' Is it a question of bargains in this too, uncle ? '
' Yes, as in everything, my dear boy; and one who does not reckon the cost of a bargain we call a reckless fool. It is short and clear.'
'Oh, but to lock up in your breast the generous impulses of the heart! '
' Oh, I know you will not lock them up; you are ready in the street, in the theatre, anywhere, to throw yourself on your friend's neck and sob.'
' And why a reckless fool, uncle ? You should have said only that he is a man of strong passions, that a man who feels so is capable of everything generous and noble, and incapable '
' Incapable of reckoning, that is, reflection. He is a grand figure—your man of strong passions, of titanic emotions! How much of it pray is merely physical temperament? Transports, exultations indeed, the man is below the dignity of a man in all that, and has nothing to pride himself upon. We must ask whether he knows how v to control his feelings; if he knows how to do that, then he I is a man.'
'According to you, feeling has to be controlled like steam,' observed Alexandr, 'now a little let oflf, then suddenly stopped, opening a valve and shutting it.'
s
' Yes, nature has given man such a valve—and not for nothing—it is reason, and you don't always make use of it —it's a pity ! but you're a good sort of fellow !'
' No, uncle, it's sad to hear you; better let me go and make acquaintance with that lady who has lately arrived in
town -'. V c a
'With whom? Madame Lubetsky ? Was she there yesterday ? ' -*—*
' Yes, she talked to me a long while about you, asked after some business matter of hers.'
'Oh, to be sure; by the way ' The uncle took
a paper out of a box. 'Take her that paper, tell her that only yesterday and by the merest chance they let me have it from the office; explain the matter clearly to her; of course you heard what I said to the official ? '
' Yes, I know, I know, I will explain it.'
Alexandr clutched the paper with both hands, and stuffed it into his pocket Piotr Ivanitch looked at him.
' But what made you think of making her acquaintance ? She is not very charming, I should suppose, with a wart on her nose.'
' A wart ? I don't remember. How did you notice that, uncle?'
' On her nose, and he did not notice it! What do you want from her ? '
' She is so kind and so distinguished.'
' Could you not notice the wart on her nose, and yet have found out that she is kind and distinguished ? It's very queer. But stop—she has a daughter to be sure— that little brunette. Ah! now I don't wonder at it. So that is why you did not notice the wart on her nose.'
Both smiled.
'But I do wonder, uncle,' said Alexandr; 'how you noticed the wart before the daughter .'
'Give me back the pSpeT; When you are there, I suppose you will let off all your feeling and altogether forget to shut the valve, you will make some mistake and there's no telling what you will explain.'
' No, uncle, I won't make a mistake. As for papers, as you like, I won't give it then, but will go at once.' And he vanished from the room.
Up to this time business had gone steadily on its usual
y
A COMMON STORY 67
course. At the office they noticed Alexandras abilities and had given him a pretty good position. And on the journal, too, Alexandr had become a person of consideration. He undertook the selection as well as the translation and correction of foreign articles, and wrote himself various v/theoretical articles on agriculture. His income was in his own opinion larger than he needed, though still insufficient for his uncle's ideas. But he was not always working for money. He had not renounced his consoling belief in another higher vocation. His youthful strength was equal to everything. He stole time from sleep, and office work, and wrote both verses and stories and historical sketches and biographies. His uncle did not now cover his screens with his compositions, but read them in silence, then gave a low whistle, or said, ' Yes ! this is better than you used to do.' A few articles appeared under a nom de plume. With a tremor of pleasure Alexandr listened to the favourable criticisms of friends, of whom he had a number, at his office, and at the coffee-house or at private houses. His most cherished dream—after love—was thus fulfilled. The future promised him much that was brilliant, many triumphs; a destiny—not altogether ordinary—seemed to be awaiting him—when suddenly
A few months had passed by. Alexandr was scarcely to be seen, he seemed to be lost. He went less often to his uncle's. The latter attributed it to his being busy, and did not disturb him. But the editor of the journal, meeting Piotr Ivanitch one day, complained that Alexandr kept back articles. The uncle promised to take the next opportunity of getting an explanation from his nephew. An opportunity presented itself three days after. Alexandr ran in the mornings into his uncle's apartment in a state of ex-^ ultation. There was a restless happiness apparent in every gesture and movement.
' Good morning,uncle; oh, how glad I am to see you!' he said, and was going to embrace him, but his uncle had time to escape behind the table.
' Good morning, Alexandr! Why have we seen nothing of you for so long ? '
' I . . . have been busy, uncle; I have been making an abstract from the German economists.'
'Ah! why did the editor tell me such fibs then? He
68 A COMMON STORY
said to me three days ago that you were doing nothing for him—there's journalistic morality! Next time I meet him I will let him know. . . .'
'No, you must not say anything to him,' interposed Alexandr; ' I have not sent him my work, and that is why he told you.'
' What is the matter with you ? You have such a holiday face ! have they given you an assistant pray, or the cross of honour? '
Alexandr shook his head.
' Well, is it money, then ? '
' No.'
' Then, why do you look like a victorious general ? If there's nothing, don't disturb me, but sit down instead and write to Moscow to the Merchant Doubasoff, about despatching as quickly as possible the remainder of the money due. Read his letter through. Where is it? Here.'
Both were silent and began to write.
' I have finished !' cried Alexandr in a few minutes.
' That's smart, you're a fine fellow! Show it me. What is this ? You are writing to me. ' Piotr Ivanitch !' His name is Timothy Nikovitch. How 520 roubles! 5200! What is the matter with you, Alexandr? '
Piotr Ivanitch laid down his pen and looked at his nephew. He reddened.
' Do you notice nothing in my face ? ' he asked.
' Yes, some silliness. . . . Stop. . . . y ou are in love, ' said Piotr Ivanitch. _ ^Alexandr was silent.
' It's soj then7 _ I have guesge&righj; L'
Alexandr with a triumphant smile and a beaming expression nodded energetically.
' So, that's it! How was it I didn't guess it at once ? So that's why you have grown lazy, and that's why we have seen nothing of you everywhere. The Zareyskys and the Skat-chins have been worrying me with 'Where's Alexandr Fedoritch ?' So he's been far away—in the seventh heaven!'
Eotr Ivanitch began to jwrite again.
/' W jjth yad inka Lubetsky ft' said Alexandr.
*» w l! didnt inqutffi,' replied his uncle; 'whoever it may be—they are all as silly as one another; it's all the same.'
