White nights, and other stories
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...."
"Do you feel better?"
"Yes, yes, I'm all right, I'm all right now."
"A happy New Year to you, brother Vasya."
"And to you too, brother, the same to you, dear boy."
They embraced each other. Vasya's chin was quivering and his eyes were
moist. Arkady Ivanovitch was silent, he felt sad. They drank their tea
hastily.
"Arkady, I've made up my mind, I am going myself to Yulian
Mastakovitch."
"Why, he wouldn't notice----"
"But my conscience feels ill at ease, brother."
"But you know it's for his sake you are sitting here; it's for his sake
you are wearing yourself out."
"Enough!"
"Do you know what, brother, I'll go round and see...."
"Whom?" asked Vasya.
"The Artemyevs. I'll take them your good wishes for the New Year as well
as mine."
"My dear fellow! Well, I'll stay here; and I see it's a good idea of
yours; I shall be working here, I shan't waste my time. Wait one minute,
I'll write a note."
"Yes, do brother, do, there's plenty of time. I've still to wash and
shave and to brush my best coat. Well, Vasya, we are going to be
contented and happy. Embrace me, Vasya."
"Ah, if only we may, brother...."
"Does Mr. Shumkov live here?" they heard a child's voice on the stairs.
"Yes, my dear, yes," said Mavra, showing the visitor in.
"What's that? What is it?" cried Vasya, leaping up from the table and
rushing to the entry, "Petinka, you?"
"Good morning, I have the honour to wish you a happy New Year, Vassily
Petrovitch," said a pretty boy of ten years old with curly black hair.
"Sister sends you her love, and so does Mamma, and Sister told me to
give you a kiss for her."
Vasya caught the messenger up in the air and printed a long,
enthusiastic kiss on his lips, which were very much like Lizanka's.
"Kiss him, Arkady," he said handing Petya to him, and without touching
the ground the boy was transferred to Arkady Ivanovitch's powerful and
eager arms.
"Will you have some breakfast, dear?"
"Thank-you, very much. We have had it already, we got up early to-day,
the others have gone to church. Sister was two hours curling my hair,
and pomading it, washing me and mending my trousers, for I tore them
yesterday, playing with Sashka in the street, we were snowballing."
"Well, well, well!"
"So she dressed me up to come and see you, and then pomaded my head and
then gave me a regular kissing. She said: 'Go to Vasya, wish him a happy
New Year, and ask whether they are happy, whether they had a good night,
and ...' to ask something else,--oh yes! whether you had finished the
work you spoke of yesterday ... when you were there. Oh, I've got it all
written down," said the boy, reading from a slip of paper which he took
out of his pocket. "Yes, they were uneasy."
"It will be finished! It will be! Tell her that it will be. I shall
finish it, on my word of honour!"
"And something else.... Oh yes, I forgot. Sister sent a little note and
a present, and I was forgetting it!..."
"My goodness! Oh, you little darling! Where is it? where is it? That's
it, oh! Look, brother, see what she writes. The dar--ling, the precious!
You know I saw there yesterday a paper-case for me; it's not finished,
so she says, 'I am sending you a lock of my hair, and the other will
come later.' Look, brother, look!"