Alexander returned home from his uncle’s, sat down in an armchair and started thinking. He remembered the whole conversation with his aunt and uncle, and took himself severely to task.
How, at his age, had he allowed himself to hate and despise people – to see and talk about their insignificance, pettiness and weaknesses, and to pick on each and every one of the people he knew – but forgotten to consider his own case? How could he be so blind? And his uncle had lectured him like a schoolboy, and had given him a thorough going-over – and moreover in the presence of a woman, all in order to get him to take a look at himself. What an impression his uncle must have made on his wife that evening! Nothing wrong with that, of course, it’s only normal; the trouble was that this impression was made at his expense. Now his uncle had achieved once and for all an indisputable supremacy over him.
So now what had become, after all this, he thought, of the advantages of youth, freshness, mental and emotional ardour, when someone armed only with the asset of experience, but with a dried-up heart and without energy, could destroy him so casually and nonchalantly at every step? When would this struggle finally become an even one, and when would the pendulum swing in his favour? His assets were both talent and an abundance of spiritual strength… but his uncle was a giant in comparison. How confidently he argued, how lightly he brushed aside any contradiction and achieved his goal with humour, with a yawn, ridiculing feeling and passionate outpourings of love and friendship – ridiculing, in a word, everything for which the older generation tends to envy the young! As he mulled all this over in his mind he flushed with shame. He swore that he would watch himself very carefully and take the first opportunity to crush his uncle, and to show him that no amount of experience could replace what it was that had “come to him from outside himself” – and that, for all his preaching, from this moment on, not a single one of his cold, methodical predictions would prove to be true. Alexander would find his own path by himself, and would tread it not tentatively, but with firm and even strides. He was now no longer the person he had been three years ago. He had peered into the recesses of his heart and had learnt its secrets; he had scrutinized the interplay of the passions and ferreted out the secret of life – not, of course, without suffering – but had armoured himself against it for ever. His future was clear: he had risen in revolt; he had grown wings – he was no longer a child, but a man, striking out boldly into the future! His uncle would see how henceforth it would be his turn to play the role of the pathetic apprentice to his nephew, the master craftsman; he would discover, to his surprise, that there was another life, other attainments, other kinds of happiness than those offered by a banal career which he, his uncle, had chosen for himself and which he had attempted to foist on him, maybe out of envy. Just one more honourable effort and the battle was won!
Alexander had come back to life. He once again began to create a special world of his own, but one a little wiser than the first. His aunt supported him in this resolve, but discreetly, while Pyotr Ivanych was sleeping, at the factory or the English Club.
She would ask him about his work, and whether he was enjoying it. He would describe the work he was planning and seek her approval in the guise of her advice. She sometimes disagreed with him, but more often they agreed.
Alexander committed himself to his work as tenaciously as if it were his last hope. Beyond it, he assured his aunt, lay nothing but an arid steppe, without water, without vegetation, bleak and deserted. What kind of life awaited him there? It would be like interring himself in his own tomb!
From time to time the memory of his extinct love would come back to him and trouble him, but he would dismiss it and take up his pen and write a moving elegy. At other times, bitter resentment would well up in him and would stir up from the depths the hatred and contempt he had felt for people only a short time before – and before you knew it, some vigorous lines of verse had been generated by it. At the same time, he had been pondering and beginning to write a novella. It took a great deal of thought, feeling and sheer hard work, and about six months of his time. Finally it was finished, revised, and a fair copy had been made. His aunt was thrilled. This time the story was set not in America, but in some village in the Tambov province. Its characters were ordinary people: malicious gossips, liars and other kinds of scum in tailcoats, adulterous women in corsets and hats. It was standard fare, and everything was where it was expected to be – appropriate – and in its proper place.
“Now, ma tante, I can show this to my uncle?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied. “On the other hand, maybe it would be better to get it published as it is, without showing it to him. He is bound to say something negative about it. You know he always treats it as childish nonsense.”
“No, I’d better show it to him!” said Alexander. “After it has passed muster with you and has satisfied me, I fear no one’s judgement, so why not let him see it?…”
So it was shown to his uncle. When he saw the manuscript, he frowned slightly and shook his head.
“What is this? Something the two of you have written together?” he asked. “What a lot you seem to have written, and in such tiny writing – what made you take all that trouble?”
