has fallen out ? What is this ? '
'That—uncle—oh! nothing,' Alexandr was beginning, but he grew confused and stopped speaking.
'A lock of hair it looks like! Is it really nothing? Come, I have seen one, so show me the other thing you are hiding in your hand.'
Alexandr, like a schoolboy caught, unwillingly opened his hand and showed a ring.
'What is this? Where did you get it?' asked Piotr Ivanitch.
'These, uncle, are the material tokens of immaterial relations.'
' What—what? Pass me these tokens.'
' They are the pledges '
' I suppose you brought them from the country ? '
' From Sophia, uncle, a keepsake at parting.'
' So that is what it is. And you brought this 1500 miles with you ? '
The uncle shook his head.
'You would have done better to bring a bag of dried raspberries, that at least you could have sold at a shop, but these pledges . . . .'
He looked, first at the lock of hair then at the ring. He sniffed at the hair contemptuously, but the ring he weighed in his hand. Then he took a sheet of paper from the table, wrapped both the tokens up in it, screwed it all into a compact pellet, and threw it out of window.
A COMMON STORY 47
' Uncle !' screamed Alexandr furiously, seizing his hand but too late; the pellet flew into the corner of the opposite wall, fell towards the canal on the edge of a barge of bricks, jumped off, and leaped into the water.
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.'
