No More Learning

"

"No, it's all right, it's all right. . . . "

"Do you remember, Vasya, do you remember it was the same with you once
before; do you remember, when you got your promotion, in your joy and
thankfulness you were so zealous that you spoilt all your work for a
week? It is just the same with you now. "

"Yes, yes, Arkady; but now it is different, it is not that at all. "

"How is it different? And very likely the work is not urgent at all,
while you are killing yourself. . . . "

"It's nothing, it's nothing. I am all right, it's nothing. Well, come
along! "

"Why, are you going home, and not to them? "

"Yes, brother, how could I have the face to turn up there? . . . I have
changed my mind. It was only that I could not stay on alone without you;
now you are coming back with me I'll sit down to write again. Let us
go! "

They walked along and for some time were silent. Vasya was in haste.

"Why don't you ask me about them? " said Arkady Ivanovitch.

"Oh, yes! Well, Arkasha, what about them? "

"Vasya, you are not like yourself. "

"Oh, I am all right, I am all right. Tell me everything, Arkasha," said
Vasya, in an imploring voice, as though to avoid further explanations.
Arkady Ivanovitch sighed. He felt utterly at a loss, looking at Vasya.

His account of their friends roused Vasya. He even grew talkative. They
had dinner together. Lizanka's mother had filled Arkady Ivanovitch's
pockets with little cakes, and eating them the friends grew more
cheerful. After dinner Vasya promised to take a nap, so as to sit up all
night. He did, in fact, lie down. In the morning, some one whom it was
impossible to refuse had invited Arkady Ivanovitch to tea. The friends
parted. Arkady promised to come back as soon as he could, by eight
o'clock if possible. The three hours of separation seemed to him like
three years. At last he got away and rushed back to Vasya. When he went
into the room, he found it in darkness. Vasya was not at home. He asked
Mavra. Mavra said that he had been writing all the time, and had not
slept at all, then he had paced up and down the room, and after that, an
hour before, he had run out, saying he would be back in half-an-hour;
"and when, says he, Arkady Ivanovitch comes in, tell him, old woman,
says he," Mavra told him in conclusion, "that I have gone out for a
walk," and he repeated the order three or four times.

"He is at the Artemyevs," thought Arkady Ivanovitch, and he shook his
head.

A minute later he jumped up with renewed hope.

"He has simply finished," he thought, "that's all it is; he couldn't
wait, but ran off there. But, no! he would have waited for me. . . . Let's
have a peep what he has there. "

He lighted a candle, and ran to Vasya's writing-table: the work had made
progress and it looked as though there were not much left to do. Arkady
Ivanovitch was about to investigate further, when Vasya himself walked
in. . . .

"Oh, you are here? " he cried, with a start of dismay.

Arkady Ivanovitch was silent. He was afraid to question Vasya. The
latter dropped his eyes and remained silent too, as he began sorting the
papers. At last their eyes met. The look in Vasya's was so beseeching,
imploring, and broken, that Arkady shuddered when he saw it. His heart
quivered and was full.

"Vasya, my dear boy, what is it? What's wrong? " he cried, rushing to him
and squeezing him in his arms. "Explain to me, I don't understand you,
and your depression. What is the matter with you, my poor, tormented
boy? What is it? Tell me all about it, without hiding anything. It can't
be only this----"

Vasya held him tight and could say nothing. He could scarcely breathe.

"Don't, Vasya, don't! Well, if you don't finish it, what then? I don't
understand you; tell me your trouble. You see it is for your sake I. . . .
Oh dear! oh dear! " he said, walking up and down the room and clutching
at everything he came across, as though seeking at once some remedy for
Vasya. "I will go to Yulian Mastakovitch instead of you to-morrow. I
will ask him--entreat him--to let you have another day. I will explain
it all to him, anything, if it worries you so. . . . "

"God forbid! " cried Vasya, and turned as white as the wall. He could
scarcely stand on his feet.

"Vasya! Vasya! "

Vasya pulled himself together. His lips were quivering; he tried to say
something, but could only convulsively squeeze Arkady's hand in silence.
His hand was cold. Arkady stood facing him, full of anxious and
miserable suspense. Vasya raised his eyes again.

"Vasya, God bless you, Vasya! You wring my heart, my dear boy, my
friend. "

Tears gushed from Vasya's eyes; he flung himself on Arkady's bosom.

"I have deceived you, Arkady," he said. "I have deceived you. Forgive
me, forgive me! I have been faithless to your friendship. . . . "

"What is it, Vasya? What is the matter? " asked Arkady, in real alarm.

"Look! "

And with a gesture of despair Vasya tossed out of the drawer on to the
table six thick manuscripts, similar to the one he had copied.

