However, three weeks or so went by and still no reply had come. Finally, one morning a large package and a letter were brought in to Pyotr Ivanych.
“Ah, they’ve sent it back!” he said, giving his wife a mischievous look. He didn’t open the letter or show it to his wife, although she begged him to. That very evening, before leaving for his club, he went to see his nephew. His door was not locked, and he entered. Yevsei was snoring, sprawled diagonally on the floor at the entrance. The candle was burning itself out and was in danger of toppling off the candlestick. He looked into the next room; it was in the dark.
“Oh, the provinces!” Pyotr Ivanych muttered.
He shook Yevsei awake, pointed to the door and the candle, and threatened him with a stick. In the third room. Alexander was slumped at his desk, his head in his hands, also asleep. A sheet of paper lay in front of him. Pyotr Ivanych glanced at it – a poem. He picked up the sheet of paper and read the following:
Springtime’s beauty has passed,
The magic moment of love has vanished,
It slumbers in the sepulchre of my breast
And no longer races through my blood like fire.
Long since have I another idol built
Upon her altar long abandoned,
To it I pray… but…
“And now you’re the one ‘slumbering’! Pray, but don’t laze!” Pyotr Ivanych said aloud. “It’s your own verses that have worn you out! No need for any other sentence to be pronounced, you’ve sentenced yourself out of your own mouth.”
“Ah, I see you’re still against my writings,” said Alexander, stretching. “Tell me, Uncle, honestly, what makes you so intent on stamping out my talent, when you have to admit…”
“Oh yes, you mean envy, Alexander. Judge for yourself: you will achieve fame, honour, maybe even immortality, while I will remain an obscure individual, and will have to be satisfied with the title of a useful labourer. But I too, after all, am an Aduyev. So, if you don’t mind, give me some credit. I mean, what am I? I’ve lived my life quietly, unknown, I’ve performed my duties, and have been happy and even proud. A pretty humble destiny, wouldn’t you say? When I die – that is to say, when I’m no longer feeling or aware – ‘the strains of prophetic music will not chant my name in far-off times, posterity and the world will not swell with it,’* and no one will know that there once lived a Pyotr Ivanych Aduyev, privy councillor,* and that will be no comfort to me in my grave, if indeed my grave and I myself will survive in some form for posterity. How different for you! ‘Spreading your rustling wings!’ You will ‘fly beneath the clouds’. As for me, I shall have to be satisfied only with the knowledge that among the numberless works of man there will be ‘a tiny drop of my own honey’ to quote your favourite author.”*
“For God’s sake, leave him out of this. Never mind whose favourite author he is! You just enjoy making fun of people close to you.”
“Ah, making fun! Wasn’t it when you saw your own portrait in Krylov that you dropped him? À propos! Do you know that I have your future fame and your immortality here in my pocket? Although I would prefer to see it containing your money – it’s more reliable!”
“What fame?”
“It’s the reply to my letter.”
“For God’s sake, give it to me right now! What does it say?”
“I haven’t read it; here, read it yourself, aloud.”
“Will you have the patience?”
“What is it to me?”
“What do you mean? Aren’t I your own nephew? You must be curious at least. What indifference. It’s your selfishness, Uncle!”
“Perhaps; I don’t deny it. In any case, I know what it says. So read it!”
Alexander began to read in a loud voice, while Pyotr Ivanych tapped his boots with his stick.
The letter read as follows:
“Is this a hoax or something, my dearest Pyotr Ivanych? You writing novels? Come on, who’s going to believe you? You wouldn’t be trying to fool an old hand like me, would you? And if it, God forbid, were the truth, and you had indeed temporarily diverted your pen from those – in the most literal sense of the word – precious lines, each of which is worth its weight in gold, and instead of producing respectable results had come up with this novel I have in front of me, then I would have told you that the fragile products of your factory were a lot sturdier than this creation of yours.”
Suddenly Alexander’s voice became very faint.
