“Me?” Alexander repeated, looking his uncle straight in the eye. “Yes, well of course, now I understand,” he said, hurriedly completing his sentence, but not getting beyond the last word.
“So what is it that you’ve understood?” Pyotr Ivanych asked.
“For the life of me, Uncle, I haven’t understood a thing! Wait a minute… perhaps you mean that she’s got a nice home… and that it will be a distraction for me… because I’m bored?…”
“That’s wonderful! So that’s why I’m going to take you visiting people’s homes, and all that remains is for me to tuck you in at night and cover your mouth with a handkerchief to keep away the flies! No, you still haven’t got it. Let me tell you the idea: it’s to get Tafayeva to fall in love with you.”
Alexander suddenly opened his eyes wide and looked at his uncle.
“You’re joking, Uncle? That’s absurd!” he said.
“When it comes to absurdities, you commit them with a flourish, but when something is simple and natural, then for you it’s an absurdity. Explain to me just what’s absurd about this. Consider how love itself is absurd – a compound of hot blood and pride… But what’s the use of talking to you? In spite of everything, you still believe that people fall in love with that one and only person they’re destined to, their kindred spirit!”
“I’m sorry; now I no longer believe in anything. Do you really think that people can fall in love with each other just like that?”
“It’s possible, but not for you. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t assign you such a tricky task. Now, this is all you have to do. Cultivate her, be attentive to her and never give Surkov a chance to be alone with her – in short, plague him, get in his way! For every word he utters, you utter two; if he offers an opinion, you refute him, thwart his every move, defeat him at every step…”
“Why?”
“You still don’t understand! It’s because to start with you’ll drive him out of his mind with jealousy and chagrin, and then he’ll cool down. With someone like him the second phase will swiftly follow the first. He’s unbelievably conceited. So the flat will not be needed, his capital will remain intact and the work of the factory will proceed normally… Well, you understand? This will be the fifth time I’ve played this trick on him; before, when I was younger and still unmarried, I did what I’m asking you to do myself, or sent one of my friends.”
“But, I don’t know her,” said Alexander.
“And that’s precisely why I’m taking you with me to see her on Wednesday. On Wednesdays she’s at home for a few of her old friends.”
“But if she returns Surkov’s love, then I’m sure you will agree that he will not be the only victim of my blandishments and attentions.”
“Are you serious? No, she’s a sensible woman, and when she sees him for the fool he is, she’ll stop paying him attention, especially with other people around: her pride wouldn’t permit it. At the same time, there will be someone else around, more intelligent and better looking, and she will be ashamed and get rid of him. And that’s why I have chosen you.”
Alexander bowed.
“Surkov isn’t dangerous,” his uncle continued, “but Tafayeva invites very few people to her home, so that it’s possible that in her small circle he might seem impressive and a man of intelligence. Personal appearance counts for a lot with women. He is a master of ingratiation, and so he is tolerated. Perhaps she is flirtatious with him, and he… you know. Even intelligent women like it when men behave foolishly with them – especially when it’s expensive foolishness. However, for the most part, it’s not the one who is playing the fool for their benefit whom they love, but someone else altogether… Many men don’t see that, including Surkov – but you will be the one to open his eyes.”
“But probably Surkov won’t be there only on Wednesdays; on Wednesdays, I’ll be able to frustrate him, but what about the other days?”
“Do I have to explain everything to you? Flatter her, act as if you’re a little smitten with her, and after you’ve been there once, she’ll start inviting you again on Thursday and Friday, when you can redouble your attentions. Then I’ll step in and try to influence her, and somehow suggest that you really are… you know. She herself, at least this is my impression, is very sensitive… probably of a nervous disposition… so I should think not at all unresponsive to other people’s expression of their feelings…”
“Is it likely?” said Alexander, thinking aloud. “Even if I could fall in love again… well and good! But if I can’t… it won’t work.”
