The Same Old Story

by Ivan Goncharov

  Peasants – men and women – were on their way to work, carrying rakes and scythes on their shoulders. Occasionally a gust of wind would snatch two or three words of a conversation and carry them up to the window. Over there, a peasant’s cart was rumbling over the bridge, followed lazily by a hay wain. Blonde, unkempt children, lifting their smocks, were wandering over the meadows. As he watched this scene, Alexander began to appreciate the poetry of “the leaden sky, the broken fence, the wicket gate, the dirty pond and the trepak folk dance”.* He had exchanged his fashionably cut frock coat for the loose and comfortable garment worn around the house. The ever-watchful eye of his loving mother kept track of every part and every moment of this peaceful domesticity – in the morning, in the evening, at the table and at leisure.

  She could never get her fill of the pleasure of watching Alexander fill out, the colour returning to his cheeks, and his eyes beginning to glow with life. “His hair won’t come back, of course,” she said. “It was like silk.”

  Alexander often went for walks in the surrounding area. Once he met a crowd of women and young girls on their way to pick mushrooms in the wood. He went with them and spent the whole day there. When he returned home, he commended a girl called Masha for her agility and skill, and Masha was taken into the household to “attend the master”. He would sometimes ride out to watch the work in the fields and saw at first hand what he so often used to write about for the journal. “How often we were wrong in what we wrote…” he thought, and shook his head, and he began to take a deeper and closer interest in the subject.

  Once, when the weather was bad, he thought he would try to do a little work. He sat down to write, and was quite pleased with the first results. He needed a certain book for reference purposes, and wrote away to St Petersburg for it to be sent. He set to work in earnest, and sent away for more books. Anna Pavlovna tried to dissuade him from writing in order to prevent him from “overstraining his heart”, but he wouldn’t hear of it. She sent in Anton Ivanych. Alexander wouldn’t listen to him either, and continued to write. Three or four months later, and not only had he not lost weight, but he had actually put on some, and Anna Pavlovna’s mind was at rest.

  Eighteen months had passed in this manner. Everything would have been fine, except that towards the end of this time Alexander started to brood again. It wasn’t that he had any special wishes – and even if he had, they would have been easily granted: they did not fall outside the confines of his home life. Nothing in particular bothered him: no worries, no doubts, yet he was bored. Little by little he began to feel stifled by the tight domestic circle in which he was confined. His mother’s coddling became tiresome; he was fed up with his work, and was no longer captivated by nature.

  He would sit in silence by the window, regarding his father’s lime trees without interest, and was irritated by the lapping of the lake. He began to reflect on the reason for this new mood of despondency, and found that he was missing – St Petersburg?! The further removed he became from his past, the more he began to regret it. Blood still ran hot in his veins, and his heart was still beating; his soul and his body craved activity… A new problem. My God! He almost wept over this revelation. He had thought that his despondency would pass, that he would get used to living in the country, get into the habit… but no: the longer he lived there, the more depressed he became, and the more he longed to return to that maelstrom which he now knew so well.

  He had come to terms with his past, and he thought of it fondly. His hatred, his mournful look, his sullenness, his unsociability, had all diminished because of the seclusion in which he had been living and the thinking he had done. He saw the past in a clearer light and the treacherous Nadenka almost in a new and brighter light. “But what am I doing here?” he said irritably. “Why am I going to waste? Why am I allowing my gifts to moulder? Why not let my work make an impression there? I’ve become wiser. My uncle is no better than me. Surely I can make my own way? Of course, I haven’t been successful so far: I’ve been fighting the wrong battles – but, never mind, I’ve finally woken up – the time has come! But how upset Mother will be if I leave! But still, I have to leave; I can’t stay and rot here! There, others have made their way in the world… And what about my own career, and my fortune? I alone have dropped behind… and what for? And why?” He rushed around in his consternation, and didn’t know how he was going to be able to tell his mother that he was leaving.

  But his mother saved him the trouble – by dying.

  This is finally what he wrote to his uncle and aunt in St Petersburg.

