Smoke...................................................................................................................................................................1

Ivan Turgenev..........................................................................................................................................1

WHEN Litvinov was torn loose from his "far from gay or complicated" life, caught up in a lurid

passion in which he was never at home, and then abandoned, he fled upon the train. At first he was exhausted

by the prodigious effort of will he had made; then a kind of composure came upon him. He "was hardened."

"He took to gazing out of the window. The day was gray and damp; there was no rain, but the fog

held on, and lowlying clouds veiled the sky. The wind was blowing in the contrary direction to the course of

the train; whitish clouds of steam, now alone, now mingled with other, darker clouds, of smoke, swept, in an

endless series, past the window beside which Litvinov sat. He began to watch the steam, the smoke.

Incessantly whirling, rising and falling, twisting and catching at the grass, at the bushes, playing pranks, as it

were, lengthening and melting, puff followed puff, . . . they were constantly changing and yet remained the

same . . . a monotonous, hurried, tiresome game! Sometimes the wind changed, the road made a turnthe

whole mass suddenly disappeared, and immediately became visible through the opposite window; then, once

more, the hugh train flung itself over, and once more veiled from Litvinov the wide view of the Rhine Valley.

He gazed and gazed, and a strange reflection occurred to him. . . . He was alone in the carriage; there was no

one to interfere with him. 'Smoke, smoke'he repeated several times in succession; and suddenly everything

appeared to him to be smokeeverything, his own life, everything pertaining to men, especially everything

Russian. Every thing is smoke and steam, he thought;everything seems to be constantly undergoing

change; every where there are new forms, phenomenon follows phenomenon, but in reality everything is

exactly alike; everything is hurrying, hastening somewhitherand everything vanishes without leaving a

trace, without having attained to any end whatever; another breeze has begun to blowand everything has

been flung to the other side, and there, again, is the same incessant, agitatedand useless game. He recalled

many things which had taken place, with much sound and clatter, before his eyes the last few years . .

"Smoke." This is not only Litvinov's reaction from experiences too terrible for his mind and heart

to standand also his consolationbut it is Turgenev's own reaction to life. The profound disillusion

following the failure of the Revolutionary movement of '48, which swept over the intellectuals of Europe, had

also its characteristic repercussion among the intellectual youth of Russia, and made a generation like the

later generation so well portrayed by Tchekovthe men of the '80s, and also like the Intelligentsia after the

The restless futility, selfsearching, flabbiness of will so native to this type are incarnate in one of

Turgenev's greatest characters, Rudin. They persist in numerous characters in Smoke, and are not absent from

the makeup of Litvinov himselfnor of Turgenev, for that matter. The conception of the futility of effort,

of revolution, of political ideas in general, the tranquillity attained only by seeing life from the standpoint of

eternity, Turgenev had already enunciated in Fathers and Children. He wished to see life with Olympian

calm; the irony of Basarov's death is a keynote of his profound pessimism. But in Smoke there is bitter

The claims so often made by critics that Turgenev, the natural aristocrat, was always consciously,

above all, an artist, are disproved by his own autobiographical note prefaced to the complete edition of his

"I took a header into the German Ocean," he says, speaking of his going to Berlin, to study in the

Universitywhere, by the way, he was a fellowstudent with Bakunin. " . . . It was absolutely necessary for

me to get clear of my enemy, the better to strike from a distance. To my eyes this enemy had a formidable

appearance, and an ordinary name. My enemy was the 'lawfulness' of Serfdom." This "enemy" Turgenev

swore to conquer. "It was my 'Hannibal oath,' and in those days I was not the only one who took it. . . . I went

How well he kept this oath is evident in the effect of "Sportsmen's Sketches," his first important

book, published about 1852, which, in the guise of mere description, depicted the wretchedness of the

peasants in a way that roused Russian public opinion, more than any other one influence, to demand the

Emancipation of the Serfs. This book is often called the Russian "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and appeared

contemporaneously with it. The motive of Emancipation runs through almost all Turgenev's work, and

appears in Smoke, which was published after the freeing of the Serfs. (By the way, there is a humorous

reference to Mrs. Stowe in Chapter IV.) For instance, when, bruised and broken, Litvinov returns to his estate

"New ideas won their way badly, old ones had lost their force; the ignorant clashed with the

dishonest; his whole deranged existence was in constant motion, like a quaking bog, and only the great word

"But a year passed, then a second, the third was beginning. The grand thought was gradually being

realized, was being transformed into flesh and blood; a sprout was putting forth from the seed that had been

sown; and its enemies, either open or secret, could no longer trample it under foot."

The tremendous interest aroused by Turgenev's books in Russia was partly due to the fact that they

were all concerned with politicsthat, beside their delicate and restrained literary art, through them all ran a

strain of propagandathat they dealt with the actual burning questions of the times. Smoke, in particular,

was Turgenev's contribution to the great controversy between the Slavophils and those who championed

western ideals for Russia. There is no doubt that Turgenev's own ideals are expressed by the ruined nobleman

Potugin; and Litvinov himself, a rather quiet, ordinary young man, who has traveled over Europe studying

technology and scientific farming, is the kind of man that Turgenev passionately believes Russia to need.

But at the same time the author has concentrated his most bitter attack upon those Russian young

men who have come to Europe and absorbed, with all their Slavic facility, a mass of undigested European

ideas and theories. There is nothing in literature more stinging than the satire of the first six chapters of

Smoke, which has a quality of Dickens about it. This is not hatred, however. While laughing bitterly at his

young "intellectual" countrymen, Turgenev understands them; they, like himself, are creatures of

environment and heredity. But he pours his contempt upon the "aristocrats" of St. Petersburg, who are only

The life of Litvinov is, in its fundamentals, the life of Turgenev himself. Like Litvinov, the author

was the "son of a retired petty official," living on a country estate, with a mother who tried to live as a noble,

on an insufficient income, ruining the estate in the process. As with Litvinov, nothing but French was spoken

in Turgenev's family. Turgenev himself had to learn Russian from the house servantsthe language of

Like Litvinov, Turgenev also lived in Baden. Smoke was written there, and the episodes and

characters are undoubtedly from life. He came to Baden to be near Madame Viardot, the opera singer, his

most intimate, lifelong friend. . . No doubt, also, Irina came from his own experience, at some time. She is

one of a trio, passionate and beautiful, wreckers of men: Varvara Pavlovna, in A Nobleman's Nest; Maria

Nikol�vna, in Torrents of Spring; and Irina. But she is by far the clearest and most human of the three. Many

men have known such womenwomen who live like panthers, taking what they want and moving through

the world all baleful fire, fit mates only for the strong. And Litvinov was not strongnor was Turgenev.

Turgenev was the next of the great Russian novelists in line after Gogol, the predecessor and

finally minor contemporary of the giants Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. The Russian realistic novel, developing

in its own way a technique distinct from that of Western literature, can be partially explained by the political

Politics were forbidden, and yet the Russian people were passionately concerned with politics and

the Russian novelists are above all political propagandists. Yet how could politics be written about so as to be

printed openly and read in Russia? Only by describing Russian life and institutions in the form of a story,

only by painting a picture of people and permitting the reader to draw his own conclusions. In this Turgenev

Smoke, outside of the one tremendous episode of Litvinov and Irina in Baden, is chiefly interesting

to us as a description of Russian society, not only in the '60, but even up to 1917. This same intelligentsia,

absorbing all European ideas, reading all books, adopting all European theories, touched by the same

instinctive sympathy for Western liberalism,and hence, the revolutionary movement in Russia,deserted

the Revolution in a panic when it presented itself in all its uncouth power. This same corrupt and brutal

official "aristocracy," overthrown with the Tsar, now no longer exists, except in exile, where it intrigues and

In Russia today the Soviet Government has published an edition of Turgenev's works, and the

people read them in the same spirit of admiration for his literary skill, the same sympathy for the universal

quality of his characters, and the same historical interest as they do any faithful chronicler of an age ended

ON the 10th of August, 1862, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a great number of people were thronging

before the wellknown Konversation in BadenBaden. The weather was lovely; everything aroundthe

green trees, the bright houses of the gay city, and the undulating outline of the mountainseverything was in

holiday mood, basking in the rays of the kindly sun shine; everything seemed smiling with a sort of blind,

confiding delight; and the same glad, vague smile strayed over the human faces, too, old and young, ugly and

beautiful alike. Even the blackened and whitened visages of the Parisian demimonde could not destroy the

general impression of bright content and elation, while their manycolored ribbons and feathers and the

sparks of gold and steel on their hats and veils in voluntarily recalled the intensified brilliance and light

fluttering of birds in spring, with their rainbowtinted wings. But the dry, guttural snapping of the French

jargon, heard on all sides could not equal the song of birds, nor be compared with it.

Everything, however, was going on in its accustomed way. The orchestra in the Pavilion played

first a medley from the Traviata, then one of Strauss's waltzes, then "Tell her," a Russian song, adapted for

instruments by an obliging conductor. In the gambling saloons, round the green tables, crowded the same

familiar figures, with the same dull, greedy, halfstupefied, halfexasperated, wholly rapacious expression,

which the gambling fever lends to all, even the most aristocratic, features. The same wellfed and

ultrafashionably dressed Russian landowner from Tambov with wide staring eyes leaned over the table, and

with uncomprehending haste, heedless of the cold smiles of the croupiers themselves, at the very instant of

the cry "rien ne va plus," laid with perspiring hand golden rings of louis d'or on all the four corners of the

roulette, depriving himself by so doing of every possibility of gaining anything, even in case of success. This

did not in the least prevent him the same evening from affirming the contrary with disinterested indignation

to Prince Kok�, one of the wellknown leaders of the aristocratic opposition, the Prince Kok�, who in Paris

at the salon of the Princess Mathilde, so happily remarked in the presence of the Emperor: "Madame, le

principe de la propri�t� est profond�ment �branl� en Russie." At the Russian tree, � l'arbre Russe, our dear

fellowcountrymen and countrywomen were assembled after their wont. They approached haughtily and

carelessly in fashionable style, greeted each other with dignity and elegant ease, as befits beings who find

themselves at the topmost pinnacle of contemporary culture. But when they had met and sat down together,

they were absolutely at a loss for anything to say to one another, and had to be content with a pitiful

interchange of inanities, or with the exceedingly indecent and exceedingly insipid old jokes of a hopelessly

stale French wit, once a journalist, a chattering buffoon with Jewish shoes on his paltry little legs, and a

contemptible little beard on his mean little visage. He retailed to them, � ces princes russes, all the sweet

absurdities from the old comic almanacs Charivari and Tintamarre, and they, ces princes russes, burst into

grateful laughter, as though forced in spite of themselves to recognize the crushing superiority of foreign wit,

and their own hopeless incapacity to invent anything amusing. Yet here were almost all the "fine fleur" of our

society, "all the highlife and mirrors of fashion." Here was Count X., our incomparable dilettante, a

profoundly musical nature; who so divinely recites songs on the piano, but cannot, in fact, take two notes

correctly without fumbling at random on the keys, and sings in a style something between that of a poor

gypsy singer and a Parisian hairdresser. Here was our enchanting Baron Q., a master in every line: literature,

administration, oratory, and cardsharping. Here, too, was Prince Y., the friend of religion and the people,

who in the blissful epoch when the spirittrade was a monopoly, had made himself betimes a huge fortune by

the sale of vodka adulterated with belladonna; and the brilliant General O. O., who had achieved the

subjugation of something, and the pacification of something else, and who is nevertheless still a nonentity,

and does not know what to do with himself. And R. R. the amusing fat man, who regards himself as a great

invalid and a great wit, though he is, in fact, as strong as a bull, and as dull as a post. . . . This R. R. is almost

the only man in our day who has preserved the traditions of the dandies of the forties, of the epoch of the

"Hero of our Times," and the Countess Vorotinsky. He has preserved, too, the special gait with the swing on

the heels, and le culte de la pose (it cannot even be put into words in Russian), the unnatural deliberation of

movement, the sleepy dignity of expression, the immoyable, offendedlooking countenance, and the habit of

interrupting other people's remarks with a yawn, gazing at his own fingernails, laughing through his nose,

suddenly shifting his hat from the back of his head on to his eyebrows, etc. Here, too, were people in

government circles, diplomats, bigwigs with European names, men of wisdom and intellect, who imagine

that the Golden Bull was an edict of the Pope, and that the English poortax is a tax levied on the poor. And

here, too, were the hotblooded, though tonguetied, devotees of the dames aux camellias, young society

dandies, with superb partings down the back of their heads, and splendid drooping whiskers, dressed in real

London costumes, young bucks whom one would fancy there was nothing to hinder from becoming as vulgar

as the illustrious French wit above mentioned. But no! our home products are not in fashion it seems; and

Countess S., the celebrated arbitress of fashion and grand genre, by spiteful tongues nicknamed "Queen of the

Wasps," and "Medusa in a mobcap," prefers, in the absence of the French wit, to consort with the Italians,

Moldavians, American spiritualists, smart secretaries of foreign embassies, and Germans of effeminate, but

prematurely circumspect, physiognomy, of whom the place is full. The example of the Countess is followed

by the Princess Babette, she in whose arms Chopin died (the ladies in Europe in whose arms he expired are to

be reckoned by thousands); and the Princess Annette, who would have been perfectly captivating, if the

simple village washerwoman had not suddenly peeped out in her at times, like a smell of cabbage, wafted

across the most delicate perfume; and Princess Pachette, to whom the following mischance had occurred: her

husband had fallen into a good berth, and all at once, Dieu sait pourpuoi, he had thrashed the provost and

stolen 20,000 rubles of public money; and the laughing Princess Zizi; and the tearful Princess Zozo. They all

left their compatriots on one side, and were merciless in their treatment of them. Let us, too, leave them on

one side, these charming ladies, and walk away from the renowned tree near which they sit in such costly but

somewhat tasteless costumes, and God grant them relief from the boredom consuming them!

A FEW paces from the "Russian tree," at a little table in front of Weber's coffeehouse, there was sitting a

goodlooking man, about thirty, of medium height, thin and dark, with a manly and pleasant face. He sat

bending forward with both arms leaning on his stick, with the calm and simple air of a man to whom the idea

had not occurred that any one would notice him or pay any attention to him. His large expressive

goldenbrown eyes were gazing deliberately about him, sometimes screwed up to keep the sunshine out of

them, and then watching fixedly some eccentric figure that passed by him while a childlike smile faintly

stirred his fine moustache and lips, and his prominent short chin. He wore a roomy coat of German cut, and a

soft gray hat hid half of his high forehead. At the first glance he made the impression of an honest, sensible,

rather selfconfident young man such as there are many in the world. He seemed to be resting from

prolonged labors and to be deriving all the more simpleminded amusement from the scene spread out before

him because his thoughts were far away, and because they moved too, those thoughts, in a world utterly

unlike that which surrounded him at the moment. He was a Russian; his name was Grigory Mihalovitch

We have to make his acquaintance, and so it will be well to relate in a few words his past, which

He was the son of an honest retired official of plebian extraction, but be was educated, not as one

would naturally expect, in the town, but in the country. His mother was of noble family, and had been

educated in a government school. She was a goodnatured and very enthusiastic creature, not devoid of

character, however. Though she was twenty years younger than her husband, she remodelled him, as far as

she could, drew him out of the petty official groove into the landowner's way of life, and softened and refined

his harsh and stubborn character. Thanks to her, he began to dress with neatness, and to behave with

decorum; he came to respect learned men and learning, though, of course, he never took a single book in his

hand; he gave up swearing, and tried in every way not to demean himself. He even arrived at walking more

quietly and speaking in a subdued voice, mostly of elevated subjects, which cost him no small effort. "Ah!

they ought to be flogged, and that's all about it!" he sometimes thought to himself, but aloud he pronounced:

"Yes, yes, that's so . . . of course; it is a great question." Litvinov's mother set her household, too, upon a

European footing; she addressed the servants by 'the plural "you" instead of the familiar "thou," and never

allowed any one to gorge himself into a state of lethargy at her table. As regards the property belonging to

her, neither she nor her husband was capable of looking after it at all. It had been long allowed to run to

waste, but there was plenty of land, with all sorts of useful appurtenances, forestlands and a lake, on which

there had once stood a factory, which had been founded by a zealous but unsystematic owner, and had

flourished in the hands of a scoundrelly merchant, and gone utterly to ruin under the superintendence of a

conscientious German manager. Madame Litvinov was contented so long as she did not dissipate her fortune

or contract debts. Unluckily she could not boast of good health, and she died of consumption in the very year

that her son entered the Moscow university. He did not complete his course there owing to circumstances of

which the reader will hear more later on, and went back to his provincial home, where he idled away some

time without work and without ties, almost without acquaintances. Thanks to the disinclination for active

service of the local gentry, who were, however, not so much penetrated by the Western theory of the evils of

"absenteeism," as by the homegrown conviction that "one's own shirt is the nearest to one's skin," he was

drawn for military service in 1855, and almost died of typhus in the Crimea, where he spent six months in a

mudhut on the shore of the Putrid Sea, without ever seeing a single ally. After that, he served, not of course

without unpleasant experiences, on the councils of the nobility, and after being a little time in the country,

acquired a passion for farming. He realized that his mother's property, under the indolent and feeble

management of his infirm old father, did not yield a tenth of the revenue it might yield, and that in

experienced and skillful hands it might be converted into a perfect gold mine. But he realized, too, that

experience and skill were just what he lackedand he went abroad to study agriculture and technologyto

learn them from the first rudiments. More than four years he had spent in Mecklenburg, in Silesia, and in

Carlsruhe, and he had traveled in Belgium and in England. He had worked conscientiously and accumulated

information; he had not acquired it easily; but he had persevered through his difficulties to the end, and now

with confidence in himself, in his future, and in his usefulness to his neighbors, perhaps even to the whole

countryside, he was preparing to return home, where he was summoned with despairing prayers and

entreaties in every letter from his father, now completely bewildered by the emancipation, the redivision of

lands, and the terms of redemptionby the new r�gime in short. But why was he in Baden?

Well, he was in Baden because he was from day to day expecting the arrival there of his cousin

and betrothed, Tatyana Petrovna Shestov. He had known her almost from childhood, and had spent the spring

and summer with her at Dresden, where she was living with her aunt. He felt sincere love and profound

respect for his young kinswoman, and on the conclusion of his dull preparatory labors, when he was

preparing to enter on a new field, to begin real, unofficial duties, he proposed to her as a woman dearly loved,

a comrade and a friend, to unite her life with hisfor happiness and for sorrow, for labor and for rest, "for

better, for worse" as the English say. She had consented, and he had returned to Carlsruhe, where his books,

Well, he was at Baden, because Tatyana's aunt, who had brought her up, Kapitolina Markovna

Shestov, an old unmarried lady of fiftyfive, a most goodnatured, honest, eccentric soul, a free thinker, all

aglow with the fire of selfsacrifice and abnegation, an esprit fort (she read Strauss, it is true she concealed

the fact from her niece) and a democrat, sworn opponent of aristocracy and fashionable society, could not

resist the temptation of gazing for once on this aristocratic society in such a fashionable place as Baden. . . .

Kapitolina Markovna wore no crinoline and had her white hair cut in a round crop, but luxury and splendor

had a secret fascination for her, and it was her favorite pastime to rail at them and express her contempt of

them. How could one refuse to gratify the good old lady? But Litvinov was so quiet and simple, he gazed so

selfconfidently about him, because his life lay so clearly mapped out before him, because his career was

defined, and because he was proud of this career, and rejoiced in it as the work of his own hands.

"HULLO! hullo! here he is!" he suddenly heard a squeaky voice just above his ear, and a plump hand slapped

him on the shoulder. He lifted his head, and perceived one of his few Moscow acquaintances, a certain

Bambaev, a goodnatured but goodfornothing fellow. He was no longer young, he had a flabby nose and

soft cheeks, that looked as if they had been boiled, dishevelled greasy locks, and a fat squat person.

Everlastingly short of cash, and everlastingly in raptures over something, Rostislav Bambaev wandered,

aimless but exclamatory, over the face of our longsuffering motherearth. "Well, this is something like a

meeting!" he repeated, opening wide his sunken eyes, and drawing down his thick lips, over which the

straggling dyed moustaches seemed strangely out of place. "Ah, Baden! All the world runs here like

There was positively no one in the world Bambaev did not address by his Christian name.

"Why indeed? But stop, stop a minute, Grisha. You are, perhaps, not aware who has just arrived

here! Gubaryov himself, in person! That's who's here! He came yesterday from Heidelberg. You know him of

"Is that all? Upon my word! At once, this very minute we will haul you along to him. Not know a

man like that! And by the way here's Voroshilov. . . . Stop a minute, Grisha, perhaps you don't know him

either? I have the honor to present you to one another. Both learned men! He's a phoenix, indeed! Kiss each

And uttering these words, Bambaev turned to a goodlooking young man standing near him with a

fresh and rosy, but prematurely demure face. Litvinov got up, and, it need hardly be said, did not kiss him,

but exchanged a cursory bow with the phoenix, who, to judge from the severity of his demeanor, was not

"I said a phoenix, and I will not go back from my word," continued Bambaev; "go to Petersburg, to

the military school, and look at the golden board; whose name stands first there? The name of Voroshilov,

Semyon Yakovlevitch! But, Gubaryov, Gubaryov, my dear fellow! It's to him we must fly! I absolutely

worship that man! And I'm not alone, every one's at his feet! Ah, what a work he is writing, OOO!. . . ."

"About everything, my dear boy, after the style of Buckle, you know . . . but more profound, more

"No, I have not read it, and indeed it's a secret, which must not be spread about; but from

Gubaryov one may expect everything, everything! Yes!" Bambaev sighed and clasped his hands. "Ah, if we

had two or three intellects like that growing up in Russia, ah, what mightn't we see then, my God! I tell you

one thing, Grisha; whatever pursuit you may have been engaged in in these latter daysand I don't even

know what your pursuits are in generalwhatever your convictions may beI don't know them

eitherfrom him, Gubaryov, you will find something to learn. Unluckily, he is not here for long. We must

A passing dandy with reddish curls and a blue ribbon on his low hat, turned round and stared

through his eyeglass with a sarcastic smile at Bambaev. Litvinov felt irritated.

"What are you shouting for?" he said; "one would think you were hallooing dogs on at a hunt! I

"Well, think of that! we can go at once to Weber's . . . the three of us . . . capital! You have the

"Leave off, please; you will thank me for it, and he will be delighted. Ah, heavens!" Bambaev

interrupted himself. "It's the finale from Ernani they're playing. How delicious! . . . A som . . . mo Carlo. . . .

What a fellow I am, though! In tears in a minute. Well, Semyon Yakovlevitch! Voroshilov! shall we go, eh?"

Voroshilov, who had remained all the while standing with immovable propriety, still maintaining his former

haughty dignity of demeanor, dropped his eyes expressively, frowned, and muttered something between his

teeth . . . but he did not refuse; and Litvinov thought, "Well, we may as well do it, as I've plenty of time on

my hands." Bambaev took his arm, but before turning towards the caf� he beckoned to Isabelle the renowned

flowergirl of the Jockey Club: he had conceived the idea of buying a bunch of flowers of her. But the

aristocratic flowergirl did not stir; and, indeed, what should induce her to approach a gentleman without

gloves, in a soiled fustian jacket, streaky cravat, and boots trodden down at heel, whom she had not even seen

in Paris? Then Voroshilov in his turn beckoned to her. To him she responded, and he, taking a tiny bunch of

violets from her basket, flung her a florin. He thought to astonish her by his munificence, but not an eyelash

on her face quivered, and when he had turned away, she pursed up her mouth contemptuously. Voroshilov

was dressed very fashionably, even exquisitely, but the experienced eye of the Parisian girl noted at once in

his getup and in his bearing, in his very walk, which showed traces of premature military drill, the absence

When they had taken their seats in the principal dininghall at Weber's, and ordered dinner, our

friends fell into conversation. Bambaev discoursed loudly and, hotly upon the immense importance of

Gubaryov, but soon he ceased speaking, and, gasping and chewing noisily, drained off glass after glass.

Voroshilov ate and drank little, and as it were reluctantly, and after questioning Litvinov as to the nature of

his interests, fell to giving expression to his own opinionsnot so much on those interests, as on questions of

various kinds in general. . . . All at once he warmed up, and set off at a gallop like a spirited horse, boldly and

decisively assigning to every syllable, every letter, its due weight, like a confident cadet going up for his

"final" examination, with vehement, but in appropriate gestures. At every instant, since no one interrupted

him, he became more eloquent, more emphatic; it seemed as though he were reading a dissertation or lecture.

The names of the most recent scientific authoritieswith the addition of the dates of the birth or death of

each of themthe titles of pamphlets that had only just appeared, and names, names, names. . . fell in

showers together from his tongue, affording himself intense satisfaction, reflected in his glowing eyes.

Voroshilov, seemingly, despised everything old, and attached value only to the cream of culture, the latest,

most advanced points of science; to mention, however inappropriately, a book of some Doctor Zauerbengel

on Pennsylvanian prisons, or yesterday's articles in the Asiatic Journal on the Vedas and Puranas (he

pronounced it Journal in the English fashion, though he certainly did not know English) was for him a real

joy, a felicity. Litvinov listened and listened to him, and could not make out what could be his special line. At

one moment his talk was of the part played by the Celtic race in history; then he was carried away to the

ancient world, and discoursed upon the �ginetan marbles, harangued with great warmth on the sculptor

living earlier than Phidias, Onetas, who was, however, transformed by him into Jonathan, which lent his

whole discourse a halfBiblical, halfAmerican flavor; then he suddenly bounded away to political economy

and called Bastiat a fool or a blockhead, "as bad as Adam Smith and all the physiocrats." "Physiocrats,"

murmured Bambaev after him . . . "aristocrats?" Among other things Voroshilov called forth an expression of

bewilderment on Bambaev's face by criticism, dropped casually in passing, of Macaulay, as an oldfashioned

writer, superseded by modem historical science; as for Gneist, he declared he need scarcely refer to him, and

he shrugged his shoulders. Bambaev shrugged his shoulders too. "And all this at once, without any

inducement, before strangers, in a caf�"Litvinov reflected, looking at the fair hair, clear eyes, and white

teeth of his new acquaintance (he was specially embarrassed by those large sugarwhite teeth, and those

hands with their inappropriate gesticulations), "and he doesn't once smile; and with it all, he would seem to

be a nice lad, and absolutely inexperienced." Voroshilov began to calm down at last, his voice, youthfully

resonant and shrill as a young cock's, broke a little . . . Bambaev seized the opportunity to declaim verses and

again nearly burst into tears, which scandalized one table near them, round which was seated an English

family, and set another tittering; two Parisian cocottes were dining at this second table with a creature who

resembled an ancient baby in a wig. The waiter brought the bill; the friends paid it.

"Well," cried Bambaev, getting heavily up from his chair, "now for a cup of coffee, and quick

march. There she is,' our Russia," he added, stopping in the doorway, and pointing almost rapturously with

his soft red hand to Voroshilov and Litvinov. . . "What do you think of her? . . ."

"Russia, indeed," thought Litvinov; and Voroshilov, whose face had by now regained its

concentrated expression, again smiled condescendingly, and gave a little tap with his heels.

Within five minutes they were all three mounting the stairs of the hotel where Stepan Nikolaitch

Gubaryov was staying. . . . A tail slender lady, in a hat with a short black veil, was coming quickly down the

same staircase. Catching sight of Litvinov she turned suddenly round to him, and stopped still as though

struck by amazement. Her' face flushed instantaneously, and then as quickly grew pale under its thick lace

veil; but Litvinov did not observe her, and the lady, ran down the wide steps more quickly than before.

"GRIGORY LITVINOV, a brick, a true Russian heart. I commend him to you," cried Bambaev,

conducting Litvinov up to a short man of the figure of a country gentleman, with an unbuttoned collar, in a

short jacket, gray morning trousers and slippers, standing in the middle of a light, and very wellfurnished

room; "and this," he added, addressing himself to Litvinov, "is he, the man himself, do you understand?

Gubaryov, then, in a word." Litvinov stared with curiosity at "the man himself." He did not at first sight find

in him anything out of the common. He saw before him a gentleman of respectable, somewhat dull exterior,

with a broad forehead, large eyes, full lips, a big beard, and a thick neck, with a fixed gaze, bent sidelong and

downwards. This gentleman simpered, and said, "Mmm. . . ah . . . very pleased, . . ." raised his hand to his

own face, and at once turning his back on Litvinov, took a few paces upon the carpet, with a slow and

peculiar shuffle, as though he were trying to slink along unseen. Gubaryov had the habit of continually

walking up and down, and constantly plucking and combing his beard with the tips of his long hard nails.

Besides Gubaryov, there was also in the room a lady of about fifty, in a shabby silk dress, with an excessively

mobile face almost as yellow as a lemon, a little black moustache on her upper lip, and eyes which moved so

quickly that they seemed as though they were jumping out of her head; there was too a broadshouldered

"Well, honored Matrona Semyonovna," began Gubaryov, turning to the lady, and apparently not

considering it necessary to introduce Litvinov to her, "what was it you were beginning to tell us?"

The lady (her name was Matrona Semyonovna Suhantchikovshe was a widow, childless, and

not rich, and had been traveling from country to country for two years past) began with peculiar exasperated

"Well, so he appears before the prince and says to him: 'Your Excellency,' he says, 'in such an

office and such a position as yours, what will it cost you to alleviate my lot? You,' he says, 'cannot but respect

the purity of my ideas! And is it possible,' he says, 'in these days to persecute a man for his ideas?' And what

do you suppose the prince did, that cultivated dignitary in that exalted position?" "Why, what did he do?"

The lady drew herself up and held out her bony right hand, with the first finger separated from the

"He called his groom and said to him, 'Take off that man's coat at once, and keep it yourself. I

"He took it and kept it. And that was done by Prince Barnaulov, the wellknown rich grandee,

invested with special powers, the representative of the government. What is one to expect after that!"

The whole frail person of Madame Suhantchikov was shaking with indignation, spasms passed

over her face, her withered bosom was heaving convulsively under her flat corset; of her eyes it is needless to

speak, they were fairly leaping out of her head. But then they were always leaping, whatever she might be

"A crying shame, a crying shame!" cried Bambaev. "No punishment could be bad enough!"

"Mmm. . . . Mmm. . . . From top to bottom it's all rotten," observed Gubaryov, without raising his

voice, however. In that case punishment is not . . . that needs . . . other measures."

"Is it true?" broke in Madame Suhantchikov. "Why, that one can't even dream of doubting. . . can't

even dddream of it." She pronounced these words with such energy that she was fairly shaking with

the effort. "I was told of that by a very trustworthy man. And you, Stepan Nikolaitch, know himElistratov,

Kapiton. He heard it himself from eyewitnesses, spectators of this disgraceful scene."

"Yes. I know, Stepan Nikolaitch, a rumor was spread about him that he took bribes there from

some contractors or distillers. But then who is it says so? Pelikanov! And how can one believe Pelikanov

"No, with your permission, Matrona Semyonovna," interposed Bambaev, "I am friends with

"No, no! There's Tentelyev now, that's a different matter," roared Bambaev with all the force of his

Madame Suhantchikov was silent for a moment. "I know for a fact about that gentleman," he

continued in his ordinary voice, "that when he was summoned before the secret police, he groveled at the feet

of the Countess Blazenkrampff and kept whining, 'Save me, intercede for me!' But Pelikanov never

"Mm. ... . Tentelyev . . ." muttered Gubaryov, "that . . . that ought to be noted." Madame

"They're one worse than another," she said, "but I know a still better story about Tentelyev. He

was, as every one knows, a most horrible despot with his serfs, though he gave himself out for an

emancipator. Well, he was once at some friend's house in Paris, and suddenly in comes Madame Beecher

Stoweyou know, Uncle Tom's Cabin. Tentelyev, who's an awfully pushing fellow, began asking the host to

present him; but directly she heard his name. 'What?' she said, 'he presumes to be introduced to the author of

Uncle Tom?' And she gave him a slap on the cheek! 'Go away!' she says, 'at once!' And what do you think?

Tentelyev took his hat and slunk away, pretty crestfallen." "Come, I think that's exaggerated," observed

Bambaev. "'Go away' she certainly did say, that's a fact, but she didn't give him a smack!"

"She did, she did!" repeated Madame Suhantchikov with convulsive intensity: "I am not talking

"Excuse me, excuse me, Matrona Semyonovna, I never spoke of Tentelyev as a friend of mine; I

"What did he do then?" asked Bambaev, already showing signs of alarm. "What? Is it possible you

don't know? He exclaimed on the Poznesensky Prospect in the hearing of all the world that all the liberals

ought to be in prison; and what's more, an old schoolfellow came to him, a poor man of course, and said, 'Can

I come. to dinner with you?' And this was his answer. 'No, impossible; I have two counts dining with me

"Slander? . . . slander? In the first place, Prince Vahrushkin, who was also dining at your

Mihnyov's" "Prince Vahrushkin," Gubaryov interpolated severely, "is my cousin; but I don't allow him

to enter my house. . . . So there is no need to mention him, even." "In the second place," continued Madame

Suhantchikov, with a submissive nod in Gubaryov's direction, "Praskovya Yakovlevna told me so herself."

"You have hit on a fine authority to quote! Why, she and Sarkizov are the greatest

"I beg your pardon, Sarkizov is a liar, certainly. He filched the very pall of brocade off his dead

father's coffin. I will never dispute that; but Praskovya Yakovlovnathere's no comparison! Remember how

"Come, enough, enough, Matrona Semyonovna, said Bambaev, interrupting her, "let us give up

this tittletattle, and take a loftier flight. I am not new to the work, you know. Have you read Mlle. de la

Quintinie? That's something charming now! And quite in accord with your principles at the same time!" "I

"Because I have not the time now; I have no thoughts now but for one thing, sewing machines."

