« Why, uncle ? "
" Oh, well, let us go a step further. You say you have no friends, but I always thought you had three."
" Three ?" cried Alexandr, " I once had one and he "
" Three," repeated Piotr Ivanitch persistently.
"The first—let us begin with the oldest—is this one. Any other man after not having seen you for some years, would have turned his back on you, but he invited you to go and see him, and when you arrived with sulky looks, he asked you sympathetically, whether you were in want of anything, began to offer you his services and his help, and I'm convinced he would have given you money—yes ! in our times not every feeling stands that test; no, you must make me acquainted with him; I see he's a good fellow .... though you think him a traitor."
Alexandr stood with downcast head.
" Well, and who do you thin^c is your second friend ?" asked Piotr Ivanitch.
" Who ? " repeated Alexandr quite at a loss, " why, no one."
" He's no conscience ! " broke in Piotr Ivanitch, " eh ? Liza, and he doesn't blush ! and what am I reckoned for, allow me to ask? It's too bad, Alexandr; this is a trait which even in school copy-books is called base?
" But you have always repulsed me," said Alexandr, timidly, not raising his eyes.
" Yes, when you tried to embrace me."
" You have laughed at me, at my feelings,"
" Ah, it is out at last! " Sit down; I have not finished yet! " said Piotr Ivanitch coldly. " YQu r third and best ( friend I hope you will name yourself." """"
V ""Alexandr gazed at him again and seemed to ask " Who is it ? " Piotr Ivanitch pointed to his wife.
" Here she is."'
"Piotr Ivanitch," interposed Iizaveta^.Alj^ajidroxna, " don't f>e clever; for goodness' sa£e, stop."
" No, don't interfere."
" I know how to value my aunt's friendship," murmured Alexandr indistinctly.
" No, you don't { if you did, you would not have looked up to the ceiling for a friend, but would have pointed to her.
If you had appreciated her friendship, you would have valued her qualities too well to have despised men in general. She alone would have redeemed in your eyes the failings of others. Who has dried your tears and wept with you ? Who has shown you sympathy in every foolishness, and what a sympathy ! I suppose only your mother could have taken so warmly to heart everything that concerned you, and she would not have known how to do it. If you had felt it, you would not have talked of nothing but " hard cold neglect in friendship."
"Ah, matan.tel" said Alexandr, overwhelmed and utterly annihilated by this reproach, " do you suppose that I don't value this and don't reckon you as a shining exception to the common herd ? My God, I swear "
" I believe you, I believe you, Alexandr !" she answered ; " don't listen to Piotr Ivanitch ; he makes a mountain out of a molehill: he likes an opportunity of showing his clever-ness. Leave off, for heaven's sake, Piotr Ivanitch."
" Directly: I will finish directly— one utterance more—the last I You said that you performed everything demanded by your duties to others ? "
Alexandr did not answer another word nor raise his eyes.
" C ome, tell me, do you love your mother ?_" 4 N Atexanar woke up at once.
" What a question ? " he said; " whom should I love if not ? I am devoted to her, I woul d lay down my life for her."
" Good?' "YOETnlust'"tnow very"weTT ll'iat slie lives Only
for you, that every pleasure, every pain of yours, is a pleasure
and a pain for her. She does not count time now by
months, nor weeks, but by the news of you, or from you.
TV11 mg, ig it Imjgr ginrf| yrn wrntP tO her ? "
Ale xanQf gave a start.
" Tfir ee w eeks/' he murmured.
""No,*Tour months! What am I to call such behaviour? The cfa lady fc> ill Wffh sorrow."
" Is it possible ? Good God !"
" It's not true, not true!" said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, and running at once to the bureau she brought out from it a letter which she handed to Alexandr. " She is not ill, but she is very worried."
" You are spoiling him, Liza," said Piotr Ivanitch.
'
" And you are severe to excess. Alexandr has had affairs which have for a time drawn him away."
"Forget his mother for the sake of a bit of a girl
Important affairs, on my word!"
