The Same Old Story

by Ivan Goncharov

  No one dared to move a finger. The vast audience was frozen speechless, until it breathed a single “Ah!” in perfect unison, which travelled like a whisper around the auditorium. The audience began to stir, but was stilled by the new sounds which could be heard and which gradually merged into a single crescendo, and then splintered into a thousand cascades crowding and pressing in on one another, roaring and filling the air with their jealous recriminations, and seething with furious passion – the ear was not quick enough to absorb the tumult – and abruptly the sounds vanished, as if the instrument had exhausted itself and lost its voice. The bow drew forth now a muffled, intermittent groan, and then tearful and plaintive sounds, all of them breathing a last lingering, anguished sigh. A heart was breaking, as if singing a song of love betrayed and hopeless longing. The voices seemed to be singing of all the pain, all the suffering of the human soul.

  Alexander was trembling. He raised his head and, through his tears, peered over his neighbour’s shoulder. A thin German, bending over his instrument, stood before the audience, keeping it in his powerful thrall. He finished playing and casually wiped his hands and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. The audience burst into a roar and frenzy of applause. Suddenly this artist acknowledged the audience in his turn, bowing humbly in gratitude.

  “And here he is bowing to them,” thought Alexander, timidly regarding the thousand-headed Hydra, “and standing so tall before them!”

  The artist raised his bow, and in an instant there was total silence, and what had been a crowd of jostling individuals a moment before, once again was transformed into a single body. New sounds filled the air – majestic and solemn, the kind that made the listeners sit up straight, their heads held high, their noses raised; they made chests swell with pride and inspired dreams of glory. The orchestra made its entrance in a muffled undertone, like the murmur of a crowd heard from a distance. Alexander turned pale, and his head dropped. Those sounds seemed specially designed to bring back to him and explain the whole of his past life, with all its bitterness and disillusionment.

  Someone said, pointing at Alexander, “Look at that one over there, see how he looks! I can’t understand how anyone can let his feelings show so openly; why, I’ve heard Paganini* play, and didn’t even bat an eyelid.”

  Alexander silently cursed his aunt for inviting him, and also the artist himself, but most of all he cursed fate itself for not allowing him to remain oblivious.

  “And what’s the purpose of it anyway, what’s the point?” he thought. “What does fate want from me? Why remind me of my weakness, the futility of a past that cannot be brought back?”

  He escorted his aunt back home, and was on the point of leaving to return to his own apartment, when she held his arm to stop him going.

  “Are you sure you won’t come in?” she asked reproachfully.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s late now, maybe some other time.”

  “And you won’t even do this for me?”

  “For you, least of all.”

  “But why?”

  “It would take too long to explain. Goodbye!”

  “Just half an hour, Alexander, do you hear me, that’s all I’m asking. If you refuse, that can only mean that you’ve never had any affection for me whatever.”

  She spoke with such feeling, and with such persistence, that Alexander simply didn’t have the heart to refuse, and he followed her inside, his head lowered. Pyotr Ivanych was sitting in his study.

  “Do you really mean to tell me that I deserve such disregard from you, Alexander?” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, after seating him by the fire.

  “You’re mistaken, it’s not disregard,” he replied.

  “What does that mean? What would you call it? How many times have I written to you, asking you to come and see me, and you didn’t come, and in the end even stopped replying to my notes?”

  “It’s not disregard…”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Doesn’t matter!” said Alexander. “Goodbye, ma tante.”

  “Wait! What is it I’ve done to you? What’s the matter with you, Alexander? Why are you being like this? You’re indifferent to everything, never go anywhere, and the people you do consort with are wrong for you.”

  “Well, that’s the way it is, ma tante: it’s a way of life that I prefer, a quiet life – and I like it: it suits me…”

  “Suits you? And you find that that kind of life and that kind of people meet your intellectual and emotional needs?”

  Alexander nodded.

