A common story

by Ivan Goncharov

  so-and-so and so-and-so—all have made their way

  But my career and fortune? .... I alone have re-y jmained behind .... but why? what is the reason?" He cast about in anxiety and did not know how to speak to his mother of his plans of going away.

  But his mother very soon saved him this trouble: she died. ~~ ~ '

  ^ This was what he finally wrote to his uncle and aunt in Petersburg. To his aunt:

  " Before I left Petersburg, ma tante, with tears in your eyes you sent me on my way with some precious words which have remained printed on my memory. You said, ' If I should ever want warm affection, sincere sympathy, there would always remain a niche in your heart for me.'

  The moment came when I understood all the value of these words. The claims which you so generously gave me on your heart mean for me a guarantee of peace, of tranquillity, consolation, and rest—perhaps of happiness for all my life. Three months ago my mother died; I will not add another word. You know from her letters what she was for me, what I have lost in her. I am now leaving here for ever. But where, a solitary pilgrim, should I take my way if not to the place where you are ? . . . . Tell me only one thing: shall I find in you what I left behind a year and a half ago ? Have you not cast me out of your memory ? Will you consent to the dreary duty of healing with your affection—which has already delivered me more than once from grief—a new and deep wound ? All my hopes I rest on you and on another powerful ally—activity.

  " You wonder, do you not ? It seems strange to you to hear this from me—to read those lines written in a tranquil strain so unnatural to me ? Do not wonder, and don't be afraid of my return; you will see, not a raving enthusiast, nor a sentimentalist, nor a disillusioned cynic, nor a provincial, but simply a man such as there are many more in Petersburg, and such as I ought long ago to have become. Reassure my uncle especially on that score. When I look back on my past life, I feel uneasy and ashamed both of others and of myself. But it could not have been otherwise. Now only I have recognised my errors—at thirtyj_ The painful discipline I went through in Petersburg and meditation in the country have made my course fully clear to me. Here, removed to a respectful distance from my uncle's lessons and my own experience, I have pondered them in tranquillity more clear-sightedly, and I see what they ought to have led me to long ago; I see how miserably and irrationally I have turned away from the right aim. I am now calm ; I am not torn and harassed, but I do not plume myself on this. It may be that this calm is even yet tne result of egoism ; I feel, however, that soon my insight into life will grow clear enough for me to discover another source of peace—a purer one. At present I cannot still help regretting that I have now reached the boundary where, alas ! youth is over and the time has come for reflection, self-control, and the restraint of every emotion—the time of consciousness.

  "Though perhaps my opinion of men and of life has changed, too, a little, much of my hopefulness has vanished, many of my desires have grown weaker; in a word, my illusions are dissipated; consequently, it will not be my lot to be mistaken and deceived in many things or many people, and this is very consolatory from one point of view. And I look forward to a brighter future; the most painful part is past; my passions I do not dread, for few of them are left; the most important are over, and I look back on them with thankfulness. I am ashamed to remember that I regarded myself as a victim : I cursed life, and my lot—I cursed it! What miserable childishness and ingratitude ! How long I was in seeing that sufferings purify the soul, that they make a man tolerable to himself and to others ;

  they raise him I acknowledge now that not to have

  one's shares of sorrows means not to have one's full share in life j there are many problems in them, the solution of which we shall see, perhaps, not here. I see in these distresses the hand of Providence, which seems to set man an endless task —to strive forward, to reach higher than the aim he proposes to himself through hourly conflict with deceitful hopes, with tormenting obstacles. Yes, I see how indispensable is this conflict, are these emotions to life; how life without them would not be life, but stagnation,

  slumber The conflict over, and life is at an end ; the

  man was busy, loved; was happy, suffered ; was distressed,

  did his work; and thus he lived !

