The Same Old Story

by Ivan Goncharov

  “So you would get married just like that, without even asking yourself what for – exactly the same way when you came here, without even stopping to consider why?”

  “So you are getting married on the basis of cost accounting?” asked Alexander.

  “No, but, as I told you, more like taking account of relevant factors.”

  “It’s all the same.”

  “No, this cost accounting of yours would mean marrying for money – and that would be despicable, but to get married without giving the matter any thought – now that would be stupid… but now is absolutely the wrong time for you to marry.”

  “So when am I supposed to get married – when I’m an old man? Why should I follow some ridiculous example?”

  “Like mine, for instance? Thank you very much!”

  “I wasn’t talking about you, Uncle, it was just a generalization. You hear about a wedding, and you go and take a look – and what do you see? A tender young thing, practically a child, who was just waiting for that magical touch of love before flowering into a luxuriant blossom, and suddenly she is wrenched from her dolls, her nanny, her childish games and dances, and let’s hope that’s all. Often no one is looking into her heart, which maybe no longer belongs to her. They dress her in gossamer and fine lace and adorn her with flowers, and regardless of her tears, her pallor, drag her like a sacrificial victim, and who do they stand her beside? Some elderly fellow, chances are, not too good-looking, who has already lost the bloom of youth. Either he degrades her with his lascivious glances or he looks her over from head to toe, thinking to himself: ‘Oh yes, you’re pretty enough, with a head stuffed full of frippery: love and roses – I’ll soon cure her of that, it’s tommyrot. No more of that sighing and dreaming when you’re with me! And you’ll conduct yourself with dignity.’ Or even worse, what’s on his mind is her estate. At the very best he will be no more than thirty. Chances are, he’s bald – although, of course, he sports a decoration like a cross or a star. She is told: ‘He’s the one to whom you will be giving up the treasures of your youth, the first beating of your heart, your first murmurs of love, your first, those glances, those outpourings, those demure gestures of affection – in a word, your whole life.’ Meanwhile, she is surrounded by a crowd of those who match her in youth and beauty and should be the ones standing beside the bride. They devour the poor victim with their eyes as if they are thinking: ‘When we’ve run out of the freshness of our youth and the robustness of our health, and have lost our hair, then we’ll get married and be awarded one of these exotic flowers…’ It’s horrible.”

  “That’s crazy talk. You should know better, Alexander; you’ve been writing for two years now,” said Pyotr Ivanych, “about manure, potatoes and other serious subjects where a disciplined, concise style is important, and here you are coming out with all this blather. For God’s sake don’t let yourself get carried away, or at the very least when you feel the urge coming on, just hold your tongue and wait for it to pass. You won’t make any sense, and no good will come of it. You’ll just make yourself ridiculous.”

  “But Uncle, isn’t that how poets get their inspiration – by getting carried away?”

  “I don’t know how they get their inspiration, but I do know that fully fledged ideas come out of the head only when they have been thoroughly worked out, and they are the only ones worth anything.” Pyotr Ivanych paused and then added: “And who would you have these lovely creatures married to?”

  “To those that they love, who haven’t yet lost the bloom of their youthful beauty – in whose hearts and minds, it’s clear to anyone, life is still present; those who still have a glitter in their eyes and colour in their cheeks, and haven’t lost their freshness – all signs of good health; those who won’t be leading their charming companions along life’s road by a withered hand, but would present them with the gift of hearts full of love for them, hearts able to understand and share their feelings, when the rights of nature…”

  “That’s enough! You mean young bucks like yourself. If we lived ‘among fields and forests primeval’,* all right, then go and marry the young buck – much good would it do you! In the first year he would go out of his mind, and then go out looking for satisfaction elsewhere, or would make the chambermaid into his wife’s rival, because those rights of nature which you talk about demand change and novelty – what a wonderful scenario that would be! And the next thing you know, the wife, noticing what her husband is getting up to, would suddenly take a fancy to helmets, fine clothing and masked balls, and get back at him… and without a fortune, so much the worse! He’d be saying he couldn’t even afford to eat!” Pyotr Ivanych made a sour face, then added:

  “‘I’m married,’ he says, ‘and have three children, please help me, I have nothing to live on, I’m poor…’ Poor, what an abomination! No, I hope you don’t fall into either of these categories.”

  “I’ll fall into the category of the happily married husbands, Uncle, and Nadenka will fall into the category of happily married wives. I don’t want to marry the way most do – with that same old song: ‘My youth has gone, I don’t want to be left alone: time to get married!’ I’m not like that.”

  “You’re raving, my dear boy.”

  “And what makes you think so?”

  “Because you’re just like the others, and I’ve long been acquainted with those others. Well, tell me why you want to get married.”

  “What do you mean, ‘why’? Nadenka – my wife!” Alexander exclaimed, covering his face with his hands.

  “So you see, you don’t even know yourself.”

