me open my heart, I beseech you — there — even for the sake of those old days, if you are not willing to forget them. Do so, that our meeting may not have come to pass in vain ; that would be too bitter ; it would not last long in any case. ... I don't know how to say it properly, but you will understand me, because I ask for little, so little . . . only a little sympathy, only that you should not repulse me, that you should let me open my heart ' 45 к SMOKE Irina ceased speaking, there were tears in her voice. She sighed, and timidly, with a kind of furtive, searching look, gazed at Litvinov, held out her hand to him. . . Litvinov slowly took the hand and faintly pressed it. ' Let us be friends,' whispered Irina. c Friends/ repeated Litvinov dreamily. ' Yes, friends ... or if that is too much to ask, then let us at least be friendly. . . . Let us be simply as though nothing had happened/ ' As though nothing had happened, . . .' repeated Litvinov again. ' You said just now, Irina Pavlovna, that I was unwilling to forget the old days. . . . But what if I can't forget them ?' A blissful smile flashed over Irina's face, and at once disappeared, to be replaced by a harassed, almost scared expression. 'Be like me, Grigory Mihalitch, remember only what was good in them ; and most of all, give me your word. . . . Your word of honour. . . .' 1 Well ? ' ' Not to avoid me . . . not to hurt me for nothing. You promise ? tell me ! ' ' Yes.' ' And you will dismiss all evil thoughts of me from your mind.' 'Yes . . . but as for understanding you — I give it up.' 1 46 SMOKE I There 's no need of that . . . wait a little, though, you will understand. But you will promise ? ' I I have said yes already.' * Thanks. You see I am used to believe you. I shall expect you to-day, to-morrow, I will not go out of the house. And now I must leave you. The Grand Duchess is coming along the avenue. . . . She 's caught sight of me, and I can't avoid going up to speak to her. . . . Good-bye till we meet. . . . Give me your hand, vite y vite. Till we meet' And warmly pressing Litvinov's hand, Irina walked towards a middle-aged person of dig- nified appearance, who was coming slowly along the gravel path, escorted by two other ladies, and a strikingly handsome groom in livery. i Eh bonjour, chere Madame] said the per- sonage, while Irina curtseyed respectfully to her. * Comment allez-vous atcjourd'hui? Venez un peu avec moi. y ' Votre Altesse a trop de bontel Irina's insinuat- ing voice was heard in reply. 147 XIV LlTVlNOV let the Grand Duchess and all her suite get out of sight, and then he too went along the avenue. He could not make up his mind clearly what he was feeling ; he was con- scious both of shame and dread, while his vanity was flattered. . . . The unexpected explanation with Irina had taken him utterly by surprise ; her rapid burning words had passed over him like a thunder-storm. ' Queer creatures these society women/ he thought ; ' there 's no con- sistency in them . . . and how perverted they are by the surroundings in which they go on living, while they 're conscious of its hideous- ness themselves ! ' . . . In reality he was not thinking this at all, but only mechanically re- peating these hackneyed phrases, as though he were trying to ward off other more painful thoughts. He felt that he must not think seriously just now, that he would probably have to blame himself, and he moved with lagging steps, almost forcing himself to pay attention to 14S SMOKE everything that happened to meet him. . . , He suddenly found himself before a seat, caught sight of some one's legs in front of it, and looked upwards from them. . . . The legs belonged to a man, sitting on the seat, and reading a news- paper ; this man turned out to be Potugin. Litvinov uttered a faint exclamation. Potugin laid the paper down on his knees, and looked attentively, without a smile, at Litvinov ; and Litvinov also attentively, and also without a smile, looked at Potugin. 1 May I sit by you ? ' he asked at last. ' By all means, I shall be delighted. Only I warn you, if you want to have a talk with me, you mustn't be offended with me — I'm in a most misanthropic humour just now, and I see everything in an exaggeratedly repulsive light/ ' That 's no matter, Sozont Ivanitch/ re- sponded Litvinov, sinking down on the seat, ' indeed it 's particularly appropriate. . . . But why has such a mood come over you ? ' ' I ought not by rights to be ill-humoured,' began Potugin. ' I 've just read in the paper a project for judicial reforms in Russia, and I see with genuine pleasure that we 've got seme sense at last, and they're not as usual on the pretext of independence, nationalism, or originality, proposing to tack a little home-made tag of our own on to the clear 149 SMOKE straightforward logic of Europe ; but are taking what's good from abroad intact. A single adaptation in its application to the peasants' sphere is enough. . . . There 's no doing away with communal ownership ! . . . Certainly, certainly, I ought not to be ill-humoured ; but to my misfortune I chanced upon a Russian "rough diamond," and had a talk with him, and these rough diamonds, these self-educated geniuses, would make me turn in my grave ! ' 1 What do you mean by a rough diamond ? ' asked Litvinov. ( Why, there 's a gentleman disporting him- self here, who