'Where is the titanic passion, tears?'
'Uncle!'
'What? You have done with sincere outpourings, you have done with * gathering yellow flowers.' You are tired of living alone.'
' Oh, if that's it, uncle, I am not the only one who has been in love, raved, been jealous, wept. Wait a minute, I have a written document in my possession.'
He pulled a pocket-book out of his pocket, and after
fumbling some time among the papers, he drew out an
, old, almost worn-out and yellow sheet of paper.
j 'Here, ma fanfe' he said, 'is the proof that my uncle
^was not always such a rational, ironical, and practical man.
He too knew something of sincere outpourings and gave
expression to them not on official paper and with special ink. For four years I have carried that scrap about with me and kept waiting for an opportunity to confront my uncle with it* I had all but forgotten it, but you yourself reminded me.'
' What nonsense is this ? I don't understand it a bit,' said Piotr Ivanitch, looking at the scrap of paper.
' Here, then, look at it.'
Alexandr held the paper up before his uncle's eyes. Suddenly Piotr Ivanitch's face darkened.
' Give it up, give it up, Alexandr!' he cried hurriedly and tried to snatch it. But Alexandr quickly drew back his hand.
Lizaveta Alexandrovna looked at him with curiosity.
'No, uncle, I won't give it up,' said Alexandr, 'until you
• acknowledge here, before my aunt, that you too were in love
1 once, like me, and everybody .... or else this document
4 shall be put into her hands to your eternal reproach.'
i ' Brute! ' cried Piotr Ivanitch, ' what trick are you
playing on me ? '
' You don't want me to -'.
' Come, come, I have been in love ; give it up.'
' No, kindly say that you were raving, jealous ? '
'Well, I was jealous and raving,' said Piotr Ivanitch, scowling.
' You shed tears ? '
' No, I didn't shed tears.'
' It's not true 1 I was told so by my auntie; own up.'
' I can't bring my Jongue to utter it, Alexandr. Perhaps I will try now '
' Ma tank) take the document.'
' Show me, what is it ? ' she inquired, holding out her hand.
' I shed tears, I did ! Give it up ! ' cried Piotr Ivanitch in desperation.
'By the lake?'
' By the lake ? '
' And you gathered yellow flowers ? '
' I did. There you have everything. Give it up !'
' No, not everything; give me your word of honour, that you will consign my follies to eternal oblivion and give up taunting me with them.'
tSo a common story
' I give you my word of honour.'
Alexandr gave him the paper. Piotr Ivanitch snatched it, lighted a taper and burnt the scrap of paper in it.
' Tell me at least what it was about ? ' inquired Lizaveta Alexandrovna.
' No, my dear, that I will not tell at the Last Judgment,' replied Piotr Ivanitch; ' but is it possible I wrote that ? can it be?'
' You did, uncle !' interposed Alexandr, ' I can repeat, if you like, what was written in it; I know it by heart: ' Angel, adored by me '
' Alexandr! we shall be enemies for life 1' cried Piotr Ivanitch angrily.
' They are ashamed, as though it were a crime, and of what! ' said Lizaveta Alexandrovna; ' of first, pure love.'
She shrugged her shoulders and turned away from them.
' In that love there was so much that was stupid,' said Piotr Ivanitch gently, insinuatingly. 'Between us now there was no question of sincere outpourings, of flowers, and walks by moonlight .... but you love me, you know.'
'Yes, I am thoroughly .... used to you,' replied Lizaveta Alexandrovna vacantly.
Piotr Ivanitch began to stroke his whiskers despondently.
'Well, uncle,' inquired Alexandr, in an undertone, ' isn't that jvhat you want? '
Piotr Ivanitch made a sign to him to signify, 'be silent.'
' It's pardonable in Piotr Ivanitch to think and behave like this,' said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, ' he has been the same so long, and no one, I imagine, has known him otherwise; but in you, Alexandr, I did not expect such a change.'
She sighed.
' What do you sigh for, ma tante ? ' he asked.
' For the Alexandr of old days,' she replied
' Is it possible you could have wished me, ma tante, to remain what I was ten years ago ? ' said Alexandr. ' Uncle is right in calling it foolish sentimentality. ,,
The countenance of Piotr Ivanitch began to grow wrathful. Alexandr stopped.
' No, not what you were ten years ago,' said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, ' but four years ago; do you remember what a letter you wrote me from the country ? How splendid you were then 1'
'I fancy I was a sentimentalist then, too,' said Alexandr.
' No, you were not sentimental. Then you had interpreted and understood life for yourself; then you were
splendid, noble, wise Why did you not remain so ? '
Why was it only in words, on paper, and not in fact ? This brightness peeped out like the sun from behind a cloud— for one instant.'
' You meart to say, ma tante y that now I .... am not wise .... nor noble ? '
' God forbid, no! But now you are wise and noble .... in some other way, not in my way '
'What's to be done, ma fante' said Alexandr with a sonorous sigh, ' it's the age. I progress with the times; one cannot stay behind. You see I follow my uncle, I quote his words.'
' Alexandr !' said Piotr Ivanitch, savagely, ' let us go to my study for a minute; I want to have a word with you.'
They went into the study.
' What possessed you to appeal to me to-day ?' said Piotr Ivanitch. ' Do you see w hat a state my wife is in.V.
' What is it ? ' .a^JJBfc&lExandp ia alarm.
' HSven't ^pu jjQticed anything? Why, its come to my throwing up .my position, my business—everything and
g oing t oJtal?^witli hpr *'
^ What are you saying, uncle 1' cried Alexandr, in bewildeillie ni, ' wliy7T hfeyearyou^re'T)ound to be in the privycouncil.'
**Yes, But if the privy councillor's wife is dying I' . He walked despondently three times up and down the room.
' No,' he said, ' my career is over! My work is done ; Fate does not permit to advance further—so be it!' He
