“And you could bear it?”
“Why, what difference is it to me?”
“How’s that! Am I not your nephew by blood? How could you not be curious? What frigidity! This is egoism, Uncle!”
“Perhaps; I don’t rule it out. But then, I know what’s in it. So read it!”
Alexander began to read loudly, and Pyotr Ivanych beat time with his cane against his boots. The note contained the following:
“What kind of mystification is this, my dearest Pyotr Ivanych? You writing stories! Now who will believe that of you? And you meant to hoodwink me, old coot, you! If it’s even true–which God forbid–if you had snatched your pen away for a time from writing the literally precious business letters, each line of which is worth, of course, many a gold coin, and if giving up your respected rendering of accounts, you had produced the story I have before me, then I would tell you that the fragile products of your china factory are much more solid than this piece of work.”
The volume of Alexander’s voice suddenly grew less. “But I reject such an offensive suspicion of you,” he continued shyly and quietly.
“I can’t hear you, Alexander; speak louder!” said Pyotr Ivanych.
Alexander continued in a quiet voice: “Out of sympathy with the author of the story you probably want to know my opinion. Here it is: The author must be a young man. He’s not stupid, but somehow pathologically angry at the whole world. In what an enraged, furious mood he writes! Probably he’s disappointed. What a pity that by reason of a false view of life many talents in this country are lost in fruitless dreams, vain strivings toward goals for which they lack the gifts.”
Alexander stopped and took a deep breath. Pyotr Ivanych lit a cigar and blew a smoke ring. His face, as usual, expressed complete calm.
In a hollow, hardly audible voice Alexander went on reading: “Pride, daydreaming, the immature development of emotional tendencies, the stultification of the mind with the inevitable consequence–indolence–these are the causes of this evil. Learning, labor, a practical job–these are the remedies which can sober up our idle, sick young people.”
“The whole thing could have been explained in three lines,” said Pyotr Ivanych, looking at his watch, “but he has written a whole dissertation in a friendly letter. Isn’t he the pedant, though? Should we read further, Alexander? Let it be, it’s boring. I have something to talk to you about…”
“No, Uncle, allow me, I had better empty the cup altogether; I’ll read it to the end.”
“Read on to your heart’s content!”
“This unfortunate direction of mental capacities,” Alexander read, “shows in every line of the story you’ve sent me. Tell your protégé that, first of all, a writer only writes sensibly when he’s not under the influence of personal enthusiasms and preferences. He must view life and people in general with a calm and bright eye–otherwise he’ll express only his own ego, which interests no one. This failing strongly predominates in the story. The second and main condition–please don’t tell this to the author out of pity for his youth and an author’s pride, the most unruly of all forms of pride, as everyone knows– talent is essential and there isn’t even a trace of it here. True, the language is everywhere correct and pure; the author even writes with style…” Alexander finished with difficulty.
“Well, it’s none too soon!” said Pyotr Ivanych, “God knows he’s talked our heads off! About the rest you and I shall decide without him.”
Alexander’s hands dropped to his sides. Silent, like a man stunned by an unexpected blow, he looked with troubled eyes straight at the wall. Pyotr Ivanych took the letter from him and read the following P.S.: “If you nevertheless want to get this story into our magazine–all right, for your sake I’ll put it in in the summer when few people read, but it’s impossible even to think of remuneration.”
“Well, Alexander, how do you feel?” asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“Calmer than one might expect,” answered Alexander with effort. “I feel like someone who’s been deceived in everything.”
“No, like a person who has deceived himself and further wanted to deceive others too…”
Alexander did not hear this objection.
“Is this really a dream?… and has this too betrayed me?…” he whispered. “A bitter loss! How am I to avoid the habit of beginning new self-deceptions! But I don’t understand why all these insuperable impulses to creativity were given to me?…”
“That’s it! You were given the impulses, but clearly they forgot to give you the creativity itself,” said Pyotr Ivanych. “I told you!”
Alexander answered with a sigh and thought for a moment. Then suddenly with great energy he hurriedly opened all the desk drawers. He pulled out several notebooks, little sheets of paper and scraps and began bitterly throwing them into the fire.
