Smoke (Alma Classics) Page 12

  “Ah,” he said in a dull voice. “She mentioned her… Well, what of it? Besides,” he added, yawning somehow unnaturally, “it’s time for me to go home for dinner. Forgive me.”

  He jumped up from the bench and rapidly went on his way before Litvinov had time to say a word. Pity had given way to irritation within him, irritation at himself, of course. Any sort of immodesty was uncharacteristic of him. He had wanted to express his sympathy for Potugin, but something like an awkward insinuation had come out instead. With secret displeasure in his heart, he returned to his hotel.

  “Corrupt through and through,” he thought some time later, “but fiendishly proud. Is she, this woman who almost kneels before me, proud? Proud, and not capricious?”

  Litvinov tried hard to banish the image of Irina from his head, but failed. It was because of this that he did not summon up the image of his fiancée; he sensed that today the image of Irina would not yield its place. He resolved to await the outcome of this whole ‘strange history’; this would not be very long in coming and Litvinov had no doubt that it would be the most inoffensive and natural outcome. These were his thoughts, and meanwhile it was not only the image of Irina which did not leave him – her every word came into his mind, one after the other.

  The waiter brought him a note. It was from Irina:

  If you are free this evening, come. I won’t be alone – I have guests coming. You’ll get to know our circle, our society, better. I very much want you to see them: I think they’ll show themselves in all their glory. You’ll need to know what air it is that I breathe. Come. I’ll be glad to see you and you aren’t bored (Irina meant to say “won’t be bored”). Prove to me that the conversation we had today has made any misunderstanding between us impossible once and for all.

  Your devoted Irina

  Litvinov put on a tailcoat and white cravat and set off for Irina’s. “All this is unimportant,” he said to himself on the way. “But to look at them? Well, why not? It’s curious.” A few days previously these same people had aroused in him a feeling of disgust.

  He walked with a faster step, his hat pulled down over his eyes and a forced smile on his lips, and Bambayev, sitting in front of Weber’s coffee house, pointed him out at a distance to Voroshilov and Pishchalkin and exclaimed delightedly: “Do you see that man? He’s a stone! A cliff! He’s made of granite.”

  15

  Litvinov found a good many guests at Irina’s. In the corner, sitting at a card table, were the three generals from the picnic: the stout one, the irritable one and the supercilious one. They were playing whist with a dummy hand and there are no words in human language to express the self-importance with which they dealt, took tricks, led clubs or diamonds. Important people, to the manner born. Leaving to plebeians, aux bourgeois, the quips and asides usually made in the course of a game, the generals uttered only the most essential words; however, the stout general allowed himself to say, in between deals and enunciating each word separately: “Ce satané as de pique.”* Among the female visitors, Litvinov recognized the ladies who had been at the picnic, but there were also some others whom he had not seen before. One was so old that it seemed she would fall to pieces on the spot. She wriggled her fearsomely naked, dark-grey shoulders and, covering her mouth with her fan, squinted languidly at Ratmirov with eyes that were already dead. He was paying court to her; she was greatly respected in high society as the last Maid of Honour of Empress Catherine. By the window, dressed as a shepherdess and surrounded by young people, sat Countess Sh., ‘the Wasp Queen’. Among these, the rich and handsome celebrity Finikov was distinguished by his haughty posture, his completely flat skull and the soullessly bestial expression on his face, which was worthy of the Khan of Bukhara or the Emperor Heliogabalus.* Another lady, also a countess and known for short as Lise, was talking to a long-haired blond and pale “spirit”. Alongside stood a gentleman, also pale and long-haired; he was laughing significantly. This gentleman also believed in spiritualism but, in addition, he dabbled in prophecy and, on the basis of the Apocalypse and the Talmud, predicted all kinds of amazing events; not one of these actually happened, but he was not fazed and continued to prophesy. At the piano was stationed the same self-taught genius who had aroused such disgust in Potugin. He was distractedly, d’une main distraite, picking out chords and looking casually around him. Irina was sitting on the sofa between Prince Koko and Madame Kh., once a famed beauty and pan-Russian bluestocking, who had long since mutated into a rotting toadstool, smelling of Lenten oil and stale poison. Seeing Litvinov, Irina blushed, stood up and, when he approached her, firmly shook his hand. She was wearing a black crêpe dress with tiny, scarcely perceptible gold embellishments. Her shoulders were dull white, but her face, also pale, despite a momentary scarlet suffusion, exuded the triumph of beauty, and not only of beauty; a concealed, almost mocking joy shone in her half-closed eyes and hovered round her lips and nostrils.