  •^ " You see how I reason; I have come out of darkness,

  ' -and I see that all my life up till now has been a kind of

  ^ • laborious preparation for the true way, a difficult app rentice^

  ■ vShiptolife. Something tells me that the rest ofTneway

  ^. f "^wiilBe^easier, calmer, plainer The dark places have

  : ^ x grown light; hard knots have unloosed themselves; life begins to seem a blessing, not an evil. Soon I shall say again, how fair a thing is life ! But I shall say it, not as a N boy praising the pleasure of the moment, but with a full

  knowledge of its true pleasures and pajis. Moreover, death itself is not terrible; it presents itself not as a fearful but as a glorious experience. And now there is in my soul a sense of unknown peace; childish annoyances, the sting of wounded vanity, puerile irritability, and comic anger with the world and men, like the anger of a puppy with an elephant—all is

  over. I have grown friendly again with those with whom I was so long estranged—my fellow-creatures, who, I may remark in passing, are the same here as in Petersburg, only a little rougher, a little coarser, a little more ridiculous. But I do not lose patience with them even here, and there I shall be far from losing patience. Here is an example of my urbanity for you: a ridiculous creature, a certain Anton Ivanitch, drives over to me to stay with me, to share my sorrow, it seems. To-morrow he will go to a wedding at a neighbour's—to share their joy, and then to some one else —to share the duties of the monthly nurse. But neither sorrow nor joy will hinder him from eating four times a day at every house. I see that it is all the same to him whether some one is dead or born or married, yet it's not repugnant to me to look at him; it does not vex me. I put up with

  him, I don't repulse him It's a good sign, isn't it, ma

  tante? What will you say when you read this praise of myself? "

  To his uncle:

 
  " With what delight I learnt that your career had been completed by this dignity! You are actually a Councillor of State—you the director of a chancery office ! I am so bold as to remind you of the promise you gave me on my departure. * When you want office, employment, or money, turn to me,' you said. And now here I am in want of office and employment; money, of course, I want as well. The poor provincial ventures to beg for a place and work. What reception awaits my request? Is it such a reception as once befel a letter from Zayeshaloff begging you to busy yourself about his lawsuit? .... As to the 'creative genius' of which you had the cruelty to remind me in one of your letters, well .... isn't it too bad of you to bring up long-forgotten follies, when I myself blush for them ? . . . . Fie, uncle ! for shame, your Excellency ! Who has not been young and, on some points, foolish ? Who has not had some strange, so-called ' sacred' dream which was never destined to come to anything ? My neighbour here on the right fancied himself a hero, a giant, a warrior before the Lord. He wanted to astonish the world by his exploits, and it has all ended in his becoming an ensign on the retired list without ever having seen service; and he is peacefully

  digging potatoes and sowing turnips. Another one on my left dreamed of reforming Russia and the whole world after his own fashion, and he, after copying deeds for some time in the Courts of Justice, has retired here, and so far has not even succeeded in reforming his old fence. I thought that I had been endowed with creative talent from on high, and I wanted to reveal to the world new unknown mysteries, not suspecting that there are now no mysteries, and I am not a prophet. We are all ridiculous; but tell me who, without a blush for himself, will venture to stigmatise as wholly bad these youthful, generous, ardent, though not altogether rational ideals ? Who has not in his
time cherished fruitless desires, and pictured himself as the hero of a glorious achievement, a song of triumph, a renowned event? Whose imagination has not been transported to the heroic times of story ? Who has not wept, feeling himself great and exalted ? Jf such a man is to be found, let him throw a stone at me. I do not envy him. I blush for my youthful ideals, but I honour:them ; they are the guarantee of purity of heart, the sign of a generous spirit inclined to good.

  "And was your own youth innocent of these errors? Remember, ransack your memory. I can see even here how you shake your head with your calm never embarrassed expression, and say, no.

  " Let me convict_you, for instance, as to love; you deny it. Do not deny it; the proof is in my hands. Recollect that I have been able to follow the matter on the scene of action. The background of your love affair is before my eyes—the lake. Yellow flowers still grow by it; one of them, suitably preserved, I have the honour of. forwarding your Excellency enclosed in this by way of a sweet souvenir. But I have a more terrible weapon to parry your attacks upon love in general ^nd mine in special—a document! . . . . You frown ! and such a document! Are you pale ? I filched this precious antiquity from my auntie, from her no less antique bosom, and I shall bring it with me as a perpetual testimony against you and a vengeance for me. Tremble, uncle ! Not only so. I know in detail the whole story of your love; my auntie relates it to me every day over our morning tea, and over supper, with every fact of interest.

