“Oh, Uncle, do you really imagine that I…”
“Well, why, indeed, would you trouble yourself for nothing, waste your time? Fine! Never mind! The vases are very beautiful. In our time people don’t do anything for free. When I do something for you, offer me a present–I’ll take it.”
“It’s a strange assignment!” said Alexander indecisively.
“I hope you won’t refuse to do this for me. I too am ready to do what I can for you. When you need money, turn to me… So, on Wednesday! This business will take a month, two at the most. I’ll tell you when it’s no longer necessary; then you’ll quit.”
“Pardon, Uncle. I’m willing, only it’s strange… I don’t guarantee success… If I could fall in love myself, then… but this way, no…”
“And it’s a very good thing you can’t, or else you’d spoil the whole thing. I myself guarantee success. Goodbye!”
He left, and Alexander still sat for a long time at the fireplace near the beloved ashes.
When Pyotr Ivanych returned home, his wife asked: “What about Alexander, what about his story, will he be writing?”
“No, I’ve cured him for good.”
Aduyev told her the content of the letter he had received with the story and about their burning everything.
“You are without pity, Pyotr Ivanych!” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, “or else you can’t do anything properly, no matter what you undertake.”
“Did you do well by constraining him to muck up paper! Do you think he has talent?”
“No.”
Pyotr Ivanych looked at her with amazement. “So, why did you…”
“And you still haven’t understood, haven’t guessed?”
He was silent and couldn’t help remembering his scene with Alexander. “What didn’t I understand? It’s very clear!” he said, looking straight at her.
“Tell me, then.”
“That… that… you wanted to teach him a lesson… only another way, more gently in your own way…”
“He doesn’t understand, though he’s an intelligent person… Why all this time has he been cheerful, healthy, almost happy? Because he had hope. So I supported this hope. Now do you see?”
“So that means you were slyly deceiving him the whole time?”
“I think that’s allowable. And what did you do to him? You’re not at all sorry for him; you took away his last hope.”
“That’s enough! What last hope–a lot more stupidities still lay ahead.”
“What will he do now? Will he go around hanging his head again?”
“No, he won’t, he won’t get to that; I’ve assigned him a task.”
“What? Again some translation or other about potatoes? Do you think that can absorb a young person and especially a fiery and exalted one? Under your care only the mind would be busy.”
“No, my dear, not about potatoes, but something to do with the factory.”
III
Wednesday came round. In Yuliya Pavlovna’s drawing room some twelve or fifteen guests assembled. Four young ladies, two foreigners with beards, the hostess’ friends from abroad and one officer formed a small circle.
An old man sat apart from them in an armchair, a retired army man, apparently, with two tufts of gray hair under his nose and numerous ribbons in his buttonhole. He was discussing the forthcoming land leases with an elderly man.
In another room an old lady and two men were playing cards. A very young lady sat at the piano while another was chatting there with a student.
The Aduyevs arrived. Not many people could enter a room with such ease and dignity as Pyotr Ivanych. Alexander followed him with a kind of reluctance.
What a difference between them: one a whole head taller, well-built, robust, a man of a strong healthy nature with self-assurance in his eyes and manners. But no one could guess Pyotr Ivanych’s thoughts or character either from a single glance or movement or word–everything within him was so concealed by his manners and the art of self-control. His gestures and his glances both seemed calculated. His pale, calm expression showed that the slightest outburst of passion in this man came under the despotic rule of his mind, that his heart beat or didn’t beat by dictate of his head.
On the other hand, everything in Alexander pointed to a weak and gentle constitution, that is, the changeable expression of his face, and a kind of laziness or slowness and unevenness of movement and the cloudy glance which would at once show what feeling troubled his heart or what thought flickered in his head. He was of medium height, but thin and pale–not by nature like Pyotr Ivanych, but as a result of his constant emotional agitation. The hair on his head and cheeks had not grown thick like his uncle’s, but drooped down over his temples and the back of his neck in long, thin, but unusually soft, silky and light locks with a beautiful wave.
The uncle introduced his nephew. “But isn’t my friend Surkov here?” Pyotr Ivanych asked, looking about with surprise. “He’s forgotten you.”
