' Ah !' said Alexandr, stretching, ' you are always hostile to my compositions ! Tell me candidly, uncle, what makes you so persistently persecute talent when you cannot help confessing '
' Envy, to be sure, Alexandr. I have lived my life quietly, obscurely, have only fulfilled my duty, and was even proud and happy in it. When I am dead, that is when I shall feel and know nothing, the harps of minstrel seers shall not tell of me. How different with you? do you know that your future fame, your immortality is in my pocket ?— what glory !'
' The answer to your note. Ah, for Heaven's sake, give it me directly; what does he write ?'
' I haven't read it; read it yourself aloud.'
Alexandr began to read aloud, while Piotr Ivanitch tapped his boot with his finger. This is what was in the letter:
'What mystification is this, my dear Piotr Ivanitch? You writing novels! And you thought you could catch an old bird like me? But if you had really produced the novel lying before me, then I should tell you that the
most fragile products of your factory have far more solidity than this creation.'
Alexandras voice suddenly dropped.
' But I repudiate anything so insulting to you,' he went on in timid and subdued tone.
'I don't hear, Alexandr, a litde louder!' said Piotr Ivanitch.
Alexandr continued in a low voice.
' Since you take an interest in the author of the novel, you no doubt wish to know my opinion of it. Here it is. The author must be young. He is not stupid; but is not very happily at feud with the whole world. He is truly disillusioned. Oh, Lord, when will the race be extinct? What a pity that through a false view of life so much ability among us is wasted in empty, profitless dreams, in vain efforts after what they are not fitted for.'
Alexandr paused and took breath. Piotr Ivanitch began to smoke a cigar and blew a ring of smoke. His face, as usual, expressed perfect calm. Alexandr continued to read in a low, hardly audible voice.
'Vanity, sentimentality, premature emotionalism with their inevitable consequence—indolence—these are the causes of this evil. Discipline, work, practical business— that's what our sickly and indolent young people want to sober them.'
' The whole matter might have been made clear in three lines,' said Piotr Ivanitch looking at his watch, ' but he is writing a complete essay in a letter to a friend ! isn't he a pedant ? Are you going to read any more, Alexandr? throw it away; it's a bore. There is something I want to say to you.'
' No, uncle, let me drink the cup to the dregs; I will read to the end.'
' Well, I hope it will do you good!'
'This lamentable bent of mind,' Alexandr read, 'is apparent in every line of the novel you have sent me. Tell your protigk that an author only writes successfully, in the first place, when he is not under the sway of his personal feelings and passions. He must survey with calm untroubled gaze the world and life generally; otherwise, he will express only his Ego, with whom no one else has any concern. This defect is glaringly apparent in the novel. The second and
i
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principal condition—which, pray, do not tell the author, out of compassion for his youth and vanity of authorship—talent, is essential, and he has no trace of it. The language, however, is throughout correct and good; the author even shows a sense of style.'
With difficulty could Alexandr read to the end.
'At last he comes to the point,' said Piotr Ivanitch, 'and what a rigmarole first! Let us discuss the rest without him.'
Alexandr let his hands hang limp. In silence, like a man stunned by an unexpected blow, he gazed with hazy eyes at the opposite well.
'Come, Alexandr, how do you feel now?' asked Piotr Ivanitch.
Alexandr did not hear this observation.
' Can it, too, be a dream ? has this, too, cheated me ? ' he muttered. ' A bitter loss I What, can't one get used to being deceived! But why, I can't understand, was this overmastering impulse to creative art entrusted to me ? '
' Come, come, the impulse was entrusted to you, but the creative art itself they forgot to entrust to you,' said Piotr Ivanitch. ' Fve explained it! '
Alexander answered by a sigh, and sank into thought Then suddenly he rushed vehemently to open all the drawers, took out several manuscript books, sheets of paper, and scraps, and began in exasperation to throw them into the stove.
' Here, don't forget this!' said Piotr Ivanitch, passing him the sheet of unfinished verses that lay on the table.
' That too may go !' said Alexander in despair, throwing the verses into the stove.
' Is there nothing more ? Look round thoroughly,' said Piotr Ivanitch, glajicing round him; ' for once you will be doing a sensible thing. There, what's that in the cupboard in a bundle ? '
' In with it,' said Alexandr, taking it; ' it's my articles on agriculture.'
' Don't burn that! give it to me!' said Piotr Ivanitch, holding out his hand, 'that's not rubbish.'
But Alexandr did not heed him. No!' he said bitterly, 'since the great power of J
u
creation has failed me in the sphere of art, I don't want it
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V
166 A COMMON STORY
in the sphere of industry. Fate shall not subdue me to that!'
And the bundle flew into the hearth.
'That's a pity !' observed Piotr Ivanitch, while he rummaged with a finger under the table, to see whether there was not something more to throw in the fire.
' But what shall we do with the novel, Alexandr ? It's at home.'
' Don't you want it to paste on screens ? '
' No, not now. Shouldn't we send Yevsay for it ? He has gone to sleep again; look out or they will steal my greatcoat under your very nose! Go to my rooms, ask Vassily there for the thick manuscript-book which is lying in the study on the bureau, and bring it here ? '
Alexandr sat, leaning on his elbows, and gazed into the stove. The manuscript was brought. Alexandr looked at the fruit of his six months' labours and grew thoughtful. Piotr Ivanitch noticed it.
' Come, make an end, Alexandr,' he said ' and then let us talk of something else.'
' In with it then, too;' shrieked Alexandr flinging the book into the grate.
Both began to look at it burning, Piotr Ivanitch apparently with satisfaction, Alexandr with grief, almost with tears. Now the uppermost page quivered and started up, as though an unseen hand had turned it back; its edges scorched, it grew black, then contracted and suddenly caught fire; quickly after it a second and a third caught, and then suddenly a few sprang up and burnt in a mass, while those following after them were still white, and two seconds later they, too, began to blacken at the edges.
Alexandr, however, had time to read: ' Chapter III.' He remembered what was in that chapter, and was smitten with compunction. He rose from his chair and clutched the snuffers to save the fragments of his work. ' Perhaps, still ' hope murmured to him.
' Stop, I will do it better with my stick,' said Piotr Ivanitch. ' You will burn your fingers.'
He moved the book into the furthest recesses of the stove, right into the corner. Alexandr stopped in hesitation. The book was thick and not readily subdued by the action of the fire. A thick smoke began to appear
from under it; the flame sometimes would snatch it from below, lick it at the edge, leave a black stain and sink down again. It was still possible to save it. Alexandr stretched out his hand, but at that very second the flames threw a bright glare upon the chair and Piotr Ivanitch's face and the table; the whole book was alight and in a minute was burnt up, leaving a heap of black ash amongst which in parts crept little snakes of fire. Alexandr threw
