Alexandr gazed in silence with an expression of bitter reproach at his uncle.
" Uncle!" he repeated.
"What is it?"
" How am I to describe your action?"
" As a throwing out of the window into the canal of some immaterial tokens and various odds and ends of rubbish which there was no need to keep in the room."
" Rubbish—tkat rubbish ? "
" Why, what do you regard it as, a piece of your heart? I came to him about business, and what do I find him busy over, he is sitting thinking about some stuff and nonsense !"
" Does that interfere with business, uncle ? "
" Very much so. Time is slipping away, and you have not so far talked to me of your plans; whether you do want a government clerkship or have you adopted some other occupation ? You haven't said a word to me, and this is all because you have Sophia and her keepsake in your head. There, I do believe you are just writing a letter to her, aren't you now?"
" Yes, I was just beginning."
" But have you written to ynnr rqnthpr ? "
" Not" yet, 1 me ant to tomo rrow7 "
4 'Why to-morrowr* To your mother,to-morrow, but.to Sophia," Whutil you must forget within a month, to-day." 4 *15opEiaT"can T eveflbrget tier?* **
" You will have to. If I had not thrown away your keepsakes what would you have gained, pray ? ; You would have remembered her a month longer for nothing. I did you a double service. In a few years these keepsakes would have reminded you of a folly at which you would blush!"
"Blush at such a pure, such a sacred remembrance? That shows you do not recognise the poetry."
"What poetry is there in what is foolish? Is there poetry for instance in your aunt's letter ? Yellow flowers, a lake, some mystery or other. When I was reading it, it
made me feel sick beyond description ! I was almost blushing, and yet I am not exactly in the habit of blush-ing."
"That's awful—awful, uncle! It must be that you have never loved/'
" I could never bear keepsakes."
" It is a sort of wooden life!" said Alexandr, with great feeling. " It is vegetating, not living ! Love—sacred passion!"
" I know the sacred love you talk about; at your age, you need only see a curl, a slipper, a garter, or touch a hand .... through your whole body you feel a thrill of sacred, sublime love, but let it have its way—and it's
a different matter Love is before you, more's the
pity; you can't run away from it that's certain ; but serious business will run away from you, if you don't devote yourself to it?"
" But is not love a serious business ? "
" No; it is an agreeable distraction, only you must not give yourself up to it too much, or some harm will come of it. That's why I am afraid for you." His uncle shook his head.
" I have almost found you a position; you really do want to get into an office ? " he said.
Alexandr rushed up and kissed his uncle on the cheek.
" He has succeeded at last!" said his uncle, rubbing his cheek. " Why wasn't I on the look-out for it? Well, now listen. Tell me, what do you know, what do you feel yourself fit for ? "
" I know theology, civil, criminal, and international law, and jurisprudence, diplomacy,political economy, philosophy, aesthetics and archaeology."
" Stop, stop! but you know how to write Russian correctly ? At the present moment that is more necessary than all."
" What a question, uncle; do I know how to write Russian!" said Alexandr, running to his bureau, and beginning to take from it various papers, but his uncle meantime picked up a letter from the table and began to read it.
Alexandr returned with his papers to the table, and saw
that his uncle was reading his letter. His papers fell out of his hand.
" What is it you are reading, uncle ? " he said in dismay.
" Why a letter that was lying here; to a friend, it must be. I beg your pardon—I wanted to see how you write."
" And you have read it ? "
" Yes, almost, only two lines more—I shall have done with it directiy; why what was in it ? there are certainly no secrets in it, or it would not have been lying about like this."
" What can you think of me now ? "
" I think that you write fairly, correctly, smoothly."
" Then you cannot have read what is written in it ?" Alexandr asked eagerly.
" No, I fancy I have read all," said Piotr Ivanitch, looking at both pages; " to begin with you describe Petersburg and your impressions, and then me."
" Good God!" exclaimed Alexandr, covering his face with his hands.
" Well, what is it ? what is the matter ? "
" And you say this calmly ? you are not angry ? you don't hate me ? "
" No ! what is there to make a fuss about ? "
" Repeat it, calm me !"
" No, no, no."
" But to read such bitter truths about yourself—and from whom ? from your own nephew !"
" You fancy that you have written the truth ? "
" Oh, uncle!—of course, I was mistaken—I will correct —forgive me."
" Would you like me to dictate what is the truth to you ? "
" If you would be so good."
" Sit down then and write."
Alexandr picked out a sheet of paper, and took up a pen, while Piotr Ivanitch, looking at the letter he had read, dictated :—" Dear friend—have you got it ? "
"Yes."
" Petersburg and my impressions I will not describe to you."
" Describe to you," said Alexandr, writing it down.
"Petersburg has been fully described long ago, and what has not been described you must see for yourself;
D
my impressions will be of no use whatever to you. It is useless to waste time and paper for nothing. I shall do better to describe my uncle, because that is of interest to me personally."
" To me personally," said Alexandr.
" Well, you write here, that I am good-hearted and very intelligent—I may be so, or may not; let us rather take a middle course, write : My uncle is not stupid nor unkind, he wishes me well."