"What's this? "

"What I have to get through by the day after to-morrow. I haven't done a
quarter! Don't ask me, don't ask me how it has happened," Vasya went on,
speaking at once of what was distressing him so terribly. "Arkady, dear
friend, I don't know myself what came over me. I feel as though I were
coming out of a dream. I have wasted three weeks doing nothing. I kept
. . . I . . . kept going to see her. . . . My heart was aching, I was tormented
by . . . the uncertainty . . . I could not write. I did not even think about
it. Only now, when happiness is at hand for me, I have come to my
senses. "

"Vasya," began Arkady Ivanovitch resolutely, "Vasya, I will save you. I
understand it all. It's a serious matter; I will save you. Listen!
listen to me: I will go to Yulian Mastakovitch to-morrow. . . . Don't shake
your head; no, listen! I will tell him exactly how it has all been; let
me do that . . . I will explain to him. . . . I will go into everything. I
will tell him how crushed you are, how you are worrying yourself. "

"Do you know that you are killing me now? " Vasya brought out, turning
cold with horror.

Arkady Ivanovitch turned pale, but at once controlling himself, laughed.

"Is that all? Is that all? " he said. "Upon my word, Vasya, upon my word!
Aren't you ashamed? Come, listen! I see that I am grieving you. You see
I understand you; I know what is passing in your heart. Why, we have
been living together for five years, thank God! You are such a kind,
soft-hearted fellow, but weak, unpardonably weak. Why, even Lizaveta
Mikalovna has noticed it. And you are a dreamer, and that's a bad thing,
too; you may go from bad to worse, brother. I tell you, I know what you
want! You would like Yulian Mastakovitch, for instance, to be beside
himself and, maybe, to give a ball, too, from joy, because you are going
to get married. . . . Stop, stop! you are frowning. You see that at one
word from me you are offended on Yulian Mastakovitch's account. I'll let
him alone. You know I respect him just as much as you do. But argue as
you may, you can't prevent my thinking that you would like there to be
no one unhappy in the whole world when you are getting married. . . . Yes,
brother, you must admit that you would like me, for instance, your best
friend, to come in for a fortune of a hundred thousand all of a sudden,
you would like all the enemies in the world to be suddenly, for no rhyme
or reason, reconciled, so that in their joy they might all embrace one
another in the middle of the street, and then, perhaps, come here to
call on you. Vasya, my dear boy, I am not laughing; it is true; you've
said as much to me long ago, in different ways. Because you are happy,
you want every one, absolutely every one, to become happy at once. It
hurts you and troubles you to be happy alone. And so you want at once to
do your utmost to be worthy of that happiness, and maybe to do some
great deed to satisfy your conscience. Oh!
I understand how ready you
are to distress yourself for having suddenly been remiss just where you
ought to have shown your zeal, your capacity . . . well, maybe your
gratitude, as you say. It is very bitter for you to think that Yulian
Mastakovitch may frown and even be angry when he sees that you have not
justified the expectations he had of you. It hurts you to think that you
may hear reproaches from the man you look upon as your benefactor--and
at such a moment! when your heart is full of joy and you don't know on
whom to lavish your gratitude. . . . Isn't that true? It is, isn't it? "

Arkady Ivanovitch, whose voice was trembling, paused, and drew a deep
breath.

Vasya looked affectionately at his friend. A smile passed over his lips.
His face even lighted up, as though with a gleam of hope.

"Well, listen, then," Arkady Ivanovitch began again, growing more
hopeful, "there's no necessity that you should forfeit Yulian
Mastakovitch's favour. . . . Is there, dear boy? Is there any question of
it? And since it is so," said Arkady, jumping up, "I shall sacrifice
myself for you. I am going to-morrow to Yulian Mastakovitch, and don't
oppose me. You magnify your failure to a crime, Vasya. Yulian
Mastakovitch is magnanimous and merciful, and, what is more, he is not
like you. He will listen to you and me, and get us out of our trouble,
brother Vasya. Well, are you calmer? "

Vasya pressed his friend's hands with tears in his eyes.

"Hush, hush, Arkady," he said, "the thing is settled. I haven't
finished, so very well; if I haven't finished, I haven't finished, and
there's no need for you to go. I will tell him all about it, I will go
myself. I am calmer now, I am perfectly calm; only you mustn't go. . . .
But listen. . . . "

"Vasya, my dear boy," Arkady Ivanovitch cried joyfully, "I judged from
what you said. I am glad that you have thought better of things and have
recovered yourself. But whatever may befall you, whatever happens, I am
with you, remember that. I see that it worries you to think of my
speaking to Yulian Mastakovitch--and I won't say a word, not a word, you
shall tell him yourself. You see, you shall go to-morrow. . . . Oh no, you
had better not go, you'll go on writing here, you see, and I'll find out
about this work, whether it is very urgent or not, whether it must be
done by the time or not, and if you don't finish it in time what will
come of it. Then I will run back to you. Do you see, do you see! There
is still hope; suppose the work is not urgent--it may be all right.
Yulian Mastakovitch may not remember, then all is saved. "

Vasya shook his head doubtfully. But his grateful eyes never left his
friend's face.

"Come, that's enough, I am so weak, so tired," he said, sighing. "I
don't want to think about it. Let us talk of something else. I won't
write either now; do you know I'll only finish two short pages just to
get to the end of a passage. Listen . . . I have long wanted to ask you,
how is it you know me so well? "

Tears dropped from Vasya's eyes on Arkady's hand.

