I sat listening in silence, marvelling at the versatility and whimsicality of the passions of mankind.
“Here’s a man,” I thought to myself, “who might make money and has made it; but no, he must have fame too, literary fame, the fame of a leading publisher, a critic!”
At the actual moment he was trying to expound minutely a literary theory which he had heard three days before from me myself, which he had argued against then, though now he was giving it out as his own.
But such forgetfulness is a frequent phenomenon in Alexandr Petrovitch, and he is famous for this innocent weakness among all who know him.
How happy he was then, holding forth in his own carriage, how satisfied with his lot, how benign!
He was maintaining a highly cultured, literary conversation, even his soft, decorous bass had the note of culture.
Little by little he drifted into liberalism, and then passed to the mildly sceptical proposition that no honesty or modesty was possible in our literature, or indeed in any other, that there could be nothing but “slashing at one another,” especially where the system of signed articles was prevalent.
I reflected to myself that Alexandr Petrovitch was inclined to regard every honest and sincere writer as a simpleton, if not a fool, on account of his very sincerity and honesty.
No doubt such an opinion was the direct result of his extreme guilelessness.
But I had left off listening to him.
When we reached Vassilyevsky Island he let me get out of the carriage, and I ran to my friends.
Now I had reached Thirteenth Street; here was their little house.
Seeing me Anna Andreyevna shook her finger at me, waved her hand, and said “Ssh!” to me, to be quiet.
“Nellie’s only just fallen asleep, poor little thing!” she whispered to me hurriedly. “For mercy’s sake, don’t wake her!
But she’s very worn, poor darling!
We’re very anxious about her.
The doctor says it’s nothing for the time, One can get nothing out of your doctor.
And isn’t it a shame of you, Ivan Petrovitch!
We’ve been expecting you! We expected you to dinner.... You’ve not been here for two days!”
“But I told you the day before yesterday that I shouldn’t be here for two days,” I whispered to Anna Andreyevna.
“I had to finish my work ...”
“But you know you promised to be here to dinner today!
Why didn’t you come?
Nellie got up on purpose, the little angel! – and we put her in the easychair, and carried her in to dinner.
‘I want to wait for Vanya with you,’ she said; but our Vanya never came.
Why, it’ll soon be six o’clock!
Where have you been gadding, you sinner?
She was so upset that I didn’t know how to appease her.... Happily, she’s gone to sleep, poor darling.
And here’s Nikolay Sergeyitch gone to town, too (he’ll be back to tea). I’m fretting all alone.... A post has turned up for him, Ivan Petrovitch; only when I think it’s in Perm it sends a cold chill to my heart...”
“And where’s Natasha?”
“In the garden, the darling!
Go to her.... There’s something wrong with her, too. . . . I can’t make her out. . . . Oh, Ivan Petrovitch, my heart’s very heavy!
She declares she’s cheerful and content, but I don’t believe her. Go to her, Vanya, and tell me quietly what’s the matter with her.... Do you hear?”
But I was no longer listening to Anna Andreyevna. I was running to the garden.
The little garden belonged to the house. It was twentyfive paces long and as much in breadth, and it was all overgrown with green.
There were three old spreading trees, a few young birchtrees, a few bushes of lilac and of honeysuckle; there was a patch of raspberries in the corner, two beds of strawberries, and two narrow, winding paths crossing the garden both ways.
The old man declared with delight that it would soon grow mushrooms.
The great thing was that Nellie was fond of the garden and she was often carried out in the easychair on to the garden path. Nellie was by now the idol of the house.
But now I came upon Natasha. She met me joyfully, holding out her hands.
How thin she was, how pale!
She, too, had only just recovered from an illness.
“Have you quite finished, Vanya?” she asked me.
“Quite, quite!
And I am free for the whole evening.”
“Well, thank God!
Did you hurry?
Have you spoilt it?”
“What could I do?
It’s all right, though.
My nerves get strung up to a peculiar tension by working at such a strain; I imagine more clearly, I feel more vividly and deeply, and even my style is more under my control, so that work done under pressure always turns out better.