imagines he 's a musical genius. " I have done nothing, of course," he '11 tell you. " I 'm a cipher, because I 've had no training, but I 've incomparably more melody and more ideas in me than in Meyerbeer." In the first place, I say : why have you had no training ? and secondly, that, not to talk of Meyerbeer, the humblest German flute-player, modestly blowing his part in the humblest German orchestra, has twenty times as many ideas as all our untaught geniuses ; only the flute-player keeps his ideas to himself, and doesn't trot them out with a flourish in the land of Mozarts and Haydns ; while our friend the rough diamond has only to strum some little waltz or song, and at once you see him with his hands 150 SMOKE in his trouser pocket and a sneer of contempt on his lips : I 'm a genius, he says. And in painting it 's just the same, and in everything else. Oh, these natural geniuses, how I hate them ! As if every one didn't know that it 's only where there 's no real science fully assimi- lated, and no real art, that there 's this flaunting affectation of them. Surely it 's time to have done with this flaunting, this vulgar twaddle, I together with all hackneyed phrases such as " no one ever dies of hunger in Russia," " nowhere is there such fast travelling as in Russia," " we Russians could bury all our enemies under our hats." I 'm for ever hearing of the richness of the Russian nature, their unerring instinct, and of Kulibin. . . . But what is this richness, after all, gentlemen ? Half-awakened mutterings or else half-animal sagacity. Instinct, indeed ! A fine boast. Take an ant in a forest and set it down a mile from its ant-hill, it will find its way home ; man can do nothing like it ; but what of it ? do you suppose he 's inferior to the ant ? Instinct, be it ever so unerring, is unworthy of man ; sense, simple, straightfor- ward, common sense — that 's our heritage, our pride ; sense won't perform any such tricks, but it 's that that everything rests upon. As for Kulibin, who without any knowledge of mechanics succeeded in making some very bad 151 SMOKE watches, why, I 'd have those watches set up in the pillory, and say : see, good people, this is the way not to do it. Kulibin 's not to blame for it, but his work 's rubbish. To admire Telushkin's boldness and cleverness because he climbed on to the Admiralty spire is well enough ; why not admire him ? But there 's no need to shout that he 's made the German architects look foolish, that they 're no good, except at making money. . . . He 's not made them look foolish in the least ; they had to put a scaffolding round the spire afterwards, and repair it in the usual way. For mercy's sake, never encourage the idea in Russia that anything can be done without training. No ; you may have the brain of a Solomon, but you must study, study from the ABC. Or else hold your tongue, and sit still, and be humble ! Phoo ! it makes one hot all over ! ' Potugin took off his hat and began fanning himself with his handkerchief. 1 Russian art,' he began again. ' Russian art, indeed ! . . . Russian impudence and conceit, I know, and Russian feebleness too, but Russian art, begging your pardon, I 've never come across. For twenty years on end they 've been doing homage to that bloated nonentity Bryullov, and fancying that we have founded a school of our own, and even that it will be 152 SMOKE better than all others. . . Russian art, ha, ha, ha ! ho, ho ! ' 1 Excuse me, though, Sozont Ivanitch/ re- marked Litvinov, 'would you refuse to recog- nise Glinka too, then ? ' Potugin scratched his head. 1 The exception, you know, only proves the rule, but even in that instance we could not dispense with bragging. If we 'd said, for example, that Glinka was really a remarkable musician, who was only prevented by circum- stances — outer and inner — from becoming the founder of the Russian opera, none would have disputed it ; but no, that was too much to expect ! They must at once raise him to the dignity of commander-in-chief, of grand-marshal, in the musical world, and disparage other nations while they were about it ; they have nothing to compare with him, they declare, then quote you some marvellous home-bred genius whose compositions are nothing but a poor imitation of second-rate foreign composers, yes, second-rate ones, for they 're the easiest to imitate. Nothing to compare with him ? Oh, poor benighted barbarians, for whom standards in art are non-existent, and artists are some- thing of the same species as the strong man Rappo : there 's a foreign prodigy, they say, can lift fifteen stone in one hand, but our man 153 SMOKE can lift thirty ! Nothing to compare with us, indeed ! I will venture to tell you some thing I remember, and can't get out of my head. Last spring I visited the Crystal Palace near London ; in that Palace, as you 're aware, there 's a sort of exhibition of everything that has been devised by the ingenuity of man — an encyclopaedia of humanity one might call it. Well, I walked to and fro among the machines and implements and statues of great men ; and all the while I thought, if it were decreed that some nation or other should disappear from the face of the earth, and with it everything that nation had invented, should disappear from the Crystal Palace, our dear mother, Holy Russia, could go and hide herself in