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  A common story

  Иван Гончаров

  PREFACE

  It is a disadvantage to Gontcharoff to be introduced for the first time to English readers who are already acquainted with the writings of his more thrilling and vivid successors, Tourgenieff, Dostoieffsky and Tolstoi. In the rapid development of the Russian realistic novel, Gontcharoff takes the second place in point of time. He was the first man to be roused by the example of Gogol, who wrote, shortly before he died in 1852 : "I have pursued life in its reality, not in dreams of the imagination, and I have thus reached Him who is the source of life." So could those later masters whom I have mentioned say, but Gontcharoff, who came a little before them, and was the first to take up the challenge thrown down by Gogol, if he had not penetrated to the sacred essence of things, could at least maintain that he had studied life in its reality. And this is why, although he is no poet, and cannot rend the heart like the young men who came after him, he is deserving of all recognition as an element in modern Russian literature.

  Ivan Alexandrovitch Gontcharoff was born at Simbirsk, on the Volga, on the 18th of June,' 1813. His father, a rich merchant, died when the boy was three years old, and left him to the care of his mother and of his godfather, an aged retired officer of the navy. This old salt regaled the child with endless stories of adventures at sea, and awakened

  in him a longing to sail about the world. At the village school to which he was sent, Ivan leamt French well from the wife of the pope of the parish, who had married a Frenchwoman. In 1825, he went to the Gymnasium in Moscow, where he was a diligent and blameless student. In 1831, he passed on to the University of Moscow, taking philology as his special subject. In 1835, ne went U P ^ rom the maternal house at Simbirsk, very much as Alexandr Fedoritch does in A Common Story^ to St. Petersburg, and received at the Ministry of Finance the post of Translator.

  The earliest literary work undertaken by Gontcharoff, was exclusively in the line of translation. He published several Russian versions of well-known foreign novels. As a man of letters, he was absolutely the child of a romantic interest in the poet Pouschkine. He has recorded the emotion with which he gazed at the poet when he was pointed out to him for the first time in the church of the Nikitsky monastery in Moscow. Several years later, at the shop of the publisher Smirdine, Gontcharoff was presented to Pouschkine, and from this time forth he was in the habit of meeting him frequently, particularly in the studio of Maikoff, the painter. At that time, Pouschkine was the centre of all the hopes and the enthusiasm of the youth of Russia. The news of the assassination of the poet, in 1837, produced a sort of despair among those whose aspirations he had encouraged, and whose thoughts he had led. Gontcharoff has written: " Never shall I forget the news of the death of Pouschkine. I was then a small employ^ in a public department. I had leisure enough to write a little, to translate, to study the poets, and to dabble in aesthetics. Winckelmann was my great hobby, but Pouschkine domi-

  nated everything. His works held the place of honour on the book-shelves of my modest room. Every line he had published had been meditated upon and felt by me. And suddenly they come and tell me that some one had killed him, that he exists no longer! At that moment I was seated at my desk in my office. I groped my way out into the corridor, and then, with my face to the wall, I covered my eyes with my hands and wept bitterly. I wept as a lad weeps who receives a message that his mother is dead. . . . Three days later a portrait of Fouschkine appeared in the shop-windows, bearing these words, ' The fire is extinguished on the altar. 9 It was immediately seized and destroyed by the police." The story recalls that of Tennyson's boyish emotion at the news of the death of Byron.

  To the influence of Fouschkine, romantic and inflammatory, succeeded that of Gogol, with his new naturalistic ideas. The publication of the first part of Dead Sauls, in 1842, was an epoch for Gontcharoff, as for so many others. But he was slow in finding confidence to write. It was not until 1847 that he published, in the columns of a St. Petersburg newspaper, Obyknowenndia istorita, which is here for the first time presented to English readers as A Common Story. The novel enjoyed a very great success, and, in 1848, it was succeeded by a lighter and more comic sketch of bureau life in St. Petersburg, called Ivan Savite Poddja- , brin. In 1852, the Russian Government suggested to Gontcharoff that he should accompany Admiral Pontiatine, in the capacity of private secretary, on a voyage around the world. To see foreign countries had always been the first desire of his heart, and he accepted the offer with enthusiasm. The special mission of the admiral was to proceed to Japan to negotiate a new treaty of commerce.

  The tour, which occupied three years, closed with a land-journey across the steppes and mountains of Siberia.

