An Ordinary Story

by Ivan Goncharov

  “Ivan Ivanych!” the head said.

  Ivan Ivanych jumped up from behind his desk, half-ran to Jupiter and stood before him like a leaf before grass. Even Alexander felt shy without knowing why.

  “Give me a bit of tobacco!”

  With servility the fellow offered his open tobacco box with both hands.

  “You test this man!” said the superior, pointing to Aduyev.

  “So he’s the one who will test me!” thought Aduyev, looking at the yellow figure of Ivan Ivanych with the worn elbows. “Does this man really resolve problems of state?”

  “Do you have a good hand?” asked Ivan Ivanych.

  “Hand?”

  “Yes, sir, handwriting. Here, try to copy this little document.”

  Alexander was surprised at this request, but fulfilled it. Ivan Ivanych frowned after a look at his work.

  “He writes badly,” he said to the head of the section. The head looked.

  “Yes, not good. He can’t write the final copy. But let him copy leaves of absence for the time being, and then when he’s gotten accustomed a bit, use him for the execution of documents; maybe he can do that. He’s studied at the university.”

  Soon Aduyev also became one of the cogs in the machine. He wrote, wrote, and wrote endlessly and was even surprised mornings to see that it was possible to do something different. And when he remembered his projects, color rushed to his face.

  “Uncle!” he thought, “you’re right in one thing, mercilessly right; can you be right in everything? Can I have been wrong in my intimate, inspired thoughts and my warm beliefs in love, friendship… and in people… and in myself?… What is life?” He bent over his paper and scratched more strongly with his pen, and as for himself, tears sparkled under his lashes.

  “Fortune decidedly smiles on you,” said Pyotr Ivanych to his nephew. “In the beginning I worked a whole year without pay, but you entered at once into the senior category; see, that’s 750 rubles and with a bonus it’ll be a thousand. Excellent on the first try! The head of the section praises you; only, he says you’re absentminded. Sometimes you don’t put in the commas, other times you forget to write down the content of the document. Please get out of that habit. The main thing–pay attention to what’s before your eyes and don’t get carried away to Heaven knows where.”

  The uncle pointed upward. From then on he became more friendly toward his nephew.

  “What a fine man, my subdivision head, Uncle!” Alexander once said.

  “How do you know?”

  “We’ve made friends. Such an exalted soul, such an honest, noble tendency in his ideas! And with his assistant too: he seems to be a man of firm will with a character of iron…”

  “You’ve already managed to make friends with them?”

  “Yes, and how!…”

  “Didn’t your subdivision head invite you to his house on Thursdays?”

  “Oh, indeed, every Thursday. It seems he feels a special attraction for me.”

  “And his assistant asked to borrow money?”

  “Yes, Uncle, a mere trifle… I gave him twenty-five rubles, which I had with me; he asked for fifty more.”

  “You’ve already given them! Oh dear!” said the uncle, vexed. “I’m partly to blame for not forewarning you. Indeed, I didn’t think you so naive as to lend money after two weeks of acquaintance. It can’t be helped; we’ll halve the loss. Count me in for twelve-fifty.”

  “What, Uncle, surely he’ll pay back?”

  “Nonsense! I know him. I lost a hundred rubles to him during the time I worked there. He borrows from everyone. If he asks again, tell him I’d like him to remember his little debt to me–he’ll leave you alone! And don’t go to the subdivision head’s house.”

  “Why, Uncle?”

  “He’s a cardplayer. He’ll have you sit down with two of the boys like him, and they’ll conspire to leave you without a penny!”

  “A cardplayer!” said Alexander in astonishment, “is it possible? He seems so inclined to sincere outpourings…”

  “And tell him also in conversation that I have all your money in safekeeping, and you’ll see whether he’s inclined to ‘sincere outpourings,’ and whether he’ll ever invite you to his house on Thursday.”

  Alexander was plunged in thought. His uncle shook his head.