  To his aunt:

  Before I left St Petersburg, ma tante, you sent me on my way with tears in your eyes and some precious words which have engraved themselves on my memory. You said, “If you should ever feel in need of warm friendship, sincere sympathy, then there will always be a corner in my heart for you.” The time has now come when I have finally understood the full value of those words. The claims that you so generously granted me on your heart promise me peace of mind, quiet, consolation and tranquillity, and perhaps even happiness in my life. Three months ago my mother passed away. I will say no more about that. From my letters you will know what she meant to me, and you will understand what I have lost in her… I am now leaving this place for ever. But where would a solitary wanderer like me head for, if not for whatever place you happen to be? Just tell me one thing: will I find in you the same person that I left eighteen months ago? Perhaps you have erased me from your memory? Would you agree to assume the tedious task of healing a new and grievous wound with that same friendship which has more than once rescued me from distress in the past? I am investing all my hope in you as well as in your powerful ally – activity.

  This must surely be a surprise to you? And you must find it strange to hear this from me, and to read these lines written in such a calm and uncharacteristic style. But don’t be surprised, and don’t be afraid. The man who comes to you will not be deranged and will not be a dreamer – nor will he be bitter or provincial: just a man like so many others in St Petersburg, the kind of man I should long since have become. Please make a point of preparing my uncle for this. When I look back on my life, I feel embarrassed and ashamed for myself and others, but it couldn’t have been otherwise. Look how long it took me to wake up! Not until I was thirty! St Petersburg was a harsh school for me, but that together with the thought I have been giving to the matter back at home in the country have made my destiny quite clear to me. Having put a considerable distance between myself and my uncle’s lessons and my St Petersburg experience, I have been able to make sense of both since I have been here away from the hurly-burly, and now see things as clearly as I should have done at the time. I also see how pitifully and foolishly I strayed from the direct path to my goal. I am now at peace. I’m no longer tormented or harassed by doubts – but I’m not satisfied with that. It may be that this tranquillity still stems from sheer egoism. However, I have the feeling that very soon my outlook on life will become still clearer, to the point where I will discover a new source of tranquillity – and a healthier one. Right now I still can’t help regretting that I have reached that Rubicon where, alas, youth ends and the time comes for reflection, careful consideration and analysis of life’s setbacks – a time for being aware. It may be that my opinion of people and life hasn’t changed much, but I no longer nurse so many hopes and desires – in brief, I’ve lost my illusions. Accordingly, there is not so much room left for mistakes, or allowing myself to be deceived. And from a certain standpoint that’s very comforting! So now I see the future more clearly: the worst is behind me; I’m less afraid of turmoil, because there’s less opportunity for it. The worst turmoil is behind me, and I couldn’t be more thankful for it. I’m ashamed to remember how, when I thought myself a victim, I used to curse my fate – and life itself. Curse! How pitifully childish and ungrateful! As I later realized, suffering cleanses the soul and makes a man tolerable both to himself and othe
rs – it exalts him. I now acknowledge that not to partake of suffering is not to partake of the fullness of life. There are many important issues inherent in suffering which we probably cannot expect to resolve while we are here. I see in turmoil and trouble the hand of Providence, which faces man with an endless task – to keep moving forward, to aim higher than his appointed goal while struggling at every turn against illusory hopes, against painful impediments. I see too that this struggle and this turmoil are a necessary part of life, and that without them life would not be life, but stagnation, sleep… When the struggle is over, before you know it, life itself is over: a man has worked, loved, experienced pleasure, suffered, done what he had to do – in other words, he has lived!