" Well, that's enough," she said persuasively, with a gesture at her nephew.
" Alexandr, after reading his mother's letter, had hidden his face behind it
" Don't check my uncle, ma tante; let him thunder in reproaches ; I have deserved worse; lama monster!" he said, with a face of despair.
"Come, calm yourself, Alexandr!" said Piotr Ivanitch; " there are many such monsters. You have been led away by foolishness and have forgotten your mother for a time— that is natural; love for a mother is a quiet feeling. She had one thing in the world—it's natural she should be grieved. There is no reason to hang you for that That's all. Well, I will go and have a nap."
" Uncle ! are you angry ? " said Alexandr in a voice of deep penitence.
"What makes you imagine that? What have I to be vexed about ? I never even thought of being angry. Well, have I done well ? Liza, eh ? "
He tried, in passing, to kiss her, but she turned away.
" I fancy I carried out your behests exactly," added Piotr Ivanitch ; " what is it ? Oh, I forgot one thing; what's the state of your heart, Alexandr ? " he asked.
Alexandr made no answer.
" What must my uncle think of me ? " said Alexandr after a pause.
" Just what he did before," replied Lizaveta Alexandrovna. " Do you suppose he said all this to you from his heart— feeling it ? "
" But do you, ma tante, cease to respect me ? Good God! poor mamma!"
Lizaveta Alexandrovna gave him her hand. " I shall not cease to respect your heart, Alexandr," said she ; " it is feeling which leads it into errors, and so I shall always pardon them."
" Ah, ma tante, you ideal woman !"
" No; simply a woman."
Alexandr was powerfully affected by his uncle's reproof. Sitting with his aunt he sank into painful reflections. He felt as though he had had a bucket of cold water poured over him.
" What is it ? why are you like this ? " inquired his aunt.
" Nothing, ma tante; there is melancholy in my heart. My uncle has let me understand myself; he was a splendid interpreter!"
" Don't you pay attention to him; he sometimes doesn't speak the truth."
" No, don't try to comfort me. I am disgusted with myself now. I have been despising and hating others, and now I despise myself as well. One can escape from other people, but where is one to take refuge from oneself? "
" Ah, that Piotr Ivanitch!" exclaimed Lizaveta Alexan-drovna with a deep sigh; "he would drive any one to melancholy!"
" Only one negative consolation I still have, that I have not deceived anyone; I have not been inconstant in love or in friendship."
"You have not found people able to value you," his aunt replied; " but believe me, a heart will be found to appreciate you; I will guarantee that. You are still so young,
forget all this and set to work; you have talent; write
Are you writing anything now ? "
" No."
" Begin to write."
" I'm afraid, ma tante?
" Don't pay attention to Piotr Ivanitch; you will write, won't you ? "
" Very well."
" You* will begin soon ? "
" As soon as I can. It's all I have left to hope for."
Piotr Ivanitch, awakened from his nap, came up to him in full dress, his hat in his hand. He too advised Alexandr to set to work in his office, and at the subject of agricultural economy for the journal.
" I will try, uncle," answered Alexandr, " but I have just promised my aunt "
Lizaveta Alexandrovna made a sign to him to be silent, bu
t Piotr Ivanitch noticed it.
" What is it ? what have you promised ? " he asked.
" To bring me some new music," she replied.
" No, it's not true ; what was it, Alexandr ? "
" To write a novel or something."
" Haven't you yet given up literature ?" said Piotr Ivanitch, picking a grain of dust off his clothes; " and you, Liza, lead him wrong—all to no purpose!"
" I have not the right to give it up," observed Alexandr.
" Who wants to prevent you ?"
" One hope in the world remains to me, and am I to destroy that too ? If I waste what has been entrusted me from above, then I waste myself."
" But what is it has been entrusted to you, explain to me, please."
" That, uncle, I cannot explain to you. One needs to understand it of oneself. Have you felt a tempest of passion in you; has your fancy fermented and created artistic visions for you which craved embodiment ? "
"High flown! Well, what of this?" asked Piotr Ivanitch.
