The Same Old Story

by Ivan Goncharov

  She shuddered.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing, I just…”

  “No, tell me; you were thinking something?”

  Alexander stood mute. But she insisted.

  “I was thinking that for our happiness to be complete, something is missing…”

  “What?” she asked anxiously.

  “Nothing really, I just had a strange idea.”

  Yulia was perturbed.

  “Oh, don’t torment me: tell me now!” she said.

  Alexander thought for a moment, and then, under his breath, almost as if he were speaking to himself, said, “To earn the right never to leave her for a minute, never to leave here and go home… to be with her everywhere and at all times. To be in the eyes of the world her rightful owner… and she, unblushingly and without constraint, will publicly claim me as hers… and that’s the way it will be for life. And to be forever proud of this…”

  Saying all this in such an elevated style, clearly enunciating every word, he reached the word “marriage”. At this, Yulia quivered and burst into tears. She extended her hand to him with a feeling of inexpressible affection and gratitude, and they both suddenly burst into animated conversation. It was all settled. Alexander would speak to his aunt and ask for her help in this complicated matter.

  They were beside themselves with joy. They set off for the town with no particular destination in mind and went deep into the countryside, searching for the first hill they could find, and spent the whole evening sitting on it watching the sun go down, thinking of what their future life together would be like; they thought they would confine themselves to a limited circle of friends, and avoid accepting or issuing invitations simply for form’s sake.

  They returned home and began to discuss how they would organize their future household, and which rooms would be used for what purpose. They even got down to discussing how to furnish the rooms and other things of that kind. Alexander proposed turning her dressing room into a study for himself, so that it could be near the bedroom.

  “How would you like your study to be furnished?” she asked.

  “I would like it furnished in walnut covered in blue velvet.”

  “That would be very nice, and would be easy to keep clean. Dark colours should always be chosen for a man’s study; light colours get dirty fast from the smoke. And the little passageway between your future study and the bedroom I’ll decorate with flowers and foliage – that will look so nice, won’t it? And I’ll put an armchair in there so that I can sit and read or sew and see you while you’re in there.”

  “It won’t be long now, and then we won’t have to say goodbye like this,” said Alexander as he prepared to leave.

  She pressed her hand to his mouth.

  The next day, Alexander went to see Lizaveta Alexandrovna to tell her what she had already known for a long time, and ask for her help and advice. Pyotr Ivanych was not at home.

  “All right then!” she said, after hearing his confession. “You’re no longer a boy, and you know your own feelings and can act accordingly. But don’t be in too much of a hurry; get to know her properly.”

  “Oh, ma tante, if only you knew what qualities she possesses!”

  “For example?”

  “She loves me so much…”

  “Of course, that is an important quality, but it takes more than that to make a marriage.”

  She then proceeded to make some general points about the married state: what the wife should be like, and what the husband should be like. “Only please wait. It will soon be autumn, and people will be coming back to town, and then I’ll call on your fiancée; we’ll get to know each other, and then I can really get to work. Don’t leave her; I’m sure you will be the happiest of husbands.”

  She was very pleased.

  How women love to see men get married! Sometimes they can even see that a marriage will have problems and is not likely to work. But for them the main thing is to get the couple married, and then what happens is up to the newly-weds. God knows why women take so much trouble over this.

  Alexander asked his aunt not to say anything to Pyotr Ivanych until the very end.

  The summer fled by, followed by a never-ending gloomy autumn. Another winter began. Aduyev and Yulia still saw each other just as often.

  It was as if she had worked out a strict timetable for the days, hours and minutes which they should spend together, and sought every possible opportunity for them to do so.

  “Will you be going to your office early tomorrow?” she would sometimes ask.

  “About eleven o’clock.”

  “Then come round at ten, and we can have breakfast together. What about not going to the office at all? After all, so what if you’re not there?…”

  “But how can I? I have to think of our country… my duty…” said Alexander.