“But I refuse to accept a suspicion that is so insulting to you,” he continued softly and timidly.
“Louder please, Alexander, I can’t hear you,” said Pyotr Ivanych.
Alexander continued reading, only much more softly.
“Since you have some interest in the author of this novel, you would probably like to know my opinion. It is this. The author must be a young man. He is no fool. But for no good reason, he seems to be angry with the whole world. He writes in such a vindictive, embittered spirit. No doubt he is disillusioned. My God, how long are we going to have these people around? It’s too bad that, because of a wrong-headed view of life, so many gifts are wasted in empty, fruitless dreams, in futile striving for things for which they are not destined.”
Alexander stopped to get his breath back. Pyotr Ivanych lit a cigar and puffed out a cloud of smoke. The expression on his face was his usual one of total serenity.
Alexander continued to read in a muffled, almost inaudible voice:
“Pride, believing in dreams, premature romantic impulses, a closed mind, with their inevitable consequence, idleness, are at the root of this unfortunate condition. Learning, work, a concrete occupation – these are the things that can bring our sick and idle youth to their senses.”
“All that could easily have been said in three lines,” said Pyotr Ivanych, looking at his watch, “but in what is only a casual letter to a friend, he has written a whole dissertation! What a pedant! Do you want to read any more, Alexander? Don’t bother; it’s boring. I have a few things to say to you…”
“No, Uncle, let me drink the cup to the bitter dregs; I’ll go on.”
“By all means, if you want.”
Alexander continued reading:
“This regrettable temperamental tendency manifests itself in every line of the novel you sent me. Tell your protégé that a writer only produces something worthwhile when he, firstly, is not being carried away by some powerful impulse or passion. He should look at life – and people in general – in a calm and positive manner, otherwise he just ends up talking about himself – something which is of no particular interest to others. This failing dominates the whole book. A second and major condition – and, out of sympathy for his youth and his pride of authorship, I don’t think you should tell this to the author, because, as we know, this is the most sensitive of all the different kinds of self-esteem – is that a writer must possess talent, of which there isn’t the slightest trace in this book. I should say, however, that the language is correct and unblemished, and the author has style.”
Alexander could hardly bring himself to finish reading.
“Finally, he gets to the point!” said Pyotr Ivanych. “After all that blather! Let the two of us talk over the rest together.”
Alexander let his hands drop. He looked straight at the wall with glazed eyes in silence, like someone stunned by an unexpected blow. Pyotr Ivanych took the letter from him and read the following PS:
“If you insist on seeing this novel published in our journal, then for you, I suppose, it could be put in in the summer months, when no one much reads it, but forget about any payment.”
“So, Alexander, how do you feel?” asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“Calmer than I would have expected,” Alexander replied firmly. “I feel like someone deceived in every respect.”
“No, as someone who has deceived himself, and has tried to deceive othe
rs too…”
Alexander had not been listening to that reservation.
“Can this have been a dream too? And did it betray me too?” he whispered. “It’s a bitter loss! Well, it’s not the first time I’ve deluded myself. But what I can’t understand is why I should have possessed all those irresistible urges to be a writer…”
“Well, that’s just it! Whoever invested you with those urges obviously forgot to include the creative gift itself,” said Pyotr Ivanych. “I told you…”
Alexander gave a sigh and was lost in thought for a moment. Suddenly he sprang into action and rushed around the room, opening all the drawers: he pulled out several exercise books, sheets and scraps of paper, and began to hurl them violently into the fire.
“Don’t forget these!” said Pyotr Ivanych, pushing towards him a sheet of paper which was lying on the desk and contained the first few words of a poem.
“These are going too!” said Alexander in despair, as he hurled the verses into the fire.
“Sure you haven’t forgotten anything? Take a good look around! Said Pyotr Ivanych, looking carefully around. “Best to finish the job all in one go. What’s that bundle over there on top of the cupboard?”
“This is going too!” said Alexander, taking hold of it. “It’s those agriculture articles.”
