Pyotr interrupted him. “Stop, for God’s sake, that’s enough!” he exclaimed. “I can’t take it any more! You wanted to tear it up? Then tear it up right now! What rot!”
Pyotr Ivanych even rose from his chair and started pacing back and forth in the room.
“Can there really have been a time when people thought and acted like that in all seriousness?” he said. “All these fabrications they cook up about knights and shepherdesses must surely be insulting to their memory? And what possesses them to play on and analyse so minutely the vulnerable strings of the human heart?… Love! To make it all sound so important…”
He shrugged.
“Uncle, why go so far afield?” said Alexander. “I feel this power of love in myself, and I’m proud of it. My misfortune is simply that I haven’t met a being worthy of it who possesses the same gift and the same power…”
“‘The power of love’!” Pyotr Ivanych repeated. “You might just as well talk about the power of weakness.”
“That’s something beyond you, Pyotr Ivanych,” Lizaveta Alexandrovna put in. “You simply won’t believe in the existence of such love even in others…”
“And what about you? Are you telling me that you believe?” said Pyotr Ivanych, going up to her. “No, of course not, you’re just joking. He’s just a child, and doesn’t understand himself or anyone else; you would be ashamed to believe such a thing. Could you really respect a man if he loved you like that? No, surely that’s not the way people love…”
Lizaveta Alexandrovna looked up from her work.
“Of course they do,” she said quietly, taking him by the hands and pulling him towards her.
Pyotr Ivanych removed his hands from her grasp and pointed at Alexander, who was standing by the window with his back to them, and resumed his pacing back and forth.
“What’s that?” he said. “You sound as if you’ve never heard how people love.”
“‘How people love’!” she repeated pensively and slowly resumed her work.
Fifteen minutes of silence ensued. Pyotr Ivanych was the first to break it.
“What are you doing now?” he asked his nephew.
“Well… nothing.”
“Hardly enough. But do you read at least?”
“Yes…”
“Well, what?”
“Krylov’s fables.”*
“That’s a good book – only that?”
“The only one for now, but my God, what portraits of people, and how true to life!”
“You do have it in for people. Could it be that it was your love for that… you know who I mean… which made you like this?”
“Oh, I’ve forgotten all about that foolishness. Recently I passed by those places where I had been so happy and had suffered so much, and thought that my memories would surely be heart-rending.”
“Well, were they?”
“I saw the dacha, the garden and the fence, and my heart didn’t miss a beat.”
“Well, there you are, I told you so. But what is it you find so obnoxious about people?”
“I’ll tell you what: their nastiness, their mean-spiritedness, their… my God! When you think of all of the worst human qualities which have sprung up where nature has scattered such wonderful seeds…”
“But why should that matter to you? Is it your wish to reform people?”
“Why does it matter to me? Don’t you know how I have been spattered by that mud in which people wallow? Don’t you know all that has happened to me – and after that not to hate, not to despise people!”
“But what has happened to you?”
“I’ve been betrayed in love, and been coldly and callously forgotten by friends… and now I’m totally disgusted and repelled by the sight of people and the thought of living among them. All their thoughts, their deeds and dealings are built on sand. Today they are bent on a single goal: they rush, they knock others out of their way, they stop at nothing to gain their ends, they flatter, they grovel, they scheme; but the next day, they forget what it was they were after the day before, and they are off chasing something different. Today, they are flattering someone, but tomorrow they will be vilifying that same person; today they are hot, tomorrow they will be cold… No, wherever you look, life is terrible and disgusting! And as for people!…”
Pyotr Ivanych once again was on the point of nodding off in his armchair.
“Pyotr Ivanych!” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, prodding him gently.
“You’re depressed, yes, you’re depressed! You must find some work,” said Pyotr Ivanych, wiping his eyes, “then you won’t be insulting people for no good reason. What exactly is wrong with the people you know? I mean, they’re all decent types.”
“Whoever you get hold of, you find they’re all beasts out of Krylov,” said Alexander.
“The Khozarov family, for example?”
“They’re a pack of animals, the lot of them!” Alexander cut in. “One of them showers you with flattery in your presence and fawns upon you, but I’ve heard what he says about me behind my back. Another one commiserates with you today when your feelings have been hurt, but tomorrow he’ll be commiserating with the person who insulted you; today, he’ll be joining you in making fun of someone else, and tomorrow he’ll be with that someone else, making fun of you… What scum!”
“And the Lunins?”
“And fine ones they are too! He himself is the very image of Krylov’s donkey which the nightingale flew thrice seven leagues to get away from. And as for her, she looks like Krylov’s ‘good fox’…”*
“And what about the Sonins?”
“Well, what is there to say in their favour? Sonin is always offering good advice when you no longer need it, but just try to ask for his help when you’re in trouble and he’ll send you home without supper – just like the fox did to the wolf.* Don’t you remember what a fuss he made of you when he wanted you to recommend him for a position? And now listen to what he is saying about you…”
“And I suppose you don’t think much of Volochkov either?”