  "And I am putting all these priceless materials into a

  special memoir. I shall not fail to hand it to you in person together with my essays on points of agricultural economy on which I have been busy here for the last year. I for my part consider it a duty to assure my auntie of the constancy of 'your sentiments,' as she says, to her. When I am honoured by receiving a favourable reply to my request from your Excellency, I shall take the liberty of coming to you with propitiatory offerings of dried raspberries and honey, and bearing several letters which my neighbours promise to furnish me with, dealing with their several needs, but not one from Zayeshaloflf, who died before the conclusion of his lawsuit."

  EPILOGUE

  Foxu ^years after Alexandr's return toJPetersburg, this was the position of the^pnhcTpal personages 6rthis~story.

  One morning Pic4rlyanit£h_was walking up and down in his study. It was"noTonger the robust, stout, upright Piotr Ivanitch of former days, who always wore a uniformly calm expression, and moved with his head haughtily erect and unfaltering gait. Whether from age or the force of circumstances, he seemed to have grown feebler. His movements were not so vigorous, his glance was not so firm and self-confident. There were many silver hairs to be seen in his whiskers and his moustache. It was obvious that he had celebrated the fiftiejthjmmversary of his life. He walked a little bent It was specially curious to observe on the face of this passionless and tranquil man—as we have known him hitherto—a more than anxious, a harassed expression, even though it was manifest in a way characteristic of Piotr Ivanitch.

  He seemed as though he were in perplexity. He took two steps, and suddenly stood still in the middle of the room, or hurriedly paced twice or thrice from one end of it to the other. It seemed as though he were struck by some unusual idea.

  In the chair by the table sat a stout man of medium height, with a decoration on his breast, his coat tightly buttoned up, and his legs crossed. He needed only the gold-headed cane, the classical stick by which the reader has been used to recognise at once the doctor in romances

  A COMMON STORY

  and novels. Very likely this staff was suitable to a doctor, when, having nothing to do, he could take his walks abroad with it, and sit for whole hours with patients, console them, and unite in his person the several characters of apothecary, practical philosopher, friend of the family, &c. All this is very well where men live in peace and comfort, and are seldom ill, and where a doctor isiaQre a luxury than a necessity, /^ut Piotrlvanitch's flo ctonwas a Petersburg physiciaa ' He^iJTRTl kuuw what walking meant, though he ""Used "to prescribe exercise to his patients. He was a member of some committee, secretary of some other society, a professor, and physician to several public institutions, and invariably took part in every consultation ; he had too, an immense practice. He did not even take his glove off his left hand, he would not even have taken off the right hand one if he had not had to feel the pulse; he never unbuttoned his coat and scarcely sat down. The doctor in impatience had already more than once shifted his right leg over his left, and then again his left over his right. It was long ago time for him to be gone, but still Piotr Ivanitch said nothing. At last:

  "What is to be done, doctor?" asked Piotr Ivanitch, suddenly coming to a standstill before him.

  "Go to Kissingen," replied the doctor: "it's the one remedy. Your symptoms will recur more frequently."

  " Ah, you keep on talking of me!" interposed Piotr Ivanitch. " I am asking you about my wife. I am over fifty, but she is in the very bloom ot her age ; she ought to live: and if she begins to waste away from me "

  " You talk of wasting away already!" observed the doctor. " I only informed you of the danger for the future ;

  so far there is nothing I only meant to say that her

  health, or not her health, that she is not exactly in a normal condition."

  " Isn't it all the same ? You made your observation superficially, and forgot it; but I have kept watch on her constantly since then, and every day I discern in her new disquieting changes. And for three months now I have known no peace of mind. How it was I didn't see it before I don't understand.^ My "duties and my business rob me of time and health, and now, perhaps, of even my wife 1"

  /

  A COMMON STORY 267

  Again be fell to pacing up and down the room.

  "You questioned her to-day?" he asked, after a pause.

  "Yes; but s he has noticed nothing wrong i n herself. I supposed at firsi there was a physiological explanation: s he has had no children , but it seems it's not so. Perhaps the cause "is purely psychological."