"What machines?" inquired Litvinov. "Sewing, sewing; all women ought to provide themselves

with sewingmachines, and form societies; in that way they will all be enabled to earn their living, and will

become independent at once. In no other way can they ever be emancipated. That is an important, most

important social question. I had such an argument about it with Boleslav Stadnitsky. Boleslav Stadnitsky is a

marvelous nature, but he looks at these things in an awfully frivolous spirit. He does nothing but laugh.

"All will in their due time be called to account, from all it will be exacted," pronounced Gubaryov

"Yes, yes," repeated Bambaev, "it will be exacted, precisely so, it will be exacted. But, Stepan

Nikolaitch," he added, dropping his voice, "how goes the great work?" "I am collecting materials," replied

Gubaryov, knitting his brows; and, turning to Litvinov, whose head began to swim from the medley of

unfamiliar names, and the frenzy of backbiting, he asked him what subjects he was interested in.

Litvinov satisfied his curiosity. "Ah! to be sure, the natural sciences. That is useful, as training; as

training, not as an end in itself. The end at present should be . . . mm. . . . should be . . . different. Allow me to

The broadshouldered man sitting in the corner raised his head quickly at these words and looked

"How is that?" observed Gubaryov with peculiar gentleness. "Have you not yet reflected on the

"How shall I say? It seems to me that for us Russians, it is too early yet to have political views or

to imagine that we have them. Observe that I attribute to the word 'political' the meaning which belongs to it

"Aha! he belongs to the undeveloped," Gubaryov interrupted him, with the same gentleness, and

going up to Voroshilov, he asked him: 'Had he read the pamphlet he had given him?' Voroshilov, to

Litvinov's astonishment, had not uttered a word ever since his entrance, but had only knitted his brows and

rolled his eyes (as a rule he was either speechifying or else perfectly dumb). He flow expanded his chest in

"As regards the fundamental principles, I liked it; but I did not agree with the inferences." "Mmm. .

. . Andrei Ivanitch praised that pamphlet, however. You must expand your doubts to me later."

"You desire it in writing?" Gubaryov was obviously surprised; he had not expected this; however,

"Yes, in writing. By the way, I will ask you to explain to me your views also . . . in regard to . . . in

"Associations on Lassalle's system, do you desire, or on the system of SchulzeDelitzsch?"

"Mmm. . . . on both. For us Russians, you understand, the financial aspect of the matter is specially

important. Yes, and the artel . . . as the germ. . . All that, one must take note of. One must go deeply into it.

"And you, Stepan Nikolaitch, what is your view as to the number of acres suitable?" inquired

Voroshilov, with reverential delicacy in his voice. "Mmm. . . . and the commune?" articulated Gubaryov,

deep in thought, and biting a tuft of his beard he stared at the tableleg. "The commune! . . . Do You

understand? That is a grand word'! Then what is the significance of these conflagrations? these. . . these

government measures against Sundayschools, readingrooms, journals? And the refusal of the peasants to

sign the charters regulating their position in the future? And finally, what of what is happening in Poland?

Don't you see that . . . mmm. . . that we . . . we have to unite with the people . . . find out . . . find out their

views" Suddenly a heavy, almost a wrathful emotion seemed to take possession of Gubaryov; he even

grew black in the face and breathed heavily, but still did not raise his eyes, and continued to gnaw at his

"Yevseyev is a wretch!" Madame Suhantchikov burst out noisily all of a sudden. Bambaev had

been relating something to her in a voice lowered out of respect for their host. Gubaryov turned round swiftly

Fresh guests began to arrive; towards the end of the evening a good many people were assembled.

Among them came, too, Mr. Yevseyev whom Madame Suhantchikov had vilified so cruelly. She entered into

conversation with him very cordially, and asked him to escort her home; there arrived, too, a certain

Pishtchalkin, an ideal mediator, one of those men of whom precisely, perhaps, Russia stands in needa man,

that is, narrow, of little information, and no great gifts, but conscientious, patient, and honest; the peasants of

his district almost worshiped him, and he regarded himself very respectfully as a creature genuinely

deserving of esteem. A few officers, too, were there, escaped for a brief furlough to Europe, and

rejoicingthough of course warily, and ever mindful of their colonel in the background of their brainsin

the opportunity of dallying a little with intellectualeven rather dangerouspeople; two lanky students

from Heidelberg came hurrying in, one looked about him very contemptuously, the other giggled

spasmodically . . . both were very ill at ease; after them a Frenchmana socalled petit jeune

hommepoked his nose in; a nasty, silly, pitiful little creature, . . . who enjoyed some repute among his

fellow commisvoyageurs on the theory that Russian countesses had fallen in love with him; for his own

part, his reflections were centered more upon getting a supper gratis; the last to appear was Tit Bindasov, in

appearance a rollicking German student, in reality a skinflint, in words a terrorist, by vocation a

policeofficer, a friend of Russian merchants' wives and Parisian cocottes; bald, toothless, and drunken; he

arrived very red and sodden, affirming that he had lost his last farthing to that blackguard Benazet; in reality,

he had won sixteen guldens. . . . In short, there were a number of people. Remarkablereally

remarkablewas the respect with which all these people treated Gubaryov as a preceptor or chief; they laid

their ideas before him, and submitted them to his judgment; and he replied by muttering, plucking at his

beard, averting his eyes, or by some disconnected, meaningless words, which were at once seized upon as the

utterances of the loftiest wisdom Gubaryov himself seldom interposed in the discussions; but the others

strained their lungs to the utmost to make up for it. It happened more than once that three or four were

shouting for ten minutes together, and all were content and understood. The conversation lasted till after

midnight, and was as usual distinguished by the number and variety of the, subjects discussed. Madame

Suhantchikov talked about Garibaldi, about a certain Karl Ivanovitch, who had been flogged by the serfs of

his own household, about Napoleon III., about women's work, about a merchant, Pleskatchov, who had

designedly caused the death of twelve workwomen, and had received a medal for it with the inscription "for

public services"; about the proletariat, about the Georgian Prince Tchuktcheulidzov, who had shot his wife

with a cannon, and about the future of Russia. Pishtchalkin, too, talked of the future of Russia, and of the

spirit monopoly, and of the significance of nationalities, and of how he hated above everything what was

vulgar. There was an outburst all of a sudden from Voroshilov; in a single breath, almost choking himself, he

mentioned Draper, Virchow, Shelgunov, Bichat, Helmholtz, Star, St. Raymund, Johann M�ller the

physiologist, and Johann M�ller the historianobviously confounding themTame, Renan, Shtchapov; and

then Thomas Nash, Peele, Greene. . . . "What sort of queer fish may they be?" Bambaev muttered,

bewildered, Shakespeare's predecessors having the same relation to him as the ranges of the Alps to Mont

Blanc. Voroshilov replied cuttingly, and he, too, touched on the future of Russia. Bambaev also spoke of the

future of Russia, and even depicted it in glowing colors: but he was thrown into special raptures over the

thought of Russian music, in which he saw something. "Ah! great, indeed!" and in confirmation he began

humming a song of Varlamov's, but was soon interrupted by a general shout, "He is singing the Miserere

from the Trovatore, and singing it excruciatingly too." One little officer was reviling Russian literature in the

midst of the hubbub; another was quoting verses from Sparks; but Tit Bindasov went even further; he

declared that all these swindlers ought to have their teeth knocked out, . . . and that's all about it, but he did

not particularize who were the swindlers alluded to. The smoke from the cigars became stifling; all were hot

and exhausted, every one was horse, all eyes were growing dim, and the perspiration stood out in drops on

every face. Bottles of iced beer were brought in and drunk off instantaneously. "What was I saying?"

remarked one; "and with whom was I disputing, and about what?" inquired another. And among all the

uproar and the smoke, Gubaryov walked indefatigably up and down as before, swaying from side to side and

twitching at his beard; now listening, turning an ear to some controversy, now putting in a word of his own;

and every one was forced to feel that he, Gubaryov, was the source of it all, that he was the master here, and

the most eminent personality. . . . Litvinov, towards ten o'clock, began to have a terrible headache, and,

taking advantage of a louder outburst of general excitement, went off quietly unobserved. Madame

Suhantchikov had recollected a fresh served. Madame Suhantchikov had recollected a fresh act of injustice of

Prince Barnaulov; he had all but given orders to have some one's ears bitten off.

The fresh night air enfolded Litvinov's flushed face caressingly, the fragrant breeze breathed on his

parched lips. "What is it," he thought as he went along the dark avenue, "that I have been present at? Why

were they met together? What were they shouting, scolding, and making such a pother about? What was it all

for?" Litvinov shrugged his shoulders, and turning into Weber's, he picked up a newspaper and asked for an

ice. The newspaper was taken up with a discussion on the Roman question, and the ice turned out to be very

nasty. He was already preparing to go home, when suddenly an unknown person in a widebrimmed hat

drew near, and saying in Russian: "I hope I am not in your way?" sat down at his table. Only then, after a

closer glance at the stranger, Litvinov recognized him as the broadshouldered gentleman hidden away in a

corner at Gubaryov's, who had stared at him with such attention when the conversation had turned on

political views. During the whole evening this gentleman had not once opened his mouth, and now, sitting

down near Litvinov, and taking off his hat, he looked at him with an expression of friendliness and some

"MR. GUBARYOV, at whose rooms I had the pleasure of meeting you today," he began, "did

not introduce, me to you; so that, with your leave, I will now introduce myselfPotugin, retired councillor. I

was in the department of finances in St. Petersburg. I hope you do not think it strange. . . . I am not in the

Here Potugin grew rather mixed, and he asked the waiter to bring him a little glass of

Litvinov looked with redoubled interest at the last of all the new persons with whom it had been

his lot to be brought into contact that day. His thought was at once, "He is not the same as those." Certainly

he was not. There sat before him, drumming with delicate fingers on the edge of the table, a

broadshouldered man, with an ample frame on short legs, a downcast head of curly hair, with very

intelligent and very mournful eyes under bushy brows, a thick wellcut mouth, bad teeth, and that purely

Russian nose to which is assigned the epithet "potato"; a man of awkward, even odd exterior; at least, he was

certainly not of a common type. He was carelessly dressed; his oldfashioned coat hung on him like a sack,

and his cravat was, twisted awry. His sudden friendliness, far from striking Litvinov as intrusive, secretly

flattered him; it was impossible not to see that it was not a common practice with this man to attach himself

to strangers. He made a curious impression on Litvinov; he awakened in him respect and liking, and a kind of

"I am not in your way then?" he repeated in a soft, rather languid and faint voice, which was

"Really? Well, then, I am glad, too. I have heard a great deal about you; I know what you are

engaged in, and what your plans are. It's a good work. That's why you were silent this evening."

Potugin sighed. "The others said enough and to spare. I listened. Well," he added, after a moment's

pause, raising his eyebrows with a rather humorous expression, "did you like our building of the Tower of

"That's just what it was. You have expressed it capitally. I kept wanting to ask those gentlemen

"That's the whole point of it, that they don't know, that themselves. In former days the expression

used about them would have been: 'they are the blind instruments of higher ends'; well, nowadays we make

use of sharper epithets. And take note that I am not in the least intending to blame them; I will say more, they

are all . . . that is, almost all, excellent people. Of Madame Suhantchikov, for instance, I know for certain

much that is good; she gave away the last of her fortune to two poor nieces. Even admitting that the desire of

doing something picturesque, of showing herself off, was not without its influence on her, still you will agree

that it was a remarkable act of selfsacrifice in a woman not herself welloff! Of Mr. Pishtchalkin there is no

need to speak, even; the peasants of his district will certainly in time present him with a silver bowl like a

pumpkin, and perhaps even a holy picture representing his patron saint, and though he will tell them in his

speech of thanks that he does not deserve such an honor, he won't tell the truth there; he does deserve it. Mr.

Bambaev, your friend, has a wonderfully good heart; it's true that it's with him as with the poet Yazikov, who

they say used to sing the praises of Bacchic revelry, sitting over a book and sipping water; his enthusiasm is

completely without a special object, still it is enthusiasm; and Mr. Voroshilov, too, is the most goodnatured

fellow; like all his sort, all men who've taken the first prizes at school, he's an aidedecamp of the sciences,

and he even holds his tongue sententiously, but then he is so young. Yes, yes, they are all excellent people,

and when you come to results, there's nothing to show for it; the ingredients are all firstrate, but the dish is

not worth eating." Litvinov listened to Potugin with growing astonishment: every phrase, every turn of his

slow but selfconfident speech betrayed both the power of speaking and the desire to speak.

Potugin did, in fact, like speaking, and could speak well; but, as a man in whom life had succeeded

in wearing away vanity, he waited with philosophic calm for a good opportunity, a meeting with a kindred

"Yes, yes," he began again, with the special dejected but not peevish humor peculiar to him, "it is

all very strange. And there is something else I want you to note. Let a dozen Englishmen, for example, come

together, and they will at once begin to talk of the submarine telegraph, or the tax on paper, or a method of

tanning rats' skins,of something, that's to say, practical and definite; a dozen Germans, and of course

SchleswigHolstein and the unity of Germany will be brought on the scene; given a dozen Frenchmen, and

the conversation will infallibly turn upon amorous adventures, however much you try to divert them from the

subject; but let a dozen Russians meet together, and instantly there springs up the questionyou had an

opportunity of being convinced of the fact this eveningthe question of the significance and the future of

Russia, and in terms so general, beginning with creation, without facts or conclusions. They worry and worry

away at that unlucky subject, as children chew away at a bit of indiarubberneither for pleasure nor profit,

as the saying is. Well, then, of course the rotten West comes in for its share. It's a curious thing, it beats us at

every point, this Westbut yet we declare that it's rotten! And if only we had a genuine contempt for it,"

pursued Potugin, "but that's really all cant and humbug. We can do well enough as far as abuse goes, but the

opinion of the West is the only thing we value, the opinion, that's to say, of the Parisian loafers. . . . I know a

mana good fellow, I fancythe father of a family, and no longer young; he was thrown into deep

dejection for some days because in a Parisian restaurant he had asked for une portion de biftek aux pommes

de terre, and a real Frenchman thereupon shouted: Gar�on! biftek pommes! My friend was ready to die with

shame, and after that he shouted everywhere, Biftek pommes! and taught others to do the same. The very

cocottes are surprised at the reverential trepidation with which our young barbarians enter their shameful

drawingrooms. 'Good God!' they are thinking, 'is this really where I am, with no less a person than Anna

"Tell me, pray," continued Litvinov, "to what do, you ascribe the influence Gubaryov undoubtedly

"Not that either, but he has a strong will. We Slavs, for the most part, as we all know, are badly off

for that commodity, and we grovel before it. It is Mr. Gubaryov's will to be a ruler, and every one has

recognized him as a ruler. What would you have? The government has freed us from the dependence of

serfdomand many thanks to it! but the habits of slavery are too deeply ingrained in us; we cannot easily be

rid of them. We want a master in everything and everywhere; as a rule this master is a living person,

sometimes it is some socalled tendency which gains authority over us. . . . At present, for instance, we are

all the bondslaves of natural science. . . . Why, owing to what causes, we take this bondage upon us, that is a

matter difficult to see into; but such seemingly is our nature. But the great thing is, that we should have a

master. Well, here he is amongst us; that means he is ours, and we can afford to despise everything else!

Simply slaves! And our pride is slavish, and slavish, too, is our humility. If a new master arisesit's all over

with the old one. Then it was Yakov, and now it is Sidor; we box Yakov's ears and kneel to Sidor! Call to

mind how many tricks of that sort have been played amongst us! We talk of skepticism as our special

characteristic; but even in our skepticism we are not like a free man fighting with a sword, but like a lackey

hitting out with his fist, and very likely he is doing even that at his master's bidding. Then, we are a soft

people, too; it's not difficult to keep the curb on us. So that's the way Mr. Gubaryov has become a power

among us; he has chipped and chipped away at one point, till he has chipped himself into success. People see

that he is a man who has a great opinion of himself, who believes in himself, and commands. That's the great

thing, that he can command; it follows that he must be right, and we ought to obey him. All our sects, our

Onuphrists and Akulinists, were founded exactly in that way. He who holds the rod is the corporal."

Potugin's cheeks were flushed and his eyes grew dim; but, strange to say, his speech, cruel and

even malicious as it was, had no touch of bitterness, but rather of sorrow, genuine and sincere sorrow.

"I have known him a long while. And observe, another peculiarity among us; a certain writer, for

example, spent his whole life in inveighing in prose and verse against drunkenness, and attacking the system

of the drink monopoly, and lo and behold! he went and bought two spirit distilleries and opened a hundred

drinkshopsand it made no difference! Any other man might have been wiped off the face of the earth, but

he was not even reproached for it. And here is Mr. Gubaryov; he is a Slavophil and a democrat and a socialist

and anything you like, but his property has been and is still managed by his brother, a master of the old style,

one of those who were famous for their fists. And the very Madame Suhantchikov, who makes Mrs. Beecher

Stowe box Tentelyev's ears, is positively in the dust before Gubaryov's feet. And you know the only thing he

has to back him is that he reads clever books, and always gets at the pith of them. You could see for yourself

today what sort of gift he has for expression; and thank God, too, that he does talk little, and keeps in his

shell. For when he is in good spirits, and lets himself go, then it's more than even I, patient as I am, can stand.

He begins by coarse joking and telling filthy anecdotes . . . yes, really, our majestic Mr. Gubaryov tells filthy

"Are you so patient?" observed Litvinov. "I should have supposed the contrary. But let me ask

"My name is Sozont. . . . Sozont Ivanitch. They gave me that magnificent name in honor of a

kinsman, an archimandrite, to whom I am indebted for nothing else. I am, if I may venture so to express

myself, of most reverend stock. And as for your doubts about my patience, they are quite groundless: I am

very patient. I served for twentytwo years under the authority of my own uncle, an actual councillor of state,

"I congratulate you. No, I am patient. 'But let us return to our first head,' as my esteemed

colleague, who was burned alive some centuries ago, the protopope Avvakum, used to say. I am amazed, my

dear sir, at my fellowcountrymen. They are all depressed, they all walk with downcast heads, and at the

same time they are all filled with hope, and on the smallest excuse they lose their heads and fly off into

ecstasies. Look at the Slavophils even, among whom Mr. Gubaryov reckons himself: they are most excellent

people, but there is the same mixture of despair and exultation, they, too, live in the future tense. Everything.

will be, will be, if you please. In reality, there is nothing done, and Russia for ten whole centuries has created

nothing of its own, either in government, in law, in science, in art, or even in handicraft. . . But wait a little,

have patience; it is all coming. And, why is it coming; give us leave to inquire? Why, because we, to be sure,

the cultured classes are all worthless; but the people . . . Oh, the great people! You see that peasant's smock?

That is the source that everything is to come from. All the other idols have broken down; let us have faith in

the smockfrock. Well, but suppose the smockfrock fails us? No, it will not fail. Read Kohanovsky, and

cast your eyes up to heaven! Really, if I were a painter, I would paint a picture of this sort: a cultivated man

standing before a peasant, doing him homage: heal me, dear masterpeasant, I am perishing of disease; and a

peasant doing homage in his turn to the cultivated man: teach me, dear mastergentleman, I am perishing

from ignorance. Well, and of course, both are standing still. But what we ought to do is to feel, really humble

for a littlenot only in wordsand to borrow from our elder brothers what they have invented already

before us and better than us! Waiter, noch ein Gl�schen Kirsch! You mustn't think I'm a drunkard, but alcohol

"After what you have just said," observed Litvinov with a smile, "I need not even inquire to which

party you belong, and what is your opinion about Europe. But let me make one observation to you. You say

that we ought to borrow from our elder brothers: but how can we borrow without consideration of the

conditions of climate and of soil, the local and national peculiarities? My father, I recollect, ordered from

Butenop a castiron thrashing machine highly recommended; the machine was very good, certainlybut

what happened? For five long years it remained useless in the barn, till it was replaced by a wooden

American onefar more suitable to our ways and habits, as the American machines are as a rule. One cannot

"I did not expect such a criticism as that from you, excellent Grigory Mihalovitch," he began, after

a moment's pause. "Who wants to make you borrow at random? Of course you steal what belongs to another

man, not because it is some one else's, but because it suits you; so it follows that you consider, you make a

selection.. And as for results, pray don't let us be unjust to ourselves; there will be originality enough in them

by virtue of those very local, climatic, and other conditions which you mention. Only lay good food before it,

and the natural stomach will digest it in its own way; and in time, as the organism gains in vigor, it will give

it a sauce of its own. Take our language even as an instance. Peter the Great deluged it with thousands of

foreign words, Dutch, French, and German; those words expressed ideas with which the Russian people had

to be familiarized; without scruple or ceremony Peter poured them wholesale by bucketsful into us. At first,

of course, the result was something of a monstrous product; but later there began precisely that process of

digestion to which I have alluded. The ideas had been introduced and assimilated; the foreign forms

evaporated gradually, and the language found substitutes for them from within itself; and now your humble

servant, the most mediocre stylist, will undertake to translate any page you like out of Hegelyes, indeed,

out of Hegel without making use of a single word not Slavonic. What has happened with the language, one

must hope will happen in other departments. It all turns on the question: is it a nature of strong vitality? and

our naturewell, it will stand the test; it has gone through greater trials than that. Only nations in a state of

nervous debility, feeble nations, need fear for their health and their independence, just as it is only

weakminded people who are capable of falling into triumphant rhapsodies over the fact that we are Russians.

I am very careful over my health, but I don't go into ecstasies over it: I should be ashamed."

"That is all very true, Sozont Ivanitch," observed Litvinov in his turn; "but why inevitably expose

ourselves to such tests? You say yourself that at first the result was monstrous! Well, what if that monstrous

"Only not in the languageand that means a great deal! And it is our people, not I, who have done

it; I am not to blame because they are destined to go through a discipline of this kind. 'The Germans. have

developed in a normal way,' cry the Slavophils, 'let us too have a normal development!' But how are you to

get it when the very first historical step taken by our racethe summoning of a prince from over the sea to

rule over themis an irregularity, an abnormality, which is repeated in every one of us down to the present

day? Each of us, at least once in his life, has certainly said to something foreign, not Russian: 'Come, rule and

reign over me!' I am ready, of course, to agree that when we put a foreign substance into our own body we

cannot tell for. certain what it is we are putting there, bread or poison; yet it is a wellknown thing that you

can never get from bad to good through what is better, but always through a worse state of transition, and

poison, too, is useful in medicine. It is only fit for fools or knaves to point with triumph to the poverty of the

peasants after the emancipation, and the increase of drunkenness since the abolition of the farming of the

Potugin passed his hand over his face. "You asked me what was my opinion of Europe," he began

again: "I admire her, and am devoted to her principles to the last degree, and don't in the least think it

necessary to conceal the fact. I have longno, not longfor some time ceased to be afraid to give full

expression to my convictionsand I saw that you, too, had no hesitation in informing Mr. Gubaryov of your

own way of thinking. Thank God I have given up paying attention to the ideas and points of view and habits

of the man I am conversing with. Really, I know of nothing worse than that quite superfluous cowardice, that

cringing desire to be agreeable, by virtue of which you may see an important dignitary among us trying to

ingratiate himself with some little student who is quite insignificant in his eyes, positively playing down to

him, with all sorts of tricks and devices. Even if we admit that the dignitary may do it out of desire for

popularity, what induces us common folk to shuffle and degrade ourselves. Yes, yes, I am a Westerner, I am

devoted to Europe: that's to say, speaking more accurately, I am devoted to culturethe culture at which

they make fun so wittily among us just nowand to civilizationyes, yes, that is a better wordand I love

it with my whole heart and believe in it, and I have no other belief, and never shall have. That word,

civilization (Potugin pronounced each syllable with full stress and emphasis), is intelligible, and pure,

and holy, and all the other ideals, nationality, glory, or what you likethey smell of blood. . . . Away with

Potugin passed his hand over his face. "I love her passionately and passionately hate her."

Litvinov shrugged his shoulders. "That's stale, Sozont Ivanitch, that's a commonplace."

"And what of it? So that's what you're afraid of! A commonplace! I know many excellent

commonplaces. Here, for example, Law and Liberty is a wellknown commonplace. Why, do you consider

it's better as it is with us, lawlessness and bureaucratic tyranny? And, besides, all those phrases by which so

many young heads are turned: vile bourgeoisie, souverainet� du peuple, right to labor, aren't they

"Excuse me, you're mistaken; such a mingling of emotions was first mentioned by Catullus, the

Roman poet Catullus, [note] two thousand years ago. I have read that, for I know a little Latin, thanks to my

clerical origin, if so I may venture to express myself. Yes, indeed, I both love and hate my Russia, my

strange, sweet, nasty, precious country. I have left her just now. I want a little fresh air after sitting for twenty

years on a clerk's high stool in a government office; I have left Russia, and I am happy and contented here;

but I shall soon go back again: I feel that. It's a beautiful land of gardensbut our wild berries will not grow

[Author's note:] Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasce requiris. Nescio: sed fieri sentio, et

"You are happy and contented, and I, too, like the place," said Litvinov, "and I came here to study;

He pointed to two cocottes who passed by, attended by a little group of members of the Jockey

Club, grimacing and lisping, and to the gambling saloon, full to overflowing in spite of the lateness of the

"And who told you I am blind to that?" Potugin broke in. "But pardon my saying it, your remark

reminds me of the triumphant allusions made by our unhappy journalists at the time of the Crimean war, to

the defects in the English War Department, exposed in the Times. I am not an optimist myself, and all

humanity, all our life, all this comedy with tragic issues presents itself to me in no roseate colors: but why

fasten upon the West what is perhaps ingrained in our very human nature? That gambling hall is disgusting,

certainly; but is our homebred cardsharping any lovelier, think you? No, my dear Grigory Mihalovitch, let

us be more humble, more retiring. A good pupil sees his master's faults, but he keeps a respectful silence

about them; these very faults are of use to him, and set him on the right path. But if nothing will satisfy you

but sharpening your teeth on the unlucky West, there goes Prince Kok� at a gallop, he will most likely lose in

a quarter of an hour over the green table the hardly earned rent wrung from a hundred and fifty families; his

nerves are upset, for I saw him at Marx's today turning over a pamphlet of Vaillot. . . . He will be a capital

"But, please, please," said Litvinov hurriedly, seeing that Potugin was getting up from his place, "I

know Prince Kok� very little, and besides, of course, I greatly prefer talking to you." "Thanks very much,"

Potugin interrupted him, getting up and making a bow; "but I have already had a good deal of conversation

with you; that's to say, really, I have talked alone, and you have probably noticed yourself that a man is

always as it were ashamed and awkward when he has done all the talking, especially so on a first meeting, as

if to show what a fine fellow one is. Goodby for the present. And I repeat I am very glad to have made your

"But wait a minute, Sozont Ivanitch, tell me at least where you live, and whether you intend to

"I shall remain about a week in Baden. We can meet here though, at Weber's or at Marx's, or else I

"Oh!" articulated Litvinov, with a face of studied politeness, as though he would ask pardon, and

"She is only six years old," pursued Potugin. "She's an orphan . . . the daughter of a lady . . . a good

friend of mine. So we had better meet here. Goodby." He pulled his hat over his curly head, and disappeared

quickly. Twice there was a glimpse of him under the gaslamps in the rather meanly lighted road that leads

"A STRANGE man!" thought Litvinov, as he turned into the hotel where he was staying; "a

strange man! I must see more of him!" He went into his room; a letter on the table caught his eye. "Ah! from

Tanya!" he thought, and was overjoyed at once; but the letter was from his country place, from his father.

Litvinov broke the thick heraldic seal, and was just setting to work to read it . . . when he was struck by a

strong, very agreeable, and familiar fragrance, and saw in the window a great bunch of fresh heliotrope in a

glass of water. Litvinov bent over them not without amazement, touched them, and smelt them. . . .

Something seemed to stir in his memory, something very remote . . . but what, precisely, he could not

discover. He rang for the servant and asked him where these flowers had come from. The man replied that

they had been brought by a lady who would not give her name, but said that "Herr Zlitenhov" would be sure

to guess who she was by the flowers. Again something stirred in Litvinov's memory. He asked the man what

the lady looked like, and the servant informed him that she was tall and grandly dressed and had a veil over

Litvinov dismissed him, and for a long while after lie stood in deep thought before the window; at

last, however, with a wave of his hand, he began again upon the letter from the country. His father poured out

to him his usual complaints, asserting that no one would take their corn, even for nothing, that the people had

got quite out of all habits of obedience, and that probably the end of the world was coming soon. "Fancy," he

wrote, among other things, "my last coachman, the Kalmuck boy, do you remember him? has been

bewitched, and the fellow would certainly have died, and I should have had none to drive me, but, thank

goodness, some kind folks suggested and advised to send the sick man to Ryazan, to a priest, wellknown as

a master against witchcraft: and his cure has actually succeeded as well as possible, in confirmation of which

I lay before you the letter of the good father as a document." Litvinov ran through this document with

curiosity. In it was set forth: "that the servingman Nicanor Dmitriev was beset with a malady which could

not be touched by the medical faculty; and this malady was the work of wicked people; but he himself,

Nicanor, was the cause of it, since he had not fulfilled his promise to a certain girl, and therefore by the aid of

others she had made him unfit for anything, and if I had not appeared to aid him in these circumstances, he

would surely have perished utterly, like a worm; but I, trusting in the Allseeing Eye, have become a stay to

him in his life; and how I accomplished it, that is a mystery; I beg your excellency not to countenance a girl

who has such wicked arts, and even to chide her would be no harm, or she may again work him a mischief."

Litvinov fell to musing over this document; it brought him a whiff of the desert, of the steppes, of

the blind darkness of the life moldering there, and it seemed a marvelous thing that he should be reading such

a letter in Baden, of all places. Meanwhile it had long struck midnight; Litvinov went to bed and put out his

light. But he could not get to sleep; the faces he had seen, the talk he had heard, kept coming back and

revolving, strangely interwoven and entangled in his burning head, which ached from the fumes of tobacco.

Now he seemed to hear Gubaryov's muttering, and fancied his eyes with their dull, persistent stare fastened

on the floor; then suddenly those eyes began to glow and leap, and he recognized Madame Suhantchikov, and

listened to her shrill voice, and involuntarily repeated after her in a whisper, "she did, she did, slap his face."

Then the clumsy figure of Potugin passed before him; and for the tenth, and the twentieth time he went over

every word he had uttered; then, like a jack in the box, Voroshilov jumped up in his trim coat, which fitted

him like a new uniform; and Pishtchalkin gravely and sagaciously nodded his wellcut and truly

wellintentioned head; and then Bindasov bawled and swore, and Bambaev fell into tearful transports. . . .

And above allthis scent, this persistent, sweet, heavy scent gave him no rest, and grew more and more

powerful in the darkness, and more and more importunately it reminded him of something which still eluded

his grasp. . . . The idea occurred to Litvinov that the scent of flowers at night in a bedroom was injurious, and

he got up, and groping his way to the nosegay, carried it into the next room; hut even from there the

oppressive fragrance penetrated to him on his pillow and under the counterpane, and he tossed in misery from

side to side. A slight delirium had already begun to creep over him; already the priest, "the master against

witchcraft" had twice run across his road in the guise of a very playful hare with a beard and a pigtail, and

Voroshilov was trilling before him, sitting in a huge general's plumed cockhat like a nightingale in a bush.. .

. When suddenly he jumped up in bed, and clasping, his hands, cried, "Can it be she? it can't be!"

But to explain this exclamation of Litvinov's we must beg the indulgent reader to go back a few

EARLY in the fifties, there was living in Moscow, in very straitened circumstances, almost in

poverty, the numerous family of the Princes Osinin. These were real princesnot TartarGeorgians, but

pureblooded descendants of Rurik. Their name is often to be met with in our chronicles under the first grand

princes of Moscow, who created a united Russia. They possessed wide acres and many dominions. Many a

time they were rewarded for "service and blood and disablement." They sat in the Council of Boyars. One of

them even rose to a very high position. But they fell under the ban of the Empire through the plots of enemies

"on a charge of witchcraft and evil philtres," and they were ruined "terribly and beyond recall." They were

deprived of their rank, and banished to remote parts; the Osinins fell and had never risen again, had never

attained to power again. The ban was taken off in time, and they were even reinstated in their Moscow house

and belongings, but it was of no avail. Their family was impoverished, "run to seed"; it did not revive under

Peter, nor under Catherine; and constantly dwindling and growing humbler, it had by now reckoned private

stewards, managers of wineshops, and ward policeinspectors among its members. The family of Osinins,

of whom we have made mention, consisted of a husband and wife and five children. It was living near the

Dogs' Place, in a onestoried little wooden house, with a striped portico looking on to the street, green lions

on the gates, and all the other pretensions of nobility, though it could hardly make both ends meet, was

constantly in debt at the greengrocer's, and often sitting without firewood or candles in the winter. The

prince himself was a dull, indolent man, who had once been a handsome dandy, but had gone to seed

completely. More from regard for his wife, who had been a maidofhonor, than from respect for his name,

he had been presented with one of those oldfashioned Moscow posts that have a small salary, a

queersounding name, and absolutely no duties attached. He never meddled in anything, and did nothing but

smoke from morning till night, breathing heavily, and always wrapped in a dressinggown. His wife was a

sickly irritable woman, for ever worried over domestic triflesover getting her children placed in

government schools, and keeping up her Petersburg connections; she could never accustom herself to her

Litvinov's father had made acquaintance with the Osinins during his residence at Moscow, had had

occasion to do them some services, and had once lent them three hundred rubles; and his son often visited

them while he was a student; his lodging happened to be at no great distance from their house. But he was not

drawn to them simply as near neighbors, nor tempted by their comfortless way of living. He began to be a

frequent visitor at their house after he had fallen in love with their eldest daughter Irina.