the lower regions, without disarranging a single nail in the place : everything might remain undisturbed where it is ; for even the samovar, the woven bast shoes, the yoke-bridle, and the knout — these are our famous products — were not invented by us. One could not carry out the same experiment on the Sandwich islanders ; those islanders have made some peculiar canoes and javelins of their own ; their absence would be noticed by visitors. It 's a libel ! it 's too severe, you say perhaps. . . . But I say,, first, I don't know how to roar like any sucking dove ; and secondly, it 's plain that it 's not only the devil no one dares to look 154 SMOKE straight in the face, for no one dares to look straight at himself, and it 's not only children who like being soothed to sleep. Our older inventions came to us from the East, our later ones we 've borrowed, and half spoiled, from the West, while we still persist in talking about the independence of Russian art ! Some bold spirits have even discovered an original Russian science ; twice two makes four with us as else- where, but the result's obtained more ingeni- ously, it appears.' 1 But wait a minute, Sozont Ivanitch,' cried Litvinov. ' Do wait a minute ! You know we send something to the universal exhibitions, and doesn't Europe import something from us.' 1 Yes, raw material, raw products. And note, my dear sir : this raw produce of ours is gener- ally only good by virtue of other exceedingly bad conditions ; our bristles, for instance, are large and strong, because our pigs are poor ; our hides are stout and thick because our cows are thin ; our tallow 's rich because it 's boiled down with half the flesh. . . . But why am I enlarging on that to you, though ; you are a student of technology, to be sure, you must know all that better than I do. They talk to me of our inventive faculty ! The inventive faculty of the Russians ! Why our worthy- farmers complain bitterly and suffer loss be- 155 SMOKE cause there 's no satisfactory machine for drying grain in existence, to save them from the necessity of putting their sheaves in ovens, as they did in the days of Rurik ; these ovens are fearfully wasteful — just as our bast shoes and our Russian mats are, — and they are con- stantly getting on fire. The farmers complain, but still there 's no sign of a drying-machine. And why is there none ? Because the German farmer doesn't need them ; he can thrash his wheat as it is, so he doesn't bother to invent one, and we . . . are not capable of doing it ! Not capable — and that 's all about it ! Try as we may ! From this day forward I declare whenever I come across one of those rough diamonds, these self-taught geniuses, I shall say : " Stop a minute, my worthy friend ! Where 's that drying-machine ? let 's have it ! " But that 's beyond them ! Picking up some old cast-off shoe, dropped ages ago by St. Simon or Fourier, and sticking it on our heads and treating it as a sacred relic — that 's what we 're capable of; or scribbling an article on the historical and contemporary significance of the proletariat in the principal towns of France — that we can do too ; but I tried once, asking a writer and political economist of that sort — rather like your friend, Mr Voroshilov — to mention twenty towns in France, and what do 156 SMOKE you think came of that ? Why the economist in despair at last mentioned Mont-Fermeuil as one of the French towns, remembering it pro- bably from some novel of Paul de Kock's. And that reminds me of the following anecdote. I was one day strolling through a wood with a dog and a gun ' 4 Are you a sportsman then?' asked Litvinov. 1 1 shoot a little. I was making my way to a swamp in search of snipe ; I 'd been told of the swamp by other sportsmen. I saw sitting in a clearing before a hut a timber merchant's clerk, as fresh and smooth as a peeled nut, he was sitting there, smiling away — what at, I can't say. So I asked him : " Whereabouts was the swamp, and were there many snipe in it ? " " To be sure, to be sure," he sang out promptly, and with an expression of face as though I 'd given him a rouble ; " the swamp 's first-rate, I 'm thankful to say ; and as for all kinds of wild fowl, — my goodness, they 're to be found there in wonderful plenty." I set off, but not only found no wild fowl, the swamp itself had been dry for a long time. Now tell me, please, why is the Russian a liar? Why does the political economist lie, and why the lie about the wild fowl too ? ' Litvinov made no answer, but only sighed sympathetica! ly. 157 ШОКЕ 'But turn the conversation with the same political economist,' pursued Potugin, ' on the most abstruse problems of social science, keep- ing to theory, without facts . . . ! — he takes flight like a bird, a perfect eagle. I did once succeed, though, in catching one of those birds. I used a pretty snare, though an obvious one, as you shall see if you please. I was talking with one of our latter-day " new young men " about various questions, as they call them. Well, he got very hot, as they always do. Marriage among other things he attacked with really childish exasperation. I brought forward one argument after another ... I might as well have talked to a stone wall ! I saw I should never get round him like that. And then I had a happy thought ! " Allow me to submit to you," I began, — one