  Do you understand the way I see it? I have emerged from the darkness, and now see that the whole of my life so far has been nothing but a kind of difficult preparation for the present journey, a tortuous apprenticeship for life. Something tells me that the rest of the journey will be easier, less turbulent, clearer. Light has been shed on dark places, difficult knots have come untied by themselves. Life is coming to seem like a blessing, and not a curse. Soon I will once again be saying “How good life is!” But I won’t be saying it as a youth intoxicated by the pleasure of the moment, but rather in total awareness of life’s true pleasures and pains. So, even death itself is not frightening: it presents itself as a beautiful experience rather than a nightmare. Now, finally a breath of unaccustomed tranquillity has wafted into my soul; the infantile grievances, the pinpricks of wounded self-esteem, the childish temper tantrums and comical anger against the world and people, just like the dog who got angry with the elephant – it’s as if none of this ever happened.

  I have made friends again with those whom I had long ago discarded – with people both here and in St Petersburg; it’s just that they, I note in passing, are a little more difficult, coarser and more ridiculous. But I’m not angry with them, both here and in St Petersburg, and I’m even less likely to be so in the future. Here is an example of my new tolerance. There is a character called Anton Ivanych who is always coming round, and we entertain him. This time it was, according to him, “to share my grief”, and tomorrow he’ll be going to a neighbour’s wedding – “to share their joy” – and while he’s there, he’ll be offering his services to someone as their wise woman. But neither grief nor joy ever prevents him from dropping in on everyone for meals four or five times a day. I see that he couldn’t care less whether it’s a death, a birth or a wedding, but I don’t find him repugnant – he doesn’t bother me… I tolerate him, and don’t throw him out. A good sign, don’t you think, ma tante? What will you say when you see what I have just written in praise of myself?

  To his uncle:

  My uncle, who could not be nicer or kinder – or should I say, “Your Excellency”?

  You can’t imagine how delighted I was to learn that your career has been crowned with well-deserved success; your fortune you acquired long ago. And here you are with the rank of actual civil councillor* and a director of Chancery!

  May I make so bold as to remind Your Excellency of a promise you made when I was leaving: “When you need a position, an occupation or money, come to me!” is what you said. Well now, I need both a position and an occupation – and, of course, I will be needing money. Yes, this poor provincial dares to ask for accommodation and work. What fate will this request meet? Will it be the same fate once met by Zayezzhalov’s letter when he wrote asking for your help in some case of his?

  As for “creative endeavour”, which you were unkind enough to mention in one of your letters… wasn’t it wrong of you to bring up such long-forgotten follies, which I blush to think of even now? Oh, Uncle – oh, Your Excellency! Who hasn’t been young once and a little foolish? Who has never had some strange, so called “cherished” dream which was fated never to come true? Take my neighbour on the right, who imagined himself to be a hero, a giant – a veritable Mighty Hunter… who wanted to astound the world with his exploits; he ended up as a retired warrant officer who never saw combat, and now peacefully grows potatoes and sows turnips. The neighbour on my left dreamt of revolutionizing Russia and the whole world on his own terms, and after working as a clerk in the law courts for some time, moved down here, and still hasn’t even managed to repair his fence. I thought that I had been endowed from on high with a creative gift and wanted to reveal to the world new and unheard-of secrets, without suspecting that those secrets weren’t actually secrets, and that I was no prophet. All of us were ridiculous – but tell me, who, without blushing for himself, is entitled to pillory and hold up to ridicule these youthful, noble, impetuous, although not entirely modest dreams? Who has not, at one time or another, harboured unattainable ambitions or imagined himself a hero performing feats of valour, whose praises would be sung and whose glory would be of epic proportions? Whose imagination has not been carried away to bygone heroic and fabulous times? Who has not been moved to tears by lofty thoughts and intimations of beauty? If there is such a person, let him cast a stone at me – I do not envy him. I blush for my youthful dreams, but I honour them: they testify to a purity of heart; they are a sign of the nobility of a soul aspiring to the good.

