Alexander stood thinking. His uncle shook his head.
“And you thought you were surrounded by angels! ‘Talking from the heart’, ‘a particular liking’! And anyway, how come you didn’t think about it before? Don’t you realize there are always predators around? You should never have come!” he said. “You really shouldn’t have!”
Once, after Alexander had just woken up, Yevsei brought him in a big package with a note from his uncle.
“Now at last, here is some real literary work for you,” he had written. “Yesterday I saw a journalist friend of mine; he has sent you something to try out.”
Alexander’s hands trembled with excitement as he opened the package. Inside there was something written in German.
“What can it be – some prose?” he wondered. “What about?”
He read something which had been written in pencil at the top.
‘Fertilizer’, an article for the agricultural column. Translation to be submitted as soon as possible.
He sat over the article thinking for a long time until finally, with a sigh, he slowly picked up his pen and began to translate. Two days later the article was ready and sent off.
“Excellent, excellent!” said Pyotr Ivanych a few days later. “The editor couldn’t be more pleased, only he found the style a little free; but, of course, you can’t expect everything the first time. He wants to meet you. Go and see him tomorrow evening at seven; he’ll have another article ready for you.”
“On the same subject?”
“No, something different, he told me but I forget… Oh yes, it’s on potato starch. Alexander, you were, of course, born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but I’m finally beginning to believe that we can make something of you. Soon, perhaps, I’ll be able to stop asking you why you came here. You’ve hardly been here a month and already everything’s been going your way. There’s that thousand roubles, as well as the hundred roubles a month which the editor has promised to pay you for four printer’s sheets; that makes 2,200 roubles! No, that’s not how I started out,” he said, frowning slightly. “Write and tell your mother how well things are working out. I’m going to write to her myself and tell her how, in return for her kindness to me, I’ve been doing my best to help you.”
“Mummy will be… very grateful, Uncle, and I too…” said Alexander with a sigh, but this time made no attempt to embrace his uncle.
Chapter 3
Two years had gone by. Who now would have recognized the provincial in this young man with his refined manners and ultra-fashionable clothes? He had changed a great deal and matured. The soft contours of his youthful face, the transparency and tenderness of his skin and the down on his chin had all disappeared. His shyness and timidity along with a certain graceful awkwardness in his movements were no longer there. His facial features had matured into a pattern, a pattern which revealed character. The lilies and roses had been replaced by a kind of light tan, and the down had given way to fledgling side whiskers. His diffident and uncertain tread and become firm and even, and his voice had deepened into the bass range. What had once been but a sketch had become a fully fledged portrait. What had been a youth was now a man. His eyes shone with self-confidence and boldness, but not the boldness that can be heard a mile off and comes with an arrogant glance that proclaims to everyone within range: “Watch out, don’t mess with me, don’t tread on my toes – or else! Understand? I’ll make short work of you.” No, the boldness I have in mind does not repel: it attracts. You can recognize it as a striving for good, for success, as a determination to sweep away all obstacles in its path. Alexander’s old expression of eagerness and enthusiasm had mellowed into one of a certain thoughtfulness, the first sign of a wariness which had wormed its way into his psyche, and was perhaps the only effect of his uncle’s homilies and the remorseless analysis to which he had subjected everything that Alexander’s eyes and heart had told him. Alexander had finally mastered tact and the art of dealing with people. He no longer rushed to embrace people, especially since the time a certain person, who was given to heartfelt outpourings, had twice got the better of him in spite of his uncle’s warnings, and another gentleman with a forceful personality and an iron will had persuaded him to part with a sizeable sum of money by way of a loan. Other people and situations had also helped a lot in this. In one place, he had noticed that people were laughing up their sleeves at his youthful exuberance and had nicknamed him “the romantic”; another time people had taken practically no notice of him because he had nothing to offer them. He gave no dinners, didn’t keep a carriage and didn’t play for high stakes. Previously, he would have grown sick at heart because of the painful contrast between his rosy dreams and reality, and it had never occurred to him to wonder: “What have I ever done that was noteworthy – what have I ever done to stand out from the crowd? What accomplishments do I have to my name – why should people take any notice of me?” All this was a blow to his self-esteem.
Later he came to entertain the thought that perhaps life was not all roses, but there were thorns too which sometimes pricked you – although not, of course, as painfully as Uncle made out. So he learnt to exercise some self-control and not to blurt out his feelings so often and get so excited, and also to stop letting his tongue run away with him as much, at least when he was in company.
For all that, to the deep disappointment of his uncle, he was still far from being a detached analyst of the first causes of all that troubles and perturbs the human heart. He was averse to the very idea of penetrating all its secrets and riddles.
Pyotr Ivanych would lay down the law about something in the morning, and Alexander would listen and would come away confused or deep in thought, but then in the evening he would go out somewhere and would come back a changed man; for three days he would kick over the traces – and all his uncle’s theories were thrown to the winds.