“Wait before you start shaking your head,” his wife replied. “First listen! Read it to us, Alexander. And you, pay attention: don’t nod off and then pronounce sentence. You can find fault anywhere, if you’re looking for it; try to be tolerant.”
“No, why? Just be fair, that’s all,” Alexander interjected.
“Well, if I must, I’ll listen,” said Pyotr Ivanych, “but on one condition: don’t read it soon after dinner, otherwise I can’t guarantee that I won’t doze off. Don’t take it personally, Alexander, but any time someone reads something after dinner, it always makes me sleepy – oh, and another thing: if it’s something worthwhile, then I’ll tell you what I think; if not, I won’t say anything, and you can take it however you like.”
The reading began. Pyotr Ivanych didn’t nod off once: he listened without once taking his eyes off Alexander, hardly even blinking, and twice even nodded approvingly.
“You see!” said his wife in a half-whisper. “What did I tell you?”
He gave her a nod too.
The reading continued for two consecutive evenings. On the first evening after the reading, Pyotr Ivanych, to his wife’s surprise, told them the rest of the story.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Not that hard to guess! The idea is not a new one – it’s been used thousands of times. No real need to continue the reading, but let’s see how he handles the rest.”
The next evening, when Alexander was reading the last page, Pyotr Ivanych rang, and his servant entered.
“I need to get dressed,” he told him. “Get my things ready! I’m sorry, Alexander, for interrupting you, but I’m in a hurry, I’m late for my whist at the club.”
Alexander finished reading, and Pyotr Ivanych was out like a shot.
“Goodbye for now!” he said to his wife and Alexander. “I won’t be looking in again here!”
“Stop, stop!” his wife cried out. “Aren’t you going to say anything about the story?”
“Didn’t we have an understanding?” he replied, and made as if to leave.
“Sheer obstinacy!” she said. “He’s just being obstinate – I know him. Don’t pay him any attention, Alexander!”
“It’s ill will!” thought Alexander. “He wants to drag me down into the mud and force me into his world. Of course, he’s an intelligent man and owns a factory – and that’s all, but I am a poet…”
“That’s the absolute limit, Pyotr Ivanych!” his wife began, almost in tears. “Say something at least. I saw you nodding your approval, so you must have liked it. It’s just that you don’t want to admit it out of stubborn pride. How could I admit that I liked a mere story? Oh no, I’m too clever for that. Admit that it was good!”
“I nodded my head because it’s clear from the story that Alexander is intelligent, but what was not intelligent was to have written that story.”
“But really, Uncle, a judgement like that…”
“Listen, you’re never going to believe me, so there’s nothing more to be said; so why don’t we nominate a mediator? I’ll tell you what I’ll do to settle it between us once and for all. I’ll pretend I’m the author of the story and send it to a friend of mine who works at the journal, and let’s see what he says. You know him, so you probably trust his judgement. He’s a man of experience.”
“Very well, let’s see.”
Pyotr Ivanych sat down at the desk and quickly wrote a few lines, and handed the letter to Alexander.
Late in life, I have decided to take up writing. No help for it: if you want to make a name for yourself, you turn to anything – even this – I must be crazy! So I’ve produced the story I’ve enclosed. Take a look at it, and if it’s any good, publish it in your journal – for a fee of course, you know I don’t like to work without pay. You may be surprised, and you won’t believe it, but I’m even letting you sign my name, so you know I must be telling the truth.
Confident of a favourable response to the story, Alexander patiently awaited the reply. He was even pleased that his uncle had mentioned money in the note.
“Very clever indeed,” he thought. “Mummy complains that the price of grain is down, and she’s not likely to be sending any money soon, so this 1,500 would come in handy.”
However, three weeks or so went by and still no reply had come. Finally, one morning a large package and a letter were brought in to Pyotr Ivanych.
“Ah, they’ve sent it back!” he said, giving his wife a mischievous look. He didn’t open the letter or show it to his wife, although she begged him to. That very evening, before leaving for his club, he went to see his nephew. His door was not locked, and he entered. Yevsei was snoring, sprawled diagonally on the floor at the entrance. The candle was burning itself out and was in danger of toppling off the candlestick. He looked into the next room; it was in the dark.
“Oh, the provinces!” Pyotr Ivanych muttered.
