A common story

by Ivan Goncharov

  It is even more painful for the provincial when he comes to one of those houses with a letter of introduction. He imagines that they will receive him with open arms, that they will make much of him, give him the most comfortable chair, and the best of everything; that they will skilfully sound him as to his favourite dishes; how he will be em-

  barrassed by their warmth, and how finally he will throw aside all ceremony and embrace his host and hostess, will call them " thou," as though they had been friends for twenty years; how all would drink together, perhaps sing songs in chorus

  When he is there! they hardly look at him, and frowning, excuse themselves on the plea of engagement; if they have a business., then it begins at a fixed hour, and then they do not dine or sup, and of taking " nips " they know nothing —not even vodka and biscuits. The host retreats from his embrace and looks in a strange way at his guest. In the next room he hears the clatter of knives and forks; they should invite him in there, but they try to avoid his skilful

  hints Everywhere there are closed doors, everywhere

  bells; isn't it pitiful ? and such cold inhospitable faces. But away at home one may venture to walk in; if they have finished dinner, why they will dine again with their guest; the samovar is on the table from morning till night, and there are no bells even in the shops. They embrace, they kiss every one who comes. A neighbour there is really a neighbour, they live hand in hand, and heart in heart; a kinsman is so much a kinsman; he would die for one of his own people—ah ! it is depressing !

  Alexandr went as far as the Admiralty Square, and stood there quite overwhelmed. He stopped in rapt enthusiasm before the statue of Peter the Great. He gazed at the Neva and the buildings surrounding it, and his eyes sparkled. He felt suddenly ashamed of his preference for shaky bridges, little gardens and tumble-down fences. He grew happy and lighthearted. Even the bustle and the crowd all took a different significance in his eyes. His aspirations, which had been overclouded for a time by painful impressions, grew bright again; a new life seemed to open its arms to him, and tempted him to the unknown. His heart beat violently. He dreamt of noble effort, of lofty aspirations and stepped proudly along the Nevsky Prospect,

  considering himself a citizen of a new world Full

  of such dreams, he returned home.

  In the evening at eleven o'clock, his uncle sent up to summon him to tea.

  "I am only just home from the theatre," said his uncle, lying down on the sofa.

  " What a pity you did not tell me sooner, uncle, I would have gone with you."

  '' I was in the stalls. Where would you have been, sitting on my knee ? " said Piotr I vanitch. " Go by yourself to-morrow,"

  " It's so depressing to be alone in a crowd, uncle, to have no one to share your impressions with."

  " And why should you? You will have to learn to think, and to feel, in fact to live alone ; it is necessary now. But you pjLijj&kJx^be suit ably p ressed before you go tO .the tneatre."

  Alexandr looked at his clothes and wondered at his uncle's words. " In what way am I unsuitably dressed ? " he thought, " I have a blue coat and blue trousers.

  " I have a lot of clothes, uncle,'* he said, " made by

  Kcenigstein; he makes for our governor."

  j " Never mind; still it will not do; in a day or two I will

  I .send you to my own tailorj ) but that's a detail. We have

  something more importantio talk about. Tell me, why did

  you come here ? "

  " I came .... to live here."

  " To live ? Well if you understand by that term, to eat, to drink, and to sleep, then it was not worth the trouble of coming so far : you will not be able either to sleep or to eat here as you can there at home; but if you meant something else please explain yourself."

  " To enjoy life, I meant to say," said Alexandr, blushing all over; " I was tired of the country—it is always the same and . . . ."

  " Ah ! that's another thing ! What, you want to take aflat in the Nevsky Prospect, set up a carrage, make a large circle of acquaintances and have reception-days ? "

  "But would not that cost a great deal?" remarked Alexandr naively.

  " Your mother writes that she has given you a thousand roubles; that is not much," said Piotr Ivanitch. "An acquaintance of mine came here not long ago, he, too, was tired of the country ; he wanted to enjoy life, so he brought fifty thousand and will receive as much every year. He will certainly enjoy life in Petersburg, but you—no ! you did not come up for that."

  " From your words, uncle, it seems to follow that I don't know myself why I came."

  " Exactly so; that's well said; that's the truth; only I don't quite approve of it Did you not, when you prepared to come here, put to yourself the question: why am I going ? That would not have been inappropriate."

  " Before putting to myself the question, I had the answer ready," replied Alexandr with pride.

  " Then why did you not tell it ? Well, why ? "

  " I was carried along by an irresistible yearning, by a thirst for noble activity; a longing burned within me to illustrate and to realise . . . ."

  Piotr Ivanitch rose a little from the sofa, took his cigar out of his mouth and pricked up his ears.

  "To give effect to the aspirations, which surged "

  " Don't you write verses ?" asked Piotr Ivanitch suddenly.

  " Yes, and prose, too, uncle shall I fetch some ? "

  "No, no !—some future time; I only asked."

  "And why?"

  " Because you talk so. . . ."

  " Badly ? "

  " No—perhaps very well, only strangely."

  "Our professor of aesthetics talked like that, and he was considered the most eloquent of the professors," said Alex-andr in confusion. . " What did he talk about in that way ? "

  "About his subject."