“Don’t forget this one!” said Pyotr Ivanych, pushing toward him a sheet of unfinished verses that lay on the desk.
“Give me that too!” said Alexander with despair, throwing the verses into the fireplace.
“Isn’t there something more? Search well,” asked Pyotr Ivanych, looking around. “For once you’d be doing the wise thing. What’s that bundle on the cabinet?”
“That too into the fire!” said Alexander, seizing it. “Those are articles about agriculture.”
“Don’t, don’t burn them! Give them to me!” said Pyotr Ivanych, reaching out his hand. “Those are not nonsense.”
Alexander didn’t listen. “No,” he said with anger. “If I have lost my noble creativity in the field of literature, I don’t want hack work. Fate won’t crush me with that!” The bundle too flew into the fireplace.
“Too bad!” remarked Pyotr Ivanych and meanwhile poked with his cane in the basket under the desk to see whether there was something more to throw into the fire.
“So what shall we do with the story, Alexander? It’s in my apartment.”
“Don’t you need to paper any screens?”
“No, not now. Shouldn’t I send for it? Evsei! He’s fallen asleep again. Watch out, or they’ll steal my overcoat under your nose! Go down quickly to my place, ask Vasily there for the thick notebook that’s in the cabinet on the desk and bring it here.”
Alexander sat, leaning on his arm and looked into the fireplace. The notebook was brought in. Alexander stared a while at the fruit of a halfyear’s work and was plunged in thought. Pyotr Ivanych noticed this.
“Come, have done, Alexander,” he said, “then let’s talk of something else.”
“This goes there too!” cried Alexander, flinging the notebook into the stove.
Both began watching it ignite, Pyotr Ivanych apparently with pleasure, Alexander with sadness, almost with tears. Now the uppermost sheet rustled and rose, as if an unseen hand were turning the page; its edges curled, it blackened, then curled and suddenly burst into flame. After it another, a third quickly caught fire and then suddenly several arose and a bunch took fire, but the next page under them still shone white, then two seconds later it too began to blacken at the edges.
Alexander, however, managed to read the words “Chapter III.” He remembered what was in that chapter and began to feel sorry about it. He got up from his chair and seized the tongs so as to save the remains of his work. “Maybe, still…” whispered hope…
“Wait, I’ll do better with my cane,” said Pyotr Ivanych, “you’ll burn yourself with the tongs.”
He moved the notebook into the depths of the fireplace directly onto the hot coals. Alexander stopped, undecided. The notebook was thick and did not at once yield to the action of the fire. Thick smoke rolled out from under it at first, from time to time a flame erupted from below, licked the side, left a black spot and hid again. The book could still be saved. Alexander was stretching out his hand, but at that very moment the flame lit up both his chair and Pyotr Ivanych’s face, as well as the desk. The whole notebook burst into flame and a minute later went out, leaving behind it a pile of black ash, along which
in certain places ran little snakes of fire. Alexander dropped the tongs.
“It’s all over!” he said.
“All over!” repeated Pyotr Ivanych.
“Ooh!” Alexander uttered, “I’m free!”
“This is by now the second time I’ve helped you clean up the apartment,” said Pyotr Ivanych. “I hope this time…”
“It’s irrevocable, Uncle.”
“Amen!” said his uncle, putting his hands on his shoulders. “So, Alexander, I advise you not to delay. Write at once to Ivan Ivanych and ask him to send you work in the field of agriculture. After all your stupidities you’re on a hot trail; now you’ll write a very intelligent piece. He’s always broaching the subject: ‘What about your nephew?…’ he says.”
Sadly Alexander shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “No, I can’t; it’s all over.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“What?” he asked and thought about it. “Now, for the time being, nothing.”
“It’s only in the country that they somehow manage to do nothing, but here… Why did you come here? It’s incomprehensible!… Well, for the time being, enough about that. I have a favor to ask of you.”
Alexander slowly raised his head a bit and looked at his uncle questioningly.