He shook Yevsei awake, pointed to the door and the candle, and threatened him with a stick. In the third room. Alexander was slumped at his desk, his head in his hands, also asleep. A sheet of paper lay in front of him. Pyotr Ivanych glanced at it – a poem. He picked up the sheet of paper and read the following:
Springtime’s beauty has passed,
The magic moment of love has vanished,
It slumbers in the sepulchre of my breast
And no longer races through my blood like fire.
Long since have I another idol built
Upon her altar long abandoned,
To it I pray… but…
“And now you’re the one ‘slumbering’! Pray, but don’t laze!” Pyotr Ivanych said aloud. “It’s your own verses that have worn you out! No need for any other sentence to be pronounced, you’ve sentenced yourself out of your own mouth.”
“Ah, I see you’re still against my writings,” said Alexander, stretching. “Tell me, Uncle, honestly, what makes you so intent on stamping out my talent, when you have to admit…”
“Oh yes, you mean envy, Alexander. Judge for yourself: you will achieve fame, honour, maybe even immortality, while I will remain an obscure individual, and will have to be satisfied with the title of a useful labourer. But I too, after all, am an Aduyev. So, if you don’t mind, give me some credit. I mean, what am I? I’ve lived my life quietly, unknown, I’ve performed my duties, and have been happy and even proud. A pretty humble destiny, wouldn’t you say? When I die – that is to say, when I’m no longer feeling or aware – ‘the strains of prophetic music will not chant my name in far-off times, posterity and the world will not swell with it,’* and no one will know that there once lived a Pyotr Ivanych Aduyev, privy councillor,* and that will be no comfort to me in my grave, if indeed my grave and I myself will survive in some form for posterity. How different for you! ‘Spreading your rustling wings!’ You will ‘fly beneath the clouds’. As for me, I shall have to be satisfied only with the knowledge that among the numberless works of man there will be ‘a tiny drop of my own honey’ to quote your favourite author.”*
“For God’s sake, leave him out of this. Never mind whose favourite author he is! You just enjoy making fun of people close to you.”
“Ah, making fun! Wasn’t it when you saw your own portrait in Krylov that you dropped him? À propos! Do you know that I have your future fame and your immortality here in my pocket? Although I would prefer to see it containing your money – it’s more reliable!”
“What fame?”
“It’s the reply to my letter.”
“For God’s sake, give it to me right now! What does it say?”
“I haven’t read it; here, read it yourself, aloud.”
“Will you have the patience?”
“What is it to me?”
“What do you mean? Aren’t I your own nephew? You must be curious at least. What indifference. It’s your selfishness, Uncle!”
“Perhaps; I don’t deny it. In any case, I know what it says. So read it!”
Alexander began to read in a loud voice, while Pyotr Ivanych tapped his boots with his stick.
The letter read as follows:
“Is this a hoax or something, my dearest Pyotr Ivanych? You writing novels? Come on, who’s going to believe you? You wouldn’t be trying to fool an old hand like me, would you? And if it, God forbid, were the truth, and you had indeed temporarily diverted your pen from those – in the most literal sense of the word – precious lines, each of which is worth its weight in gold, and instead of producing respectable results had come up with this novel I have in front of me, then I would have told you that the fragile products of your factory were a lot sturdier than this creation of yours.”
Suddenly Alexander’s voice became very faint.
“But I refuse to accept a suspicion that is so insulting to you,” he continued softly and timidly.
“Louder please, Alexander, I can’t hear you,” said Pyotr Ivanych.
Alexander continued reading, only much more softly.
“Since you have some interest in the author of this novel, you would probably like to know my opinion. It is this. The author must be a young man. He is no fool. But for no good reason, he seems to be angry with the whole world. He writes in such a vindictive, embittered spirit. No doubt he is disillusioned. My God, how long are we going to have these people around? It’s too bad that, because of a wrong-headed view of life, so many gifts are wasted in empty, fruitless dreams, in futile striving for things for which they are not destined.”
Alexander stopped to get his breath back. Pyotr Ivanych lit a cigar and puffed out a cloud of smoke. The expression on his face was his usual one of total serenity.
Alexander continued to read in a muffled, almost inaudible voice:
“Pride, believing in dreams, premature romantic impulses, a closed mind, with their inevitable consequence, idleness, are at the root of this unfortunate condition. Learning, work, a concrete occupation – these are the things that can bring our sick and idle youth to their senses.”