  "Ah!"

  " How am I to talk then, uncle?"

  " Rather more simply, like everyone else, and not like a lecturer on aesthetics. However, it is impossible for you to change all of a sudden; later on you will see for yourself. You mean to say, it appears, so far as I can recall your University jargon and translate your words, that youj:ame here to make a career and a fortune. . . . Isn't it so ? "

  " Yes, uncle, a career."

  " And fortune ? " added Piotr Ivanitch; " what is a career without a fortune ? The idea is very fine; only—it was a mistake for you to come."

  "Why so? I hardly think you say that from your own experience?" said Alexandr looking around him.

  "That's neatly said. Certainly I am well off and my

  business is pretty fair. But I only consider—you and I— there's a great difference."

  " I never ventured to compare myself with you.'*

  " That's not the point, you are perhaps ten times as wise and good as I ... . but your nature, I fancy, is not capable of adapting itself to a new standard, and your standard at home—oh, oh ! You have been petted and spoiled by your mother; how are you to put up with what I put up with ? r You are bound to be a dreamer, and a dreamer is nowhere I at all here; people like us come here to work."

  " Perhaps I am fit for work of some sort, if you will give me the benefit of your advice and experience."

  " Advise you—I am afraid to do it. I could not answer for your countryman's nature; things would go wrong, and you would reproach me; but as for telling you my opinions —well—I will not refuse, you may listen or not as you please. But no! I don't expect success. You have your own way of looking at life in the country; how are you to work it in ? You country-people are mad over love and friendship and the delights of life and happiness; you imagine that life consists only of this: oh and oh! you weep and sob and make love and do no work .... how am I to break you of all that ? . . . . If s a difficult task."

  " I will try, uncle, to adapt myself to the ideas of the time. Already to-day while gazing at the immense edifices, and the ships that bring us gifts from far away lands, I thought of the achievements of humani
ty in this age, I grasped the significance of this multitude moving in brain-directed activity, and was ready to flow with it."

  Piotr Ivanitch during this monologue contracted his brows expressively and looked steadily at his nephew. The latter stopped.

  "The fact is simple enough, I fancy," said his uncle; "but these country-people—goodness knows what ideas they take into their heads .... brain-directed activity indeed! Certainly you had done better to remain in the country. You would have had a splendid life there: you would have been the cleverest of all of them, and have been looked on i as a poet and an eloquent talker, you would have believed in eternal and unchanging love and friendship, in the family , and in happiness, you would have married and have reached old age without noticing it, and you would have been in

  A COMMON STORY 43

  reality happy after your own fashion; but you will not be happy after our fashion; here all these ideas must be turned upside down."

  " How, uncle, are love and friendship—these sacred and lofty emotions, not the same here as at home ? "

  " We have love and friendship here of course—they are cheap enough to be plentiful everywhere; only it is not the same as those in your home; in time you will see for yourself. . . . But before everything you must forget these sacred and heavenly emotions and look at facts more simply as they are, indeed it would be better, then you will talk more simply too. However, it is not my business. You have come here and will not go back. If you don't find what you looked for, you have only yourself to blame. I will advise you what is good in my opinion and what is bad, and then do as you please. /We will try—perhaps—something may be made of you. Ah! your mother asked me to provide

  you with money You understand what I say to you;

  don't come to me for money; that always destroys a good understanding between honourable people. However, don't imagine that I have declined to help you; no, if it should come to there being no other resource, then there is no help for it, come to me. Any way, it is better to borrow from an uncle than from a stranger, especially as you would get it without interest. But you ought not to let yourself be driven to this extremity, I will qu ickly find you a place so that you can earn s ome moneyV well, good bye for the pr'WJWlt. CoinG'm again in "the morning, we will talk of what and how to begin."

  Alexandr Fedovitch was going to his room.

  "Oh , don't you want some supper?" Piotr I vanitch called after him.

  n YeSg'uhcle—I should—perhaps."

  " I nave nothing to offer you.

  Alexandr was TiTfnr "Why this nsffiltrss prnpmal then?" h e tho ught.

  "** I fl ohTTiave my meals p repared at home, and the shops ar e closecT dv now/ cont inueg ^TTmcte: •^ " Il e ie irrr tesson fo f you at the very first turn—a ccustom yourself fo"itT "At h6me you go to bed ana get up With the SUn,~eat"and drink when nature bid you; if it is cold, you put on a cap with lappets and no one wants to know anything about it; when

  +'

  44 A COMMON STORY

  it is light, it is. day, when it is dark, it is night. At your home all are asleep, but I am still sitting at work; at the end of the month one has to balance one's accounts. You breathe the fresh air there all the year round, but here even that enjoyment costs money, and the same with everything. It's a complete antipodes! Here they do not even eat supper, especially at their own cost, or at mine either. This, perhaps, will be an advantage to you; you will not toss and groan at night, and I haven't the time to turn you over!"

  "That one can easily get accustomed to, uncle."

