' What ? '
' Why this. By a passion we mean, I suppose, when feeling, inclination, attraction has reached such a pitch that it ceases to be guided by reason? Well, what is there sublime in that ? I don't understand it; it's only a madness—the man falls below the dignity of man. And why do you present only one side of the medal ? I am speaking of love—turn the other side and you will see that love was not such a bad thing. Remember your moments of happiness; you keep buzzing into my ears '
' Oh, don't remind me, don't remind me!' said Alexandr, with a gesture of his hand, ' it's very well for you to reason so, because you believe in the woman you love; I should like to see what you would have done in my place.'
' What should I have done? I should have sought distraction .... at the factory. Won't you like to try tomorrow ? '
' No, I can't feel at one with you in anything,' Alexandr exclaimed mournfully; ' your views do not reconcile me to life, but make me more averse to it. It makes me miserable, it is a chill breath in my soul. Hitherto love has saved me from this chill; it is no more—and now there is torture in my heart—I am frightened, I am weary.'
41 Turn to work.'
' It is all true, uncle, you and those like you can reason so. You are a cold man by nature. You think, feel, and speak just as a steam-engine rolls along a railway line— evenly, smoothly, easily.'
' I hope there's no harm in that; it's better than dashing
off the track, pitching into the ditch, as you are now, and not knowing how to keep upright.'
Piotr Ivanitch looked at his nephew and stopped short at once.
' What is it ? I do believe you're crying !' he said, and his face grew dark ; that is to say, he blushed. Alexandr did not answer. He remembered his lost happiness, and all that was now so different. And the tears streamed down his cheeks.
' Oh, oh ! for shame !' said Piotr Ivanitch; ' are you a man ? Don't cry, for goodness' sake, before me ! '
' Uncle! remember the years of your youth,' said Alexandr sobbing; ' could you have calmly and indifferently endured the bitterest injury which Fate ever sends upon a man ? To live for a year and a half such a full life and all to end so suddenly—nothing—emptiness ! If I had the consolation,' he went on, 'of having lost her through circumstance—if they had forced her against her will—even if she had died—then it would have been easier to bear—but that another!—that's terrible, insufferable! What am I to do ? I am suffocating, I am ill—it's torture, agony! I shall die. I shall shoot
myself.' '~ '
'—^fte leaned his elbows on the table, covered his head with his hand, and sobbed aloud.
Piotr Ivanitch's self-possession was gone. He walked up and down the room twice, then stopped opposite Alexandr and scratched his head, not knowing how to begin.
' Drink a little wine, Alexandr,' said Piotr Ivanitch, as gently as he could ; ' perhaps that '
Alexandr did nothing, but his head and shoulders shook convulsively; he kept on sobbing. Piotr Ivanitch frowned, and with a wave of the hand went out of the room.
' What am I do with Alexandr ?' he said to his wife. ' He is sobbing there in my room and has driven me out; I am quite worn out with him.'
' And did you leave him like that ? ' she said, ' poor boy! Let me, I will go to him.'
' But you will do no good; he is such a nature—just like his aunt; she was just as lacrymose; I have been arguing with him not a little already.'
¦v-
' Only arguing ? '
' And convincing him ; he agreed with me.'
'Oh, I don't doubt it; you are so clever—and hypocritical !' she added.
' Thank goodness, if I am; that, I should suppose, is all that was wanted.'
' Ah, I dare say you would, still he is crying.'
' I'm not to blame; I did everything to comfort him.'
' What did you do ? '
' What didn't I ? I've been talking a whole hour—my throat's quite sore. I laid down the whole theory of love as plain as possible—and offered him money—and tried him with supper and wine.'
u And he's still crying.'
' Yes, and groaning more than ever.'
u That's astonishing! Let me try, and you meanwhile ' t think out your new method.'
n ' What, what ? '
fiut she had glided like a shadow from the room.
Atexandr was still sitting with his head dropped on his arms. Some one touched his shoulder. He lifted his head; J before him stood a young and beautiful woman, in a dressing-gown and a cap d la Finoise*
'Ma tantel' he said.
She took a seat near him and looked steadily at him, as only women can, and kissed him on the forehead, and he pressed his lips to her hand. They talked a long while.
An hour later he had gone away thoughtful but with a smile, and slept soundly for the first time after many sleepless nights. She returned to her bedroom with tear-stained eyes. Piotr Ivanitch had long ago been snoring.
». •«
J
CHAPTER VII
ABOUTa year had passed -since the scenes and events relateoTTn the last chapter. Alexandr changed by slow degrees from the depths of despair to the numbness of despondency.
. 144 A COMMON STORY
V Lizave ta Alexandrovna consoled him with all the tender-nesS Of sffriend anci a sister. He willingly yielded himself
v
jj v v ' I to this sweet guardianship. All such natures as his love to give their will into the keeping of another. For them a nurse is a necessity.
Passion had at last died away in him, his genuine grief had passed, but he was sorry to part with it; he kept ^ it up by force or, better to say, created an artificial sorrow for himself, played with it, beautified it and revelled in it.
It pleased him somehow to play the part of a victim. He
was subdued, dignified, gloomy, like a man supporting, in
his own words, ' a blow from fate.'
.—^Lizaveta Alexandrovna listened indulgently to his lamen-
1 tations and comforted him as she could. It was not
I altogether disagreeable perhaps to her, because in spite of
1 everything, she found in her nephew sympathy for her own
J heart, she heard in his complaint against love the expression
/ of sufferings not unfamiliar to her.
^ She eagerly listened to the utterances of his grief, and an w .reFed them with imperceptible sighs and tears unseen by any one. * *She even found for her nephew's feigned and mawkish sorrows, words of consolation in a like tone and spirit; but Alexandr would not even listen.
' Oh, don't speak to me, ma tante? was his reply, ' I don't want to dishonour the holy name of love by using it
for my relations with that ' Here he made a disdainful
face and was ready, like Piotr Ivanitch, to say ' that—what's-her-name ? '
' However,' he would add, with still greater disdain, ' it was pardonable in her; I was on a higher level than she and the Count and all their pitiful and petty circle; it is not strange that I remained misunderstood by her.
'My uncle declares that I ought to be grateful to Nadinka,' he continued,' for what ? Her love was all vulgarity and commonplaceness. Was there any heroism or self-sacrifice to be seen in it ? No, everything was carried on by
