“Love?” asked Alexander.
“Yes, well… habit.”
“To get married without being carried away, without the poetry of love, without passion; to judge like a case in court–what’s the good of that!!”
“Yet you would marry without judging and asking yourself what for? Just as when you came here you also didn’t ask yourself what for.”
“So you’re getting married by calculation?” asked Alexander.
“With calculation,” Pyotr Ivanych corrected him.
“It’s all the same.”
“No. By calculation–that means to marry for money. That’s ignoble. But to marry without calculation–that’s stupid!… And you shouldn’t get married at all now.”
“When should I marry? When I’ve gotten old? Why am I to follow silly examples.”
“Mine among them? Thanks!”
“I’m not speaking of you, Uncle, but about people in general. You hear about a wedding, you go to have a look–and what do you see? A beautiful, delicate being, almost a child, who has been awaiting only the touch of love to unfold into luxuriant flower, and suddenly they are tearing her away from her dolls, her nurse, her child’s games, dances, and Heaven be thanked, if only from that; and often they don’t look into her heart, which perhaps already no longer belongs to her. They dress her in gauze and lace and adorn her with flowers, and disregarding her tears and her pallor, drag her like a sacrificial victim and stand her up beside–whom?–an elderly man, usually unattractive, who has lost the glow of youth. He either throws her glances of offensive desires, or looks her over from head to toe while apparently thinking: ‘Oh, you’re pretty, all right, with those blissful notions of love and roses in your head–I’ll cure you of this foolishness, these stupidities! I’ve had enough of sighs and dreams; just conduct yourself with dignity.’ Or, worse yet–he dreams about her estate. The youngest is at least thirty years old. Often he’s bald; though, true, he’s been awarded a cross, or sometimes, a star. And they tell her: ‘Here’s the man to whom the treasures of your youth have been consigned; your first heartthrobs are for him as are your confessions of love, and glances, and words and maidenly caresses, and your whole life.’ And around them presses a crowd of men who are her equal in youth and good looks, and who should be standing beside the bride. They devour the poor sacrifice with their glances, as if saying: ‘See, when we have exhausted our freshness and health, when we’re bald, we too will marry and just as luxuriant a flower will be provided us too.’ It’s horrible!”
“It’s wild, it’s not good, Alexander! You’ve been writing for two years now,” Pyotr Ivanych said, “about fertilizer and potatoes and other serious subjects that require a severe, compressed style, and your style is still wild. For Heaven’s sake, don’t yield to ecstasy, or at least when this craziness comes over you, be still and let it pass; you won’t say or do anything sensible–it’s bound to result in foolishness.”
“How so, Uncle, isn’t it true that the thoughts of a poet are born in ecstasy?”
“I don’t know how they’re born, but I know they come out of the head quite finished, that is, after they have been worked over by thinking; only then are they indeed good. So, to whom in your opinion,” began Pyotr Ivanych after a moment’s silence, “should one marry off these wonderful creatures?”
“To those they love, those who haven’t yet lost the glow of youthful good looks, in whom life is noticeably present everywhere–in both head and heart–to those in whose eyes the glow hasn’t yet died out, on whose cheeks the red hasn’t paled or the freshness–signs of health–been lost; to someone who would not lead his beautiful companion on the road of life with a weary hand, but would offer her the gift of his heart, full of love for her and capable of understanding and sharing her feelings when the rights of nature…”
“Enough! That is, to such young braves as you. If we lived amid the fields and slumbering forests, all right. But otherwise there’s no point for such a young brave as you to marry! The first year a husband will go crazy, then he’ll go looking backstage, or give his wife a rival in her maid, because those rights of nature you speak of demand change, novelty–a marvelous system! And then the wife, who will have noticed the tricks of the male, will also suddenly fall in love–with a helmet or a masquerade costume–and will do unto him the same thing… And without wealth it’s even worse! ‘The cupboard is bare,’ he’ll say.”
Pyotr Ivanych put on a sour look. He continued: “‘I’m married,’ he’ll say. ‘I already have three children. Help me, I can’t feed my family. I’m poor…’ Poor, what a nasty business! No, I hope you won’t fall into either the one or the other category.”
“I shall fall into the category of happy husbands, Uncle, and Nadenka will be a happy wife. I don’t want to marry the way most people do. They intone a single song: ‘Youth has passed, living alone has begun to bore me, so it’s time to marry!’ I’m not that kind!”
“You’re raving, my dear fellow.”
“So how do you know?”
“Because you’re just the same as others, and I have known the others for a long while. So tell me now, why are you getting married?”
“What do you mean why? Nadenka is… my wife!” Alexander exclaimed, covering his face with his hands.
“Well, see, you don’t know yourself.”
“Ooh! my heart stops beating at the very thought. You don’t know how I love her, Uncle! I love as no one has ever loved–with all the strength of my soul–it’s all for her…”
“You might better thunder back at me, or embrace me, if you must, than keep repeating that silliest phrase! How dare you say, ‘As no one has ever loved!’” Pyotr Ivanych shrugged his shoulders.
“Are you saying that can’t be?”
