A common story

by Ivan Goncharov

  In prose composition he was less happy. He wrote a play, two novels, some sketches and travels. His activity was amazing, the paper seemed to burn under his pen. His play and one of his novels he showed at first to his uncle and asked him to say whether they would do. His uncle read a few pages at random and handed it back, writing above—"It will do to light the fire !"

  Alexandr was furious and sent them to the magazines, but they returned him both of them. In two places on the margin of the play was noted in pencil " not bad," and that was all. On the novel the following criticisms were often to be met with: " weak, untrue, unreal, tedious, not worked out" and so on, and at the end it was said "there is noticeable throughout an ignorance of the heart, an excess of fervour, unreality, everything stilted, no real human being in it—the hero is a monstrosity—such people don't exist—

  unsuitable for publication! However, the author is not without ability; he must work!"

  "Such people don't exist! " thought Alexandr, mortified and surprised—" not exist ? but I am myself the hero. Can I describe the common heroes whom one meets at every turn, who think and feel like the herd and do what every one else does—the pitiful characters in small everyday tragedies and comedies, not distinguished by any special stamp— is art to stoop to that ?"....

  He invoked the shade of Byron, he called on Goethe and Schiller to confirm the truth of the literary doctrines he professed. He considered that a hero fit for a drama or a novel could be nothing else than some corsair, or great ,poet or artist, and he made them act and feel accordingly. ^ In one novel he laid the scene of the action in America; the mise en scene was extravagant; American scenery, mountains, and in the midst of all this an exile who had borne away with him his beloved. The whole world had forgotten them; they loved each other and nature, and when tidings were brought them of pardon and the possibility of returning to their native land, they refused. Twenty years after a European arrived there, came with an escort of Indians to hunt and found on a mountain a hut and in it skeletons. The European was the hero's rival. How beautiful this story seemed to him! with what delight he read it to Nadinka in the winter evenings! How eagerly she listened to him !—and to think of not taking such a novel!

  Of this failure he did not speak to Nadinka; he swallowed the outrage in silence—and that was the end of it With a sigh he laid aside literary prose for some future time; when his heart should be beating more evenly, his thoughts would be more in order, then he promised himself to set to work properly.

  Day after day passed by, days of uninterrupted blissful-ness for Alexandr. He was happy when he kissed the end of Nadinka's little finger, sat opposite her in a picturesque attitude for two hours at a stretch, not taking his eyes off her, sighing and melting with tenderness, or declaiming verses appropriate to the occasion.

  Truth compels one to state that she sometimes met his sighs and verses with a yawn. And no wonder; her heart

  was employed, but her mind remained quite unoccupied. Alexandr never exerted himself to give it food. /The year fixed for their .probation by Nadinka had passed: SFe~was~~ ^TTving'again with her mother at the same country villa, Alexandr began to speak to her of her promise, and begged permission to speak to her mother. Nadinka would have put it off till their return to town, but Alexandr insisted.

  At last, at parting one evening, she gave Alexandr leave to speak to her mother the following day.

  Alexandr did not sleep the whole night, and did not go to his duties. He kept revolving the next day in his head; he thought of everything he would say to Maria Mihalovna; he was composing his speech and preparing himself, but as soon as he recalled that it was Nadinka's hand that was in question, he was lost in dreams and again forgot everything. So he arrived at the house in the evening without having prepared anything; but it was not needed ; Nadinka met him as usual in the garden, but with a slight shade of pensiveness in her eyes, without a smile, and with a somewhat preoccupied air.

  .<£You can't speak to mamma now," she said; "that horrid y^ /Count is indoors."

  ^ --^CountJ whajr> in t? "

  " Why, don't you know what Count! C ount Novinsky of course—our neig h bour,; thatJs hjs vi lla;" 110W fflimy tunes you have admired Tiis garden !"