“Precisely! It will work for that very reason. If you were to fall in love, you wouldn’t be able to pretend, and she would spot it right away, and would proceed to wrap both of you round her little finger. But for now… just concentrate on Surkov for me, I know him like the back of my hand. As soon as he sees that he’s getting nowhere, he won’t want to be throwing his money away, and that’s all I want to achieve… Listen, Alexander, this is very important for me, and if you do this for me – you remember the two vases which you liked in the factory? They’re yours, only you’ll have to buy your own stand.”
“Really, Uncle, surely you don’t think that I…”
“Yes indeed, why should you put yourself out for nothing and waste your time? That would be a fine thing – I don’t think! Those vases are beautiful. These days, no one does anything for nothing. When I do something for you, offer me a gift; I won’t refuse it.”
“It’s a strange proposition!” said Alexander hesitantly.
“I hope you won’t refuse to do this for me. I am also ready to do whatever I can for you; when you need money, come to me… So then, Wednesday! This business will take a month, two at the most. I’ll let you know, and if it turns out not to be necessary, then forget it.”
“All right, Uncle, I’m ready to do it, only it’s a strange… I can’t guarantee it will work… Now, if I could fall in love again, then… but otherwise, I don’t…”
“And it’s a good thing that you can’t, otherwise it would ruin the whole thing. I’ll guarantee it will be successful. Goodbye!”
He left the room. Alexander sat for a long time by the fire over those precious ashes.
When Pyotr Ivanych arrived home, his wife asked: “So what about Alexander – what about his story, will he continue to write?”
“No, I’ve cured him of that for ever.”
Aduyev told her what was in the letter he had received together with the novel when it had been returned, and about how they had burnt everything.
“You have no pity, Pyotr Ivanych!” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna. “Either that, or you’re incapable of doing the decent thing in whatever you undertake.”
“And I suppose you did the right thing when you encouraged him to go on covering paper with his scribbling! Do you really think he has talent?”
“No.”
Pyotr Ivanych looked at her in surprise.
“So why did you?…”
“So you still haven’t understood, don’t you get it?”
He said nothing, and couldn’t help recalling his scene with Alexander.
“What is there not to understand? It’s all very clear!” he said, looking her straight in the eye.
“What is, tell me?”
“That… that you wanted to teach him something, only you wanted to let him down more lightly, in your own way…”
“Such a clever man! And still he doesn’t understand. Don’t you know why he was always so cheerful, healthy, almost happy? It was because he had hope. And it was that hope that I was keeping alive. Is it clear now?”
“So it was like this that you were stringing him along all the time?”
“I think it was permissible. And what was so good about what you were doing? You didn’t have the slightest pity for him; you stripped him of his last hope.”
“Stop right there! W
hat last hope? There was still plenty of foolishness ahead.”
“What will he do now? Keep on going round looking all forlorn?”
“No, he won’t: he’ll have other things on his mind; I’ve found work for him.”
“What? More translating about potatoes? Do you really think that can satisfy a young man, especially one so ardent and passionate? All you want is to see him using his head.”
“No, my dear, not about potatoes, but something to do with the factory.”
Chapter 3
Wednesday came. Twelve or fifteen guests had gathered in Yulia Pavlovna’s drawing room. Four young ladies, two bearded foreigners whom the hostess had met when she was abroad and an officer formed the first group.
Sitting apart from them was an old man, apparently a retired officer with two wisps of grey hair under his nose and an array of ribbons in his buttonhole. He was discussing tax-farming prospects with an elderly gentleman.
In another room, an old lady and two men were playing cards. A young girl was seated at the piano with another girl who was chatting with a student.
The Aduyevs appeared. No one could enter a drawing room with such aplomb and with such composure as Pyotr Ivanych. Behind him, Alexander made a somewhat diffident entrance.
What a contrast! One, a whole head taller, slim, well built, with a strong and healthy appearance; his eyes and demeanour both bespeaking self-confidence. But it was impossible to divine anything at all about his character or his thoughts from anything in his glance, his movements or his words, so deeply was everything hidden by his sheer urbanity and self-possession. You had the impression that both his gestures and the expression in his eyes were carefully calculated. His pale, impassive countenance was that of a man whose impulses and passion were kept under control by a despotic mind, and whose very heartbeat was dictated by his head.
