Smoke (Alma Classics) Page 18

  “Auntie,” said Tatyana, with a hint of impatience in her voice.

  But Kapitolina Markovna was not listening to her.

  “Just say ‘yes’,” she kept repeating to Litvinov, “and I’ll make everything right. Well, at least nod your head to me! Nod just once, like this.”

  It seemed that Litvinov would willingly have died at that moment, but he did not say “yes” and did not nod his head.

  Tatyana appeared with a letter in her hand. Kapitolina Markovna at once leapt away from Litvinov and, turning her face aside, bent low over the table, as if examining the accounts and papers lying on it.

  Tatyana approached Litvinov.

  “Here is the letter about which I told you,” she said. “You’re about to go to the post office, aren’t you?”

  Litvinov raised his eyes. Before him there really did stand his judge. Tatyana seemed to him taller and more graceful; her face, suffused with unusual beauty, was majestically stony, like that of a statue. Her bosom did not rise and fall and her dress, monochrome and light like a tunic, fell in long, straight, marmoreal folds to her feet, which it covered. Tatyana looked straight ahead, not merely at Litvinov, and her look, cold and steady, was also the look of a statue. In it Litvinov read her verdict on him. He took the letter from the hand extended motionlessly towards him, and left.

  Kapitolina Markovna rushed to Tatyana, but she rejected her embrace and lowered her eyes. Colour suffused her face and, with the words: “Well now, as fast as we can”, she went back into the bedroom. Kapitolina Markovna followed, hanging her head.

  The letter which Tatyana handed to Litvinov bore the address of one of her Dresden friends, a German woman who let out furnished rooms. Litvinov posted the letter and felt that, with this small scrap of paper, he had consigned his whole past, his whole life, to the grave. He walked out of the town and for a long time wandered along narrow paths in the vineyards; he was plagued by the persistent buzzing of a fly and a feeling of contempt for himself; he had played a highly unenviable role in this last meeting. When he returned to his hotel and, after a short time, enquired about the ladies, he was told that, immediately after his departure, they had arranged to be taken to the railway station and had left on the mail train for an unknown destination. Their things were packed and their bill settled as from that morning. Tatyana had obviously asked Litvinov to take the letter to the post office with the aim of getting him out of the way. He ventured to ask the porter whether the ladies had left a note for him, but the porter answered in the negative and even expressed surprise: it was clear that he too found this sudden departure from rooms which had been taken for a week suspicious and strange. Litvinov turned his back on him and locked himself in his room.

  He did not come out until the following day; for most of the night he sat at his desk writing, then tearing up what he had written. Dawn was already breaking when he finished his task. It was a letter to Irina.

  23

  This is what was in the letter to Irina:

  My fiancée left yesterday: we shall never see each other again. She took with her everything which hitherto had seemed desirable and dear to me; all my plans and intentions have disappeared with her. My labours have been wrecked, my long-term work has come to naught. All my occupations have no sense or use; all that has died. My former self is dead and buried since yesterday. I feel that clearly, I see it, I know it, and I have absolutely no regrets about it. It wasn’t in order to complain that I broached the subject with you… Is it for me to complain when you love me, Irina?! I simply wanted to tell you that of all the dead past, of all these undertakings and hopes which have turned to smoke and ashes, one living thing remains: my love for you. Apart from that love I have nothing left; to call it my sole treasure would not be sufficient. My whole self is in that love; in it is my future, my vocation, my shrine, my native land. You know me, Irina; you know that all phrase-making is alien and repellent to me, and that, however powerful the words may be in which I try to express my emotions, you will not doubt their sincerity or find them exaggerated. It is not a boy who, in a moment of ecstasy, whispers unconsidered vows to you, but a man, tested by the years, who, simply and directly, almost with horror, expresses what he acknowledges to be the indubitable truth. Yes, your love has replaced everything for me – everything, everything. Judge for yourself: can I leave this everything in the hands of another, can I allow you to be at the disposal of another? You – you will belong to him; all my being, all my life blood will belong to him. And what about me? Where am I? What am I? On the margin, a spectator, a spectator of my own life! No, that is impossible, impossible! To participate, participate surreptitiously in something without which there is no point in breathing and no possibility of doing so, is a lie, is death. I know what a great sacrifice I am demanding of you, without having any right to demand it. Indeed, what can give anyone the right to demand sacrifice? But it is not out of egoism that I am acting like this: an egoist would find it easier and less unsettling to avoid raising this question at all. Yes, my demands are heavy and I’m not surprised if they frighten you. The people with whom you have to live are hateful to you; you find society burdensome, but do you have the strength to abandon that society, to trample the wreath with which it crowned you, to turn public opinion against you – the opinion of those same hateful people? Question yourself, Irina and don’t take on a burden you cannot shoulder. I don’t want to reproach you, but remember that you’ve already succumbed to its charm. I can give you so little in exchange for what you will lose! Listen to my last word: if you don’t feel capable of abandoning everything and following me tomorrow, today even – you can see how boldly I talk, how I do not spare myself – if the uncertainty of the future terrifies you, if alienation, isolation and popular censure terrify you, if, in a word, you cannot rely on yourself, tell me frankly and without further ado, and I will go away. I will go away with a lacerated soul, but I will bless you for telling the truth. If you, my beautiful, my radiant queen, have really fallen in love with such an insignificant and obscure man as me, and are really prepared to share his fate – well then, give me your hand and let us embark together on our difficult path! Only know that my decision is beyond doubt: either all or nothing! It’s insane… but I can’t do otherwise; I can’t, Irina! I love you too much.

  Your

  Grigory Litvinov

  Litvinov himself did not much like this letter. It did not express entirely faithfully and accurately what he wanted to say; awkward expressions, some elevated, some bookish, were to be found in it, and, of course, it was no better than many other letters which he had torn up, but it was the last one, and the main thing had been said. Tired and tormented, Litvinov did not feel capable of extracting anything else from his head. Besides, he did not have the skill to set out his thoughts in literary fashion and, like anyone who is unused to writing, he worried about his style. His first letter had probably been his best; it had been warm and heartfelt. However that might be, Litvinov sent off his epistle to Irina.

  She answered him with a short note:

  Come and see me today, she wrote. He is going away for the whole day. Your letter worried me exceedingly. I’m still thinking, thinking… and my head is spinning with thoughts. I feel very downhearted, but you love me and I’m happy. Come.

  Your I.

  She was sitting in her room when Litvinov came in. The same thirteen-year-old girl who had been on the lookout for him on the staircase the previous day showed him in. On the table in front of Irina a semicircular box of lace stood open. With one hand she was absent-mindedly sorting through the lace and with the other she was holding Litvinov’s letter. She had just stopped crying; her eyelashes were wet and her temples swollen; on her cheeks could be seen the traces of undried tears. Litvinov halted on the threshold. She did not notice his entrance.

  “You’re crying?” he said in astonishment.

  She shuddered, ran her hand through her ha
ir, and smiled.

  “Why are you crying?” Litvinov repeated.

  Silently she indicated the letter.

  “So it’s because of that,” he said haltingly.

  “Come here and sit down,” she said. “Give me your hand. Yes, I was crying. What are you surprised at? Is this easy?” Again she pointed to the letter.

  Litvinov sat down.

  “I know it’s not easy, Irina. I say the same in my letter. I understand your position. But if you believe in the importance of your love for me, if my words have convinced you, you must also understand what I am feeling now at the sight of your tears. I’ve come here like a man on trial and I’m waiting for the verdict. Death or life? Your answer will decide everything. Only don’t look at me with eyes like that. They remind me of your eyes in Moscow.”

  Irina crimsoned, as though she herself sensed something untoward in her look.

  “Why do you say that, Grigory? You should be ashamed of yourself. You want to know my answer. Can you possibly doubt it? My tears disconcert you, but you haven’t understood them. Your letter, my dear, has set me thinking. You write here that my love for you has replaced everything, that even all your former occupations must now remain untapped. But I wonder whether a man can live by love alone. Will it not bore him in the end; will he not crave activity and will he not rail against the fact that he’s been deflected from it? That’s the thought which frightens me, that’s what I’m afraid of, and not what you supposed.”