" Uncle! I know how to appreciate and to feel" . . . . said Alexander, and got up to kiss him.
" Although he does not fall upon my neck," continued Piotr Ivanitch. Alexandr, who had not yet reached him, sat down again rather suddenly.
" But he wishes me well, because he has no reason or motive to wish me ill, and because my mother has interceded with him on my behalf, and she was good to him formerly. He says he does not love me—and very reasonably; it is impossible to love any one in a fortnight, and I do not love him yet, even though I maintain that I do."
" How is that possible ? " said Alexandr.
" Write, write. ' But we are beginning to get used to one another. He even says that it is possible to do without love altogether. He does not sit with his arms round me, from morning till evening, because this is quite unnecessary, and he has not the time. * Averse to all outbursts of feeling' —that may stand : that is good. Have you written it ? "
" Yes."
" Well, what have you next ? ' Prosaic'—write it"
While Alexandr was writing, Piotr Ivanitch took from the table a paper of some sort, twisted it up, thrust it in the fire, and lighted a cigar with it, and threw the paper back into the fire and it burnt up.
" My uncle is neither a demon, nor an angel, but just a man like every one else," he dictated, " only not altogether like you and me. He thinks and feels after an earthly fashion, he considers that since we live on the earth, we must not fly off from earth to heaven, where we are not invited for the present, but must busy ourselves with human affairs which are our calling. Therefore he analyses all earthly matters and especially life, as it is, not as we should like it to be. He believes in good and at the same
time in evil, in the noble and in the base. He believes also in love and friendship, only he does not think they have fallen from heaven, but he considers
that they came into existence together with men and for men, and that they too ought to be understood, and in fact generally that one ought to look at things steadily, in their actual bearings, and not be carried away God knows where. Among honest men he admits the possibility of a friendliness, which from frequent intercourse and habit turns into friendship. But he considers also that from separation habits lose their strength and people forget one another and that this is by no means a crime. For this reason he is convinced that I shall forget you and you me./ This seems to me—and probably also to you—strange, but he advises us to accustom ourselves to this thought, so that we shall both avo id bein g ^dg£fiixed« As to love this is his view, roughly speaking; he does not believe in eternal and unchanging love, just as he does not believe in ghosts—and he advises us not to believe in it. However, he advises me to think on this subject as little as possible and I advise you the same. It will come, he says, of itself, without any invitation; he says that life does not consist of love only, that like everything else it has its fitting season, but to dream your whole life of one love is absurd. Those who seek it and cannot do without it a minute—live with their hearts at the expense of their heads. My uncle likes to be busy with work, and advises me to do the like and I you; we belong to society, he says, which has need of us; while he is busy, he does not forget his own interests; his work gains money and money brings comfort, which he likes extremely. Moreover, he has perhaps plans in consequence of which I shall not probably be his heir. My uncle is not always thinking of his official I work and of his factory; he knows by heart not only ' Pushkin » —
"You, uncle?" said Alexandr astonished.
" Yes, you will see some day. Write: n
" ¥{e read? in tiyn languages whatpvpr flpp^rc w^rfrhy nf
note in all branches af human knowledge, Joves art, has an
excel lent collection of picture s nf the F urnish srhnn— that
i£hls rlOBby—o/ten.goes to the f ^^ fy ^ l hi? f u * ; ° n(j j n_a fuss and fidget, and does not sigh and moan, thinking that this is childish, that one must control oneself, not obtrude
$r1
one's emotions on any one, because nobody cares about them. He does not speak a strange tongue either and he advises me not to, and so do I advise you. Good-bye, write to me rather less often and don't waste time for nothing. Your friend so and so. Now, the day of the month."
" How can I send such a letter ? " said Alexandr, "' write rather less often'—write that to the man who came over a hundred and sixty miles on purpose to say a last good-bye to me! 'I advise you so, and so, and so': he is just as clever as I am, he came out second."
" No matter, send it all the same, perhaps he will learn something from it; it will lead him to several new reflections ; though you have taken your degrees, your education is only just beginning."
" I cannot make up my mind, uncle, to "
" I never interfere in what doesn't concern me, but you yourself asked me to do something for you; well, as you like; I only give you my opinion."
"Forgive me, uncle; I will obey you," said Alexandr, and at once sealed up the letter.
Having sealed up one, he began to look for the other, to Sophia. He looked on the table—not there; under the table—not there either; in the desk—it was not there.
" What are you looking for? " said his uncle. " I am looking for another letter—to Sophia." And his uncle too began to look about. " Where can it be ? " said Piotr Ivanitch, " I hope I did not throw it in the fire."
" Uncle ! what have you done ? you actually lighted your cigar with it!" said Alexandr in great distress, picking up the charred fragments of the letter.
" Is it possible?" cried his uncle, " how did I do that? I did not notice it; only imagine my having burnt such a precious thing. However, do you know what? from one point of view it is positively a good thing."
" Oh, uncle ! good God! not from any point of view can it be a good thing," said Alexandr in despair.