Everything about Alexander, by contrast, appeared to indicate a weak and delicate constitution. His facial expression wavered, and there was a sluggishness and lethargy, as well as a nervousness about his movements. His eyes were lustreless and reflected the sensations which were troubling his heart and the thoughts which were stirring in his mind. He was of average height, thin and pale – not naturally so, as in the case of Pyotr Ivanych, but as a result of constant inner turmoil. His hair grew not like the thickets on Pyotr Ivanych’s head and cheeks, but hung from his temples and the back of his head – long, drooping and extraordinarily soft – in light-coloured, many-hued silken strands.
He was introduced by his uncle.
“My friend, Surkov, isn’t here?” asked Pyotr Ivanych, looking round the room in surprise. “He’s forgotten you.”
“Oh no! I’m very grateful to him,” his hostess replied. “He calls on me. You know, apart from friends of my husband, I have practically no other visitors.”
“Where is he then?”
“He’ll be here soon. Just imagine, he promised faithfully that he would get a box at the theatre tomorrow for my cousin and myself when they are said to be impossible to get… and off he went.”
“He’ll get one all right; I guarantee it. He’s a genius at that kind of thing. He never fails me – even when connections and knowing the right people won’t help. Where he succeeds in getting things, and how much he has to spend in the process, is a secret known only to him.”
Surkov entered. He was freshly groomed, but every fold of his garments and every detail of his appearance proclaimed his determination to be the hit of the evening, to surpass the most elegantly attired man present, and indeed to outdo fashion itself. If, for example, the latest fashion called for tails to be worn wide apart, his tails would be worn so wide as to resemble the wings of a bird stretched to their limit; if collars were being worn folded outside, the collars he had ordered, when worn with his tailcoat, would make him look like a thief who had just been grabbed by his collar to prevent him getting away. He himself issued detailed instructions for his tailor to follow. When he appeared at Tafayeva’s gathering, his stock was this time fastened to his shirt with a pin of such enormous size that it could have served as a cudgel.
“Well, did you get one?” the company chorused.
Surkov was on the point of answering but, seeing Aduyev and his nephew, stopped short and regarded them with surprise.
“We’ve got him worried!” Aduyev murmured to his nephew. “Well, well! He’s carrying a cane; what can that mean? What’s that you have there?” he asked Surkov.
“The other day, I was getting out of a carriage… and, er, stumbled, so I’m limping slightly,” he replied, giving a little cough.
“Nonsense!” Pyotr Ivanych whispered to Alexander. “Look at the knob: you see that golden lion’s head. Only a couple of days ago he was boasting to me that he had paid Barbier 600 roubles for it, and now he’s here showing it off – a perfect example of what he does with his money. Now get in there and knock him off his perch!”
Pyotr Ivanych pointed through the window at the house immediately opposite. “Remember, those vases are yours, and look lively!” he added.
“Do you have a ticket for tomorrow’s performance?” Surkov asked Tafayeva, approaching her ceremoniously.
“No.”
“Allow me to present you with one!” he continued, and added the whole of Zagoretsky’s reply from Griboyedov’s Woe from Wit.*
The officer’s whiskers quivered slightly as he smiled. Pyotr Ivanych gave his nephew a sidelong look, and Yulia Pavlovna blushed. She invited Pyotr Ivanych to join her in her box.
“Thank you very much,” he replied, “but tomorrow I’m on theatre duty – but perhaps I can offer this young man in my place?…” he said, pointing to Alexander.
“I was going to ask him too; there are only three of us, my cousin, myself and…”
“He will take my place,” said Pyotr Ivanych, “and if you need him, there’s also this rascal.”
He pointed to Surkov and said something quietly to her. At the same time, he stole two furtive glances at Alexander and smiled.
“Thank you,” replied Surkov, “but it wouldn’t have been a bad idea to suggest replacing me earlier, when there was no ticket, so that I could have thought how to have myself replaced.”