“All that could easily have been said in three lines,” said Pyotr Ivanych, looking at his watch, “but in what is only a casual letter to a friend, he has written a whole dissertation! What a pedant! Do you want to read any more, Alexander? Don’t bother; it’s boring. I have a few things to say to you…”
“No, Uncle, let me drink the cup to the bitter dregs; I’ll go on.”
“By all means, if you want.”
Alexander continued reading:
“This regrettable temperamental tendency manifests itself in every line of the novel you sent me. Tell your protégé that a writer only produces something worthwhile when he, firstly, is not being carried away by some powerful impulse or passion. He should look at life – and people in general – in a calm and positive manner, otherwise he just ends up talking about himself – something which is of no particular interest to others. This failing dominates the whole book. A second and major condition – and, out of sympathy for his youth and his pride of authorship, I don’t think you should tell this to the author, because, as we know, this is the most sensitive of all the different kinds of self-esteem – is that a writer must possess talent, of which there isn’t the slightest trace in this book. I should say, however, that the language is correct and unblemished, and the author has style.”
Alexander could hardly bring himself to finish reading.
“Finally, he gets to the point!” said Pyotr Ivanych. “After all that blather! Let the two of us talk over the rest together.”
Alexander let his hands drop. He looked straight at the wall with glazed eyes in silence, like someone stunned by an unexpected blow. Pyotr Ivanych took the letter from him and read the following PS:
“If you insist on seeing this novel published in our journal, then for you, I suppose, it could be put in in the summer months, when no one much reads it, but forget about any payment.”
“So, Alexander, how do you feel?” asked Pyotr Ivanych.
“Calmer than I would have expected,” Alexander replied firmly. “I feel like someone deceived in every respect.”
“No, as someone who has deceived himself, and has tried to deceive others too…”
Alexander had not been listening to that reservation.
“Can this have been a dream too? And did it betray me too?” he whispered. “It’s a bitter loss! Well, it’s not the first time I’ve deluded myself. But what I can’t understand is why I should have possessed all those irresistible urges to be a writer…”
“Well, that’s just it! Whoever invested you with those urges obviously forgot to include the creative gift itself,” said Pyotr Ivanych. “I told you…”
Alexander gave a sigh and was lost in thought for a moment. Suddenly he sprang into action and rushed around the room, opening all the drawers: he pulled out several exercise books, sheets and scraps of paper, and began to hurl them violently into the fire.
“Don’t forget these!” said Pyotr Ivanych, pushing towards him a sheet of paper which was lying on the desk and contained the first few words of a poem.
“These are going too!” said Alexander in despair, as he hurled the verses into the fire.
“Sure you haven’t forgotten anything? Take a good look around! Said Pyotr Ivanych, looking carefully around. “Best to finish the job all in one go. What’s that bundle over there on top of the cupboard?”
“This is going too!” said Alexander, taking hold of it. “It’s those agriculture articles.”
“Don’t burn them, don’t burn those! Give them back to me!” said Pyotr Ivanych, reaching out for them. “Those are worth saving.”
But Alexander didn’t listen to him.
“No!” he said in a fury. “If I’m finished with the fine art of creative literature, I don’t want anything to do with the hack work either, and even fate itself will never change my mind.”
And the bundle went flying into the fire.
“You shouldn’t have done that!” said Pyotr Ivanych, poking around with his stick meanwhile in the waste-paper basket under the desk to find anything else to throw in the fire.
“And what shall we do with the novel, Alexander? I still have it.”
“Couldn’t you use it to stick on the screens?”
“No, not now. Should I send for it? Yevsei! Asleep again! Pay attention, otherwise they’ll steal my overcoat right under your nose! Go to my room right now, and ask Vasily for the thick exercise book in the cabinet on the bureau – and bring it here.”
Alexander sat there, leaning his head on his hand and looking into the fire. The thick exercise book was brought in. Alexander, deep in thought, looked at the fruit of his six months of work. Pyotr Ivanych noticed what he was doing.
“Time to finish, Alexander,” he said, “and then we can talk about something else.”
“Into the fire with you too!” cried Alexander hurling the book into the stove.
They both watched it burn: Pyotr Ivanych no doubt with pleasure, Alexander sadly, almost in tears. The uppermost page started to shrivel and rise, as if an unseen hand were twirling it – its edges began to curl and turn black, twisted and suddenly flared up – and was followed swiftly by another page, then a third. Suddenly several pages at once rose up and caught fire in a bunch, while the page which followed them showed white for two seconds and then began to blacken around the edges.