She had then completed her seventeenth year; she had only just left school, from which her mother

withdrew her through a disagreement with the principal. This disagreement arose from the fact that Irina was

to have delivered at a public function some verses in French, complimentary to the curator, and just before

the performance her place was filled by another girl, the daughter of a very rich spiritcontractor. The

princess could not stomach this affront; and indeed Irina herself never forgave the principal for this act of

injustice; she had been dreaming beforehand of how she would rise before the eyes of every one, attracting

universal attention, and would deliver her speech, and how Moscow would talk about her afterwards! . . .

And, indeed, Moscow would have talked about her afterwards. She was a tall, slim girl, with a somewhat

hollow chest and narrow unformed shoulders, with a skin of a deadwhite, rare at her age, and pure and

smooth as china, with thick fair hair; there were darker tresses mingled in a very original way with the light

ones. Her featuresexquisitely, almost too perfectly, correcthad not yet quite lost the innocent expression

that belongs to childhood; the languid curves of her lovely neck, and her smilehalfindifferent,

halfwearybetrayed the nervous temperment of a delicate girl; but in the lines of those fine,

faintlysmiling lips, of that small, falcon, slightlynarrow nose, there was something wilful and passionate,

something dangerous for herself and others. Astounding, really astounding were her eyes, dark gray with

greenish lights, languishing, almondshaped as an Egyptian goddess's, with shining lashes and bold sweep of

eyebrow. There was a strange look in those eyes; they seemed looking out intently and

thoughtfullylooking out from some unknown depth and distance. At school, Irina had been reputed one of

the best pupils for intelligence and abilities, but of uneven temper, fond of power, and headstrong; one class

mistress prophesied that her passions would be her ruin"vos passions vous perdront"; on the other hand,

another classmistress censured her for coldness and want of feeling, and called her "une jeune fille sans

coeur." Irina's companions thought her proud and reserved: her brothers and sisters stood a little in awe of

her: her mother had no confidence in her: and her father felt ill at ease when she fastened her mysterious eyes

upon him. But she inspired a feeling of involuntary respect in both her father and her mother, not so much

through her qualities, as from a peculiar, vague sense of expectations which she had, in some undefined way,

"You will see, Praskovya Danilovna," said the old prince one day, taking his pipe out of his mouth,

The princess got angry, and told her husband that he made use of "des expressions insupportables";

afterwards, however, she fell to musing over his words, and repeated through her teeth:

"Well . . . and it would be a good thing if we did get a lift." Irina enjoyed almost unlimited freedom

in her parents' house; they did not spoil her, they even avoided her a little, but they did not thwart her, and

that was all she wanted. . . . Sometimesduring some too humiliating scenewhen some tradesman would

come and keep shouting, to be heard over the whole court, that he was sick of coming after his money, or

their own servants would begin abusing their masters to their face, with "fine princes you are, to be sure; you

may whistle for your supper, and go hungry to bed"Irina would not stir a muscle; she would sit unmoved,

an evil smile on her dark face; and her smile alone was more bitter to her parents than any reproaches, and

they felt themselves guiltyguilty, though guilt lesstowards this being on whom had been bestowed, as it

Litvinov fell in love with Irina from the moment he saw her (he was only three years older than she

was), but for a long while he failed to obtain not only a response, but even a hearing. Her manner to him was

even overcast with a shade of something like hostility; he did in fact wound her pride, and she concealed the

wound, and could never forgive it. He was too young and too modest at that time to understand what might

be concealed under this hostile, almost contemptuous severity. Often, forgetful of lectures and exercises, he

would sit and sit in the Osinins' cheerless drawingroom, stealthily watching Irina, his heart slowly and

painfully throbbing and suffocating him; and she would seem angry or bored, would get up and walk about

the room, look coldly at him as though he were a table or chair, shrug her shoulders, and fold her arms. Or for

a whole evening, even when talking with Litvinov, she would purposely avoid looking at him, as though

denying him even that grace. Or she would at last take up a book and stare at it, not reading, but frowning and

biting her lips. Or else she would suddenly ask her father or brother aloud: "What's the German for patience?"

He tried to tear himself away from the enchanted circle in which he suffered and struggled impotently like a

bird in a trap; he went away from Moscow for a week. He nearly went out of his mind with misery and

dulness; he returned quite thin and ill to the Osinins'. . . . Strange to say, Irina, too, had grown perceptibly

thinner during those days; her face had grown pale, her cheeks were wan. . . . But she met him with still

greater coldness, with almost malignant indifference; as though he had intensified that secret wound he had

dealt at her pride. . . . She tortured him in this way for two months. Then everything was transformed in one

day. It was as though love had broken into flame with the heat, or had dropped down from a stormcloud.

One daylong will he remember that dayhe was once more sitting in the Osinins' drawingroom at the

window, and was looking mechanically into the street. There was vexation and weariness in his heart, he

despised himself, and yet could not move from his place. . . . He thought that if a river ran there under the

window, he would throw himself in, with a shudder of fear, but without a regret. Irina placed herself not far

from him, and was somehow strangely silent and motionless. For so days now she had not talked to him at

all, or to any one else; she kept sitting, leaning on her elbows, though she were in perplexity, and only rarely

she looked slowly round. This cold torture was at last more than Litvinov could bear; he got up, and without

saying goodby, he began to look for his hat. "Stay," sounded suddenly, in a soft whisper. Litvinov's heart

throbbed, he did not at once recognize Irina's voice in that one word, there was a ring of something that had

never been in it before. He lifted his head and was stupefied; Irina was looking fondlyyes, fondly at him.

"Stay," she repeated; "don't go. I want to be with you." Her voice sank still lower. "Don't go. . . . I wish it."

Understanding nothing, not fully conscious what he was doing, he drew near her, stretched out his hands. . . .

She gave him both of hers at once, then smiling, flushing hotly, she turned away, and still smiling, went out

of the room. She came back a few minutes later with her youngest sister, looked at him again with the same

prolonged tender gaze, and made him sit near her. . . . At first she could say nothing; she only sighed and

blushed; then she began, timidly as it were, to question him about his pursuits, a thing she had never done

before. In the evening of the same day, she tried several times to beg his forgiveness for not having done him

justice before, assured him she had now become quite different, astonished him by a sudden outburst of

republicanism (he had at that time a positive heroworship for Robespierre, and did not presume to criticize

Marat aloud), and only a week later he knew that she loved him. Yes; he long remembered that first day. . .

but he did not forget those that came after, eitherthose days, when still forcing himself to doubt, afraid to

believe in it, he saw clearly, with transports of rapture, almost of dread, bliss unhoped for coming to life,

growing, irresistibly carrying everything before it, reaching him at last. Then followed the radiant moments

of first lovemoments which are not destined to be, and could not fittingly be, repeated in the same life.

Irina became all at once as docile as a lamb, as soft as silk, and boundlessly kind; she began giving lessons to

her younger sistersnot on the piano, she was no musician, but in French and English; she read their

schoolbooks with them, and looked after the housekeeping; everything was amusing and interesting to her;

she would sometimes chatter incessantly, and sometimes sink into speechless tenderness; she made all sorts

of plans, and was lost in endless anticipations of what she would do when she was married to Litvinov (they

never doubted that their marriage would come to pass), and how together they would. . . "Work?" prompted

Litvinov. . . . "Yes; work," repeated Irina, "and read . . . but travel before all things." She particularly wanted

to leave Moscow as soon as possible, and when Litvinov reminded her that he had not yet finished his course

of study at the university, she always replied, after a moment's thought, that it was quite possible to finish his

studies at Berlin or . . . somewhere or other. Irina was very little reserved in the expression of her feelings,

and so her relations with Litvinov did not long remain a secret from the prince and princess. Rejoice they

could not; but, taking all circumstances into consideration, they saw no necessity for putting a veto on it at

once. Litvinov's fortune was considerable. . . "But his family, his family!" . . . protested the princess. "Yes,

his family, of course," replied the prince; "but at least he's not quite a plebeian; and, what's the principal

point, Irina, you know, will not listen to us. Has there ever been a time when she did not do what she chose?

Vous connaissez sa violence! Besides, there is nothing fixed definitely yet." So reasoned the prince, but

mentally he added, however: "Madame Litvinovis that all? I had expected something else." Irina took

complete possession of her future fianc�, and indeed he himself eagerly surrendered himself into her hands. It

was as if he had fallen into a rapid river, and had lost himself. . . . And bitter and sweet it was to him, and he

regretted nothing and heeded nothing. To reflect on the significance and the duties of marriage, or whether

he, so hopelessly enslaved, could be a good husband, and what sort of wife Irina would make, and whether

their relations to one another were what they should bewas more than he could bring himself to. His blood

was on fire, he could think of nothing, onlyto follow her, be with her, for the future without end, and

But in spite of the complete absence of opposition on Litvinov's side, and the wealth of impulsive

tenderness on Irina's, they did not get on quite without any misunderstandings and quarrels. One day he ran to

her straight from the university in an old coat and inkstained hands. She rushed to meet him with her

"You have no gloves," she said abruptly, and added directly after: "Fie! what a student you are!"

"You are too particular, Irina," remarked Litvinov. "You are a regular student," she repeated.

"Vous n'�tes pas distingu�"; and turning her back on him she went out of the room. It is true that an hour later

she begged him to forgive her. . . . As a rule she readily censured herself and accused herself to him; but,

strange to say, she often almost with tears blamed herself for evil propensities which she had not, and

obstinately denied her real defects. Another time he found her in tears, her head in her hands, and her hair in

disorder; and when, all in agitation, he asked her the cause of her grief, she pointed with her finger at her own

bosom without speaking. Litvinov gave an involuntary shiver. "Consumption!" flashed through his brain, and

"Are you ill, Irina?" he articulated in a shaking voice. (They had already begun on great occasions

"I am perfectly well . . . but this dress . . . don't you understand?" "What is it? . . . this dress," he

"What is it? Why, that I have no other, and that it is old and disgusting, and I am obliged to put on

this dress every day . . . even when youGrishaGrigory, come here. . . . You will leave off loving me, at

"For goodness sake, Irina, what are you saying? That dress is very nice. . . . It is dear to me, too, be

Irina blushed. "Do not remind me, if you please, Grigory Mihalovitch, that I had no other dress

"No, it is horrid, horrid," she persisted, nervously pulling at her long, soft curls. "Ugh, this poverty,

poverty and squalor! How is one to escape this sordidness! How get out of this squalor!"

All at once Irina jumped up from her chair, and laid both her hands on his shoulders.

"But you love me, Grisha? You love me?" she murmured, putting her face close to him, and her

eyes, still filled with tears, sparkled with the light of happiness, "You love me, dear, even in this horrid

So the days flew, the weeks passed, and though as yet there had been no formal declaration, though

Litvinov still deferred his demand for her hand, not, certainly, at his own desire, but awaiting directions from

Irina (she remarked sometimes that they were both ridiculously young, and they must add at least a few

weeks more to their years), still everything was moving to a conclusion, and the future as it came nearer grew

more and more clearly defined, when suddenly an event occurred, which scattered all their dreams and plans

THAT winter the court visited Moscow. One festivity followed another; in its turn came the

customary great ball in the Hall of Nobility. The news of this ball, only, it is true, in the form of an

announcement in the Political Gazette, reached even the little house in Dogs' Place. The prince was the first

to be roused by it; he decided at once that he must not fail to go and take Irina, that it would be unpardonable

to let slip the opportunity of seeing their sovereigns, that for the old nobility this constituted indeed a duty in

its own way. He defended his opinion with a peculiar warmth, not habitual in him; the princess agreed with

him to some extent, and only sighed over the expense; but a resolute opposition was displayed by Irina. "It is

not necessary, I will not go," she replied to all her parents' arguments. Her obstinacy reached such

proportions that the old prince decided at last to beg Litvinov to try to persuade her, by reminding her among

other reasons that it was not proper for a young girl to avoid society, that she ought to "have this experience,"

that no one ever saw her anywhere, as it was. Litvinov undertook to lay these "reasons" before her. Irina

looked steadily and scrutinizingly at him, so steadily and scrutinizingly that he was confused, and then,

"Do you desire it, you?" "Yes. . . . I suppose so," replied Litvinov hesitatingly. "I agree with your

papa. . . . Indeed, why should you not go . . . to see the world, and show yourself," he added with a short

"To show myself," she repeated slowly. "Very well then, I will go. . . . Only remember, it is you

"You yourself have desired it," she interposed. "And here is one condition more; you must promise

Litvinov unclasped his hands. "I submit . . . but I confess I should so have enjoyed seeing you in

all your grandeur, witnessing the sensation you are certain to make. . . . How proud should be of you!" he

"All the grandeur will consist of a white frock, and as for the sensation. . . . Well, any way, I wish

"Oh, no! I am not angry. Only, Grisha . . . (She fastened her eyes on him, and he thought he had

never before seen such an expression in them.) "Perhaps, it must be," she added in an undertone.

"I love you," she answered with almost solemn gravity, and she clasped his hand firmly like a man.

All the following days Irina was busily occupied over her dress and her coiffure; on the day before

the ball she felt unwell, she could not sit still, and twice she burst into tears in solitude; before Litvinov she

wore the same uniform smile. . . . She treated him however, with her old tenderness, but carelessly, and was

constantly looking at herself in the glass. On the day of the ball she was silent and pale, but collected. At nine

o'clock in the evening Litvinov came to look at her. When she came to meet him in a white tarlatan gown,

with a spray of small blue flowers in her slightly raised hair, he almost uttered a cry; she seemed to him so

lovely and stately beyond what was natural to her years. "Yes, she has grown up since this morning!" he

thought, "and how she holds herself! That's what race does!" Irina stood before him, her hands hanging loose,

without smiles or affectation, and looked resolutely, almost boldly, not at him, but away into the distance

"You are just like a princess in a story book," said Litvinov at last. "You are like a warrior before

the battle, before victory. . . . You did not allow me to go to this ball," he went on, while she remained

motionless as before, not because she was not listening to him, but because she was following another inner

He offered her a bunch of heliotrope. She looked quickly at Litvinov, stretched out her hand, and

"Do you wish it, Grisha? Only say the word, and I will tear off all this, and stop at home."

Litvinov's heart seemed fairly bursting. Irina's hand had already snatched the spray. . .

"No, no, what for?" he interposed hurriedly, in a rush of generous and magnanimous feeling, "I am

not an egoist. . . . Why should I restrict your freedom . . . when I know that your heart"

"Of course; it is very pretty, and I love that scent. MerciI shall keep it in memory"

Irina looked over her shoulder at herself in the glass, scarcely bending her figure. "And do I really

Litvinov overflowed in enthusiastic praises. Irina was already not listening to him, and holding the

flowers up to her face, she was again looking away into the distance with her strange, as it were,

overshadowed, dilated eyes, and the ends of her delicate ribbons stirred by a faint current of air rose slightly

behind her shoulders like wings. The prince made his appearance, his hair well becurled, in a white tie, and a

shabby black evening coat, with the medal of nobility on a Vladimir ribbon in his buttonhole. After him came

the princess in a china silk dress of antique cut, and with the anxious severity under which mothers try to

conceal their agitation, set her daughter to rights behind, that is to say, quite needlessly shook out the folds of

her gown. An antiquated hired coach with seats for four, drawn by two shaggy hacks, crawled up to the steps,

its wheels grating over the frozen mounds of unswept snow, and a decrepit groom in a most unlikelylooking

livery came running out of the passage, and with a sort of desperate courage announced that the carriage was

ready. . . . After giving a blessing for the night to the children left at home, and enfolding themselves in their

fur wraps, the prince and princess went out to the steps; Irina in a little cloak, too thin and too shorthow

she hated the little cloak at that moment!followed them in silence. Litvinov escorted them outside, hoping

for a last look from Irina, but she took her seat in the carriage without turning her head.

About midnight he walked under the windows of the Hall of Nobility. Countless lights of huge

candelabra shone with brilliant radiance through the red curtains; and the whole square, blocked with

carriages, was ringing with the insolent, festive, seductive strains of a waltz of Strauss.

The next day at one o'clock, Litvinov betook himself to the Osinins'. He found no one at home but

the prince, who informed him at once that Irina had a headache, that she was in bed, and would not get up till

the evening, that such an indisposition was, however, little to be wondered at after a first ball.

"C'est tr�s naturel, vous savez, dans les jeunes filles," he added in French, somewhat to Litvinov's

surprise; the latter observed at the same instant that the prince was not in his dressinggown as usual, but was

wearing a coat. "And besides," continued Osinin, "she may well be a little upset after the events of

"Yes, yes, events, events, de vrais �v�nements. You cannot imagine, Grigory Mihalovitch, quel

succ�s elle a eu! The whole court noticed her! Prince Alexander Fedorovitch said that her place was not here,

and that she reminded him of Countess Devonshirse. You know . . . that . . . celebrated. . . . And old

Blazenkrampf declared in the hearing of all, that Irina was la reine du bal, and desired to be introduced to her;

he was introduced to me, too, that's to say, he told me that he remembered me as a hussar, and asked me

where I was holding office now. Most entertaining man that Count, and such an adorateur du beau sexe! But

that's not all; my princess . . . they gave her no peace either: Natalya Nikitishna herself conversed with: her . .

. what more could we have? Irina danced avec tous les meilleurs cavaliers; they kept bringing them up to me.

. . . I positively lost count of them. Would you believe it, they were all flocking about us in crowds; in the

mazurka they did nothing but seek her out. One foreign diplomatist, hearing she was a Moscow girl, said to

the Tsar: 'Sire,' he said, 'd�cid�ment c'est Moscou qui est le centre de votre empire!' and another diplomatist

added: 'C'est une vraie revolution, Sirer�v�lation or r�volution . . .' something of that sort. Yes, yes, it was.

I tell you it was something extraordinary." "Well, and Irina Pavlovna herself?" inquired Litvinov, whose

hands and feet had grown cold hearing the prince's speech, "did she enjoy herself, did she seem pleased?"

"Of course she enjoyed herself; how could she fail to be pleased? But, as you know, she's not to be

seen through at a glance! Every one was saying to me yesterday: it is really surprising! jamais on ne dirait

que mademoiselle votre fille est � son premier bal. Count Reisenbach, among the rest . . . you know him most

"A rich man, a chamberlain, living in Petersburg, in the swim of things; in Livonia every one is in

his hands. Hitherto he has neglected us . . . but there, I don't bear him illwill for that. J'ai l'humeur facile,

comme vous savez. Well, that's the kind of man he is. He sat near Irina, conversed with her for a quarter of an

hour, not more, and said afterwards to my princess: 'Ma cousine,' he says, 'votre fille est une perle; c'est une

perfection, every one is congratulating me on such a niece. . . .' And afterwards I look aroundand he had

gone up to a . . . a very great personage, and was talking, and kept looking at Irina . . . and the person age was

"Quite so; her head aches very badly. She told me to greet you from her, and thank you for your

flowers, qu'on a trouv� charmant. She needs rest. . . . The princess has gone out on a round of visits . . . and I

The prince cleared his throat, and began to fidget as though he were at a loss what to add further.

Litvinov took his hat, and saying he did not want to disturb him, and would call again later to inquire after

her health, he went away. A few steps from the Osinins' house he saw an elegant carriage for two persons

standing before the police sentrybox. A groom in livery, equally elegant, was bending negligently from the

box, and inquiring of the Finnish policesergeant whereabouts Prince Pavel Vassilyevitch Osinin lived.

Litvinov glanced at the carriage; in it sat a middleaged man of bloated complexion, with a wrinkled and

haughty face, a Greek nose, and an evil mouth, muffled in a sable wrap, by all outward signs a very great man

LITVINOV did not keep his promise of returning; later; he reflected that it would he better to defer

his visit till the following day. When he went into the too familiar drawingroom at about twelve o'clock, he

found there the two youngest princesses, Viktorinka and Kleopatrinka. He greeted them, and then inquired,

"Irinotchka has gone away with mammy," replied Viktorinka; she lisped a little, but was more

"How . . . gone away?" repeated Litvinov, an there was a sort of still shudder in the very bottom of

his heart. "Does she not, does she not look after you about this time, and give you your lessons?"

"Irinotchka will not give us any lessons any more now," answered Viktorinka. "Not any more

"Papa is not at home," continued Viktorinka, "and Irinotchka is not well; all night long she was

"Yes, crying . . . Yegorovna told me, and her eyes are so red, they are quite ininflamed. . . ."

Litvinov walked twice up and down the room shuddering as though with cold, and went back to his lodging.

He experienced a sensation like that which gains possession of a man when he looks down from a high tower;

everything failed within him, and his head was swimming slowly with a sense of nausea. Dull stupefaction,

and thoughts scurrying like mice, vague terror, and the numbness of expectation, and curiositystrange,

almost malignantand the weight of crushed tears in his heavy laden breast, on his lips the forced empty

smile, and a meaningless prayeraddressed to no one. . . . Oh, how bitter it all was, and how hideously

degrading! "Irina does not want to see me," was the thought that was incessantly revolving in his brain; "so

much is clear; but why is it? What can have happened at that illfated ball? And how is such a change

possible all at once? So suddenly. . . ." People always see death coming suddenly, but they can never get

accustomed to its suddenness, they feel it senseless. "She sends no message for me, does not want to explain

herself to me. . . ." "Grigory Mihalitch," called a strained voice positively in his ear.

Litvinov started, and saw before him his servant with a note in his hand. He recognized Irina's

writing. . . . Before he had broken the seal, he had a foreknowledge of woe, and bent his head on his breast

He plucked up courage at last, and tore open the envelope all at once. On a small sheet of

notepaper were the following lines: "Forgive me, Grigory Mihalitch. All is over between us; I am going away

to Petersburg. I am dreadfully unhappy, but the thing is done. It seems my fate . . . but no, I do not want to

justify myself. My presentiments have been realized. Forgive me, forget me; I am not worthy of you.Irina.

Litvinov read these five lines, and slowly dropped on to the sofa,, as though some one had dealt

him a blow on the breast. He dropped the note, picked it up, read it again, whispered "to Petersburg," and

dropped it again; that was all. There even came upon him a sense of peace; he even, with his hands thrown

behind him, smoothed the pillow under his head. "Men wounded to death don't fling themselves about," he

thought, "as it has come, so it has gone. All this is natural enough: I always expected it. . . ." (He was lying to

himself; he had never expected anything like it.) "Crying? . . . Was she crying? . . . What was she crying for?

Why, she did not love me. But all that is easily understood and in accordance with her character. Sheshe is

not worthy of me. . . . That's it!" (He laughed bitterly.) "She did not know her self what power was latent in

her,weIl, convinced of it in her effect at the ball, was it likely she would stay with an insignificant

But then he remembered her tender words, her smile, and those eyes, those never to be forgotten

eyes, which he would never see again, which used to shine and melt at simply meeting his eyes; he recalled

one swift, timorous, burning kissand suddenly he fell to sobbing, sobbing convulsively, furiously,

vindictively; turned over on his face, and choking and stifling with frenzied satisfaction as though thirsting to

tear him self to pieces with all around him, he turned his hot face in the sofa pillow, and bit it in his teeth.

Alas! the gentleman whom Litvinov had seen the day before in the carriage was no other than the

cousin of the Princess Osinin, the rich chamberlain, Count Reisenbach. Noticing the sensation produced by

Irina on certain personages of the highest rank, and instantaneously reflecting what advantages might mit

etwas Accuratesse be derived from the fact, the count made his plan at once like a man of energy and a

skillful courtier. He decided to act swiftly, in Napoleonic style. "I will take that original girl into my house,"

was what he meditated, "in Petersburg; I will make her my heiress, devil take me, of my whole property even;

as I have no children. She is my niece, and my countess is dull all alone. . . . It's always more agreeable to

have a pretty face in one's drawingroom. . . . Yes, yes; . . . that's it; es ist eine Idee, es ist eine Idee!" He

would have to dazzle, bewilder, and impress the parents. "They've not enough to eat"the count pursued his

reflection when he was in the carriage and on his way to Dogs' Place"so, I warrant they won't be obstinate.

They're not such oversentimental folks either. I might give them a sum of money down into the bargain.

And she? She will consent. Honey is sweetshe had a taste of it last night. It's a whim on my part, granted;

let them profit by it, . . . the fools. I shall say to them one thing and another . . . and you must

decideotherwise I shall adopt anotheran orphanwhich would be still more suitable. Yes or

And with these very words on his lips, the count presented himself before the prince, whom he had

forewarned of his visit the evening before at the ball. On the result of this visit it seems hardly worth while to

enlarge further. The count was not mistaken in his prognostications: the prince and princess were in fact not

obstinate, and accepted the sum of money; and Irina did in fact consent before the allotted term had expired.

It was not easy for her to break off her relations with Litvinov; she loved him; and after sending him her note,

she almost kept her bed, weeping continually, and grew thin and wan. But for all that, a month later the

princess carried her off to Petersburg, and established her at the count's; committing her to the care of the

countess, a very kindhearted woman, but with the brain of a hen, and something of a hen's exterior.

Litvinov threw up the university, and went home to his father in the country. Little by little his

wound healed. At first he had no news of Irina, and indeed he avoided all conversation that touched on

Petersburg and Petersburg society. Later on, by degrees, rumorsnot evil exactly, but curiousbegan to

circulate about her; gossip began to be busy about her. The name of the young Princess Osinin, encircled in

splendor, impressed with quite a special stamp, began to be more and more frequently mentioned even in

provincial circles. It was pronounced with curiosity, respect, and envy, as men at one time used to mention

the name of the Countess Vorotinsky. At last the news came of her marriage. But Litvinov hardly paid

Now, the reader can no doubt easily understand exactly what it was Litvinov recalled when he

cried, "Can it be she?" and therefore we will return to Baden and take up again the broken thread of our story.

LITVINOV fell asleep very late, and did not sleep long; the sun had only just risen when he got

out of bed. The summits of dark mountains visible from his windows stood out in misty purple against the

clear sky. "How cool it must be there under the trees!" he thought; and he dressed in haste, and looked with

indifference at the bouquet which had opened more luxuriantly after the night; he took a stick and set off

towards the "Old Castle" on the famous "Cliffs." Invigorating and soothing was the caressing contact of the

fresh morning about him. He drew long breaths, and stepped out boldly; the vigorous health of youth was

throbbing in every vein; the very earth seemed springy under his light feet. With every step he grew more

lighthearted, more happy; he walked in the dewy shade in the thick sand of the little paths, beside the

firtrees that were fringed with the vivid green of the spring shoots at the end of every twig. "How jolly it is!"

he kept repeating to himself. Suddenly he heard the sound of familiar voices; he looked ahead and saw

Voroshilov and Bambaev coming to meet him. The sight of them jarred upon him; he rushed away like a

schoolboy avoiding his teacher, and hid him self behind a bush. . . . "My Creator!" he prayed, "mercifully

remove my countrymen!" He felt that he would not have grudged any money at the moment if only they did

not see him. . . . And they actually did not see him: the Creator was merciful to him. Voroshilov, in his

selfconfident military voice, was holding forth to Bambaev on the various phases of Gothic architecture,

and Bambaev only grunted approvingly; it was obvious that Voroshilov had been dinning his phrases into

him a long while, and the goodnatured enthusiast was beginning to be bored. Compressing his lips and

craning his neck, Litvinov listened a long while to their retreating footsteps; for a long time the accents of

instructive discoursenow guttural, now nasalreached his ears; at last, all was still again. Litvinov

For three hours he wandered about the mountains. Sometimes he left the path, and jumped from

rock to rock, slipping now and then on the smooth moss; then he would sit down on a fragment of the cliff

under an oak or a beech, and muse on pleasant fancies to the neverceasing gurgle of the little rills

overgrown with ferns, the soothing rustle of the leaves, and the shrill notes of a solitary blackbird. A light and

equally pleasant drowsiness began to steal over him, it seemed to approach him caressingly, and he dropped

asleep. . . but suddenly be smiled and looked around; the gold and green of the forest, and the moving foliage

beat down softly on his eyesand again he smiled and again closed them. He began to want breakfast, and

he made his way towards the old castle where for a few kreutzers he could get a glass of good milk and

coffee. But he had hardly had time to establish himself at one of the little whitepainted tables set on the

platform before the castle, when the heavy tramping of horses was heard, and three open carriages drove up,

out of which stepped a rather numerous company of ladies and gentlemen . . Litvinov at once recognized

them as Russians, though they were all talking French just because they were all talking French. The ladies'

dresses were marked by a studied elegance; the gentlemen wore closefitting coats with waistswhich is not

altogether usual nowadaysgray trousers of fancy material, and very glossy town hats. A narrow black

cravat closely fettered the neck of each of these gentlemen, and something military was apparent in their

whole deportment. They were, in fact, military men; Litvinov had chanced upon a picnic party of young

generalspersons of the highest society, of weight and importance. Their importance was clearly expressed

in everything: in their discreet nonchalance, in their amiably condescending smiles, in the intense

indifference of their expression, the effeminate little movements of their shoulders, the swing of the figure,

and the crook of the knees; it was expressed, too, in the sound of their voices, which seemed to be affably and

fastidiously thanking a subservient multitude. All these officers were superlatively washed and shaved, and

thoroughly saturated with that genuine aroma of nobility and the Guards, compounded of the best cigar

smoke, and the most marvelous patchouli. They all had the hands too of noblemenwhite and large, with

nails firm as ivory; their moustaches seemed positively polished, their teeth shone, and their skinrosy on

their cheeks, bluish on their chinswas most delicate and fine. Some of the young generals were frivolous,

others were serious; but the stamp of the best breeding was on all of them. Each of them seemed to be deeply

conscious of his own dignity, and the importance of his own future part in the government, and conducted

himself with severity and ease, with a faint shade of that carelessness, that "deucetakeit" air, which comes

out so naturally during foreign travel. The party seated themselves with much noise and ostentation, and

called the obsequious waiters. Litvinov made haste to drink off his glass of milk, paid for it, and putting his

He stopped involuntarily. That voice. . . . that voice had too often set his heart beating in the past.

She was sitting at a table, her arms folded on the back of a chair drawn up near; with her head bent

on one side and a smile on her face, she was looking at him cordially, almost with delight.

Litvinov knew her at once, though she had changed, since he saw her that last time ten years ago,

though she had been transformed from a girl into a woman. Her slim figure had developed and reached its

perfection, the lines of her once narrow shoulders now recalled the goddesses that stand out on the ceilings of

ancient Italian palaces. But her eyes remained the same, and it seemed to Litvinov that they were looking at

"You know me? How glad I am! how glad" She stopped short, slightly blushing, and drew

"This is a very pleasant meeting," she continued now in French. "Let me introduce you to my

husband. Val�rien, Monsieur Litvinov, un ami d'enfance; Valerian Vladimirovitch Ratmirov, my husband.

One of the young generals, almost the most elegant of all, got up from his seat, and with excessive

courtesy bowed to Litvinov, while the rest of his companions faintly knitted their brows, or rather each of

them withdrew for an instant into himself, as though protesting betimes against any contact with an

extraneous civilian, and the other ladies taking part in the picnic thought fit to screw up their eyes a little and

simper, and even to assume an air of perplexity. "Have youerbeen long in Baden?" asked General

Ratmirov, with a dandified air utterly unRussian. He obviously did not know what to talk about with the

The general paused. Litvinov, too, was speechless. Both held their hats in their hands and bending

forward with a grin, gazed at the top of each other's heads. "Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche," began

hummingout of tune of course, we have never come across a Russian nobleman who did not sing out of

tunea dulleyed and yellowfaced general, with an expression of constant irritability on his face, as

though he could not forgive himself for his own appearance. Among all his companions he alone had not the

"I say, Val�rien, give me some fire," remarked in English another general, also young, but already

stout, with fixed eyes which seemed staring into the air, and thick silky whiskers, into which he slowly

"Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche," the dulleyed general hummed again, with intense

"You must be sure to come and see us," Irina was saying to Litvinov meantime; "we are staying at

the Hotel de l'Europe. From four to six I am always at home. We have not seen each other for such a long

"Yes, Irina Pavlovna, it is a long timeever since we were at Moscow." "At Moscow, yes, at

Moscow," she repeated abruptly. "Come and see me, we will talk and recall old times. Do you know, Grigory

"Ir�ne?" said a lady in a yellow hat and with yellow hair in an interrogative voice after some

preliminary whispering and giggling with the officer sitting near her. "Ir�ne?"

"I am older," pursued Irina, without answering the lady, "but I am not changed. No, no, I am

"Deux gendarmes un beau dimanche!" was heard again. The irritable general only remembered the

"It still pricks a little, your excellency," observed the stout general with the whiskers, with a loud

and broad intonation, apparently quoting from some amusing story, wellknown to the whole beau monde,

and with a short wooden laugh he again fell to staring into the air. All the rest of the party laughed too. "What

a sad dog you are, Boris!" observed Ratmirov in an undertone. He spoke in English and pronounced even the

"Ir�ne?" the lady in the yellow hat said inquiringly for the third time. Irina turned sharply round to

"Je vous dirai plus tard," replied the lady, mincing. With a very unattractive exterior, she was for

ever mincing and grimacing. Some wit said of her that she "minaudait dans le vide," "grimaced upon the

desert air." Irina frowned and shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "Mais que fait done Monsieur Verdier?

Pourquoi ne vientil pas?" cried one lady with that prolonged drawl which is the peculiarity of the Great

Russian accent, and is so insupportable to French ears. "Ah, voo, ah, voo, mossoo Verdew, mossoo Verdew,"

sighed another lady, whose birthplace was Arzamass. "Tranquillisezvous, mesdames," interposed Ratmirov.

