His greatest pleasure was to commune with himself.
“Being alone with oneself,” he wrote in one of his stories, “is like seeing oneself in a mirror; only in this way can one learn to believe in human greatness and dignity. How fine a man becomes communing in this way with his own inner strengths! Like the commander of an army, he reviews and scrutinizes his troops, and draws them up in a disciplined and carefully planned formation, leads them into action and creates. But how pitiful is the man who is afraid and incapable of being by himself, who is always running away from himself and seeking company, another mind, another spirit…” You might think we have here some philosopher discovering new laws for building the world or governing human existence – but no: it’s just a lovelorn lad!
Here he is sitting in his Voltaire chair. Before him a sheet of paper on which he has dashed off a few lines. He is either leaning forward to make some change or to add a couple of lines, or is leaning back in his chair and thinking. A smile is playing on his lips; you can see that they have just taken a sip from the overflowing chalice of happiness. His eyelids are drooping languorously like those of a dozing cat, or his eyes suddenly gleam with a flash of internal agitation.
All around is quiet. Only in the distance from a highway can the rumble of carriages be heard, or perhaps from time to time Yevsei, tired of cleaning boots, can be heard muttering to himself, “Better not forget I bought half a copeck’s worth of vinegar and ten copecks’ worth of cabbage. I’d better pay up tomorrow, otherwise he won’t trust me next time, the skinflint. He weighs the bread by the pound, as if it’s a famine year – it’s a disgrace! God, I’m worn out. I’ll just finish this boot and go to bed. In Grachi, I bet they’ve already been asleep for ages – not like here! Perhaps one day the Lord God will let me see…”
He heaved a great sigh, breathed on the boots and set to work once again with the brush. He considered that this was his principal, if not his sole duty, and indeed that it was his boot-cleaning talents which were the measure of a servant’s – and indeed a man’s – worth. And he himself cleaned boots with a kind of passion.
“Yevsei, stop that! You’re disturbing my work with your fooling around,” Aduyev shouted.
“Fooling around,” Yevsei grumbled to himself. “If anyone’s fooling around, it’s you, and here I am doing my work. Look how he’s got his boots all dirty, and they’re so hard to clean!”
He placed the boots on a table and gazed with admiration at his reflection in the glossy leather. “Try and find someone who could polish them like that!” he muttered. “‘Fooling around’ indeed!”
Alexander immersed himself ever more deeply in his daydreams about Nadenka, and then in his creative imaginings.
There was nothing on his table. Everything that reminded him of his former activities, his work at the office and for the journal, lay under the table, inside the cupboard or under the bed. “The very sight of that muck,” he said, “scares away creative thought, which takes off like a nightingale from among the trees, alarmed by the sudden squeaking on the road of a wagon wheel that has not been oiled.”
Often, dawn would find him working on some elegy. Every hour that was not spent at the Lyubetskys’ was devoted to his writing. He would write poems and read them to Nadenka; she would transcribe them on good-quality paper and learn them by heart, and he “knew the sublime bliss of the poet – that of hearing his words on his darling’s lips”.
“You are my muse,” he told her, “I would have you be the Vesta tending that sacred fire which burns in my breast; should you leave it, it would be extinguished for eternity.”
He sent his poems to the journal under an assumed name. They were printed, because they were not bad, vigorous in places and all imbued with passion and smoothly written.
Nadenka was proud of his love, and called him “my poet”.
“Yes, yours – and for ever,” he would add. Fame was beckoning and, he thought, Nadenka would fashion his garlands and entwine his laurels with myrtle. “Life, life, how beautiful you are,” he proclaimed. “But my uncle? Why does he rob me of my peace of mind? Is he a demon sent to me by fate? Why does he poison everything that I cherish with his bile? Is it envy that makes his heart resistant to life’s purer joys, or could it be sheer malevolence?… I must keep far, far away from him! He will kill my loving heart, pollute it with his hatred – he will corrupt it…”
So he ran from his uncle, kept away from him for weeks, even months at a time. And if, when they did meet, the conversation touched on feelings, he maintained a derisive silence, or else listened like a man whose convictions were impervious to all arguments. His own judgement he held to be infallible, his opinions and feelings immutable, and he resolved that henceforth he would be guided by them alone on the grounds that he was no longer a child, and because “why should only the opinions of others be sacrosanct?”* and other such reasons.
His uncle remained the same as ever. He asked his nephew no questions, and did not notice – or showed no sign of noticing – his escapades. Seeing that Alexander’s position remained unchanged, that he was maintaining the same way of life and that he never asked him for money, he remained as nice to him as ever, and only ventured a mild rebuke because Alexander so rarely came to see him.
“My wife is cross with you,” he said. “She had come to regard you as one of the family; we dine at home every day: why don’t you come and join us?”
And that was it. But Alexander rarely visited, and anyway he had no time. He spent the morning at his office, and all the time after dinner and into the evening at the Lyubetskys’, so all that remained was what was left of the night – but at night he went back to that special world of his own creation, which he continued to create – not to mention the fact that he needed to sleep a little.
