No More Learning

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. I made my pen go faster! I could not have sat at it any
longer; wake me at eight o'clock. "

Without finishing his sentence, he dropped asleep and slept like the
dead.
"Mavra," said Arkady Ivanovitch to Mavra, who came in with the tea, "he
asked to be waked in an hour. Don't wake him on any account! Let him
sleep ten hours, if he can. Do you understand? "

"I understand, sir. "

"Don't get the dinner, don't bring in the wood, don't make a noise or it
will be the worse for you. If he asks for me, tell him I have gone to
the office--do you understand? "

"I understand, bless you, sir; let him sleep and welcome! I am glad my
gentlemen should sleep well, and I take good care of their things. And
about that cup that was broken, and you blamed me, your honour, it
wasn't me, it was poor pussy broke it, I ought to have kept an eye on
her. 'S-sh, you confounded thing,' I said. "

"Hush, be quiet, be quiet! "

Arkady Ivanovitch followed Mavra out into the kitchen, asked for the key
and locked her up there. Then he went to the office. On the way he
considered how he could present himself before Yulian Mastakovitch, and
whether it would be appropriate and not impertinent. He went into the
office timidly, and timidly inquired whether His Excellency were there;
receiving the answer that he was not and would not be, Arkady Ivanovitch
instantly thought of going to his flat, but reflected very prudently
that if Yulian Mastakovitch had not come to the office he would
certainly be busy at home. He remained. The hours seemed to him endless.
Indirectly he inquired about the work entrusted to Shumkov, but no one
knew anything about this. All that was known was that Yulian
Mastakovitch did employ him on special jobs, but what they were--no one
could say. At last it struck three o'clock, and Arkady Ivanovitch rushed
out, eager to get home. In the vestibule he was met by a clerk, who told
him that Vassily Petrovitch Shumkov had come about one o'clock and
asked, the clerk added, "whether you were here, and whether Yulian
Mastakovitch had been here. " Hearing this Arkady Ivanovitch took a
sledge and hastened home beside himself with alarm.

Shumkov was at home. He was walking about the room in violent
excitement. Glancing at Arkady Ivanovitch, he immediately controlled
himself, reflected, and hastened to conceal his emotion. He sat down to
his papers without a word. He seemed to avoid his friend's questions,
seemed to be bothered by them, to be pondering to himself on some plan,
and deciding to conceal his decision, because he could not reckon
further on his friend's affection. This struck Arkady, and his heart
ached with a poignant and oppressive pain. He sat on the bed and began
turning over the leaves of some book, the only one he had in his
possession, keeping his eye on poor Vasya. But Vasya remained
obstinately silent, writing, and not raising his head. So passed several
hours, and Arkady's misery reached an extreme point. At last, at eleven
o'clock, Vasya lifted his head and looked with a fixed, vacant stare at
Arkady. Arkady waited. Two or three minutes passed; Vasya did not speak.

"Vasya! " cried Arkady.

Vasya made no answer.

"Vasya! " he repeated, jumping up from the bed, "Vasya, what is the
matter with you? What is it? " he cried, running up to him.

Vasya raised his eyes and again looked at him with the same vacant,
fixed stare.

"He's in a trance! " thought Arkady, trembling all over with fear. He
seized a bottle of water, raised Vasya, poured some water on his head,
moistened his temples, rubbed his hands in his own--and Vasya came to
himself. "Vasya, Vasya! " cried Arkady, unable to restrain his tears.
"Vasya, save yourself, rouse yourself, rouse yourself! . . . " He could say
no more, but held him tight in his arms. A look as of some oppressive
sensation passed over Vasya's face; he rubbed his forehead and clutched
at his head, as though he were afraid it would burst.

"I don't know what is the matter with me," he added, at last. "I feel
torn to pieces. Come, it's all right, it's all right! Give over, Arkady;
don't grieve," he repeated, looking at him with sad, exhausted eyes.
"Why be so anxious? Come! "

"You, you comforting me! " cried Arkady, whose heart was torn. "Vasya,"
he said at last, "lie down and have a little nap, won't you? Don't wear
yourself out for nothing! You'll set to work better afterwards. "

"Yes, yes," said Vasya, "by all means, I'll lie down, very good. Yes!
you see I meant to finish, but now I've changed my mind, yes. . . . "

And Arkady led him to the bed.

"Listen, Vasya," he said firmly, "we must settle this matter finally.
Tell me what were you thinking about? "

"Oh! " said Vasya, with a flourish of his weak hand turning over on the
other side.

"Come, Vasya, come, make up your mind. I don't want to hurt you. I can't
be silent any longer. You won't sleep till you've made up your mind, I
know. "

"As you like, as you like," Vasya repeated enigmatically.

"He will give in," thought Arkady Ivanovitch.

"Attend to me, Vasya," he said, "remember what I say, and I will save
you to-morrow; to-morrow I will decide your fate! What am I saying, your
fate? You have so frightened me, Vasya, that I am using your own words.
Fate, indeed! It's simply nonsense, rubbish! You don't want to lose
Yulian Mastakovitch's favour--affection, if you like. No! And you won't
lose it, you will see. I----"

Arkady Ivanovitch would have said more, but Vasya interrupted him. He
sat up in bed, put both arms round Arkady Ivanovitch's neck and kissed
him.

"Enough," he said in a weak voice, "enough! Say no more about that! "

And again he turned his face to the wall.

"My goodness! " thought Arkady, "my goodness! What is the matter with
him? He is utterly lost. What has he in his mind! He will be his own
undoing. "

Arkady looked at him in despair.