However, Alexander was able to catch the words “Chapter Three” on it just before it disappeared. He remembered what he had written in that chapter and began to regret losing it. He rose from his chair and had already picked up the tongs in order to rescue the remains of his work. “Maybe there’s still time…” was hope’s faint whisper.
“Hold it! Let me try with my stick!” said Pyotr Ivanych. “Otherwise you may burn yourself with the tongs.”
He prodded the exercise book right up against the coals at the back of the grate. Alexander stood there, hesitating. The thickness of the book made it burn more slowly. At first, it gave off a thick cloud of smoke; a flame would flicker spasmodically underneath it and lick its sides, leaving charred patches, and then disappear. There was still a chance of saving it. Alexander had already stretched out his hand when, at that very moment, the whole book burst into flames. In a minute it had burnt itself out, leaving behind nothing but a heap of black ash with threads of fire running along it in places. Alexander threw down the tongs.
“It’s over!” he said.
“Over!” repeated Pyotr Ivanych.
“Phew!” Alexander exclaimed. “I’m free!”
“Now this is the second time I’ve helped you to clean up your flat,” said Pyotr Ivanych, “and I hope it’s the last…”
“No turning back, Uncle.”
“Amen!” said his uncle, placing his hands on his shoulders.
“Well now, Alexander, I advise you to write to Ivan Ivanych without delay asking him to send you some work in the agricultural department, and after all this foolishness, it’s important that you now write something really good. He keeps on asking me, ‘So what about your nephew?’”
Alexander shook his head glumly.
“I can’t,” he said. “No, I can’t, that’s all finished now.”
“Then what do you plan to do?”
“What?” he asked, and after a moment’s thought, added: “Nothing for now.”
“It’s only in the provinces that people get by without doing anything, but here… then why did you come here? I can’t understand!… Well, leave that aside for the moment. I have something to ask you.”
Alexander slowly raised his head and looked enquiringly at his uncle.
“Well,” Pyotr Ivanych began, moving his chair closer to Alexander, “you know my partner Surkov?”
Alexander nodded.
“Well, you’ve sometimes come to dinner at my place when he’s been there. The only thing is that all you’ve done is to look him over as if to suggest that there is something odd about him. He’s a good fellow, but quite shallow. His chief weakness is… women. Unfortunately, he himself, as you will have noticed, is not bad-looking: high-coloured, sleek, his hair always curled, scented and dressed like a fashion plate; so he imagines that women find him irresistible – in a word, a fop! I wouldn’t normally waste time talking about him, but here’s the thing: the moment he takes a fancy to someone, he’s off on a spending spree – surprises, gifts, treats, doing anything he can to cut a dash: new carriages, new horses… just throwing money away! He even ran after my wife, so there were times when I wouldn’t bother to send a servant to buy theatre tickets: I could always rely on Surkov to come up with them. If I needed to trade in a horse, find something hard to get or take a trip to the country to inspect the dacha, you could send him anywhere you wanted – a treasure! No one could have been more useful: you couldn’t find anyone like that for love or money. It’s too bad! I deliberately did nothing to stand in his way, but my wife got tired of him, so I had to get rid of him. So he goes on one of his spending sprees and isn’t getting enough interest from his bank. So he starts coming to me for money, and I refuse; then he starts talking about capital. ‘What’s your factory to me? There’s never any ready cash,’ he says. It would help if he got married, but no, he’s not interested. He is only interested in making conquests in high society. He tells me that he ‘must have an affair with someone in the nobility; I can’t live without love.’ What an ass! Almost forty, and can’t live without love!”
Alexander was reminded of himself, and smiled ruefully.
“He’s a great liar,” Pyotr Ivanych went on. “Later I would reflect on what he was making such a fuss about. He boasted endlessly – he wanted people to talk about him, he claimed to be on friendly terms with this one and that one, that he had been seen in a box at the theatre with such and such, that in someone’s dacha he had been alone with someone on the balcony late at night, that he had gone riding with her in some out-of-the-way place in a carriage or on horseback. In the meantime, it turns out that these so-called ‘noble liaisons’ – damn them! – cost a lot more than ignoble ones. And that’s the cause of all the trouble – the idiot!”
“But what’s all this leading to, Uncle?” Alexander asked. “I don’t see where I come in.”