  Litvinov looked steadily at Irina, and she at him, as if each of them wished to penetrate the soul of the other more profoundly than words can reach or convey.

  “Your fears on that score are groundless,” Litvinov began. “I must have expressed myself badly. Boredom? Inactivity? With the new strength which your love will give me? Oh, Irina, believe me: in your love there is a whole world for me and I cannot foresee now what will come of it!”

  Irina pondered this.

  “Where will we go?” she whispered.

  “Where? We’ll talk about that later. But then… then you agree. You agree, Irina?”

  She looked at him. “And you’ll be happy?”

  “Oh, Irina!”

  “You won’t regret anything? Ever?”

  She bent over the box of lace and again began sorting its contents.

  “Don’t be angry with me, my dear, because I occupy myself with such trivia at moments like this. I am compelled to go to a ball at a certain lady’s house. I’ve been sent these bits and pieces and I must choose today. Oh, it’s horribly difficult for me,” she exclaimed suddenly, laying her face on the edge of the box. Tears again began to drop from her eyes. She turned away; the tears could now fall on the lace.

  “Irina, you’re crying again,” Litvinov began anxiously.

  “Yes, again,” Irina returned. “Oh, Grigory, don’t torment me, don’t torment yourself! Let us be free people. What does it matter if I’m crying? Do I myself understand why these tears are flowing? You know my decision, you’ve heard it and you’re certain that it won’t change and that I agree – how did you put it? – to all or nothing. What more do you want? Let us be free. Why these mutual chains? We’re alone now; you love me and I love you. Is it any of our business to force opinions out of each other? Look at me. I didn’t want to strike poses in front of you. Not a single word of mine has hinted that perhaps it’s not so easy for me to trample on my conjugal obligations. But I’m not deceiving myself. I know that I have transgressed and that he is within his rights to kill me. Well, what of it? Let us be free, I say. The day is ours; the time is ours.”

  She rose from the armchair and surveyed Litvinov from top to toe, smiling slightly, frowning and, with her arm bare to the elbow, pushing away a long strand of hair on which glistened two or three teardrops. A rich lace fichu had slid off the table and fallen on to the floor, under Irina’s feet. She stepped on it contemptuously.

  “Don’t you like me today? Have I grown plain since yesterday? Tell me, have you often seen a more beautiful arm? And this hair? Tell me, do you love me?”

  She took him in both arms, pressing his head to her bosom; her comb fell out with a clatter and her loosened hair bathed him in a soft, fragrant wave.

  24

  Litvinov paced up and down his hotel room, his head bowed in thought. He was faced with the transition from theory to practice, with seeking out the ways and means of flight, of moving to unknown lands. But he was thinking not so much about these ways and means as about whether the decision on which he had so stubbornly insisted would really be implemented beyond doubt. Had the final, irrevocable word been pronounced? Certainly Irina had parted from him with the words: “Do it, do it, and when everything is ready, just tell me.” It was settled. Away with all doubts. He must act. And Litvinov began, for the time being, to calculate. Above all, money. Litvinov had one thousand three hundred and twenty-eight guilders in cash, plus two thousand eight hundred and fifty-five francs in French money. An insignificant sum, but sufficient for immediate requirements. He would have to write to his father asking him to send as much as possible… His father could sell a wood or a parcel of land. But under what pretext? Well, a pretext would be found. It was true that Irina had spoken of her bijoux, but he must not take that into his calculations in any way. Who knows, they would keep for a rainy day. In addition he owned a good Swiss half-hunter watch for which he might get, say, at least four hundred francs.