"BaierischBier?" inquired the general with whiskers, assuming a bass voice, and affecting

astonishment"Guten Morgen." "Well? Is Count Pavel still there?" one young general inquired coldly and

"Yes," replied the other equally coldly, "Mais c'est provisoire. Serge, they say, will be put in his

"I can't understand," began the general who had hummed the song, "I can't understand what

induced Paul to defend himselfto bring forward all sorts of reasons. Certainly, he crushed the merchant

pretty well, il lui a fait rendre gorge . . . well, and what of it? He may have had his own motives."

"Well, it is too much! Newspapers! Shown up! If it depended on me, I would not let anything be

printed in those papers but the taxes on meat or bread, and announcements of sales of boots or furs."

"Possibly under present circumstances. . What a conversation, though, in Baden au

"Mais pas du tout! pas du tout!" replied the lady in the yellow hat, "j'adore les questions

"Madame a raison," interposed another general with an exceedingly pleasant and girlishlooking

As he said these words he looked urbanely at Litvinov and smiled condescendingly. "A man of

honor ought never under any circumstances to disown his convictions. Don't you think so?"

"Of course," rejoined the irritable general, darting a look at Litvinov, and as it were indirectly

"No, no," the condescending general interposed with the same mildness, "your friend, Valerian

Vladimirovitch, just referred to the sale of gentlemen's estates. Well? Is not that a fact?"

"But it's impossible to sell them nowadays; nobody wants them!" cried the irritable general.

"Perhaps . . . perhaps. For that very reason we ought to proclaim that fact . . . that sad fact at every

step. We are ruined . . . very good; we are beggared . . . there's no disputing about that; but we, the great

owners, we still represent a principle. . . un principe. To preserve that principle is our duty. Pardon, madame,

I think you dropped your handkerchief. When some, so to say, darkness has come over even the highest

minds, we ought submissively to point out (the general held out his finger) with the finger of a citizen the

abyss to which everything is tending. We ought to warn, we ought to say with respectful firmness, 'turn back,

turn back. . . That is what we ought to say.'" "There's no turning back altogether, though," observed Ratmirov

The general again looked courteously at Litvinov. The latter could not stand it.

"Are we to return as far as the Seven Boyars, your excellency?" "Why not? I express my opinion

"And the emancipation . . . as far as that is possible. On est patriote ou on ne l'est pas. "And

freedom?" they say to me. Do you suppose that freedom is prized by the people? Ask them"

"What are you discussing here?" began the stout general suddenly. He obviously played the part of

the spoiled child of the party. "Is it all about the newspapers? About pennyaliners? Let me tell you a little

anecdote of what happened to me with a scribbling fellowsuch a lovely thing. I was told he had written a

libel on me. Well, of course, I at once had him brought before me. They brought me the pennyaliner. 'How

was it,' said I, 'my dear chap, you came to write this libel? Was your patriotism too much for you?' 'Yes, it

was too much,' says he. 'Well,' says I, 'and do you like money?' 'Yes,' says he. Then, gentlemen, I gave him

the knob of my cane to sniff at. 'And do you like that, my angel?' 'No,' says he, 'I don't like that.' 'But sniff it

as you ought,' says I, 'my hands are clean.' 'I don't like it,' says he, 'and that's all.' 'But I like it very much, my

angel,' says I, 'though not for myself. Do you understand that allegory, my treasure?' 'Yes,' says he. 'Then

mind and be a good boy for the future, and now here's a ruble sterling for you; go away and be grateful to me

The general burst out laughing and again every one followed his exampleevery one except Irina,

"That's all your invention, O friend of my bosom. . . . You threatening any one with a stick. . . .

You haven't got a stick. C'est pour faire rire ces dames. For the sake of a good story. But that's not the point. I

said just now that we must turn back completely. Understand me. I am not hostile to socalled progress, but

all these universities and seminaries, and popular schools, these students, priests' sons, and commoners, all

these small fry, tout ce fond du sac, la petite pro pri�t� pire que le prol�tariat (the general uttered this in a

languishing, almost faint voice) voil� ce que m'effraie . . . that's where one ought to draw the line, and make

other people draw it too." (Again he gave Litvinov a genial glance.) "Yes, one must draw the line. Don't

forget that among us no one makes any demand, no one is asking for anything. Local government, for

instancewho asks for that? Do you ask for it? or you, or you? or you, mesdames? You rule not only

yourselves but all of us, you know." (The general's handsome face was lighted up by a smile of amusement.)

"My dear friends, why should we curry favor with the multitude? You like democracy, it flatters you, and

serves your ends . . . but you know it's a double weapon. It is better in the old way, as before . . . far more

secure. Don't deign to reason with the herd, trust in the aristocracy, in that alone is power. . . . Indeed, it will

be better. And progress . . . I certainly have nothing against progress. Only don't give us lawyers and sworn

juries and elective officials . . . only don't touch discipline, discipline before all thingsyou may build

"Petersburg has been set on fire from one end to the other, so there you have your progress!"

"Yes, you're a mischievous fellow, I can see," said the stout general, shaking his head lazily; "you

would do for a chiefprosecutor, hut in my opinion avec Orph�e aux enfers le progr�s a dit son dernier mot."

"Je ne suis jamais plus s�rieux, madame, que quand je dis des b�tises." "Monsieur Verdier has

uttered that very phrase several times already," observed Irina in a low voice. "De la poigne et des formes,"

cried the stout general, "de la poigne surtout. And to translate into Russian; be civil, but don't spare Your

fists." "Ah, you're a rascal, an incorrigible rascal," interposed the condescending general. "Mesdames, don't

listen to him, please. A barking dog does not bite. He cares for nothing but flirtation."

"That's not right, though, Boris," began Ratmirov, after exchanging a glance with his wife, "it's all

very well to be mischievous, but that's going too far. Progress is a phenomenon of social life, and this is what

we must not forget; it's a symptom. It's what we must watch." "All right, I say," observed the stout general,

"Not at all . . . the ministry indeed! But real! one can't refuse to recognize things."

Boris plunged his fingers again into his whiskers and stared into the air. "Social life is very

important, because in the development of the people, in the destinies, so to speak of the country"

"Val�rien," interrupted Boris reprovingly, "il y a des dames ici. I did not expect this of you, or do

"But they are all closed now, thank God," put in the irritable general, and he began humming again

Ratmirov raised a cambric handkerchief to his nose and gracefully retired from the discussion; the

condescending general repeated "Rascal! rascal!" but Boris turned to the lady who "grimaced upon the desert

air" and without lowering his voice, or a change in the expression of his face, began to ply her with questions

as to when "she would reward his devotion," as though he were desperately in love with her and suffering

At every moment during this conversation Litvinov felt more and more ill at ease. His pride, his

What had he, the son of a petty official, in common with these military aristocrats of Petersburg?

He loved everything they hated; he hated everything they loved; he was only too vividly conscious of it, he

felt it in every part of his being. Their jokes he thought dull, their tone intolerable, every gesture false; in the

very smoothness of their speeches he detected a note of revolting contemptuousnessand yet he was, as it

were, abashed before them, before these creatures, these enemies. "Ugh! how disgusting! I am in their way, I

am ridiculous to them," was the thought that kept revolving in his head. "Why am I stopping? Let me escape

at once, at once." Irina's presence could not retain him; she, too, aroused melancholy emotions in him. He got

"You are going already?" said Irina, but after a moment's reflection she did not press him to stay,

and only extracted a promise from him that he would not fail to come and see her. General Ratmirov took

leave of him with the same refined courtesy, shook hands with him and accompanied him to the end of the

platform. . . . But Litvinov had scarcely had time to turn round the first bend in the road when he heard a

general roar of laughter behind him. This laughter had no reference to him, but was occasioned by the

longexpected Monsieur Verdier, who suddenly made his appearance on the platform, in a Tyrolese hat, and

blue blouse, riding a donkey, but the blood fairly rushed into Litvinov's cheeks, and he felt intense bitterness:

his tightly compressed lips seemed as though drawn by wormwood. "Despicable, vulgar creatures," he

muttered, without reflecting that the few minutes he had spent in their company had not given him sufficient

ground for such severe criticism. And this was the world into which Irina had fallen, Irina, once his Irina! In

this world she moved, and lived, and reigned; for it, she had sacrificed her personal dignity, the noblest

feelings of her heart. . . . It was clearly as it should be; it was clear that she had deserved no better fate! How

glad he was that she had not thought of questioning him about his intentions! He might have opened his heart

before "them" in "their" presence. . . . "For nothing in the world! never murmured Litvinov, inhaling deep

draughts of the fresh air and descending the road towards Baden almost at a run. He thought of his betrothed,

his sweet, good, sacred Tatyana, and how pure, how noble, how true she seemed to him. With what unmixed

tenderness he recalled her features, her words, her very gestures . . . with what impatience he looked forward

The rapid exercise soothed his nerves. Returning home he sat down at the table and took up a

book; suddenly he let it fall, even with a shudder. . . . What had happened to him? Nothing had happened, but

Irina . . . Irina. . . . All at once his meeting with her seemed something marvelous, strange, extraordinary. Was

it possible? he had met, he had talked with the same Irina. . . . And why was there no trace in her of that

hateful worldliness which was so sharply stamped upon all these others? Why did he fancy that she seemed,

as it were, weary, or sad, or sick of her position? She was in their camp, but she was not an enemy. And what

could have impelled her to receive him joyfully, to invite him to see her? Litvinov started. "O Tanya, Tanya!"

he cried passionately, "you are my guardian angel, you only, my good genius. I love you only and will love

you for ever. And I will not go to see her. Forget her altogether! Let her amuse herself with her generals."

LITVINOV took up his book again, but he could not read. He went out of the house, walked a

little, listened to the music, glanced in at the gambling, returned again to his room, and tried again to

readstill without success. The time seemed to drag by with peculiar dreariness. Pishtchalkin, the

wellintentioned peaceable mediator, came in and sat with him for three hours. He talked, argued, stated

questions, and discoursed intermittently, first of elevated, and then of practical topics, and succeeded in

diffusing around him such an atmosphere of dullness that poor Litvinov was ready to cry. In raising

dullnessagonizing, chilling, helpless, hopeless dullnessto a fine art, Pishtchalkin was absolutely

unrivaled even among persons of the highest morality, who are notoriously masters in that line. The there

sight of his wellcut and wellbrushed head, his clear lifeless eyes, his benevolent nose, produced an

involuntary despondency, and his deliberate, drowsy, lazy tone seemed to have been created only to state

with conviction and lucidity such sententious truths as that twice two makes four and not five or three, that

water is liquid, and benevolence laudable; that to the private individual, no less than to the state, and to the

state no less than to the private individual, credit is absolutely indispensable for financial operations. And

with all this he was such an excellent man! But such is the sentence the fates have passed on Russia; among

us, good men are dull, Pishtchalkin retreated at last; he was replaced by Bindasov, who, without any beating

about the bush, asked Litvinov with great effrontery for a loan of a hundred guldens, and the latter gave it

him, in spite of the fact that Bindasov was not only unattractive, but even repulsive to him, that he knew for

certain that he would never get his money back and was, besides, himself in need of it. What made him give

him the money then, the reader will inquire. Who can tell! That is another Russian weakness. Let the reader

lay his hand on his heart and remember how many acts in his own life have had absolutely no other reason.

And Bindasov did not even thank Litvinov; he asked for a glass of red Baden wine, and without wiping his

lips departed, loudly and offensively tramping with his boots. And how vexed Litvinov was with himself

already, as he watched the red nape of the retreating sharper's neck! Before evening he received a letter from

Tatyana in which she informed him that as her aunt was not well, she could not come to Baden for five or six

days. This news had a depressing influence on Litvinov; it increased his vexation, and he went to bed early in

a disagreeable frame of mind. The following day turned out no better, if not worse, than the preceding. From

early morning Litvinov's room was filled with his own countrymen; Bambaev, Voroshilov, Pishtchalkin, the

two officers, the two Heidelberg students, all crowded in at once, and yet did not go away right up till dinner

time, though they had soon said all they had to say and were obviously bored. They simply did not know

what to do with themselves, and having got into Litvinov's lodgings they "stuck" there, as they say. First they

discussed the fact that Gubaryov had gone back to Heidelberg, and that they would have to go after him; then

they philosophized a little, and touched on the Polish question; then they advanced to reflections on gambling

and cocottes, and fell to repeating scandalous anecdotes; at last the conversation sank into a discussion of all

sorts of "strong men" and monsters of obesity and gluttony. First, they trotted out all the ancient stories of

Lukin, of the deacon who ate no less than thirtythree herrings for a wager, of the Uhlan colonel, Ezyedinov,

renowned for his corpulence, and of the soldier who broke the shinbone on his own forehead; then followed

unadulterated lying. Pishtchalkin himself related with a yawn that he knew a peasant woman in Little Russia,

who at the time of her death had proved to weigh half a ton and some pounds, and a landowner who had eaten

three geese and a sturgeon for luncheon; Bambaev suddenly fell into an ecstatic condition, and declared he

himself was able to eat a whole sheep, "with seasoning" of course; and Voroshilov burst out with something

about a comrade, an athletic cadet, so grotesque that every one was reduced to silence, and after looking at

each other, they took up their hats, and the party broke up. Litvinov, when he was left alone, tried to occupy

him self, but he felt just as if his head was full of smoldering soot; he could do nothing that was of any use,

and the evening, too, was wasted. The next morning he was just preparing for lunch, when some one knocked

at his door. "Good Lord," thought Litvinov, "one of yesterday's dear friends again," and not with out some

"Herein!" The door opened slowly and in walked Potugin. Litvinov was exceedingly delighted to

"This is nice!" he began, warmly shaking hands with his unexpected visitor, "this is good of you! I

should certainly have looked you up myself, but you would not tell me where you live. Sit down, please, put

down your hat. Sit down." Potugin made no response to Litvinov's warm welcome, and remained standing in

the middle of the room, shifting from one leg to the other; he only laughed a little and shook his head.

Litvinov's cordial reception obviously touched him, but there was some constraint in the expression of his

"There's . . . some little misunderstanding," he began, not without hesitation. "Of course, it would

always be . . . a pleasure . . . to me . . . but I have been sent . . . especially to you."

"That is to say, do you mean," commented Litvinov in an injured voice, "that you would not have

come to me of your own accord?" "Oh, no, . . . indeed! But I . . . I should, perhaps, not have made up my

mind to intrude on you to day, if I had not been asked to come to you. In fact, I have a message for you."

"From a person you know, from Irina Pavlovna Ratmirov. You promised three days ago to go and

"Allow me to ask you," he began at last, "do you know why Irina Pavlovna wants to see me?"

"To a certain degree I do. She was, as far as I can judge, very pleased at meeting

you,well,and she wants to renew your former relations." "Renew," repeated Litvinov. "Excuse my

indiscretion, but allow me to question you a little more. Do you know what was the nature of those

"Strictly speaking . . . no, I don't know. But I imagine," added Potugin, turning suddenly to

Litvinov and looking affectionately at him, "I imagine that they were of some value. Irina Pavlovna spoke

very highly of you, and I was obliged to promise her I would bring you. Will you come?"

"Irina Pavlovna," pursued Potugin, "supposes that the . . . how can I express it . . . the environment,

shall we say, in which you found her the other day, was not likely to be particularly attractive to you; but she

"Whether better or worse it's, hard to say, but certainly he is not the same as he is fancied. Well,

"With my appearance, and my position in society, it certainly does seem rather incredible; but you

knowShakespeare has said already, 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, etc.' Life, too, is

not to be trifled with. Here is a simile for you; a tree stands before you when there is no wind; in what way

can a leaf on a lower branch touch a leaf on an upper branch? It's impossible. But when the storm rises it is all

"I should think so! Can one live without them? But enough of philosophy. It's time to go."

"O good Lord!" cried Potugin with a comic face, "what are young men coming to nowadays! A

most charming lady invites them to see her, sends messengers after them on purpose, and they raise

difficulties. You ought to be ashamed, my dear sir, you ought to be ashamed. Here's your hat. Take it and

Litvinov still stood irresolute for a moment, but he ended by taking his hat and going out of the

THEY went to one of the best hotels in Baden and asked for Madame Ratmirov. The porter first

inquired their names, and then answered at once that "die Frau F�rstin ist zu Hause," and went himself to

conduct them up the staircase and knock at the door of the apartment and announce them. "Die Frau F�rstin"

received them promptly: she was alone, her husband had gone off to Carlsruhe for an interview with a great

Irina was sitting at a small table, embroidering on canvas when Potugin and Litvinov crossed the

threshold. She quickly flung her embroidery aside, pushed away the little table and got up; an expression of

genuine me pleasure overspread her face. She wore a morning dress, high at the neck; the superb lines of her

shoulders and arms could be seen through the thin stuff her carelesslycoiled hair had come loose and fell

low on her slender neck. Irina flung a swift glance Potugin, murmured "merci," and holding out her hand to

Litvinov was beginning to apologize. "C'est bien, c'est bien," she assented hurriedly and, taking his

hat from him, with friendly insistence made him sit down. Potugin, too, was sitting down, but got up again

directly, and saying that he had an engagement he could not put off, and that he would come in again after

dinner, he proceeded to take leave. Irina again flung him a rapid glance, and gave him a friendly nod, but she

did not try to keep him, and directly he had vanished behind the porti�re, she turned with eager impatience to

"Grigory Mihalitch," she began, speaking Russian in her soft musical voice, "here we are alone at

it gives me a chance . . ." (Irina looked him straight in the face) "of asking your forgiveness."

Litvinov gave an involuntary start. He had not expected so swift an attack. He had not expected she would

"For what? . . . you know for what," she said, and she turned slightly away. "I wronged you,

Grigory Mihalitch . . . though, of course, it was my fate" (Litvinov was reminded of her letter) "and I do not

regret it . . . it would be in any case too late; but, meeting you so unexpectedly, I said to myself that we

absolutely must become friends, absolutely . . . and I should feel it deeply, if it did not come about . . . and it

seems to me for that we must have an explanation, without putting it off, and once for all, so that afterwards

there should be no . . . g�ne, no awkwardness, once for all, Grigory Mihalitch; and that you must tell me you

forgive me, or else I shall imagine you feel . . . de la rancune. Voil�! It is perhaps a great piece of fatuity on

my part, for you have probably forgotten everything long, long ago, but no matter, tell me, you have forgiven

Irina uttered this whole speech without taking breath, and Litvinov could see that there were tears

"Really, Irina Pavlovna," he began hurriedly, "how can you beg my pardon, ask forgiveness? . .

That is all past and buried, and I can only feel astounded that, in the midst of all the splendor which surrounds

you, you have still preserved, a recollection of the obscure companions of your youth. . . ."

"You have not told me you have forgiven me, though," interposed Irina. "I sincerely rejoice at your

happiness, Irina Pavlovna. With my whole heart I wish you all that is best on earth. . . ."

"I will remember nothing but the happy moments for which I was once indebted to you."

Irina held out both hands to him; Litvinov clasped them warmly, and did not at once let them go.

Something that long had not been, secretly stirred in his heart at that soft contact. Irina was again looking

straight into his face; but this time she was smiling. . . . And he for the first time gazed directly and intently at

her. . . . Again he recognized the features once so precious, and those deep eyes, with their marvelous lashes,

and the little mole on her cheek, and the peculiar growth of her hair on her forehead, and her habit of

somehow sweetly and humorously curving her lips and faintly twitching her eyebrows, all, all he recognized.

. . . But how beautiful she had grown! What fascination, what power in her fresh, woman's body! And no

rouge, no touching up, no powder, nothing false on that fresh pure face. . . . Yes, this was a beautiful woman.

A mood of musing came upon Litvinov. . . . He was still looking at her, but his thoughts were far away. . .

"Well, that is excellent," she said aloud; "now my conscience is at rest then, and I can satisfy my

"Yes, yes. . . . I want above all things to know what you have been doing all this time, what plans

you have; I want to know all, how, what, when . . . all, all. And you will have to tell me the truth, for I must

"In the midst of the splendor which surrounded me, as you expressed it just now. Positively, yes, I

did not. As for that splendor we will talk about that again; but now you must tell me, you must tell me so

much, at such length, no one will disturb us. Ah, how delightful it will be," added Irina, gayly sitting down

and arranging herself at her ease in an armchair. "Come, begin." "Before telling my story, I have to thank

"I tell you I know nothing about it. . . . But I am waiting. . . . I am waiting for your story Ah, what

"Oh, yes!" Irina sighed. "There are special reasons. . . . You have heard, of course, of Eliza

Byelsky. . . . Who died, you know, the year before last, such a dreadful death? . . . Ah, to be sure, I'd

forgotten you don't know all our scandals. . . . It is well, it is well, indeed, that you don't know them. O queue

chance! at last, at last, a man, a live man, who knows nothing of us! And to be able to talk Russian with him,

bad Russian of course, but still Russian, not that everlasting mawkish, sickening French patter of Petersburg."

"It's very painful for me even to refer to it," Irina broke in. "Eliza was my greatest friend at school,

and afterwards in Petersburg we saw each other continually. She confided all her secrets to me, she was very

unhappy, she suffered much. Potugin behaved splendidly in the affair, with true chivalry. He sacrificed

himself. It was only then I learned to appreciate him! But we have drifted away again. I am waiting for your

"Think, Irina Pavlovna, we have not seen each other for ten years, ten whole years. How much

"Not water only! not water only!" she repeated with a peculiar bitter expression; "that's just why I

"At the beginning. From the very time when you . . . when I went away to Petersburg. You left

"And did you go on living at that, what was his name, Count Reisenbach's, till your marriage?"

Irina looked steadily at him, as though she were trying to make up her mind why he asked that question.

"I suppose, your parents. . . . By the way, I haven't asked after them. Are they"

"Ah!" Litvinov glanced up from under his brows at Irina. "In reality, Irina Pavlovna, it's not I who

ought to tell my story, but you, if only" He suddenly felt embarrassed and stopped.

Irina raised her hands to her face and turned her weddingring round upon her finger.

"Well? I will not refuse," she assented at last. "Some day . . . perhaps. . . . But first you . . .

because, do you see, though I tried to follow you up, I know scarcely anything of you; while of me . . . well,

of me you have heard enough certainly. Haven't you? I suppose you have heard of me, tell me?"

"You, Irina Pavlovna, occupied too conspicuous a place in the world, not to be the subject of talk .

. . especially in the provinces, where I have been and where every rumor is believed."

"To tell the truth, Irina Pavlovna, such rumors very seldom reach me. I have led a very solitary

Litvinov bowed his head and began . . . began in rather a confused fashion to recount in rough

outline to Irina his uninteresting adventures. He often stopped and looked inquiringly at Irina, as though to

ask whether he had told enough. But she insistently demanded the continuation of his narrative and pushing

her hair back behind her ears, her elbows on the arm of her chair, she seemed to be catching every word with

strained attention. Looking at her from one side and following the expression on her face, any one might

perhaps have imagined she did not hear what Litvinov was saying at all, hut was only deep in meditation. . . .

But it was not of Litvinov she was meditating, though he grew confused and red under her persistent gaze. A

whole life was rising up before her, a very different one, not his life, but her own.

Litvinov did not finish his story, but stopped short under the influence of an unpleasant sense of

growing inner discomfort. This time Irina said nothing to him, and did not urge him to go on, but pressing her

open hand to her eyes, as though she were tired, she leaned slowly back in her chair, and remained

motionless. Litvinov waited for a little; then, reflecting that his visit had already lasted more than two hours,

he was stretching out his hand for his hat, when suddenly in an adjoining room there was the sound of the

rapid creak of thin kid boots, and preceded by the same exquisite aristocratic perfume, there entered Valerian

Litvinov rose and interchanged bows with the goodlooking general, while Irina, with no sign of

haste, took her hand from her face, and looking coldly at her husband, remarked in French, "Ah! so you've

"Nearly four, ma ch�re amie, and you not dressed yetthe princess will be expecting us,"

answered the general; and with an elegant bend of his tightlylaced figure in Litvinov's direction, he added

with the almost effeminate playfulness of intonation characteristic of him, "It's clear an agreeable visitor has

The reader will permit us at this point to give him some information about General Ratmirov. His

father was the natural . . . what do you suppose? You are not wrongbut we didn't mean to say that . . . the

natural son of an illustrious personage of the reign of Alexander I. and of a pretty little French actress. The

illustrious personage brought his son forward in the world, but left him no fortune, and the son himself (the

father of our hero) had not time to grow rich; he died before he had risen above the rank of a colonel in the

police. A year before his death he had married a handsome young widow who had happened to put her self

under his protection. His son by the widow, Valerian Alexandrovitch, having got into the Corps of Pages by

favor, attracted the notice of the authorities, not so much by his success in the sciences, as by his fine bearing,

his fine manners, and his good behavior (though he had been exposed to all that pupils in the government

military schools were inevitably exposed to in former days) and went into the Guards. His career was a

brilliant one, thanks to the discreet gayety of his disposition, his skill in dancing, his excellent seat on

horseback when an orderly at reviews, and lastly, by a kind of special trick of deferential familiarity with his

superiors, of tender, attentive almost clinging subservience, with a flavor of vague liberalism, light as air. . . .

This liberalism had not, however, prevented him from flogging fifty peasants in a White Russian village,

where he had been sent to put down a riot. His personal appearance was most prepossessing and singularly

youthfullooking; smoothfaced and rosy cheeked, pliant and persistent, he made the most of his amazing

success with women; ladies of the highest rank and mature age simply went out of their senses over him.

Cautious from habit, silent from motives of prudence, General Ratmirov moved constantly in the highest

society, like the busy bee gathering honey even from the least attractive flowersand without morals,

without information of any kind, but with the reputation of being good at business; with an insight into men,

and a ready comprehension of the exigencies of the moment, and above all, a neverswerving desire for his

General Ratmirov made no reply. He only smiled to himself, as though lenient to the

overhastiness of a woman's judgment. With just such a smile kindlydisposed grownup people respond to

"Yes," Irina went on, "the stupidity of your friend the Count is too striking, even when one has

seen a good deal of the world." "You sent me to him yourself," muttered the general, and turning to Litvinov

"I am in perfect health, I'm thankful to say," answered Litvinov. "That's the greatest of blessings,"

pursued the general, with an affable grimace; "and indeed one doesn't, as a rule, come to Baden for the

waters; but the waters here are very effectual, je veux dire, efficaces; and any one who suffers, as I do for

Irina rose quickly. "We will see each other again, Grigory Mihalitch, and I hope soon," she said in

French, contemptuously cutting short her husband's speech, "but now I must go and dress. That old princess

is insufferable with her everlasting parties de plaisir, of which nothing comes but boredom."

"You're hard on every one today," muttered her husband, and he slipped away into the next room.

"You are going to be married, I'm told?" Litvinov blushed up to his ears. . . . As a fact, he had

intentionally not referred to Tanya; but he felt, horribly vexed, first, that Irina knew about his marriage, and,

secondly, that she had, as it were, convicted him of a desire to conceal it from her. He was completely at a

Irina scanned her husband from head to foot in one look, turned her back upon him, and went away

LITVINOV felt much annoyed with himself, as though he had lost money at roulette, or failed to

keep his word. An inward voice told him that heon the eve of marriage, a man of sober sense, not a

boyought not to have given way to the promptings of curiosity, nor the allurements of recollection. "Much

need there was to go!" he reflected. "On her side simply flirtation, whim, caprice. . . . She's bored, she's sick

of everything, she clutched at me . . . as some one pampered with dainties will suddenly long for black bread .

. . well, that's natural enough. . . . But why did I go? Can I feel anything but contempt for her?" This last

phrase he could not utter even in thought without an effort. . . . "Of course, there's no kind of danger, and

never could be," he pursued his reflections. "I know whom I have to deal with. But still one ought not to play

with fire. . . . I'll never set my foot in her place again." Litvinov dared not, or could not as yet, confess to

himself how beautiful Irina had seemed to him, how powerfully she had worked upon his feelings. Again the

day passed dully and drearily. At dinner, Litvinov chanced to sit beside a majestic belhomme, with dyed

moustaches, who said nothing, and only panted and rolled his eyes . . . but, being suddenly taken with a

hiccup, proved himself to be a fellowcountryman, by at once exclaiming, with feeling, in Russian, "There, I

said I ought not to eat melons!" In the evening, too, nothing happened to compensate for a lost day; Bindasov,

before Litvinov's very eyes, won a sum four times what he had borrowed from him, but, far from repaying his

debt, he positively glared in his face with a menacing air, as though he were prepared to borrow more from

him just because he had been a witness of his winnings. The next morning he was again invaded by a host of

his compatriots; Litvinov got rid of them with difficulty, and setting off to the mountains, he first came across

Irinahe pretended not to recognize her, and passed quickly byand then Potugin. He was about to begin a

conversation with Potugin, but the latter did not respond to him readily. He was leading by the hand a smartly

dressed little girl, with fluffy, almost white curls, large black eyes, and a pale, sickly little face, with that

peculiar peremptory and impatient expression characteristic of spoiled children. Litvinov spent two hours in

the mountains, and then went back homewards along the Lichtenthaler Allee. . . . A lady, sitting on a bench,

with a blue veil over her face, got up quickly, and came up to him. . . . He recognized Irina.

"Why do you avoid me, Grigory Mihalitch?" she said, in the unsteady voice of one who is boiling

"No, I am not mistaken. Do you suppose this morningwhen we met, I meando you suppose I

"Grigory Mihalitch, you're a straightforward man, you have always told the truth; tell me, tell me,

Litvinov glanced at Irina. Her eyes shone with a strange light, while her cheeks and lips were of a

deathly pallor under the thick net of her veil. In the expression of her face, in the very sound of her abruptly

jerkedout whisper, there was something so irresistibly mournful, beseeching . . . Litvinov could not pretend

"Why did you not come up to me?" she whispered. "Why . . . why!" Litvinov moved on one side,

away from the path, Irina followed him in silence. "Why?" he repeated once more, and suddenly his face was

aflame, and he felt his chest and throat choking with a passion akin to hatred. "You . . . you ask such a

question, after all that has passed between us? Not now, of course, not now; but there . . . there . . . in

Moscow." "But, you know, we decided; you know, you promised" Irina was beginning.

"I have promised nothing! Pardon the harshness of my expressions, but you ask for the truthso

think for yourself: to what but a capriceincomprehensible, I confess, to meto what but a desire to try

how much power you still have over me, can I attribute your . . . I don't know what to call it . . . your

persistence? Our paths have lain so far apart! I have forgotten it all, I've lived through all that suffering long

ago, I've become a different man, completely; you are marriedhappy, at least, in appearanceyou fill an

envied position in the world; what's the object, what's the use of our meeting? What am I to you? what are

you to me? We cannot even understand each other, now; there is absolutely nothing in common between us,

now, neither in the past nor in the present! Especially . . . especially in the past!"

Litvinov uttered all this speech hurriedly, jerkily, without turning his head. Irina did not stir, except

from time to time she faintly stretched her hands out to him. It seemed as though she were beseeching him to

stop and listen to her, while, at his last words, she slightly bit her lower lip, as though to master the pain of a

"Grigory Mihalitch," she began at last, in a calmer voice; and she moved still further away from

"Grigory Mihalitch, believe me, if I could imagine I had one hair'sbreadth of power over you left,

I would be the first to avoid you. If I have not done so, if I made up my mind, in spite of my . . . of the wrong

I did you in the past, to renew my acquaintance with you, it was because . . . because"

"Because," Irina declared with sudden force"it's too insufferable, too unbearably stifling for me

in society, in the envied position you talk about; because meeting you, a live man, after all these dead

puppetsyou have seen samples of them three days ago, there au Vieux Ch�teau, rejoice over you as an

oasis in the desert, while you suspect me of flirting, and despise me and repulse me on the ground that I

wronged youas indeed I didbut far more myself!" "You chose your lot yourself, Irina Pavlovna,

"I chose it myself, yes . . . and I don't complain, I have no right to complain," said Irina hurriedly;

she seemed to derive a secret consolation from Litvinov's very harshness. "I know that you must think ill of

me, and I won't justify myself; I only want to explain my feeling to you, I want to convince you I am in no

flirting humor now. . . . Me flirting with you! Why, there is no sense in it. . . . When I saw you, all that was

good, that was young in me, revived . . . that time when I had not yet chosen my lot, everything that lies

"Come, really, Irina Pavlovna! So far as I am aware, the brightness in your life began precisely

Irina put her handkerchief to her lips. "That's very cruel, what you say, Grigory Mihalitch; but I

can't feel angry with you. Oh, no, that was not a bright time, it was not for happiness I left Moscow; I have

known not one moment, not one instant of happiness . . . believe me, whatever you have been told. If I were

happy, could I talk to you as I am talking now. . . . I repeat to you, you don't know what these people are. . . .

Why, they understand nothing, feel for nothing; they've no intelligence even, ni esprit ni intelligence, nothing

but tact and cunning; why, in reality, music and poetry and art are all equally remote from them. . . . You will

say that I was rather indifferent to all that myself; but not to the same degree, Grigory Mihalitch . . . not to the

same degree! It's not a woman of the world before you now, you need only look at menot a society queen.

That's what they call us, I believe . . . but a poor, poor creature, really deserving of pity. Don't

wonder at my words. . . . I am beyond feeling pride now! I hold out my hand to you as a beggar, will you

understand, just as a beggar. . . . I ask for charity," she added suddenly, in an involuntary, irrepressible

Her voice broke. Litvinov raised his head and looked at Irina; her breathing came quickly, her lips

were quivering. Suddenly his heart beat fast, and the feeling of hatred vanished.

"You say that our paths have lain apart," Irina went on. "I know you are about to marry from

inclination, you have a plan laid out for your whole life; yes, that's all so, but we have not become strangers

to one another, Grigory Mihalitch; we can still understand each other. Or do you imagine I have grown

altogether dullaltogether debased in the mire? Ah, no, don't think that, please! Let me open my heart, I

beseech youthereeven for the sake of those old days, if you are not willing to forget them. Do so, that

our meeting may not have come to pass in vain; that would be too bitter; it would not last long in any case. . .