must always talk very respectfully to these " new young men " — " I am really surprised at you, my dear sir ; you are studying natural science, and your atten- tion has never up till now been caught by the fact that all carnivorous and predatory animals — wild beasts and birds — all who have to go out in search of prey, and to exert themselves to obtain animal food for themselves and their young . . . and I suppose you would include man in the category of such animals?" "Of course, I should," said the " new young man," 158 SMOKK "man is nothing but a carnivorous animal." " And predatory ? " I added. " And predatory," he declared. " Well said," I observed. " Well, then I am surprised you Ve never noticed that such animals live in monogamy." The "new young man " started. " How so ? " " Why, it is so. Think of the lion, the wolf, the fox, the vulture, the kite ; and, indeed, would you con- descend to suggest how they could do other- wise. It's hard work enough for the two together to get a living for their offspring." My " new young man " grew thoughtful. " Well," says he, " in that case the animal is not a rule for man." Thereupon I called him an idealist, and wasn't he hurt at that ! He almost cried. I had to comfort him by promising not to tell of him to his friends. To deserve to be called an idealist is no laughing matter ! The main point in which our latter-day young people are out in their reckoning is this. They fancy that the time for the old, obscure, underground work is over, that it was all very well for their old- fashioned fathers to burrow like moles, but that 's too humiliating a part for us, we will take action in the light of day, we will take action . . . Poor darlings ! why your children even won't take action ; and don't you care to go back to burrowing, burrowing underground again in the old tracks ? ' 159 SMOKE A brief silence followed. * I am of opinion, my dear sir/ began Potugin again, ' that we are not only indebted to civilisa- tion for science, art, and law, but that even the very feeling for beauty and poetry is developed and strengthened under the influence of the same civilisation, and that the so-called popular, simple, unconscious creation is twaddling and rubbishy. Even in Homer there are traces of a refined and varied civilisation ; love itself is enriched by it. The Slavophils would cheer- fully hang me for such a heresy, if they were not such chicken-hearted creatures ; but I will stick up for my own ideas all the same ; and however much they press Madame Kohanovsky and " The swarm of bees at rest " upon me, — J can't stand the odour of that triple extrait de mongik Russe, as I don't belong to the highest society, which finds it absolutely necessary to assure itself from time to time that it has not turned quite French, and for whose exclusive benefit this literature en cuir de Russie is manu- factured. Try reading the raciest, most " pop- ular " passages from the " Bees " to a common peasant — a real one ; he'll think you're repeat- ing him a new spell against fever or drunken- ness. I repeat, without civilisation there 's not even poetry. If you want to get a clear idea of the poetic ideal of the uncivilised 1 60 SMOKE Russian, you should turn up our ballads, our legends. To say nothing of the fact that love is always presented as the result of witchcraft, of sorcery, and produced by some philtre, to say nothing of our so-called epic literature being the only one among all the European and Asiatic literatures — the only one, observe, which does not present any typical pair of lovers — unless you reckon Vanka-Tanka as such ; and of the Holy Russian knight always beginning his acquaintance with his destined bride by beating her " most pitilessly " on her white body, because "the race of women is puffed up " ! all that I pass over ; but I should like to call your attention to the artistic form of the young hero, the j'eune premier y as he was depicted by the imagination of the primitive, uncivilised Slav. Just fancy him a minute ; the jeune premier enters; a cloak he has worked himself of sable, back-stitched along every seam, a sash of seven-fold silk girt close about his armpits, his fingers hidden away under his hang- ing sleevelets, the collar of his coat raised high above his head, from before, his rosy face no man can see, nor, from behind, his little white neck ; his cap is on one ear, while on his feet are boots of morocco, with points as sharp as a cobbler's awl, and the heels peaked like nails. Round the points an egg can be rolled, and a sparrow l6l L SMOKE can fly under the heels. And the young hero advances with that peculiar mincing gait by means of which our Alcibiades, Tchivilo Plenk- ovitch, produced such a striking, almost medical, effect on old women and young girls, the same gait which we see in our loose-limbed waiters, that cream, that flower of Russian dandyism, that ne plus ultra of Russian taste. This I maintain without joking ; a sack-like grace- fulness, that's an artistic ideal. What do you think, is it a fine type ? Does it present many materials for painting, for sculpture? And the beauty who fascinates the young hero, whose " face is as red as the blood of the hare " ? ... But I think you're not listening to me ? ' Litvinov started. He had not, in fact, heard what Potugin was saying ; he kept thinking, persistently thinking of Irina, of his last inter- view with her. . . . 