“Perhaps not; looking at your love, I think that it’s quite possible–no one could love more foolishly!”
“But she says we must wait a year, that we are young and must test ourselves… for a whole year…and then…”
“A year! Ah! You should have said that long ago!” interrupted Pyotr Ivanych. “She’s the one who suggested it? What an intelligent young woman! How old is she?”
“Eighteen.”
“And you’re twenty-three. Well, my boy, she’s twenty-three times more intelligent than you. She knows what she’s doing: She’s having fun with you, flirting, passing the time merrily and then… Some of these wenches are very intelligent! Well, so you’re not getting married. I thought you wanted somehow as quickly as possible to accomplish it, even secretly. At your age these stupidities are carried out so skillfully that one doesn’t manage to intervene. But a year from now! By then she’ll already deceive you!…”
“Nadenka–cheat and flirt! A wench! My Nadenka, Uncle! With whom have you lived your whole life, with whom had relations, whom loved, that you harbor such dark suspicions?…”
“I have lived with people, loved a woman.”
“Nadenka deceive! This angel, this sincerity incarnate, this woman such as God first created in all her purity and glory…”
“But a woman all the same, so probably she’ll deceive.”
“And now you’ll say that I will cheat on her too?”
“In time–you, you too.”
“I! You can conclude anything you like about someone you don’t know. But me–isn’t it a sin that you should suspect me of such foul play. Who do you think I am?”
“A human being.”
“They’re not all alike. You should know that in earnest I gave her my sincere promise to love her all my life. I’m ready to confirm this with an oath…”
“I know, I know! A decent person doesn’t doubt the sincerity of an oath when he gives it to a woman, but then he betrays her, or grows cold toward her and doesn’t know why himself. This does not happen by intent, and there’s nothing vile about it, no one to blame: nature hasn’t allowed us to love forever. And believers in eternal and immutable love do the same thing as non-believers, only they don’t
notice or want to admit it. If you say that you and I are above it, aren’t people but angels–that’s stupid!”
“Why are there loving married people who eternally love each other and live together all their lives?…”
“Eternally! They call someone who loves for two weeks flighty, but two or three years–even that’s eternal! The liveliness, fire, feverishness of this feeling doesn’t permit it to be drawn out. It’s true that loving spouses live their whole lives together! But do they really love each other their whole lives? Does their initial love bind them forever? Do they go on forever searching for each other and looking at each other every minute and never tiring of it? Where do the little favors eventually go, the constant attentiveness, the yearning to be together, the tears, the enthusiasms–all these foolishnesses? The coldness and clumsiness of husbands has become proverbial. ‘Their love is transformed into friendship!’ everyone says meaningfully: so there, it’s no longer love! Friendship! But what kind of friendship is it? Husband and wife are bound by common interests, circumstances, a single fate–for they live together; and if they aren’t, they separate and they love others, first one and, later, the other. That’s what is called infidelity!… But living together, they come to live by habit, which is stronger among us than any love; not for nothing is it called second nature!… Otherwise people wouldn’t stop torturing each other all their lives after parting, or after the death of the loved one, but they do resign themselves, you see. Otherwise they would repeat: forever, forever!… They wouldn’t look at it reasonably, they would just carry on.”
“Why is it that you’re not afraid for yourself, Uncle? According to this, won’t your bride too… pardon me… cheat on you?…”
“I don’t think so.”
“What self-esteem!”
“That isn’t self-esteem, but calculation.”
“Again calculation!”
“Well, reasoning, if you will.”
“But if she falls in love with someone?”
“One mustn’t let it come to that. But if such a sin were to be committed, the affair can be cooled down adroitly.”
“Is that possible, is it really in your power?…”
“Quite.”
“Then all betrayed husbands would act,” said Alexander, “if there were a means…”
“Not all husbands are alike, my dear fellow. Some are quite indifferent to their wives, pay no attention to what goes on around them and don’t want to notice; others would like to out of self-esteem, but aren’t good at it, they don’t know how to begin.”
“How will you do it?”
“That’s my secret. You wouldn’t understand–you’re too impassioned.”
“I’m happy now and thank God. And I don’t want to know what lies ahead.”
“The first half of your sentence is so reasonable that a man in love shouldn’t perhaps say it. It shows a capacity to take advantage of the present. But the second half, pardon me, won’t get you anywhere. ‘I don’t want to know what lies ahead’; that is, ‘I don’t want to think about what was yesterday and what is today. I shan’t either consider or reason, I shan’t prepare or watch for which way the wind will blow!’ I beg you, does that make sense?”
“So what do you advise, Uncle? When a moment of bliss arrives, must one take a magnifying glass and examine…”
“No, the opposite; reduce it so as not to make a fool of yourself for joy, so as not to hang on everyone’s neck.”
“And if a moment of sorrow comes,” Alexander continued, “should that also be examined in your miniaturizing glass?”
“No, put sorrow under the magnifying glass; it’s easier to overcome when you imagine the unpleasantness twice as large as it is.”
“Why,” continued Alexander ruefully, “am I to kill every joy at the start with cold reasoning and before drinking it to the full, think that it will betray me, it will pass. Why shall I torment myself in advance with grief before it occurs?”