  " So much the worse !" remarked Piotr Ivanitch. . " But perhaps it's nothing at all. Suspicious symptoms there are absolutely none. It's only .... you have been living too long in this malarious climate. Go to the South : you will be freshened up, gain some new impressions, and see how things are then. Spend the summer at Kissingen, go through a course of the waters, and the autumn in Italy, and the winter in Paris. I assure you that the catarrh, the irritability, will be all over."

  Piotr Ivanitch scarcely listened to him.

  " A psychological cause," he said to himself, and shook his head.

  " That's to say, do you see why I say a psychological cause?" said the doctor. "Another man, not knowing you, might suspect some anxiety of some kind in it ... . or if not anxiety, some unsatisfied desire .... some time there is something wanting, some lack .... I wanted to lead you to the idea."

  " Something wanted—desires ?" interposed Piotr Ivanitch. " All her desires are satisfied. I know her tastes, her habits. But some lack—how ! You see our house, you know how we live."

  " A splendid house, a capital house," said the doctor; " a marvellous cook, and what cigars ! But why has that friend of yours that lives in London .... left off sending you sherry ? Why is it that this year we do not see "

  " Doctor, have I not been considerate with her ? " began Piotr Ivanitch, with a heat not usual to him* " I weighed, I thought, every step I took No; somewhere there was failure. And at what a time—with all my successes, in such a career ! Ah!"

  With a gesture of the hand he resumed his pacing.

  " Why are yo u_so upset?^" said the doctor. "There is. distin ctly noth ing "alarming. I repeat to you what I said on the first occasion f "that Tier constitution is not touched;

  there are no consumptive symptoms. Anae mia, some lo ss of gflggaFTO fs a l l. "' ~^ - " ~

  trine, truly !" said Piotr Ivanitch.

  " Her ill-health is negative, not positive," pursued the doctor. "Do you suppo
se she is an exception? Look at all who are not natives living here. What do they look like ? Go away, go away from here. But if it's impossible to go, rouse her. Don't let her sit so much. Humour her; take her about; plenty of exercise for mind and body: both alike are in an unnatural lethargy. Of course, in time it may affect the lungs, or "

  " Good-bye, doctor* I will go to her," said Piotr Ivanitch, and with rapid steps he strode to his wife's room. He stood still in the doorway, gently moved the portibre^ and turned an anxious gaze upon his wife.

  What did the doctor observe that was peculiar in her? Every one meeting her for the first time would have seen in her a woman like many others in Petersburg. Pale, it is true, her eyes lacked lustre, her blouse hung in straight folds over her narrow shoulders and flat chest, her movements were slow, almost inert But are rosy cheeks,

  bright eyes, and lively gestures characteristics of our

  beauties? And as for grace of figure Neither

  Phidias nor Praxitiles could have found here a Venus for their chisel.

  No, one must not look for classical beauty in the fair

  women of the North ; they are not statues; they fall into no

  •antique pose, such as the beauty of the Greek women has

  been immortalised in; nor have they the form which would

  take such poses ; they have not the faultlessly correct lines

  of the body Sensuality does not flow from their

  eyes in moist brilliance ; on their half-opened lips there is not the melting, frankly passionate smile, which burns on the lips of the women of the South. To our women is given* a different, higher beauty in compensation. No sculptor could catch the light of thought in the traits of their countenances, the conflict of will with passion, the play of unutterable fluctuations of the soul with innumerable subtle shades of caprice, apparent simplicity, anger and kindness, hidden delights and sufferings .... all these like flying sparks thrown off by the soul that is their centre

  /"From whatever cause, no one seeing Lizaveta Alexan-| drovna for the first time would have noticed anything wronff with her. Only one who had known her before, who remembered the freshness of her face, the brilliance of her glance, through which at times one could not see the colour of her eyes—they seemed to swim in rich tremulous waves of light—who remembered her splendid shoulders and shapely bosom, would have looked with pained surprise at her now, and would, if he were not indifferent to her, have been heavy at heart, as now Piotr Ivanitch was, with a sympathetic sorrow which he was afraid to admit to himself.