“Enough, for Heaven’s sake, enough!” interrupted Pyotr Ivanych, “My patience is gone! You wanted to tear these up; tear away, tear them up quickly! That’s right!”
Pyotr Ivanych even got up from his chair and began to walk back and forth in the room.
“Was there really a time when people seriously thought that way and went through all those silly motions,” he said. “Is not all that is written about knights and shepherdesses really an offensive invention about them? How does one acquire the desire to stir up and analyze in such detail these pitiful effusions of the human soul… love! To give such importance to it!”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Why go so far, Uncle?” said Alexander. “I myself feel this force of love in me and I am proud of it. It’s my misfortune only that I have not met a being worthy of this love and endowed with the same power…”
“The power of love!” repeated Pyotr Ivanych. “That’s the same thing as saying the power of weakness.”
“It’s not a matter for you, Pyotr Ivanych,” remarked Lizaveta Alexandrovna. “You don’t want to believe in the existence of such love even in others…”
“But you? Do you really believe in it?” asked Pyotr Ivanych, walking up to her. “No, really, you’re joking! He’s still a child and does not know either himself or others, but it would be shameful for you! Could you really respect a man if he loved that way?… Do people love like that?…”
Lizaveta Alexandrovna let go her work. “How?” she asked quietly, taking him by the hands and drawing him to her.
Pyotr Ivanych quietly freed his hands from hers and unobtrusively pointed to Alexander, who stood at the window with his back to them, and he again began to pace about in the room. “How!” he said, “as if you’d never heard how people love!…”
“They do love!” she repeated thoughtfully, and slowly set about her work again.
The silence lasted about a quarter of an hour. Pyotr Ivanych broke it first.
“What are you doing now?” he asked his nephew.
“Why… nothing.”
“Too little. Well, do you read at least?”
“Yes…”
“What, then?”
“Krylov’s fables.” 8
“A good book; but not just that?”
“Only that now. Heavens, what portraits of people! How true to life!”
“You’re somehow angry at people. Could your love for that–what’s her name?–have made you this way?…”
“Oh! I’d even forgotten about that stupidity. I recently passed through those places where I was so happy and suffered so much, I thought the recollections would cause my heart to burst.”
“Well, did it?”
“I saw the villa, the garden and the garden gate, but my heart didn’t even beat faster.”
“Well, see; I told you so. Then why do you dislike people so?”
“Why! For their baseness, their smallness of spirit… My God! When you think what base deeds are perpetuated, where nature sowed such wonderful seed…”
“What does it matter to you? Do you want to reform people!”
“What does it matter! Do you think I don’t get splashed with that dirt in which people bathe? You know what happened to me–and after all that how can I not hate, not disdain people!”
“What happened to you?”
“Betrayal in love, a kind of coarse, cold forgetfulness in friendship… Yes, and in general, it’s disgusting, repulsive to look at people and live with them. All their thoughts, words, doings–everything is founded on sand. Today they’re running toward one goal, hurrying, knocking each other over, doing mean tricks, flattering, abasing themselves, plotting intrigues, but tomorrow they’ve forgotten about yesterday and are running after something else. Today they’re enthusiastic about one thing, tomorrow they rail against it; today they’re warm and tender, tomorrow cold… Yes, however you look at it, life is terrible, repulsive! And people!…”
Pyotr Ivanych, sitting in his armchair, was about to doze off again.
“Pyotr Ivanych!” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, giving him a quiet push.
“You’re disheartened, that’s all! You need to be busy with something,” said Pyotr Ivanych, wiping his eyes, “then you won’t inveigh against people for nothing. In what way are your friends bad? There are always decent people.”
“Yes! Whomever you take, you’ve got hold of some animal out of Krylov’s fables,” said Alexander.
“The Khozarovs, for example?”
“A whole family of animals!” interrupted Alexander. “One will heap flattery upon you to your face, he’ll caress you, but behind your back… I heard what he says about me… Another will sob with you today over your injury, but tomorrow he’ll begin sobbing with the offender. Today he’ll laugh with you at somebody else, but tomorrow will laugh at you with that somebody… it’s disgusting!”
“And the Lunins?”
“They are fine specimens also. He is the very image of the ass the nightingale flew away from to the ends of the earth. And she looks at you like a kind fox…”
“What would you say about the Sonins?”
“Well, there’s nothing good to say. Sonin will always give good advice when you’ve escaped misfortune, but try to get his help in time of need… Then he’ll let you go home without supper, as the fox did the wolf. Do you remember how he played up to you when he was looking for a job under your protection? But now listen to what he says about you…”
“You don’t like Volochkov?”
“A contemptible and, in addition, mean animal…” Alexander even spit.
“Well, you’ve dispatched them all!” Pyotr Ivayych remarked.
“What have I to expect from people?” continued Alexander.
“Altogether, friendship and love and a field-marshal’s rank and money… So, now finish this portrait gallery with ours: what kind of beasts are my wife and I?”
Alexander said nothing in response, but an expression of subtle, hardly noticeable irony flickered on his face. He smiled. Neither the expression nor the smile escaped Pyotr Ivanych. He exchanged glances with his wife, who lowered her gaze.