His prose fiction was not proving as successful. He had written a comedy, two novellas, an essay and some travel writing. His output was astounding: his pen scorched the paper as it flew by. His comedy and one of his novellas he showed first to his uncle, and asked him to say if they were any good. His uncle read with some reluctance a few pages here and there, and sent them back marked “Fit only for use as wallpaper!”
Alexander was furious and sent his work to the journal, but both the comedy and the novella were returned. Two places in the comedy were marked in pencil “not bad” – and that was it. The novella frequently bore annotations such as “weak”, “wrong”, “immature”, “dull”, “undeveloped”. At the end came the comment: “Generally speaking, we noted a certain ignorance of the heart, over-exuberance, artificiality, a stilted quality; the human person is nowhere to be seen… the principal character is an aberration… such people don’t exist… not fit for publication! It should be added, however, that the author is not devoid of talent; he needs to work at it!”
“‘Such people don’t exist!’” thought Alexander, chagrined and dumbfounded. “But I myself am the principal character – what do they mean, ‘don’t exist’? Surely they don’t want me to depict the banal characters you meet at every turn, who think and feel like the common herd, and act the same way – those pathetic characters who appear in those run-of-the-mill, trivial comedies and tragedies, characters with no distinctive features at all… Is art to sink as low as this?”
Alexander summoned the shade of Byron in support of the pure truth of his literary profession of faith, and invoked the testimony of Goethe and Schiller. The hero he envisaged in a drama or a novel could be nothing less than a corsair, a great poet, an artist, and he would be made to act in character.
In one of his novellas, the setting he chose was America, and its magnificent natural splendour and mountainous terrain. In its midst, a fugitive who had run away with the girl he loved. The world had forgotten them. They took pride in themselves and the nature surrounding them, and when the news came that a pardon had been granted and that they would be permitted to return home, they d
eclined. About twenty years later, a European arrived there on a hunting expedition with an escort of Indians. On a mountainside he discovered a hut with a skeleton inside – that European had been the hero’s rival.
How proud Alexander was of that story! With what delight he read it to Nadenka on those winter evenings – and how greedily she devoured it! And this was the story they had rejected!
He didn’t breathe a word of his rejection to Nadenka. He swallowed the humiliation in silence – and no one was any the wiser.
“So, what about your novella?” she would ask. “Has it been printed?”
“No,” he replied, “it can’t be: there’s too much in it that would seem strange and outlandish to our readers…”
If only he had known how true that was – although, of course, what he meant was the exact opposite!
“Working at it” seemed to him a strange proposition. “I mean, what is talent for?” he said. “It’s a talentless drudge who has to work; talent creates easily and freely…” But then he recalled that his agricultural articles, as well as his poems, were nothing much at the beginning, and that later, little by little, they started to improve and earn some attention from the public. He began to reflect on the matter, and began to understand how wrong he had been, and with a sigh put aside his literary fiction for the time being: when his heart started to beat more evenly, his thoughts would become better organized, and he promised himself that then he would apply himself in earnest.
The days went by, days of uninterrupted pleasure for Alexander. He was happy when he kissed Nadenka’s fingertips, when he sat opposite her for as much as two hours at a time posed as if for a portrait, without taking his eyes off her, relishing the moment and sighing or declaiming poetry suitable to the occasion.
It is only fair to add that at times her only response to the poetry and the sighs was a yawn. And no wonder: her heart may have been full, but there was nothing to occupy her mind. Alexander never took the trouble to nourish it. The year which Nadenka had set as the trial period passed. She was still living with her mother in the same dacha. Alexander raised the question of her promise and asked her permission to speak to her mother. Nadenka wanted to wait until they had returned to town from the country, but Alexander insisted.
Finally one evening, as Alexander was taking his leave, she permitted him to raise the subject with her mother the next day.
Alexander lay awake the whole night, and didn’t go to his office. His head was spinning with the prospect of what awaited him the next day. He was working it all out in his mind, what he would say to her mother, mentally composing a speech, and preparing his thoughts, almost forgetting that it was all about asking for Nadenka’s hand. But he lost his way in his musings, forgetting everything in the process. That evening he made his way to the dacha totally unprepared – which turned out not to matter in the end. Nadenka met him in the usual way in the garden, but the expression in her eyes was a little more thoughtful than usual: she did not smile, and looked altogether less composed.
“You can’t talk to Mummy right now,” she said, “that awful count is visiting.”
“Count! What count?”
“You must know what count! Count Novinsky, you know, our neighbour; look, there’s his dacha – how many times you’ve admired it yourself!”