  “Oh, that’s just wonderful! Just tell them that you’re in love and that someone loves you. Hasn’t your chief ever been in love? If he has a heart he’ll understand. Or just bring your work and do it here – who’s to stop you?”

  Another time, she wouldn’t let him go to the theatre, and on no account was he to go to see friends. When Lizaveta Alexandrovna called on her, she was in a state of shock when she set eyes on Alexander’s aunt and saw how young and pretty she was. She had imagined her to be just another aunt – elderly and nothing much to look at – and here, if you please, was a young woman of twenty-six or -seven and a real beauty! She made a scene with Alexander, and stopped him going to his uncle’s house so often.

  But what was the significance of her jealousy and tyranny compared with that of Alexander himself? He was sure of her commitment, and saw that betrayal or a cooling of her ardour was simply not in her nature, but he was jealous – and jealous beyond reason! It was not the jealousy born of a surfeit of love – weeping, groaning, howling from the pain of an aching heart, trembling with fear of the loss of happiness – but rather a cold-blooded jealousy born of indifference and vindictiveness. He tyrannized the poor woman from love more than others tyrannized their victims from hatred. He would feel, for example, in the evening, when there were guests present, that she had not looked at him long enough, often enough or lovingly enough, and he would prowl around like a wild beast, and there would be hell to pay if by any chance Yulia happened to be standing near a young man, or any man for that matter, even if he didn’t happen to be young – or it could even be a woman, or sometimes even an inanimate object. Then insults, caustic remarks, dark suspicions and reproaches would rain down on her, and right then and there she would have to defend and redeem herself, and make amends of every kind and owe him absolute obedience. She was not to speak to this one, she was not to sit there, or move in that direction, and was not to expose herself to the smirks and whispers of malicious onlookers, and be left blushing or with the blood draining from her cheeks, dying from embarrassment.

  If ever she received invitations, before she responded she would first of all have to look enquiringly in his direction, and if he so much as wrinkled his brow, she would have to decline on the spot, looking pale and nervous. Sometimes he would give his consent, and she would get ready, dress for the occasion, and was just about to take her seat in the carriage when, suddenly and impulsively, on the spur of the moment, he would pronounce his deadly veto – and she would go back and change her clothes. Afterwards, he might beg forgiveness and propose that they should go – but how could she get all dressed up again and get the carriage harnessed? So they stayed where they were. His jealousy did not depend on whether the people concerned were good-looking, intelligent or talented, or even positively ugly: sometimes his jealousy was aroused simply because he didn’t like the look of someone.

  Once a guest from her side of the family arrived. It was an elderly, plain-looking man who spoke about the harvest and his business in the sen
ate. Alexander was so bored with his conversation that he went into the next room. There was absolutely no reason for jealousy. Finally, the guest took his leave.

  “I understand that you are at home on Wednesdays; would you mind if I came to enjoy the company of your friends?”

  Yulia smiled and was about to say, “By all means” – when suddenly a voice could be heard from the next room in a whisper louder than any shout: “No!”

  Yulia, in her agitation, hurriedly changed her “By all means” into a “No” in response to her guest’s request.

  But Yulia tolerated this behaviour. She shut herself away from guests, went nowhere and sat alone with Alexander. They continued systematically to revel in their bliss. Having exhausted their stock of the usual and available pleasures, Yulia started to invent new ones to add variety to the wealth of pleasures which already existed in their world. And what gifts of ingenuity she displayed! But even these gifts ran out, and repetition set in. There was nothing left to experience or to wish for.

  There wasn’t a single place in the surrounding countryside which they had not already visited, or a single play they had not already seen, or a book they had not already read and discussed. They had studied each other’s feelings, thoughts, merits and shortcomings, and there was nothing left which might interfere with the implementation of their plan.

  The heartfelt outpourings became rarer. Sometimes they sat for hours without exchanging a word, but Yulia was just as happy to be silent.