“Oh, no! I’m very grateful to him,” the hostess answered. “He comes to call on me. You know, except for friends of my late husband, I see almost no one.”
“But where is he?”
“He’ll be here shortly. Imagine, he gave his word to get me and my cousin without fail a box for tomorrow at the theater when, they say, none is to be had… He went for them just now.”
“And he’ll get them. I’ll guarantee he will; he’s a genius at that. He always gets them for me when neither friends nor influence helps. Where he gets them and for how much money–that’s his secret.”
Surkov, indeed, arrived. His dress was in the latest style, but every pleat and every detail sharply expressed his ambition to be fashionable, to surpass all dandys, and even fashion itself. If, for example, open frockcoats were in style, then his frockcoat was opened up to the point of resembling a bird’s spread wings. If turned-back collars were being worn, he ordered himself such a collar that in his frockcoat he looked like a criminal seized from behind who’s trying to escape. He gave his tailor his own directions on how to make his clothes. When he arrived at Tafayeva’s, this time his necktie was pinned to his shirt with a tie pin so enormous that it looked like a club.
“Well, did you get them?” came the question from all sides.
Surkov was just about ready to answer, but, seeing Aduyev and his nephew, suddenly stopped and looked at them with surprise.
“He has a presentiment!” Pyotr Ivanych said quietly to his nephew. “Ah! and he’s got a cane. What does that mean?”
“What’s that?” he asked Surkov, pointing to the cane.
“I was getting out of the carriage recently… I stumbled and am a little lame,” he answered, coughing.
“Nonsense!” whispered Pyotr Ivanych to Alexander. “Notice the head of the cane; do you see the gold lion’s head? Day before yesterday he bragged to me that he paid Barbier six hundred rubles for it, and now he’s showing it off. That’s an example for you of the means by which he works. Do battle with him and drive him out of the field.”
Pyotr Ivanych pointed through the window at the house across the street. “Remember the vases will be yours, and be inspired,” he added.
“Do you have a ticket for tomorrow’s play?” Surkov asked Tafayeva, going up to her triumphantly.
“No.”
“Allow me to present these!” he continued and finished by reciting Zagoretsky’s whole speech from Woe from Wit. 9
The officer’s whiskers moved slightly in a smile. Pyotr Ivanych cast a sideward glance at his nephew, and Yuliya Pavlovna blushed. She started to invite Pyotr Ivanych to her box.
“Thank you very much,” he answered, “but tomorrow I am engaged to be at the theater with my wife. But here, let me present a young man to you in exchange…” He pointed to Alexander.
“I wanted to ask him too; there are but three of us: I, my cousin and…”
“He’ll take my place,” said Pyotr Ivanych, “and, in case of need, he’ll replace this fellow too.” He
pointed to Surkov and began to tell her something in a low voice. While he spoke, she looked furtively twice at Alexander and smiled.
“I thank you,” answered Surkov, “only it would have been better to propose this replacement earlier, before there was a ticket; then I would have seen how I would be replaced.”
“Oh dear! I’m very grateful for your kindness,” the hostess said spiritedly to Surkov, “but I didn’t invite you to sit in the box because you have an orchestra seat. Surely you prefer to face the stage directly… especially for the ballet…”
“No, no, you’re being sly, you don’t think that: Exchange a place beside you–not for anything!”
“But it’s already promised…”
“How? To whom?”
“To M. René.” She pointed to one of the bearded foreigners.
“Oui, Madame m’a fait cet honneur…” he quickly began to mutter.
Surkov looked at him, opening his mouth wide, then back at Tafayeva. “I’ll change with him: I’ll offer him my orchestra seat,” he said.
“You can ask him his preference.”
The bearded man answered with both hands and feet.
“I’m deeply obliged to you,” said Surkov to Pyotr Ivanych, nodding toward Alexander, “this I owe to you.”
“No need to be grateful. But won’t you sit in my box? We’re only two, my wife and I. You haven’t seen her for a long time, you could pay her court.”
