No More Learning

But imagine her amazement, her
sudden confusion: just behind Vasya, as though trying to hide behind his
back, stood Arkady Ivanovitch, a trifle out of countenance. It must be
admitted that he was awkward in the company of women, very awkward
indeed, in fact on one occasion something occurred . . . but of that later.
You must put yourself in his place, however. There was nothing to laugh
at; he was standing in the entry, in his goloshes and overcoat, and in a
cap with flaps over the ears, which he would have hastened to pull off,
but he had, all twisted round in a hideous way, a yellow knitted scarf,
which, to make things worse, was knotted at the back. He had to
disentangle all this, to take it off as quickly as possible, to show
himself to more advantage, for there is no one who does not prefer to
show himself to advantage. And then Vasya, vexatious insufferable Vasya,
of course always the same dear kind Vasya, but now insufferable,
ruthless Vasya. "Here," he shouted, "Lizanka, I have brought you my
Arkady? What do you think of him? He is my best friend, embrace him,
kiss him, Lizanka, give him a kiss in advance; afterwards--you will know
him better--you can take it back again. "

Well, what, I ask you, was Arkady Ivanovitch to do? And he had only
untwisted half of the scarf so far. I really am sometimes ashamed of
Vasya's excess of enthusiasm; it is, of course, the sign of a good
heart, but . . . it's awkward, not nice!

At last both went in. . . . The mother was unutterably delighted to make
Arkady Ivanovitch's acquaintance, "she had heard so much about him, she
had. . . . " But she did not finish. A joyful "Oh! " ringing musically
through the room interrupted her in the middle of a sentence. Good
Heavens! Lizanka was standing before the cap which had suddenly been
unfolded before her gaze; she clasped her hands with the utmost
simplicity, smiling such a smile. . . . Oh, Heavens! why had not Madame
Leroux an even lovelier cap?

Oh, Heavens! but where could you find a lovelier cap? It was quite
first-rate. Where could you get a better one? I mean it seriously. This
ingratitude on the part of lovers moves me, in fact, to indignation and
even wounds me a little. Why, look at it for yourself, reader, look,
what could be more beautiful than this little love of a cap? Come, look
at it. . . . But, no, no, my strictures are uncalled for; they had by now
all agreed with me; it had been a momentary aberration; the blindness,
the delirium of feeling; I am ready to forgive them. . . . But then you
must look. . . . You must excuse me, kind reader, I am still talking about
the cap: made of tulle, light as a feather, a broad cherry-coloured
ribbon covered with lace passing between the tulle and the ruche, and at
the back two wide long ribbons--they would fall down a little below the
nape of the neck. . . . All that the cap needed was to be tilted a little
to the back of the head; come, look at it; I ask you, after that . . . but
I see you are not looking . . . you think it does not matter. You are
looking in a different direction. . . . You are looking at two big tears,
big as pearls, that rose in two jet black eyes, quivered for one instant
on the eyelashes, and then dropped on the ethereal tulle of which Madame
Leroux's artistic masterpiece was composed. . . . And again I feel vexed,
those two tears were scarcely a tribute to the cap. . . . No, to my mind,
such a gift should be given in cool blood, as only then can its full
worth be appreciated. I am, I confess, dear reader, entirely on the side
of the cap.

They sat down--Vasya with Lizanka and the old mother with Arkady
Ivanovitch; they began to talk, and Arkady Ivanovitch did himself
credit, I am glad to say that for him. One would hardly, indeed, have
expected it of him. After a couple of words about Vasya he most
successfully turned the conversation to Yulian Mastakovitch, his patron.
And he talked so cleverly, so cleverly that the subject was not
exhausted for an hour. You ought to have seen with what dexterity, what
tact, Arkady Ivanovitch touched upon certain peculiarities of Yulian
Mastakovitch which directly or indirectly affected Vasya. The mother was
fascinated, genuinely fascinated; she admitted it herself; she purposely
called Vasya aside, and said to him that his friend was a most excellent
and charming young man, and, what was of most account, such a serious,
steady young man. Vasya almost laughed aloud with delight. He remembered
how the serious Arkady had tumbled him on his bed for a quarter of an
hour. Then the mother signed to Vasya to follow her quietly and
cautiously into the next room. It must be admitted that she treated
Lizanka rather unfairly: she behaved treacherously to her daughter, in
the fullness of her heart, of course, and showed Vasya on the sly the
present Lizanka was preparing to give him for the New Year. It was a
paper-case, embroidered in beads and gold in a very choice design: on
one side was depicted a stag, absolutely lifelike, running swiftly, and
so well done! On the other side was the portrait of a celebrated
General, also an excellent likeness. I cannot describe Vasya's raptures.
Meanwhile, time was not being wasted in the parlour. Lizanka went
straight up to Arkady Ivanovitch. She took his hand, she thanked him for
something, and Arkady Ivanovitch gathered that she was referring to her
precious Vasya. Lizanka was, indeed, deeply touched: she had heard that
Arkady Ivanovitch was such a true friend of her betrothed, so loved him,
so watched over him, guiding him at every step with helpful advice, that
she, Lizanka, could hardly help thanking him, could not refrain from
feeling grateful, and hoping that Arkady Ivanovitch might like her, if
only half as well as Vasya. Then she began questioning him as to whether
Vasya was careful of his health, expressed some apprehensions in regard
to his marked impulsiveness of character, and his lack of knowledge of
men and practical life; she said that she would in time watch over him
religiously, that she would take care of and cherish his lot, and
finally, she hoped that Arkady Ivanovitch would not leave them, but
would live with them.