  “Don’t pretend, Alexander! You’re deeply hurt in some way, and don’t want to talk about it. Before, you always found someone to confide in about your troubles; and you knew that you would always find comfort, or at least sympathy – but now you really don’t have anyone?”

  “No one.”

  “There’s no one you trust?”

  “No one.”

  “You mean you don’t remember your mother from time to time… and how much she loves you… and her affection? Hasn’t it occurred to you that even here there may be someone who loves you, perhaps not like her, but at least like a sister, or even more, like a friend?”

  “Goodbye, ma tante!” he said.

  “Goodbye, Alexander; I won’t keep you any longer,” said his aunt, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Alexander started to pick up his hat, but put it down again and looked at Lizaveta Alexandrovna.

  “No, I can’t leave you like this; I can’t bring myself to do that!” he said. “What are you doing to me?”

  “Try just for a minute to be the old Alexander again. Tell me everything, trust me…”

  “I simply can’t keep silent when I’m with you. I’ll tell you everything that’s in my heart,” he said. “You ask why I hide from people, why I’m indifferent to everything, why I won’t see even you. Why? I must tell you that life has become sickening to me, so I have chosen a way of life in which life intrudes least. There’s nothing I want, nothing I am seeking, except peace and quiet, and peace of mind. I’ve tasted the emptiness and worthlessness of life, and thoroughly despise it. ‘Anyone who has lived and thought cannot but despise people in his heart.’* Activity, busyness, worries, diversion – I’ve had enough of all of that. There’s nothing I strive for, nothing I’m looking for. I have no goals, because whatever people strive for or achieve – in the end it’s nothing but a will-o’-the-wisp. For me, joy is a thing of the past: it has no appeal for me. When I’m with educated people, I become more aware of life’s dissatisfactions, but when I’m by myself, far from the madding crowd, I am benumbed – and in that trance, whatever may happen, I notice neither people nor myself. I do nothing, and see neither other people’s actions nor my own – I’m at peace, totally indifferent; there’s no such thing as happiness, and as for unhappiness, it cannot touch me…”

  “That’s terrible, Alexander!” said his aunt. “To have turned your back on everything at your age!”

  “Why are you so surprised, ma tante? Step back from the horizon which is now too close to you, and too confining, and take a more detached view of life, of the world – and what do you find? What was wonderful yesterday is worthless today; what you wanted yesterday, you don’t want today; yesterday’s friend is today’s enemy. Is it worth troubling yourself about anything – to love, to become attached to anything, to quarrel, to make up – in a word, to live? Isn’t it better to let your mind and your heart go to sleep? I sleep – that’s why I don’t go anywhere, especially not to see you. I would fall asleep once and for all, but you would awaken my heart and my mind, and propel me once again towards the abyss. If you want to see me cheerful, healthy, perhaps alive, even what my uncle calls happy, then leave me where I am right now. Let’s be content with this much excitement, and let my dreams fade – let my mind ossify, my heart turn to stone, my eye
s forget how to shed tears, and my lips forget how to smile – and then in a year or maybe two, I’ll come back to you, ready for any test: then you will no longer be able to awaken me, no matter how hard you try, but right now—”

  He made a gesture of despair.

  “Look here, Alexander,” his aunt broke in eagerly, “in just one minute, you’ve changed; there are tears in your eyes. You’re still the Alexander you once were, it’s no good pretending: don’t try to contain your feelings, let it all out…”

  “Why? It won’t do me any good! I’ll just be in even more pain. This evening has destroyed me in my own eyes. I have seen clearly that I have no right to blame anyone for my misery. I’ve ruined my own life. I dreamt of becoming famous, God knows on what grounds, and neglected my work; I made a mess of my humble career, and now it’s too late to remedy my past mistakes. I scorned the common herd, despised those people – and that German with his profound and powerful spirit, and his poetic nature, has not renounced the world, and doesn’t scorn ordinary people; he welcomes their applause and is proud of it. He understands that he is a barely noticeable link in the endless chain of humanity. He knows everything that I know; he has known suffering. Did you hear him tell the story of his life in those sounds that he was making, including his joys and sorrows, his happiness, his world-weariness? He understands grief. How small I was made to feel today, worthless in my own eyes with my anguish and suffering! He awakened in me bitter self-knowledge: that I am proud – and weak. Why oh why did you invite me? Goodbye, let me go!”