Surkov turned away in vexation. Pyotr Ivanych quietly left the party. Yuliya seated Alexander next her and talked with him a whole hour. Surkov intruded in the conversation several times, but somehow inopportunely. He started saying something about the ballet and got yes for an answer when it should have been no and vice versa. It was clear they weren’t listening. Then suddenly he got off on oysters, insisting he had swallowed a hundred eighteen of them that morning– and he didn’t receive even a glance. He made several more commonplace remarks, and not seeing any sense in all this, he seized his hat and hovered around Yuliya, letting her notice that he was discontent and getting ready to leave. But she didn’t notice.
“I’m leaving!” he finally said with emphasis. “Goodbye!” His badly concealed vexation was obvious in his words.
“So soon!” she answered calmly. “Will you come tomorrow to see us in the box if only for a minute?”
“How sly of you! One minute, when you know that for a place beside you I’d give up a place in paradise.”
“If it’s theatrical paradise, I believe you!”
By now he didn’t want to leave. His vexation had disappeared, thanks to the friendly word Yuliya had tossed him in farewell. But everyone had seen him taking his leave; now he would have to go whether he wanted to or not, so he left, looking back like a little dog who would like to follow his master, but instead is chased back.
Yuliya Pavlovna was twenty-three or twenty-four years old. Pyotr Ivanych rightly guessed she was, indeed, a bundle of nerves, but this did not prevent her being at the same time a very pretty, intelligent and graceful woman. She was shy, however, dreamy and emotional like the majority of nervous women. She had a gentle, refined face, a sensitive and always thoughtful look, partly sad–for no reason, or, if you will, by reason of her nerves.
Her outlook on the world and life was not altogether kindly and when she thought about the question of her existence, she found she was superfluous here. But if, Heaven prevent, anyone, even by chance, should blurt out anything about the grave, about death in her presence–she grew pale. The bright side of her life slipped from her view. She chose the dark overgrown path for her walk in the garden and in the grove and looked with indifference at the smiling countryside. At the theater she always saw drama, rarely a comedy and never a farce. She covered her ears when the sounds of a merry song reached her by chance and she never laughed at a joke.
At other times her face expressed weariness, though not of a martyred or sick person, but the weariness as if of leisure. Clearly she struggled inwardly with some kind of fascinating dream–and weakened. After such a struggle she became silent, sad, then suddenly fell into an infinitely merry mood without being false to her character, however–what cheered her would not have amused another. All nerves! But to listen to the words of these ladies–what they won’t say! –fate, sympathy, infinite attraction, unprecedented melancholy, vague desires– so they reason about one thing and another, and it ends, nevertheless, with a sigh, the word “nerves,” and the little flask of smelling salts.
“How you have understood me!” said Tafayeva to Alexander at parting. “No man, even my husband, has altogether understood my character!”
And the fact of the matter was that Alexander came close to being that man. It was a liberation for him!
“Goodbye.”
She gave him her hand. “I hope that now you’ll find the way to my house without your uncle?” she added.
Winter came. Alexander usually dined at his uncle’s on Friday. But four Fridays had now passed and he hadn’t appeared, nor had he come on other days. Lizaveta Alexandrovna was angry; Pyotr Ivanych muttered that he had made them wait extra half-hours in vain.
But meanwhile Alexander was not unoccupied; he was fulfilling his uncle’s command. Surkov had long since ceased going to see Tafayeva and he declared everywhere that everything was finished between them and that he had broken off the relationship with her. One evening–it was on a Thursday–upon returning home, Alexander found two vases and a note from his uncle on the desk in his room. Pyotr Ivanych thanked him for his friendly diligence and invited him to dinner the next day as usual. Alexander pondered it, as if this invitation interfered with his plans. The next day, however, he went to Pyotr Ivanych’s an hour before dinner.
“What have you been doing? Aren’t we to see you at all? Have you forgotten us?” both Aunt and Uncle pelted him with questions.
“Well! You did me a favor,” Pyotr Ivanych continued, “beyond expectation!– and you were so modest: ‘I can’t,’ he says, ‘I don’t know how!’–doesn’t know how indeed! I’ve wanted to see you for a long time, but it was impossible to catch you. Well, I’m very grateful! Did you receive the vases undamaged?”
“I did. But I shall send them back.”
“Why? No, no, they’re yours by all rights.”
“No,” said Alexander decisively, “I shan’t take this present.”
