But his uncle stayed the same. He didn’t ask his nephew about anything, did not notice or want to notice his tomfoolery. Seeing that Alexander’s situation hadn’t changed, that he led his former way of life and asked no money of him, he was as friendly with him as before and gently reproached Alexander for coming so rarely to see him.
“My wife is angry with you,” he said. “She became accustomed to considering you a relative. We dine at home every day. Come to see us.”
And that was all. But Alexander rarely made visits, indeed there was no time for them. Mornings at the office, afternoons and evenings at the Lyubetskys. There remained the night, but at night he went off into the special world of his own creation and went on creating. And with all this, true, it didn’t hurt to get a little sleep.
He was less fortunate with his prose pieces. He wrote a comedy, two stories, an essay of sorts and an account of his travels to somewhere. His productivity was astonishing; the paper simply burned under his pen. He first showed the comedy and one story to his uncle and asked him to say whether they were any good. His uncle spot-checked several pages and sent them back after writing at the top: “Good for… papering screens!”
Alexander was furious and sent them off to a magazine, but both were returned. At two places on the margins of the comedy the comment “Not bad” was pencilled in–and that was all. In the story comments like these were often encountered: “Weak, false, immature, flabby, not developed” and the like; the final comment read: “On the whole, this shows ignorance of the human heart, superfluous fervor, unnaturalness, all high rhetoric; nowhere does one see a human being… the hero’s monstrous… there are no such people… unsuited for publication! However, the author, it seems, is not without talent, he needs to work!…”
“‘There are no such people!”’ thought Alexander, distressed and surprised. “How so, there are no such? Why I myself am that hero. Am I supposed to describe these low-life heroes whom one encounters at every turn, who think and feel like the crowd, who do what everyone does–these pitiful characters of everyday comedies and tragedies, not distinguished by any special mark… am I to lower art to that?…”
To confirm the truth of his ideas on literature he evoked the shade of Byron, cited Goethe and Schiller. He conceived the only possible hero of a drama or story to be some corsair or great poet or actor and had them do and feel as he would himself.
In one story he chose America as the place of action; the environment was luxurious–American nature, mountains and amid all this an exile who had carried off his beloved. The whole world forgot them, they adored each other and nature, and when news came of forgiveness and the possibility of returning home, they refused. Some twenty years later a certain European traveled there, went hunting, accompanied by Indians, and on a certain mountain found a hut and in it a skeleton. The European was the rival of the hero. How good this story seemed to Alexander! With what enthusiasm he read it to Nadenka on winter evenings! How eagerly she listened to him! And not to accept this story!
He said not even a half-word to Nadenka about this failure, but swallowed the affront in silence–and that was the end of it. “What happened to the story?” she asked, “did they publish it?” “No!” he said, “they can’t; there’s a lot in it that would seem wild and strange in this country…”
If he had known how truly he spoke, while thinking he was speaking in a quite different sense.
To work seemed strange to him too. “What is talent for?” he said. “An untalented laborer works; talent creates easily and freely.” Still, remembering that his articles about agriculture, yes, and his verses too, had been at first quite unremarkable, but then gradually were perfected and attracted some special attention from the public, he reconsidered, understood the stupidity of his conclusion and with a sigh postponed belles-lettres to another time when his heart would beat more evenly and his thoughts fall into place; then he promised himself to set to work properly.
One day followed another, days of uninterrupted enjoyment for Alexander. He was happy when he would kiss the tip of Nadenka’s finger or sit opposite her for an hour or two in a picturesque pose, without taking his eyes off her and in the grip of tender emotions, sighing or declaiming verses pertinent to the moment.
In all fairness it must be said that she sometimes responded to the sighs and verses with a yawn. And that’s not hard to understand: her heart was busy, but her mind remained idle. Alexander did not try to feed it. The year designated by Nadenka as a trial period passed. She and her mother were again living at their country place. Alexander brought up her promise, asked permission to speak to her mother. Nadenka was for postponing it until their move to the city, but Alexander insisted.