  " Count Novinsky! calling on you !" said Alexander, surprised ; " how did it happen ? "

  "I don't know very well myself" answered Nadinka. I was sitting here and reading your book and mamma wasn't at home; she had gone to Maria Ivanovna. Then it begun to rain a little, I went indoors, all at once a carriage drove up, dove-coloured with white cushions, the same that is always driving by us—you admired it once. I look out and see mamma stepping out with a man. They came in; and mamma said, " Here, Count, this is my daughter; let me introduce you." He bowed, and so did I. I felt shy, I grew red and ran away to my room. But mamma—so horrible of her—I heard saying, * Excuse her, Count, she is such a wild thing'. ... So I guessed that it must be our neighbour Count Novinsky. I suppose he brought mamma in his carriage from Maria Ivanovna's, because of the rain."

  u^

  " Is he—an old man ! " asked Alexandr.

  " An old man! what an idea! he's young, good-looking !"

  " You had time then to see he was good-looking!" said Alexandr with annoyance.

  " That's good! does it take long to look at any one? I just spoke to him. Ah ! he is very polite; he asked what I do; talked of music; asked me to sing something, but I didn't; I really can't sing a bit; next winter I shall certainly ask mamma to get me a good teacher of singing. The Count says it's all the fashion now, singing." All this was uttered with great vivacity.

  " I thought, Nadyezhda Alexandrovna," observed Alexandr, u that next winter you would have other occupations besides singing."

  " What occupation ? "

  " What!" said Alexandr reproachfully.

  " Ah, yes—did you come by boat ? "

  He looked at her without speaking. She turned away and went into the house.

  Adouev went into the drawing-room not altogether easy in his mind. What kind of man might the Count be ? How should he behave to him ? what would his manner be like— proud, or nonchalant ? He went in. The Count rose first and bowed politely. Alexandr replied by a stiff and awkward bow. Their hostess introduced them. The Count, for some reason, did not please him, but he was a handsome man— tall, well-made, fair, with large expressive eyes, and a pleasant smile. His manners were marked by simplicity, refinement, and a kind of softness. He seemed likely to attract everyone, but he did not attract Adouev.

  Alexandr, in spite of Maria Mihalovna's invitation to sit nearer, sat in a corner and kept reading a book, which was ill-bred, awkward, and injudicious.

  Nadinka stood behind her mother's armchair, looked with curiosity at the Count and listened to what he said; he was a novelty for her.

  Adouev did not know how to conceal, that he did not like the Count. The Count did not seem to notice his rude ness; he was civil and turned to Adouev, trying to make the conversation general But it was all in vain; he was silent, or answered yes and no.

  When Madame Lubetzky happened to mention his surname, the Count asked whether he was related to Piotr Ivanitch.

  " My uncle !" replied Alexandr, briefly.

  " I have often met him in society," said the Count.

  " Very likely. What is there surprising in that ? " answered Adouev, shrugging his shoulders.

  The Count concealed a smile, biting his lower lip. Nadinka exchanged a look with her mother, crimsoned and dropped her eyes.

  "Your uncle is an intelligent and agreeable man!" remarked the Count in a tone of slight irony.

  Adouev did not answer.

  Nadinka could not put up with it, she went up to Alexandr, and while the Count was speaking to her mother, whispered to him:

  "Aren't you ashamed? the Count is so friendly to you, and you "

  " Friendly!" in his annoyance Alexandr answered almost aloud: " I don't want his friendship, don't say that again."

 
Nadinka darted away from him, and from a distance looked at him long and fixedly with wide-open eyes, then she took up her position again behind her mother's chair, and paid no further attention to Alexandr.

  But Adouev kept expecting all the while that the Count would go, and that at last he would have a chance of speaking to her mother. But ten o'clock, eleven struck, the Count did not go, and kept talking.

  All the subjects upon which conversation usually turns at the first stage of an acquaintanceship were exhausted. The Count began to make jokes. He did this cleverly; his jokes were not forced, affected, nor far-fetched; he had a power of interesting, a special aptitude for telling things humorously, so that not anecdotes only, but simply a piece of new?, an incident, or a serious matter he would turn into comedy by a single unexpected word.

