No More Learning

. . . "

"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. 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.