1 I beg your pardon, Sozont Ivanitch,' he began, ' but I 'm going to attack you again with my former question about . . . about Madame Ratmirov.' Potugin folded up his newspaper and put it in his pocket. 'You want to know again how I came to know her ? ' * No, not exactly. I should like to hear your 162 SMOKE opinion ... on the part she played in Peters- burg. What was that part, in reality ? ' 1 1 really don't know what to say to you, Gri- gory Mihalitch ; I was brought into rather intimate terms with Madame Ratmirov . . . but quite accidentally, and not for long. I never got an insight into her world, and what took place in it remained unknown to me. There was some gossip before me, but as you know, it's not only in democratic circles that slander reigns supreme among us. Besides I was not inquisitive. I see though/ he added, after a short silence, ' she interests you.' ' Yes ; we have twice talked together rather openly. I ask myself, though, is she sincere ? Potugin looked down. ' When she is carried away by feeling, she is sincere, like all women of strong passions. Pride too, sometimes pre- vents her from lying.' * Is she proud ? I should rather have sup- posed she was capricious.' ■ Proud as the devil ; but that 's no harm.' 1 1 fancy she sometimes exaggerates. . . .' * That's nothing either, she's sincere all the same. Though after all, how can you expect truth ? The best of those society women are rotten to the marrow of their bones/ 1 But, Sozont Ivanitch, if you remember, you 163 SMOKE called yourself her friend. Didn't you drag me almost by force to go and see her ? ' * What of that ? she asked me to get hold of you; and I thought, why not? And I really am her friend. She has her good qualities: she 's very kind, that is to say, generous, that 's to say she gives others what she has no sort of need of herself. But of course you must know her at least as well as I do/ ' I used to know Irina Pavlovna ten years ago ; but since then ' ' Ah, Grigory Mihalitch, why do you say that? Do you suppose any one's character changes ? Such as one is in one's cradle, such one is still in one's tomb. Or perhaps it is' (here Potugin bowed his head still lower) ' per- haps, you 're afraid of falling into her clutches ? that 's certainly . . . But of course one is bound to fall into some woman's clutches.' Litvinov gave a constrained laugh. " * You think so ? ' ' There 's no escape. Man is weak, woman is strong, opportunity is all-powerful, to make up one's mind to a joyless life is hard, to forget oneself utterly is impossible . . . and on one side is beauty and sympathy and warmth and light, — how is one to resist it ? Why, one runs like a child to its nurse. Ah, well, afterwards to be sure comes cold and darkness and empti- 164 SMOKE ness ... in due course. And you end by being strange to everything, by losing comprehension of everything. At first you don't understand how love is possible ; afterwards one won't understand how life is possible.' Litvinov looked at Potugin, and it struck him that he had never yet met a man more lonely, more desolate . . . more unhappy. This time he was not shy, he was not stiff ; downcast and pale, his head on his breast, and his hands on his knees, he sat without moving, merely smiling his dejected smile. Litvinov felt sorry for the poor, embittered, eccentric creature. 1 Irina Pavlovna mentioned among other things/ he began in a low voice, ■ a very intimate friend of hers, whose name if I remember was Byelsky, or Dolsky. . . .' Potugin raised his mournful eyes and looked at Litvinov. 'Ah!' he commented thickly. . . . 'She men- tioned . . . well, what of it ? It 's time, though/ he added with a rather artificial yawn, ' for me to be getting home — to dinner. Good-bye.' He jumped up from the seat and made off quickly before Litvinov had time to utter a word. ... His compassion gave way to annoy- ance — annoyance with himself, be it understood. Want of consideration of any kind was foreign to his nature ; he had wished to express his 165 SMOKE sympathy for Potugin, and it had resulted in something like a clumsy insinuation. With secret dissatisfaction in his heart, he went back to his hotel. ' Rotten to the marrow of her bones/ he thought a little later. . . . 'but proud as the devil ! She, that woman who is almost on her knees to me, proud ? proud and not capricious ? ' Litvinov tried to drive Irina's image out of his head, but he did not succeed. For this very reason he did not think of his betrothed ; he felt to-day this haunting image would not give up its place. He made up his mind to await without further anxiety the solution of all this 'strange business'; the solution could not be long in coming, and Litvinov had not the slightest doubt it would turn out to be most innocent and natural. So he fancied, but meanwhile he was not only haunted by Irina's image — every word she had uttered kept recur- ring in its turn to his memory. The waiter brought him a note : it was from the same Irina : ' If you have nothing to do this evening, come to me ; I shall not be alone ; I shall have guests, and you will get a closer view of our set, our society. I want you very much to see something of them ; I fancy they will show themselves in all their brilliance. You 1 66 SMOKE ought