Smoke (Alma Classics) Read online

  “I’m getting angry? Why should I?”

  “I don’t know; perhaps you were unpleasantly affected by the remark which I allowed myself to make concerning…”

  Ratmirov broke off.

  “Concerning?” Irina repeated interrogatively. “Oh, please tell me, quickly and without irony. I’m tired. I want to sleep.” She took the candle from the table. “Concerning?”

  “Concerning this Mr Litvinov, since now there is no doubt that he interests you a great deal…”

  Irina raised the hand in which she held the candlestick; the flame came level with her husband’s face, and, looking into his eyes attentively, almost with curiosity, she suddenly burst out laughing.

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Ratmirov, frowning.

  Irina continued to laugh.

  “What is this then?” he repeated, stamping his foot. He felt offended, wounded, but at the same time the beauty of the woman who stood so airily and boldly before him gave him an involuntary shock. He saw everything, saw all her charms, even the pink sheen on the nails of the slim fingers which had a firm grip on the heavy bronze candlestick. Even this sheen did not escape him… and the hurt gnawed even deeper at his heart. But Irina was still laughing.

  “What? You? You’re jealous?” she said finally and, turning her back on her husband, swept out of the room. “He’s jealous” could be heard outside the room, and again her laughter rang out.

  Ratmirov glumly followed his wife with his eyes. Even then he could not help but notice the bewitching elegance of her figure and movements. Stubbing his cigarette against the marble mantelpiece, he hurled it into the distance. His cheeks suddenly turned pale, his chin twitched convulsively and his eyes roamed dully and savagely over the floor, as if he were looking for something. Every semblance of refinement vanished from his face. It must have borne a similar expression when he flogged the Belorussian peasants.

  Litvinov arrived in his room and sat down on a chair at the table. He took his head in his hands and remained motionless for a long time. At last he stood up and opened a drawer. Taking a document case from it, he extracted Tatyana’s photograph from an inner pocket. Her face, distorted and, as usual, aged by the photograph, looked at him sadly. Litvinov’s fiancée was a girl of pure Russian blood, with light-brown hair, somewhat full of figure, with rather heavy features but with a remarkable expression of kindness and gentleness in her intelligent hazel eyes, with a tender white brow on which a ray of sunshine seemed constantly to lie. For a long time Litvinov did not take his eyes from the photograph, then he put it aside and again clutched his head in both hands. “Everything is over!” he whispered at last. “Irina! Irina!”

  Only now, only at that moment did he realize that he was irrevocably and insanely in love with her, that he had loved her right from the day of their first meeting at the Old Castle, that he had never ceased to love her. Yet how surprised, how disbelieving he would have been, how he would have laughed if anyone had said that a few hours earlier.

  “But Tanya, Tanya. Good Lord. Tanya, Tanya,” he repeated sadly; but the image of Irina still rose before him, arrayed in black as if for mourning, with the radiant silence of victory on her marble-white face.

  16

  Litvinov did not sleep all night and did not get undressed. He felt burdened with worry. As an honourable and just man he understood the importance of obligations and the sacredness of duty and would have considered it shameful to dissemble about himself, his weakness or his behaviour. At first he succumbed to torpor; for a long time he was unable to escape the weight of a vague, semi-conscious sensation. Then he was seized by horror at the thought that the future, the future he had almost gained for himself, was again shrouded in gloom, that the house, the solid house so recently built, had suddenly collapsed. He began to reproach himself mercilessly, but at once ceased his impulsive outbursts. “What faint-heartedness is this?” he thought. “Now is not the time for reproaches. I must act. Tanya is my fiancée; she believed in my love, in my honour. We are joined for ever and cannot, must not, be torn asunder.” He vividly imagined all Tatyana’s qualities, mulled over them and enumerated them. He tried to arouse in himself both fondness and tenderness. “There’s one thing left to do,” he thought again. “To run, to run at once, without waiting for her arrival, to run to meet her. Will I suffer, will I be tormented with Tanya? That’s not likely, but anyway, there’s no point in contemplating that or taking it into account; I must do my duty even if I die in the process.” “But you have no right to deceive her,” another voice whispered to him. “You have no right to conceal from her the change in your feelings; perhaps if she learnt that you have fallen in love with another, she will not want to become your wife.” “Rubbish! Rubbish! That’s all sophistry, shameful cunning, false conscientiousness. I have no right to break my word and that’s that. All right, then, I must leave without seeing her…”

