Alexandr gazed in silence with an expression of bitter reproach at his uncle.
" Uncle!" he repeated.
"What is it?"
" How am I to describe your action?"
" As a throwing out of the window into the canal of some immaterial tokens and various odds and ends of rubbish which there was no need to keep in the room."
" Rubbish—tkat rubbish ? "
" Why, what do you regard it as, a piece of your heart? I came to him about business, and what do I find him busy over, he is sitting thinking about some stuff and nonsense !"
" Does that interfere with business, uncle ? "
" Very much so. Time is slipping away, and you have not so far talked to me of your plans; whether you do want a government clerkship or have you adopted some other occupation ? You haven't said a word to me, and this is all because you have Sophia and her keepsake in your head. There, I do believe you are just writing a letter to her, aren't you now?"
" Yes, I was just beginning."
" But have you written to ynnr rqnthpr ? "
" Not" yet, 1 me ant to tomo rrow7 "
4 'Why to-morrowr* To your mother,to-morrow, but.to Sophia," Whutil you must forget within a month, to-day." 4 *15opEiaT"can T eveflbrget tier?* **
" You will have to. If I had not thrown away your keepsakes what would you have gained, pray ? ; You would have remembered her a month longer for nothing. I did you a double service. In a few years these keepsakes would have reminded you of a folly at which you would blush!"
"Blush at such a pure, such a sacred remembrance? That shows you do not recognise the poetry."
"What poetry is there in what is foolish? Is there poetry for instance in your aunt's letter ? Yellow flowers, a lake, some mystery or other. When I was reading it, it
made me feel sick beyond description ! I was almost blushing, and yet I am not exactly in the habit of blush-ing."
"That's awful—awful, uncle! It must be that you have never loved/'
" I could never bear keepsakes."
" It is a sort of wooden life!" said Alexandr, with great feeling. " It is vegetating, not living ! Love—sacred passion!"
" I know the sacred love you talk about; at your age, you need only see a curl, a slipper, a garter, or touch a hand .... through your whole body you feel a thrill of sacred, sublime love, but let it have its way—and it's
a different matter Love is before you, more's the
pity; you can't run away from it that's certain ; but serious business will run away from you, if you don't devote yourself to it?"
" But is not love a serious business ? "
" No; it is an agreeable distraction, only you must not give yourself up to it too much, or some harm will come of it. That's why I am afraid for you." His uncle shook his head.
" I have almost found you a position; you really do want to get into an office ? " he said.
Alexandr rushed up and kissed his uncle on the cheek.
" He has succeeded at last!" said his uncle, rubbing his cheek. " Why wasn't I on the look-out for it? Well, now listen. Tell me, what do you know, what do you feel yourself fit for ? "
" I know theology, civil, criminal, and international law, and jurisprudence, diplomacy,political economy, philosophy, aesthetics and archaeology."
" Stop, stop! but you know how to write Russian correctly ? At the present moment that is more necessary than all."
" What a question, uncle; do I know how to write Russian!" said Alexandr, running to his bureau, and beginning to take from it various papers, but his uncle meantime picked up a letter from the table and began to read it.
Alexandr returned with his papers to the table, and saw
that his uncle was reading his letter. His papers fell out of his hand.
" What is it you are reading, uncle ? " he said in dismay.
" Why a letter that was lying here; to a friend, it must be. I beg your pardon—I wanted to see how you write."
" And you have read it ? "
" Yes, almost, only two lines more—I shall have done with it directiy; why what was in it ? there are certainly no secrets in it, or it would not have been lying about like this."
" What can you think of me now ? "
" I think that you write fairly, correctly, smoothly."
" Then you cannot have read what is written in it ?" Alexandr asked eagerly.
" No, I fancy I have read all," said Piotr Ivanitch, looking at both pages; " to begin with you describe Petersburg and your impressions, and then me."
" Good God!" exclaimed Alexandr, covering his face with his hands.
" Well, what is it ? what is the matter ? "
" And you say this calmly ? you are not angry ? you don't hate me ? "
" No ! what is there to make a fuss about ? "
" Repeat it, calm me !"