  Very occasionally she would ask Alexander a question, and would be content with a “yes” or a “no” as an answer – and if no answer was forthcoming, she would give him a long look, he would smile in return, and she would be happy again. If he should neither answer nor smile, she would start to search for meaning in the slightest movement, the slightest look, and interpret it in her own way. Then, recriminations would inevitably follow.

  They had stopped talking about the future, because it made Alexander feel awkward and ill at ease – a feeling he himself was unable to account for – and he would try to change the subject. He began to spend more time lost in his own thoughts. The charmed circle to which he had been confined by his love began to come apart in places, and in the distance he began to catch glimpses, sometimes of the faces of his friends, reminding him of the wild times they used to have together, the glittering balls with their throngs of beauties, and at other times of the ever preoccupied and busy image of his uncle, and his own work which he had abandoned…

  It was in this state of mind that he was sitting one evening at Yulia’s. Outside, a snowstorm was raging. Snow was beating against the windows, and patches of snow were clinging to the panes. All that could be heard in the room was the monotonous sound of the table clock’s pendulum swinging back and forth and the occasional sigh from Yulia.

  For want of anything better to do, Alexander was looking round the room, and happened to see the clock – it was ten o’clock, and he would have to sit through another two hours; he yawned. His glance happened to fall on Yulia. She was standing, and leaning with her back to the fire, with her pale face bent towards her shoulder, following Alexander with her eyes, with an expression devoid of mistrust or interrogation, but full of blissfulness, love and happiness. To all appearances she was struggling with a secret feeling, a sweet dream, and appeared exhausted. She was so highly strung that the effect on her nerves even of blissfulness itself reduced her to a painful lethargy; for her bliss and torment were indissolubly linked.

  Alexander reacted in a dry, restless manner, and he went to the window and started drumming on the glass with his fingers, while looking out into the street.

  From the street could be heard the sound of voices mingled with the rumble of passing carriages. Lights were burning in every window, shadows darted here and there. It seemed to him that where the lights were brightest, a merry crowd of people were gathered, and that perhaps a lively exchange of thoughts was taking place and sparks of feeling were flying back and forth. Out there, life was being lived noisily and with enjoyment. And over there, behind that dimly lit window, there no doubt sat someone toiling over some productive, meaningful piece of work. It occurred to Alexander that for almost two years now he had been dragging out an idle, senseless existence – two years of his life just thrown away – and for what? Love! There and then, he began an assault on love.

  “What kind of love was this?” he thought. “Something somnolent and inert. This woman surrendered to her feelings without a fight, without an effort, defenceless, a helpless victim – a weak woman, without character! She bestowed the favour of her love on the first comer. If it hadn’t been me, it could just as well have been someone like that Surkov – in fact, she had already begun to fall for him. Yes, no matter how much she might protest – I saw it with my own eyes! If someone a little more engaging and worldly-wise than myself had come along, she would have thrown herself into his arms… It’s positively immoral! Who calls that love? Where is that notion of ‘kindred spirits’ proclaimed by sensitive souls? And weren’t we drawn together as kindred spirits? – kindred spirits which, it seemed, would be merged for ever. But no, it wasn’t to be! Who the devil knows why – impossible to explain!” he whispered in exasperation.

  “What are you doing over there? What are you thinking about?” asked Yulia.

  “Oh just…” he said, yawning, and sat down on the divan away from her, with one hand grasping a corner of an embroidered cushion.

  “Sit a little closer!”

  He stayed where he was and offered no reply.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she continued, moving closer to him. “You’re unbearable today.”

  “I don’t know,” he said listlessly, “it’s something… as if I…”

  He had no answer for her, or even for himself. He hadn’t yet really understood what was happening to him.