“He’s worthless, and a vicious animal into the bargain!” said Alexander, and even spat.
“Well, that’s telling them what you think of them!” Pyotr Ivanych observed.
“And what else can I expect from people?” said Alexander.
“Everything: friendship, love, a commission as a staff officer and money… And now conclude this gallery of portraits with our own, and tell me which animals are we, your aunt and I?”
Alexander offered no reply, but there flickered across his face an expression of barely perceptible irony, and he smiled. Neither the expression nor the smile escaped Pyotr Ivanych’s notice. He exchanged glances with his wife, and she lowered her eyes.
“Well, what about yourself? What animal are you?” asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“I haven’t done anyone any harm!” Alexander said with some pride. “I’ve always treated other people properly… I have a loving heart; I approach people with my arms wide open, and what do I get in return?”
“You see how ridiculous he can be!” Pyotr Ivanych appealed to his wife.
“You find everything funny!” she replied.
“And I never asked anything of people: no great acts of kindness, no magnanimity, no self-abnegation… I asked only what was my due, what I had the right to expect…” Alexander continued.
“So you are in the right? You’ve come out of the water completely dry. Well, just hold it there and I’ll show you some fresh water…”
Lizaveta Alexandrovna noticed that her husband had adopted a harsher tone and was worried.
“Pyotr Ivanych!” she whispered. “Please don’t…”
“No, it’s time he heard the truth. I’ll only take a moment. Tell me, Alexander, just now, when you condemned everyone you know as knaves or fools, didn’t you fee
l in your heart the slightest stirring of conscience?”
“Why should I have, Uncle?”
“Because over a number of years you always got a warm welcome from these ‘animals’. Let’s suppose that with people from whom they had something to gain they did scheme and play dirty tricks, as you say; but with you they had nothing to gain, so what was it that made them offer you hospitality and affection? That’s not nice, Alexander!” added Pyotr Ivanych seriously. “Someone else, even if he had noticed some bad behaviour on their part, would have held his tongue.”
Alexander was furious. “I assumed that they would at least have shown some appreciation of your goodwill in introducing me,” he replied, but now more humbly, and a little deflated, “and anyway these were only social acquaintances…”
“All right, let’s talk about your relationships which were more than social. I’ve already tried to show you – although I don’t know whether I was successful – that you were unfair to your… what’s-her-name, Sashenka, is it? For eighteen months you were made welcome in their home – practically lived there from morning until night – and, what’s more, that despicable hussy, whoever she was, gave you her love. I would have thought that that treatment doesn’t deserve contempt…”
“Then why did she betray me?”
“Oh, you mean why did she fall in love with someone else? I thought we had settled that matter satisfactorily. And do you really think that, if she had gone on loving you, your own love for her would have lasted?”
“Yes, for ever.”
“Well, it seems you understand nothing; but let’s move on. You say that you have no friends, but I’ve always thought that you had three friends.”
“Three?” Alexander protested. “I once had one friend, but even he—”
“Three,” Pyotr Ivanych insisted. “Let’s take it in chronological order. First, there is that one friend. Someone else who hadn’t seen you for several years wouldn’t have bothered with you at all, but he invited you to his home, and you went there with a sour face. He took enough interest in you to ask whether there was anything you needed, and offered his help and his good offices – and, I’m convinced, would have given you money – yes! And in our day and age, that is an acid test which many relationships would not pass… No, let me meet him, and I can tell you that he will prove to be a decent person… for all that you describe him as insincere.”
Alexander just stood there, his head lowered.
“Now, who do you think is your second friend?” asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“Who?” said Alexander in bewilderment.
“Are you that ungrateful?” Pyotr Ivanych came back. “What about Liza! See, he doesn’t even blush! And me, what am I to you, may I ask?”
“You’re… a relative.”
“A grand title! I thought perhaps I was – something more. This is not a good side of you: a character flaw which even in writing exercises at school is described as rotten, something you can’t even find in Krylov.”
“But you were always pushing me away…” Alexander said meekly, without looking up.
“Yes, whenever you tried to hug me.”
“You laughed at me for showing my feelings…”
“But why, and what for?” asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“You followed every step I took.”
“Well, there you are! That’s exactly what I did! Where would you find such an attentive tutor as that? And why did I take all that trouble? I could say more about that, but it might sound too much like some kind of cheap reproach…”
“Uncle!” said Alexander, going up to him with both arms outstretched.
“Go back to your seat! I haven’t finished yet,” said Pyotr Ivanych coolly. “I would hope that you can now name your third friend yourself…”
Alexander looked at his uncle as if to ask: “But where is he?” Pyotr Ivanych pointed to his wife.
“There she is.”
“Pyotr Ivanych,” Lizaveta Alexandrovna broke in, “for God’s sake, please stop showing us how clever you are!”
