Smoke Part 10

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 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 carelessly-coiled hair had come loose and fell low on her slender neck. Irina flung a swift glance at Potugin, murmured '_merci_,' and holding out her hand to Litvinov reproached him amicably for forgetfulness.

'And you such an old friend!' she added.

Litvinov was beginning to apologise. '_C'est bien, c'est bien_,' she a.s.sented 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 portiere, she turned with eager impatience to Litvinov.

'Grigory Mihalitch,' she began, speaking Russian in her soft musical voice, 'here we are alone at last, and I can tell you how glad I am at our meeting, because it ... 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 herself turn the conversation upon old times.

'Forgiveness ... for what?' ... he muttered.

Irina flushed.

'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 ... _gene_, 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_.

_Voila!_ 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 me.'

Irina uttered this whole speech without taking breath, and Litvinov could see that there were tears shining in her eyes ... yes, actually 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 splendour which surrounds you, you have still preserved a recollection of the obscure companions of your youth....'

'Does it astound you?' said Irina softly.

'It touches me,' Litvinov went on, 'because I could never have imagined----'

'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....'

'And you will not remember evil against me?'

'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 recognised the features once so precious, and those deep eyes, with their marvellous 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 recognised.... 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.... Irina perceived it.

'Well, that is excellent,' she said aloud; 'now my conscience is at rest then, and I can satisfy my curiosity.'

'Curiosity,' repeated Litvinov, as though puzzled.

'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 warn you, I have not lost sight of you ... so far as I could.'

'You did not lose sight of me, you ... there ... in Petersburg?'

'In the midst of the splendour which surrounded me, as you expressed it just now. Positively, yes, I did not. As for that splendour 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, gaily sitting down and arranging herself at her ease in an armchair. 'Come, begin.'

'Before telling my story, I have to thank you,' began Litvinov.

'What for?'

'For the bouquet of flowers, which made its appearance in my room.'

'What bouquet? I know nothing about it.'

'What?'

'I tell you I know nothing about it.... But I am waiting.... I am waiting for your story.... Ah, what a good fellow that Potugin is to have brought you!'

Litvinov p.r.i.c.ked up his ears.

'Have you known this Mr. Potugin long?' he queried.

'Yes, a long while ... but tell me your story.'

'And do you know him well?'

'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 quelle 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.'

'And Potugin, you say, was connected with--'

'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 learnt to appreciate him! But we have drifted away again. I am waiting for your story, Grigory Mihalitch.'

'But my story cannot interest you the least, Irina Pavlovna.'

'That's not your affair.'

'Think, Irina Pavlovna, we have not seen each other for ten years, ten whole years. How much water has flowed by since then.'

'Not water only! not water only!' she repeated with a peculiar bitter expression; 'that's just why I want to hear what you are going to tell me.'

'And beside I really don't know where to begin.'

'At the beginning. From the very time when you ... when I went away to Petersburg. You left Moscow then.... Do you know I have never been back to Moscow since!'

'Really?'

'It was impossible at first; and afterwards when I was married----.'

'Have you been married long?'

'Four years.'

'Have you no children?'

'No,' she answered drily.

Litvinov was silent for a little.