This was what was in this letter to Irina: ‘My betrothed went away yesterday; we shall never see each other again.... I do not know even for certain where she is going to live. With her, she takes all that till now seemed precious and desirable to me; all my previous ideas, my plans, my intentions, have gone with her; my labours even are wasted, my work of years ends in nothing, all my pursuits have no meaning, no applicability; all that is dead; myself, my old self, is dead and buried since yesterday. I feel, I see, I know this clearly ... far am I from regretting this. Not to lament of it, have I begun upon this to you.... As though I could complain when you love me, Irina! I wanted only to tell you that, of all this dead past, all those hopes and efforts, turned to smoke and ashes, there is only one thing left living, invincible, my love for you. Except that love, nothing is left for me; to say it is the sole Litvinov did not much like this letter himself; it did not quite truly and exactly express what he wanted to say; it was full of awkward expressions, high flown or bookish, and doubtless it was not better than many of the other letters he had torn up; but it was the last, the chief point was thoroughly stated anyway, and harassed, and worn out, Litvinov did not feel capable of dragging anything else out of his head. Besides he did not possess the faculty of putting his thought into literary form, and like all people with whom it is not habitual, he took great trouble over the style. His first letter was probably the best; it came warmer from the heart. However that might be, Litvinov despatched his missive to Irina. She replied in a brief note: ‘Come to me to-day,’ she wrote to him: ‘he has gone away for the whole day. Your letter has greatly disturbed me. I keep thinking, thinking ... and my head is in a whirl. I am very wretched, but you love me, and I am happy. Come. Yours, I.’ She was sitting in her boudoir when Litvinov went in. He was conducted there by the same ‘You are crying?’ he said wonderingly. She started, passed her hand over her hair and smiled. ‘Why are you crying?’ repeated Litvinov. She pointed in silence to the letter. ‘So you were ... over that,’ he articulated haltingly. ‘Come here, sit down,’ she said, ‘give me your hand. Well, yes, I was crying ... what are you surprised at? Is that nothing?’ she pointed again to the letter. Litvinov sat down. ‘I know it’s not easy, Irina, I tell you so indeed in my letter ... I understand your position. But if you believe in the value of your love for me, if my words have convinced you, you ought, too, to understand what I feel now at the sight of your tears. I have come here, like a man on his trial, and I await what is to be my Irina flushed at once, and turned away, as though herself conscious of something evil in her gaze. ‘Why do you say that, Grigory? For shame! You want to know my answer ... do you mean to say you can doubt it? You are troubled by my tears ... but you don’t understand them. Your letter, dearest, has set me thinking. Here you write that my love has replaced everything for you, that even your former studies can never now be put into practice; but I ask myself, can a man live for love alone? Won’t it weary him at last, won’t he want an active career, and won’t he cast the blame on what drew him away from active life? That’s the thought that dismays me, that’s what I am afraid of, and not what you imagine.’ Litvinov looked intently at Irina, and Irina intently looked at him, as though each would penetrate deeper and further into the soul of the other, deeper and further than word can reach, or word betray. ‘You are wrong in being afraid of that,’ began Litvinov. ‘I must have expressed myself badly. Weariness? Inactivity? With the new impetus Irina grew thoughtful. ‘Where are we going?’ she whispered. ‘Where? We will talk of that later. But, of course, then ... then you agree? you agree, Irina?’ She looked at him. ‘And you will be happy?’ ‘O Irina!’ ‘You will regret nothing? Never?’ She bent over the cardboard box, and again began looking over the lace in it. ‘Don’t be angry with me, dear one, for attending to this trash at such a moment.... I am obliged to go to a ball at a certain lady’s, these bits of finery have been sent me, and I must choose to-day. Ah! I am awfully wretched!’ she cried suddenly, and she laid her face down on the edge of the box. Tears began falling again from her eyes.... She turned away; the tears might spoil the lace. ‘Irina, you are crying again,’ Litvinov began uneasily. ‘Ah, yes, again,’ Irina interposed hurriedly. ‘O Grigory, don’t torture me, don’t torture yourself!... Let us be free people! What does it matter if I do cry! And indeed do I know myself why my tears are flowing? You know, you have heard my decision, you believe She got up from the arm-chair and looked at Litvinov with her head thrown back, faintly smiling and moving her eyebrows, while with one arm bare to the elbow she pushed back from her face a long tress on which a few tears glistened. A rich scarf slipped from the table and fell on the floor at Irina’s feet. She trampled contemptuously on it. ‘Or don’t you like me, to-day? Have I grown ugly since yesterday? Tell me, have you often seen a prettier hand? And this hair? Tell me, do you love me?’ She clasped him in both arms, held his head close to her bosom, her comb fell out with a ringing sound, and her falling hair wrapped him in a soft flood of fragrance. |