“Don’t burn them, don’t burn those! Give them back to me!” said Pyotr Ivanych, reaching out for them. “Those are worth saving.”
But Alexander didn’t listen to him.
“No!” he said in a fury. “If I’m finished with the fine art of creative literature, I don’t want anything to do with the hack work either, and even fate itself will never change my mind.”
And the bundle went flying into the fire.
“You shouldn’t have done that!” said Pyotr Ivanych, poking around with his stick meanwhile in the waste-paper basket under the desk to find anything else to throw in the fire.
“And what shall we do with the novel, Alexander? I still have it.”
“Couldn’t you use it to stick on the screens?”
“No, not now. Should I send for it? Yevsei! Asleep again! Pay attention, otherwise they’ll steal my overcoat right under your nose! Go to my room right now, and ask Vasily for the thick exercise book in the cabinet on the bureau – and bring it here.”
Alexander sat there, leaning his head on his hand and looking into the fire. The thick exercise book was brought in. Alexander, deep in thought, looked at the fruit of his six months of work. Pyotr Ivanych noticed what he was doing.
“Time to finish, Alexander,” he said, “and then we can talk about something else.”
“Into the fire with you too!” cried Alexander hurling the book into the stove.
They both watched it burn: Pyotr Ivanych no doubt with pleasure, Alexander sadly, almost in tears. The uppermost page started to shrivel and rise, as if an unseen hand were twirling it – its edges began to curl and turn black, twisted and suddenly flared up – and was followed swiftly by another page, then a third. Suddenly several pages at once rose up and caught fire in a bunch, while the page which followed them showed white for two seconds and then began to blacken around the edges.
However, Alexander was able to catch the words “Chapter Three” on it just before it disappeared. He remembered what he had written in that chapter and began to regret losing it. He rose from his chair and had already picked up the tongs in order to rescue the remains of his work. “Maybe there’s still time…” was hope’s faint whisper.
“Hold it! Let me try with my stick!” said Pyotr Ivanych. “Otherwise you may burn yourself with the tongs.”
He prodded the exercise book right up against the coals at the back of the grate. Alexander stood there, hesitating. The thickness of the book made it burn more slowly. At first, it gave off a thick cloud of smoke; a flame would flicker spasmodically underneath it and lick its sides, leaving charred patches, and then disappear. There was still a chance of saving it. Alexander had already stretched out his hand when, at that very moment, the whole book burst into flames. In a minute it had burnt itself out, leaving behind nothing but a heap of black ash with threads of fire running along it in places. Alexander threw down the tongs.
“It’s over!” he said.
“Over!” repeated Pyotr Ivanych.
“Phew!” Alexander exclaimed. “I’m free!”
“Now this is the second time I’ve helped you to clean up your flat,” said Pyotr Ivanych, “and I hope it’s the last…”
“No turning back, Uncle.”
“Amen!” said his uncle, placing his hands on his shoulders.
“Well now, Alexander, I advise you to write to Ivan Ivanych without delay asking him to send you some work in the agricultural department, and after all this foolishness, it’s important that you now write something really good. He keeps on asking me, ‘So what about your nephew?’”
Alexander shook his head glumly.
“I can’t,” he said. “No, I can’t, that’s all finished now.”
“Then what do you plan to do?”
“What?” he asked, and after a moment’s thought, added: “Nothing for now.”
“It’s only in the provinces that people get by without doing anything, but here… then why did you come here? I can’t understand!… Well, leave that aside for the moment. I have something to ask you.”
Alexander slowly raised his head and looked enquiringly at his uncle.
“Well,” Pyotr Ivanych began, moving his chair closer to Alexander, “you know my partner Surkov?”
Alexander nodded.