"If he were to fall ill," thought Arkady, "perhaps it would be better.
His trouble would pass off with illness, and that might be the best way
of settling the whole business. But what nonsense I am talking. Oh, my
God! "

Meanwhile Vasya seemed to be asleep. Arkady Ivanovitch was relieved. "A
good sign," he thought. He made up his mind to sit beside him all night.
But Vasya was restless; he kept twitching and tossing about on the bed,
and opening his eyes for an instant. At last exhaustion got the upper
hand, he slept like the dead. It was about two o'clock in the morning,
Arkady Ivanovitch began to doze in the chair with his elbow on the
table!

He had a strange and agitated dream. He kept fancying that he was not
asleep, and that Vasya was still lying on the bed. But strange to say,
he fancied that Vasya was pretending, that he was deceiving him, that he
was getting up, stealthily watching him out of the corner of his eye,
and was stealing up to the writing table. Arkady felt a scalding pain at
his heart; he felt vexed and sad and oppressed to see Vasya not trusting
him, hiding and concealing himself from him. He tried to catch hold of
him, to call out, to carry him to the bed. Then Vasya kept shrieking in
his arms, and he laid on the bed a lifeless corpse. He opened his eyes
and woke up; Vasya was sitting before him at the table, writing.

Hardly able to believe his senses, Arkady glanced at the bed; Vasya was
not there. Arkady jumped up in a panic, still under the influence of his
dream. Vasya did not stir; he went on writing. All at once Arkady
noticed with horror that Vasya was moving a dry pen over the paper, was
turning over perfectly blank pages, and hurrying, hurrying to fill up
the paper as though he were doing his work in a most thorough and
efficient way. "No, this is not a trance," thought Arkady Ivanovitch,
and he trembled all over.

"Vasya, Vasya, speak to me," he cried, clutching him by the shoulder.
But Vasya did not speak; he went on as before, scribbling with a dry pen
over the paper.

"At last I have made the pen go faster," he said, without looking up at
Arkady.

Arkady seized his hand and snatched away the pen.

A moan broke from Vasya. He dropped his hand and raised his eyes to
Arkady; then with an air of misery and exhaustion he passed his hand
over his forehead as though he wanted to shake off some leaden weight
that was pressing upon his whole being, and slowly, as though lost in
thought, he let his head sink on his breast.

"Vasya, Vasya! " cried Arkady in despair. "Vasya! "

A minute later Vasya looked at him, tears stood in his large blue eyes,
and his pale, mild face wore a look of infinite suffering. He whispered
something.

"What, what is it? " cried Arkady, bending down to him.

"What for, why are they doing it to me? " whispered Vasya. "What for?
What have I done? "

"Vasya, what is it? What are you afraid of? What is it? " cried Arkady,
wringing his hands in despair.

"Why are they sending me for a soldier? " said Vasya, looking his friend
straight in the face. "Why is it? What have I done? "

Arkady's hair stood on end with horror; he refused to believe his ears.
He stood over him, half dead.

A minute later he pulled himself together. "It's nothing, it's only for
the minute," he said to himself, with pale face and blue, quivering
lips, and he hastened to put on his outdoor things. He meant to run
straight for a doctor. All at once Vasya called to him. Arkady rushed to
him and clasped him in his arms like a mother whose child is being torn
from her.

"Arkady, Arkady, don't tell any one! Don't tell any one, do you hear? It
is my trouble, I must bear it alone. "

"What is it--what is it? Rouse yourself, Vasya, rouse yourself! "

Vasya sighed, and slow tears trickled down his cheeks.

"Why kill her? How is she to blame? " he muttered in an agonized,
heartrending voice. "The sin is mine, the sin is mine! "

He was silent for a moment.

"Farewell, my love! Farewell, my love! " he whispered, shaking his
luckless head. Arkady started, pulled himself together and would have
rushed for the doctor. "Let us go, it is time," cried Vasya, carried
away by Arkady's last movement. "Let us go, brother, let us go; I am
ready. You lead the way. " He paused and looked at Arkady with a downcast
and mistrustful face.

"Vasya, for goodness' sake, don't follow me! Wait for me here. I will
come back to you directly, directly," said Arkady Ivanovitch, losing his
head and snatching up his cap to run for a doctor. Vasya sat down at
once, he was quiet and docile; but there was a gleam of some desperate
resolution in his eye. Arkady turned back, snatched up from the table an
open penknife, looked at the poor fellow for the last time, and ran out
of the flat.

It was eight o'clock. It had been broad daylight for some time in the
room.

He found no one. He was running about for a full hour. All the doctors
whose addresses he had got from the house porter when he inquired of the
latter whether there were no doctor living in the building, had gone
out, either to their work or on their private affairs. There was one who
saw patients. This one questioned at length and in detail the servant
who announced that Nefedevitch had called, asking him who it was, from
whom he came, what was the matter, and concluded by saying that he could
not go, that he had a great deal to do, and that patients of that kind
ought to be taken to a hospital.

Then Arkady, exhausted, agitated, and utterly taken aback by this turn
of affairs, cursed all the doctors on earth, and rushed home in the
utmost alarm about Vasya. He ran into the flat. Mavra, as though there
were nothing the matter, went on scrubbing the floor, breaking up wood
and preparing to light the stove. He went into the room; there was no
trace of Vasya, he had gone out.

"Which way? Where? Where will the poor fellow be off to? " thought
Arkady, frozen with terror. He began questioning Mavra. She knew
nothing, had neither seen nor heard him go out, God bless him!
Nefedevitch rushed off to the Artemyevs'.

It occurred to him for some reason that he must be there.

It was ten o'clock by the time he arrived.