We happened once to go into the hut of a peasant-woman who had just lost her only, passionately loved son, and to our considerable astonishment we found her perfectly calm, almost cheerful. ‘Let her be,’ said her husband, to whom probably our astonishment was apparent, ‘she is gone numb now.’ And Litvinov had in the same way ‘gone numb.’ The same sort of calm came over him during the first few hours of the journey. Utterly crushed, hopelessly wretched as he was, still he was at rest, at rest after the agonies and sufferings of the last few weeks, after all the blows which had fallen one after another upon his head. They had been the more shattering for him that he was little fitted by nature for such tempests. Now he really hoped for nothing, and tried not to remember, above all not to remember. He was going to Russia ... he had to go somewhere; but he was making no kind of plans regarding his own personality. He did not And meanwhile the train dashed on and on; by now Rastadt, Carlsruhe, and Bruchsal had long been left far behind; the mountains on the right side of the line swerved aside, retreated into the distance, then moved up again, but not so high, and more thinly covered with trees.... The train made a sharp turn ... and there was Heidelberg. The carriage rolled in under the cover of the station; there was the shouting of newspaper-boys, selling papers of all sorts, even Russian; passengers began bustling in their seats, getting out on to the platform, but Litvinov did not leave his corner, and still sat on with downcast head. Suddenly some one called him by name; he raised his eyes; Bindasov’s ugly phiz was thrust in at the window; and behind him—or was he dreaming, no, it was really so—all the familiar Baden faces; ‘But where’s Pishtchalkin? We were expecting him; but it’s all the same, hop out, and we’ll be off to Gubaryov’s.’ ‘Yes, my boy, yes, Gubaryov’s expecting us,’ Bambaev confirmed, making way for him, ‘hop out.’ Litvinov would have flown into a rage, but for a dead load lying on his heart. He glanced at Bindasov and turned away without speaking. ‘I tell you Gubaryov’s here,’ shrieked Madame Suhantchikov, her eyes fairly starting out of her head. Litvinov did not stir a muscle. ‘Come, do listen, Litvinov,’ Bambaev began at last, ‘there’s not only Gubaryov here, there’s a whole phalanx here of the most splendid, most intellectual young fellows, Russians—and all studying the natural sciences, all of the noblest convictions! Really you must stop here, if it’s only for them. Here, for instance, there’s a certain ... there, I’ve forgotten his surname, but he’s a genius! simply!’ ‘Oh, let him be, let him be, Rostislav Ardalionovitch,’ interposed Madame Suhantchikov, Poor Kapitolina Markovna an aristocrat! Could she ever have anticipated such a humiliation? But Litvinov still held his peace, turned away, and pulled his cap over his eyes. The train started at last. ‘Well, say something at parting at least, you stonyhearted man!’ shouted Bambaev, ‘this is really too much!’ ‘Rotten milksop!’ yelled Bindasov. The carriages were moving more and more rapidly, and he could vent his abuse with impunity. ‘Niggardly stick-in-the-mud.’ Whether Bindasov invented this last appellation on the spot, or whether it had come to him second-hand, it apparently gave great satisfaction to two of the noble young fellows studying natural science, who happened to be standing by, for only a few days later it But Litvinov repeated again, ‘Smoke, smoke, smoke! Here,’ he thought, ‘in Heidelberg now are over a hundred Russian students; they’re all studying chemistry, physics, physiology—they won’t even hear of anything else ... but in five or six years’ time there won’t be fifteen at the lectures by the same celebrated professors; the wind will change, the smoke will be blowing ... in another quarter ... smoke ... smoke...!’ Towards nightfall he passed by Cassel. With the darkness intolerable anguish pounced like a hawk upon him, and he wept, burying himself in the corner of the carriage. For a long time his tears flowed, not easing his heart, but torturing him with a sort of gnawing bitterness; while at the same time, in one of the hotels of Cassel, Tatyana was lying in bed feverishly ill. Kapitolina Markovna was sitting beside her. ‘Tanya,’ she was saying, ‘for God’s sake, let me send a telegram to Grigory Mihalitch, do let me, Tanya!’ ‘No, aunt,’ she answered; ‘you mustn’t; don’t be frightened, give me some water; it will soon pass.’ And a week later she did, in fact, recover, and the two friends continued their journey.
|