“Well, you’ve sometimes come to dinner at my place when he’s been there. The only thing is that all you’ve done is to look him over as if to suggest that there is something odd about him. He’s a good fellow, but quite shallow. His chief weakness is… women. Unfortunately, he himself, as you will have noticed, is not bad-looking: high-coloured, sleek, his hair always curled, scented and dressed like a fashion plate; so he imagines that women find him irresistible – in a word, a fop! I wouldn’t normally waste time talking about him, but here’s the thing: the moment he takes a fancy to someone, he’s off on a spending spree – surprises, gifts, treats, doing anything he can to cut a dash: new carriages, new horses… just throwing money away! He even ran after my wife, so there were times when I wouldn’t bother to send a servant to buy theatre tickets: I could always rely on Surkov to come up with them. If I needed to trade in a horse, find something hard to get or take a trip to the country to inspect the dacha, you could send him anywhere you wanted – a treasure! No one could have been more useful: you couldn’t find anyone like that for love or money. It’s too bad! I deliberately did nothing to stand in his way, but my wife got tired of him, so I had to get rid of him. So he goes on one of his spending sprees and isn’t getting enough interest from his bank. So he starts coming to me for money, and I refuse; then he starts talking about capital. ‘What’s your factory to me? There’s never any ready cash,’ he says. It would help if he got married, but no, he’s not interested. He is only interested in making conquests in high society. He tells me that he ‘must have an affair with someone in the nobility; I can’t live without love.’ What an ass! Almost forty, and can’t live without love!”
Alexander was reminded of himself, and smiled ruefully.
“He’s a great liar,” Pyotr Ivanych went on. “Later I would reflect on what he was making such a fuss about. He boasted endlessly – he wanted people to talk about him, he claimed to be on friendly terms with this one and that one, that he had been seen in a box at the theatre with such and such, that in someone’s dacha he had been alone with someone on the balcony late at night, that he had gone riding with her in some out-of-the-way place in a carriage or on horseback. In the meantime, it turns out that these so-called ‘noble liaisons’ – damn them! – cost a lot more than ignoble o
nes. And that’s the cause of all the trouble – the idiot!”
“But what’s all this leading to, Uncle?” Alexander asked. “I don’t see where I come in.”
“You’ll soon see. Recently a certain young widow, Yulia Pavlovna Tafayeva returned here from abroad. She’s not at all bad-looking. Surkov and I were friends of her husband. Tafayev died while he was abroad. Are you with me now?”
“Yes, I am. Surkov’s in love with the widow.”
“Exactly, head over heels. So what comes next?”
“Next… I don’t know…”
“You really don’t! Well listen. Surkov has twice let drop that he will soon be in need of money. I can already sense what this means, but I can’t tell which way the wind is blowing. I’ve tried to worm out of him why he’ll be needing money. He started hemming and hawing, and finally came out with it and said that he wanted to decorate the flat on the Liteyny.
“I was trying to remember what it was about the Liteyny that made Surkov choose it, and I recalled that it’s where Tafayeva lives, directly opposite the place he has chosen. Now, I’ve given him some money on account. There’s sure to be trouble ahead unless… you help me. Do you understand now?”
Alexander lifted his nose a little, looked at the wall and then up at the ceiling, blinked a couple of times and finally turned to look at his uncle, but without saying anything.
Pyotr Ivanych regarded him with a smile: he liked nothing more than to catch people being slow on the uptake and letting them know he had noticed it.
“What’s wrong with you, Alexander? Still writing those stories?” he said.
“Ah, now I get it, Uncle.”
“God be praised!”
“Surkov is asking for money; you don’t have any, and you want me to…” He came to an abrupt halt.
Pyotr Ivanych had burst into laughter, and Alexander broke off in mid-sentence, regarding his uncle in bewilderment.
“No, you’ve got it wrong!” said Pyotr Ivanych. “Have you ever known me to be without money? Try to come to me any time, and you’ll see! It’s like this: Tafayeva reminded me through him that I knew her husband. I went to see her, and she invited me to call on her. I promised to do so, and said that I would bring you. Well, I hope you finally understand?”
The Same Old Story Page 24