"If you knew, Vasya, how fond I am of you, you would not ask that--yes! "

"Yes, yes, Arkady, I don't know that, because I don't know why you are
so fond of me. Yes, Arkady, do you know, even your love has been killing
me? Do you know, ever so many times, particularly when I am thinking of
you in bed (for I always think of you when I am falling asleep), I shed
tears, and my heart throbs at the thought . . . at the thought. . . . Well,
at the thought that you are so fond of me, while I can do nothing to
relieve my heart, can do nothing to repay you. "

"You see, Vasya, you see what a fellow you are! Why, how upset you are
now," said Arkady, whose heart ached at that moment and who remembered
the scene in the street the day before.

"Nonsense, you want me to be calm, but I never have been so calm and
happy! Do you know. . . . Listen, I want to tell you all about it, but I am
afraid of wounding you. . . . You keep scolding me and being vexed; and I
am afraid. . . . See how I am trembling now, I don't know why. You see,
this is what I want to say. I feel as though I had never known myself
before--yes! Yes, I only began to understand other people too,
yesterday. I did not feel or appreciate things fully, brother. My heart
. . . was hard. . . . Listen how has it happened, that I have never done good
to any one, any one in the world, because I couldn't--I am not even
pleasant to look at. . . . But everybody does me good! You, to begin with:
do you suppose I don't see that? Only I said nothing; only I said
nothing. "

"Hush, Vasya! "

"Oh, Arkasha! . . . it's all right," Vasya interrupted, hardly able to
articulate for tears. "I talked to you yesterday about Yulian
Mastakovitch. And you know yourself how stern and severe he is, even you
have come in for a reprimand from him; yet he deigned to jest with me
yesterday, to show his affection, and kind-heartedness, which he
prudently conceals from every one. . . . "

"Come, Vasya, that only shows you deserve your good fortune. "

"Oh, Arkasha! How I longed to finish all this. . . . No, I shall ruin my
good luck! I feel that! Oh no, not through that," Vasya added, seeing
that Arkady glanced at the heap of urgent work lying on the table,
"that's nothing, that's only paper covered with writing . . . it's
nonsense! That matter's settled. . . . I went to see them to-day, Arkasha;
I did not go in. I felt depressed and sad. I simply stood at the door.
She was playing the piano, I listened. You see, Arkady," he went on,
dropping his voice, "I did not dare to go in. "

"I say, Vasya--what is the matter with you? You look at one so
strangely. "

"Oh, it's nothing, I feel a little sick; my legs are trembling; it's
because I sat up last night. Yes! Everything looks green before my eyes.
It's here, here----"

He pointed to his heart. He fainted. When he came to himself Arkady
tried to take forcible measures. He tried to compel him to go to bed.
Nothing would induce Vasya to consent. He shed tears, wrung his hands,
wanted to write, was absolutely set on finishing his two pages. To avoid
exciting him Arkady let him sit down to the work.

"Do you know," said Vasya, as he settled himself in his place, "an idea
has occurred to me? There is hope. "

He smiled to Arkady, and his pale face lighted up with a gleam of hope.

"I will take him what is done the day after to-morrow. About the rest I
will tell a lie. I will say it has been burnt, that it has been sopped
in water, that I have lost it. . . . That, in fact, I have not finished it;
I cannot lie. I will explain, do you know, what? I'll explain to him all
about it. I will tell him how it was that I could not. I'll tell him
about my love; he has got married himself just lately, he'll understand
me. I will do it all, of course, respectfully, quietly; he will see my
tears and be touched by them. . . . "

"Yes, of course, you must go, you must go and explain to him. . . . But
there's no need of tears! Tears for what? Really, Vasya, you quite scare
me. "

"Yes, I'll go, I'll go. But now let me write, let me write, Arkasha. I
am not interfering with any one, let me write! "

Arkady flung himself on the bed. He had no confidence in Vasya, no
confidence at all. "Vasya was capable of anything, but to ask
forgiveness for what? how? That was not the point. The point was, that
Vasya had not carried out his obligations, that Vasya felt guilty _in
his own eyes_, felt that he was ungrateful to destiny, that Vasya was
crushed, overwhelmed by happiness and thought himself unworthy of it;
that, in fact, he was simply trying to find an excuse to go off his head
on that point, and that he had not recovered from the unexpectedness of
what had happened the day before; that's what it is," thought Arkady
Ivanovitch. "I must save him. I must reconcile him to himself. He will
be his own ruin. " He thought and thought, and resolved to go at once
next day to Yulian Mastakovitch, and to tell him all about it.

Vasya was sitting writing. Arkady Ivanovitch, worn out, lay down to
think things over again, and only woke at daybreak.

"Damnation! Again! " he cried, looking at Vasya; the latter was still
sitting writing.

Arkady rushed up to him, seized him and forcibly put him to bed. Vasya
was smiling: his eyes were closing with sleep. He could hardly speak.

"I wanted to go to bed," he said. "Do you know, Arkady, I have an idea;
I shall finish.