"We three shall live like one," she cried, with extremely naïve
enthusiasm.

But it was time to go. They tried, of course, to keep them, but Vasya
answered point blank that it was impossible. Arkady Ivanovitch said the
same. The reason was, of course, inquired into, and it came out at once
that there was work to be done entrusted to Vasya by Yulian
Mastakovitch, urgent, necessary, dreadful work, which must be handed in
on the morning of the next day but one, and that it was not only
unfinished, but had been completely laid aside. The mamma sighed when
she heard of this, while Lizanka was positively scared, and hurried
Vasya off in alarm. The last kiss lost nothing from this haste; though
brief and hurried it was only the more warm and ardent. At last they
parted and the two friends set off home.

Both began at once confiding to each other their impressions as soon as
they found themselves in the street. And could they help it? Indeed,
Arkady Ivanovitch was in love, desperately in love, with Lizanka. And to
whom could he better confide his feelings than to Vasya, the happy man
himself. And so he did; he was not bashful, but confessed everything at
once to Vasya. Vasya laughed heartily and was immensely delighted, and
even observed that this was all that was needed to make them greater
friends than ever. "You have guessed my feelings, Vasya," said Arkady
Ivanovitch. "Yes, I love her as I love you; she will be my good angel as
well as yours, for the radiance of your happiness will be shed on me,
too, and I can bask in its warmth. She will keep house for me too,
Vasya; my happiness will be in her hands. Let her keep house for me as
she will for you. Yes, friendship for you is friendship for her; you are
not separable for me now, only I shall have two beings like you instead
of one. . . . " Arkady paused in the fullness of his feelings, while Vasya
was shaken to the depths of his being by his friend's words. The fact
is, he had never expected anything of the sort from Arkady. Arkady
Ivanovitch was not very great at talking as a rule, he was not fond of
dreaming, either; now he gave way to the liveliest, freshest,
rainbow-tinted day-dreams. "How I will protect and cherish you both," he
began again. "To begin with, Vasya, I will be godfather to all your
children, every one of them; and secondly, Vasya, we must bestir
ourselves about the future. We must buy furniture, and take a lodging so
that you and she and I can each have a little room to ourselves. Do you
know, Vasya, I'll run about to-morrow and look at the notices, on the
gates! Three . . . no, two rooms, we should not need more. I really
believe, Vasya, I talked nonsense this morning, there will be money
enough; why, as soon as I glanced into her eyes I calculated at once
that there would be enough to live on. It will all be for her. Oh, how
we will work! Now, Vasya, we might venture up to twenty-five roubles for
rent. A lodging is everything, brother. Nice rooms . . . and at once a man
is cheerful, and his dreams are of the brightest hues. And, besides,
Lizanka will keep the purse for both of us: not a farthing will be
wasted. Do you suppose I would go to a restaurant? What do you take me
for? Not on any account. And then we shall get a bonus and reward, for
we shall be zealous in the service--oh! how we shall work, like oxen
toiling in the fields. . . . Only fancy," and Arkady Ivanovitch's voice was
faint with pleasure, "all at once and quite unexpected, twenty-five or
thirty roubles. . . . Whenever there's an extra, there'll be a cap or a
scarf or a pair of little stockings. She must knit me a scarf; look what
a horrid one I've got, the nasty yellow thing, it did me a bad turn
to-day! And you wore a nice one, Vasya, to introduce me while I had my
head in a halter. . . . Though never mind that now. And look here, I
undertake all the silver. I am bound to give you some little
present,--that will be an honour, that will flatter my vanity. . . . My
bonuses won't fail me, surely; you don't suppose they would give them to
Skorohodov? No fear, they won't be landed in that person's pocket. I'll
buy you silver spoons, brother, good knives--not silver knives, but
thoroughly good ones; and a waistcoat, that is a waistcoat for myself. I
shall be best man, of course. Only now, brother, you must keep at it,
you must keep at it. I shall stand over you with a stick, brother,
to-day and to-morrow and all night; I shall worry you to work. Finish,
make haste and finish, brother. And then again to spend the evening, and
then again both of us happy; we will go in for loto. We will spend the
evening there--oh, it's jolly! Oh, the devil! How, vexing it is I can't
help you. I should like to take it and write it all for you. . . . Why is
it our handwriting is not alike? "