to know what sort of atmosphere I am breathing. Come ; I shall be glad to see you, and you will not be bored. (Irina had spelt the Russian incorrectly here.) Prove to me that our explanation to-day has made any sort of misunderstanding between us impossible for ever. — Yours devotedly, I.' Litvinov put on a frock coat and a white tie, and set off to Irina's. ' All this is of no impor- tance,' he repeated mentally on the way, ' as' for looking at them . . . why shouldn't I have a look at them ? It will be curious.' A few days before, these very people had aroused a different sensation in him ; they had aroused his indig- nation. He walked with quickened steps,hiscap pulled down over his eyes, and a constrained smile on his lips, while Bambaev, sitting before Weber's cafe, and pointing him out from a distance to Voroshilov and Pishtchalkin, cried excitedly: ' Do you see that man ? He 's a stone ! he 's a rock ! he 's a flint ! ! 1 ' 167 XV LlTVlNOV found rather many guests at Ifina's. In a corner at a card- table were sitting three of the generals of the picnic : the stout one, the irascible one, and the condescending one. They were playing whist with dummy, and there is no word in the language of man to express the solemnity with which they dealt, took tricks, led clubs and led diamonds . . . there was no doubt about their being statesmen now ! These gallant generals left to mere commoners, aux bourgeois, the little turns and phrases commonly used during play, and uttered only the most in- dispensable syllables ; the stout general how- ever permitted himself to jerk off between two deals : * Ce satane as de pique / ' Among the visitors Litvinov recognised ladies who had been present at the picnic ; but there were others there also whom he had not seen before. There was one so ancient that it seemed every instant as though she would fall to pieces : she shrugged her bare, gruesome, dingy grey 1 68 SMOKE shoulders, and, covering her mouth with her fan, leered languishingly with her absolutely death- like eyes upon Ratmirov ; he paid her much attention ; she was held in great honour in the highest society, as the last of the Maids of Honour of the Empress Catherine. At the window, dressed like a shepherdess, sat Coun- tess S., ' the Queen of the Wasps/ surrounded by young men. Among them the celebrated millionaire and beau Finikov was conspicuous for his supercilious deportment, his absolutely flat skull, and his expression of soulless brutality, worthy of a Khan of Bucharia, or a Roman Heliogabalus. Another lady, also a countess, known by the pet name of Lz'se, was talking to a long-haired, fair, and pale spiritual- istic medium. Beside them was standing a gentleman, also pale and long-haired, who kept laughing in a meaning way. This gentleman also believed in spiritualism, but added to that an interest in prophecy, and, on the basis of the Apocalypse and the Talmud, was in the habit of foretelling all kinds of marvellous events. Not a single one of these events had come to pass ; but he was in no wise disturbed by that fact, and went on prophesying as before. At the piano, the musical genius had installed him- self, the rough diamond, who had stirred Potu- gin to such indignation ; he was striking chords 169 SMOKE with a careless hand, cCune main distraite, and kept staring vaguely about him. Irina was sit- ting on a sofa between Prince Koko and Madame H., once a celebrated beauty and wit, who had long ago become a repulsive old crone, with the odour of sanctity and evapor- ated sinfulness about her. On catching sight of Litvinov, Irina blushed and got up, and when he went up to her, she pressed his hand warmly. She was wearing a dress of black crepon, relieved by a few inconspicuous gold ornaments ; her shoulders were a dead white, while her face, pale too, under the momentary flood of crimson overspreading it, was breathing with the triumph of beauty, and not of beauty alone ; a hidden, almost ironical happiness was shining in her half-closed eyes, and quivering about her lips and nostrils. . . . Ratmirov approached Litvinov and after exchanging with him his customary civilities, unaccompanied however by his customary play- fulness, he presented him to two or three ladies : the ancient ruin, the Queen of the Wasps, Coun- tess Liza . . . they gave him a rather gracious reception. Litvinov did not belong to their set ; but he was good-looking, extremely so, indeed, and the expressive features of his youth- ful face awakened their interest. Only he did not know how to fasten that interest upon him- I7o SMOKE self; he was unaccustomed to society and was conscious of some embarrassment, added to which the stout general stared at him persist- ently. * Aha ! lubberly civilian ! free-thinker ! ' that fixed heavy stare seemed to be saying: ' down on your knees to us ; crawl to kiss our hands ! ' Irina came to Litvinov's aid. She man- aged so adroitly that he got into a corner near the door, a little behind her. As she addressed him, she had each time to turn round to him, and every time he admired the exquisite curve of her splendid neck, he drank in the subtle fragrance of her hair. An expression of grati- tude, deep and calm, never left her face ; he could not help seeing that gratitude and no- thing else was what those smiles, those glances expressed, and he too was all aglow with the same emotion, and he felt shame, and delight and dread at once . . . and at the same time she seemed continually as though she would ask, 'Well? what do you think of them?' With special clearness Litvinov heard this unspoken question whenever any one of the party was guilty of some vulgar phrase or act, and that occurred more than once during the evening. Once she did not even conceal her feelings, and laughed aloud. Countess Liza, a lady of superstitious bent, with an inclination for everything extraordinary, 171 SMOKB after discoursing to her heart's content with the spiritualist upon Home, turning tables, self- playing concertinas, and so on, wound up by asking him whether there were animals which could be influenced by mesmerism. 