“Well, as you please! My wife fancies them; she’ll take them.”
“I didn’t know, Alexander,” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna with a sly smile, “that you were so artful in these things… you said not a word to me…”
“It was Uncle’s idea,” answered Alexander, embarrassed. “I counted for nothing in this; it was he taught me…”
“Yes, yes, listen to him; he himself doesn’t know how. Yet he so wrapped up this little deal… I’m very, very grateful! But my silly Surkov almost went crazy. He made me laugh. Two weeks ago he ran in to my office quite beside himself; I at once knew why, only gave no sign. I went on writing as if I knew nothing. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ I say, ‘what’s the good news?’ He smiled, wanted to pretend he was calm… but in reality he almost had tears in his eyes. ‘Nothing good,’ he says, ‘I’ve come to you with bad news.’ I looked at him as if with surprise. ‘What’s this?’ I ask. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘about your nephew!’ ‘Why what? You frighten me; tell me right away!’ I ask. Now his calm broke; he began to shout, to rage. I rolled my chair back from him–it was impossible to talk, he was spitting so. ‘You yourself complained,’ he says, ‘that he wasn’t working much, but you’re the one who’s taught him idleness.’ ‘I?’ ‘Yes, you. Who introduced him to Julie?’ I have to tell you that since the second day of their acquaintance Surkov had begun calling her by her nickname. ‘What’s the misfortune in that?’ I say. ‘Why this misfortune,’ he says, ‘is that he now sits at her house from morning till night…’”
Alexander immediately blushed.
“You see how he lies out of rage, I thought,” Py
otr Ivanych went on, looking at his nephew. “Would Alexander be sitting there from morning till night! I didn’t ask him to do that, did I?”
The gaze Pyotr Ivanych fixed on Alexander was cold and calm, but it seemed simply fiery to Alexander.
“Yes… I sometimes… go to see…” muttered Alexander.
“Sometimes–that’s different,” continued his uncle. “I did ask that, but not every day. I knew he was lying. What is there to do there every day? You’d be bored with it!”
“No! She’s a very intelligent woman… excellently brought up… loves music…” said Alexander indistinctly with pauses, and scratched one eye, though it didn’t itch, stroked his left temple, then got out his handkerchief and wiped his lips.
Lizaveta Alexandrovna, unnoticed, looked fixedly at him, turned away to the window and smiled.
“Ah! well, all the better!” said Pyotr Ivanych, “if you weren’t bored. And I feared all the time I had burdened you with an unpleasant task. So I told Surkov, ‘Thanks, dear fellow, for taking an interest in my nephew. I’m very, very grateful to you… Only, don’t you exaggerate things? The misfortune isn’t yet that bad?…’ ‘How isn’t it a misfortune!’ he shouted. ‘He doesn’t do anything,’ he says. ‘A young man ought to work…’ ‘That, too, is not a misfortune,’ I say. ‘What’s it to you?’ ‘What’s it to me,’ he says. ‘He’s got it in his head to act against me in cunning ways…’ ‘So that’s where the misfortune is!’ I began to tease. ‘He insinuates Heaven knows what to Yuliya,’ he says, ‘about me… She’s now quite changed toward me. I’ll teach him, the brash puppy.’ Pardon me, I’m repeating his words. ‘What reason has he,’ he says, ‘to fight with me? He passed on gossip about me. I hope you’ll set him straight.’ ‘I’ll scold him,’ I say, ‘without fail.’ But, enough, is it true what he’s said about you? Have you given her flowers?…” Pyotr Ivanych stopped again as if waiting for an answer. Alexander was silent. Pyotr Ivanych continued. ‘How do you mean,’ he says, ‘untrue? Why does he take her a bouquet of flowers every day? It’s winter now,’ he says. ‘What does that cost… I know,’ he says, ‘what those bouquets cost.’ Here, I thought to myself, he’s one of our family; really, I see blood’s no empty matter. So, would you take so much trouble for someone else but me? ‘Why, is that true, every day?’ I say. ‘Stop, I’ll ask him. You, no doubt, have lied.’ And in truth, he did lie, didn’t he? It can’t be that you…”
An Ordinary Story Page 24