  “And you thought angels were sitting around you there! ‘Sincere outpourings,’ ‘a special attraction! ’Why not, indeed, first assume that they are some sort of scoundrels? You’ve come here in vain!” he said, “truly in vain!”

  Once Alexander had just awakened when Evsei brought him a big package with a note from his uncle.

  “At last here’s a literary job for you,” the note said. “Yesterday I met a journalist friend of mine; he sent you work on trial.”

  Alexander’s hands trembled with joy as he opened the package. In it was a German manuscript.

  “What is this–prose?” he said, “and what about?”

  And he read what was written at the top in pencil : “On manure, an article for the agriculture section. Kindly translate as quickly as possible.”

  For a long time he sat pensively, looking at the article, then slowly with a sigh he readied a pen and began to translate. Two days later the article was finished and had been sent off.

  “Excellent, excellent!” Pyotr Ivanych said to him several days later. The editor is very pleased, only he finds the style not sufficiently severe. Well, you can’t demand everything the first time. He wants to make your acquaintance. Go to see him tomorrow around seven in the evening; he’s already got another article ready for you.”

  “Again on the same subject, Uncle?”

  “No, about something else; he told me, but I’ve forgotten… Oh, yes; about potato molasses. You must have been born lucky, Alexander. At last I’m beginning to hope you’ll get somewhere. Soon perhaps I won’t be saying, why did you come. It’s not been even a month and everything’s already coming your way from all directions. A thousand rubles there, and the editor has promised a hundred rubles a month for four printed pages; that makes two thousand two hundred rubles! No, I didn’t start out like that!” he said, contracting his brows a little. “Write to your mother that you’ve found jobs and of what sort. I, too, will answer her letter. I’ll write that for her kindness to me I have done all I could for you.”

  “Mama will be very grateful to you… Uncle, and I am too…” said Alexander with a sigh, but by now he did not rush to embrace his uncle.

  III

  More than two years passed. Who would have recognized our country boy in this young man with elegant manners in a fashionable suit? He had changed and grown up a great deal. The softness of lines in his youthful face, the transparency and delicacy of skin, the tuft of hair on his chin–all that had gone. His shy timidity and the awkward grace of his movements were no longer there. The features of his face had matured and formed a face–and a face of character. The lilies and roses had disappeared as if under a light sunburn. The tuft of beard had been replaced by slight sideburns. The light and uncertain gait had become an even and firm one. A few bass notes had been added to his voice. The sketched-in picture had yielded a finished portrait. The youth was transformed into a man. Self-confidence and daring shone in his eyes–not that daring which, visible half a mile away, gazes at everything arrogantly and with aggressive look and gestures says: “See, watch out, don’t touch me, don’t tread on me, and if you do–do you understand?–you’ll get it back fast!” No, the expression of the daring I mean does not repel, but attracts. It is expressed in a striving for the good, for success, in a wish to overcome the obstacles that bar the way. The former enthusiasm in Alexander’s face was tempered by a slight shade of thoughtfulness, the first sign of the uncertainty that had infiltrated his soul and perhaps the only consequence of the lessons and unsparing analysis to which his uncle had subjected everything Alexander saw and felt. Alexander had at last acquired tact, that is, the ability to get on with people. He di
d not throw himself upon everyone’s neck, especially since the man inclined to sincere outpourings had twice, despite his uncle’s warnings, cleaned him out at cards, and the man of firm character and iron will had borrowed no small amount of his money. Other people and events had greatly contributed to this too. At one place he noticed how people secretly laughed at his youthful enthusiasm and nicknamed him a Romantic. At another he was hardly given any attention because he treated the others neither warmly nor coldly. He did not give dinner parties, did not keep a carriage, did not play for high stakes. At first Alexander’s heart ached from these conflicts between his rosy dreams and reality. It did not enter his mind to ask himself: What remarkable things have I done, how have I distinguished myself from the crowd? Where are my achievements and what should people notice me for? Meanwhile his pride suffered.