  “How can you blame me, Alexander? Could I really have awakened this bitterness in you?… I, of all people?”

  “But that’s just the point: your angelic, kind face, ma tante, your gentle way of speaking, the affectionate touch of your hand – all of that touches and confuses me; I just want to cry because I want to live again – it’s so painful… but why?”

  “What do you mean, ‘why’? Come and stay with us permanently, and if you think that I am the least bit worthy of your friendship, that means that you will find consolation in another woman, I’m not the only one of my kind… You will be appreciated.”

  “Oh yes! Do you think that it will always be like this – consoling me? Do you think that I’m going to trust the fact that I’m moved and touched for the moment? You are of course a woman in the very best sense of the word; you have been born to bring joy and happiness to a man; but can that happiness be relied on? Is there any guarantee that it is lasting, and that today or tomorrow fate won’t turn even this happiness upside down? – that’s the question! Is there anything or anyone that one can trust? Isn’t it better to live without any hopes, without vicissitudes, and expect nothing – and since you’re not looking for joy, you will never have to mourn any losses?”

  “There’s no escaping fate, Alexander, and even where you are now, it will still track you down…”

  “That’s true, except that it’s only where I am now that fate can’t get a laugh out of me, but I can more easily get a laugh out of fate; for example, a fish gets away just as you’re stretching your hand out to reach it, or it starts raining just when you’re about to go out of town, or the weather’s good, and you don’t feel like going… it’s laughable!…”

  Lizaveta Alexandrovna had run out of objections.

  “You will get married… you will fall in love…” she ventured tentatively.

  “Get married! You can’t be serious! Do you really think that I’m going to entrust my happiness to a woman, even if I were to fall in love with her – not that that’s going to happen? Or do you really think that I would undertake to make a woman happy? No, but I do know that we would deceive each other, and would be deceiving ourselves. Uncle Pyotr Ivanych and experience have taught me that…”

  “Pyotr Ivanych! Oh yes, he has a lot to answer for,” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna with a sigh, “but you didn’t have to listen to him… and you could have been happy in marriage…”

  “Yes, certainly I could have back in the country, but now… No, ma tante, marriage is not for me. I can’t put up a pretence now, when I stop loving and am no longer happy – nor could I turn a blind eye if my wife were just putting on an act: we would both be playing a game… the same way you and Uncle do…”

  “You mean us?” Lizaveta Alexandrovna was astonished and dismayed.

  “Yes, the two of you! Tell me, are you as happy as you once dreamt you would be?”

  “No, not as happy as that… but happy in a different way from what I had imagined, in a more realistic way, perhaps even happier – but does any of this matter?” Lizaveta Alexandrovna replied in her embarrassment. “And you too…”

  “More realistic! Oh ma tante, this is not you speaking: you’re just echoing Uncle! I know what happiness is in his book: more rational, I’ll grant him, but happier? For him everything is happiness: there is no unhappiness for him. But never mind him! No! There’s nothing left for me in life: I’m tired, tired of life…”

  They both fell silent. Alexander glanced at his hat; his aunt was trying to think of something to persuade him to stay.

  “But what about talent?” she said eagerly.

  “Come, come, ma tante, you must feel like making fun of me! Have you forgotten the old saying: ‘Don’t kick a man when he’s down’? I don’t have any talent, none at all. I have feeling, and I was carried away; what I thought was creativity was just a dream, but I wrote anyway. Just recently I came across some old misbegotten attempts of mine, and when I read them, I simply had to laugh. Uncle was quite right to goad me into burning every last one of them. Oh, if only I could bring back the past, I would make very different use of it.”