“Oh, I’m so grateful to you for your kindness,” said the hostess brightly to Surkov, “but I didn’t invite you to join me in the box because you already had a seat in the stalls. You probably prefer to sit directly in front of the stage… especially at the ballet…”
“No, no, you’re having a little fun with me: you don’t really mean that; to make me give up a seat next to you – not for the world!”
“But I’ve already promised…”
“What do you mean? To whom?”
“Monsieur René.”
She pointed at one of the bearded foreigners.
“Oui, madame m’a fait cet honneur,”* the one in question responded briskly.
Surkov gaped at him open-mouthed, and then turned to look at Tafayeva.
“I’ll change with him; he can have my seat in the stalls,” he said.
“Try.”
The bearded gentleman gesticulated furiously.
“Thank you very much!” said Surkov to Pyotr Ivanych, looking out of the corner of his eye at Alexander. “I have you to thank for this.”
“No need to thank me; perhaps you’d like to join me in my box – there’s just my wife and I; it’s been quite a long time since you’ve seen her. Perhaps you could try your luck with her?”
Discomfited, Surkov turned away from him. Pyotr Ivanych quietly left the room. Yulia invited Alexander to take a seat next to her and talked to him for the next hour. Surkov tried several times to butt into the conversation, but somehow never succeeded. He chimed in with something about the ballet, and was met with the answer “yes” instead of “no”, and vice versa; clearly no one was paying him any atte
ntion. Then he abruptly changed the subject to oysters, claiming that he had eaten 180 for breakfast – but no one even responded with a glance. He touched on a number of other topics, but seeing that he was getting nowhere, picked up his hat and hovered around Yulia in an attempt to convey his displeasure to her as well as his imminent departure. But she didn’t even notice.
“I’m leaving!” he said finally, and emphatically. “Goodbye!”
The words barely concealed his hurt feelings.
“So soon!” she answered calmly. “Do let me catch a glimpse of you in my box tomorrow, if only for a minute.”
“What terrible insincerity! When you know that I would trade in a seat in paradise for a seat next to you.”
“If you mean a seat in the gods in the theatre, I believe you.”
Now he no longer wanted to leave. He had forgotten about his hurt feelings because of the friendly word she had uttered when he was about to leave. But everyone could see that the process of his leave-taking had been concluded and that he had no choice but to go. He did so, but kept looking back like a dog that wants to follow his master but is being waved away.
Yulia Pavlovna was twenty-three or -four years old. Pyotr Ivanych had guessed right. She was indeed of a nervous disposition, but that didn’t prevent her from being at the same time a pretty, intelligent and graceful woman. She was, however, timid, sensitive and a dreamer like most women of a nervous disposition. Her features were fine and delicate, and her eyes spoke of a gentle and reflective nature, although with a lurking hint of sadness about them – not for any particular reason, except perhaps for her nervousness.
Her view of life and the world was not entirely favourable, and when she fell to thinking about her existence, she concluded that her presence in it was superfluous. But if, Heaven forbid, anyone should, even accidentally, let slip a remark about tombs or death, she would turn pale. The bright side of life escaped her notice. Out on a walk, she would choose a dark, overgrown path and view the joyful scenery with indifference. At the theatre, she always chose drama over comedy, and never the music hall; she closed her ears to the sounds of any cheerful song which happened to reach them, and never smiled at a joke. At times, her face wore an expression of languor – not one suggesting suffering or pain, but rather a kind of contentment. It was apparent that an internal struggle was going on with some kind of enchanting dream – a struggle which exhausted her. After this struggle, she would remain sad and mournful for a long time; then suddenly this mood would change unaccountably to one of sheer high spirits, which was not, however, out of keeping with her true nature – whatever it was that raised her spirits would not have raised the spirits of others. It was all a matter of nerves! To listen to those ladies talking, you would hear nothing but words like “fate”, “sympathy”, “unaccountable impulses”, “inexplicable sorrow”, “obscure longings” – and this was always the turn taken by their conversation, a conversation always ending with a sigh and, of course, nerves and smelling salts.
The Same Old Story Page 25