The delights of the ballroom, the sound of the music, the bare shoulders, the fire of the glances, the smiles on those rosy lips had gone to his head and would keep him awake the whole night. He would dwell on that waist which he had touched with his hands, those languorous, lingering looks which followed him on his way out, that hot breath which melted him during the waltz, that muted conversation at the window to the strains of the mazurka when eyes met and sparkled, and tongues were loosened. His heart would beat faster, and he would embrace his pillow convulsively, and toss and turn from side to side.
“But where is love? How I thirst for love!” he would say. “Will it come soon? When will I know those sublime moments, that sweet torment, when will I tremble with that bliss and shed those tears?” and so forth.
The next day he would go to see his uncle.
“Uncle, what a ball the Zarayskys gave last night!” he said, his mind full of memories of the ball.
“A good one?”
“Wonderful!”
“A decent supper?”
“I didn’t have any.”
“What do you mean? How could you go without supper at your age! Well, I can tell that you’re really getting used to the life here, maybe a little too much. How about the rest of it? Were people well dressed? Was the lighting good?”
“Yes,” he said uncertainly.
“And what kind of people – respectable?”
“Yes indeed! Very much so. What eyes, what shoulders!”
“Whose?”
“Are you really asking about them?”
“Who?”
“About the girls.”
“No, I wasn’t asking about them; but never mind: were there a lot of pretty ones?”
“Oh yes, a lot… but the trouble is, they were all very much alike. You hear one of them saying something or doing something in some situation, and the next thing you know, it would be repeated by one of the others as if it were a lesson learnt by rote. There was one a little different from the rest, but still no sign of an ind
ependent character. Even the look in their eyes and their movements – all exactly the same. You would never hear an original thought, or a glimmer of a feeling – everything all covered with the identical gloss. Nothing, it seems, could make them break through that surface. Can it be that whatever it is will remain for ever locked inside, and never revealed to a soul? Will the corset always restrain the sigh of love and the cry of the heart in torment, or allow a feeling to break through?”
“To a husband everything will be revealed, but if what I’ve heard you say is right, then I suppose many of them are doomed to end up old maids. There are those who are foolish enough to reveal prematurely what they should have kept hidden and suppressed; well, later on they will pay for that with their tears: it’s not a good deal!”
“There you go again with your ‘deals’, Uncle!”
“Just as I would anywhere, my dear boy; there are words in our language, short and to the point, ‘foolish and reckless’ for anyone who doesn’t think in these terms.”
“But to suppress a spontaneous outburst of feeling!”
“Oh, I know you are not one to suppress his feelings. In the street or at the theatre you are ready to throw yourself sobbing into the arms of someone you know.”
“And what’s so wrong with that, Uncle? People would just say: ‘Here is a man with strong feelings, and anyone who feels as strongly as that is capable of all that is fine and noble, and not capable of…’”
“…calculating outcomes, that is, thinking things through. So that’s your idea of a great personality – a man with strong feelings and powerful passions. There are any number of men like that, ruled by their emotions – easily carried away and transported by their impulses. That kind of person simply falls short of being a man, and has nothing to recommend him. The question to ask is whether he can control his feelings; if he can, then he is a man…”
“The way you see it, a feeling is something to control, like steam,” Alexander observed. “Let a little escape, and then suddenly shut it off, just a matter of turning a safety valve on and off…”
“Yes, nature had a purpose in equipping man with that safety valve – otherwise known as reason – and it’s a pity you don’t use it more often! Otherwise, you’re not a bad lad!”
“No, Uncle, it’s depressing to listen to you! I’d much sooner you introduced me to that lady who was visiting.”
“What lady? Lyubetskaya? She was here last night?”
“Yes, she was; I had a long conversation with her about you, and asked about that business of hers.”
“Oh yes, now that you mention it…” Pyotr Ivanych took out a document from a drawer. “Take this to her, and tell her that it was only issued to me yesterday, and even then I had some trouble getting it; you heard my conversation with that official, didn’t you, so make sure to explain everything properly.”
“Of course I know and will explain.”
Alexander took hold of the document with both hands and put it carefully in his pocket. Pyotr Ivanych looked at him.
“Why on earth did you get to know her? It’s not as if she’s attractive – with that wart on her nose.”
“A wart? I don’t remember. How did you come to notice it, Uncle?”
“You really couldn’t see the wart on her nose? What do you want from her?”
“She’s so nice and respectable…”
“But how could you have failed to notice the wart on her nose, and yet be so certain that she’s nice and respectable? Very strange. But wait a minute – yes, of course, she has a daughter, that little brunette. Well, now it makes sense – so that’s why you didn’t notice the wart on her nose!”
They both burst out laughing.
“I’ll tell you what surprises me, Uncle,” said Alexander, “that you noticed the wart on her nose before noticing the daughter.”
“Give me back that document. I’m sure you’re going to let your feelings overcome you once you’re there and simply forget to turn off that tap, make a fool of yourself and spout God knows what nonsense…”
“No, Uncle, I won’t, but if you don’t want me to, I won’t take the document; now I’m off…”
He left the room.