“You’ll soon see. Recently a certain young widow, Yulia Pavlovna Tafayeva returned here from abroad. She’s not at all bad-looking. Surkov and I were friends of her husband. Tafayev died while he was abroad. Are you with me now?”
“Yes, I am. Surkov’s in love with the widow.”
“Exactly, head over heels. So what comes next?”
“Next… I don’t know…”
“You really don’t! Well listen. Surkov has twice let drop that he will soon be in need of money. I can already sense what this means, but I can’t tell which way the wind is blowing. I’ve tried to worm out of him why he’ll be needing money. He started hemming and hawing, and finally came out with it and said that he wanted to decorate the flat on the Liteyny.
“I was trying to remember what it was about the Liteyny that made Surkov choose it, and I recalled that it’s where Tafayeva lives, directly opposite the place he has chosen. Now, I’ve given him some money on account. There’s sure to be trouble ahead unless… you help me. Do you understand now?”
Alexander lifted his nose a little, looked at the wall and then up at the ceiling, blinked a couple of times and finally turned to look at his uncle, but without saying anything.
Pyotr Ivanych regarded him with a smile: he liked nothing more than to catch people being slow on the uptake and letting them know he had noticed it.
“What’s wrong with you, Alexander? Still writing those stories?” he said.
“Ah, now I get it, Uncle.”
“God be praised!”
“Surkov is asking for money; you don’t have any, and you want me to…” He came to an abrupt halt.
Pyotr Ivanych had burst into laughter, and Alexander broke off in mid-sentence, regarding his uncle in bewilderment.
“No, you’ve got it wrong!” said Pyotr Ivanych. “Have you ever known me to be without money? Try to come to me any time, and you’ll see! It’s like this: Tafayeva reminded me through him that I knew her husband. I went to see her, and she invited me to call on her. I promised to do so, and said that I would bring you. Well, I hope you finally understand?”
“Me?” Alexander repeated, looking his uncle straight in the eye. “Yes, well of course, now I understand,” he said, hurriedly completing his sentence, but not getting beyond the last word.
“So what is it that you’ve understood?” Pyotr Ivanych asked.
“For the life of me, Uncle, I haven’t understood a thing! Wait a minute… perhaps you mean that she’s got a nice home… and that it will be a distraction for me… because I’m bored?…”
“That’s wonderful! So that’s why I’m going to take you visiting people’s homes, and all that remains is for me to tuck you in at night and cover your mouth with a handkerchief to keep away the flies! No, you still haven’t got it. Let me tell you the idea: it’s to get Tafayeva to fall in love with you.”
Alexander suddenly opened his eyes wide and looked at his uncle.
“You’re joking, Uncle? That’s absurd!” he said.
“When it comes to absurdities, you commit them with a flourish, but when something is simple and natural, then for you it’s an absurdity. Explain to me just what’s absurd about this. Consider how love itself is absurd – a compound of hot blood and pride… But what’s the use of talking to you? In spite of everything, you still believe that people fall in love with that one and only person they’re destined to, their kindred spirit!”
“I’m sorry; now I no longer believe in anything. Do you really think that people can fall in love with each other just like that?”
“It’s possible, but not for you. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t assign you such a tricky task. Now, this is all you have to do. Cultivate her, be attentive to her and never give Surkov a chance to be alone with her – in short, plague him, get in his way! For every word he utters, you utter two; if he offers an opinion, you refute him, thwart his every move, defeat him at every step…”
“Why?”
“You still don’t understand! It’s because to start with you’ll drive him out of his mind with jealousy and chagrin, and then he’ll cool down. With someone like him the second phase will swiftly follow the first. He’s unbelievably conceited. So the flat will not be needed, his capital will remain intact and the work of the factory will proceed normally… Well, you understand? This will be the fifth time I’ve played this trick on him; before, when I was younger and still unmarried, I did what I’m asking you to do myself, or sent one of my friends.”
“But, I don’t know her,” said Alexander.
“And that’s precisely why I’m taking you with me to see her on Wednesday. On Wednesdays she’s at home for a few of her old friends.”
“But if she returns Surkov’s love, then I’m sure you will agree that he will not be the only victim of my blandishments and attentions.”
“Are you serious? No, she’s a sensible woman, and when she sees him for the fool he is, she’ll stop paying him attention, especially with other people around: her pride wouldn’t permit it. At the same time, there will be someone else around, more intelligent and better looking, and she will be ashamed and get rid of him. And that’s why I have chosen you.”
Alexander bowed.