  She sat down next to him and started talking about the future – and, little by little, regained her composure. She portrayed a future of a happy family life, with some humour at times, and concluded on a very affectionate note. “You are my husband! Look,” she said, pointing around the room, “soon all this will be yours. You will be the master of this house, just as you are the master of my heart. Right now I am independent: I can do what I want, go wherever and see whatever I want, but then nothing here will be touched except at your command, and I myself will be bound by your wishes – but what a wonderful chain that will be! Forge it as soon as possible – but when?… My whole life I have dreamt of such a man, of such a love… and my dream has come true… and happiness is at hand… I can hardly believe it. You know – I think I’m dreaming. Surely it’s a reward for all my past sufferings?”

  Alexander found it painful to listen to all this.

  “But what if I stopped loving you?” he asked suddenly, trying to strike a humorous note.

  “I would tear your ears off!” she replied, taking hold of his ear, and then sighed, reduced to a thoughtful silence even by this attempt at levity. He remained silent.

  “But what is the matter with you?” she asked suddenly, with renewed vigour. “You don’t say anything, you hardly listen to me, you won’t look at me…”

  She moved towards him, placed her hand on his shoulder and started to speak softly, almost in a whisper, about the same subject, only with less confidence. She recalled how they had first come together, the burgeoning of their love, its first signs and its first joys. She almost choked from the sheer strength of her feeling of blissfulness – two pink patches coloured her pale cheeks. Her cheeks grew redder, her eyes glittered and then grew languorous and half closed; her breast heaved more strongly from her breathing. Her words became more indistinct, and with one hand she began to toy with Alexander’s soft curls, and looked into his eyes. He quietly removed her hand from his head, took a comb out of his pocket and carefully combed back into place the hair that she had disarranged. Sh
e stood up and stared at him.

  “What is it, Alexander?” she asked, troubled this time.

  “There she goes again. How do I know?” he thought. But said nothing.

  “Are you bored?” she said suddenly, and her voice betrayed a suggestion of interrogation and doubt.

  “Bored!” he thought. “Yes, that’s just the right word! Yes! Excruciating, deadly boredom – which has been eating away at my heart for a month now! My God, what can I do? She talks about nothing but love and marriage. How can I get her to change her tune?”

  She had sat down at the piano and played some of his favourite pieces. He paid no attention and continued thinking his own thoughts.

  Yulia’s hands dropped. She sighed, wrapped herself in a shawl and sat down at the other end of the divan and regarded Alexander with a pained expression.

  He picked up his hat.

  “But where are you going?” she asked in surprise.

  “Home.”

  “It’s not eleven o’clock yet.”

  “I have to write to my mother, I haven’t written for a long time.”

  “What do you mean, ‘a long time’? You wrote to her only two days ago.”

  He remained silent: there was nothing he could say. He had indeed written, and happened to have mentioned it in passing, but had forgotten – and love doesn’t forget the slightest thing. In her eyes, anything whatsoever connected with the object of her love was a matter of importance. The mind of someone in love weaves an intricate web of tiny observations, memories, conjectures about anything surrounding the loved one, everything that happens in his life, everything that affects him. For someone in love, a single word – nay, the merest hint – is sufficient; but why do I say a hint? Why, even a glance, the barely perceptible quiver of the lip, is enough to provoke a conjecture, which then becomes an observation, which in turn becomes a hard and fast conclusion, which ultimately ends up, processed by the mind of the lover, as an instrument of torture or a source of sheer bliss. The logic of those in love, sometimes fallacious, but sometimes amazingly correct, swiftly builds up a tower of conjecture, and suspicions, but even more swiftly does the power of love raze it to the ground; for this, sometimes nothing more than a single smile, a single tear, not to mention as many as two or three words, will be sufficient – and all suspicions will suddenly vanish. This kind of vigilance cannot possibly be lulled or eluded. People in love will at times suddenly take into their heads something which others would not even dream of in their sleep, and at other times simply do not notice what is going on under their very noses; at still other times they are perspicacious to the point of clairvoyance, or even short-sighted to the point of blindness.