“Count Novinsky! Visiting!” Alexander was dumbfounded. “What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t really know myself,” Nadenka replied. “I was just sitting here and reading your book, and Mummy had gone out to see Maria Ivanovna. It was just beginning to drizzle, so I went inside. Suddenly a coach drives up to the porch, blue with white upholstery, the one we always saw passing by, and which you always admired. And there is Mummy emerging from the coach with some man. They came in, and Mummy said, ‘Count, this is my daughter, welcome to our home!’ He bowed, and I followed suit. I was embarrassed and couldn’t help blushing, and I rushed to my room. But Mummy, she’s intolerable, and I hear her say, ‘Please forgive her, Count, she has no manners…’ Then I realized that he must be our neighbour, Count Novinsky. He must have brought Mummy home with him in his carriage from Maria Ivanovna’s because of the rain.”
“Is he… old?”
“Old? Not in the least. What do you mean? He’s young and quite… good-looking!”
“Oh, so you had time to notice that!” Alexander was annoyed.
“Oh, wonderful! How long does it take to notice something like that? I did speak to him after all. In fact he was very nice, and asked me what I did, and talked about music – asked me to sing something, but I didn’t want to: I don’t sing very well. This winter I’m definitely going to ask Mummy to find me a good singing teacher. The Count says it’s very much the thing these days – singing.”
She said all this with much more than her usual animation.
“It was my impression, Nadezhda Alexandrovna, that there was something else you were going to be doing this winter – other than singing.”
“And what was that?”
“What – you need to ask!” said Alexander with a hint of reproach.
“Ah yes… did you come here by boat?”
He just looked at her, saying nothing. She turned round and walked back to the house. Aduyev entered the room, not quite at ease. What kind of man was this count? How should he himself behave? What was this count like in company? Was he stiff, relaxed? The Count was the first to rise and bow politely as Alexander entered the room. Alexander responded with a constrained and awkward bow. Their hostess performed the introductions. Somehow Alexander took an immediate dislike to the Count, although he was a handsome man – tall, slim and blond, with big expressive eyes and a pleasant smile. His manner was simple, refined and rather amiable. He was, it seemed, the kind of man anyone would easily take to – anyone, that is, except Aduyev.
In spite of Maria Ivanovna’s invitation to sit closer to them, he sat down in a corner and opened a book – very ill-mannered, awkward behaviour, and quite out of place. Nadenka was standing by her mother’s armchair, regarding the Count with curiosity, listening to the way he spoke and what he was saying. For her he was a novelty.
Aduyev was unable to conceal his dislike for the Count, but the Count appeared not to notice his boorish behaviour; he was attentive to Aduyev, and tried his best to bring him into the conversation. But it was no good: he simply wouldn’t talk, except to say “yes” and “no”.
When Lyubetskaya happened to mention his family name, the Count asked whether he was related to Pyotr Ivanych.
“He’s my uncle,” he replied curtly.
“I’ve met him quite often socially,” said the Count.
“Quite probably – it’s hardly surprising,” Alexander replied, shrugging his shoulders.
The Count suppressed a smile by covering his lower lip with his teeth. Nadenka exchanged glances with her mother, blushed and lowered her eyes.
“Your uncle is an intelligent and pleasant person,” the Count observed with an edge of irony in his voice.
Aduyev remained silent.
Nadenka lost patience with Alexander and went to him, and while the Count was talking to her mother, whispered to him, “Aren’t you ashamed? How could you behave like that when the Count was so nice to you?”
“Nice!” said Alexander, so annoyed that he spoke in a voice almost loud enough to be heard. “I don’t need his niceness, and I don’t want to hear that word again!”
Nadenka immediately turned and left him, and without moving watched him intently for a long time from a distance, then went back to sit by her mother’s armchair and paid no further attention to Alexander.
Meanwhile Aduyev was simply waiting for the Count to leave, so that he would finally have an opportunity to talk to Nadenka’s mother, but the clock struck ten and then eleven and the Count was still there talking.
All the normal subjects of conver
sation between people early in their acquaintanceship had been exhausted, and the Count began to entertain his host with his humour, and did so skilfully. His sallies were perfectly relaxed and spontaneous, and he made no special effort to be witty, just casually entertaining; he had a kind of special knack of making amusing conversation. He didn’t even resort to actual jokes, but could put an unexpected twist not only on anecdotes themselves, but on some piece of news or incident, and invest a perfectly ordinary item with humour.
Both mother and daughter were captivated by his humour, and even Alexander himself had to hide his face behind a book at times because he was unable to suppress a smile, even though he was fuming inside.
The Count was able to talk equally well about any subject with tact and discretion, whether it was about people, music or foreign parts. If a man came up for discussion, he would say something caustic about him, even about himself, but he always managed to come up with something flattering to say about women in general, and some compliments for his hostesses in particular.
Aduyev thought about his literary accomplishments, his poetry, and how that subject would put the Count in the shade. The subject did come up for discussion, and both mother and daughter mentioned his accomplishments as a writer.
“That will put him in his place all right!” thought Aduyev.
Not a bit of it. The Count spoke about literature as if he had spent all his life studying the subject, and made a number of fluent and apt comments about contemporary French and Russian literary celebrities. To top it all, it emerged that he was on friendly terms with some leading Russian writers, and in Paris he had made the acquaintance of some of the French ones.
The Same Old Story Page 14