“Look, you know my partner Surkov?” Pyotr Ivanych began, moving his chair toward Alexander.
Alexander nodded.
“Yes, you sometimes dined with him at my house; but, did you manage to get an idea of what sort he is? He’s a good fellow, but very shallow. His greatest weakness is women. To his misfortune, as you see, he’s not bad-looking–he’s blond, sleek, tall; his hair is always curled, he’s heavily perfumed and dresses like a fashion plate. So he imagines that all women are mad about him–in short, a dandy! The Devil take him with all that, I wouldn’t have paid any attention, but here’s the trouble. He’s no sooner fallen for a woman then he goes and throws money around. He dreams up surprises and presents and pretty pleasures; he launches into dandyism, begins to change his coach and horses… pure Financial ruin! He’s even tried courting my wife. It used to be that if I hadn’t taken care of sending our servant for a theater ticket, Surkov would bring it without fail. If you had to exchange horses, get hold of something rare, get through a crowd, take a trip to look over a country place, wherever you needed to send someone for something–Surkov was as good as gold. How useful he was; you couldn’t hire his like for money. Too bad! I purposely haven’t interfered with him, though when he very much bothered my wife, I drove him off. So, whenever he has gone on a spending spree, his percentage hasn’t been sufficient. He begins asking me for money–if he’s refused, he starts talking about withdrawing from the capital. ‘What do I care about your factory?’ he says. ‘You never have cash on hand!’ If only he’d take on some floozy… But no; he’s always looking for connections in society. ‘I need a high-society affair, I can’t live without love!’–isn’t he an ass? He’s pushing forty and can’t live without love!”
Alexander remembered about himself and sadly smiled.
“He’s always lying,” Pyotr Ivanych went on. “I’ve lately investigated why he bustles about. He only wants to brag so that people talk about him, say that he has a relationship with such and such a lady, that he’s been seen in the box of another lady or at the country place of another till late evening–they sat on the balcony, just the two of them–or went for a ride, let’s say, with her somewhere in a solitary place in the country in a carriage, or on horseback. And meanwhile it turns out that these so-called high-society affairs– Devil take ’em–cost a lot more than others. So that’s what he’s up against, the fool!”
“What’s all this leading to, Uncle?” asked Alexander “I don’t see how I can help.”
“Wait, you’ll see. Recently a young widow returned here from abroad. Yuliya Pavlovna Tafayeva. She’s quite good-looking herself. Surkov and I were friends of her husband. Tafayev died in foreign parts. Well, have you guessed?”
“I’ll guess–Surkov fell in love with the widow.”
“Right, he’s quite mad about her! And what else?”
“What else… I don’t know…”
“You’re a fine one! Well, listen: Surkov has twice let it be known that he’ll soon need money. I guessed right away what that meant; only I couldn’t guess the wind’s direction. I questioned him, what’s the money for? He squirmed and squirmed, finally said he wanted to rent an apartment in the Liteiny section of the city. I tried to remember what was there–and then remembered that Tafayeva lives there, straight across from the place he had chosen. He already made a deposit. Unavoidable disaster threatens unless you help. Have you guessed?”
Alexander raised his head a bit, ran his gaze along the wall, across the ceiling, then blinked twice and began to look at his uncle, but remained silent.
Pyotr Ivanych looked at him with a smile. He terribly loved to note a lack of intelligence or intuition in someone, and then let them feel it.
“What’s the matter with you, Alexander? And you even write stories!” he said.
“Oh, I’ve guessed, Uncle!”
“Well, thank God!”
“Surkov’s asking for money, you don’t have any and you want me to…” He stopped speaking.
Pyotr Ivanych began to laugh. Alexander didn’t finish the sentence and looked at his uncle in amazement.
“No, not that!” said Pyotr Ivanych. “Have you really ever known me to be short of money? Just try asking when you want it; you’ll see! No, it’s this: through him Tafayeva reminded me of my acquaintance with her husband. I went to see her. She asked me to come often. I promised to, and said I’d bring you; so now, I hope, you’ve got it?”