  But then Litvinov’s heart began to ache. He felt cold, physically cold; a momentary shudder ran through his body; his teeth chattered slightly. He stretched and yawned, as if in the grip of a fever. No longer insisting on his last thought, suppressing it, turning his back on it, he began to wonder, in bewilderment and surprise, how he could once again… once again love this corrupt society being and her obnoxious, hostile environment. He wanted to ask himself: “Enough of this! Are you really in love?” but simply gave up the idea. He was still surprised and bewildered when before him there emerged, as if from a soft, fragrant mist, a captivating form; radiant eyelashes were raised and enchanting eyes bored into his heart quietly and ineluctably, a sweet voice rang out and the glistening shoulders, the shoulders of a young queen, exuded the freshness and heat of voluptuousness…

  By morning a decision had at last matured in Litvinov’s heart. He decided to leave that very day to meet Tatyana and, after a final meeting with Irina, to tell her, if there was no other way, the whole truth – and then part from her for ever.

  He sorted out and packed his things, waited until noon, and set off to meet Irina. But at the sight of her windows, half-obscured by curtains, his heart sank. He lacked the courage to cross the threshold of the hotel and wandered several times up and down the Lichtentaler Allee. “Mr Litvinov, our respects,” a sarcastic voice came unexpectedly from on top of a hard-driven dog cart. Litvinov raised his eyes and saw General Ratmirov sitting alongside Prince M., the celebrated sportsman and enthusiast for English horses and carriages. The Prince was driving while the General leant out sideways and bared his teeth, raising his hat high above his head. Litvinov bowed to him, and at that moment, as if obedient to a secret bidding, set off for Irina’s at a run.

  She was at home. He gave instructions that he should be announced and was received at once. When he went in, she was standing in the middle of the room. She was wearing a morning blouse with wide sleeves; her face, which was pale, as it had been the previous day, but also fresh, as it had not been the previous day, was expressive of weariness; the languid smile with which she greeted her guest emphasized this expression even more clearly. She extended her hand to him kindly, but distractedly.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said in a faint voice, sinking into an armchair. “I’m not very well today. I had a bad night. Well, what do you say about the party yesterday? Wasn’t I right?”

  Litvinov sat down.

  “I’ve come to you, Irina Pavlovna…” he began.

  She straightened instantly and turned round, her eyes boring into him.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she exclaimed. “You’re as pale as death. You’re ill. What’s the matter with you?”

  Litvinov became flustered.

  “With me, Irina Pavlovna?”

  “Have you received bad news? Some misfortune has befallen you. Tell me, tell me.”

  Litvinov looked at Irina in his turn.

  “I haven’t received any bad news,” he said, not witho
ut some effort, “but a misfortune has befallen me, a great misfortune. That’s what has brought me to you.”

  “A misfortune? What misfortune?”

  “It’s like this…”

  Litvinov wanted to continue, but was unable to do so. He merely clenched his hands so tight that his fingers cracked. Irina leant forward as if petrified.

  “Oh, I love you!” The words finally burst forth from Litvinov’s breast in a dull groan and he turned away as if wishing to hide his face.

  “What are you saying, Grigory Mikhailovich? You…” Irina, too, could not finish what she was saying and, leaning against the back of the armchair, brought both hands up to her eyes. “You… love me?”

  “Yes… yes… yes.” He repeated the words bitterly, averting his face more and more.

  Everything fell silent in the room. A butterfly, which had flown in, fluttered its wings and thrashed about between the curtain and the window.

  Litvinov was the first to speak.