. I don't know how to say it properly, but you will understand me, because I ask for little, so little . . . only a

little sympathy, only that you should not repulse me, that you should let me open my heart"

Irina ceased speaking, there were tears in her voice. She sighed, and timidly, with a kind of furtive,

"Yes, friends . . . or if that is too much to ask, then let us at least be friendly. . . . Let us be simply

"As though nothing had happened, . . . repeated Litvinov again. "You said just now, Irina

Pavlovna, that I was unwilling to forget the old days. . . . But what if I can't forget them?"

A blissful smile flashed over Irina's face, and at once disappeared, to be replaced by a harassed,

"Be like me, Grigory Mihalitch, remember only what was good in them; and most of all, give me

"There's no need of that . . . wait a little, though, you will understand. But you will promise?"

"Thanks. You see I am used to believe you. I shall expect you today, tomorrow, I will not go out

of the house. And now I must leave you. The Grand Duchess is coming along the avenue. . . . She's caught

sight of me, and I can't avoid going up to speak to her. . . . Goodby till we meet. . . . Give me your hand,

And warmly pressing Litvinov's hand, Irina walked towards a middleaged person of dignified

appearance, who was coming slowly along the gravel path, escorted by two other ladies, and a strikingly

"Eh bonjour, ch�re Madame," said the personage, while Irina courtesied respectfully to her.

LITVINOV let the Grand Duchess and all her suite get out of sight, and then he, too, went along

the avenue. He could not make up his mind clearly what he was feeling; he was conscious both of shame and

dread, while his vanity was flattered. The unexpected explanation with Irina had taken him utterly by

surprise; her rapid burning words had passed over him like a thunderstorm. "Queer creatures, these society

women," he thought; "there's no consistency in them.. . and how perverted they are by the surroundings in

which they go on living, while they're conscious of its hideousness themselves!" . . . In reality he was not

thinking this at all, but only mechanically repeating these hackneyed phrases, as though he were trying to

ward off other more painful thoughts. He felt that he must not think seriously just now, that he would

probably have to blame himself, and he moved with lagging steps, almost forcing himself to pay attention to

every thing that happened to meet him. . . . He suddenly found himself before a seat, caught sight of some

one's legs in front of it, and looked upwards from them. . . . The legs belonged to a man, sitting on the seat,

and reading a newspaper; this man turned out to be Potugin. Litvinov uttered a faint exclamation. Potugin

laid the paper down on his knees, and looked attentively, without a smile, at Litvinov; and Litvinov also

"By all means, I shall be delighted. Only I warn you, if you want to have a talk with me, you

mustn't be offended with meI'm in a most misanthropic humor just now, and I see everything in an

"That's no matter, Sozont Ivanitch," responded Litvinov, sinking down on the seat, "indeed, it's

"I ought not by rights to be illhumored," began Potugin. "I've just read in the paper a project for

judicial reforms in Russia, and I see with genuine pleasure that we've got some sense at last, and they're not

as usual on the pretext of independence, nationalism, or originality, proposing to tack a little homemade tag

of our own on to the clear, straightforward logic of Europe; but are taking what's good from abroad intact. A

single adaptation in its application to the peasants' sphere is enough. . . . There's no doing away with

communal ownership! . . . Certainly, certainly, I ought not to be illhumored; but to my misfortune I chanced

upon a Russian 'rough diamond,' and had a talk with him, and these rough diamonds, these selfeducated

"Why, there's a gentleman disporting himself here, who imagines he's a musical genius. 'I have

done nothing, of course,' he'll tell you. 'I'm a cipher, because I've had no training, but I've incomparably more

melody and more ideas in me than in Meyerbeer.' In the first place, I say: why have you had no training? and

secondly, that, not to talk of Meyerbeer, the humblest German fluteplayer, modestly blowing his part in the

humblest German orchestra, has twenty times as many ideas as all our untaught geniuses; only the

fluteplayer keeps his ideas to himself, and doesn't trot them out with a flourish in the land of Mozarts and

Haydns; while our friend the rough diamond has only to strum some little waltz or song, and at once you see

him with his hands in his trouser pocket and a sneer of contempt on his lips: I'm a genius, he says. And in

painting it's just the same, and in everything else. Oh, these natural geniuses, how I hate them! As if every

one didn't know that it's only where there's no real science fully assimilated, and no real art, that there's this

flaunting affectation of them. Surely it's time to have done with this flaunting, this vulgar twaddle, together

with all hackneyed phrases such as 'no one ever dies of hunger in Russia,' 'nowhere is there such fast

traveling as in Russia,' 'we Russians could bury all our enemies under our hats.' I'm for ever hearing of the

richness of the Russian nature, their unerring instinct, and of Kulibin. . . . But what is this richness, after all,

gentlemen? Halfawakened mutterings or else halfanimal sagacity. Instinct, indeed! A fine boast. Take an

ant in a forest and set it down a mile from its anthill, it will find its way home; man can do nothing like it;

but what of it? do you suppose he's inferior to the ant? Instinct, be it ever so unerring, is unworthy of man;

sense, simple, straightforward, common sensethat's our heritage, our pride; sense won't perform any such

tricks, but it's that that everything rests upon. As for Kulibin, who, without any knowledge of mechanics,

succeeded in making some very bad watches, why, I'd have those watches set up in the pillory, and say: see,

good people, this is the way not to do it. Kulibin's not to blame for it, but his work's rubbish. To admire

Telushkin's boldness and cleverness because he climbed on to the Admiralty spire is well enough; why not

admire him? But there's no need to shout that he's made the German architects look foolish, that they're no

good, except at making money. . . . He's not made them look foolish in the least; they had to put a scaffolding

round the spire afterwards, and repair it in the usual way. For mercy's sake, never encourage the idea in

Russia that anything can be done without training. No; you may have the brain of a Solomon, but you must

study, study from the A B C. Or else hold your tongue, and sit still and be humble! Phoo! it makes one hot all

"Russian art," he began again. "Russian art, in deed! . . . Russian impudence and conceit, I know,

and Russian feebleness, too, but Russian art, begging your pardon, I've never come across. For twenty years

on end they've been doing homage to that bloated nonentity, Bryullov, and fancying that we have founded a

school of our own, and even that it will be better than all others. . . . Russian art, ha, ha, ha! ho, ho!"

"Excuse me, though, Sozont Ivanitch," remarked Litvinov, "would you refuse to recognize Glinka,

"The exception, you know, only proves the rule, but even in that instance we could not dispense

with bragging. If we'd said, for example, that Glinka was really a remarkable musician, who was only

prevented by circumstancesouter and innerfrom becoming the founder of the Russian opera, none

would have disputed it; but no, that was too much to expect! They must at once raise him to the dignity of

commanderinchief, of grandmarshal, in the musical world, and disparage other nations while they were

about it; they have nothing to compare with him, they declare, then quote you some marvelous homebred

genius whose compositions are nothing but a poor imitation of secondrate foreign composers, yes,

secondrate ones, for they're the easiest to imitate. Nothing to compare with him? Oh, poor benighted

barbarians, for whom standards in art are nonexistent, and artists are something of the same species as the

strong man Rappo: there's a foreign prodigy, they say, can lift fifteen stone in one hand, but our man can lift

thirty! Nothing to compare with us, indeed! I will venture to tell you something I remember, and can't get out

of my head. Last spring I visited the Crystal Palace near London; in that Palace, as you're aware, there's a sort

of exhibition of everything that has been devised by the ingenuity of manan encyclop�dia of humanity,

one might call it. Well, I walked to and fro among the machines and implements and statues of great men;

and all the while I thought, if it were decreed that some nation or other should disappear from the face of the

earth, and with it everything that nation had invented, should disappear from the Crystal Palace, our dear

mother, Holy Russia, could go and hide herself in the lower regions, without disarranging a single nail in the

place: everything might remain undisturbed where it is; for even the samovar, the woven bast shoes, the

yokebridle, and the knoutthese are our famous productswere not invented by us. One could not carry

out the same experiment on the Sandwich islanders; those islanders have made some peculiar canoes and

javelins of their own; their absence would be noticed by visitors. It's a libel! it's too severe, you say perhaps. .

. . But I say, first, I don't know how to roar like any sucking dove; and secondly, it's plain that it's not only the

devil no one dares to look straight in the face, for no one dares to look straight at himself, and it's not only

children who like being soothed to sleep. Our older inventions came to us from the East, our later ones we've

borrowed, and half spoiled, from the West, while we still persist in talking about the independence of Russian

art! Some bold spirits have even discovered an original Russian science; twice two makes four with us as

elsewhere, but the result's obtained more ingeniously, it appears." "But wait a minute, Sozont Ivanitch," cried

Litvinov. "Do wait a minute! You know we send something to the universal exhibitions, and doesn't Europe

"Yes, raw material, raw products. And note, my dear sir: this raw produce of ours is generally only

good by virtue of other exceedingly bad conditions; our bristles, for instance, are large and strong, because

our pigs are poor; our hides are stout and thick because our cows are thin; our tallow's rich because it's boiled

down with half the flesh. . . . But why am I enlarging on that to you, though; you are a student of technology,

to be sure, you must know all that better than I do. They talk to me of our inventive faculty! The inventive

faculty of the Russians! Why our worthy farmers complain bitterly and suffer loss because there's no

satisfactory machine for drying grain in existence, to save them from the necessity of putting their sheaves in

ovens, as they did in the days of Rurik; these ovens are fearfully wastefuljust as our bast shoes and our

Russian mats are,and they are constantly getting on fire. The farmers complain, but still there's no sign of a

dryingmachine. And why is there none? Because the German farmer doesn't need them; he can thrash his

wheat as it is, so he doesn't bother to invent one, and we . . . are not capable of doing it! Not capableand

that's all about it! Try as we may! From this day forward I declare whenever I come across one of those rough

diamonds, these selftaught geniuses, I shall say: 'Stop a minute, my worthy friend! Where's that

dryingmachine? let's have it!' But that's beyond them! Picking up some old castoff shoe, dropped ages ago

by St. Simon or Fourier, and sticking it on our heads and treating it as a sacred relicthat's what we're

capable of; or scribbling an article on the historical and contemporary significance of the proletariat in the

principal towns of Francethat we can do, too; but I tried once, asking a writer and political economist of

that sortrather like your friend, Mr. Voroshilovto mention twenty towns in France, and what do you

think came of that? Why the economist in despair at last mentioned MontFermeuil as one of the French

towns, remembering it probably from some novel of Paul de Kock's. And that reminds me of the following

"I shoot a little. I was making my way to a swamp in search of snipe; I'd been told of the swamp by

other sportsmen. I saw sitting in a clearing before a hut a timber merchant's clerk, as fresh and smooth as a

peeled nut, he was sitting there, smiling awaywhat at, I can't say. So I asked him: 'Whereabouts was the

swamp, and were there many snipe in it?' 'To be sure, to be sure,' he sang out promptly, and with an

expression of face as though I'd given him a ruble; 'the swamp's firstrate, I'm thankful to say; and as for all

kinds of wild fowl,my goodness, they're to be found there in wonderful plenty.' I set off, but not only

found no wild fowl, the swamp itself had been dry for a long time. Now tell me, please, why is the Russian a

liar? Why does the political economist lie, and why the lie about the wild fowl, too?" Litvinov made no

"But turn the conversation with the same political economist," pursued Potugin, "on the most

abstruse problems of social science, keeping to theory, without facts . . .!he takes flight like a bird, a

perfect eagle. I did once succeed, though, in catching one of those birds. I used a pretty snare, though an

obvious one, as you shall see if you please. I was talking with one of our latterday 'new young men' about

various questions, as they call them. Well, he got very hot, as they always do. Marriage among other things

he attacked with really childish exasperation. I brought forward one argument after another . . . I might as

well have talked to a stone wall! I saw I should never get round him like that. And then I had a happy

thought! 'Allow me to submit to you,' I began,one must always talk very respectfully to these 'new young

men''I am really surprised at you, my dear sir; you are studying natural science, and your attention has

never up till now been caught by the fact that all carnivorous and predatory animalswild beasts and

birdsall who have to go out in search of prey, and to exert themselves to obtain animal food for themselves

and their young . . . and I suppose you would include man in the category of such animals?' 'Of course, I

should,' said the 'new young man,' 'man is nothing but a carnivorous animal.' 'And predatory?' I added. 'And

predatory,' he declared. 'Well said,' I observed. "Well, then I am surprised you've never noticed that such

animals live in monogamy.' The 'new young man' started. 'How so?' 'Why, it is so. Think of the lion, the wolf,

the fox, the vulture, the kite; and, indeed, would you condescend to suggest how they could do otherwise. It's

hard work enough for the two together to get a living for their offspring.' My 'new young man' grew

thoughtful. 'Well,' says he, 'in that case the animal is not a rule for man.' Thereupon I called him an idealist,

and wasn't he hurt at that! He almost cried. I had to comfort him by promising not to tell of him to his friends.

To deserve to he called an idealist is no laughing matter! The main point in which our latterday young people

are out in their reckoning is this. They fancy that the time for the old, obscure, underground work is over, that

it was all very well for their oldfashioned fathers to burrow like moles, but that's too humiliating a part for

us, we will take action in the light of day, we will take action . . . Poor darlings! why your children even won't

take action; and don't you care to go back to burrowing, burrowing underground again in the old tracks?"

"I am of opinion, my dear sir," began Potugin again, "that we are not only indebted to civilization

for science, art, and law, but that even the very feeling for beauty and poetry is developed and strengthened

under the influence of the same civilization, and that the socalled popular, simple, unconscious creation is

twaddling and rubbishy. Even in Homer there are traces of a refined and varied civilization; love itself is

enriched by it. The Slavophils would cheerfully hang me for such a heresy, if they were not such

chickenhearted creatures; but I will stick up for my own ideas all the same; and however much they press

Madame Kohanovsky and 'The swarm of bees at rest' upon me,I can't stand the odor of that triple extrait de

mougik Russe, as I don't belong to the highest society, which finds it absolutely necessary to assure itself

from time to time that it has not turned quite French, and for whose exclusive benefit this literature en cuir de

Russie is manufactured. Try reading the raciest, most 'popular' passages from the 'Bees' to a common

peasanta real one: he'll think you're repeating him a new spell against fever or drunkenness. I repeat,

without civilization there's not even poetry. If you want to get a clear idea of the poetic ideal of the

uncivilized Russian, you should turn up our ballads, our legends. To say nothing of the fact that love is

always presented as the result of witchcraft, of sorcery, and produced by some philtre, to say nothing of our

socalled epic literature being the only one among all the European and Asiatic literaturesthe only one,

observe, which does not present any typical pair of loversunless you reckon VankaTanka as such; and of

the Holy Russian knight always beginning his acquaintance with his destined bride by beating her 'most

pitilessly' on her white body, because 'the race of women is puffed up'! all that I pass over; but I should like to

call your attention to the artistic form of the young hero, the jeune premier, as he was depicted by the

imagination of the primitive, uncivilized Slav. Just fancy him a minute; the jeune premier enters; a cloak he

has worked himself of sable, backstitched along every seam, a sash of sevenfold silk girt close about his

armpits, his fingers hidden away under his hanging sleevelets, the collar of his coat raised high above his

head, from before, his rosy face no man can see, nor, from behind, his little white neck; his cap is on one ear,

while on his feet are boots of morocco, with points as sharp as a cobbler's awl, and the heels peaked like

nails. Round the points an egg can he rolled, and a sparrow can fly under the heels. And the young hero

advances with that peculiar mincing gait by means of which our Alcibiades, Tchivilo Plenkovitch, produced

such a striking, almost medical, effect on old women and young girls, the same gait which we see in our

looselimbed waiters, that cream, that flower of Russian dandyism, that ne plus ultra of Russian taste. This I

maintain without joking; a sacklike gracefulness, that's an artistic ideal. What do you think, is it a fine type?

Does it present many materials for painting, for sculpture? And the beauty who fascinates the young hero,

whose 'face is as red as the blood of the hare'? . . . But I think you're not listening to me?"

Litvinov started. He had not, in fact, heard what Potugin was saying; he kept thinking, persistently

"I beg your pardon, Sozont Ivanitch," he began, "but I'm going to attack you again with my former

"You want to know again how I came to know her?" "No, not exactly. I should like to hear your

opinion . . . on the part she played in Petersburg. What was that part, in reality?"

"I really don't know what to say to you, Grigory Mihalitch: I was brought into rather intimate terms

with Madame Ratmirov . . . but quite accidentally, and not for long. I never got an insight into her world, and

what took place in it remained unknown to me. There was some gossip before me, but as you know, it's not

only in democratic circles that slander reigns supreme among us. Besides I was not inquisitive. I see, though,"

"Yes; we have twice talked together rather openly. I ask myself, though, is she sincere?"

Potugin looked down. "When she is carried away by feeling, she is sincere, like all women of

"That's nothing either, she's sincere all the same. Though after all, how can you expect truth? The

"But, Sozont Ivanitch, if you remember, you called yourself her friend. Didn't you drag me almost

"What of that? she asked me to get hold of you; and I thought, why not? And I really am her

friend. She has her good qualities: she's very kind, that is to say, generous, that's to say she gives others what

she has no sort of need of herself. But of course you must know her at least as well as I do."

"Ah, Grigory Mihalitch, why do you say that? Do you suppose any one's character changes? Such

as one is in one's cradle, such one is still in one's tomb. Or perhaps it is" (here Potugin bowed his head still

lower) "perhaps, you're afraid of falling into her clutches? that's certainly . . . But of course one is bound to

"There's no escape. Man is weak, woman is strong, opportunity is allpowerful, to make up one's

mind to a joyless life is hard, to forget one's self utterly is impossible . . . and on one side is beauty and

sympathy and warmth and light,how is one to resist it? Why, one runs like a child to its nurse. Ah, well,

afterwards to be sure comes cold and darkness and emptiness . . . in due course. And you end by being

strange to everything, by losing comprehension of everything. At first you don't understand how love is

Litvinov looked at Potugin, and it struck him that he had never yet met a man more lonely, more

desolate . . . more unhappy. This time he was not shy, he was not stiff; downcast and pale, his head on his

breast, and his hands on his knees, he sat without moving, merely smiling his dejected smile. Litvinov felt

"Irina Pavlovna mentioned among other things," he began in a low voice, "a very intimate friend of

"Ah!" he commented thickly. . . . "She mentioned well, what of it? It's time, though," he added

He jumped up from the seat and made off quickly before Litvinov had time to utter a word. . . . His

compassion gave way to annoyanceannoyance with himself, be it understood. Want of consideration of

any kind was foreign to his nature; he had wished to express his sympathy for Potugin, and it had resulted in

something like a clumsy insinuation. With secret dissatisfaction in his heart, he went back to his hotel.

"Rotten to the marrow of her bones," he thought a little later. . . . "but proud as the devil! She, that

Litvinov tried to drive Irina's image out of his head, but he did not succeed. For this very reason he

did not think of his betrothed; he felt today this haunting image would not give up its place. He made up his

mind to await without further anxiety the solution of all this "strange business"; the solution could not be long

in coming, and Litvinov had not the slightest doubt it would turn out to be most innocent and natural. So he

fancied, but meanwhile he was not only haunted by Irina's imageevery word she had uttered kept recurring

"If you have nothing to do this evening, come to me; I shall not be alone; I shall have guests, and

you will get a closer view of our set, our society. I want you very much to see something of them; I fancy

they will show themselves in all their brilliance. You ought to know what sort of atmosphere I am breathing.

Come; I shall be glad to see you, and you will not be bored. (Irina had spelled the Russian incorrectly here.)

Prove to me that our explanation today has made any sort of misunderstanding between us impossible for

Litvinov put on a frock coat and a white tie, and set off to Irina's. "All this is of no importance," he

repeated mentally on the way, "as for looking at them . . . why shouldn't I have a look at them? It will be

curious." A few days before, these very people had aroused a different sensation in him; they had aroused his

He walked with quickened steps, his cap pulled down over his eyes, and a constrained smile on his

lips, while Bambaev, sitting before Weber's caf�, and pointing him out from a distance to Voroshilov and

Pishtchalkin, cried excitedly: "Do you see that man? He's a stone! he's a rock! he's a flint!!!"

LITVINOV found rather many guests at Irina's. In a corner at a cardtable 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 satan� as de pique!" Among the visitors Litvinov recognized 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 gray

shoulders, and, covering her mouth with her fan, leered languishingly with her absolutely deathlike eyes

upon Ratmirov; he paid her much attention; she was held in great honor in the highest society, as the last of

the Maids of Honor of the Empress Catherine. At the window, dressed like a shepherdess, sat Countess S.,

"the Queen of the Wasps," surrounded by young men. Among them the celebrated millionaire and beau

Finikov was conspicuous for his supercilious deportment, his absolutely flat skull, and his expression of

soulless brutality, worthy of a Khan of Buchania, or a Roman Heliogabalus. Another lady, also a countess,

known by the pet name of Lise, was talking to a longhaired, fair, and pale spiritualistic medium. Beside

them was standing a gentleman, also pale and longhaired, who kept laughing in a meaning way. This

gentleman also believed in spiritualism, but added to that an interest in prophecy, and, on the basis of the

Apocalypse and the Talmud, was in the habit of foretelling all kinds of marvelous events. Not a single one of

these events had come to pass; but he was in no wise disturbed by that fact, and went on prophesying as

before. At the piano, the musical genius had installed himself, the rough diamond, who had stirred Potugin to

such indignation; he was striking chords with a careless hand, d'une main distraite, and kept staring vaguely

about him. Irina was sitting on a sofa between Prince Kok� and Madame H., once a celebrated beauty and

wit, who had long ago become a repulsive old crone, with the odor of sanctity and evaporated sinfulness

about her. On catching sight of Litvinov, Irina blushed and got up, and when he went up to her, she pressed

his hand warmly. She was wearing a dress of black cr�pon, relieved by a few inconspicuous gold ornaments;

her shoulders were a dead white, while her face, pale, too, under the momentary flood of crimson

overspreading it, was breathing with the triumph of beauty, and not of beauty alone; a hidden, almost ironical

happiness was shining in her halfclosed eyes, and quivering about her lips and nostrils. . . . 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

goodlooking, 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; he was unaccustomed to society and was

conscious of some embarrassment, added to which the stout general stared at him persistently. "Aha! lubberly

civilian! freethinker!" that fixed heavy stare seemed to be saying: "down on your knees to us; crawl to kiss

our hands!" Irina came to Litvinov's aid. She managed so adroitly that he got into a corner near the door, a

little behind her. As she addressed him, she had each time to turn round to him, and every time he admired

the exquisite curve of her splendid neck, he drank in the subtle fragrance of her hair. An expression of

gratitude, deep and calm, never left her face; he could not help seeing that gratitude and nothing else was

what those smiles, those glances expressed, and he, too, was all aglow with the same emotion, and he felt

shame, and delight and dread at once . . . and at the same time she seemed continually as though she would

ask, "Well? what do you think of them?" With special clearness Litvinov heard this unspoken question

whenever any one of the party was guilty of some vulgar phrase or act, and that occurred more than once

during the evening. Once she did not even conceal her feelings, and laughed aloud.

Countess Liza, a lady of superstitious bent, with an inclination for everything extraordinary, after

discoursing to her heart's content with the spiritualist upon Home, turning tables, selfplaying concertinas,

and so on, wound up by asking him whether there were animals which could be influenced by mesmerism.

"There is one such animal, any way," Prince Kok� 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 b�tes."

"Mais moi aussi, madame, je parle d'une b�te. . . ." "There are such," put in the spiritualist; "for

instancecrabs; 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."

The countess did not understand him. "Mais oui, a crab," she repeated, "une �crevisse."

"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 anythingmoreover she was completely deafonly shook

The young traveler 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

"He, he, he!" Count Kok� 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 Theater, and infected by its atmosphere, he has not applauded even worse

"Merci, merci," said the countess. "Allons, allons, Monsieur Fox, montrez nous �a."

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 cardtable 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 doitelle 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 Kok� 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 crab, he too tried his luck, but without success; no symptom of catalepsy showed itself. Then

the waiter was called, and told to take away the crab, which he accordingly did, grinning from ear to ear, as

There was much laughter afterwards in the kitchen �ber diese Russen. The selftaught genius, who

had gone on striking notes during the experiments with the crab, dwelling on melancholy chords, on the

ground that there was no knowing what influence music might havethe selftaught genius played his

invariable waltz, and, of course, was deemed worthy of the most flattering applause. Pricked on by rivalry,

Count H., our incomparable dilettante (see Chapter I), gave a little song of his own composition, cribbed

wholesale from Offenbach. Its playful refrain to the words: "Quel oeuf? quel boeuf?" set almost all the ladies'

heads swinging to right and to left; one went so far as to hum the tune lightly, and the irrepressible, inevitable

word, "Charmant! charmant!" was fluttering on every one's lips. Irina exchanged a glance with Litvinov, and

again the same secret, ironical expression quivered about her lips. . . . But a little later it was still more

strongly marked, there was even a shade of malice in it, when Prince Kok�, that representative and champion

of the interests of the nobility, thought fit to propound his views to the spiritualist, and, of course, gave

utterance before long to his famous phrase about the shock to the principle of property, accompanied

naturally by an attack on democrats. The spiritualist's American blood was stirred; he began to argue. The

prince, as his habit was, at once fell to shouting at the top of his voice; instead of any kind of argument he

repeated incessantly: "C'est absurde! cela n'a pas le sens commun!" The millionaire Finikov began saying

insulting things, without much heed to whom they referred; the Talmudist's piping notes and even the

Countess S.'s jarring voice could be heard. . . . In fact, almost the same incongruous uproar arose as at

Gubaryov's; the only difference was that here there was no beer nor tobaccosmoke, and every one was better

dressed. Ratmirov tried to restore tranquillity (the generals manifested their displeasure, Boris's exclamation

could be heard, "Encore cette satan�e politique!"), but his efforts were not successful, and at that point, a high

official of the stealthily inquisitorial type, who was present, and undertook to present le r�sum� en peu de

mots, sustained a defeat: in fact he so hummed and hawed, so repeated himself, and was so obviously

incapable of listening to or taking in the answers he received, and so unmistakably failed to perceive himself

what precisely constituted la question that no other result could possibly have been anticipated. And then,

too, Irina was slyly provoking the disputants and setting them against one another, constantly exchanging

But he was sitting like one spellbound, he was hearing nothing, and waiting for nothing but for

those splendid eyes to sparkle again, that pale, tender, mischievous, exquisite face to flash upon him again. . .

It ended by the ladies growing restive, and requesting that the dispute should cease. . . . Ratmirov entreated

the dilettante to sing his song again, and the selftaught genius once more played his waltz. . . .

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 demimonde, 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 secr�taire; but it was not a

success. The answers given were pointless, and often not free from grammatical mistakes; the stout general

related that he had once in answer to the question: Qu'estce que l'amour? replied, Une colique remont�e au

coeur, and promptly went off into his wooden guffaw; the ancient ruin with a mighty effort struck him with

her fan on the arm; a flake of plaster was shaken off her forehead by this rash action. The old crone was

beginning a reference to the Slavonic principalities and the necessity of orthodox propaganda on the Danube,

but, meeting with no response, she subsided with a hiss. In reality they talked more about Home than

anything else; even the "Queen of the Wasps" described how hands had once crept about her, and how she

had seen them, and put her own ring on one of them. It was certainly a triumph for Irina: even if Litvinov had

paid more attention to what was being said around him, he still could not have gleaned one single sincere

saying, one single clever. thought, one single new fact from all their disconnected and lifeless babble. Even in

their cries and exclamations, there was no note of real feeling, in their slander no real heat. Only at rare

intervals under the mask of assumed patriotic indignation, or of assumed contempt and indifference, the dread

of possible losses could be heard in a plaintive whimper, and a few names, which will not be forgotten by

posterity, were pronounced with gnashing of teeth. . . . And not a drop of living water under all this noise and

wrangle! What stale, what unprofitable nonsense, what wretched trivialities were absorbing all these heads

and hearts, and not for that one evening, not in society only, but at home too, every hour and every day, in all

the depth and breadth of their existence! And what ignorance, when all is said! What lack of understanding of

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

Left alone with her husband, Irina was just going to her bedroom. . . . He stopped her.

"Je vous ai beaucoup admir�e ce soir, madame," he observed, smoking a cigarette, and leaning

"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 yourswhat the dickens is his

"Better keep quiet than talk . . . as some people talk." "Attrap�!" 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

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 Vladimiritch," she remarked,

as though sympathetically. "You are wasting your arrows on the empty air. . We are not in Russia, and there

"That's not merely my opinion, Irina Pavlovna," he began in a voice suddenly guttural; "other

Irina shrugged her shoulders as though shrinking from the cold, and slowly passed the tips of her

"Him . . . yes, him. Allow me to remark, Irina Pavlovna, that you seem angry; and you know if one

"I don't know; possibly you have been disagreeably affected by the observation I permitted myself

"In reference to?" Irina repeated interrogatively. "Ah, if you please, no irony, and make haste. I'm

"Well, in reference to this same Mr. Litvinov; since there's no doubt now that you take a great

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

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

charmseven the pink reflection of the delicate nails on her slender fingertips, as they tightly clasped the

dark bronze of the heavy candlestickeven that did not escape him . . . while the insult cut deeper and

"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 could not even then help noticing the bewitching grace

of her figure, her movements, and with a violent blow, crushing the cigarette on the marble slab of the

mantelpiece, he flung it to a distance. His cheeks had suddenly turned white, a spasm passed over the lower

half of his face, and with a dull animal stare his eyes strayed about the floor, as though in search of

something. . . . Every semblance of refinement had vanished from his face. Such an expression it must have

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

pocketbook, 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 and again clutched his head in both hands. "All is at an end!" he whispered at last,

Only now, only at that instant, he realized 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

"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

LITVINOV did not sleep all night, and did not undress. He was very miserable. As an honest and

straightforward man, he realized the force of obligations, the sacredness of duty, and would have been

ashamed of any double dealing with himself, his weakness, his fault. At first he was overcome by apathy; it

was long before he could throw off the gloomy burden of a single halfconscious, obscure sensation; then

terror took possession of him at the thought that the future, his almost conquered future, had slipped back into

the darkness, that his home, the solidlybuilt home he had only just raised, was suddenly tottering about him.

He began reproaching himself without mercy, but at once checked his own vehemence. "What

feebleness!" he thought. "It's no time for selfreproach and cowardice; now I must act. Tanya is my

betrothed, she has faith in my love, my honor, we are bound together for life, and cannot, must not, be put

asunder." He vividly pictured to himself all Tanya's qualities, mentally he picked them out and reckoned

them up; he was trying to call up feeling and tenderness in himself. "One thing's left for me," he thought

again, "to run away, to run away directly, without waiting for her arrival, to hasten to meet her; whether I

suffer, whether I am wretched with Tanyathat's not likelybut in any case to think of that, to take that

into consideration is useless; I must do my duty, if I die for it! But you have no right to deceive her,"

whispered another voice within him. "You have no right to hide from her the change in your feelings; it may

be that when she knows you love another woman, she will not be willing to become your wife? Rubbish!

rubbish!" he answered, "that's all sophistry, shameful, doubledealing, deceitful conscientiousness; I have no

right not to keep my word, that's the thing. Well, so be it. . . . Then I must go away from here, without seeing

But at that point Litvinov's heart throbbed with anguish, he turned cold, physically cold, a

momentary shiver passed over him, his teeth chattered weakly. He stretched and yawned, as though he were

in a fever. Without dwelling longer on his last thought, choking back that thought, turning away from it, he

set himself to marveling and wondering in perplexity how he could again . . . again love that corrupt worldly

creature, all of whose surroundings were so hateful, so repulsive to him. He tried to put to himself the

question: "What nonsense, do you really love her?" and could only wring his hands in despair. He was still

marveling and wondering, and suddenly there rose up before his eyes, as though from a soft fragrant mist, a

seductive shape, shining eyelashes were lifted, and softly and irresistibly the marvelous eyes pierced him to

the heart and a voice was singing with sweetness in his ears, and resplendent shoulders, the shoulders of a

Towards morning a determination was at last fully formed in Litvinov's mind. He decided to set off

that day to meet Tatyana, and seeing Irina for the last time, to tell her, since there was nothing else for it, the

He set in order and packed his things, waited till twelve o'clock, and started to go to her. But at the

sight of her halfcurtained windows Litvinov's heart fairly failed him . . . he could not summon up courage to

enter the hotel. He walked once or twice up. and down Lichtenthaler Allee. "A very good day to Mr.

Litvinov!" he suddenly heard an ironical voice call from the top of a swiftlymoving "dogcart." Litvinov

raised his eyes and saw General Ratmirov sitting beside Prince M., a wellknown sportsman and fancier of

English carriages and horses. The prince was driving, the general was leaning over on one side, grinning,

while he lifted his hat high above his head. Litvinov bowed to him, and at the same instant, as though he were

She was at home. He sent up his name; he was at once received. When he went in, she was

standing in the middle of the room. She was wearing a morning blouse with wide open sleeves; her face, pale

as the day before, but not fresh as it had been then, expressed weariness; the languid smile with which she

welcomed her visitor emphasized that expression even more clearly. She held out her hand to him in a

"Thanks for coming," she began in a plaintive voice, and she sank into a low chair. "I am not very

well this morning; I spent a bad night. Well, what have you to say about last night? Wasn't I right?"

"What is it," she cried. "You're pale as death, you're ill. What's the matter with you?"

Litvinov in his turn looked at Irina. "I have had no bad news," he brought out not without effort,

"but a misfortune has certainly happened, a great misfortune . . . and it has brought me to you."