“Well, and what kind of beast are you yourself?” asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“I haven’t done harm to people!” Alexander pronounced judgment with dignity. “I did everything I should in relation to them… I had a loving heart. I opened my arms in wide embrace to people and what did they do?”
“Hear how ridiculously he talks!” remarked Pyotr Ivanych, turning to his wife.
“Everything’s ridiculous to you!” she answered.
“And I myself did not ask of people,” Alexander continued, “either heroic good deeds or magnanimity or self-sacrifice… I asked only what was due, owed me by all rights…”
“So you’re right! You came out of the water quite dry. Wait, I’ll take you out into fresh water…”
Lizaveta Alexandrovna noticed that her husband had begun speaking in a severe tone and was alarmed.
“Pyotr Ivanych!” she whispered, “stop…”
“No, let him listen to the truth. I’ll be finished in a minute. Tell me, please, Alexander, when you branded your friends just now as ne’er-do-wells and fools, was there no slight ripple in your heart of something like a pang of conscience?”
“For what, Uncle?”
“For the reason that you were cordially welcomed for several years running at the houses of these beasts. Let’s assume that they acted slyly, and plotted intrigue against those from whom they could get something. But they had nothing to gain from you. Why did they constantly invite you to their house, why were they friendly to you?… It’s not kind of you, Alexander!” Pyotr Ivanych added seriously. “Another man would be silent for that alone, even if he knew they were guilty of certain peccadillos!”
Alexander turned completely red.
“I would attribute their attentions to me to your recommendation,” he answered, but added now without his pose of dignit
y and quite humbly, “Besides, that is good social manners…”
“All right, let’s take manners outside high society… I was trying to prove to you, only I don’t know whether I really proved it, that you were unjust to your Sashenka, was it?… whatever her name. For a year and a half you were at their house as if it were your own, you lived there from morning to night, and, besides, you were loved by this contemptible slut, as you call her. It seems she doesn’t deserve contempt…”
“But why did she betray me?”
“You mean, fall in love with somebody else? We’ve gone over that enough. Do you really think that if she had gone on loving you, you wouldn’t have fallen out of love with her?”
“I? Never.”
“Why then you don’t understand anything. Let’s go on. You say you have no friends, but I’ve always thought you have three!”
“Three?” exclaimed Alexander. “Once I had one, but he…”
“Three,” persistently repeated Pyotr Ivanych. “The first, let’s begin by seniority, that one. A different friend who hadn’t seen you for several years would have turned away from you when he met you. But he invited you to his house. And when you came with a sour look, he kept asking sympathetically if you didn’t need something and began offering you his services and help, and, I’m convinced, would have given you even money–yes! And in our time money is the touchstone to test more than feeling… Introduce me to him; I see him as a decent fellow… But according to you, he’s a villain.”
Alexander stood with lowered head.
“So, what do you think, who’s your second friend?” asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“Who?” said Alexander, amazed. “Why no one…”
“Have you no conscience!” interrupted Pyotr Ivanych. “Huh? Liza, he doesn’t even blush! And I, how do I rate with you, may I ask!”
“You… you’re a relative.”
“A fine title! I thought I was more. Not kind, Alexander. That’s a character trait which even in grade-school copy books is called vile, and such as you don’t find even in Krylov.”
“But you always pushed me away…” Alexander said shyly, not raising his eyes.
“Yes, when you wanted to embrace.”
“You laughed at me, at feeling…”
“And why, to what end?” asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“You watched my every step.”
“Ah! I agree! I kept my eye on you! Find yourself such a tutor! Why did I bother? I could even add a bit more, but that would seem like a vulgar reproach…”
“Uncle!” said Alexander, going toward him and extending both hands.
“Stay where you are; I haven’t finished yet!” Pyotr Ivanych said coldly. “Your third and best friend I hope you’ll name yourself…”
Alexander again looked at him and appeared to ask, “So where is he?” Pyotr Ivanych pointed to his wife. “There she is!”
“Pyotr Ivanych,” interrupted Lizaveta Alexandrovna. “Don’t try to be clever, for Heaven’s sake, let him be…”
“No, don’t interfere.”
“I can appreciate my aunt’s friendship,” mumbled Alexander inaudibly.
“No, you can’t; if you could, you wouldn’t be looking at the ceiling to find a friend, but would point to her. If you truly felt her friendship, out of respect for her merits you wouldn’t think ill of people. She alone should redeem in your eyes the faults of others. Who dried your tears and whimpered along with you? Who sympathized with your every bit of nonsense, and what sympathy! You may well think only a mother could take to heart so warmly everything related to you, and even a mother couldn’t have. If you had felt her sympathy, you wouldn’t have smiled ironically just now; you would have seen that she is no fox, or wolf, but that here is a woman who loves you like your own sister…”
“Oh, dear Aunt!” said Alexander, confounded and completely disconcerted by this reproach, “You don’t think, I hope, that I don’t value you and consider you a shining exception to the crowd? Goodness, goodness! I swear…”
“I believe you, I believe you, Alexander!” she answered. “Don’t listen to Pyotr Ivanych. He’s making mountains out of molehills–glad of a chance to show off his intelligence. For Heaven’s sake, stop, Pyotr Ivanych.”