And so matters continued to take their normal course. At his place of work, Alexander’s abilities were noticed, and he was given a decent position. Ivan Ivanych too began to treat him with respect and offer him his snuffbox, since he had the feeling that Alexander, like so many others, wouldn’t take long before overtaking him, and would soon be breathing down his neck and competing with him for the position of head of department. And then, who knows, maybe make deputy director like the other one, or even reach the rank of director like yet another one, both of whom he had started on their careers under his guidance. “And to think that I should have worked so hard for their success – and end up working under them!” he added.
At the journal too Alexander had become a person of importance. He was responsible for selecting as well as translating and correcting foreign articles, and also wrote his own theoretical articles on agricultural matters. He earned more than enough for his needs in his own opinion, although not enough to satisfy his uncle. He didn’t always work for money. He had never given up the gratifying idea of some other, higher calling. His youthful energies were fit for anything. He stole time from his sleep and his office work in order to write poetry, novellas, historical essays and biographies. His uncle no longer pasted up his compositions on screens, but read them in silence, and then give a whistle or said, “Now that’s better than before!” Some articles appeared under another name. It gave Alexander a thrill to hear one of his many friends praise his work – friends he had made at work, in pastry shops and in private homes. After love itself, this was the fulfilment of his fondest dream. It seemed that a glittering and triumphant future and a quite exceptional fate lay in store for him, when suddenly…
A few months had gone by. Alexander was practically nowhere to be seen: it was as if he had simply vanished. His visits to his uncle became rare, and his uncle put it down to his work and didn’t bother him. However, the editor of the journal once happened to meet him and complained that Alexander was late sending in his articles. Pyotr Ivanych promised that he would find out from his nephew what was going on the first chance he had. Two days later the opportunity arose when one morning Alexander rushed round to his uncle like a man possessed. His very movements betrayed a state of pleasurable agitation.
“Good morning, Uncle, you don’t know how glad I am to see you again!” he said, and moved to embrace him. His uncle was quick to take shelter behind a table.
“Good morning, good morning Alexander. Why has it been so long since I’ve seen you?”
“Well, I was… busy; I was working on extracts from some German economists…”
“You mean the editor was lying? Two days ago he told me you weren’t doing anything – typical journalist. When I see him I’ll tell him off—”
“No, please do nothing of the sort,” said Alexander, cutting him off. “I haven’t sent him my work yet, that’s why he complained…”
“What’s the matter with you? Why in such a festive mood? Is it a promotion, or you’ve been given a decoration?”
Alexander shook his head.
“Well, is it money then?”
“No.”
“Then why are you looking so cock-a-hoop? If there’s nothing, then make yourself useful, and sit down and write to the merchant Dubasov in Moscow, asking him to send the rest of the money forthwith. Read his letter – now where did I put it? Oh yes, here it is.”
They both fell silent and began to write.
“Finished!” said Alexander after a few minutes.
“That was quick, well done! Let’s see it. What is this? You’ve been writing to me. ‘To Pyotr Ivanych. Dear Sir!’ But he’s called Timofey Nikonych! Why have you written ‘
520 roubles’? It should be ‘5,200’. What’s the matter with you, Alexander?” Pyotr Ivanych put down his pen and looked at his nephew, who blushed.
“Don’t you notice anything in my face?” he asked.
“Nothing except a pretty silly look; wait a minute… you’re in love?” Pyotr Ivanych said.
Alexander said nothing.
“So what is it? Did I guess right?”
Alexander, with jubilation written all over him and shining eyes, nodded affirmatively.
“Of course, I should have known from the first. So that’s why you’ve been slacking off, and are nowhere to be seen. Both the Zarayskys and the Skachinys have been questioning me so insistently: ‘Where has Alexander Fyodorych got to?’ Well, now I can tell them – he’s been in seventh heaven!”
Pyotr Ivanych resumed his writing.
“With Nadenka Lyubetskaya!” said Alexander.
“I wasn’t asking you,” his uncle replied. “Whoever it might have been – it’s all the same foolishness. So which Lyubetskaya is it – the one with the wart?”
Alexander cut in with some annoyance, “What’s this about warts?”
“You know, the one on the nose; haven’t you spotted it yet?”
“You’re mixing everything up. You must be thinking of the one on her mother’s nose.”
“It’s all the same.”
“All the same! Nadenka is an angel, surely you must have noticed – it only takes one look!”
“What’s so special about her? What is there to notice, especially since you say yourself she doesn’t have a wart?…”
“You seem to be obsessed with that wart. Don’t talk like that, Uncle! How can you say that she is like those mechanical society dolls? Just look at her face, what a quiet thoughtfulness lies behind it! She is not only capable of deep feeling, but also of deep thought… nothing superficial about her!…”
His uncle went back to scratching the paper with his squeaky pen, but Alexander went on: “In conversation you will never hear her utter a trite commonplace. Her opinions positively sparkle with intelligence! What fire there is in her feelings, and how profound is her understanding of life! Your views on life poison it, but Nadenka reconciles me to it.”
The Same Old Story Page 9