  Both mother and daughter were heartily diverted by his sallies, and Alexandr himself hid more than once an involuntary smile behind his book. But he was raging inwardly.

  The Count talked of everything equally well and with tact—of music, of people, and of foreign countries. The

  conversation turned on men and women; the Count was severe on men, himself among them, and subtly flattered women in general, paying a few compliments to the ladies of the house in particular.

  Adouev thought of his literary pursuits, of his poetry. " There I should put him to shame," he thought. They began to converse upon literature; the mother and daughter commended Alexandr as an author.

  " That'll take him down!" thought Adouev.

  Far from it. The Count talked of literature as though he were exclusively devoted to the subject; he made a few just criticisms in passing on contemporary Russian and French writers of note. Further it appeared that he was on terms of friendship with the leading Russian literary men, and in Paris had been acquainted with several French celebrities also. A few he commented upon with appreciation, others he slightly caricatured.

  Of Alexandra verses he remarked that he did not know them, and had not heard of them.

  Nadinka looked rather queerly at Adouev as though inquiring: " What does that mean, pray ? You have not done much."

  Alexandr's heart fell. His churlish and arrogant expression gave way to one of melancholy. He looked like a cock with bedraggled tail hiding from the storm under a shed.

  Presently there was a clinking of knives and glasses on the sideboard, the table was set, but still the Count did not go. All hope vanished. He even accepted Madame Lubetzky's invitation to stay and have a supper of curds.

  " A Count, and eat curds!" said Adouev, casting a glance of hatred on the Count.

  The Count ate with appetite and continued to make jokes, as though he were at home.

  " The first time he's in the house and eating enough for three, he's shameless! " whispered Alexandr to Nadinka.

  " Why, he's hungry I " she answered simply.

  The Count at last went away, but it was too late to talk of things then. Adouev took his hat and was hurrying off. Nadinka overtook him, and succeeded in pacifying him.

  " Then to-morrow?" asked Alexandr.

  " To-morrow we shan't be at home."

  " Well, the day after to-morrow then."

  They parted.

  The next time Alexandr arrived rather earlier. While still in the garden an unaccustomed sound reached him from indoors—a violoncello—no, not a violoncello. He drew nearer. A manly voice was singing—and what a voice! Sonorous, tender, a voice that one would think would penetrate a woman's heart. It penetrated Adouev's heart, but in a different way; it grew faint, it ached with anguish, envy, hatred, and a miserable undefined presentiment. Alexandr went from the courtyard into the hall.

  " Who have you here ? " he asked the servant.

  " Count Novinsky."

  " Has he been here long?"

  " Since six o'clock."

  " Tell your young lady that I have been and will come back again."

  u Very well."

  Alexandr went away and went wandering about the villas, not noticing where he was going. In two hours he returned.

  " Well, is he still here?" he asked.

  " Yes, and I think he will stay to supper. The mistress ordered roast woodcocks for supper."

  " And did you give the young lady my message ? "

  " Yes."

  " Well, what did she say ? "

  " She gave me no orders."

  Alexandr went home and did not appear for two days. God knows what revolutions of thought and feeling he went through ; at last he went again.

  He came in sight of the villa, stood up in the boat and, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand, looked before him. Yonder between the trees he caught a glimpse of the blue dress which fitted Nadinka so well; and blue was the colour most becoming to her complexion. She always put on this dress when she wanted to please Alexandr specially. A load seemed lifted from his heart.

  " Ah ! she wants to make up to me for her past unintentional neglect," he thought; " it's not she, but I who am to blame ; how could I behave so unforgivingly to her ? that's only the way to set her against one; a stranger, a new

  acquaintance; it's very natural that she as hostess "

  J^Ah. ! here she comes out of the bushes from the narrow footpath, she is going to the trellis, there she will take her stand and wait for. . . ."

  She did in fact go on into the great avenue .... but who is turning with her from the path ?

  " The Count!" Alexandr cried aloud in dismay, hardly believing his eyes.