  Then he began gradually to admit the idea that clearly not everything in life is roses, that there are also thorns which prick sometimes, though only lightly and not the way his uncle said. At this point he began to learn to control himself; he did not express his impulses and emotions and he less frequently spoke wildly, at least before strangers.

  But still to the considerable grief of Pyotr Ivanych he was far from making a cold analysis of the simple basics of everything that excites and agitates a man’s soul. He would not even hear of rendering intelligible all of the heart’s mysteries and puzzles.

  Pyotr Ivanych would give him a regular lesson in the morning. Alexander would listen, look disturbed or deeply thoughtful and then go somewhere that evening and return walking on clouds; for three days he’d go about as if in seventh heaven–and to the devil with Uncle’s theory. The magic and intoxication of society balls, the resonance of the music, the bare shoulders, the fire of glances, the smile of rosy lips would keep him awake all night. He was haunted sometimes by the waist his hands had touched, sometimes by a languishing, prolonged look thrown him in parting, sometimes by the warm breath which had melted him in the waltz or a conversation in low voices at the window to the roar of the mazurka, when the glances so sparkled and the tongue spoke God knows what. His heart would beat and he embraced the pillow in cramplike agitation and for a long time turned from one side to another.

  “Where is love? Oh, I thirst for love!” he would say, “and will it come soon? When will those heavenly minutes begin, those sweet sufferings, the agitation of bliss, the tears…” and so on.

  The next day he appeared before his uncle.

  “What an evening I spent yesterday at the Zaraiskys!” he said, sinking into recollections of the ball.

  “A good time!”

  “Oh, heavenly!”

  “Was there a decent late-night supper?”

  “I didn’t have supper.”

  “What? Not to have any supper at your age, how could you! So, I see you’re getting used in earnest to the life here, even, indeed, too well. So, they gave a good party? The clothes, the lights…”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And proper guests?”

  “Oh, yes! Very proper. What eyes, shoulders!”

  “Shoulders? Whose?”

  “Are you asking about them?”

  “About whom?”

  “Why, about the girls?”

  “No, I didn’t ask about them, but it doesn’t matter–were there many pretty ones?”

  “Oh, very pretty… but unfortunately they are all alike. Whatever one will say and do in a certain situation, another will repeat, as if they’d learned it by rote. There was one not quite like the others… but still without either independence or character. All movements and glances are the same. You won’t hear an original thought or feel a spark of feeling–the same surface has concealed and embellished everything. It seems nothing will open them up… Will they really be like that forever, closed up and never able to reveal themselves to anyone? Will some corset always inhibit their sigh of love and the cry of a tormented heart? Will it really never allow any feeling?…”

  “Everything will be revealed in front of their husbands, although if they discuss things as you do, that is, aloud, then, if you will, many will spend their lives as virgins. There are some fools who prematurely reveal what they should hide and repress, and then later make up for it with tears and tears–there’s no counting them!”

  “Is this a matter for calculation, Uncle?”

  “Like everywhere, my dear fellow; and whoever doesn’t calculate is, in plain Russian, uneconomical and a fool. To put it bluntly.”

  “To hold back within your breast a noble burst of feeling!…”

  “Oh, I know you’re not going to hold back; you’re ready on the street, in the theater, to throw yourself upon a friend’s neck and sob.”

  “So what’s bad about that, Uncle? People would only say that there’s a man with strong feelings, that a man of such feeling is capable of everything beautiful and not capable…”

  “Not capable of calculating, that is, thinking. A fine figure–a man with strong feelings, immense passions! Aren’t there enough of such temperaments? Enthusiasms, exaltations; they make a man even less like a man and are nothing to boast of. The question should be whether a man can rule his feelings; if he can, then indeed he’s a man…”

  “In your opinion you have to control even feeling like steam,” remarked Alexander, “now let out a little, now suddenly stop, open the valve, shut it off…”

  “Yes, nature gave man that valve for a purpose–it’s his reason, though you don’t always use it–too bad! Still, you’re a decent fellow!”