  You, I know, will not be swayed by these arguments; you need pragmatic, practical arguments – well, here is one for you. Tell me how would a person’s potential ever come to be recognized and developed if the young were to suppress their own budding propensities, if they did not give free rein to their dreams and were instead slavishly to toe some line that had been laid down for them, without putting themselves to the test? Ultimately, isn’t it a law of nature that youth should be troubled, hot-blooded, sometimes even wild, foolish, and that, equally, the dreams of everyone must subside with time, just as my own now have subsided? Were you in your own youth immune from such failings? Try to remember: rummage in your memory. I can see from where I’m sitting how you, with your calm, unflappable expression, are shaking your head and saying, “No, nothing of the kind!” But allow me to unmask you; in love, for example, would you recant? No, you wouldn’t. But I am in possession of the evidence. Remember, I was able to investigate the scene of the crime. The drama of your amours was played out before my very eyes, and its theatre was – the lake. Yellow flowers still grow along the shore: one of them duly dried and preserved. I have the honour to enclose and present it to Your Excellency as a sweet memento. But there is even a more deadly weapon to aim at your assaults on love in general, and mine in particular – namely a document! Are you frowning? Well, it’s quite a document! Are you growing pale? I filched this precious tattered relic from my aunt’s no less withered bosom and carry it with me as everlasting proof against you and as protection for myself. You may well tremble, Uncle! Furthermore, I am privy to all the details of your love story: my aunt regales me with them every day, at tea in the morning, at supper and as sleep approaches – complete with every interesting detail. I am including all this precious material in a special memoir. I will not fail to hand it over to you in person, along with my writings on agriculture which I have been working on for the last year. For my own part, I feel it is my duty to assure my aunt that your “feelings” – as she calls them – for her have remained unchanged. When I have the honour of receiving from Your Excellency a favourable response to my request, I will be honoured to present myself to you with a gift of dried raspberries and honey together with some letters which my neighbours have promised to supply me with in accordance with their needs – except for Zayezzhalov, who died before the end of his trial.

  Epilogue

  This is an account of what happened to the principal characters in this novel four years after Alexander’s return to St Petersburg.

  One morning Pyotr Ivanych was pacing back and forth in his study. This was no longer the old, cheerful, well-built, slim Pyotr Ivanych with his uniformly calm expression, standing straight with his head held high and proud. Whether it was because of age or circumstanc
es, he seemed to have let himself go. His movements were not as agile, his look not as firm and self-confident, and a lot of grey had crept into his side whiskers and temples. It was apparent that he had celebrated his fiftieth birthday. He walked with something of a stoop. What was particularly strange was to see on the face of this impassive and calm man – as we knew him formerly – an expression something more than just worried, but actively depressed, although it still conveyed his essential character.

  He seemed to be in a state of bewilderment. He would take a couple of steps and then stop suddenly in the middle of the room, or walk rapidly back and forth between the opposite corners of the room. It looked as if he had suddenly been visited by an unaccustomed thought.

  In an armchair near the table there was seated a shortish, portly man wearing a cross around his neck, and a tightly buttoned tailcoat. He was sitting with one leg crossed over the other. The only thing lacking was a big gold-knobbed cane in his hands, that traditional cane which used to be the clue by which a reader immediately identified a doctor. Perhaps, this mace-like appurtenance was also appropriate to his role as a doctor. With it, when not otherwise occupied, he would go for a stroll, and with it he would sit for hours at the bedside of a patient, offering comfort, with the expression on his face doing duty for two or three different roles: those of physician, practical philosopher and family friend – to name but three. But this was all very well in expansive and spacious circumstances, where people rarely fall ill, and where a doctor is more of a luxury than a necessity. But Pyotr Ivanych’s doctor was a St Petersburg doctor, who did not know what it was to travel on his own two feet, although he actually prescribed constitutionals for his patients. He was a member of some council, the secretary of some society, a professor, and was the doctor for a number of official institutions. He also provided medical services to the poor, and was an indispensable presence at all consultations; he also had his own extensive practice. He never took off his left glove, and would never have taken off his right glove had it not sometimes been necessary to take a pulse; he never unbuttoned his tailcoat, and practically never sat down. On this occasion, out of sheer impatience, he had been crossing his left leg over his right, and his right over his left in turn. He had been waiting to leave for quite some time, but Pyotr Ivanych had not yet said a thing.