'What makes you imagine that? What have I to be vexed about ? I never even thought of being angry. Well, have I done well ? Liza, eh ? '
He tried, in passing, to kiss her, but she turned away.
' I fancy I carried out your behests exactly,' added Piotr Ivanitch ; ' what is it ? Oh, I forgot one thing; what's the state of your heart, Alexandr ? ' he asked.
Alexandr made no answer.
' What must my uncle think of me ? ' said Alexandr after a pause.
' Just what he did before,' replied Lizaveta Alexandrovna. ' Do you suppose he said all this to you from his heart— feeling it ? '
' But do you, ma tante, cease to respect me ? Good God! poor mamma!'
Lizaveta Alexandrovna gave him her hand. ' I shall not cease to respect your heart, Alexandr,' said she ; ' it is feeling which leads it into errors, and so I shall always pardon them.'
' Ah, ma tante, you ideal woman !'
' No; simply a woman.'
Alexandr was powerfully affected by his uncle's reproof. Sitting with his aunt he sank into painful reflections. He felt as though he had had a bucket of cold water poured over him.
' What is it ? why are you like this ? ' inquired his aunt.
' Nothing, ma tante; there is melancholy in my heart. My uncle has let me understand myself; he was a splendid interpreter!'
' Don't you pay attention to him; he sometimes doesn't speak the truth.'
' No, don't try to comfort me. I am disgusted with myself now. I have been despising and hating others, and now I despise myself as well. One can escape from other people, but where is one to take refuge from oneself? '
' Ah, that Piotr Ivanitch!' exclaimed Lizaveta Alexan-drovna with a deep sigh; 'he would drive any one to melancholy!'
' Only one negative consolation I still have, that I have not deceived anyone; I have not been inconstant in love or in friendship.'
'You have not found people able to value you,' his aunt replied; ' but believe me, a heart will be found to appreciate you; I will guarantee that. You are still so young,
forget all this and set to work; you have talent; write
Are you writing anything now ? '
' No.'
' Begin to write.'
' I'm afraid, ma tante?
' Don't pay attention to Piotr Ivanitch; you will write, won't you ? '
' Very well.'
' You* will begin soon ? '
' As soon as I can. It's all I have left to hope for.'
Piotr Ivanitch, awakened from his nap, came up to him in full dress, his hat in his hand. He too advised Alexandr to set to work in his office, and at the subject of agricultural economy for the journal.
' I will try, uncle,' answered Alexandr, ' but I have just promised my aunt '
Lizaveta Alexandrovna made a sign to him to be silent, but Piotr Ivanitch noticed it.
' What is it ? what have you promised ? ' he asked.
' To bring me some new music,' she replied.
' No, it's not true ; what was it, Alexandr ? '
' To write a novel or something.'
' Haven't you yet given up literature ?' said Piotr Ivanitch, picking a grain of dust off his clothes; ' and you, Liza, lead him wrong—all to no purpose!'
' I have not the right to give it up,' observed Alexandr.
' Who wants to prevent you ?'
' One hope in the world remains to me, and am I to destroy that too ? If I waste what has been entrusted me from above, then I waste myself.'
' But what is it has been entrusted to you, explain to me, please.'
' That, uncle, I cannot explain to you. One needs to understand it of oneself. Have you felt a tempest of passion in you; has your fancy fermented and created artistic visions for you which craved embodiment ? '
'High flown! Well, what of this?' asked Piotr Ivanitch.
' Why, that to the man who has not felt this it is impossible to explain the desire to write when some restless spirit keeps repeating to one day and night, asleep and awake: write, write.'
' But when you haven't the ability to write ?'
' Enough, Piotr Ivanitch; you haven't the ability yourself, so why interfere with any one else?' said Lizaveta Alexandrovna.
' Excuse me, uncle, if I remark that you are not a judge in this matter.'
' Who is a judge ? is she ? '
Piotr Ivanitch pointed to his wife.
' She says it to make fun of you, and you believe her,' he added.
' But you yourself, when I first arrived here, advised me to try—to try myself.'
' Well, what of it ? You tried—nothing came of it, and you should throw it aside.'
' Ah !' said Lizaveta Alexandrovna with annoyance, turning away to the table.
' As for the emotions and the rest of it—who does not feel it?'
' You, I should think for the first!' observed his wife.
' Come, now ! But you know even I have been in ecstasy.'
' Over what ? I've no recollection of it.'
' Every one experiences such things,' continued Piotr
. Ivanitch, turning to his nephew, ' every one has been stirred
¦ by the silence or the darkness of night, or what not, by the
1 sound of the forest, by a garden, or lake, or the sea. If
! none but artists felt it, there would be no one to under-
! stand them. But to reflect all these sensations in their
works—is a different matter; talent is needed for it; and
that, I fancy, you have not.'
' Piotr Ivanitch! it's time you started,' said Lizaveta Alexandrovna.
' Directly. You want to be distinguished ?' he continued, ' you have something by means of which you may be distinguished. The editor praises you; he says that your articles on agriculture are capitally worked up; that there is thought in them—they all show a trained hand, and not an amateur. I was delighted. Bah! thought I, the Adouevs were all good heads! you see even I have vanity! You ; may both gain distinction in your official work and win a I reputation as a writer.'
' A fine reputation; a writer on manure.'
' Every one in his place; one man is destined to soar into
7 Jieavenly regions, another to burrow in manure and extract
* > a treasure from it. I don't understand why one should
^ .(despise the humbler calling ? it, too, has its po etry, j You
would do your work as an official, gain money Dy your
[
iwuuiu. xj jvjui wi/iA. as aii uiuv^uu, gain uiuutj uy jjxi
Jabours, marry suitably, like most people. I don't know wHaT more you want ? You do your duty, your life is passed with honour and industry—that's what happiness consists in ! in my opinion it is so. Here am I, councillor of state by official rank, a manufacturer by trade ; offer me the title of greatest poet in exchange, and, God knows, I would not take it!'
'Piotr Ivanitch, you really will be late!' interrupted Lizaveta Alexandrovna; ' it will soon be ten o'clock.'