  “Really, Uncle. I’m sad when I listen to you! You might better introduce me to the lady who just arrived…”

  “Which one? To Mrs. Lyubetsky? Was she there yesterday?”

  “She was; she talked with me a long time about you, she asked about her piece of business.”

  “Oh, yes! By the way… ” The uncle took a document out of the drawer. “Take her this document; say that the Chamber released it only yesterday, and then under pressure. Explain the affair to her clearly; you did hear me talk to the official, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I know, I know; I’ll be sure to explain it.”

  Alexander seized the paper with both hands and hid it in his pocket. Pyotr Ivanych looked at him.

  “But why have you got it in your head to be introduced to her? She seems rather unattractive–there’s a wart on her nose.”

  “A wart? I don’t remember. How did you notice that, Uncle?”

  “It’s on her nose, how could I have missed it! What do you like about her?”

  “She’s so kind and respected…”

  “How is it you didn’t notice the wart on her nose, but saw that she’s kind and respected? That’s strange. Oh, wait a minute… she has a daughter–the small brunette. Ah! now I’m not surprised. So that’s why you didn’t notice the wart on her nose!”

  They both laughed.

  “But I’m surprised though, Uncle,” said Alexander, “that you noticed the wart sooner than the daughter.”

  “Give me back the document. You’ll probably let out all your feelings there and will altogether forget to close the valve; you’ll do something foolish and the devil knows how you’d explain…”

  “No, I won’t, Uncle. And I won’t give back the paper as you wish; I’m off right now…” And he disappeared from the room.

  Until this time things had been on course. At the office Alexander’s abilities had been noted and he was given a decent job. Ivan Ivanych began to offer his tobacco box to Alexander too, sensing that he, like a number of others would, as he put it, get ahead of him in no time at all, climb on his shoulders and make a leap to office head and then, who knows, to vice director, as the former head had, or to director like the former vice director, and they had started learning the civil service along with many others under Ivan Ivanych’s guidance. “But now I work for them!” he would add. Alexander also became an important person at the magazine’s editorial office. His work was choosing, translating and
correcting other people’s articles, while he himself wrote up various theoretical views on agriculture. In his opinion he had more than enough money, although in his uncle’s opinion, not yet enough. But he didn’t always work for money. He hadn’t renounced the rewarding idea of a higher calling. He was staking his youthful energies on everything. He stole time from sleep and from the office and wrote verse and stories and historical essays and biographies. His uncle was no longer papering screens with his works, but read them in silence, then whistled and said, “Yes, that’s better than before!” Some of the articles appeared under another name. Alexander listened with joyous excitement to the favorable opinion of friends, of whom there were many–at the office, at the baker’s and in private homes. He had fulfilled his best dream, next to love. The future promised him much glory, triumphs. A not altogether ordinary fate awaited him, when suddenly…

  A few months passed. Alexander began no longer to be seen anywhere, as if he had disappeared from society. He visited his uncle less often. The latter thought his several occupations were to blame and did not interfere. But one day, upon meeting Pyotr Ivanych, the magazine editor complained that Alexander had been delaying articles. His uncle promised to have it out with his nephew as soon as he saw him. He did see him three days later. Alexander ran into his uncle’s rooms in the morning like a madman. In his walk and movements he showed a joyous haste.

  “Good morning Uncle. Oh, how glad I am to see you again!” he said and wanted to embrace him, but the latter managed to escape behind his desk.

  “Good morning, good morning, Alexander! How is it I haven’t seen you for a long time?”

  “I’ve… been busy, Uncle. I was doing abstracts from German economists…”

  “Oh, so the editor is lying. Day before yesterday he told me you weren’t doing a thing–like a real journalist! I’ll tell him off when I see him…”

  “No, don’t tell him anything,” Alexander interrupted. “I haven’t sent him my work yet, that’s why he told you that…”