  “That, Irina Pavlovna, that is the misfortune which hit me, which I ought to have foreseen and avoided, if I had not fallen straight into the whirlpool, as I did in my Moscow days. It’s clear that Fate was pleased to compel me – and once again through you – to experience the same torments which, it seemed, were not to be repeated any more. In vain I resisted… or tried to resist, but as you know, what will be, will be. I’m telling you all this to put an end to this… to this tragicomedy,” he added, with a new outburst of bitterness and shame.

  Litvinov again fell silent; the butterfly fluttered and thrashed about as before. Irina did not remove her hands from her face.

  “And you’re not deceiving yourself?” Her whisper came from beneath her white, seemingly bloodless hands.

  “I’m not deceiving myself,” Litvinov replied in a dull voice. “I love you as I’ve never loved anyone besides you. I won’t reproach you – that would be too clumsy. I won’t repeat that perhaps none of this would have happened if you had acted otherwise than you did with me. Of course, I am to blame. My self-confidence ruined me. I am deservedly punished and you could not have expected that. Of course, you did not think that it would have been much safer for me if you had not felt your guilt so keenly… your imagined guilt before me… and had not wanted to expiate it. But, after all, what’s done cannot be undone. I merely wanted to explain my position to you. It’s difficult enough as it is. At least, as you say, there’ll be no misunderstanding and the frankness of my confession will, I hope, lessen the feeling of offence which you are bound to feel.”

  Litvinov spoke without raising his eyes; if he had looked at her he would nevertheless not have been able to see the expression on her face, since, as before, she did not take her hands away from it. Yet the expression on her face would probably have astounded him: it was one of fear, joy, a certain blissful exhaustion and anxiety. There was scarcely any light in her eyes beneath her drooping eyelids and her heavy, uneven breathing had chilled the parted, seemingly thirsting lips.

  Litvinov remained silent, awaiting a response, a sound. Nothing!

  “There’s one thing left for me,” he began. “To go away. I came to say goodbye to you.”

  Irina let her hands fall slowly to her knees.

  “But I recall, Grigory Mikhailovich,” she began, “that the… the person about whom you spoke to me is due to arrive here. Are you expecting her?”

  “Yes, but I’ll write to her. She’ll stop somewhere en route… in Heidelberg, for instance.”

  “Ah! In Heidelberg. Yes, it’s nice there. But all this must have upset your plans. Are you sure, Grigory Mikhailovich, that you’re not exaggerating et que ce n’est qu’une fausse alarme?”*

  Irina spoke quietly, almost coldly, with brief pauses and sideways glances out of the window. Litvinov did not answer her last question.

  “Only why did you mention offence?” she went on. “I’m not offended… Oh, no. And if either of us is guilty it is not you in any event, not you alone. Remember our last conversation and you will be persuaded that it is not you who are guilty.”

  “I never doubted your magnanimity,” said Litvinov through clenched teeth. “But I would like to know whether you approve of my intention to leave.”

  “Yes.”

  Irina continued to look sideways.

  “At first your intention seemed to me to be premature. But now I’ve thought over what you said… and if you really are not mistaken, then I think you should go. It’ll be better that way… better for us both.”

  Irina’s voice became quieter and quieter and her speech became slower and slower.

  “General Ratmirov might indeed notice,” Litvinov began.

  Irina lowered her eyes again, and something strange flickered round her lips, flickered and died.

  “No, you don’t understand me,” she interrupted. “I wasn’t thinking about my husband. Why should I? There’s nothing for him to notice. But I repeat: separation is essential for us both.”

  Litvinov picked up his hat, which had fallen onto the floor.

  “Everything is finished,” he thought. “I must go. And so it only remains for me to say goodbye to you, Irina Pavlovna,” he said aloud, and suddenly he became fearful, as if he intended to pronounce a sentence on himself. “It only remains for me to hope that you won’t think badly of me, and that someday we—”

  Again Irina interrupted him.

