' Indeed, it's time. Well, au revoir. But as for imagining ourselves—God only knows why—exceptional people,' muttered Piotr Ivanitch, as he went out; * it's the . . . .'
CHAPTER VIII
' ¦>
v .
After this conversation Alexandr began again to create a
world of his own—rather a wiser one than the first. His
aunt encouraged this inclination in him, but secretly, when
Fiotr Ivanitch was asleep, or had gone out to the factory
or to the English Club.
r She questioned Alexandr about his occupations. And
r~ how this delighted him now! He explained to her the
J , plan of his works and sometimes asked—under the guise of
advice for her approval.
She often differed from him, still oftener agreed.
Alexandr clung to his work, as one clings to the last hope.
' After this,' he said to his aunt, ' there is nothing for me;
then the barren desert, without water, without greenness,
^obscurity, emptiness—what will life be then ? a living
tomb !' And he worked without ceasing.
He spent over it a great deal of reflection, and feeling and sheer hard work and nearly half a year of time. At last ^ / the no vel wa s finished, corrected, and a fair copy written ^ . out.-^fiis aunt was enraptured.
< In this novel the scene wa§ not laid in America, but in a
village of Tambov ; the persons of the plot were ordinary people: slanderers, liars, and wretches of every kind in frockcoats, jilts in corsets and hats. Everything respectable, and in place.
' I think, ma tante^ this I might show to my uncle.'
' Yes, yes, of course, she replied,' but, however, wouldn't it be better to send it to be published as it is without him ?'
' No, better show it! ' answered Alexandr ; ' after your criticism, and my own judgment, I am afraid of nobody.'
They showed it. Piotr Ivanitch frowned a little when he saw the manuscript and slightly shook his head.
' Wait a little before you shake your head,' said his wife,
'and just hear it Read it aloud to us, Alexandr.
Only listen attentively, don't go to sleep, and afterwards tell us your opinion of it. One can find defects everywhere if you like to look for them. But you must make allow-
ances.'
' No, why ? only be impartial,' added Alexandr. 'There's nothing for it; I will listen,' said Piotr Ivanitch
with a sigh,' only on condition, first, that you don't read directly after dinner, or else I cannot pledge myself not to fall asleep—don't take that to yourself, Alexandr; whatever is read to me directly after dinner I begin to get sleepy— and secondly, if there is anything good in it, I will say what I think of it; if not, I will only say nothing, and then you will do as you choose. ,,
The reading was begun. Piotr Ivanitch didn't once fall asleep; he listened without taking his eyes off Alexandr, once or even twice smiled, and twice nodded his head approvingly.
' You see,' said his wife in a whisper, ' I told you so.'
He nodded to her too.
The reading continued for two evenings in succession. On the first evening after the reading, Piotr Ivanitch, to his wife's astonishment, told them all that was to happen later.
'But how do you know?' she asked.
'Is it so strange ! It's not a new idea—that has been written of a thousand times over. It would not be necessary to read further, only we will see how it is developed by him.'
On the second evening, while Alexandr was reading the last page, Piotr Ivanitch rang. A servant appeared.
'I am ready to dress,' he said; 'excuse me, Alexandr, for interrupting. I am in a hurry, I am late for whist at the club.'
Alexandr finished. Piotr Ivanitch was going away at once.
' Well, au revoir/' he said to his wife and Alexandr; ' 1 shall not look in here again.'
'Stop,stop,' cried his wife; 'whyare you saying nothing about the novel ? '
Ci I ought not by the agreement,' he replied, and was just going.
' It's obstinacy!' she said, ' oh, he is obstinate. I know him ! Don't think about it, Alexandr.'
' It's ill-natured!' thought Alexandr; ' he wants to drag , , me into the dust, to pull me down to his sphere. All the J same, he is a clever official, a manufacturer, and nothing more; but I am a poet.'
^
'This is beyond everything, Piotr Ivanitch,' began his wife, scarcely able to restrain her tears. 'Say something at least. I saw you nodded in token of approval, so you liked it a little. Only you won't acknowledge it out of obstinacy. How can we acknowledge that we like the novel! We are too clever for that. Confess that it's good.'
u I nodded; because even from this novel one can see Alexandr is clever; but he did not do a clever thing in writing it.'
' However, uncle, justice of some kind.'
' Listen ; of course you won't believe me, and it's useless to dispute, we had better await the result. I will do something to put an end to this between us for ever. I will call myself the author of the novel, and will send it off to my friend, who is on a journal: we shall see what he says. You know him, and certainly would have confidence in his opinion. He is a man of experience.'
' Very well, we shall see.'
Piotr Ivanitch sat down to the table and at once wrote a few lines, then passed the letter to Alexandr.
'In my old age I have taken to authorship,' he had written; 'what's to be done: I want to be famous, to succeed in it—I have gone a little crazy! I have sent the novel enclosed. Look at it, and if it is suitable print it in your journal, for payment, of course; you know I don't like working for nothing. You will see it and hardly believe it's mine, but I authorise you to sign my name to it, to prove I am telling the truth.'
Relying upon a favourable reply about the novel, Alexandr awaited the answer tranquilly.
Three weeks passed by, however, still there was no answer. At last one morning a large parcel and letter was brought in to Piotr Ivanitch.
' Ah ! they have sent it back !' he said, glancing slyly at his wife.
He did not break open the note nor show it to his wife, as she did not ask to see it. That same evening before going to the club he himself started to his nephew.
The door was not closed. He went in; Yevsay was snoring, stretched diagonally across the entry on the floor. The candle wanted snuffing badly and hung down out of the
—-i
candlestick. He looked into the inner room—it was dark.
' Oh, the provinces !' muttered Piotr Ivanitch.
He roused Yevsay, showed him the door and the candle, and threatened him with a stick. In the third room Alex-andr was sitting, his arms on the table and his head on his arms; he too was asleep. Some papers were lying before him. Piotr Ivanitch looked—verses.
He took a sheet and read as follows :
' My springtide fair is over now, Love s burning moment's gone for ever; Love in my heart is deeply slumbering, Nor stirs with fiery breath my blood. Upon her altar-shrine deserted Another deity I've raised, To whom I pray.'*
' He is deeply slumbering himself too ! Go on praying, my dear boy, don't be lazy!' said Piotr Ivanitch aloud. ' Your own verses, but how they have exhausted you! What need of any other opinion ? You have spoken for yourself! '