“No, and stop interrupting!”
“I think I’m capable of appreciating my aunt’s friendship…” Alexander mumbled indistinctly.
“No, you’re not: if you were, you wouldn’t have been looking up at the ceiling to find her, but would have pointed straight at her. If you had felt her friendship, out of sheer respect for her qualities you would not have been so contemptuous of people in general, and in your eyes she would have made up for the shortcomings of the others. Who was it that dried your tears and whimpered together with you? Who offered you sympathy for all that nonsense you poured out to her? And what sympathy! It’s a rare mother who could have taken so much to heart everything that affects you; even your own mother wouldn’t have been able to. If you had felt that sympathy, you wouldn’t have smiled ironically the way you did before, and you would have seen that there is no fox and no wolf here, but simply a woman who loves like your own sister.”
“Oh, ma tante!” Alexander was distressed and totally destroyed by this rebuke. “Surely you can’t think that I don’t appreciate all that, and that I don’t consider you a shining exception to that whole crowd. Oh, God no! I swear…”
“I believe you, I believe you, Alexander!” she responded. “Don’t listen to Pyotr Ivanych; he’s making a mountain out of a molehill, and only too pleased to have another opportunity to show us how clever he is. Stop it, for God’s sake, Pyotr Ivanych!”
“Just a moment, just a moment, and I’ll be finished – ‘one more last utterance’!* You said that you do to others everything that your duty requires of you?”
Alexander still didn’t utter a word and didn’t raise his eyes.
“Now, tell me, do you love your mother?”
Alexander suddenly came to life.
“What kind of question is that?” he said. “Who else is there for me to love after this? I worship her, and would give my life for her…”
“Very well, then you must know that she lives and breathes only for you, and your every joy and every sorrow is her joy and her sorrow. She now counts time not by months or weeks, but by news from you and about you… Now, tell me, how long has it been since you last wrote to her?”
Alexander gave a start.
“Well three weeks… or so,” he mumbled.
“No, four months! And how would you choose to have such behaviour described? And what kind of animal does that make you? Perhaps you would be hard put to find a name for an animal that is not to be found in Krylov.”
“And so?” Alexander asked, suddenly frightened.
“And so, the old lady is grief-stricken.”
“Oh no! My God, my God!”
“It’s not true, it’s not true!” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, and ran straight to the desk to fetch a letter which she handed to Alexander. “She’s not ill; she’s just really upset.”
“You’re spoiling him, Liza,” said Pyotr Ivanych.
“And you’re being too hard on him. Alexander was in a situation which preoccupied him for a time…”
“To forget your mother because of a hussy – that must have been quite some situation!”
“That’s enough – for God’s sake, stop it!” she said meaningfully, pointing to her nephew.
Alexander, having read his mother’s letter, covered his face with it.
“Leave Uncle alone, ma tante, let him let loose with his reproaches; I deserved worse: I am a monster!” he said, grimacing in desperation.
“Calm down, Alexander!” said Pyotr Ivanych. “There are a lot of such monsters around. You were carried away by this foolishness of yours and temporarily forgot about your mother – it’s only natural; ; love for one’s mother is a tranquil emotion. The only thing she has in the world… is you; that’s why she is easily upset. There’s no point in punishing you any further; I�
��ll just quote some words from your favourite author:
“Instead of finding fault with your friends.
Why not take a good look at yourself?*
“In other words, you should be more tolerant of other people’s weaknesses. Without that rule, life would be unlivable for oneself and others. That’s all I have to say. And now I’m going to bed.”
“Uncle, are you angry with me?” said Alexander, sounding deeply remorseful.
“How did you get that idea? Why would I try to upset you? I didn’t speak out of anger. I was just trying to play the part of the bear in the fable ‘The Monkey and the Mirror’. Put on a pretty good act, didn’t I, Liza?”
At this, he tried to kiss her, but she turned away.
“I think I’ve carried out your instructions to the letter,” Pyotr Ivanych added, “but you… Oh yes, I forgot one thing… what shape is your heart in now, Alexander?” he asked.
Alexander remained silent.
“You don’t need money, do you?” Pyotr Ivanych asked again.
“No, Uncle…”
“He never likes to ask!” said Pyotr Ivanych, closing the door behind him.
“What will Uncle think of me?” asked Alexander after a moment’s silence.
“The same as he did before,” replied Lizaveta Alexandrovna. “Do you think everything he told you came from the heart in all sincerity?”
“But of course.”
“Not at all. Believe me, all he was doing was showing off. Didn’t you see how methodically he set about it? He set forth all the evidence against you in a certain order – first the weaker evidence, and then the stronger; he began by getting you to reveal the reason for your low opinion of people… and then… it was all part of his method! And now, I think he’s even forgotten all about it.”
“What intelligence! How well he understands life, people! And what self-control!”
The Same Old Story Page 22