Litvinov tried to go on . . . and could not. He only pinched his hands together so that his fingers

"Oh! I love you!" broke at last with a low groan from Litvinov's breast, and he turned away, as

"What? Grigory Mihalitch, you" . . . Irina, too, could not finish her sentence, and leaning back in

her chair, she put both her hands to her eyes. "You . love me?" "Yes . . . yes . . . yes," he repeated with

Everything was silent in the room; a butterfly that had flown in was fluttering its wings and

The first to speak was Litvinov. "That, Irina Pavlovna," he began, "that is the misfortune, which . .

. has befallen me, which I ought to have foreseen and avoided, if I had not now just as in the Moscow days

been carried off my feet at once. It seems fate is pleased to force me once again through you to suffer

tortures, which one would have thought should not be repeated again. . . . It was not without cause I

struggled. . . . I tried to struggle; but of course there's no escaping one's fate. And I tell you all this to put an

end at once to this . . . this tragic farce," he added with a fresh outburst of shame and bitterness. Litvinov was

silent again; the butterfly was struggling and fluttering as before. Irina did not take her hands from her face.

"And you are not mistaken?" her whisper sounded from under those white, bloodlesslooking

hands. "I am not mistaken," answered Litvinov in a colorless voice. "I love you, as I have never loved any

one but you. I am not going to reproach you; that would be too foolish; I'm not going to tell you that perhaps

nothing of all this would have happened if you yourself had behaved differently with me. . . . Of course, I

alone am to blame, my selfconfidence has been my ruin; I am deservedly punished, and you could not have

anticipated it. Of course you did not consider that it would have been far less dangerous for me if you had not

been so keenly alive to your wrong. . . . your supposed wrong to me; and had not wished to make up for it . . .

but what's done can't be undone. I only wanted to make clear my position to you; it's hard enough as it is. . . .

But at least there will be, as you say, no misunderstanding, while the openness of my confession will soften, I

Litvinov spoke without raising his eyes, but even if he had glanced at Irina, he could not have seen

what was passing in her face, as she still as before kept her hands over her eyes. But what was passing over

her face meanwhile would probably have astounded him; both alarm and delight were apparent on it, and a

kind of blissful helplessness and agitation; her eyes hardly glimmered under their overhanging lids, and her

slow, broken breathing was chill upon her lips, that were parted as though with thirst. . . .

"There is one thing left for me," he began again, "to go away; I have come to say goodby to you."

"But I remember, Grigory Mihalitch," she began; "that . . . that person of whom you spoke to me,

"Yes; but I shall write to her . . . she will stop somewhere on the way . . . at Heidelberg, for

"Ah! Heidelberg. . . . Yes. . . . It's nice there. But all this must upset your plans. Are you perfectly

certain, Grigory Mihalitch, that you are not exaggerating, et que ce n'est pas une fausse alarme?"

Irina spoke softly, almost coldly, with short pauses, looking away towards the window. Litvinov

"Only, why did you talk of offense?" she went on. "I am not offended . . . oh, no! and if one or

other of us is to blame, in any case it's not you; not you alone. . . . Remember our last conversations, and you

will be convinced that it's not you who are to blame?" "I have never doubted your magnanimity," Litvinov

muttered between his teeth, "but I should like to know, do you approve of my intention?"

"At the first moment, your intention struck me as premature . . but now I have thought over what

you have said . . . and if you are really not mistaken, then I suppose that you ought to go away. It will be

Irina's voice had grown lower and lower, and her words, too, came more and more slowly.

Irina's eyes dropped again, and something strange quivered about her lips, quivered and died away.

"No; you did not understand me," she interrupted him. "I was not thinking of my husband. Why

should I? And there is nothing to notice. But I repeat, separation is necessary for us both."

"Everything is over," he thought, "I must go. And so it only remains for me to say goodby to you,

Irina Pavlovna," he said aloud, and suddenly felt a pang, as though he were preparing to pronounce his own

sentence on himself. "It only remains for me to hope that you will not remember evil against me, and . . . and

"Wait a little, Grigory Mihalitch, don't say goodby to me yet. That would be too hurried."

Something wavered in Litvinov, but the burning pain broke out again and with redoubled violence

"Don't say goodby to me yet," repeated Irina. "I must see you once more. . . . Another such dumb

parting as in Moscow againno, I don't want that. You can go now, but you must promise me, give me your

"I insist on it. If you go away without saying goodby to me, I shall never forgive it, do you hear,

never! Strange!" she added as though to herself, "I cannot persuade myself that I am in Baden. . . . I keep

Irina was about to stretch out her hand, but she glanced at Litvinov for the first time since his

Litvinov bowed and went away. He could not tell why Irina had refused him that last friendly

handshake. . . . He could not know what she feared. He went away, and Irina again sank into the armchair and

LITVINOV did not return home; he went up to the hills, and getting into a thick copse, he flung

himself face downwards on the earth, and lay there about an hour. He did not suffer tortures, did not weep; he

hank into a kind of heavy, oppressive stupor. Never had he felt anything like it; it was an insufferably aching

and gnawing sensation of emptiness, emptiness in himself, his surroundings, everywhere. . . . He thought

neither of Irina nor of Tatyana. He felt one thing only: a blow had fallen and life was sundered like a cord,

and all of him was being drawn along in the clutches of something chill and unfamiliar. Sometimes it seemed

to him that a whirlwind had swooped down upon him, and he had the sensation of its swift whirling round

and the irregular beating of its dark wings. But his resolution did not waver. To remain in Baden . . . that

could not even be considered. In thought he had already gone, he was already sitting in the rattling, snorting

train, hurrying, hurrying into the dumb, dead distance. He got up at last, and leaning his head against a tree,

stayed motionless; only with one hand, he all unconsciously snatched and swung in rhythm the topmost frond

of a fern. The sound of approaching footsteps drew him out of his stupor: two charcoalburners were making

their way down the steep path with large sacks on their shoulders. "It's time!" whispered Litvinov, and he

followed the charcoalburners to the town, turned into the railway station, and sent off a telegram to

Tatyana's aunt, Kapitolina Markovna. In this telegram he informed her of his immediate departure, and

"Make an end, make an end at once," he thought; "it's useless putting it off till tomorrow." Then

he went to the gambling saloon, stared with dull curiosity at the faces of two or three gamblers, got a back

view of Bindasov's ugly head in the distance, noticed the irreproachable countenance of Pishtchalkin, and

after waiting a little under the colonnade, he set off deliberately to Irina's. He was not going to her through

the force of sudden, involuntary temptation; when he made up his mind to go away, he also made up his mind

to keep his word and see her once more. He went into the hotel unobserved by the porter, ascended the

staircase, not meeting any one, and without knocking at the door, he mechanically pushed it open and went

In the room, in the same armchair, in the same dress, in precisely the same attitude as three hours

before, was sitting Irina. . . . It was obvious that she had not moved from the place, had not stirred all that

time. She slowly raised her head, and seeing Litvinov, she trembled all over and clutched the arm of the chair.

Litvinov looked at her with speechless bewilderment. The expression of her face, her lusterless

Irina gave a forced smile and smoothed her ruffled hair. "Never mind. . . . I really don't know. . . . I

think I must have fallen asleep here." "I beg your pardon, Irina Pavlovna," began Litvinov. "I came in

unannounced. . . . I wanted to do what you thought fit to require of me. So as I am going away today"

"Ah! you found it necessary to make haste. And when are you going? What time, I mean?"

"I ought to thank you, Grigory Mihalitch, it was probably not easy for you to come here."

Irina was silent again for a little; she seemed sunk in thought. "You have proved your affection for

me by coming," she said at last, "I thank you. And I fully approve of your decision to put an end to

everything as soon as possible . . . because any delay . . . because . . . because I, even I whom you have

reproached as a flirt, called an actress . . . that, I think, was what you called me? . . ."

Irina got up swiftly, and, sitting down in another chair, stooped down and pressed her face and

Litvinov staggered, as though some one had dealt him a blow in the chest. Irina turned her head

dejectedly away from him, as though she in her turn wanted to hide her face from him, and laid it down on

"I? I know it?" Litvinov said at last; "I?" "Well, now you see," Irina went on, "that you certainly

must go, that delay's impossible . . . both for you, and for me delay's impossible. It's dangerous, it's terrible . .

She took a few steps in the direction of the door of her boudoir, and putting her hand behind her

back, made a hurried movement in the air, as though she would find and press the hand of Litvinov; but he

stood like a block of wood, at a distance. . . . Once. more she said, "Goodby, forget me," and without

Litvinov remained alone, and yet still could not come to himself. He recovered himself at last,

went quickly to the boudoir door, uttered Irina's name once, twice, three times. . . . He had already his hand

on the lock. . . . From the hotel stairs rose the sound of Ratmirov's sonorous voice.

Litvinov pulled down his hat over his eyes, and went out on the staircase. The elegant general was

standing before the Swiss porter's box and explaining to him in bad German that he wanted a hired carriage

for the whole of the next day. On catching sight of Litvinov, he again lifted his hat unnaturally high, and

again wished him "a very goodday"; he was obviously jeering at him, but Litvinov had no thoughts for that.

He hardly responded to Ratmirov's bow, and, making his way to his lodging, he stood still before his already

packed and closed trunk. His head was turning round and his heart vibrating like a harpstring. What was to

Yes, he had foreseen it, however unlikely it seemed. It had stunned him like a clap of thunder, yet

he had foreseen it, though he had not courage even to acknowledge it. Besides he knew nothing now for

certain. Everything was confusion and turmoil within him; he had lost the thread of his own thoughts. He

remembered Moscow, he remembered how then, too, "it" had come upon him like a sudden tempest. He was

breathless; rapture, but a rapture comfortless and hopeless, oppressed and tore his heart. For nothing in the

world would he have consented that the words uttered by Irina should not have actually been uttered by her. .

. . But then? those words could not for all that change the resolution he had taken. As before, it did not waver;

it stood firm like an anchor. Litvinov had lost the thread of his own thoughts . . . yes; but his will still

remained to him, and he disposed of himself as of another man dependent on him. He rang for the waiter,

asked him for the bill, bespoke a place in the evening omnibus; designedly he cut himself off from all paths

of retreat. "If I die for it after!" he declared, as he had in the previous sleepless night; that phrase seemed

especially to his taste. "Then even if I die for it!" he repeated, walking slowly up and down the room, and

only at rare intervals, unconsciously, he shut his eyes and held his breath, while those words, those words of

Irina's forced their way into his soul, and set it aflame. "It seems you won't love twice," he thought; "another

life came to you, you let it come into yoursnever to be rid of that poison to the end, you will never break

those bonds! Yes; but what does that prove? Happiness? . . . Is it possible? You love her, granted . . . and she

But at this point again he had to pull himself up. As a traveler on a dark night, seeing before him a

light, and afraid of losing the path, never for an instant takes his eyes off it, so Litvinov continually bent all

the force of his attention on a single point, a single aim. To reach his betrothed, and not precisely even his

betrothed (he was trying not to think of her) but to reach a room in the Heidelberg hotel, that was what stood

immovably before him, a guiding light. What would be later, he did not know, nor did he want to know. . . .

One thing was beyond doubt, he would not come back. "If I die first!" he repeated for the tenth time, and he

A quarterpast six! How long still to wait! He paced once more up and down. The sun was nearly

setting, the sky was crimson above the trees, and the pink flush of twilight lay on the narrow windows of his

darkening room. Suddenly Litvinov fancied the door had been opened quickly and softly behind him and as

quickly closed again. . . . He turned round at the door, muffled in a dark cloak, was standing woman . . .

"Irina," he cried, and clapped his hands together in amazement. . . . She raised her head and fell

Two hours later he was sitting in his room on the sofa. His box stood in the corner, open and

empty, and on the table in the midst of things flung about in disorder, lay a letter from Tatyana, just received

by him. She wrote to him that she had decided to hasten her departure from Dresden, since her aunt's health

was completely restored, and that if nothing happened to delay them, they would both be in Baden the

following day at twelve o'clock, and hoped that he would come to meet them at the station. Apartments had

already been taken for them by Litvinov in the same hotel in which he was staying.

The same evening he sent a note to Irina, and the following morning he received a reply from her,

"Sooner or later," she wrote, "it must have been. I tell you again what I said yesterday: my life is in your

hands, do with me what you will. I do not want to hamper your freedom, but let me say, that if necessary, I

will throw up everything, and follow you to the ends of the earth. We shall see each other tomorrow, of

AMONG the persons assembled on the 18th of August at twelve o'clock on the platform at the

railway station was Litvinov. Not long before, he had seen Irina: she was sitting in an open carriage with her

husband and another gentleman, somewhat elderly. She caught sight of Litvinov, and he perceived that some

obscure emotion flitted over her eyes; but at once she hid herself from him with her parasol.

A strange transformation had taken place in him since the previous dayin his whole appearance,

his movements, the expression of his face; and indeed he felt himself a different man. His selfconfidence

had vanished, and his peace of mind had vanished, too, and his respect for himself; of his former spiritual

condition nothing was left. Recent ineffaceable impressions obscured all the rest from him. Some sensation

unknown before had come, strong, sweetand evil; the mysterious guest had made its way to the innermost

shrine and taken possession and lain down in it, in silence, but in all its magnitude, like the owner in a new

house. Litvinov was no longer ashamed, he was afraid; at the same time a desperate hardihood had sprung up

in him; the captured, the vanquished know well this mixture of opposing feelings; the thief, too, knows

something of it after his first robbery. Litvinov had been vanquished, vanquished suddenly . . . and what had

become of his honesty? The train was a few minutes late. Litvinov's suspense passed into agonizing torture;

he could not stop still in one place, and, pale all over, moved about jostling in the crowd. "My God," he

thought, "if I only had another twentyfour hours." . . . The first look at Tanya, the first look of Tanya . . .

that was what filled him with terror . . . that was what he had to live through directly . . . And afterwards?

Afterwards . . . come, what may come! . . . He now made no more resolutions, he could not answer for

himself now. His phrase of yesterday flashed painfully through his head. . . . And this was how he was

meeting Tanya. . . . A prolonged whistle sounded at last, a heavy momentarily increasing rumble was heard,

and, slowly rolling around a bend in the line, the train came into sight. The crowd hurried to meet it, and

Litvinov followed it, dragging his feet like a condemned man. Faces, ladies' hats began to appear out of the

carriages, at one window a white handkerchief gleamed. . Kapitolina Markovna was waving to him. . . . It

was over; she had caught sight of Litvinov and he recognized her. The train stood still; Litvinov rushed to the

carriage door, and opened it; Tatyana was standing near her aunt, smiling brightly and holding out her hand.

He helped them both to get out, uttered a few words of welcome, unfinished and confused, and at

once bustled about, began taking their tickets, their traveling bags, and rugs, ran to find a porter, called a fly;

other people were bustling around them. He was glad of their presence, their fuss, and loud talk. Tatyana

moved a little aside, and, still smiling, waited calmly for his hurried arrangements to be concluded.

Kapitolina Markovna, on the other hand, could not keep still; she could not believe that she was at last at

She suddenly cried, "But the parasols? Tanya, where are our parasols?" all unconscious that she

was holding them fast under her arm; then she began taking a loud and prolonged farewell of another lady

with whom she had made friends on the journey from Heidelberg to Baden. This lady was no other than our

old friend Madame Suhantchikov. She had gone away to Heidelberg to do obeisance to Gubaryov, and was

returning with "instructions." Kapitolina Markovna wore a rather peculiar striped mantle and a round

traveling hat of a mushroomshape, from under which her short white hair fell in disorder; short and thin, she

was flushed with traveling and kept talking Russian in a shrill and penetrating voice. . . . She was an object of

Litvinov at last put her and Tatyana into a fly, and placed himself opposite them. The horses

started. Then followed questionings, renewed handshaking, interchanging of smiles and welcomes. . . .

Litvinov breathed freely; the first moment had passed off satisfactorily. Nothing in him, apparently, had

struck or bewildered Tanya; she was smiling just as brightly and confidently, she was blushing as

charmingly, and laughing as goodnaturedly. He brought himself at last to take a look at her; not a stealthy

cursory glance, but a direct steady look at her, hitherto his own eyes had refused to obey him. His heart

throbbed with involuntary emotion: the serene expression of that honest, candid face gave him a pang of

bitter reproach. "So you are here, poor girl," he thought, "you whom I have so longed for, so urged to come,

with whom I had hoped to spend my life to the end, you have come, you believed in me . . . while I . . . while

I." . . . Litvinov's head sank; but Kapitolina Markovna gave him no time for musing; she was pelting him with

"What is that building with columns? Where is it the gambling's done? Who is that coming along?

Tanya, Tanya, look, what crinolines! And who can that be? I suppose they are mostly French creatures from

Paris here? Mercy, what a hat! Can you get everything here just as in Paris? But, I expect, everything's

awfully dear, eh? Ah, I've made the acquaintance of such a splendid, intellectual woman! You know her,

Grigory Mihalitch; she told me she had met you at some Russian's, who's a wonderfully intellectual person,

too, She promised to come and see us. How she does abuse all these aristocratsit's simply superb! What is

that gentleman with gray moustaches? The Prussian king? Tanya, Tanya, look, that's the Prussian king. No?

not the Prussian king, the Dutch ambassador, did you say? I can't hear, the wheels rattle so. Ah, what

"Yes, exquisite, aunt," Tanya assented, "and how green everything is here, how bright and gay!

"Oh, very bright and gay" . . . he answered through his teeth. The carriage stopped at last before

the hotel. Litvinov conducted the two travelers to the room taken for them, promised to come back within an

hour, and went to his own room. Directly he entered it, he fell again under the spell which had been lulled for

a while. Here, in that room, since the day before, Irina reigned supreme; everything was eloquent of her, the

very air seemed to have kept secret traces of her visit. . . . Again Litvinov felt himself her slave. He drew out

her handkerchief, hidden in his bosom, pressed it to his lips, and burning memories flowed in subtle poison

through his veins. He realized that there was no turning back, no choosing now; the sorrowful emotion

aroused in him by Tatyana melted away like snow in the fire, and remorse died down . . . died down so

completely that his uneasiness even was soothed, and the possibilitypresent to his intellectof hypocrisy

no longer revolted him. . . . Love, Irina's love, that was now his truth, his bond, his conscience. . . . The

sensible Litvinov did not even ponder how to get out of a position, the horror and hideousness of which he

The hour had not yet passed when a waiter came to Litvinov from the newly arrived ladies; they

begged him to come to them in the public drawingroom. He followed the messenger, and found them

already dressed and in their hats; They both expressed a desire to go out at once to see Baden, as the weather

was so fine. Kapitolina Markovna, especially, seemed burning with impatience; she was quite cast down

when she heard that the hour of the fashionable promenade before the Konversation Hall had not yet arrived.

Litvinov gave her his arm, and the ceremony of sightseeing began. Tatyana walked beside her aunt, looking

about her with quiet interest; Kapitolina Markovna pursued her inquiries. The sight of the roulette, the

dignified croupiers, whomhad she met them in any other placeshe would certainly have taken for

ministers, the quickly moving scoops, the heaps of gold and silver on the green cloth, the old women

gambling, and the painted cocottes reduced Kapitolina Markovna to a sort of speechless stupor; she

altogether forgot that she ought to feel moral indignation, and could only gaze and gaze, giving a start of

surprise at every new sight. . . . The whiz of the ivory ball into the bottom of the roulette thrilled her to the

marrow of her bones, and it was only when she was again in the open air that, drawing a long breath, she

recovered energy enough to denounce games of chance as an immoral invention of aristocracy. A fixed,

unpleasant smile had made its appearance on Litvinov's lips; he had spoken abruptly and lazily, as though he

were annoyed or bored. . . . But now he turned round towards Tatyana, and was thrown into secret confusion;

she was looking attentively at him, with an expression as though she were asking herself what sort of an

impression was being made on her. He made haste to nod his head to her, she responded with the same

gesture, and again looked at him questioningly, with a sort of strained effort, as though he were standing

much farther off than he really was. Litvinov led his ladies away from the Konversation Hall, and passing the

"Russian tree," under which two Russian ladies were already sitting, he went towards Lichtenthaler Alice. He

She was walking towards him with her husband and Potugin. Litvinov turned white as a sheet; he

did not slacken his pace, however, and when he was on a level with her, he made a bow without speaking.

She too bowed to him, politely, but coldly, and taking in Tatyana in a rapid glance, she glided by. . . .

"Who is that lady?" Tatyana asked suddenly. Till that instant she had hardly opened her lips.

"How beautiful she is!" "Did you notice her dress?" put in Kapitolina Markovna. "Ten families

might live for a whole year on the cost of her lace alone. Was that her husband with her?" she inquired

"What eyes she has!" said Tatyana, "and what a strange expression in them: pensive and

Litvinov made no answer; he fancied that he felt again Tatyana's questioning glance bent on his

face, but he was wrong, she was looking at her own feet, at the sand of the path. "Mercy on us! Who is that

fright?" cried Kapitolina Markovna suddenly, pointing to a low, jauntingcar in which a redhaired

pugnosed woman lay lolling impudently, in an extraordinarily gorgeous costume and lilac stockings.

"Well, this Baden of yours!" she brought out at last. "Can one sit down on a seat here? I'm rather

"Of course you can, Kapitolina Markovna. . That's what the seats are put here for."

"Well, really, there's no knowing! . But there in Paris, I'm told, there are seats, too, along the

Litvinov made no reply to Kapitolina Markovna; only at that moment he realized that two paces

away was the very spot where he had had that explanation with Irina, which had decided everything. Then he

recalled that he had noticed a small rosy spot on her cheek today. . Kapitolina Markovna sank down on to

the seat, Tatyana sat down beside her. Litvinov remained on the path; between Tatyana and himor was it

only his fancy?something seemed to have happened . . . unconsciously and gradually.

"Ah, she's a wretch, a perfect wretch!" Kapitolina Markovna declared, shaking her head

commiseratingly; "why, with the price of her getup, you could keep not ten, but a hundred families. Did you

see under her hat, on her red hair, there were diamonds? Upon my word, diamonds in the daytime!"

"Her hair's not red," remarked Litvinov; "she dyes it redthat's the fashion now."

Again Kapitolina Markovna could only lift her hands; she was positively dumbfounded. "Well,"

she said at last, "where we were, in Dresden, things had not got to such a scandalous pitch, yet. It's a little

further from Paris, anyway, that's why. Don't you think that's it, Grigory Mihalitch, eh?"

"Don't I think so?" answered Litvinov. While he thought to himself, "What on earth is she talking

But at this point the sound of slow footsteps was heard, and Potugin approached the seat.

"Goodmorning, goodmorning, Sozont Iv�nitch. I fancy I passed you just now with . . . just now

"Let me introduce you, Sozont Ivanitch. Old friends and relatives of mine, who have only just

arrived in Baden. Potugin, Sozont Ivanitch, a countryman of ours, also staying in Baden."

Both ladies rose a little. Potugin renewed his bows. "It's quite a lev�e here," Kapitolina Markovna

began in a delicate voice; the kindhearted old lady was easily intimidated, but she tried before all to keep up

"Baden is an agreeable place, certainly," answered Potugin, with a sidelong look at Tatyana; "a

"Yes; but it's really too aristocratic, so far as I can form an opinion. You see we have been staying

all this time in Dresden . . . a very interesting town; but here there's positively a lev�e."

"She's pleased with the word," thought Potugin. "You are perfectly right in that observation," he

said aloud; "but then the scenery here is exquisite, and the site of the place is something one cannot often

find. Your fellowtraveler, especially, is sure to appreciate that. Are you not, madam?" he added, addressing

Tatyana raised her large, clear eyes to Potugin. It seemed as though she were perplexed. What was

wanted of her, and why had Litvinov introduced her, on the first day of her arrival, to this unknown man, who

had, though, a kind and clever face, and was looking at her with cordial and friendly eyes.

"You ought to visit the old castle," Potugin went on; "I especially advise a drive to" "The Saxon

Switzerland" Kapitolina Markovna was beginning. The blare of wind instruments floated up the avenue; it

was the Prussian military band from Rastadt (in 1862 Rastadt was still an allied fortress), beginning its

weekly concert in the pavilion. Kapitolina Markovna got up. "The music!" she said; "the music � la

Conversation! . . . We must go there. It's four o'clock now . . . isn't it? Will the fashionable world be there

now?" "Yes," answered Potugin: "this is the most fashionable time, and the music is excellent."

"You allow me to accompany you?" asked Potugin, to Litvinov's considerable astonishment; it was

Litvinov gave his to Tatyana, and both couples walked towards the Konversation Hall.

Potugin went on talking with Kapitolina Markovna. But Litvinov walked without uttering a word;

yet twice, without any cause, he smiled, and faintly pressed Tatyana's arm against his. There was a falsehood

in those demonstrations, to which she made no response, and Litvinov was conscious of the lie. They did not

express a mutual confidence in the close union of two souls given up to one another; they were a temporary

substitutefor words which he could not find. That unspoken something which was beginning between them

grew and gained strength. Once more Tatyana looked attentively, almost intently, at him.

It was the same before the Konversation Hall at the little table round which they all four seated

themselves, with this sole difference, that, in the noisy bustle of the crowd, the clash and roar of the music,

Litvinov's silence seemed more comprehensible. Kapitolina Markovna became quite excited; Potugin hardly

had time to answer her questions, to satisfy her curiosity. Luckily for him, there suddenly appeared. in the

mass of moving figures the lank person and everlastingly leaping eyes of Madame Suhantchikov. Kapitolina

Markovna at once recognized her, invited her to their table, made her sit down, and a hurricane of words

arose. Potugin turned to Tatyana, and began a conversation with her in a soft, subdued voice, his face bent

slightly down towards her with a very friendly expression; and she, to her own surprise, answered him easily

and freely; she was glad to talk with this stranger, this outsider, while Litvinov sat immovable as before, with

Dinnertime came at last. The music ceased, the crowd thinned. Kapitolina Markovna parted from

Madame Suhantchikov on the warmest terms. She had conceived an immense respect for her, though she did

say afterwards to her niece, that "this person is really too severe; but then she does know everything and

everybody; and we must really get sewingmachines directly the wedding festivities are over." Potugin took

leave of them; Litvinov conducted his ladies home. As they were going into the hotel, he was handed a note;

he moved aside and hurriedly tore open the envelope. On a tiny scrap of vellum paper were the following

words, scribbled in pencil: "Come to me this evening at seven, for one minute, I entreat you.Irina."

Litvinov thrust the note into his pocket, and, turning round, put on his smile again . . . to whom? why?

Tatyana was standing with her back to him. They dined at the common table of the hotel. Litvinov was sitting

between Kapitolina Markovna and Tatyana, and he began talking, telling anecdotes and pouring out wine for

himself and the ladies, with a strange, sudden joviality. He conducted himself in such a free and easy manner,

that a French infantry officer from Strasbourg, sitting opposite, with a beard and moustaches � la Napoleon

III., thought it admissible to join in the conversation, and even wound up by a toast � la sant� des belles

Moscovites! After dinner, Litvinov escorted the two ladies to their room, and after standing a little while at

the window with a scowl on his face, he suddenly announced that he had to go out for a short time on

business, but would be back without fail by the evening. Tatyana said nothing; she turned pale and dropped

her eyes. Kapitolina Markovna was in the habit of taking a nap after dinner; Tatyana was well aware that

Litvinov knew of this habit of her aunt's; she had expected him to take advantage of it, to remain with her, for

he had not been alone with her, nor spoken frankly to her, since her arrival. And now he was going out! What

was she to make of it? And, indeed, his whole behavior all along. . . . Litvinov withdrew hurriedly, not

waiting for remonstrances; Kapitolina Markovna lay down on the sofa, and with one or two sighs and groans,

fell into a serene sleep; while Tatyana moved away into a corner, and sat down in a low chair, folding her

LITVINOV went quickly up the staircase of the H�tel de l'Europe; a little girl of thirteen, with a

sly little face of Kalmuck cast, who had apparently been on the lookout for him, stopped him, saying in

Russian: "Come this way, please; Irina Pavlovna will be here directly." He looked at her in perplexity. She

smiled, repeated: "Come along, come along," and led him to a small room, facing Irina's bedroom, and filled

with traveling trunks and portmanteaus, then at once disappeared, closing the door very softly. Litvinov had

not time to look about him, before the door was quickly opened, and before him in a pink balldress, with

pearls in her hair and on her neck, stood Irina. She simply rushed at him, clutched him by both hands, and for

a few instants was speechless; her eyes were shining, and her bosom heaving as though she had run up to a

"I could not receive . . . you there," she began in a hurried whisper: "we are just going to a dinner

party, but I wanted above everything to see you. . . . That is your betrothed, I suppose, with whom I met you

"And so I wanted to see you for one minute, to tell you that you must consider yourself absolutely

free, that everything that happened yesterday ought not to affect your plans. . .

"Irina!" cried Litvinov, "why are you saying this?" He uttered these words in a loud voice. There

was the note in them of unbounded passion. Irina involuntarily closed her eyes for a minute.

"Oh, my sweet one!" she went on in a whisper still more subdued, but with unrestrained emotion,

"you don't know how I love you, but yesterday I only paid my debt, I made up for the past. . . . Ah! I could

not give you back my youth, as I would, but I have laid no obligations on you, I have exacted no promise of

any sort of you, my sweet! Do what you will, you are free as air, you are bound in no way, understand that,

understand that!" "But I can't live without you, Irina," Litvinov interrupted, in a whisper, now; "I am yours

for ever and always, since yesterday. . . . I can only breathe at your feet. . . ."

He stooped down all in a tremble to kiss her hands. Irina gazed at his bent head.

"Then let me say," she said, "that I, too, am ready for anything, that I, too, will consider no one,

and nothing. As you decide, so it shall be. I, too, am for ever yours . . . yours."

Some one tapped warily at the door. Irina stooped, whispered once more, "Yours . . . goodby!"

Litvinov felt her breath on his hair, the touch of her lips. When he stood up, she was no longer in the room,

but her dress was rustling in the corridor, and from the distance came the voice of Ratmirov: "Eh bien? Vous

Litvinov sat down on a high chest, and hid his face. A feminine fragrance, fresh and delicate, clung

about him. . . . Irina had held his hand in her hands. "It's too much, too much," was his thought. The little girl

He got up, and went out of the hotel. It was no good even to think of returning home: he had to

regain his balance first. His heart was beating heavily and unevenly; the earth seemed faintly reeling under

his feet. Litvinov turned again along the Lichtenthaler Allee. He realized that the decisive moment had come,

that to put it off longer, to dissemble, to turn away, had become impossible, that an explanation with Tatyana

had become inevitable; he could imagine how she was sitting there, never stirring, waiting for him . . . he

could foresee what he would say to her; but how was he to act, how was he to begin? He had turned his back

on his upright, wellorganized, orderly future; he knew that he was flinging himself headlong into a gulf . . .

but that did not confound him. The thing was done, but how was he to face his judge? And if only his judge

would come to meet himan angel with a flaming sword; that would be easier for. a sinning heart . . .

instead of which he had himself to plunge the knife in. . . . Infamous! But to turn back, to abandon that other,

to take advantage of the freedom offered him, recognized as his. . . . No! better to die! No, he would have

none of such loathsome freedom . . . but would humble himself in the dust, and might those eyes look down

"Grigory Mihalitch," said a melancholy voice, and some one's hand was laid heavily upon

"I beg your pardon, Grigory Mihalitch," began the latter with his customary humility, "I am

disturbing you, perhaps, but, seeing you in the distance, I thought. . . . However if you're not in the humor. . .

"Yes," Potugin repeated, hardly audibly. Litvinov stopped and looked at his uninvited companion.

His face was pale, his eyes moved restlessly; his contorted features seemed overshadowed by old,

longstanding grief. "What do you specially want to say to me?" Litvinov said slowly, and he moved

"Ah, with your permission . . . directly. If it's all the same to you, let us sit down here on this seat.

It will be most convenient." "Why, this is something mysterious," Litvinov declared, seating himself near

"No; I'm all right; and it's nothing mysterious either. I specially wanted to tell you . . . the

impression made on me by your betrothed . . . she is betrothed to you, I think? . . . well, anyway, by the girl to

whom you introduced me today. I must say that in the course of my whole existence I have never met a

Potugin uttered all these words with the same bitter and mournful air, so that even Litvinov could

not help noticing the incongruity between his expression of face and his speech.

"You have formed a perfectly correct estimate of Tatyana Petrovna," Litvinov began, "though I

can't help being surprised, first that you should be aware of the relation in which I stand to her; and secondly,

that you should have understood her so quickly. She really has an angelic nature; but allow me to ask, did you

"It's impossible not to understand her at once," Potugin replied quickly, as though evading the last

question. "One need only take one look into her eyes. She deserves every possible happiness on earth, and

enviable is the fate of the man whose lot it is to give her that happiness! One must hope he may prove worthy

"Excuse me, Sozont Ivanitch," he said, "I must confess our conversation strikes me as altogether

rather original. . . . I should like to know, does the hint contained in your words refer to me?"

Potugin did not at once answer Litvinov; he was visibly struggling with himself.

"Grigory Mihalitch," he began at last, "either I am completely mistaken in you, or you are capable

of hearing the truth, from whomsoever it may come, and in however unattractive a form it may present itself.

"Well, I have been to see her. What next?" "What next? . . . You, betrothed to Tatyana Petrovna,

Litvinov instantly got up from the seat; the blood rushed to his head. "What's this?" he cried at last,

in a voice of concentrated exasperation: "stupid jesting, spying? Kindly explain yourself."