  Ratmirov went up to Litvinov and, after exchanging the usual pleasantries with him, which were not accompanied, however, by his usual playfulness, introduced him to two or three ladies: the old ruin, the Wasp Queen, Countess Lise… They received him affably enough; he did not belong to their circle, but he was not bad-looking, in fact was even good-looking, and the expressive features of his young face aroused their interest. However, he was not able to take advantage of this interest; he had become unused to society and felt a certain awkwardness. To make matters worse, the stout general fixed his eye on him. “Aha! A civilian! A freethinker!” this fixed, heavy look seemed to say. “He’s crawled in to see us. Give us your hand.” Irina came to Litvinov’s aid. She very skilfully arranged things so that he found himself in the corner, by the door, a little behind her. Whenever she spoke to him, she had to turn towards him, and each time he admired the beautiful curve of her translucent neck and imbibed the exquisite perfume of her hair. An expression of gratitude, profound and tranquil, never left her face; he could not fail to be aware that it was precisely gratitude which these smiles and these looks expressed, and he himself overflowed with the same feeling and began to experience shame, sweetness and fear… At the same time it seemed she constantly wanted to say: “Well, then what are they like?” Litvinov heard this unspoken question most clearly whenever one of those present uttered or did something banal; this happened more than once in the course of the evening. On one occasion she could not contain herself and broke into loud laughter.

  Countess Lise, a very superstitious lady, prone to every sort of extreme, having discussed Home, table-turning and self-playing accordions* to the point of satiety with the blond spiritualist, ended by asking him whether there are any animals on which magnetism works.

  “There’s only one such animal,” observed Prince Koko from a distance. “You know Mildvanovsky, don’t you? They put him to sleep in my presence and he was even snoring, don’t you know.”

  “You’re being very wicked, mon prince. I’m taking about real animals, je parle des bêtes.”

  “Mais moi aussi, madame, je parle d’une bête.”*

  “There are real animals too,” interposed the spiritualist. “Crayfish, for example. They’re very nervous and easily fall into a cataleptic trance.”

  The Countess was astonished.

  “What? Crayfish? Really? Oh, that is extremely curious. That’s something I would like to have seen. Monsieur Luzhin,” she added, turning to a young man with a stony face, like that of a doll, and equally stony collars (he was famous for having sprinkled this very face and these selfsame collars with spray from Niagara Falls and the Nubian Nile, but could remember nothing at all about his travels and only enjoyed Russian puns). “Monsieur Luzhin, be so kind as to get us a crayfish.”

  Monsieur Luzhin grinned.

  “Do you want me to get a live one, or me to look lively?”

  The Countess did not understand him.

  “Mais oui, a crayfish,” she reiterated. “Une écrevi
sse.”

  “What? What’s this? A crayfish? A crayfish?” Countess Sh. interposed sternly. The absence of Monsieur Verdier was annoying her; she could not understand why Irina had not invited this most charming of Frenchmen. The ruin, who had long since lost the thread – and, moreover, was also affected by deafness – merely nodded her head.

  “Oui, oui, vous allez voir Monsieur Luzhin, please…”*

  The young traveller bowed, went out, and returned at once. A waiter emerged in his wake, with a huge smile on his face. He was carrying a dish on which could be seen a large black crayfish.

  “Voici, Madame,” Luzhin exclaimed. “Now we can begin the operation for cancer.* Ha-ha-ha!” (Russians always laugh at their own witticisms.)

  “He-he-he!” Prince Koko responded superciliously, in his capacity as a patriot and patron of all things Russian.