1 There is one such animal any way,' Prince Кокб declared from some way off. ' You know Melvanovsky, don't you ? They put him to sleep before me, and didn't he snore, he, he!' 1 You are very naughty, топ prince ; I am speaking of real animals, y£ parle des betes! 1 Mais moi aussi, madame y je parle d'une bete. . . .' * There are such,' put in the spiritualist ; ' for instance — crabs ; they are very nervous, and are easily thrown into a cataleptic state.' The countess was astounded. 'What? Crabs ! Really ? Oh, that 's awfully interest- ing ! Now, that I should like to see, M'sieu Luzhin,' she added to a young man with a face as stony as a new doll's, and a stony collar (he prided himself on the fact that he had bedewed the aforesaid face and collar with the sprays of Niagara and the Nubian Nile, though he re- membered nothing of all his travels, and cared for nothing but Russian puns . . .). ' M'sieu Luzhin, if you would be so good, do bring us a crab quick.' 172 SMOKE M'sieu Luzhin smirked. ' Quick must it be, or quickly ? ' he queried. The countess did not understand him. * Mais om } a crab/ she repeated, ' une ecrevisse! ( Eh ? what is it ? a crab ? a crab ? ' the Countess S. broke in harshly. The absence of M. Verdier irritated her ; she could not imagine why Irina had not invited that most fascinating of Frenchmen. The ancient ruin, who had long since ceased understanding anything — moreover she was completely deaf — only shook her head. 1 Oui y oui y vous allez voir. M'sieu Luzhin, please. . . .' The young traveller bowed, went out, and re- turned quickly. A waiter walked behind him, and grinning from ear to ear, carried in a dish, on which a large black crab was to be seen. * Void, madamel cried Luzhin ; ' now we can proceed to the operation on cancer. Ha, ha, ha ! ' (Russians are always the first to laugh at their own witticisms.) ' He, he, he ! ' Count Кокб did his duty con- descendingly as a good patriot, and patron of all national products. (We beg the reader not to be amazed and in- dignant ; who can say confidently for himself that sitting in the stalls of the Alexander Theatre, and infected by its atmosphere, he has not applauded even worse puns ?) 173 SMOKE 1 Merci, tnerci! said the countess. ' A lions, allons y Monsieur Fox, tnontrez nous ca.' The waiter put the dirh down on a little round table. There was a slight movement among the guests ; several heads were craned forward ; only the generals at the card-table preserved the serene solemnity of their pose. The spiritualist ruffled up his hair, frowned, and, approaching the table, began waving his hands in the air ; the crab stretched itself, backed, and raised its claws. The spiritualist repeated and quickened his movements ; the crab stretched itself as before. ' Mais que doit-elle done /aire ? ' inquired the countess. ' Elle dod rester immobile et se dresser sur sa quioul replied Mr. Fox, with a strong American accent, and he brandished his fingers with con- vulsive energy over the dish ; but the mesmerism had no effect, the crab continued to move. The spiritualist declared that he was not himself, and retired with an air of displeasure from the table. The countess began to console him, by assuring him that similar failures occurred sometimes even with Mr. Home. . . Prince Koko con- firmed her words. The authority on the Apocalypse and the Talmud stealthily went up to the table, and making rapid but vigorous thrusts with his fingers in the direction of the i74 SMOKE crab, he too tried his luck, but without success ; no symptom of catalepsy showed itself. Then the waiter was called; and told to take away the crab, which he accordingly did, grinning from ear to ear, as before ; he could be heard explod- ing outside the door. . . . There was much laughter afterwards in the kitchen iiber diese Russen. The self-taught genius, who had gone on striking notes during the experiments with the crab, dwelling on melancholy chords, on the ground that there was no knowing what influ- ence music might have — the self-taught genius played his invariable waltz, and, of course, was deemed worthy of the most flattering applause. Pricked on by rivalry, Count H., our incompar- able dilettante (see Chapter I.), gave a little song of his own composition, cribbed wholesale from Offenbach. Its playful refrain to the words : '■Queloeuff quel bceuff set almost all the ladies' heads swinging to right and to left ; one went so far as to hum the tune lightly, and the irre- pressible, inevitable word, ' Charmant ! char- mant /' was fluttering on every one's lips. Irina exchanged a glance