“Because when it does come,” his uncle interrupted, “then you’ll think: the grief will pass too, as it did at such a time and such a time with me and with that man and with that one too. I hope this isn’t foolish, and it is worth thinking about. If you do, you won’t torment yourself when you realize the inconstancy of all eventualities in life. You’ll be cold and calm as much as a human being can be calm.”
“So this is the secret of your tranquillity,” said Alexander thoughtfully.
Pyotr Ivanych was silent and wrote.
“But what kind of life is it!” Alexander began, “not to forget yourself, but always be thinking, thinking… No, I feel things are different. I want to live without your cold analysis, not think whether misfortune and danger lie ahead or not–I don’t care! Why should I think about it in advance and poison…”
“I’ve been saying why, but he sticks to his opinion! Don’t force me to make some insulting comparison at your expense. The reason is that when you foresee the danger, the obstacle, the misfortune, then it’s easier to fight or endure it. You’ll neither go crazy nor die. And when joy comes, you won’t gallop and overturn busts–do you see? He’s told: this is the beginning; look at it, on this basis consider the end. But he closes his eyes, wags his head, as if he saw some scarecrow, and lives like a child. Live day by day, according to you, as it comes; sit at the door of your hut. Measure life by dinners, dances, love, and immutable friendship. People have always desired Heaven on earth! I’ve already told you that with your ideas you’d be best off in the village with your woman and half a dozen children, but here you have work to do; hence you must constantly think and remember what you did yesterday and what you’re doing today, so as to know what must be done tomorrow, that is, live with a constant evaluation of yourself and what you’re doing. In this way one progresses to something worth doing; otherwise… But what’s the use of explaining to you; you’re delirious just now. Oh dear! it’s almost one o’clock. Not another word, Alexander; go away… I won’t listen. Dine with me tomorrow; there will be someone else.”
“Your friends?”
“Yes… Konev, Smirnov, Fyodorov–you know them, and someone else too…”
“Konev, Smirnov, Fyodorov! Of course, the same people you do business with.”
“Correct. Useful people.”
“And they’re your friends? In truth, I haven’t seen you receive anyone with especial warmth.”
“I’ve told you that what I call friends are those I see most often who bring me either profit or pleasure. For God’s sake, why feed people for nothing?”
“But I thought before your wedding you were saying goodbye to real friends whom you loved with all your soul, with whom you’d remember your merry youth for the last time over a goblet of wine, and that perhaps at parting you’d press them warmly to your heart.”
“Well, your word or two expresses everything that doesn’t exist in life or shouldn’t. With what rapture your auntie would have thrown herself upon your neck! There are true friends there, when there are simply friends; a goblet, when people actually drink from wine or water glasses; and embraces at parting, when there are no final partings. Oh, Alexander!”
“And aren’t you sorry to take leave of these friends, or at least see them less often?” said Alexander.
“No! I have never gotten close with anyone to the point of being sorry, and I advise you not to.”
“But perhaps they’re not like that; perhaps they feel sorry to lose a good companion and someone to talk to?”
“That isn’t my worry, it’s theirs. I’ve also lost such companions more than once, and see, I haven’t died of it. So you’ll come tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, Uncle, I…”
“What?”
“I’ve been invited to the country.”
“Probably to the Lyubetskys?”
“Yes.”
“Well, as you wish. Remember about your work, Alexander. I’ll tell the editor what you’re busy with…”
“Oh, Uncle, how can you
! I’ll finish the abstracts for the German economists without fail.”
“You’d best begin them if you’re to finish. Look, remember, don’t ask for any contemptible metal, once you’ve wholly surrendered to sweet languor.”
IV
Alexander’s life was divided in two. His government job swallowed up the mornings. He was buried under by tedious business, had to weigh circumstances that were of absolutely no importance to him and count the money of others on paper by the millions. But sometimes his mind rebelled against thinking for others, the pen fell from his hand, and he was overcome by that sweet languor which so infuriated Pyotr Ivanych.
At those times Alexander leaned back against his chair and was carried away in thought to a golden place, a place of calm where there is no ink and no papers, there are no strange faces, no civil service uniforms, tranquillity, languor and coolness prevail, there are fragrant flowers in an elegantly furnished hall, the sound of a piano is heard, a parrot jumps in its cage and the birch branches and lilac bushes sway in the garden. And reigning over all… is she.
While sitting in the office in the mornings, Alexander was invisibly present on one of the islands at the Lyubetskys’ country place. And in the afternoons he was really there in person. Let’s have an indiscreet look at his bliss.
It was a hot day, one of those rare days in St. Petersburg. The sun blessed the fields with life, but burned the city streets; its rays heated the granite, bounced off the stone, and baked everyone. People walked slowly with drooping heads; dogs walked with their tongues hanging out. The town resembled one of those fairytale cities where everything has suddenly been turned to stone by a magician’s enchantment. Coaches did not thunder over the pavement; awnings covered the windows like closed eyelids; the wooden sidewalks gleamed like parquet flooring, hot to the step. Boredom and sleep prevailed everywhere.
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