  (We ask the reader not to be surprised or disgusted. Who can honestly say that, while sitting in the stalls of the Alexandrinsky Theatre,* gripped by its atmosphere, he has not applauded an even worse pun.)

  “Merci, merci,” said the Countess. “Allons, allons, Monsieur Fox, montrez-nous ça.”*

  The waiter placed the dish on a round side table. There was a slight stirring among the guests; several necks were craned; only the generals at the card table maintained the unruffled serenity of their pose. The spiritualist ran his hand through his hair, frowned and, approaching the side table, began to make aerial gestures; the crayfish twitched and raised its pincers slightly. The spiritualist repeated his gestures and increased their speed; the crayfish stretched as before.

  “Mais que doit-elle donc faire?”*

  “Elle doâ rester immobile et se dresser sur son quiou,”* Mr Fox replied in a strong American accent, shaking his fingers convulsively over the dish; but the magnetism did not work and the crayfish continued to stir. The spiritualist announced that he was out of sorts and moved away from the table with a look of discontent. The Countess set about consoling him, assuring him that even Monsieur Home had similar failures. Prince Koko backed her up. The expert on the Apocalypse and the Talmud approached the table surreptitiously and, poking his fingers briskly and violently in the direction of the crayfish, also tried his luck, but to no avail: no signs of catalepsis ensued. Then the waiter was summoned and ordered to remove the crayfish, which he did with the same huge smile as before; he could be heard harrumphing outside the door. After that, there was much laughter in the kitchen über diese Russen.* The self-taught genius, who had continued to pick out chords during the experiments on the crayfish, sticking to minor keys because it is impossible to gauge their effect, played his perpetual waltz and, of course, earned the most flattering approval. Carried away by the competitive spirit, Count Kh., our incomparable dilettante (see Chapter 1), “voiced” a chansonnette of his own devising, wholly plagiarized from Offenbach; Its refrain – Quel œuf? Quel bœuf?* – made the heads of almost all the ladies sway to the left and to the right; one even moaned slightly and the ineffable, inevitable words “Charmant! Charmant!”* were on everybody’s lips. Irina exchanged looks with Litvinov and once again a secret, mocking expression hovered on her lips. A few seconds later it became more marked and even took on a malicious tone when Prince Koko, that representative and defender of aristocratic interests, took it into his head to expound his views to the spiritualist and, of course, immediately launched into his celebrated phrase about the undermining of the principle of private property in Russia; naturally, this was followed by an attack on democrats. The spiritualist’s American blood was stirred and he began to argue. The Prince, as usual, fell to yelling at the top of his voice, repeating, without any grounds for so doing: “C’est absurde! Cela n’a pas le sens commun!”* The wealthy Finikov began to make provocative remarks without bothering about whom they were addressed towards; the Talmudist began to squawk and the quavering voice of Countess Sh. herself rang out. In a word, almost the same idiotic racket broke out as had done at Gubaryov’s, the only difference being that there was no beer or tobacco smoke and everyone was better dressed. Ratmirov tried to restore silence (the generals expressed their displeasure and Boris’s exclamation “Encore cette satanée politique”* was heard), but the attempt failed; a dignitary of the gently inquisitorial variety took it upon himself to present “le résumé de la question en peu de mots”,* but then lost patience. In truth, so much did he mumble and repeat himself, so obvious was it that he could neither listen to nor comprehend objections, so beyond doubt was it that he did not really know what the question consisted of, that no other outcome could have been expected. Irina was still quietly egging on the antagonists, setting them against each other, occasionally looking round at Litvinov and giving him a slight nod. He sat there as if entranced, hearing nothing and merely waiting for those magnificent eyes to flash before him again, for that pale, gentle, wicked, charming face to glow… Eventually the ladies rebelled and demanded an end to the argument. Ratmirov asked the dilettante to repeat his chansonnette and the self-taught genius again played his waltz.