"Ah! don't he offended at my words. Grigory Mihalitch, me you cannot offend. I did not begin to

talk to you for that, and I'm in no joking humor now." "Perhaps, perhaps. I'm ready to believe in the

excellence of your intentions; but still I may be allowed to ask you by what right you meddle in the private

affairs, in the inner life, of another man, a man who is nothing to you; and what grounds you have for so

"My invention! If I had imagined it, it should not have made you angry; and as for my right, well I

never heard before that a man ought to ask himself whether he had the right to hold out a hand to a drowning

"I am humbly grateful for your tender solicitude," cried Litvinov passionately, "but I am not in the

least in need of it, and all the phrases about the ruin of inexperienced young men wrought by society women,

about the immorality of fashionable society, and so on, I look upon merely as stock phrases, and indeed in a

sense I positively despise them; and so I beg you to spare your rescuing arm, and to let me drown in peace."

Potugin again raised his eyes to Litvinov. He was breathing hard, his lips were twitching.

"But look at me, young man," broke from him at last, and he clapped himself on the breast: "can

you suppose I have anything in common with the ordinary, selfsatisfied moralist, a preacher? Don't you

understand that simply from interest in you, however strong it might be, I would never have let fall a word, I

would never have given you grounds for reproaching me with what I hate above all thingsindiscretion,

intrusiveness? Don't you see that this is something of a different kind altogether, that before you is a man

crushed, utterly obliterated by the very passion, from the results of which he would save you, and . . . and for

"Is it possible? What did you say? . . . You . you . . . Sozont Ivanitch? But Madame Byelsky. . .

"Ah, don't crossexamine me . . . Believe me! That is a dark, terrible story, and I'm not going to

tell you it. Madame Byelsky I hardly knew, that child is not mine, but I took it all upon myself . . . because . .

. she wished it, because it was necessary for her. Why am I here in your hateful Baden? And, in fact, could

you suppose, could you for one instant imagine, that I'd have brought myself to caution you out of sympathy

for you? I'm sorry for that sweet, good girl, your fianc�e, but what have I to do with your future, with you

"You do me great honor, Mr. Potugin," began Litvinov, "but since, according to you, we are both

in the same position, why is it you don't apply such exhortations to yourself, and ought I not to ascribe your

"That is to jealousy, you mean? Ah, young man, young man, it's shameful of you to shuffle and

make pretences, it's shameful of you not to realize what a bitter sorrow is speaking to you now by my lips!

No, I am not in the same position as you! I, I am old, ridiculous, an utterly harmless old foolbut you! But

there's no need to talk about it! You would not for one second agree to accept the position I fill, and fill with

gratitude! Jealousy? A man is not jealous who has never had even a drop of hope, and this is not the first time

it has been my lot to endure this feeling. I am only afraid . . . afraid for her, understand that. And could I have

guessed when she sent me to you that the feeling of having wronged youshe owned to feeling thatwould

"I know nothing, and I know everything! I know," he added, turning away, "I know where she was

yesterday. But there's no holding her back now; like a stone set rolling, she must roll on to the bottom. I

should be a great idiot indeed, if I imagined my words could hold you back at once . . . you, when a woman

like that . . . But that's enough of this. I couldn't restrain myself, that's my whole excuse. And after all, how

can one know, and why not try? Perhaps, you will think again; perhaps, some word of mine will go to your

heart, you will not care to ruin her and yourself, and that innocent sweet creature . . . Ah! don't be angry, don't

stamp about! What have I to fear? Why should I mince matters? It's not jealousy speaking in me, not anger . .

. I'm ready to fall at your feet, to beseech you . . Goodby, though. You needn't be afraid, all this will be kept

Potugin strode off along the avenue and quickly vanished in the now falling darkness. Litvinov did

"A terrible dark story . . ." Potugin had said to Litvinov, and would not tell it . . . Let us pass it over

Eight years before, it had happened to him to be sent by his department to Count Reisenbach as a

temporary clerk. It was in the summer. Potugin used to drive to his country villa with papers, and be whole

days there at a time. Irina was then living at the count's. She was never haughty with people in a humbler

station, at least she never treated them superciliously, and the countess more than once reproved her for her

excessive Moscow familiarity. Irina soon detected a man of intelligence in the humble clerk, attired in the

stiffly buttoned frockcoat that was his uniform. She used often and eagerly to talk to him . while he . . . he fell

in love with her passionately, profoundly, secretly . . . Secretly! So he thought. The summer passed; the count

no longer needed any outside assistance. Potugin lost sight of Irina but could not forget her. Three years after,

he utterly unexpectedly received an invitation, through a third person, to go to a see a lady slightly known to

him. This lady at first was reluctant to speak out, but after exacting an oath from him to keep everything he

was going to hear absolutely secret, she proposed to him . . . to marry a girl, who occupied a conspicuous

position in society, and for whom marriage had become a necessity. The lady scarcely ventured to hint at the

principal personage, and then promised Potugin money . . . a large sum of money. Potugin was not offended,

astonishment stifled all feeling of anger in him; but of course, he pointblank declined. Then the lady handed

him a notefrom Irina. "You are a generous, noble man," she wrote, "and I know you would do anything for

me; I beg of you this sacrifice. You will save one who is very dear to me. In saving her, you will save me too

. . . Do not ask me how. I could never have brought myself to any one with such an entreaty, but to you I hold

out my hands and say to you, do it for my sake." Potugin pondered, and said that for Irina Pavlovna, certainly

he was ready to do a great deal; but he should like to hear her wishes from her own lips. The interview took

place the same evening; it did not last long, and no one knew of it, except the same lady. Irina was no longer

living at Count Reisenbach's. "What made you think of me, of all people?" Potugin asked her. She was

"No," she said, "you must be told the truth. I know, I know that you love me; so that was why I

Eliza Byelsky was an orphan; her relations did not like her, and reckoned on her inheritance . . .

ruin was facing her. In saving her, Irina was really doing a service to him who was responsible for it all, and

who was himself now standing in a very close relation to Irina . . . Potugin, without speaking, looked long at

Irina, and consented. She wept, and flung herself all in tears on his neck. And he, too, wept . . . but very

different were their tears. Everything had already been made ready for the secret marriage, a powerful hand

removed all obstacles. . . . But illness came . . . and then a daughter was born, and then the mother . . .

poisoned herself. What was to be done with the child? Potugin received it into his charge, received it from the

Over an hour more passed before Litvinov could bring himself to go back to his hotel. He had

almost reached it when he suddenly heard steps behind him. it seemed as though they were following him

persistently, and walking faster when he quickened his pace. When he moved under a lamppost Litvinov

turned round and recognized General Ratmirov. In a white tie, in a fashionable overcoat, flung open, with a

row of stars and crosses on a golden chain in the buttonhole of his dresscoat, the general was returning from

dinner, alone. His eyes, fastened with insolent persistence on Litvinov, expressed such contempt and such

hatred, his whole deportment was suggestive of such intense defiance, that Litvinov thought it his duty,

stifling his wrath, to go to meet him, to face a "scandal." But when he was on a level with Litvinov, the

general's face suddenly changed, his habitual playful refinement reappeared upon it, and his hand in its pale

lavender glove flourished his glossy hat high in the air. Litvinov took off his in silence, and each went on his

"Well, I must say, you're a pretty fellow!" cried Kapitolina Markovna, and she threw down her

cards. "Our first day, and he's lost for the whole evening! Here we've been waiting and waiting, and scolding

"Well, you're meekness itself, we all know! You ought to be ashamed, sir! and you betrothed too!"

"Well, that's a nice question! We've been playing cards from sheer dullness, not knowing what to

"If you would care to hear the evening music," observed Litvinov, "I should be delighted to take

"Let us go, aunt, I am ready," she said, "but wouldn't it be better to stay at home?"

"To be sure! Let us have tea in our own old Moscow way, with the samovar, and have a good chat.

Litvinov ordered tea to be sent up, but the good chat did not come off. He felt a continual gnawing

of conscience; whatever he said, it always seemed to him that he was telling lies and Tatyana was seeing

through it. Meanwhile there was no change to he observed in her; she behaved just as unconstrainedly . . .

only her look never once rested upon Litvinov, but with a kind of indulgent timorousness glided over him,

Tatyana was at first about to say no, but after a moment's thought, she said, "Yes, a little." "It's the

On the table lay a Guide des Voyageurs; Litvinov fell to reading aloud the description of the

"Quite so," Kapitolina Markovna interrupted, "but there's something we mustn't forget. I'm told

"We have plenty of time, aunt. You never think of yourself, but you really ought to get yourself

"Eh, my love! what would be the good of that? I'm not a fine lady! It would be another thing if I

"Oh, she!." said Litvinov, with feigned indifference, and again he felt disgust and shame. "No!" he

He was sitting by his betrothed, while a few inches from her in his side pocket, was Irina's

"Tanya . . ." said Litvinov, with an effort. It was the first time that day he had called her by that

Litvinov's soul was suddenly filled with boundless pity. He took Tatyana's hand and kissed it

In the night, at two o'clock, Kapitolina Markovna, who was sleeping in the same room with her

"WHY did I say that to her?" Litvinov thought the next morning as he sat in his room at the

He shrugged his shoulders in vexation: he had said that to Tatyana simply to cut himself off all

way of retreat. In the window lay a note from Irina: she asked him to see her at twelve. Potugin's words

incessantly recurred to his mind, they seemed to reach him with a faint illomened sound as of a rumbling

underground. He was angry with himself, but could not get rid of them anyhow. Some one knocked at the

Litvinov was all but dashing out after him, he felt such a longing to throttle the hateful ruffian. The

events of the last few days had unstrung his nerves; a little more, and he would have burst into tears. He

drank off a glass of cold water, locked up all the drawers in the furniture, he could not have said why, and

He found her alone. Kapitolina Markovna had gone out shopping. Tatyana was sitting on the sofa,

holding a book in both hands. She was not reading it and scarcely knew what book it was. She did not stir,

but her heart was beating quickly in her bosom, and the little white collar round her neck quivered visibly and

Litvinov was confused. . . . However, he sat down by her, said goodmorning, smiled at her; she,

too, smiled at him without speaking. She had bowed to him when he came in, bowed courteously, not

affectionately, and she did not glance at him. He held out his hand to her; she gave him her chill fingers, but

at once freed them again, and took up the book. Litvinov felt that to begin the conversation with unimportant

subjects would be insulting Tatyana; she after her custom made no demands, but everything in her said

plainly, "I am waiting, I am waiting." . . . He must fulfill his promise. But though almost the whole night he

had thought of nothing else, he had not prepared even the first introductory words, and absolutely did not

"Tanya," he began at last, "I told you yesterday that I have something important to say to you. I am

ready, only I beg you beforehand not to be angry against me, and to rest assured that my feelings for you. . .

He stopped. He caught his breath. Tatyana still did not stir, and did not look at him; she only

"There has always been," Litvinov went on, without finishing the sentence he had begun, "there

has always been perfect openness between us; I respect you too much to be a hypocrite with you; I want to

prove to you that I know how to value the nobleness and independence of your nature, even though . . .

"Grigory Mihalitch," began Tatyana in a measured voice while a deathly pallor overspread her

whole face, "I will come to your assistance, you no longer love me, and you don't know how to tell me so."

"Why?" . . . he said, hardly intelligibly, "why could you suppose? . . . I really don't understand . . .

Tatyana turned quite round to Litvinov; her face, with her hair brushed back from it, approached

his face, and her eyes, which for so long had not looked at him, seemed to penetrate into his eyes.

He said nothing, did not utter a single sound. He could not have lied at that instant, even if he had

known she would believe him, and that his lie would save her; he was not even able to bear her eyes upon

him. Litvinov said nothing, but she needed no answer, she read the answer in his very silence, in those guilty

downcast eyesand she turned away again and dropped the book. . . . She had been still uncertain till that

instant, and Litvinov understood that; he understood that she had been still uncertainand how hideous,

"Tanya," he cried, "if only you knew how hard it is for me to see you in this position, how awful to

me to think that it's I . . . I! My heart is torn to pieces, I don't know myself, I have lost myself, and you, and

everything . . . Everything is shattered, Tanya, everything! Could I dream that I . . . I should bring such a

blow upon you, my best friend, my guardian angel? . . . Could I dream that we should meet like this, should

Tatyana was trying to get up and go away. He held, her back by the border of her dress.

"No, listen to me a minute longer. You see I am, on my knees before you, but I have not come to

beg your forgiveness; you cannot, you ought not to forgive me. I have come to tell you that your friend is

ruined, that he is falling into the pit, and would not drag you down with him. . . . But save me . . . no! even

you cannot save me. I should push you away, I am ruined, Tanya, I am ruined past all help."

Tatyana looked at Litvinov. "You are ruined?" she said, as though not fully understanding him.

"Yes, Tanya, I am ruined. All the past, all that was precious, everything I have lived for up till

now, is ruined for me; everything is wretched, everything is shattered, and I don't know what awaits me in the

future. You said just now that I no longer loved you. . . . No, Tanya, I have not ceased to love you, but a

different, terrible, irresistible passion has come upon me, has overborne me. I fought against it while I could. .

Tatyana got up, her brows twitched, her pale face darkened. Litvinov, too, rose to his feet.

"You love another woman," she began, "and I guess who she is. . . . We met her yesterday, didn't

we? . . . Well, I see what is left for me to do now. Since you say yourself this passion is unalterable" . . .

(Tatyana paused an instant, possibly she had still hoped Litvinov would not let this last word pass

unchallenged, but he said nothing), "it only remains for me to give you back . . . your word." Litvinov bent

"You have every right to be angry with me," he said. "You have every right to reproach me for

"I have not reproached you, Litvinov, I don't blame you. I agree with you: the bitterest truth is

better than what went on yesterday. What sort of a life could ours have been now!"

"I will ask you to leave me alone for a little time, Grigory Mihalitchwe will see each other

again, we will talk again. All this has been so unexpected I want to collect myself a little . . . leave me alone .

. . spare my pride. We shall see each other again." And uttering these words, Tatyana hurriedly withdrew and

Litvinov went out into the street like a man dazed and stunned; in the very depths of his heart

something dark and bitter lay hid, such a sensation must a man feel who has murdered another; and at the

same time he felt easier as though he had at last flung off a hated load. Tatyana's magnanimity had crushed

him, he felt vividly all that he had lost . . . and yet? with his regret was mingled irritation; he yearned towards

Irina as to the sole refuge left him, and felt bitter against her. For some time Litvinov's feelings had been

every day growing more violent and more complex; this complexity tortured him, exasperated him, he was

lost in this chaos. He thirsted for one thing; to get out at last on to the path, whatever it might be, if only not

to wander longer in this incomprehensible halfdarkness. Practical people of Litvinov's sort ought never to be

carried away by passion, it destroys the very meaning of their lives. . . . But nature cares nothing for logic,

our human logic; she has her own, which we do not recognize and do not acknowledge till we are crushed

On parting from Tatyana, Litvinov held one thought in his mind, to see Irina; he set off, indeed, to

see her. But the general was at home, so at least the porter told him, and he did not care to go in, he did not

feel himself capable of hypocrisy, and he moved slowly off towards the Konversation Hall. Litvinov's

incapacity for hypocrisy was evident that day to both Voroshilov and Pishtchalkin, who happened to meet

him; he simply blurted out to the former that he was empty as a drum,; to the latter that he bored every one to

extinction; it was lucky indeed that Bindasov did not come across him; there would certainly have been a

"grosser Scandal." Both the young men were stupefied; Voroshilov went so far as to ask himself whether his

honor, as an officer did not demand satisfaction? But like Gogol's lieutenant, Pirogov, he calmed himself with

bread and butter in a caf� Litvinov caught sight in the distance of Kapitolina Markovna running busily from

shop to shop in her striped mantle. . . . He felt ashamed to face the good, absurd, generous old lady. Then he

recalled Potugin, their conversation yesterday. . . . Then something was wafted to him, something intangible

and unmistakable: if a falling shadow shed a fragrance, it could not be more elusive, but he felt at once that it

was Irina near him, and in fact she appeared a few paces from him, arminarm with another lady; their eyes

met at once. Irina probably noticed something peculiar in the expression of Litvinov's face; she stopped

before a shop, in which a number of tiny wooden clocks of Black Forest make were exhibited, and

summoning him by a motion of her head, she pointed to one of these clocks, and calling upon him to admire

a charming clockface with a painted cuckoo above it, she said, not in a whisper, but as though finishing a

phrase begun, in her ordinary tone of voice, much less likely to attract the attention of outsiders, "Come in an

hour's time, I shall be alone." But at this moment the renowned ladykiller Monsieur Verdier swooped down

upon her, and began to fall into ecstasies over the color, feuille morte, of her gown and the lowcrowned

Spanish hat she wore tilted almost down to her eyebrows. . . . Litvinov vanished in the crowd.

"GRIGORY," Irina was saying to him two hours later, as she sat beside him on the sofa, and laid

both hands on his shoulder, "what is the matter with you? Tell me now quickly, while we're alone."

"The matter with me?" said Litvinov. "I am happy, happy, that's what's the matter with me."

"Well, let me tell you then . . . since you insist positively on it" (Irina opened her eyes wide and

Litvinov fairly threw up his arms. "Irina, for God's sake, how could such an idea enter your head!

"I did not disguise the fact that I loved another woman, and that we must part."

"Ah . . . and what did she do? Agreed?" "O Irina! what a girl she is! She was all selfsacrifice, all

generosity!" "I've no doubt, I've no doubt . . . there was nothing else for her to do, though."

"And not one reproach, not one hard word to me, who have spoiled her whole life, deceived her,

Irina was silent a minute, she straightened her dress. "I must confess," she began, "I don't quite

"What induced me, Irina! Would you have liked me to lie, to be a hypocrite to her, that pure soul?

"I supposed nothing," Irina interrupted. "I must admit I have thought very little about her. I don't

"Well, and so what then? Is she going away, that pure soul?" Irina interrupted a second time.

"I know nothing," answered Litvinov. "I am to see her again. But she will not stay."

"No, she will not stay. But I'm not thinking of her either, now, I am thinking of what you said to

"No, Irina, I'm not content. You have made me happy, but I'm not content, and you understand

"Yes, you understand me. Remember your words, remember what you wrote to me. I can't share

you with others; no, no, I can't consent to the pitiful role of secret lover; not my life alone, this other life, too,

I have flung at your feet, I have renounced everything, I have crushed it all to dust, without compunction and

beyond recall; but in return I trust, I firmly believe, that you, too, will keep your promise, and unite your lot

"You want me to run away with you? I am ready . . ." (Litvinov bent down to her hands in

ecstasy.) "I am ready. I will not go back from my word. But have you yourself thought over all the

difficultieshave you made preparations?" "I? I have not had time yet to think over or prepare anything, but

"A fortnight, then, is enough for me. O Irina, you seem to take my proposition coldly; perhaps it

seems unpractical to you, but I am not a boy, I am not used to comforting myself with dreams, I know what a

tremendous step this is, I know what a responsibility I am taking on myself; but I can see no other course.

Think of it, I must break every tie with the past, if only not to be a contemptible liar in the eyes of the girl I

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Grigory Mihalitch! If I decide, if I run away, then it will at least be with a

man who does it for my sake, for my sake simply, and not in order that he may not degrade himself in the

good opinion of a phlegmatic young person, with milk and water, du lait coup� instead of blood, in her veins!

And I must tell you, too, it's the first time, I confess, that it's been my lot to hear that the man I honor with my

regard is deserving of commiseration, playing a pitiful part! I know a far more pitiful part, the part of a man

But all at once she clapped both hands to her forehead, and with a convulsive motion, flinging

"Forgive me, forgive me," she began, with a shaking voice, "forgive me, Grigory! You see how

corrupted I am, how horrid I am, how jealous and wicked! You see how I need your aid, your indulgence!

Yes, save me, drag me out of this mire, before I am quite ruined! Yes, let us run away, let us run away from

these people, from this society to some far off, fair, free country! Perhaps your Irina will at last be worthier of

the sacrifices you are making for her! Don't be angry with me, forgive me, my sweet, and know that I will do

Litvinov's heart was in a turmoil. Irina clung closer than before to him with all her youthful supple

body. He bent over her fragrant, disordered tresses, and in an intoxication of gratitude and ecstasy, he hardly

"It's my husband's step, . . . he has gone into his room," she whispered, and, moving hurriedly

away, she crossed over to another armchair. Litvinov was getting up. . . . "What are you doing?" she went on

in the same whisper; "you must stay, he suspects you as it is. Or are you afraid of him?" She did not take her

eyes off the door. "Yes, it's he; he will come in here directly. Tell me something, talk to me." Litvinov could

not at once recover himself and was silent. "Aren't you going to the theater tomorrow?" she uttered aloud.

"They're giving Le Verre d'Eau, an oldfashioned piece, and Plessy is awfully affected. . . . We're as though

we were in a perfect fever," she added, dropping her voice. "We can't do anything like this; we must think

things over well. I ought to warn you that all my money is in his hands; mais j'ai mes bijoux. We'll go to

Spain, would you like that?" She raised her voice again. "Why is it all actresses get so fat? Madeleine Brohan

for instance. . . . Do talk, don't sit so silent. My head is going round. But you, you must not doubt me. . . . I

will let you know where to come tomorrow. Only it was a mistake to have told that young lady. . . . Ah,

mais c'est charmant!" she cried suddenly, and with a nervous laugh, she tore the lace edge of her

The door opened, and in the doorway appeared the general. He scowled on seeing Litvinov;

however, he bowed to them, that is to say, he bent the upper portion of his person.

"I did not know you had a visitor," he said: "je vous demande pardon de mon indiscr�tion. So you

Ratmirov always uttered Litvinov's surname with hesitation, every time, as though he had

forgotten it, and could not at once recall it. . . . In this way, as well as by the lofty flourish of his hat in

"Really? Well, I find Baden fearfully boring. We are soon going away, are we not, Irina Pavlovna?

Irina smiled. "No, it was only . . . something we've been talking of. C'est � propos du voyage . . .

Ratmirov seemed on the best of terms with his wife; he called her by her pet name in addressing

"BETTER not think now, really," Litvinov repeated, as he strode along the street, feeling that the

inward riot was rising up again in him. "The thing's decided. She will keep her promise, and it only remains

for me to take all necessary steps. . . . Yet she hesitates, it seems." . . . He shook his head. His own designs

struck even his own imagination in a strange light; there was a smack of artificiality, of unreality about them.

One cannot dwell long upon the same thoughts; they gradually shift like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope . .

. one peeps in, and already the shapes before one's eyes are utterly different. A sensation of intense weariness

overcame Litvinov. . . . If he could for one short hour but rest! . . . But Tanya? He started, and, without

reflecting even, turned submissively homewards, merely struck by the idea, that this day was tossing him like

No matter; he must make an end. He went back to his hotel, and with the same submissiveness,

He was met by Kapitolina Markovna. From the first glance at her, he knew that she knew about it

all; the poor maiden lady's eyes were swollen with weeping, and her flushed face, fringed with her

dishevelled white locks, expressed dismay and an agony of indignation, sorrow, and boundless amazement.

She was on the point of rushing up to Litvinov, but she stopped short, and, biting her quivering lips, she

looked at him as though she would supplicate him, and kill him, and assure herself that it was a dream, a

"Here you . . . you are come," she began. . . The door from the next room opened instantaneously,

and with a light tread Tatyana came in; she was of a transparent pallor, but she was quite calm.

"You sit down too, Grigory Mihalitch," she said to Litvinov, who was standing like one distraught

at the door. "I am very glad to see you once more. I have informed auntie of your decision, our common

decision; she fully shares it and approves of it. . . . Without mutual love there can be no happiness, mutual

esteem alone is not enough" (at the word "esteem" Litvinov involuntarily looked down) "and better to

"Yes, of course," began Kapitolina Markovna, "of course, Tanya, darling, the man who does not

"Aunt, aunt," Tatyana interrupted, "remember what you promised me. You always told me

yourself: truth, Tatyana, truth before everythingand independence. Well, truth's not always sweet, nor

independence either; or else where would be the virtue of pendence either; or else where would be the virtue

She kissed Kapitolina Markovna on her white hair, and turning to Litvinov, she went on:

"We propose, aunt and I, leaving Baden. . . . I think it will be more comfortable so for all of us."

"When do you think of going?" Litvinov said thickly. He remembered that Irina had said the very

same words to him not long before. Kapitolina Markovna was darting forward, but Tatyana held her back,

"And will you allow me to ask where you intend going?" Litvinov said in the same voice.

"But what can you want to know that for now, Grigory Mihalitch?" . . . cried Kapitolina Markovna.

"Tatyana Petrovna," began Litvinov, "you know how agonizingly painful and bitter my feelings

"Grigory Mihalitch," she said, "we will not talk about that . . . if you please, I beg you for my sake,

if not for your own. I have known you long enough, and I can very well imagine what you must be feeling

now. But what's the use of talking, of touching a sore" (she stopped; it was clear she wanted to stem the

emotion rushing upon her, to swallow the rising tears; she succeeded)"why fret a sore we cannot heal?

Leave that to time. And now I have to ask a service of you, Grigory Mihalitch; if you will be so good, I will

give you a letter directly: take it to the post yourself, it is rather important, but aunt and I have no time now. .

. . I shall be much obliged to you. Wait a minute. . . . I will bring it directly. . . ." In the doorway Tatyana

glanced uneasily at Kapitolina Markovna; but she was sitting with such dignity and decorum, with such a

severe expression on her knitted brows and tightly compressed lips, that Tatyana merely gave her a

But scarcely had the door closed behind her. when every trace of dignity and severity

instantaneously vanished from Kapitolina Markovna's face; she got up, ran on tiptoe up to Litvinov, and all

hunched together and trying to look him in the face, she began in a quaking tearful whisper:

"Good God," she said, "Grigory Mihalitch, what does it mean? is it a dream or what? You give up

Tanya, you tired of her, you breaking your word! You doing this, Grigory Mihalitch, you on whom we all

counted as if you were a stone wall! You? you? you, Grisha?" . . . Kapitolina Markovna stopped. "Why, you

will kill her, Grigory Mihalitch," she went on, without waiting for an answer, while her tears fairly coursed in

fine drops over her cheeks. "You mustn't judge by her bearing up now, you know her character! She never

complains; she does not think of herself, so others must think of her! She keeps saying to me, 'Aunt, we must

save our dignity!' but what's dignity, when I foresee death, death before us?" . . . Tatyana's chair creaked in

the next room. "Yes, I foresee death," the old lady went on, still more softly. "And how can such a thing have

come about? Is it witchcraft, or what? It's not long since you were writing her the tenderest letters. And, in

fact, can an honest man act like this? I'm a woman, free, as you know, from prejudice of any sort, esprit fort,

and I have given Tanya, too, the same sort of education, she, too, has a free mind. . . ."

"But one's word of honor is a duty, Grigory Mihalitch, especially for people of your, of my

principles! If we're not going to recognize duty, what is left us? This cannot be broken off in this way, at your

whim, without regard to what may happen to another! It's unprincipled . . . yes, it's a crime; a strange sort of

"Aunt, come here please," was heard again. "I'm coming, my love, I'm coming . . ." Kapitolina

Markovna clutched at Litvinov's hand."I see you are angry Grigory Milhalitch." . .. . ("Me! me angry?" he

wanted to exclaim, but his tongue was dumb.) "I don't want to make you angryoh, really, quite the

contrary! I've come even to entreat you; think again while there is time; don't destroy her, don't destroy your

own happiness, she will still trust you, Grisha, she will believe in you, nothing is lost yet; why, she loves you

as no one will ever love you! Leave this hateful BadenBaden, let us go away together, only throw off this

"Only say 'yes,'" she repeated to Litvinov; "and I will still make everything smooth. . . . You need

Litvinov would gladly, he felt, have died at that instant; but the word "yes" he did not utter, and he

Tatyana reappeared with a letter in her hand. Kapitolina Markovna at once darted away from

Litvinov, and, averting her face, bent low over the table, as though she were looking over the bills and papers

"Here," she said, "is the letter I spoke of. . . . You will go to the post at once with it, won't you?"

Litvinov raised his eyes. . . . Before him, really, stood his judge. Tatyana struck him as taller,

slenderer; her face, shining with unwonted beauty, had the stony grandeur of a statute's; her bosom did not

heave, and her gown, of one color and straight as a Greek chiton, fell in the long, unbroken folds of marble

drapery to her feet, which were hidden by it. Tatyana was looking straight before her, only at Litvinov; her

cold, calm gaze, too, was the gaze of a statue. He read his sentence in it; he bowed, took a letter from the

Kapitolina Markovna ran to Tatyana; but the latter turned off her embraces and dropped her eyes; a

flush of color spread over her face, and with the words, "and now, the sooner the better," she went into the

The letter, entrusted to Litvinov by Tatyana, was addressed to one of her Dresden friendsa

German ladywho let small furnished apartments. Litvinov dropped the letter into the postbox, and it

seemed to him as though with that tiny scrap of paper he was dropping all his past, all his life into the tomb.

He went out of the town, and strolled a long time by narrow paths between vineyards; he could not shake off

the persistent sensation of contempt for himself, like the importunate buzzing of flies in summer: an

unenviable part, indeed, he had played in the last interview. . . . And when he went back to his hotel, and after

a little time inquired about the ladies, he was told that immediately after he had gone out, they had given

orders to be driven to the railway station, and had departed by the mail trainto what destination was not

known. Their things had been packed and their bills paid ever since the morning. Tatyana had asked Litvinov

to take her letter to the post, obviously with the object of getting him out of the way. He ventured to ask the

hallporter whether the ladies had left any letters for him, but the porter replied in the negative, and looked

amazed, even; it was clear that this sudden exit from rooms taken for a week struck him, too, as strange and

He did not leave it till the following day: the greater part of the night he was sitting at the table,

writing, and tearing what he had written. . . . The dawn was already beginning when he finished his taskit

"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 labors, 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 thing precious to me, would be too little; I live wholly in that love; that love is my whole being; in it

are my future, my career, my vocation, my country! You know me, Irina; you know that fine talk of any sort

is foreign to my nature, hateful to me, and however strong the words in which I try to express my feelings,

you will have no doubts of their sincerity, you will not suppose them exaggerated. I'm not a boy, in the

impulse of momentary ecstasy, lisping unreflecting vows to you, but a man of matured agesimply and

plainly, almost with terror, telling you what he has recognized for unmistakable truth. Yes, your love has

replaced everything for meeverything, everything! Judge for yourself: can I leave this my all in the hands

of another? can I let him dispose of you? Youyou will belong to him, my whole being, my heart's blood

will belong to himwhile I myself . . . where am I? what am I? An outsideran onlooker . . . looking on at

my own life! No, that's impossible, impossible! To share, to share in secret that without which it's useless,

impossible to live . . . that's deceit and death. I know how great a sacrifice I am asking of you, without any

sort of right to it; indeed, what can give one a right to sacrifice? But I am not acting thus from egoism: an

egoist would find it easier and smoother not to raise this question at all. Yes, my demands are difficult, and I

am not surprised that they alarm you. The people among whom you have to live are hateful to you, you are

sick of society, but are you strong enough to throw up that society? to trample on the success it has crowned

you with? to rouse public opinion against youthe opinion of these hateful people? Ask yourself, Irina, don't

take a burden upon you greater than you can bear. I don't want to reproach you; but remember: once already

you could not hold out against temptation. I can give you so little in return for all you are losing. Hear my last

word: if you don't feel capable tomorrow, today even, of leaving all and following meyou see how

boldly I speak, how little I spare myself,if you are frightened at the uncertainty of the future, and

estrangement and solitude and the censure of men, if you cannot rely on yourself, in fact, tell me so openly

and without delay, and I will go away; I shall go with a broken heart, but I shall bless you for your

truthfulness. But if you really, my beautiful, radiant queen, love a man so petty, so obscure as I, and are really

ready to share his fate,well, then, give me your hand, and let us set off together on our difficult way! Only

understand, my decision is unchanging; either all or nothing. It's unreasonable . . . but I could not do

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

"Come to me today," 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

He was conducted there by the same little girl of thirteen who on the previous day had watched for

him on the stairs. On the table before Irina was standing an open, semicircular, cardboard box of lace: she

was carelessly turning over the lace with one hand, in the other she was holding Litvinov's letter. She had

only just left off crying; her eyelashes were wet, and her eyelids swollen; on her cheeks could be seen the

traces of undried tears not wiped away. Litvinov stood still in the doorway; she did not notice his entrance.

"Why are you crying?" repeated Litvinov. She pointed in silence to the letter. "So you were . . .

"Come here, sit down," she said, "give me your hand. Well, yes, I was crying . . . what are you

"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 sentence? Death or life? Your answer decides everything. Only don't look at me with those eyes. . . . They

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 your love will give me? O Irina, in your love there's a whole

"Where? We will talk of that later. But, of course, then . . . then you agree? you agree, Irina?"

"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 today. 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,"

"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 it will not be changed. That I agree to . . .