"Yes," answered Vasya. "Yes, I must make haste. I think it must be
eleven o'clock; we must make haste. . . . To work! " And saying this, Vasya,
who had been all the time alternately smiling and trying to interrupt
with some enthusiastic rejoinder the flow of his friend's feelings, and
had, in short, been showing the most cordial response, suddenly
subsided, sank into silence, and almost ran along the street. It seemed
as though some burdensome idea had suddenly chilled his feverish head;
he seemed all at once dispirited.

Arkady Ivanovitch felt quite uneasy; he scarcely got an answer to his
hurried questions from Vasya, who confined himself to a word or two,
sometimes an irrelevant exclamation.

"Why, what is the matter with you, Vasya? " he cried at last, hardly able
to keep up with him. "Can you really be so uneasy? "

"Oh, brother, that's enough chatter! " Vasya answered, with vexation.

"Don't be depressed, Vasya--come, come," Arkady interposed. "Why, I have
known you write much more in a shorter time! What's the matter? You've
simply a talent for it!
You can write quickly in an emergency; they are
not going to lithograph your copy. You've plenty of time! . . . The only
thing is that you are excited now, and preoccupied, and the work won't
go so easily. "

Vasya made no reply, or muttered something to himself, and they both ran
home in genuine anxiety.

Vasya sat down to the papers at once. Arkady Ivanovitch was quiet and
silent; he noiselessly undressed and went to bed, keeping his eyes fixed
on Vasya. . . . A sort of panic came over him. . . . "What is the matter with
him? " he thought to himself, looking at Vasya's face that grew whiter
and whiter, at his feverish eyes, at the anxiety that was betrayed in
every movement he made, "why, his hand is shaking . . . what a stupid! Why
did I not advise him to sleep for a couple of hours, till he had slept
off his nervous excitement, any way. " Vasya had just finished a page, he
raised his eyes, glanced casually at Arkady and at once, looking down,
took up his pen again.

"Listen, Vasya," Arkady Ivanovitch began suddenly, "wouldn't it be best
to sleep a little now? Look, you are in a regular fever. "

Vasya glanced at Arkady with vexation, almost with anger, and made no
answer.

"Listen, Vasya, you'll make yourself ill. "

Vasya at once changed his mind. "How would it be to have tea, Arkady? "
he said.

"How so? Why? "

"It will do me good. I am not sleepy, I'm not going to bed! I am going
on writing. But now I should like to rest and have a cup of tea, and the
worst moment will be over. "

"First-rate, brother Vasya, delightful! Just so. I was wanting to
propose it myself. And I can't think why it did not occur to me to do
so. But I say, Mavra won't get up, she won't wake for anything. . . . "

"True. "

"That's no matter, though," cried Arkady Ivanovitch, leaping out of bed.
"I will set the samovar myself. It won't be the first time. . . . "

Arkady Ivanovitch ran to the kitchen and set to work to get the samovar;
Vasya meanwhile went on writing. Arkady Ivanovitch, moreover, dressed
and ran out to the baker's, so that Vasya might have something to
sustain him for the night. A quarter of an hour later the samovar was on
the table. They began drinking tea, but conversation flagged. Vasya
still seemed preoccupied.

"To-morrow," he said at last, as though he had just thought of it, "I
shall have to take my congratulations for the New Year. . . . "

"You need not go at all. "

"Oh yes, brother, I must," said Vasya.

"Why, I will sign the visitors' book for you everywhere. . . . How can you?
You work to-morrow. You must work to-night, till five o'clock in the
morning, as I said, and then get to bed. Or else you will be good for
nothing to-morrow. I'll wake you at eight o'clock, punctually. "

"But will it be all right, your signing for me? " said Vasya, half
assenting.