  “Don’t give up on yourself entirely!” she said. “Every one of us has been given a heavy cross to bear…”

  “What’s this about a cross?” said Pyotr Ivanych as he entered the room. “Hello, Alexander, are you the one with the cross?”

  “Pyotr Ivanych was stooping and could hardly put one foot in front of the other as he walked.

  “Yes, but not the kind of cross you’re thinking of – I was talking about the heavy cross that Alexander has to bear.”

  “So what is this cross of his?” Pyotr Ivanych asked, lowering himself with immense care into his armchair. “Ouf! That really hurts! What did I do to deserve this!”

  Lizaveta Alexandrovna went over to help him into the armchair, placed a cushion behind his back and drew up a stool for him to rest his legs on.

  “What’s the matter with you, Uncle?” Alexander asked.

  “You see what a cross I’m bearing! It’s my lower back,” he groaned. “This is one hell of a cross! And this is my reward for all those years of hard work! My God, how it hurts!”

  “Well, it’s your own fault for spending so much time sitting; you know what the climate is like here,” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna. “The doctor told you to walk more. But no: you spend the morning writing and the evening playing cards.”

  “So you want me to walk around the streets with my mouth wide open, gawking like an idiot, just wasting time?”

  “And this is your punishment.”

  “There’s no way of avoiding it, if you want to apply yourself to your work. Who doesn’t suffer from lower-back pain? It’s virtually a mark of distinction of anyone who is serious about his work… Oh God! Can’t straighten my back. So, Alexander, what are you up to?”

  “The same as usual.”

  “Oh! So you won’t be having lower-back pain. How surprising!”

  “What’s so surprising? Aren’t you partly to blame for his becoming so…” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna.

  “Me? Well, that’s a nice one! I was the one who taught him to do nothing!”

  “Precisely, Uncle, you shouldn’t be surprised,” said Alexander. “You did a great deal to create the circumstances which made me what I am – not that I’m blaming you. It’s my
own fault that I wasn’t sensible enough – or, I should say, wasn’t able to make proper use of what you taught me, because I wasn’t prepared for that. Perhaps you’re partly to blame because you were well aware of my character from the very first, and instead of trying to change it, a man of your experience should have realized that it was impossible… You created an inner conflict in me between two competing views of life and were unable to reconcile them – and what was the end result? I ended up wallowing in doubt – a total mess, Uncle!”

  “Oh! My back!” Pyotr Ivanych groaned. “It was precisely out of that total mess that I was trying to create something worthwhile.”

  “Yes, but what did you end up doing? You painted a picture of your version of it, all its naked ugliness – and when I was still at that stage of life when I should have been seeing only its bright side.”

  “What I was trying to do was show you life as it really is, instead of allowing you to fall prey to the idea that it’s the exact opposite. I remember the kind of young fellow you were when you came here from your home in the country; I really thought I had to warn you that you couldn’t be like that here. I may have saved you from a lot of foolishness and a lot of mistakes – which, if it weren’t for me, you would still be making – and what mistakes!”

  “Perhaps. But there was just one thing you left out of the picture, Uncle – happiness. What you forgot was that it is a man’s delusions, dreams and hopes that make him happy – not reality…”

  “That’s crazy talk! Something you brought with you from somewhere on the border with Asia. In Europe, we’ve long since ceased to believe in that kind of thing. Dreams, fancy ideas, illusions: that’s fine for women and children, but a man must face the facts of life for what they are. Is there anything in your view which is worse than being deluded or cheated?”

  “Yes, Uncle, but whatever you may say, happiness is a tapestry woven from illusions, hopes and trust in people, confidence in oneself and also love and friendship… and you have drilled it into me that love is nonsense, a mere façade, and that it’s easier, or even better, to live without it, and that passionate love is no great accomplishment and does not make us superior to animals…”