  “The very thought of it makes me feel faint. You don’t know how much I love her, Uncle; no one has ever loved anyone so much – with all my heart and soul – she means everything to me…”

  “You’d do better to tell me off – or, if you have to, even embrace me; anything but just repeating that absurd phrase! How can you let your tongue run away with you like that ‘more than anyone has ever loved anyone’?!”

  Pyotr Ivanych shrugged his shoulders.

  “So you really think it’s impossible?”

  “Well, thinking of your love, yes, it may even be possible, but a more foolish love it would be hard to imagine!”

  “But she says that we should wait a year, that we are still young and should put ourselves to the test… a whole year… and then—”

  “A year! Oh well, you should have told me right at the start!” Pyotr Ivanych broke in. “And that was her idea? How clever she must be! How old is she?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And you are what – twenty-three? That makes her twenty-three times as smart as you. It seems to me that she knows what she is doing. She’s playing with you, flirting a little and having a good time, so it seems that some of those young hussies have brains in their heads! So you won’t be marrying then. I thought you wanted to go ahead with it quickly, and in secret. At your age, you act on your reckless impulses promptly, and there’s no time to stop you; but in a year – by that time she’ll have dropped you…”

  “Her – drop me – flirt! A flibbertigibbet! Her, Nadenka! Not on your life, Uncle! Who have you been living among your whole life – who have you been dealing with – who have you loved, that you should harbour such dark suspicions?…”

  “I’ve lived among people, and I’ve loved a woman.”

  “She will deceive me? That angel, the very embodiment of sincerity, the first woman that God seems to have created entirely pure and flawless?…”

  “But still a woman for all that, who will very likely deceive you.”

  “And next you’re going to say that I too will drop her?”

  “Yes, in time, you too.”

  “Me! You can say what you like about people you don’t know, but me! You should be ashamed of yourself to think that I would be capable of such abominable behaviour. Is that how you see me?” />
  “I see you as a man.”

  “Not all of us are alike. I want you to know in all seriousness that I have given her my solemn promise to love her my whole life, and am ready to swear it under oath…”

  “You don’t need to tell me, I know! A decent man never doubts the sincerity of an oath he has sworn to a woman, but eventually betrays her, or cools off – and maybe doesn’t even know why himself. It’s not done intentionally, and there’s nothing abominable about it, and no one is to blame: nature simply does not permit eternal love. Those who believe in eternal and unfailing love act in just the same way as those who don’t: the only difference being that the former aren’t, or at least profess not to be, aware of what they’re doing; the idea being that: ‘Oh no, we’re above that sort of thing, we’re angels, not people’ – what rot!”

  “Then what about married couples who start off in love, stay in love for ever and live together their whole lives?…”

  “For ever! Someone who stays in love for two weeks is called fickle, but if he lasts for two or three years – then that counts as for ever! Just consider the actual constituents of love, and you will see for yourself that it’s not eternal. Spontaneity, fervour, exuberance are emotions which by their very nature are not made to last. Yes, married couples do spend their lives together, but does that mean that they love each other all their lives, does it mean that they miss each other the moment they are apart, that they revel in every glimpse of each other, as if they are bound to each other in perpetuity by that first love which brought them together? What eventually becomes of those little efforts to please each other, the constant attention paid to each other, the constant need for each other’s company, the tears, the raptures, all that kind of nonsense? There’s a saying which sums up the coldness and sluggishness of husbands, and which is so solemnly intoned: ‘Their love has turned into friendship.’ Well, of course, that’s no longer love! And friendship – what kind of friendship is it? The couple are bound together by common interests, by circumstances, by a common destiny – so they live together, but without that they part, and find others to love – one first, and then followed by the other; that’s known as betrayal… And just between us, I’m telling you that this living together eventually turns into a habit which becomes stronger than love, and is rightly known as love’s second incarnation, otherwise people would spend all their lives grief-stricken when deprived of their loved one by separation or death, whereas in fact they do manage to get over it; yet they kept on repeating ‘for ever, for ever’ – even shouting it aloud mindlessly.”

  “But aren’t you at all afraid for yourself, Uncle? If you’re right – and I’m sorry to say this – won’t your own fiancée let you down?…”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Isn’t that rather conceited?”

  “It’s not conceit: it’s a pondered conclusion!”

  “Here you go again with your ‘conclusions’!”

  “Well, if you prefer, careful reflection.”

  “What if she falls in love with someone else?”

  “It shouldn’t be allowed to get to that point, but if such an aberration were to occur, one would find subtler ways of cooling the ardour.”

  “As if that were possible! Do you really think it would be within your power?…”

  “Easily.”

  “But then all deceived husbands would have done that if it were that easy,” said Alexander.

  “Not all husbands are alike, my dear boy: some are quite indifferent to their wives, and simply don’t notice what is going on around them, others don’t want to know. Others again would like just to maintain their self-esteem, but are not up to the task, and have no idea how to set about it.”

  “Then how do you do it?”

  “That’s my secret; and in any case in your overwrought state you wouldn’t be able to take it in.”

  “I’m happy now and I thank God, and as for what lies ahead, I don’t want to know.”