“Me?” he repeated, staring wide-eyed at his uncle. “Yes, of course… now I’ve got it…” he added hastily, but hesitated on the last word.
“And what have you got?” asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“Strike me dead, Uncle, I don’t understand anything! Excuse me… Maybe she has a nice house… You want me to be entertained… since I’m bored…”
“Oh, splendid! For that purpose I should start taking you around to people’s houses! And thereafter I need only cover your mouth with a handkerchief to keep off the flies at night! No, it’s all wrong. Here’s what I mean! Get Tafayeva to fall in love with you.”
Alexander suddenly raised his eyebrows and looked at his uncle, “You’re joking, Uncle? That’s absurd!” he said.
“When there are indeed absurdities, you make them very important, and when something is simple and natural–you call it absurd. What’s absurd about it? Look closely at how absurd love itself is, a game of blood and pride… But what’s the use of reasoning with you? You still believe that lovers are destined to meet, you believe in the harmony of souls!”
“Excuse me, I don’t believe in anything now. But do you think you can make someone fall in love and fall in love yourself by force of will?”
“It’s possible, but not for you. Never fear; I won’t give you such a complicated assignment. Only here’s what you do. Pay court to Tafayeva, be attentive, don’t let Surkov be alone with her… In short, make him furious. Stand in his way! If he says one word, you say two; if he expresses an opinion, you refute it. Constantly keep confusing him, destroy him at every turn…”
“What for?”
“You still don’t understand. Why, so that in the beginning, dear fellow, he’ll go mad from jealousy and vexation, and then he’ll cool down. With him the one quickly follows the other. He’s conceited to the point of stupidity. Then he won’t need the apartment, our capital will remain whole, our factory business will go on as usual… Well, do you understand. This will be the fifth time I’ve played a joke on him. Earlier when I was a bachelor and younger, I used to do it myself, or otherwise send one of my friends.”
“But I don’t even know her,” said Alexander.
“That’s the very reason that I’ll take you to call on her on Wednesday. O
n Wednesdays some of her old acquaintances gather at her house.”
“But if she reciprocates Surkov’s love, then you’ll agree that my favors and attentions will not just enrage him.”
“Enough of that! A proper woman, having seen through a fool, will stop having anything to do with him, especially before witnesses. Her self-respect won’t allow it. She’ll have another man at hand, a handsomer, more intelligent man; she’ll be ashamed and quickly drop the first. That’s why, indeed, I chose you.”
Alexander made a bow.
“Surkov isn’t dangerous,” his uncle continued, “but Tafayeva sees very few people, so that he can, indeed, in her small circle have the reputation of a lion and intelligent fellow. Appearance makes a big impression on women. He’s good at pleasing, so they suffer him. Maybe she’ll flirt with him, and he’ll do the same with her… And intelligent women love having silly things done for them, especially expensive ones. But most of the time in such cases they don’t love the one who loves them, but someone else. A lot of men don’t want to understand this, among them Surkov–so you’ll teach him this lesson.”
“But Surkov probably doesn’t come Wednesdays; I won’t get in his way on Wednesday, and on other days how am I to do it?”
“I’m always instructing you! You flatter her, pretend to be in love a little–after the second time she’ll invite you not on a Wednesday, but on Thursday or Friday. You double your attentions, and then I’ll put her in the mood a little, hint as if, indeed, you’d fallen… As far as I can tell, it seems she’s… the emotional sort… probably with weak nerves… I think she’s also not averse to sympathy… outpourings…”
“How is it possible?” Alexander asked pensively. “If I could fall in love again–then yes. But I can’t… it won’t work.”
“On the contrary, this way it will. If you fell in love you couldn’t pretend. She’d notice at once and would start making fools of you both. But this way… just so you make Surkov furious. For sure, I know him like my five fingers. As soon as he sees he’s having no luck, he won’t start wasting money for nothing, and that’s all I need, indeed… Listen, Alexander, it’s very important for me. If you accomplish it, do you remember the two vases you liked at the factory?–they’re yours. Only you buy the pedestal for them yourself.”
An Ordinary Story Page 23