" I assure you it was a good thing; you will not have time to write to her by this post, and by the next you will certainly be in a different mood, you will be busy with your
new work; you will not be at the same stage and in this way you will commit one folly the less."
" What will she think of me ? "
" Why what she likes,,' And I think it will be a gain to her. I suppose you are not going to marry her? She will think you have forgotten her. She will forget you herself and will have the less reason to blush before her future husband, when she assures him that she has never loved any one but him."
" You are a strange man, uncle ! for you there is no such thing as constancy, no sacred vows. Life is so sweet, so full of charm, of subtlety, it is like a smooth, resplendent lake."
" Where yellow flowers grow, I suppose! M put in his uncle.
"Like a lake," continued Alexandr, "it is full of something mysterious, alluring, hiding within it so much."
" Mud, my dear boy." j " W&y do you bring in mud, uncle, why do you destroy and put an end to all pleasure, hope, bliss—why do you look at the dark side ? "
" I look at reality, and I advise you to do the same ;• you will not be taken in then. According to your notions life is sweet in the provinces, where they know nothing about it— there they are not men, but angels: Zayeshaloff for instance —a noble fellow; your auntie—a sublime sensitive spirit, and Sophia, I fancy, is just such a silly creature as your auntie.
" No more, uncle !" said Alexandr driven to fury.
" And still more such idealists as you: they go blindfold through life, groping afteFmicrianging love and friendship. For the hundredth time I say, it was a pity for you to come!"
" Will she assure her husband that she has never loved any one ? " said Alexandr almost to himself.
" Why ! you are back at the same subject again!"
" No, I am convinced that she will straightway with noble frankness give him ray letters and "
" And keepsakes?" said Piotr Ivanitcb.
" Yes, and the tokens of our affection, and will say: Here this was he who first touched the chords of my heart; about whose name they first vibrated."
His uncle's brows began to contract and his eyes opened wide. Alexandr stopped.
" Why did you cease to touch her chords then ? Well my dear boy, your Sophia certainly is a fool, if she commits any folly of that kind ; I suppose she has a mother, or somebody who can prevent her? God knows what she will make her husband suspect; I daresay, the marriage will even be broken off, and why ? because you gathered some yellow flowers together. . . . No, things are not done like that. Well, since you can write in Russian, we will go tomorrow to the office of the department; I have already spoken of you to an old fellow-clerk of mine, now the chief of the department; he told me there was a vacancy; we must not lose time. What is that you are pulling out of that pile of papers ? "
" My university notes. Allow me to read you a few pages from the lectures of Ivan Semenitch about the Art of Greece."
He was already beginning to turn over the pages in haste.
" Oh, please, spare me !" said Piotr Ivanitch frowning. " But what is that ? "
" My dissertations. I should like to show them to my chief; especially one scheme here which I elaborated."
" Ah ! one of those schemes which have been carried out a thousand years ago, or which is impossible and useless to carry out at all; you will never write anything worth having in that way, and you will waste time.
"What? after having heard so many lectures."
" They are of use to you for a time, but now you must see, read, learn and do what you are told."
" How will the chief understand my qualifications ? "
" He will understand them soon enough; he is first rate at understanding. And what kind of post would you like to occupy ? "
" I don't know, uncle, what kind of "
" There are posts of minister," remarked Piotr Ivanitch, "and deputy-ministers, directors, vice-directors, c
hiefs of departments, branch-chiefs, their assistants, officials of several orders."
Alexandr thought a minute. He was abashed and did not know which to choose.
S
A COMMON STORY 55
" Well, to begin with the post of a branch-chief would do very well," he said.
" Yes, very well!" repeated Piotr Ivanitch.
"I could see something of the work, uncle, and then in two months or so I might even be a chief of a department."
His uncle pricked up his ears.
" Of course, of course!" he said : " then in three months a director; then in a year a minister; don't you think so ? "
Alexandr blushed and was silent.
" The chief of the department told you, I suppose, what was the post vacant ? " he asked after a pause.
" No," answered his uncle:—" he did not say, but we had better leave it to him; we should find it difficult, you see, to choose, but he will know what to appoint you to. Don't talk to him of the difficulty you feel in choosing a post, and of your schemes not a word. I would not advise you to talk of material tokens to the pretty girls here; they won't know how to take you ! This is too elevated for them; even I hardly fathomed it, and they will make faces at you."
While his uncle was speaking Alexandr was balancing a packet in his hand.
" What have you there ? "
Alexandr had been impatiently expecting this question.
" This—I have long wanted to show you .... poems; you once showed an interest "
" I don't remember it at all; I think I did not show any interest."
" You see, uncle, I regard official life as a dry occupation, in which the soul has no part, but the soul thirsts for self-expression, it thirsts to share with others the overflow of emotions and thoughts which fill it"
" Well, what of it ? " asked his uncle impatiently. " I feel an impulse to creative work." 1 "Which means, you would like some other occupation besides official duties—for instance some translation? Well, it's very praiseworthy; what is it to be, literary work?"
" Yes, uncle, I wanted to ask you, if you had a chance of getting anything inserted "
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