  Litvinov stayed till after midnight and left later than anyone. In the course of the evening the conversation had touched on a multitude of subjects, carefully avoiding anything that might be the slightest bit interesting. The generals, once they had finished their majestic game, joined in the conversation majestically; the influence of these statesmen was felt immediately. The conversation turned to the celebrities of the Parisian demi-monde, with the names and talents of whom everyone turned out to be intimately familiar, to Sardou’s latest play, to About’s novel and Madame Patti in La traviata.* Someone suggested they play “secretary”, au secrétaire,* but it didn’t work. Answers given were banal and not without grammatical errors; the stout general related how he once answered the question “Qu’est-ce que l’amour?” with “Une colique remontée au cœur”* and immediately guffawed with his wooden guffaw; the ruin clouted him on the arm with her fan; a piece of skin-whitener fell from her forehead as a result of this abrupt movement. The desiccated toadstool tried to say something about the Slavonic principalities* and the necessity for Orthodox propaganda beyond the Danube, but, finding no response, hissed and subsided. In essence they talked mainly about Home; the Wasp Queen related how hands had crawled over her, how she had seen them and placed her own ring on one of them. It was indeed a triumph for Irina. Even if Litvinov had paid more attention to what was being said around him, he would still not have taken away a single word, nor a single thought, nor a single new fact from all this incoherent and lifeless chatter. In their cries and expostulations no enthusiasm could be detected; in their censure no passion could be felt. Only occasionally, from beneath the mask of pseudo-civic indignation and pseudo-contemptuous indifference, came the querulous squeak of fear of financial loss, and several names whom posterity will not forget were uttered with gnashing of teeth. Would that there had been even a drop of living water beneath all this discarded rubbish. What outmoded, useless nonsense, what miserable trivia occupied all these heads and hearts on that evening, not just in high society but also at home, every hour and every day, throughout the length and breadth of their being! And what ignorance, when all’s said and done! What failure to understand everything on which human life is built and with which it is adorned.

  As she took her leave of Litvinov, Irina again squeezed his hand and whispered significantly: “Well, are you content? Have you seen enough? Is it good?” He did not reply and merely gave a low bow.

  Left alone with her husband, Irina tried to retreat to her bedroom. He stopped her.

  “Je vous ai beaucoup admirée ce soir, madame,” he said, lighting a cigarette and leaning on the mantelpiece. “Vous vous êtes parfaitement moquée de nous tous.”*

  “Pas plus cette fois-ci que les autres,”* she replied indifferently.

  “How do you want me to take that?”

  “As you like.”

  “Hm. C’est clair.”* In careful, f
eline fashion, Ratmirov knocked off the ash from the cigarette with the end of the long nail of his little finger. “And by the way, this new acquaintance of yours – Mr… what’s-his-name? Mr Litvinov – must have the reputation of being a very clever man.”

  At the mention of Litvinov’s name, Irina quickly turned round.

  “What do you mean?”

  The general gave a wry smile.

  “He never says anything. It’s clear he’s afraid of compromising himself.”

  Irina also gave a wry smile, only not at all like her husband.

  “It’s better to remain silent than to talk – like some people do.”

  “Attrapé,”* said Ratmirov with pretended humility. “Joking apart, he has a very interesting face. Such a… concentrated expression… and his bearing in general… Yes.” The general adjusted his cravat and, throwing his head back, contemplated his own moustache. “He is, I suppose, a republican, like your other friend, Mr Potugin – there’s another brainbox of the non-speaking variety.”

  Irina’s eyebrows rose slowly above her bright, wide-open eyes, but her lips were compressed and slightly twisted.

  “Why do you say this, Valerian Vladimirovich?” she remarked with apparent sympathy. “But your bullets are missing their target. We’re not in Russia and no one hears what you say.”

  Ratmirov twitched.

  “It’s not only my opinion, Irina Pavlovna,” he said in a suddenly guttural voice. “Other people also find that this gentleman looks like a Carbonaro.”*

  “Really? Who are these ‘other people’?”

  “Well, Boris, for example.”

  “What? He felt the need to express an opinion too?”

  Irina wriggled her shoulders, as if shrinking from the cold, and quietly ran the ends of her fingers across them.

  “He… Yes, he… He… Allow me to say, Irina Pavlovna, that you seem to be getting angry. You know yourself that if someone gets angry…”