What was it you said? . . . to all or nothing . . . what more would you have? Let us be free? Why these mutual

chains? We are alone together now, you love me. I love you; is it possible we have nothing to do but

wringing our thoughts out of each other? Look at me, I don't want to talk about myself, I have never by one

word hinted that for me perhaps it was not so easy to set at nought my duty as a wife . . . and, of course, I

don't deceive myself, I know I am a criminal, and that he has a right to kill me. Well, what of it? Let us be

free, I say. Today is oursa lifetime's ours." She got up from the armchair 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, today? Have I

grown ugly since yesterday? Tell me, have you often seen a prettier hand? And this hair? Tell me, do you

She clasped him in both arms, held his head close to her bosom, her comb fell out with a ringing

LITVINOV walked up and down his room in the hotel, his head bowed in thought. He had now to

pass from theory to practice, to devise ways and means for flight, for moving to unknown countries. . . . But,

strange to say, he was not pondering so much upon ways and means as upon whether actually, beyond doubt,

the decision had been reached on which he had so obstinately insisted? Had the ultimate, irrevocable word

been uttered? But Irina to be sure had said to him at parting, "Act, act, and when every thing is ready, only let

me know." That was final! Away with all doubts. . . . He must proceed to action. And Litvinov

proceededin the meantimeto calculation. Money first of all. Litvinov had, he found, in ready money one

thousand three hundred and twentyeight guldens, in French money, two thousand eight hundred and

fiftyfive francs; the sum was trifling, but it was enough for the first necessities, and then he must at once

write to his father to send him all he could; he would have to sell the forest part of the land. But on what

pretext? . . . Well, a pretext would be found. Irina had spoken, it's true, of her bijoux, but that must not be

taken into his reckoning; that, who knows, might come in for a rainy day. He had besides a good Geneva

watch, for which he might get . . . well, say, four hundred francs. Litvinov went to a banker's, and with much

circumlocution introduced the question whether it was possible, in case of need, to borrow money; but

bankers at Baden are wary old foxes, and in response to such circumlocutions they promptly assume a

drooping and blighted air, for all the world like a wild flower whose stalk has been severed by the scythe;

some, indeed, laugh outright in your face, as though appreciating an innocent joke on your part. Litvinov, to

his shame, even tried his luck at roulette, even, oh ignominy! put a thaler on the number thirty, corresponding

with his own age. He did this with a view to augmenting and rounding off his capital; and if he did not

augment it, he certainly did round off his capital by losing the odd twentyeight guldens. There was a second

question, also not an unimportant one; that was the passport. But for a woman a passport is not quite so

obligatory, and there are countries where it is not required at all, Belgium, for instance, and England; besides,

one might even get some other passport, not Russian. Litvinov pondered very seriously on all this; his

decision was firm, absolutely unwavering, and yet all the time against his will, overriding his will, something

not serious, almost humorous came in, filtered through his musings, as though the very enterprise were a

comic business, and no one ever did elope with any one in reality, but only in plays and novels, and perhaps

somewhere in the provinces, in some of those remote districts, where, according to the statements of

travelers, people are literally sick continually from ennui. At that point Litvinov recalled how an acquaintance

of his, a retired cornet, Batsov, had eloped with a merchant's daughter in a staging sledge with bells and three

horses, having as a preliminary measure made the parents drunk, and adopted the same precaution as well

with the bride, and how, as it afterwards turned out, he was outwitted and within an ace of a thrashing into the

bargain. Litvinov felt exceedingly irritated with himself for such inappropriate reminiscences, and then with

the recollection of Tatyana, her sudden departure, all that grief and suffering and shame, he felt only too

acutely that the affair he was arranging was deadly earnest, and how right he had been when he had told Irina

that his honor, even, left no other course open. . . . And again at the mere name something of flame turned

The tramp of horses' hoofs sounded behind him. He moved aside. . . . Irina overtook him on

horseback; beside her rode the stout general. She recognized Litvinov, nodded to him, and lashing her horse

with a sidestroke of her whip, she put him into a gallop, and suddenly dashed away at headlong speed. Her

"Pas si vite! Nom de Dieu! pas si vite!" cried the general, and he, too, galloped after her.

THE next morning Litvinov had only just come home from seeing the banker, with whom he had

had another conversation on the playful instability of our exchange, and the best means of sending money

abroad, when the hotel porter handed him a letter. He recognized Irina's handwriting, and without breaking

the seala presentiment of evil, Heaven knows why, was astir in himhe went into his room. This was

"My dear one, I have been thinking all night of your plan. . . . I am not going to shuffle with you.

You have been open with me, and I will be open with you; I cannot run away with you, I have not the

strength to do it. I feel how I am wronging you, my second sin is greater than the first, I despise myself, my

cowardice. I cover myself with reproaches, but I cannot change myself. In vain I tell myself that I have

destroyed your happiness, that you have the right now to regard me as a frivolous flirt, that I myself drew you

on, that I have given you solemn promises. . . . I am full of horror of hatred for myself, but I can't do

otherwise, I can't, I can't. I don't want to justify myself, I won't tell you I was carried away myself . . . all

that's of no importance; but I want to tell you, and to say it again, and yet again, I am yours, yours for ever,

do with me as you will, when you will, free from all obligation, from all responsibility! I am yours. . . . But

run away, throw up everything . . . no! no! no! I besought you to save me, I hoped to wipe out everything, to

burn up the past as in a fire . . . but I see there is no salvation for me; I see the poison has gone too deeply into

me; I see one cannot breathe this atmosphere for years with impunity. I have long hesitated whether to write

you this letter, I dread to think what decision you may come to, I trust only to your love for me. But I felt it

would be dishonest on my part to hide the truth from youespecially as perhaps you have already begun to

take the first steps for carrying out our project. Ah! it was lovely but impracticable. O my dear one, think me

a weak, worthless woman, despise, but don't abandon me, don't abandon your Irina! . . . To leave this life I

have not the courage, but live it without you I cannot either. We soon go back to Petersburg, come there, live

there, we will find occupation for you, your labors in the past shall not be thrown away, you shall find good

use for them . . . only live near me, only love me; such as I am, with all my weaknesses and my vices, and

believe me, no heart will ever be so tenderly devoted to you as the heart of your Irina. Come soon to me, I

The blood beat like a sledgehammer in Litvinov's head, then slowly and painfully sank to his

heart, and was chill as a stone in it. He read through Irina's letter, and just as on that day at Moscow he fell in

exhaustion on the sofa, and stayed there motionless. A dark abyss seemed suddenly to have opened on all

sides of him, and he stared into this darkness in senseless despair. And so again, again deceit, no, worse than

deceit, lying and baseness. . . . And life shattered, everything torn up by its roots utterly, and the sole thing

which he could cling tothe last prop in fragments, too! "Come after us to Petersburg," he repeated with a

bitter inward laugh, "we will find you occupation. . . . Find me a place as a head clerk, eh? and who are we?

Here there's a hint of her past. Here we have the secret, hideous something I know nothing of, but which she

has been trying to wipe out, to burn as in a fire. Here we have that world of intrigues, of secret relations, of

shameful stories of Byelskys and Dolskys. . . . And what a future, what a lovely part awaiting me! To live

close to her, visit her, share with her the morbid melancholy of the lady of fashion who is sick and weary of

the world, but can't live outside its circle, be the friend of the house of course, of his Excellency . . . until . . .

until the whim changes and the plebeian lover loses his piquancy, and is replaced by that fat general or Mr.

Finikovthat's possible and pleasant, and I dare say useful. . . . She talks of a good use for my talents? . . .

but the other project's impracticable, impracticable. . . ." In Litvinov's soul rose, like sudden gusts of wind

before a storm, momentary impulses of fury. . . . Every expression in Irina's letter roused his indignation, her

very assertions of her unchanging feelings affronted him. "She can't let it go like that," he cried at last, "I

Litvinov jumped up, snatched his hat. But what was he to do? Run to her? Answer her letter? He

Had he not himself put this fatal choice to her? It had not turned out as he had wished . . . there was

that risk about every choice. She had changed her mind, it was true; she herself had declared at first that she

would throw up everything and follow him; that was true, too; but she did not deny her guilt, she called

herself a weak woman; she did not want to deceive him, she had been deceived in herself. . . . What answer

could be made to that? At any rate she was not hypocritical, she was not deceiving him . . . she was open,

remorselessly open. There was nothing forced her to speak out, nothing to prevent her from soothing him

with promises, putting things off, and keeping it all in uncertainty till her departure . . . till her departure with

her husband for Italy? But she had ruined his life, ruined two lives. . . . What of that?

But as regards Tatyana, she was not guilty; the guilt was his, his, Litvinov's alone, and he had no

right to shake off the responsibility his own sin had laid with iron yoke upon him. . . . All this was so; but

Again he flung himself on the sofa and again in gloom, darkly, dimly, without trace, with

"And why not obey her?" flashed through his brain. "She loves me, she is mine, and in our very

yearning towards each other, in this passion, which after so many years has burst upon us, and forced its way

out with such violence, is there not something inevitable, irresistible, like a law of nature? Live in Petersburg

. . . and shall I be the first to be put in such a position? And how could we be in safety together? . . ."

And he fell to musing, and Irina's shape, in the guise in which it was imprinted for ever in his late

memories, softly rose before him. . . . But not for long. . . . He mastered himself, and with a fresh outburst of

"You give me to drink from that golden cup," he cried, "but there is poison in the draught, and

your white wings are besmirched with mire. . . . Away! Remain here with you after the way I . . . I drove

away my betrothed . . . a deed of infamy, of infamy!" He wrung his hands with anguish, and another face

with the stamp of suffering on its still features, with dumb reproach in its farewell eyes, rose from the depths.

And for a long time Litvinov was in this agony still; for a long time, his tortured thought, like a

man feverstricken, tossed from side to side. . . . He grew calm at last; at last he came to a decision. From the

very first instant he had a presentiment of this decision; . . . it had appeared to him at first like a distant,

hardly perceptible point in the midst of the darkness and turmoil of his inward conflict; then it had begun to

Litvinov once more dragged his box out of the corner, once more he packed all his things, without

haste, even with a kind of stupid carefulness, rang for the waiter, paid his bill, and despatched to Irina a note

"I don't know whether you are doing me a greater wrong now than then; but I know this present

blow is infinitely heavier. . . . It is the end. You tell me, 'I cannot'; and I repeat to you, 'I cannot . . .' do what

you want. I cannot and I don't want to. Don't answer me. You are not capable of giving me the only answer I

would accept. I am going away tomorrow, early, by the first train. Goodby, may you be happy! We shall in

Till nighttime Litvinov did not leave his room; God knows whether he was expecting anything.

About seven o'clock in the evening a lady in a black mantle with a veil on her face twice approached the steps

of his hotel. Moving a little aside and gazing far away into the distance, she suddenly made a resolute gesture

"Where are you going, Irina Pavlovna?" she heard a voice utter with effort behind her.

She stopped short, thought a moment, and fairly flung herself towards him, took his arm, and drew

"Take me away," she reiterated with redoubled force, "if you don't want me to remain for ever . . .

Potugin bent his head submissively, and hurriedly they went away together. The following

morning early Litvinov was perfectly ready for his journeyinto his room walked . . . Potugin.

He went up to him in silence, and in silence shook his hand. Litvinov, too, said nothing. Both of

"And how did you know I was going today?" asked Litvinov. Potugin looked on the floor around

him . . . "I became aware of it . . . as you see. Our last conversation took in the end such a strange turn. . . . I

did not want to part from you without expressing my sincere good feeling for you."

Potugin looked mournfully at Litvinov. "Ah, Grigory Mihalitch, Grigory Mihalitch," he began with

a short sigh, "it's no time for that with us now, no time for delicacy or fencing. You don't, so far as I have

been able to perceive, take much interest in our national literature, and so, perhaps, you have no clear

"What Buslaev?" said Litvinov, somewhat puzzled by the unexpected turn of the conversation. "I

"Well, never mind. I only wanted to draw your attention to something. Vaska Buslaev, after he had

taken away his Novgorodians on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and there, to their horror, bathed all naked in the

holy river Jordan, for he believed not 'in omen nor in dream, nor in the flight of birds,' this logical Vaska

Buslaev climbed up Mount Tabor, and on the top of this mountain there lies a great stone, over which men of

Vaska too ventured to try his luck. And he chanced upon a dead head, a human skull in his road; he

kicked it away with his foot. So the skull said to him; "Why do you kick me? I knew how to live, and I know

how to roll in the dustand it will be the same with you." And in fact, Vaska jumps over the stone, and he

did quite clear it, but he caught his heel and broke his skull. And in this place, I must by the way observe that

it wouldn't be amiss for our friends, the Slavophils, who are so fond of kicking dead heads and decaying

"But what does all that mean?" Litvinov interposed impatiently at last. "Excuse me, it's time for me

"Why, this," answered Potugin, and his eyes beamed with such affectionate warmth as Litvinov

had not even expected of him, "this, that you do not spurn a dead human head, and for your goodness,

perhaps you may succeed in leaping over the fatal stone. I won't keep you any longer, only let me embrace

"I'm not going to try to leap over it, even," Litvinov declared, kissing Potugin three times, and the

bitter sensations filling his soul were replaced for an instant by pity for the poor, lonely creature.

"But I must go, I must go. . . ." he moved about the room. "Can I carry anything for you?" Potugin

He put on his cap, took up his bag. "So you say," he queried, stopping in the doorway, "you have

Potugin was silent a moment. "She expected you yesterday . . . and today she will expect you."

"Ah! Well, tell her. . . . No, there's no need, no need of anything. Goodby . . . Goodby!"

"Goodby, Grigory Mihalitch. . . . Let me say one word more to you. You still have time to listen

to me; there's more than half an hour before the train starts. You are returning to Russia. . . . There you will . .

. in time . . . get to work. . . . Allow an old chatterboxfor, alas, I am a chatterbox, and nothing moreto

give you advice for your journey. Every time it is your lot to undertake any piece of work, ask yourself: Are

you serving the cause of civilization, in the true and strict sense of the word; are you promoting one of the

ideals of civilization; have your labors that educating, Europeanizing character which alone is beneficial and

profitable in our day among us? If it is so, go boldly forward, you are on the right path, and your work is a

blessing! Thank God for it! You are not alone now. You will not be a 'sower in the desert'; there are plenty of

workers . . . pioneers . . . even among us now. . . . But you have no ears for this now. Goodby, don't forget

me!" Litvinov descended the staircase at a run, flung himself into a carriage, and drove to the station, not

once looking round at the town where so much of his personal life was left behind. He abandoned himself, as

it were, to the tide; it snatched him up and bore him along, and he firmly resolved not to struggle against it . .

"Grigory Mihalitch . . . Grigory . . ." he heard a supplicating whisper behind him.

He started . . . Could it be Irina? Yes; it was she. Wrapped in her maid's shawl, a traveling hat on

her disheveled hair, she was standing on the platform, and gazing at him with worn and weary eyes.

"Come back, come back, I have come for you," those eyes were saying. And what, what were they

not promising? She did not move, she had not power to add a word; everything about her, even the disorder

Litvinov was almost beaten, scarcely could he keep from rushing to her. . . . But the tide to which

he had surrendered himself reasserted itself. . . . He jumped into the carriage, and turning round, he motioned

Irina to a place beside him. She understood him. There was still time. One step, one movement, and two lives

made one for ever would have been hurried away into the uncertain distance. . . . While she wavered, a loud

Litvinov sank back, while Irina moved staggering to a seat, and fell on it, to the immense

astonishment of a supernumerary diplomatic official who chanced to be lounging about the railway station.

He was slightly acquainted with Irina, and greatly admired her, and seeing that she lay as though overcome

by faintness, he imagined that she had "une attaque de nerfs," and therefore deemed it his duty, the duty d'un

galant chevalier, to go to her assistance. But his astonishment assumed far greater proportions when, at the

first word addressed to her, she suddenly got up, repulsed his proffered arm, and hurrying out into the street,

had in a few instants vanished in the milky vapor of fog, so characteristic of the climate of the Black Forest in

WE happened once to go into the hut of a peasantwoman 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 recognize

himself, he did not comprehend his own actions, he had positively lost his real identity, and, in fact, he took

very little interest in his own identity. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was taking his own corpse home,

and only the bitter spasms of irremediable spiritual pain passing over him from time to time brought him back

to a sense of still being alive. At times it struck him as incomprehensible that a mana man!could let a

woman, let love, have such power over him . . . "Ignominious weakness!" he muttered, and shook back his

cloak, and sat up more squarely; as though to say, the past is over, let's begin fresh. . . . a moment, and he

could only smile bitterly and wonder at himself. He fell to looking out of the window. It was gray and damp;

there was no rain, but the fog still hung about; and low clouds trailed across the. sky. The wind blew facing

the train; whitish clouds of steam, some singly, others mingled with other darker clouds of smoke, whirled in

endless file past the window at which Litvinov was sitting. He began to watch this steam, this smoke.

Incessantly mounting, rising and falling, twisting and hooking on to the grass, to the bushes as though in

sportive antics, lengthening out, and hiding away, clouds upon clouds flew by . . . they were for ever

changing and stayed still the same in their monotonous, hurrying, wearisome sport! Sometimes the wind

changed, the line bent to right or left, and suddenly the whole mass vanished, and at once reappeared at the

opposite window; then again the huge tail was flung out, and again it veiled Litvinov's view of the vast plain

of the Rhine. He gazed and gazed, and a strange reverie came over him. . . . He was alone in the

compartment; there was no one to disturb him. "Smoke, smoke," he repeated several times; and suddenly it

all seemed as smoke to him, everything, his own life, Russian lifeeverything human, especially everything

Russian. All smoke and steam, he thought; all seems for ever changing, on all sides new forms, phantoms

flying after phantoms, while in reality it is all the same and the same again; everything hurrying, flying

towards something, and everything vanishing without a trace, attaining to nothing; another wind blows, and

all is dashing in the opposite direction, and there again the same untiring, restlessand useless gambols! He

remembered much that had taken place with clamor and flourish before his eyes in the last few years. .

"Smoke," he whispered, "smoke"; he remembered the hot disputes, the wrangling, the clamor at Gubaryov's,

and in other sets of men, of high and low degree, advanced and reactionist, old and young. . . . "Smoke," he

repeated, "smoke and steam"; he remembered, too, the fashionable picnic, and he remembered various

opinions and speeches of other political personageseven all Potugin's sermonizing. . . . "Smoke, smoke,

nothing but smoke." And what of his own struggles and passions and agonies and dreams? He could only

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

newspaperboys, 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 himor was he dreaming, no, it was really soall the familiar Baden faces; there was Madame

Suhantchikov, there was Voroshilov, and Bambaev, too; they all rushed up to him, while Bindasov bellowed:

"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,

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,

"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, Russiansand 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, "let him be! You see what sort of a

fellow he is; and all his family are the same. He has an aunt; at first she struck me as a sensible woman, but

the day before yesterday I went to see her hereshe had only just before gone to Baden and was back here

again before you could look roundwell, I went to see her; began questioning her. . . Would you believe me,

Poor Kapitolina Markova 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

"Well, say something at parting at least, you stonyhearted man!" shouted Bambaev, "this is really

"Rotten milksop!" yelled Bindasov. The carriages were moving more and more rapidly, and he

could vent his abuse with impunity. "Niggardly stickinthemud." Whether Bindasov invented this last

appellation on the spot, or whether it had come to him secondhand, 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 appeared in the Russian periodical sheet, published at that time at Heidelberg under the title: A tout

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, physiologythey 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

And a week later she did, in fact, recover, and the two friends continued their journey.

[Note 2] Litvinov's presentiments came true. In 1866 there were in Heidelberg thirteen Russian

STOPPING neither at Petersburg nor at Moscow, Litvinov went back to his estate. He was

dismayed when he saw his father; the latter was so weak and failing. The old man rejoiced to have his son, as

far as a man can rejoice who is just at the close of life; he at once gave over to him the management of

everything, which was in great disorder, and lingering on a few weeks longer, he departed from this earthly

sphere. Litvinov was left alone in his ancient little manorhouse, and with a heavy heart, without hope,

without zeal, and without money, he began to work the land. Working the land is a cheerless business, as

many know too well; we will not enlarge on how distasteful it seemed to Litvinov. As for reforms and

innovations, there was, of course, no question even of them; the practical application of the information he

had gathered abroad was put off for an indefinite period; poverty forced him to make shift from day to day, to

consent to all sorts of compromisesboth material and moral. The new had "begun ill," the old had lost all

power; ignorance jostled up against dishonesty; the whole agrarian organization was shaken and unstable as

quagmire bog, and only one great word, "freedom," was wafted like the breath of God over the waters.

Patience was needed before all things, and a patience not passive, but active, persistent, not without tact and

cunning at times. . . . For Litvinov, in his frame of mind, it was doubly hard. He had but little will to live left

But a year passed, after it another passed, the third was beginning. The mighty idea was being

realized by degrees, was passing into flesh and blood, the young shoot had sprung up from the scattered seed,

and its foes, both open and secret, could not stamp it out now. Litvinov himself, though he had ended by

giving up the greater part of his land to the peasants on the halfprofit system, that's to say, by returning to

the wretched primitive methods, had yet succeeded in doing something; he had restored the factory, set up a

tiny farm with five free hired laborershe had had at different times fully fortyand had paid his principal

private debts. . . . And his spirit had gained strength; he had begun to be like the old Litvinov again. It's true,

a deeply buried melancholy never left him, and he was too quiet for his years; he shut himself up in a narrow

circle and broke off all his old connections . . . but the deadly indifference had passed, and among the living

he moved and acted as a living man again. The last traces, too, had vanished of the enchantment in which he

had been held; all that had passed at Baden appeared to him dimly as in a dream. . . . And Irina? even she had

paled and vanished, too, and Litvinov only had a faint sense of something dangerous behind the mist that

gradually enfolded her image. Of Tatyana news reached him from time to time: he knew that she was living

with her aunt on her estate, a hundred and sixty miles from him, leading a quiet life, going out little, and

scarcely receiving any guestscheerful and well, however. It happened on one fine May day, that he was

sitting in his study, listlessly turning over the last number of a Petersburg paper; a servant came to announce

the arrival of an old uncle. This uncle happened to be a cousin of Kapitolina Markovna and had been recently

staying with her. He had bought an estate in Litvinov's vicinity and was on his way thither. He stayed

twentyfour hours with his nephew and told him a great deal about Tatyana's manner of life. The next day

after his departure Litvinov sent her a letter, the first since their separation. He begged for permission to

renew her acquaintance, at least by correspondence, and also desired to learn whether he must for ever give

up all idea of some day seeing her again? Not without emotion he awaited the answer . . . the answer came at

last. Tatyana responded cordially to his overture. "If you are disposed to pay us a visit," she finished up, "we

hope you will come; you know the saying, 'even the sick are easier together than apart.'" Kapitolina

Markovna joined in sending her regards. Litvinov was as happy as a child; it was long since his heart had

beaten with such delight over anything. He felt suddenly light and bright. . . . Just as when the sun rises and

drives away the darkness of night, a light breeze flutters with the sun's rays over the face of the reviving

earth. All that day Litvinov kept smiling, even while he went about his farm and gave his orders. He at once

began making arrangements for the journey, and a fortnight later he was on his way to Tatyana.

HE drove rather slowly by cross tracks, without any special adventures; only once the tire of a hind

wheel broke; a blacksmith hammered and welded it, swearing both at the tire and at himself, and positively

flung up the job; luckily it turned out that among us one can travel capitally even with a tire broken,

especially on the "soft," that's to say on the mud. On the other hand, Litvinov did come upon some rather

curious chancemeetings. At one place he found a Board of Mediators sitting, and at the head of it

Pishtchalkin, who made on him the impression of a Solon or a Solomon, such lofty wisdom characterized his

remarks, and such boundless respect was shown him both by landowners and peasants. . . . In exterior, too, he

had begun to resemble a sage of antiquity; his hair had fallen off the crown of his head, and his full face had

completely set in a sort of solemn jelly of positively blatant virtue. He expressed his pleasure at Litvinov's

arrival in"if I may make bold to use so ambitious an expression, my own district," and altogether seemed

fairly overcome by an excess of excellent intentions. One piece of news he did, however, succeed in

communicating, and that was about Voroshilov; the hero of the Golden Board had reentered military service,

and had already had time to deliver a lecture to the officers of the regiment on Buddhism or Dynamism, or

something of the sortPishtchalkin could not quite remember. At the next station it was a long while before

the horses were in readiness for Litvinov; it was early dawn, and he was dozing as he sat in his coach. A

voice, that struck him as familiar, waked him up; he opened his eyes. . . . Heavens! wasn't it Gubaryov in a

gray peajacket and full flapping pajamas standing on the steps of the posting hut, swearing? . . . . No, it

wasn't Mr. Gubaryov. . . . But what a striking resemblance! . . . Only this worthy had a mouth even wider,

teeth even bigger, the expression of his dull eyes was more savage and his nose coarser, and his beard thicker,

"Scououndrels, scououndrels!" he vociferated slowly and viciously, his wolfish mouth gaping

wide. "Filthy louts. . . . Here you have . . . vaunted freedom indeed . . . and can't get horses . . . scououndrels!"

"Scououndrels, scououndrels!" thereupon came the sound of another voice from within, and at

the same moment there appeared on the stepsalso in a gray smoking peajacket and pajamasactually,

unmistakably, the real Gubaryov himself, Stepan Nikolaevitch Gubaryov. "Filthy louts!" he went on in

imitation of his brother (it turned out that the first gentleman was his elder brother, the man of the old school,

famous for his fists, who had managed his estate). "Flogging's what they want, that's it; a tap or two on the

snout, that's the sort of freedom for them. . . . Selfgovernment indeed. . . . I'd let them know it. . But where is

that M'sieu Roston? . . . What is he thinking about? . . . It's his business, the lazy scamp . . . to see we're not

put to inconvenience." "Well, I told you, brother," began the elder Gubaryov, "that he was a lazy scamp, no

good in fact! But there, for the sake of old times, you . . . M'sieu Roston, M'sieu Roston! . . . Where have you

"Roston! Roston!" bawled the younger, the great Gubaryov. "Give a good call for him, do brother

"Here I am, here I am, here I am!" was heard a hurried voice, and round the corner of the hut

Litvinov fairly gasped. On the unlucky enthusiast a shabby braided coat, with holes in the elbows,

dangled ruefully; his features had not exactly changed, but they looked pinched and drawn together; his

overanxious little eyes expressed a cringing timorousness and hungry servility; but his dyed whiskers stood

out as of old above his swollen lips. The Gubaryov brothers with one accord promptly set to scolding him

from the top of the steps; he stopped, facing them below, in the mud, and with his spine curved deprecatingly,

he tried to propitiate them with a little nervous smile, kneading his cap in his red fingers, shifting from one

foot to the other, and muttering that the horses would be here directly. . . . But the brothers did not cease, till

the younger at last cast his eyes upon Litvinov. Whether he recognized Litvinov, or whether he felt ashamed

before a stranger, anyway he turned abruptly on his heels like a bear, and gnawing his beard, went into the

station hut; his brother held his tongue at once, and he, too, turning like a bear, followed him in. The great

Litvinov called him by his name. He looked round, lifted up his head, and recognizing Litvinov,

positively flew at him with outstretched arms; but when he had run up to the carriage, he clutched at the

carriage door, leaned over it, and began sobbing violently. "There, there, Bambaev," protested Litvinov,

But he went on sobbing. "You see . . . you see. . . to what . . ." he muttered brokenly.

"Bambaev!" thundered the brothers from the hut. Bambaev raised his head and hurriedly wiped his

"Welcome, dear heart," he whispered, "welcome and farewell! . . . You hear, they are calling me."

"But what chance brought you here?" inquired Litvinov, "and what does it all mean? I thought they were

"I am their . . . housesteward, butler," answered Bambaev, and he pointed in the direction of the

hut. "And I'm turned Frenchman for a joke. What could I do, brother? You see, I'd nothing to eat, I'd lost my

last farthing, and so one's forced to put one's head under the yoke. One can't afford to be proud."

"Ah, my boy, that's all on the shelf now. . . . The wind's changed, you see. . . . Madame

Suhantchikov, Matrona Semyonovna, he simply, kicked out. She went to Portugal in her grief."

"Well, it consists of precisely those two. And he will soon have been back here six months. Others

have got into difficulties, but he was all right. He lives in the country with his brother, and you should just

"Coming, Stepan Nikolaitch, coming. And you, dear old chap, are flourishing, enjoying yourself!

Well, thank God for that! Where are you off to now? . . . There, I never thought, I never guessed. . . You

remember Baden? Ah, that was a place to live in! By the way, you remember Bindasov too? Only fancy, he's

dead. He turned exciseman, and was in a row in a publichouse; he got his head broken with a billiardcue.

Yes, yes, hard times have come now! But still I say, Russia . . . ah, our Russia! Only look at those two geese;

why, in the whole of Europe there's nothing like them! The genuine Arzamass breed!"

And with this last tribute to his irrepressible desire for enthusiasm, Bambaev ran off to the station

Towards the close of the same day, Litvinov was nearly reaching Tatyana's village. The little house

where his former betrothed lived stood on the slope of a hill, above a small river, in the midst of a garden

recently planted. The house, too, was new, lately built, and could be seen a long way off across the river and

the open country. Litvinov caught sight of it more than a mile and a half off, with its sharp gable, and its row

of little windows, gleaming red in the evening sun. At starting from the last station he was conscious of a

secret agitation; now he was in a tremor simplya happy tremor, not unmixed with dread. "How will they

meet me?" he thought, "how shall I present myself?" . . . To turn off his thoughts with something, he began

talking with his driver, a steady peasant with a gray beard, who charged him, however, for twentyfive miles,

"The Shestov ladies? To be sure! Kindhearted ladies, and no doubt about it! They doctor us, too.

It's the truth I'm telling you. Doctors they are! People go to them from all about. Yes, indeed. They fairly

crawl to them. If any one, take an example, falls sick, or cuts himself or anything, he goes straight to them

and they'll give him a lotion directly, or powders, or a plaster, and it'll be all right, it'll do good. But one can't

show one's gratitude, we won't consent to that, they say; it's not for money. They've set up a school too. . . .

While the driver talked, Litvinov never took his eyes off the house. . . . Out came a woman in

"Wasn't it she?", His heart was fairly bounding within him. "Quicker, quicker!" he shouted to the

driver; the latter urged on the horses. A few instants more . . . and the carriage rolled in through the opened

gates. . . . And on the steps Kapitolina Markovna was already standing, and beside herself with joy, was

clapping her hands crying, "I heard him, I knew him first! It's he! it's he! . . . I knew him!"

Litvinov jumped out of the carriage, without giving the page who ran up time to open the door, and

hurriedly embracing Kapitolina Markovna, dashed into the house, through the hall, into the diningroom. . .

Before him, all shamefaced, stood Tatyana. She glanced at him with her kind caressing eyes (she was a little

thinner, but it suited her), and gave him her hand. But he did not take her hand, he fell on his knees before

her. She had not at all expected this and did not know what to say, what to do. . . . The tears started into her

eyes. She was frightened, but her whole face beamed with delight. . . . "Grigory Mihalitch, what is this,

Grigory Mihalitch?" she said . . . while he still kissed the hem of her dress . . . and with a thrill of tenderness

he recalled that at Baden he had been in the same way on his knees before her. . . . But thenand now!

"Aunt, aunt, what is this?" cried Tatyana turning to Kapitolina Markovna as she came in.

"Don't hinder him, Tanya," answered the kind old lady. "You see the sinner has repented."

But it is time to make an end; and indeed there is nothing to add; the reader can guess the rest by

She is still as charming, in spite of her thirty years; young men out of number fall in love with her,

Reader, would you care to pass with us for a few instants to Petersburg into one of the first houses

there? Look; before you is a spacious apartment, we will not say richlythat is too low an expressionbut

grandly, imposingly, inspiringly decorated. Are you conscious of a certain flutter of servility? Know that you

have entered a temple, a temple consecrated to the highest propriety, to the loftiest philanthropy, in a word, to

things unearthly. . . . A kind of mystic, truly mystic, hush enfolds you. The velvet hangings on the doors, the

velvet curtains on the window, the bloated, spongy rug on the floor, everything as it were destined and fitted

beforehand for subduing, for softening all coarse sounds and violent sensations. The carefully hung lamps

inspire wellregulated emotions; a discreet fragrance is diffused in the close air; even the samovar on the

table hisses in a restrained and modest manner. The lady of the house, an important personage in the

Petersburg world, speaks hardly audibly; she always speaks as though there were some one dangerously ill,

almost dying in the room; the other ladies, following her example, faintly whisper; while her sister, pouring

out tea, moves her lips so absolutely without sound that a young man sitting before her, who has been thrown

by chance into the temple of decorum, is positively at a loss to know what she wants of him, while she for the

sixth time breathes to him, "Voulezvous une tasse de th�?" In the corners are to be seen young,

goodlooking men; their glances are brightly, gently ingratiating; unruffled gentleness, tinged with

obsequiousness, is apparent in their faces; a number of the stars and crosses of distinction gleam softly on

their breasts. The conversation is always gentle; it turns on religious and patriotic topics, the Mystic Drop, F.

N. Glinka, the missions in the East, the monasteries and brotherhoods in White Russia. At times, with

muffled tread over the soft carpets, move footmen in livery; their huge calves, cased in tight silk stockings,

shake noiselessly at every step; the respectful motion of the solid muscles only augments the general

"I met her today at Lise's," the hostess answers with her �olian note. "I feel so sorry for her. . .

She has a satirical intellect . . . elle n'a pas la foi." "Yes, yes," repeats the great lady . . . "that I remember,

Piotr Ivanitch said about her, and very true it is, qu'elle a . . . qu'elle a an ironical intellect."

"Elle n'a pas la foi," the hostess's voice exhaled like the smoke of incense,"C'est une �me

And that is why the young men are not all without exception in love with Irina. . . . They are afraid

of her . . . afraid of her "ironical intellect." That is the current phrase about her; in it, as in every phrase, there

is a grain of truth. And not only the young men are afraid of her; she is feared by grown men, too, and by men

in high places, and even by the grandest personages. No one can so truly and artfully scent out the ridiculous

or petty side of a character, no one else has the gift of stamping it mercilessly with the neverforgotten word.

. . . And the sting of that word is all the sharper that it comes from lovely, sweetly fragrant lips. . . . It's hard

to say what passes in that soul; but in the crowd of her adorers rumor does not recognize in any one the

Irina's husband is moving rapidly along the path which among the French is called the path of

distinction. The stout general has shot past him; the condescending one is left behind. And in the same town

in which Irina lives, lives also our friend Sozont Potugin; he rarely sees her, and she has no special necessity

to keep up any connection with him. . . . The little girl who was committed to his care died not long ago.