Litvinov found rather many guests at Irina’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 indispensable syllables; the stout general however permitted himself to jerk off between two deals: ‘Ce satanÉ 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 Ratmirov approached Litvinov and after exchanging with him his customary civilities, unaccompanied however by his customary playfulness, he presented him to two or three ladies: the ancient ruin, the Queen of the Wasps, Countess 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 youthful face awakened their interest. Only he did not know how to fasten that interest upon himself; Countess Liza, a lady of superstitious bent, with an inclination for everything extraordinary, ‘There is one such animal any way,’ Prince KokÓ 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!’ ‘You are very naughty, mon prince; I am speaking of real animals, je parle des bÊtes.’ ‘Mais moi aussi, madame, je parle d’une bÊte....’ ‘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 interesting! 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 remembered 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.’ M’sieu Luzhin smirked. ‘Quick must it be, or quickly?’ he queried. The countess did not understand him. ‘Mais oui, a crab,’ she repeated, ‘une Écrevisse.’ ‘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. ‘Oui, oui, vous allez voir. M’sieu Luzhin, please....’ The young traveller bowed, went out, and returned 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. ‘Voici, madame,’ 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 KokÓ did his duty condescendingly as a good patriot, and patron of all national products. (We beg the reader not to be amazed and indignant; 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?) ‘Merci, merci,’ said the countess. ‘Allons, allons, Monsieur Fox, montrez nous Ça.’ The waiter put the dish 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 donc faire?’ inquired the countess. ‘Elle do rester immobile et se dresser sur sa quiou,’ replied Mr. Fox, with a strong American accent, and he brandished his fingers with convulsive 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 KokÓ confirmed 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 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 anything 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 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. ‘Je vous ai beaucoup admirÉe ce soir, madame,’ he observed, smoking a cigarette, and leaning against the mantelpiece, ‘vous vous Êtes parfaitement moquÉe de nous tous.’ ‘Pas plus cette fois-ci que les autres,’ she answered indifferently. ‘How do you mean me to understand you?’ asked Ratmirov. ‘As you like.’ ‘Hm. C’est clair.’ Ratmirov warily, like a cat, knocked off the ash of the cigarette with the tip of the long nail of his little finger. ‘Oh, by the way! This new friend of yours—what the dickens is his name?—Mr. Litvinov—doubtless enjoys the reputation of a very clever man.’ At the name of Litvinov, Irina turned quickly round. ‘What do you mean to say?’ The general smiled. ‘He keeps very quiet ... one can see he’s afraid of compromising himself.’ Irina too smiled; it was a very different smile from her husband’s. ‘Better keep quiet than talk ... as some people talk.’ ‘AttrapÉ!’ answered Ratmirov with feigned submissiveness. ‘Joking apart, he has a very interesting face. Such a ... concentrated expression ... and his whole bearing.... Yes....’ The general straightened his cravat, and bending his head stared at his own moustache. ‘He’s a republican, I imagine, of the same sort as your other friend, Mr. Potugin; that’s another of your clever fellows who are dumb.’ Irina’s brows were slowly raised above her wide open clear eyes, while her lips were tightly pressed together and faintly curved. ‘What’s your object in saying that, Valerian Ratmirov was stung. ‘That’s not merely my opinion, Irina Pavlovna,’ he began in a voice suddenly guttural; ‘other people too notice that that gentleman has the air of a conspirator.’ ‘Really? who are these other people?’ ‘Well, Boris for instance——’ ‘What? was it necessary for him too to express his opinion?’ Irina shrugged her shoulders as though shrinking from the cold, and slowly passed the tips of her fingers over them. ‘Him ... yes, him. Allow me to remark, Irina Pavlovna, that you seem angry; and you know if one is angry——’ ‘Am I angry? Oh, what for?’ ‘I don’t know; possibly you have been disagreeably affected by the observation I permitted myself to make in reference to——’ Ratmirov stammered. ‘In reference to?’ Irina repeated interrogatively. ‘Ah, if you please, no irony, and make haste. I’m tired and sleepy.’ She took a candle from the table. ‘In reference to——?’ ‘Well, in reference to this same Mr. Litvinov; since there’s no doubt now that you take a great interest in him.’ Irina lifted the hand in which she was holding the candlestick, till the flame was brought on a level with her husband’s face, and attentively, almost with curiosity, looking him straight in the face, she suddenly burst into laughter. ‘What is it?’ asked Ratmirov scowling. Irina went on laughing. ‘Well, what is it?’ he repeated, and he stamped his foot. He felt insulted, wounded, and at the same time against his will he was impressed by the beauty of this woman, standing so lightly and boldly before him ... she was tormenting him. He saw everything, all her charms—even the pink reflection of the delicate nails on her slender finger-tips, as they tightly clasped the dark bronze of the heavy candlestick—even that did not escape him ... while the insult cut deeper and deeper into his heart. And still Irina laughed. ‘What? you? you jealous?’ she brought out at last, and turning her back on her husband she went out of the room. ‘He’s jealous!’ he heard outside the door, and again came the sound of her laugh. Ratmirov looked moodily after his wife; he Litvinov had gone home to his rooms, and sitting down to the table he had buried his head in both hands, and remained a long while without stirring. He got up at last, opened a box, and taking out a pocket-book, he drew out of an inner pocket a photograph of Tatyana. Her face gazed out mournfully at him, looking ugly and old, as photographs usually do. Litvinov’s betrothed was a girl of Great Russian blood, a blonde, rather plump, and with the features of her face rather heavy, but with a wonderful expression of kindness and goodness in her intelligent, clear brown eyes, with a serene, white brow, on which it seemed as though a sunbeam always rested. For a long time Litvinov did not take his eyes from the photograph, then he pushed it gently away Only now, only at that instant, he realised that he was irrevocably, senselessly, in love with her, that he had loved her since the very day of that first meeting with her at the Old Castle, that he had never ceased to love her. And yet how astounded, how incredulous, how scornful, he would have been, had he been told so a few hours back! ‘But Tanya, Tanya, my God! Tanya! Tanya!’ he repeated in contrition; while Irina’s shape fairly rose before his eyes in her black almost funereal garb, with the radiant calm of victory on her marble white face. |