with Litvinov, and again the same secret, ironical expression quivered about her lips. . . . But a little later it was still more strongly marked, there was even a shade of malice in it, when Prince Кокб, that repre- sentative and champion of the interests of the 175 SMOKE nobility, thought fit to propound his views to the spiritualist, and, of course, gave utterance before long to his famous phrase about the shock to the principle of property, accompanied naturally by an attack on democrats. The spiritualist's American blood was stirred ; he began to argue. The prince, as his habit was, at once fell to shouting at the top of his voice ; instead of any kind of argument he repeated incessantly : ' О est absurde ! cela n'a pas le sens commun ! ' The millionaire Finikov began say- ing insulting things, without much heed to whom they referred ; the Talmudist's piping notes and even the Countess S.'s jarring voice could be heard. ... In fact, almost the same incongru* ous uproar arose as at Gubaryov's ; the only difference was that here there was no beer nor tobacco- smoke, and every one was better dressed. Ratmirov tried to restore tranquillity (the generals manifested their displeasure, Boris's exclamation could be heard, ( Encore cette sataiiee politique /'), but his efforts were not successful, and at that point, a high official of the stealthily inquisitorial type, who was present, and under- took to present le resume en pen de mots, sustained a defeat : in fact he so hummed and hawed, so repeated himself, and was so obviously incapable of listening to or taking in the answers he received, and so unmistakably 176 SMOKE failed to perceive himself what precisely con- stituted la question that no other result could possibly have been anticipated. And then too Irina was slily provoking the disputants and setting them against one another, constantly exchanging glances and slight signs with Lit- vinov as she did so. . . . But he was sitting like one spell-bound, he was hearing nothing, and waiting for nothing but for those splendid eyes to sparkle again, that pale, tender, mischievous, exquisite face to flash upon him again. . . . It ended by the ladies growing restive, and re- questing that the dispute should cease. . . . Ratmirov entreated the dilettante to sing his song again, and the self-taught genius once more played his waltz. . . . Litvinov stayed till after midnight, and went away later than all the rest. The conversation had in the course of the evening touched upon a number of subjects, studiously avoiding any- thing of the faintest interest ; the generals, after finishing their solemn game, solemnly joined in it : the influence of these statesmen was at once apparent. The conversation turned upon notorieties of the Parisian demi-monde, with whose names and talents every one seemed intimately acquainted, on Sardou's latest play, on a novel of About's, on Patti in the Traviata. Some one proposed a game of ' secretary/ au 177 м SMOKE secretaire ; but it was not a success. The answers given were pointless, and often not free from grammatical mistakes ; the stout general related that he had once in answer to the ques- tion : Qu'est-ce que Г amour? replied, Une colique remontee au cozur, and promptly went off into his wooden guffaw; the ancient ruin with a mighty effort struck him with her fan on the arm ; a flake of plaster was shaken off her fore- head by this rash action. The old crone was beginning a reference to the Slavonic principali- ties and the necessity of orthodox propaganda on the Danube, but, meeting with no response, she subsided with a hiss. In reality they talked more about Home than anything else ; even the ' Queen of the Wasps ' described how hands had once crept about her, and how she had seen them, and put her own ring on one of them. It was certainly a triumph for Irina : even if Litvinov had paid more attention to what was being said around him, he still could not have gleaned one single sincere saying, one single clever thought, one single new fact from all their disconnected and lifeless babble. Even in their cries and exclamations, there was no note of real feeling, in their slander no real heat. Only at rare intervals under the mask of assumed patriotic indignation, or of assumed contempt and indifference, the dread of possible losses 178 SMOKE could be heard in a plaintive whimper, and a few names, which will not be forgotten by posterity, were pronounced with gnashing of teeth . . . And not a drop of living water under all this noise and wrangle ! What stale, what unprofitable nonsense, what wretched trivialities were absorbing all these heads and hearts, and not for that one evening, not in society only, but at home too, every hour and every day, in all the depth and breadth of their existence ! And what ignorance, when all is said ! What lack of understanding of all on which human life is built, all by which life is made beautiful ! On parting from Litvinov, Irina again pressed his hand and whispered significantly, 'Well? Are you pleased ? Have you seen enough ? Do you like it ? ' He made her no reply, but merely bowed low in silence. Left alone with her husband, Irina was just going to her bedroom. . . . He stopped her. l Je vous ai beaucoup admiree ce soz'r, madame] he observed, smoking a cigarette, and leaning against the mantelpiece,