  " Good, if it is so. But with you everything is still in the old style ; you can still I suppose arrive at a friend's at midnight; and they will begin to get supper ready for you directly."

  "Why, uncle, I should think you could not find fault

  with that in us. The kindheartedness of Russians "

  / il Stop ! what sort of kindheartedness is there in it? You are so bored that you are glad of any creature who turns up:—you are welcome, eat as much as you like, only employ our idleness in some way, help us to kill time, and let us look at you; any way it is something new; and we don't grudge you your entertainment; it costs us nothing here. A poor sort of kindheartedness!"

  So Alexandr went to bed and tried to conjecture what sort of a man his uncle was. He remembered the whole conversation; much of it he did not understand, and the rest he did not altogether believe.

  " I don't talk properly ! " he thought: " love and friendship are not undying ! surely my uncle must be laughing at me? Can this be the way they live here? What was it Sophia liked so specially in me, but the gift of eloquence ? But is her love really not undying? .... And is it possible they really don't have supper here."

  He lay tossing uneasily in his bed for a long time : with his head full of disquieting thoughts, and his stomach empty, he could not get to sleep.

  Piotr Ivanitch became every day more contented with his nephew.

  " He does not intrude," he said to one of his partners at the factory—"never comes to see me without an invitation ; and when he notices that he is de trop> he goes away

  directly; and he does not ask for money; he is a well-behaved boy. He has his peculiarities .... sidles up to kiss you, and talks in a high-flown style; well he will get out of that; and what a good thing it is he does not come to me for everything."

  Alexandr considered it his duty to love his uncle, but he could never get used to his character and ways of thinking.

  " My uncle seems a good-hearted man," he wrote one I morning to Pospyeloff, "very intelligent, only he is utterly prosaic, for ever absorbed in business, in calculations. His soul seems chained to earth and is never lifted up into the pure ether far remote from earthly sordidness, and we shall never, I fancy, be altogether one in heart. When I came here, I imagined that as my uncle he would give me a place in his heart, that in the midst of the cold world here he would cherish me with all the warmth of affection and friendship ; and friendship, you know, is a second providence. But he is nothing else than this world individualised. I expected to spend my time with him, never to be away from him for a minute, but what was my welcome ?—cold advice, which he calls common sense; but I would rather it were not common sense but full of warm, heartfelt interest.. He is not exactly proud, but he is averse to all sincere outbursts of feeling. We do not dine nor sup together, and go out nowhere together. On my arrival he n^ver told me how he was or what he was doing and he never tells me even where he is going and why, who are his acquaintances. . what are his likes and dislikes and how he spends his time. He is never specially angry, nor affectionate, nor sad, nor cheerful. His heart is a stranger to all transport of love and friendship, all yearnings after the sublime. . . . He does not believe in love, &c, says that there is no such thing as happiness, that nobody has guaranteed it to us, and that life is a simple matter, which is divided equally into good and bad, into pleasure, success, health and ease, and then into pain, failure, anxiety, disease and so on; that we ought to look at all this simply, and not to fill our heads with useless matters. And what do you suppose are useless matters ? Why the problems of why we were created and to what we are striving—that that is not our business and that it hinders us from seeing what is before our noses and from minding

  our business. He is always talking about business! One sees no difference in him whether he is absorbed in some enjoyment or in prosaic business at his accounts, and at the theatre he is exactly the same; he receives no powerful impression from anything and I think does not care for art; it is foreign to his nature; I fancy he has not even read Pushkin."

  Piotr Ivanitch unexpectedly appeared in his nephew's apartment and came upon him writing a letter.

  " I came to see how you were settled in here," said his uncle, " and to talk a little of business."

  Alexandr jumped up, and quickly covered something with his hand.

  " Hide it, hide your secret," said Piotr Ivanitch; " I will turn my back. Well, have you put it away ? But what is
it has fallen out ? What is this ? "

  "That—uncle—oh! nothing," Alexandr was beginning, but he grew confused and stopped speaking.

  "A lock of hair it looks like! Is it really nothing? Come, I have seen one, so show me the other thing you are hiding in your hand."

  Alexandr, like a schoolboy caught, unwillingly opened his hand and showed a ring.

  "What is this? Where did you get it?" asked Piotr Ivanitch.

  "These, uncle, are the material tokens of immaterial relations."

  " What—what? Pass me these tokens."

  " They are the pledges "

  " I suppose you brought them from the country ? "

  " From Sophia, uncle, a keepsake at parting."

  " So that is what it is. And you brought this 1500 miles with you ? "

  The uncle shook his head.

  "You would have done better to bring a bag of dried raspberries, that at least you could have sold at a shop, but these pledges . . . ."

  He looked, first at the lock of hair then at the ring. He sniffed at the hair contemptuously, but the ring he weighed in his hand. Then he took a sheet of paper from the table, wrapped both the tokens up in it, screwed it all into a compact pellet, and threw it out of window.

  A COMMON STORY 47

  " Uncle !" screamed Alexandr furiously, seizing his hand but too late; the pellet flew into the corner of the opposite wall, fell towards the canal on the edge of a barge of bricks, jumped off, and leaped into the water.