" Why, that to the man who has not felt this it is impossible to explain the desire to write when some restless spirit keeps repeating to one day and night, asleep and awake: write, write."
" But when you haven't the ability to write ?"
" Enough, Piotr Ivanitch; you haven't the ability yourself, so why interfere with any one else?" said Lizaveta Alexandrovna.
" Excuse me, uncle, if I remark that you are not a judge in this matter."
" Who is a judge ? is she ? "
Piotr Ivanitch pointed to his wife.
" She says it to make fun of you, and you believe her," he added.
" But you yourself, when I first arrived here, advised me to try—to try myself."
" Well, what of it ? You tried—nothing came of it, and you should throw it aside."
" Ah !" said Lizaveta Alexandrovna with annoyance, turning away to the table.
" As for the emotions and the rest of it—who does not feel it?"
" You, I should think for the first!" observed his wife.
" Come, now ! But you know even I have been in ecstasy."
" Over what ? I've no recollection of it."
" Every one experiences such things," continued Piotr
. Ivanitch, turning to his nephew, " every one has been stirred
■ by the silence or the darkness of night, or what not, by the
1 sound of the forest, by a garden, or lake, or the sea. If
! none but artists felt it, there would be no one to under-
! stand them. But to reflect all these sensations in their
works—is a different matter; talent is needed for it; and
that, I fancy, you have not."
" Piotr Ivanitch! it's time you started," said Lizaveta Alexandrovna.
" Directly. You want to be distinguished ?" he continued, " you have something by means of which you may be distinguished. The editor praises you; he says that your articles on agriculture are capitally worked up; that there is thought in them—they all show a trained hand, and not an amateur. I was delighted. Bah! thought I, the Adouevs were all good heads! you see even I have vanity! You ; may both gain distinction in your official work and win a I reputation as a writer."
" A fine reputation; a writer on manure."
" Every one in his place; one man is destined to soar into
7 Jieavenly regions, another to burrow in manure and extract
* > a treasure from it. I don't understand why one should
^ .(despise the humbler calling ? it, too, has its po etry, j You
would do your work as an official, gain money Dy your
[
iwuuiu. xj jvjui wi/iA. as aii uiuv^uu, gain uiuutj uy jjxi
Jabours, marry suitably, like most people. I don't know wHaT more you want ? You do your duty, your life is passed with honour and industry—that's what happiness consists in ! in my opinion it is so. Here am I, councillor of state by official rank, a manufacturer by trade ; offer me the title of greatest poet in exchange, and, God knows, I would not take it!"
"Piotr Ivanitch, you really will be late!" interrupted Lizaveta Alexandrovna; " it will soon be ten o'clock."
" Indeed, it's time. Well, au revoir. But as for imagining ourselves—God only knows why—exceptional people," muttered Piotr Ivanitch, as he went out; * it's the . . . ."
CHAPTER VIII
' ■>
v .
After this conversation Alexandr began again to create a
world of his own—rather a wiser one than the first. His
aunt encouraged this inclination in him, but secretly, when
Fiotr Ivanitch was asleep, or had gone out to the factory
or to the English Club.
r She questioned Alexandr about his occupations. And
r~ how this delighted him now! He explained to her the
J , plan of his works and sometimes asked—under the guise of
advice for her approval.
She often differed from him, still oftener agreed.
Alexandr clung to his work, as one clings to the last hope.
" After this," he said to his aunt, " there is nothing for me;
then the barren desert, without water, without greenness,
^obscurity, emptiness—what will life be then ? a living
tomb !" And he worked without ceasing.
He spent over it a great deal of reflection, and feeling and sheer hard work and nearly half a year of time. At last ^ / the no vel wa s finished, corrected, and a fair copy written ^ . out.-^fiis aunt was enraptured.
< In this novel the scene wa§ not laid in America, but in a
village of Tambov ; the persons of the plot were ordinary people: slanderers, liars, and wretches of every kind in frockcoats, jilts in corsets and hats. Everything respectable, and in place.