Finally, one evening while taking leave, she gave Alexander permission to speak of it to her mother the next day.
Alexander did not sleep the whole night, did not go to the office. The next day went round and round in his head. He kept thinking how to talk with Marya Mikhailovna; he was going to compose a speech, he prepared for it, but hardly remembered that Nadenka’s hand was at issue, lost himself in dreams and again forgot everything. So he arrived that evening at their country place not prepared for anything. Indeed, it wasn’t necessary. Nadenka met him as usual in the garden, but with a shade of slight thoughtfulness in her eyes and without a smile, yet somehow absentminded.
“You can’t talk to Mama,” she said, “that nasty Count is sitting with her!”
“Count! What Count?”
“You don’t know what Count! Count Novinsky, you know, our neighbor. His country home is here; how many times you yourself have praised his garden!”
“Count Novinsky at your house!” said Alexander, surprised. “What has he come for?”
“I really don’t know yet myself,” answered Nadenka. “I was sitting here reading your book and Mama wasn’t home; she’d gone to see Marya Ivanovna. It had just begun raining a little. I came inside and suddenly a coach drives up to the entrance, blue with white upholstery, that same one that used to drive past us–you praised it, too. I look, Mama gets out with some man. They come in, Mama says, ‘This is my daughter, Count; please do us the honor.’ He bowed and I, too. I was embarrassed, blushed, and ran off to my room. But Mama–she’s so unbearable–I heard her say, ‘Pardon, Count, she’s such a wild thing…’ Then I guessed this must be our neighbor, Count Novinsky. Probably he brought Mama in his coach from Marya Ivanovna’s because of the rain.”
“Is he… an old man?” asked Alexander.
“An old man! What are you talking about! He’s young and handsome!…”
“You’ve already managed to notice he’s handsome!” said Alexander, vexed.
“That’s nice! Does it take long to notice that? I’ve already talked with him. He’s very charming. He asked what I do, he talked about music, asked me to sing something, but I knew almost nothing. This winter without fail I’ll ask Mama to get me a good singing teacher. The Count says that’s very much in fashion just now–singing.”
All this was said with unusual liveliness.
“I thought, Nadezhda Alexandrovna,” remarked Aduyev, “that this winter you would have an occupation beside singing…”
“What?”
“What!” said Alexander reproachfully
“Oh! yes… so you came here by boat?”
He looked at her in silence. She turned away and set off for the house.
Aduyev entered the living room, not altogether at ease. What kind of count was this? How should one conduct oneself with him? What sort of manner would he display? Proud? Casual? Alexander entered. The Count rose first and bowed politely. Alexander responded with a constrained and awkward bow. Their hostess introduced them to each other. For some reason Alexander did not like the Count, who was a handsome man, tall, well-built, blond with large expressive eyes and an agreeable smile. His manners showed simplicity, elegance, a kind of gentleness. He seemed a man able to win over anyone, but he didn’t win over Aduyev.
Despite Marya Mikhailovna’s invitation to join them, Alexander sat down in a corner and began to look at a book, which was very unsociable, awkward and out of place. Nadenka stood behind her mother’s chair, looked at the Count with curiosity and listened to what he said and how he spoke; he was a novelty for her.
Aduyev was unable to conceal his dislike of the Count. The Count, it seemed, did not notice his rudeness. He was attentive and turned to Aduyev, trying to make the conversation general. All in vain. The latter was silent or answered yes and no.
When Mrs. Lyubetsky by chance repeated Alexander’s last name, the Count asked, wasn’t Pyotr Ivanych related to him.
“My uncle!” answered Alexander abruptly.
“I often see him in society,” said the Count.
“You might. What’s strange about that?” answered Aduyev with a shrug.
The Count concealed a smile, biting his lower lip a little. Nadenka exchanged glances with her mother, blushed and lowered her eyes.