  " Eh ? " ejaculated one of the boatmen.

  " Alone in the garden with him,* muttered Alexandr— " just as with me."

  The Count and Nadinka walked up to the trellis, and not looking at the river, turned round and walked slowly back to the avenue. He was bending over her, saying something in a low voice. She hung her head as she walked.

  Adouev remained in the boat, open-mouthed, motionless, stretching out his hands to the shore, then he let them drop and sank into his seat. The boatmen went on rowing.

  " Where are you going? " Adouev screamed furiously at them, when he had recovered a little. " Back again."

  " Go back ? " repeated one of them, gazing at him open-mouthed.

  " Yes, back; are you deaf? "

  " But don't you want to go this way ? "

  The other boatman began at once without speaking to row with his left oar alone, then pulled vigorously with both, and the boat was quickly darting along homewards. Alexandr pulled his hat down almost on to his shoulders and sank into gloomy meditation.

  After this he did not go to the Lubetzky's for a fortnight.

  A whole fortnight: what an age for a lover! But he kept expecting that they would send a servant to inquire what was the matter with him, whether he was ill, as this had always been done when he had been unwell, or perhaps had affected to be so. Nadinka at first would make such inquiries in her mother's name for form's sake, but afterwards, what did she not write on her own account ? Such tender reproaches, such fond anxiety! such impatience!

  "No, now I will not make it up at once," thought Alexandr: •' I will punish her. I will teach her how she

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  108 A COMMON STORY

  ought to behave with strange men; the reconciliation shall not come too easily ! "

  And he pondered harsh plans of revenge, dreamed of repentance, of how he would magnanimously pardon and lay down principles for the future. But till no servant was sent to him, no confession was brought; it seemed as though he no longer existed for the Lubetzkys.

  He grew thin and white. Jealousy is more agonising than any disfinyy, espULlilliy^ealousy on suspicion without proof. When the proof is plain, then jealousy is at an end, and, for the most part, love itself as well; then at least one knows what to do, but until then it is torture ! And Alexandr experienced it to the full.

  At last he resolved to go in the morning, thinking he would find Nadinka alone and have an explanation with her.

  He arrived. There was no one in the gard
en, no one in the drawing-room and the parlour. He went into the hall, opened the door into the court-yard.

  What a spectacle met him there! Two grooms, in the Count's livery, were holding saddle-horses. On to one of them the Count and a servant were mounting Nadinka ; the other stood ready for the Count himself. On the steps was standing Maria Mihalovna. She was looking on at this scene with a frown of anxiety.

  "Sit firmer, Nadinka," she said, "For Heaven's sake, Count, look at her ! Ah ! I'm frightened, hold on to the horse's ear, Nadinka; you see what a wicked thing she is to coax me into it."

  " Nonsense, maman? said Nadinka, gaily; " of course I can ride now—look."

  She switched the horse, which sprang forward and plunged and reared.

  " Ah, ah ! keep still !" shrieked Maria Mihalovna, waving her hand; " leave off, it'll be the death of you! "

  But Nadinka pulled the curb and the horse stood still.

  " You see how she obeys me ! " said Nadinka, stroking the horse's neck.

  No one noticed Adouev. With a white face he looked at Nadinka without speaking, and as though in mockery of him, she had never looked so handsome as that moment. How well the hat with its green veil and the riding habit

  became her I how well it defined her figure! Her face was animated by a shy pride and the delicious feeling of a new sensation. The colour came and went on her cheeks from delight. The horse plunged slightly and made the slender rider bow gracefully backwards and forwards. Her figure was shaken on the saddle like the stem of a flower quivering in the wind. Next the groom brought a horse up to the Count.

  " Count! shall we go to the copse again ?" asked Nadinka.

  " Again !" thought Adouev. " Very well," answered the Count. The horses were just starting.

  " Nadyezhda Alexandrovna! " cried Adouev, suddenly, in a strange voice.

  All stood still, rooted to the ground, as though they had been changed to stone and looked in perplexity at Alexandr. This lasted for a minute.