  “Wait, Grigory Mikhailovich, don’t say goodbye yet. That would be too hasty.”

  Litvinov felt a tremor within himself, but a burning pain at once flooded into his heart with redoubled force.

  “But I can’t stay here!” he cried. “Why prolong this torture?”

  “Don’t say goodbye yet,” Irina repeated. “I must see you one more time. A silent parting, as in Moscow – no, I don’t want that. You can go now, but you must promise me, give me your word of honour, that you won’t leave me without seeing me one more time.”

  “Is that what you want?

  “I demand it. If you leave without saying goodbye, I will never, never forgive you. Do you hear? Never! It’s strange,” she added, as if to herself. “I can’t believe that I’m in Baden… I imagine I’m in Moscow. Go now.”

  Litvinov stood up.

  “Irina Pavlovna,” he said, “give me your hand.”

  Irina shook her head.

  “I’ve told you that I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”

  “I’m not asking to say goodbye…”

  Irina was about to extend her hand but, for the first time since his confession, she looked at Litvinov – and retracted her hand.

  “No, no,” she whispered, “I won’t give you my hand. No, no. Go.”

  Litvinov bowed and went out. He did not know why Irina refused him a last friendly handshake. He did not know what she was afraid of.

  He went out; Irina sank into the armchair and again covered her face.

  17

  Litvinov did not return home; he went off into the mountains and, making his way into a thicket, threw himself to the ground and lay there prone for about an hour. He did not torment himself, did not weep; he was somehow faint and heavy with weariness. He had never experienced anything like it before: an intolerably nagging, gnawing sensation of emptiness, emptiness within him, around him, everywhere… He thought neither of Irina nor of Tatyana. He felt only one thing: the blow had fallen, his life had been snapped like a cable and he was propelled forward and gripped by something cold and unknown. Sometimes it seemed to him that a whirlwind had swept over him and he felt the rapid whirring and irregular beating of its dark wings. But his resolution did not waver. To remain in Baden – there could be no question of that. In his mind he had already left; he was already sitting in a creaking, smoky carriage and hurtling, hurtling into the soundless, lifeless distance. Finally he raised himself a little and, leaning his head against
a tree, remained motionless. With one hand, however, and without noticing the fact, he grasped the top leaf of a tall fern and beat time with it. The noise of approaching footsteps roused him from his torpor; two charcoal-burners, with large sacks on their shoulders, were making their way along the steep path.

  “It’s time,” whispered Litvinov and followed the charcoal-burners down into the town, turned into the railway station and dispatched a telegram to Tatyana’s aunt, Kapitolina Markovna. In the telegram he informed her of his immediate departure and arranged a meeting with her in the Hotel Schrader in Heidelberg.* “If it’s to end, let it end quickly,” he thought. “There’s no point in putting it off to tomorrow.” Then he went into the gaming hall, stared into the face of two or three players with dull curiosity and noticed at a distance the unprepossessing back of Bindasov’s head and the flawless bow of Pishchalkin. Then, after standing for a while beneath the colonnade, he set off for Irina’s at a leisurely pace. It was not because of a sudden involuntary impulse that he set off for Irina’s; once he had decided to leave, he also decided to keep his word and see her one more time. He entered the hotel unobserved by the porter, went up the stairs without meeting anyone and, without knocking, mechanically pushed open the door and entered. In the room, in the same armchair, in the same dress and in the same position as three hours before, sat Irina. It was clear she had not moved, had not stirred for all that time. Slowly she raised her head and, seeing Litvinov, her whole body shuddered and she gripped the arm of the chair. “You frightened me,” she whispered.

  Litvinov looked at her in silent astonishment. The expression on her face and in her lustreless eyes shocked him.

  Irina gave a forced smile and tidied her hair, which had become disarranged.

  “It doesn’t matter… I don’t really know… It seems I fell asleep there.”

  “Forgive me, Irina Pavlovna,” Litvinov began. “I came in without being announced. I wanted to do what you were pleased to demand of me… because I’m leaving today.”