“Surkov isn’t dangerous,” his uncle continued, “but Tafayeva invites very few people to her home, so that it’s possible that in her small circle he might seem impressive and a man of intelligence. Personal appearance counts for a lot with women. He is a master of ingratiation, and so he is tolerated. Perhaps she is flirtatious with him, and he… you know. Even intelligent women like it when men behave foolishly with them – especially when it’s expensive foolishness. However, for the most part, it’s not the one who is playing the fool for their benefit whom they love, but someone else altogether… Many men don’t see that, including Surkov – but you will be the one to open his eyes.”
“But probably Surkov won’t be there only on Wednesdays; on Wednesdays, I’ll be able to frustrate him, but what about the other days?”
“Do I have to explain everything to you? Flatter her, act as if you’re a little smitten with her, and after you’ve been there once, she’ll start inviting you again on Thursday and Friday, when you can redouble your attentions. Then I’ll step in and try to influence her, and somehow suggest that you really are… you know. She herself, at least this is my impression, is very sensitive… probably of a nervous disposition… so I should think not at all unresponsive to other people’s expression of their feelings…”
“Is it likely?” said Alexander, thinking aloud. “Even if I could fall in love again… well and good! But if I can’t… it won’t work.”
“Precisely! It will work for that very reason. If you were to fall in love, you wouldn’t be able to pretend, and she would spot it right away, and would proceed to wrap both of you round her little finger. But for now… just concentrate on Surkov for me, I know him like the back of my hand. As soon as he sees that he’s getting nowhere, he won’t want to be throwing his money away, and that’s all I want to achieve… Listen, Alexander, this is very important for me, and if you do this for me – you remember the two vases which you liked in the factory? They’re yours, only you’ll have to buy your own stand.”
“Really, Uncle, surely you don’t think that I…”
“Yes indeed, why should you put yourself out for nothing and waste your time? That would be a fine thing – I don’t think! Those vases are beautiful. These days, no one does anything for nothing. When I do something for you, offer me a gift; I won’t refuse it.”
“It’s a strange proposition!” said Alexander hesitantly.
“I hope you won’t refuse to do this for me. I am also ready to do whatever I can for you; when you need money, come to me… So then, Wednesday! This business will take a month, two at the most. I’ll let you know, and if it turns out not to be necessary, then forget it.”
“All right, Uncle, I’m ready to do it, only it’s a strange… I can’t guarantee it will work… Now, if I could fall in love again, then… but otherwise, I don’t…”
“And it’s a good thing that you can’t, otherwise it would ruin the whole thing. I’ll guarantee it will be successful. Goodbye!”
He left the room. Alexander sat for a long time by the fire over those precious ashes.
When Pyotr Ivanych arrived home, his wife asked: “So what about Alexander – what about his story, will he continue to write?”
“No, I’ve cured him of that for ever.”
Aduyev told her what was in the letter he had received together with the novel when it had been returned, and about how they had burnt everything.
“You have no pity, Pyotr Ivanych!” said Lizaveta Alexandrovna. “Either that, or you’re incapable of doing the decent thing in whatever you undertake.”
“And I suppose you did the right thing when you encouraged him to go on covering paper with his scribbling! Do you really think he has talent?”
“No.”
Pyotr Ivanych looked at her in surprise.
“So why did you?…”
“So you still haven’t understood, don’t you get it?”
He said nothing, and couldn’t help recalling his scene with Alexander.
“What is there not to understand? It’s all very clear!” he said, looking her straight in the eye.
“What is, tell me?”
“That… that you wanted to teach him something, only you wanted to let him down more lightly, in your own way…”
“Such a clever man! And still he doesn’t understand. Don’t you know why he was always so cheerful, healthy, almost happy? It was because he had hope. And it was that hope that I was keeping alive. Is it clear now?”
“So it was like this that you were stringing him along all the time?”
“I think it was permissible. And what was so good about what you were doing? You didn’t have the slightest pity for him; you stripped him of his last hope.”
“Stop right there! What last hope? There was still plenty of foolishness ahead.”
“What will he do now? Keep on going round looking all forlorn?”
“No, he won’t: he’ll have other things on his mind; I’ve found work for him.”
“What? More translating about potatoes? Do you really think that can satisfy a young man, especially one so ardent and passionate? All you want is to see him using his head.”
“No, my dear, not about potatoes, but something to do with the factory.”