"Why, what could be better? Everyone does it. "

"I am really afraid. "

"Why, why? "

"It's all right, you know, with other people, but Yulian Mastakovitch
. . . he has been so kind to me, you know, Arkasha, and when he notices
it's not my own signature----"

"Notices! why, what a fellow you are, really, Vasya! How could he
notice? . . . Come, you know I can imitate your signature awfully well, and
make just the same flourish to it, upon my word I can. What nonsense!
Who would notice? "

Vasya, made no reply, but emptied his glass hurriedly. . . . Then he shook
his head doubtfully.

"Vasya, dear boy! Ah, if only we succeed! Vasya, what's the matter with
you, you quite frighten me! Do you know, Vasya, I am not going to bed
now, I am not going to sleep! Show me, have you a great deal left? "

Vasya gave Arkady such a look that his heart sank, and his tongue failed
him.

"Vasya, what is the matter? What are you thinking? Why do you look like
that? "

"Arkady, I really must go to-morrow to wish Yulian Mastakovitch a happy
New Year. "

"Well, go then! " said Arkady, gazing at him open-eyed, in uneasy
expectation. "I say, Vasya, do write faster; I am advising you for your
good, I really am! How often Yulian Mastakovitch himself has said that
what he likes particularly about your writing is its legibility. Why, it
is all that Skoroplehin cares for, that writing should be good and
distinct like a copy, so as afterwards to pocket the paper and take it
home for his children to copy; he can't buy copybooks, the blockhead!
Yulian Mastakovitch is always saying, always insisting: 'Legible,
legible, legible! '. . . What is the matter? Vasya, I really don't know
how to talk to you . . . it quite frightens me . . . you crush me with your
depression. "

"It's all right, it's all right," said Vasya, and he fell back in his
chair as though fainting. Arkady was alarmed.

"Will you have some water? Vasya! Vasya! "

"Don't, don't," said Vasya, pressing his hand. "I am all right, I only
feel sad, I can't tell why. Better talk of something else; let me forget
it. "

"Calm yourself, for goodness' sake, calm yourself, Vasya. You will
finish it all right, on my honour, you will. And even if you don't
finish, what will it matter? You talk as though it were a crime! "

"Arkady," said Vasya, looking at his friend with such meaning that
Arkady was quite frightened, for Vasya had never been so agitated
before. . . . "If I were alone, as I used to be. . . . No! I don't mean that.
I keep wanting to tell you as a friend, to confide in you. . . . But why
worry you, though? . . . You see, Arkady, to some much is given, others do
a little thing as I do. Well, if gratitude, appreciation, is expected of
you . . . and you can't give it? "

"Vasya, I don't understand you in the least. "

"I have never been ungrateful," Vasya went on softly, as though speaking
to himself, "but if I am incapable of expressing all I feel, it seems as
though . . . it seems, Arkady, as though I am really ungrateful, and
that's killing me. "

"What next, what next! As though gratitude meant nothing more than your
finishing that copy in time? Just think what you are saying, Vasya? Is
that the whole expression of gratitude? "

Vasya sank into silence at once, and looked open-eyed at Arkady, as
though his unexpected argument had settled all his doubts. He even
smiled, but the same melancholy expression came back to his face at
once. Arkady, taking this smile as a sign that all his uneasiness was
over, and the look that succeeded it as an indication that he was
determined to do better, was greatly relieved.

"Well, brother Arkasha, you will wake up," said Vasya, "keep an eye on
me; if I fall asleep it will be dreadful. I'll set to work now. . . .
Arkasha? "

"What? "

"Oh, it's nothing, I only . . . I meant. . . . "

Vasya settled himself, and said no more, Arkady got into bed. Neither of
them said one word about their friends, the Artemyevs. Perhaps both of
them felt that they had been a little to blame, and that they ought not
to have gone for their jaunt when they did. Arkady soon fell asleep,
still worried about Vasya. To his own surprise he woke up exactly at
eight o'clock in the morning. Vasya was asleep in his chair with the pen
in his hand, pale and exhausted; the candle had burnt out. Mavra was
busy getting the samovar ready in the kitchen.

"Vasya, Vasya! " Arkady cried in alarm, "when did you fall asleep? "

Vasya opened his eyes and jumped up from his chair.

"Oh! " he cried, "I must have fallen asleep. . . . "

He flew to the papers--everything was right; all were in order; there
was not a blot of ink, nor spot of grease from the candle on them.

"I think I must have fallen asleep about six o'clock," said Vasya. "How
cold it is in the night! Let us have tea, and I will go on again.