“Your uncle is an intelligent and pleasant man!” remarked the Count in a tone of slight irony.
Aduyev was silent.
Nadenka could bear it no longer and went up to Alexander, and while the Count was talking with her mother, whispered to him, “Aren’t you ashamed! The Count is so friendly to you, but you?…”
“Friendly!” Alexander almost aloud with vexation, “I don’t need his friendly gestures; don’t repeat that word…”
Nadenka started back from him and from a distance, motionless, looked at him with amazement, then again stood behind her mother’s chair and quite ignored Alexander.
But Aduyev went on waiting for the Count to leave and for the opportunity to speak at last with Nadenka’s mother. But ten, eleven o’clock passed and the Count didn’t go away and talked on.
All subjects usually covered in conversation at the beginning of an acquaintance had been covered. The Count began to jest. He did so intelligently–in his jokes there was not the least strain nor pretension to wit, but still something absorbing, some special ability to tell amusingly not just a funny story, but even a bit of news, or an event, or he could turn a serious matter into a laughing one thanks to a single unexpected word.
Both the mother and daughter submitted altogether to the spell of his humor, and Alexander himself more than once half concealed an involuntary smile with his book. But he raged inwardly.
The Count spoke uniformly well and with tact about everything, about music and people and foreign places. The conversation touched on men, on women; he rebuked men, himself too among them, skillfully praised women in general and paid several compliments to his hostesses in particular.
Aduyev thought of his own literary work, of his verse. “I’d put him at a loss there,” he thought. The conversation turned to literature. Mother and daughter recommended Alexander as a writer.
“Now he’ll be embarrassed,” thought Aduyev.
Not at all. The Count talked about literature as if he’d never devoted himself to anything else. He made a few fleeting and true remarks about contemporary Russian and French big names. In addition to all this, it turned out that he was friends with first-class Russian writers and in Paris had made the acquaintance of several French ones too. He rated some with respect, sketched others with slight caricature.
He said he didn’t know Alexander’s verse and hadn’t heard of it.
Nadenka gave Alexander a somewhat strange look, as if to ask, “What about it, Sir? You haven’t gotten very far…”
Alexander began to feel shy. His impudent, rude attitude yielded to depression. He resembled a rooster with a wet tail hiding from inclement weather under a shed.
In the serving room glasses and spoons clinked; they were setting the table, but the Count didn’t leave. Every hope vanished. The Count even accepted Mrs. Lyubetsky’s invitation to stay for their supper of clotted milk.
“A count, but he eats clotted milk!” whispered Aduyev, looking with hatred at the Count.
The Count ate supper with appetite, went on jesting as if he were at home.
“He’s at a house for the first time, yet shamelessly, eats enough for three!” whispered Alexander to Nadenka.
“So what! He’s hungry!” she answered naively.
The Count finally left, but it was late to talk about a serious matter. Aduyev took his hat and ran. Nadenka overtook him and succeeded in calming him.
“Till tomorrow?” asked Alexander.
“We won’t be at home tomorrow.”
“Well, the day after tomorrow.”
They parted.
On the day after tomorrow Alexander arrived early. Even in the garden unfamiliar sounds carried to him from indoors… A violincello, or perhaps not… He drew nearer… A man’s voice was singing and what a voice!–resonant, fresh, such as, it seems, goes to a woman’s heart. It went even to Aduyev’s heart, but differently. His heart sank, began to ache from sadness, envy, hate, from a vague and heavy presentiment. Alexander went into the entry hall from the courtyard.
“Who’s here?” he asked the servant.
“Count Novinsky.”
“Has he been here long?”
“Since six o’clock.”
“Tell the young lady quietly that I came and will come back later.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Alexander left and went walking around the country houses, hardly noticing where he went. About two hours later he returned.
“What, is he still here? ”he asked.
“He’s here and will stay for a meal. The mistress ordered partridge to be roasted for supper.”