“Right away, I’ll finish right away– just one last word! You said you fulfill everything demanded of you by your obligations to others?”
Alexander couldn’t say a word and did not raise his eyes.
“So, tell me do you love your mother?”
Alexander suddenly came alive. “What a question? ”he said. “Whom am I to love after this? I adore her, I’d give my life for her…”
“Good. Therefore you know that she lives, breathes only through you, that every joy and grief of yours is a joy and grief for her. She counts time now not by months, not weeks, but by news about you and from you… Tell me, how long is it since you wrote to her?”
Alexander started. “Around three weeks,” he muttered.
“No. Four months! What name should I call such conduct by? Well, what kind of beast are you? Perhaps you don’t name it because Krylov doesn’t have one.”
“And has something happened?” Alexander suddenly asked with fear.
“Why this, the old woman is sick with grief.”
“Really? Oh, Heavens! Heavens!”
“Not so! It’s not so!” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, and immediately ran to the desk and pulled out a letter, which she gave to Alexander. “She’s not sick, but much grieved.”
“You spoil him, Liza,” said Pyotr Ivanych.
“And you are immoderately severe. There were certain difficulties which distracted Alexander for a time…”
“To forget his mother for some girl–a fine difficulty!”
“Enough, for Heaven’s sake!” she said persuasively and pointed to her nephew.
After reading his mother’s letter, Alexander covered his face with it. “Don’t interrupt Uncle, dear Aunt. Let him thunder his reproaches. I’ve deserved worse. I’m a monster!” he said, making faces of desperation.
“Come, don’t worry, Alexander!” said Pyotr Ivanych, there are lots of such monsters. You got carried away by some stupidity and forgot about your mother. That’s natural; love for one’s mother is a calm feeling. You’re all she has in the world–that’s why it’s natural for her to be distressed. There’s nothing here worth putting you to death for yet. I’ll only say in the words of your favorite author:
Rather than trying to evaluate others,
Better turn your fox eye on yoursel f!
And better be lenient toward the weaknesses of others. That’s the kind of rule without which there’s no living either for oneself or others. That’s all. Now I shall go take a nap.”
“Uncle! Are you angry?” said Alexander in a voice of deep repentance.
“Where did you get that idea? Why would I roil up my blood? I only wanted to play the part of the bear in the fable of the martin and the mirror. I played it artfully, didn’t I? Didn’t I, Liza?”
He wanted to kiss her in passing, but she turned away.
“It seems I’ve done exactly what you asked,” added Pyotr Ivanych, “don’t you think? Oh! I forgot one thing… In what state is your heart Alexander?” he asked.
Alexander remained silent.
“Do you need money?” again asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“No, Uncle…”
“He’ll never ask!” said Pyotr Ivanych, closing the door after him.
“What will Uncle think of me?” asked Alexander after a moment’s silence.
“The same as before,” answered Lizaveta Alexandrovna. “Do you think he told you all that sincerely from the heart?”
“What do you mean?”
“No! Believe me, he wanted to show off. Do you see now he did all that according to plan? Arranged his argument in order: first the weak ones, then stronger ones; at first he brought out the reason for your bad opinion of people… and then… all planned! Now he’s quite forgott
en, I think.”
“What intelligence! What a knowledge of life, of people, self-control!”
“Yes, much intelligence and too much self-control,” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna thoughtfully “but…”
“But you, dear Aunt, will you stop respecting me? Be sure, only such shattering experiences as I’ve been through could distract me… Heavens, poor dear Mama!”
Lizaveta Alexandrovna gave him her hand.
“I, Alexander, shall not cease respecting the heart in you,” she said. “It’s feeling that lures you even into your errors, and so I always pardon them.”
“Oh, dear Aunt! you’re an ideal woman!”
“Simply a woman.”
His uncle’s scolding had quite a strong effect on Alexander. Then and there, sitting with his aunt, he plunged into tormenting thoughts. It seemed that the calm she had so artfully labored to instill in his heart suddenly deserted him. She waited in vain for some mean diatribe or other, she herself invited him to acid remarks and diligently exposed Pyotr Ivanych to epigrams, but Alexander was deaf and dumb. It was as if a tub of cold water had been poured on him.
“What is the matter? Why are you like this?” his aunt asked him.
“It’s just, dear Aunt, that my spirits are low. Uncle helped me to understand myself; he explained things very well!”
“Don’t listen to him; he sometimes says what isn’t so.”
“No, don’t comfort me. I am disgusted with myself. I scorned and hated people, and now myself too. You can hide from people, but where do you run away from yoursel f? So everything, is worthless: all these blessings, all the little things of life, and people and oneself…”
“Alas, this Pyotr Ivanych!” exclaimed Lizaveta Alexandrovna with a deep sigh. “He would bring melancholy to whomever you will!”
An Ordinary Story Page 21