  “The first half of your sentence makes so much sense that it could well have been uttered by someone who was not in love, and shows that you’re able to make the most of the present moment. However, the second half, I’m sorry to say, is no use at all. ‘I don’t want to know what lies ahead’ means you don’t want to think about what happened yesterday and what’s happening today, and you don’t want to spare a thought for that, or prepare yourself for it or to protect yourself against whatever it is that might happen! I’m sorry, but that makes absolutely no sense.”

  “So what you’re saying, Uncle, is that when a moment of bliss comes your way, you should take a magnifying glass to it and examine it…”

  “No, a microscope, to stop you making a fool of yourself over that moment of bliss and rushing into the arms of everyone you meet.”

  “So, when a moment of sorrow comes your way,” Alexander went on, “you have to peer at that too through a microscope?”

  “No, through a magnifying glass! When your imagination makes your troubles appear twice their actual size, they’re easier to bear.”

  “But why,” Alexander continued indignantly, “should I destroy every chance of happiness by cold-blooded scrutiny the moment it comes my way, instead of relishing it. And why should I assume that it will let me down and slip from my grasp? Why should I agonize over sorrow before it has even presented itself?”

  “However,” his uncle broke in, “when it does present itself, it’s precisely to that cold-blooded scrutiny that you should subject it, and the pain will pass as it has on past occasions with me and with others. I hope what I’ve said is useful and is something worth your consideration, and then you won’t have to agonize every time something happens in life that you weren’t expecting, and that you will learn to appraise matters coolly and without losing your peace of mind – to the extent possible for a human being.”

  “So that’s the secret of your composure!” said Alexander thoughtfully.

  Pyotr Ivanych remained silent and continued writing.

  “But what kind of life is that? Never forgetting yourself – nothing but thinking and thinking… no, my feeling is that that’s not the way it is. I prefer to live without your cold analysis, not always wondering whether disaster and danger are lying in wait or not – it doesn’t matter!… Why should I anticipate trouble and poison everything?”

  “Well, I keep telling him why – but he always comes back with the same story. Don’t force me to make invidious comparisons with you. It’s because when you foresee danger, obstacles, disaster, that’s how you will find it easier to combat them, or at least endure them – you won’t lose your head, and you’ll survive, and when happiness comes to you, you won’t rush round knocking over people’s ornaments – is that clear?

  “We tell him: ‘This is the beginning; take a good look at it, and try to figure out from it how it’s likely to end,’ but he just closes his eyes and shakes his head as if he’s just seen some bogeyman, and continues to behave like a child. Your idea is to live from one day to the next, as people do, and sit at the door of your shack, marking the passage of time by dinners, meals, dances and love and everlasting friendship. Everyone is looking for a golden age! Now, as I’ve told you, with your ideas it’s all right to live in the country with some woman and half a dozen children, but here you have to work, and for that you need to think all the time and remember what you did yesterday, and what you are doing today, so as to know what to do tomorrow; in other words, keep a constant check on yourself and your doings. This is how we achieve something worthwhile in life; otherwise… But what’s the use of talking to you? You’re delirious right now. Oh dear, it’s almost one, not another word; Alexander, go away… I don’t want to listen to you. Come here for dinner tomorrow; there’ll be a few other people dining with me.”

  “Friends of yours?”

  “Yes, Konev, Smirnov, Fyodorov – you know them, and one or
two others…”

  “Konev, Smirnov, Fyodorov – aren’t they business colleagues?”

  “Yes, they’re all useful people.”

  “And that’s what you call your friends! As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen you invite anyone home with particular enthusiasm.”

  “I’ve told you before that the people I see most often are those who are useful, and whose company I enjoy. Now, why on earth would I waste a meal on them otherwise?”

  “But I thought that before your wedding you would be celebrating your farewell with your true friends, people you care for deeply, and with whom you would get together one last time over a cup of something to reminisce about the good times of your youth and, even on parting, enfold in a warm embrace.”

  “Those five words of yours – ‘true friends’, ‘cup’, ‘on parting’ – all say things that do not – or should not – exist in real life. With what delight your aunt would throw her arms around your neck if she had read them! In actual fact, these were ‘true friends’, whereas there are others who are merely ‘friends’, who drink from glasses of one kind or another instead of a ‘cup’, and their ‘warm embraces’ on parting have nothing to do with a real ‘parting’. Oh, Alexander!”

  “But aren’t you sorry to be parting from those friends, or at least seeing them only rarely?” said Alexander.

  “No, I have never got close enough to anyone to feel like that, and I advise you to do the same.”

  “But perhaps they don’t feel the same way: maybe they are sorry to be losing a good companion and his conversation?”

  “That’s for them to say, not me. I have lost such good companions more than once, and as you see, it hasn’t killed me. So will you be here tomorrow?”

  “Well, tomorrow, Uncle, I…”

  “What?”

  “I’m invited to their dacha.”

  “Really, to the Lyubetskys?”

  “Yes.”

  “Indeed! Well, as you wish. And, Alexander, keep your mind on your work. I’ll tell the editor what you’re working on…”