  Litvinov went off to a bank and stuttered out to the manager a request to borrow some money, in the circumstances. But Baden bank managers are canny old hands and in answer to such stutterings immediately assume an aged, faded appearance, for all the world like a wild flower whose stalk has been cut off by the scythe. Some of them laugh boldly and brazenly in your face, as if sympathizing with your innocent joke. To his shame Litvinov even tried his luck at roulette, even – oh, ignominy! – putting a thaler* on number thirty, which corresponded to his age. He did this with a view to increase his capital to a round number. And, though he did not actually increase his capital, he achieved a round number by losing the odd twenty-eight guilders. The second question, also of some importance, was her passport. But for a woman a passport was not entirely obligatory and there were countries where one was not required at all – Belgium, for instance, or England. In the last resort it was possible to get a non-Russian passport. Litvinov thought very seriously about all this; his resolve was strong and completely unwavering, yet, against his will, something unserious, almost comic, pervaded all his thinking, as if the undertaking was a prank and no one ever eloped with anyone in reality. They only did so in comedies and novels and, perhaps, somewhere in the provinces, in the Chukhlomsky or Syzran districts, where, according to the testimony of one traveller, people vomit with boredom. Then he recalled how one of his friends, the retired cornet Batsov, had abducted a merchant’s daughter, using a hired troika, complete with sleigh bells, having got first her parents, then the bride herself, drunk, and how it then turned out that he had been deceived and, in addition, almost beaten up. Litvinov was extremely angry with himself for such inappropriate recollections, and thereupon, remembering Tatyana, her sudden departure and all the grief, suffering and ignominy, felt all too deeply that what he had undertaken was no joke, and that he had been right when he had told Tatyana that, for the sake of his honour, there was no other way out. And once again, at the mere mention of her name, something burning instantly encircled his heart and died there.

  Horses’ hooves sounded behind him.

  He stood aside. Irina overtook him on horseback; beside her rode the stout general. She recognized Litvinov, nodded to him and, striking her horse’s flank with her crop, sent the horse into a full gallop. Her dark veil streamed out in the wind…

  “Pas si vite! Nom de Dieu! Pas si vite!”* the general shouted, galloping after her.

  25

  The next morning, Litvinov had ju
st returned from a visit to a banker, with whom he had chatted about the fickle instability of our exchange rate and the best method of sending money abroad, when the porter handed him a note. He recognized Irina’s handwriting and, without breaking the seal – for some unearthly reason he had a bad presentiment – went off to his room. This is what he read (the letter was written in French):

  My dear! I have been thinking about your proposal all night. I won’t play tricks on you. You were frank with me and I will be frank. I cannot elope with you; I do not have the strength to do it. I feel guilty before you; my second offence was worse than the first – I despise myself and my faint-heartedness, I heap reproaches on myself, but I cannot change myself. In vain do I prove to myself that I have destroyed your happiness, that you are absolutely within your rights to see in me simply a frivolous coquette, that I myself volunteered the proposal and gave you solemn promises… I am horrified; I feel hatred towards myself, but I cannot act otherwise. I cannot, I cannot. I don’t want to justify myself; I’m not going to tell you I was led astray – all that means nothing. But I want to tell you, to repeat and to repeat again: I am yours for ever. Do with me as you wish, when you wish; you are not answerable or accountable for anything. I am yours. But to elope, to abandon everything… No! No! No! I begged you to save me. I hoped to erase everything, to burn everything as in a fire. But it’s clear there is no salvation for me; it’s clear the poison has entered me too deeply; it’s clear it’s impossible to breathe this air for many years with impunity! I hesitated for a long time whether to write this letter to you. It terrifies me to think what decision you will take; my hope rests solely in your love for me. But I considered it would be dishonourable on my part not to tell you the truth, the more so because you may have already begun to take the first steps towards fulfilling our plan! Oh, it was a fine plan, but impracticable. Oh my friend, regard me as an empty, weak woman, despise me, but don’t abandon me, don’t abandon your Irina! I do not have the strength to quit this world, but I can’t live in it without you. We will soon return to Petersburg. Come and live there. We’ll find employment for you. Your past labours will not be in vain; you’ll find a good use for them. Only live close to me, only love me as I am, with all my weaknesses and vices, and know that no one’s heart will feel as tenderly towards you as the heart of your Irina. Come to me quickly. I won’t have a minute’s peace of mind until I see you.