" No, no, no."
" But to read such bitter truths about yourself—and from whom ? from your own nephew !"
" You fancy that you have written the truth ? "
" Oh, uncle!—of course, I was mistaken—I will correct —forgive me."
" Would you like me to dictate what is the truth to you ? "
" If you would be so good."
" Sit down then and write."
Alexandr picked out a sheet of paper, and took up a pen, while Piotr Ivanitch, looking at the letter he had read, dictated :—" Dear friend—have you got it ? "
"Yes."
" Petersburg and my impressions I will not describe to you."
" Describe to you," said Alexandr, writing it down.
"Petersburg has been fully described long ago, and what has not been described you must see for yourself;
D
my impressions will be of no use whatever to you. It is useless to waste time and paper for nothing. I shall do better to describe my uncle, because that is of interest to me personally."
" To me personally," said Alexandr.
" Well, you write here, that I am good-hearted and very intelligent—I may be so, or may not; let us rather take a middle course, write : My uncle is not stupid nor unkind, he wishes me well."
" Uncle! I know how to appreciate and to feel" . . . . said Alexander, and got up to kiss him.
" Although he does not fall upon my neck," continued Piotr Ivanitch. Alexandr, who had not yet reached him, sat down again rather suddenly.
" But he wishes me well, because he has no reason or motive to wish me ill, and because my mother has interceded with him on my behalf, and she was good to him formerly. He says he does not love me—and very reasonably; it is impossible to love any one in a fortnight, and I do not love him yet, even though I maintain that I do."
" How is that possible ? " said Alexandr.
" Write, write. ' But we are beginning to get used to one another. He even says that it is possible to do without love altogether. He does not sit with his arms round me, from morning till evening, because this is quite unnecessary, and he has not the time. * Averse to all outbursts of feeling' —that may stand : that is good. Have you written it ? "
" Yes."
" Well, what have you next ? ' Prosaic'—write it"
While Alexandr was writing, Piotr Ivanitch took from the table a paper of some sort, twisted it up, thrust it in the fire, and lighted a cigar with it, and threw the paper back into the fire and it burnt up.
" My uncle is neither a demon, nor an angel, but just a man like every one else," he dictated, " only not altogether like you and me. He thinks and feels after an earthly fashion, he considers that since we live on the earth, we must not fly off from earth to heaven, where we are not invited for the present, but must busy ourselves with human affairs which are our calling. Therefore he analyses all earthly matters and especially life, as it is, not as we should like it to be. He believes in good and at the same
time in evil, in the noble and in the base. He believes also in love and friendship, only he does not think they have fallen from heaven, but he considers that they came into existence together with men and for men, and that they too ought to be understood, and in fact generally that one ought to look at things steadily, in their actual bearings, and not be carried away God knows where. Among honest men he admits the possibility of a friendliness, which from frequent intercourse and habit turns into friendship. But he considers also that from separation habits lose their strength and people forget one another and that this is by no means a crime. For this reason he is convinced that I shall forget you and you me./ This seems to me—and probably also to you—strange, but he advises us to accustom ourselves to this thought, so that we shall both avo id bein g ^dg£fiixed« As to love this is his view, roughly speaking; he does not believe in eternal and unchanging love, just as he does not believe in ghosts—and he advises us not to believe in it. However, he advises me to think on this subject as little as possible and I advise you the same. It will come, he says, of itself, without any invitation; he says that life does not consist of love only, that like everything else it has its fitting season, but to dream your whole life of one love is absurd. Those who seek it and cannot do without it a minute—live with their hearts at the expense of their heads. My uncle likes to be busy with work, and advises me to do the like and I you; we belong to society, he says, which has need of us; while he is busy, he does not forget his own interests; his work gains money and money brings comfort, which he likes extremely. Moreover, he has perhaps plans in consequence of which I shall not probably be his heir. My uncle is not always thinking of his official I work and of his factory; he knows by heart not only ' Pushkin » —