“And you told the young lady about me?”
“I did.”
“And what did she say?”
“She gave no orders.”
Alexander went home and didn’t come again for two days. Heaven knows what he imagined and suffered; finally he set out.
At last he saw the house, stood up in the boat, and shading his eyes from the sun with his hand, looked ahead. There among the trees flashed the blue dress so becoming to Nadenka; the blue color suited her so. She always put on this dress when she particularly wanted to please Alexander. He was greatly relieved.
“Oh! she wants to reward me for her temporary involuntary neglect,” he thought. “Not she, but I am to blame; how could I act so unforgivably? You only arm people against you by such conduct. A stranger, a new acquaintance… It’s very natural that as hostess… Oh, see there, she’s coming out of the shrubbery from the narrow path, going to the gate, there she’ll stop and wait…”
Indeed she did come out upon the large allée… but who else was turning with her out of the path?
“The Count!” Alexander exclaimed aloud in distress and did not believe his eyes.
“Huh?” asked one oarsman.
“She’s alone in the garden with him…” whispered Alexander, “as with me…”
The Count and Nadenka went up to the gate, and not looking at the river, turned and slowly started back along the allée. He bent down to her and said something to her quietly. She walked with her head bent down.
Aduyev still stood open-mouthed in the boat without moving, his arms outstretched to the shore. Then he let them down and sat down. The oarsmen continued to row.
“Where are you going?” cried Alexander in a rage, coming to. “Back!”
“We’re to go back?” repeated one, looking at him and opening his mouth.
“Back! Are you deaf perhaps, you!”
“So, there’s no need to go there?”
Without a word the other oarsman began pulling on the left with one oar, then struck out with two, and the boat moved in the opposite direction. Alexander banged his hat down almost to his shoulders and plunged into tormenting thoughts.
After that he didn’t make the trip to the Lyubetskys for two weeks.
Two weeks–what a long time for a man in love! But he kept waiting: Look, they’ll send a servant to see what’s the matter? Isn’t he ill?–as th
ey had always done when he took sick, or got some crazy idea this way. Formerly Nadenka would pro forma in her mother’s name at first inquire, then what might she not write in her own? What affectionate reproaches, what tender concern! And such impatience!
“No, this time I won’t surrender quickly,” thought Alexander. “I’ll torment her a while. I’ll teach her how she should treat a casual male acquaintance. Our reconciliation won’t be easy!”
And he thought up a cruel plan of revenge, dreamed of her repentance, how he would magnanimously forgive and teach her a lesson. But they didn’t send a servant, and no note of confession was delivered; it was as if he no longer existed for them.
He lost weight, grew pale. Jealousy causes more suffering than any disease, especially jealousy based on suspicions and without proofs. When proof comes to light, then there’s an end to jealousy, for the most part even to love itself; then at least one knows what to do, but until then–torment! And Alexander experienced it to the full.
Finally he resolved to go in the morning, thinking to find Nadenka alone and have it out with her.
He arrived. There was no one in the garden, no one in the living and dining room either. He went out into the hall, opened the door onto the courtyard…
What a scene met his eye! Two riders in the Count’s livery held two riding horses. The Count and his servant were mounting Nadenka on one of the horses; the other was ready for the Count himself. Marya Mikhailovna stood on the porch of the carriage entrance. Frowning, she anxiously watched this scene.
“Sit tighter, Nadenka,” she said. “Look after her, Count, for Heaven’s sake! Oh! I’m afraid, Heaven knows, I’m afraid. Hold on to the horse’s ear, Nadenka. You see, she’s absolutely a devil–see how restless she is.”
“Don’t worry, Mama,” said Nadenka merrily. “Look, I can already ride; look.”
With her crop she touched the horse; it leapt forward and began to jump and rear in place.
“Oh, oh! Hold her in!” cried Marya Mikhailovna, waving her arm. “Stop, she’ll kill you!”
An Ordinary Story Page 14
