Part 17

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 dining-room.... 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 then--and now!

‘Tanya!’ he repeated, ‘Tanya! you have forgiven me, Tanya!’

‘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 himself.... But what of Irina?

She is still as charming, in spite of her thirty years; young men out of number fall in love with her, and would fall in love with her even more, if ... if....

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 richly--that is too low an expression--but 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 well-regulated 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, ‘_Voulez-vous une tasse de thé?_’ In the corners are to be seen young, good-looking 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 impression of decorum, of solemnity, of sanctity.

It is a temple, a temple!

‘Have you seen Madame Ratmirov to-day?’ one great lady queries softly.

‘I met her to-day at Lise’s,’ the hostess answers with her Æolian 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 âme égarée._ She has an ironical mind.’

* * * * *

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 never-forgotten 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 rumour does not recognise in any one the position of a favoured suitor.

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.

THE END

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press

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Transcriber's Note:

Punctuation has been standardised and obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation, and obsolete or variant spelling have all been preserved.

The following changes have also been made:

Page 17, eat => ate: (ate and drank).

Page 28, Yakovlevna => Yakovlovna: (Praskovya Yakovlovna told me).

Page 84, Devonshirse => Devonshire: (Countess Devonshire).