" I think, ma tante^ this I might show to my uncle."
" Yes, yes, of course, she replied," but, however, wouldn't it be better to send it to be published as it is without him ?"
" No, better show it! " answered Alexandr ; " after your criticism, and my own judgment, I am afraid of nobody."
They showed it. Piotr Ivanitch frowned a little when he saw the manuscript and slightly shook his head.
" Wait a little before you shake your head," said his wife,
"and just hear it Read it aloud to us, Alexandr.
Only listen attentively, don't go to sleep, and afterwards tell us your opinion of it. One can find defects everywhere if you like to look for them. But you must make allow-
ances."
" No, why ? only be impartial," added Alexandr. "There's nothing for it; I will listen," said Piotr Ivanitch
with a sigh," only on condition, first, that you don't read directly after dinner, or else I cannot pledge myself not to fall asleep—don't take that to yourself, Alexandr; whatever is read to me directly after dinner I begin to get sleepy— and secondly, if there is anything good in it, I will say what I think of it; if not, I will only say nothing, and then you will do as you choose. ,,
The reading was begun. Piotr Ivanitch didn't once fall asleep; he listened without taking his eyes off Alexandr, once or even twice smiled, and twice nodded his head approvingly.
" You see," said his wife in a whisper, " I told you so."
He nodded to her too.
The reading continued for two evenings in succession. On the first evening after the reading, Piotr Ivanitch, to his wife's astonishment, told them all that was to happen later.
"But how do you know?" she asked.
"Is it so strange ! It's not a new idea—that has been written of a thousand times over. It would not be necessary to read further, only we will see how it is developed by him."
On the second evening, while Alexandr was reading the last page, Piotr Ivanitch rang. A servant appeared.
"I am ready to dress," he said; "excuse me, Alexandr, for interrupting. I am in a hurry, I am late for whist at the club."
&nb
sp; Alexandr finished. Piotr Ivanitch was going away at once.
" Well, au revoir/" he said to his wife and Alexandr; " 1 shall not look in here again."
"Stop,stop," cried his wife; "whyare you saying nothing about the novel ? "
Ci I ought not by the agreement," he replied, and was just going.
" It's obstinacy!" she said, " oh, he is obstinate. I know him ! Don't think about it, Alexandr."
" It's ill-natured!" thought Alexandr; " he wants to drag , , me into the dust, to pull me down to his sphere. All the J same, he is a clever official, a manufacturer, and nothing more; but I am a poet."
^
"This is beyond everything, Piotr Ivanitch," began his wife, scarcely able to restrain her tears. "Say something at least. I saw you nodded in token of approval, so you liked it a little. Only you won't acknowledge it out of obstinacy. How can we acknowledge that we like the novel! We are too clever for that. Confess that it's good."
u I nodded; because even from this novel one can see Alexandr is clever; but he did not do a clever thing in writing it."
" However, uncle, justice of some kind."
" Listen ; of course you won't believe me, and it's useless to dispute, we had better await the result. I will do something to put an end to this between us for ever. I will call myself the author of the novel, and will send it off to my friend, who is on a journal: we shall see what he says. You know him, and certainly would have confidence in his opinion. He is a man of experience."
" Very well, we shall see."
Piotr Ivanitch sat down to the table and at once wrote a few lines, then passed the letter to Alexandr.
"In my old age I have taken to authorship," he had written; "what's to be done: I want to be famous, to succeed in it—I have gone a little crazy! I have sent the novel enclosed. Look at it, and if it is suitable print it in your journal, for payment, of course; you know I don't like working for nothing. You will see it and hardly believe it's mine, but I authorise you to sign my name to it, to prove I am telling the truth."
Relying upon a favourable reply about the novel, Alexandr awaited the answer tranquilly.
Three weeks passed by, however, still there was no answer. At last one morning a large parcel and letter was brought in to Piotr Ivanitch.
" Ah ! they have sent it back !" he said, glancing slyly at his wife.
A common story Page 19