  The events of this memorable expedition were described by Gontcharoff in two large volumes, The Frigate " Pallada? 1856-57. To recover from the fatigue of his travels, Gon-tcharoff proceeded in 1857 to the baths of Marienbad, and there he wrote, in six weeks, the most famous of all his works, the novel called Oblomoff. It appeared in book-form in 1859. The rest of the novelist's life presented little that is of interest. In 1870, he published a third novel, ^Obryv ("The Abyss"). In 1873, ^ e was made chief director of the general post-office in St. Petersburg. He published a bibliographical and critical study of the radical and free-thinking critic, Belinsky, who died in 1847; his own Souvenirs, in 1879; a story, Mark the Nihilist, in 1886; and other minor contributions to literature. He died, in his seventy-ninth year, on the 28th of September, 1891.

  At the time of the death of Gontcharoff, the distinguished critic, Michel Zagoulai'eff, published a study of his work, from which I extract the following passages:

  " More than forty years ago, replying to the question what was the position of Gontcharoff in Russian literary life, our great critic, Belinsky, with his astonishing prescience of the future, declared, after the publication of Gontcha-rofFs first novel, A Common Story, that the author of that book would never be anything but a ' great artist in words/ on account of the complete absence in him of all inclination to deal enthusiastically with any of the social questions of the day." We all know how hard Gontcharoff strove later on to protest against this verdict in a sort of apologia for his writings, entitled Better Late than Never. After having

  enriched the literature of Russia with three masterpieces, A Common Story, Oblomoff, and The Abyss, the great writer attempted to prove that these three beautiful books possessed more than mere literary merit, and that he too, like Tour-genieff, Dostoieffsky and Count Leo Tolstoi, had the right to be considered a commentator on the social life of his age. This interesting point has been the subject of much debate. There are those who are of opinion that the immortal type of Oblomoff is a synthesis of a certain condition of intelligent humanity as general as those of Don Quixote and of Hamlet. Others hold that in creating the hero of the most perfect of his three great novels, Gontcharoff has done no more than portray his own character, and that even in Russia this type is not so universal as Dobroliouboff supposed when he created the word ' Oblomovism' to characterise the lack of energy supposed to be inherent in our national character. . . .

  " When A Common Story first appeared, we were passing through a period of transition, social as well as literary. The struggle between the new ideas and the ideas imposed on Russian society by the political rSgime which had been in force since 1825, was only beginning. A vague prescience of some change in the near future created among Russians an instinctive demand for something more than a mere platonic profession of beautiful sentiments. When Gontcharoff contrasted with the dreaming and sentimental hero of his first novel the man of action whom he has depicted in Peter Adouev, the public at once perceived the piquancy of the bitter irony of the uncle in face of the nonchalant and effe
minate idealism of Alexandr Adouev. What was not at first perceived was that the sympathies of the author were really all on the side of the latter. That was more

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  than Russian criticism, in those early days, could comprehend. The novel was written with an incomparable maestria of style, its author was proclaimed an ' artist' of the first order, and it was taken for granted that he was ironically indifferent to all that was fermenting in the Russian society of that time.

  " Gontcharoff did not attempt to protest On the contrary, when, several years later, he participated in the diplomatic mission of Admiral Pontiatine to Japan, he brought back from his voyage around the world nothing but picturesque memorials, in which we may vainly seek for the least trace of a serious interest in the somewhat important political work to which he had been called to contribute. His beautiful work, The Frigate * Palladaj is of deep interest in this connection, and we are astonished at the slight notice which has been given to it by the posthumous appreciators of the great writer.

  " It was the novel called Oblomoff which raised the literary reputation of Gontcharoff to its height. Since the prose writings of Pouschkine, the Russian public had never been presented with a work of such technical perfection. The brilliant commentaries of Dobroliouboff, in spite of the paradoxical nature of that critic's explanation of the social range of the character of the hero of this novel, of the widespread presence of Oblomovism amongst us, placed Gontcharoff finally in the rank of those Russian writers who have understood their own age the best.

  " When, many years later, The Abyss appeared, Dobroliouboff had passed away, and the views which he had defended with so much brilliant paradox were beginning to lose ground. This new novel was admired mainly for its literary qualities and no attempt was made to study its social

  aim. Gontcharoff was so much distressed at this, that, in spite of his inveterate hatred of literary polemics, he himself undertook to produce a commentary on his novel, and he published that Better Late than Never, of which we have ^ already spoken.

  " The great writer declared, in this essay, that his three novels had had but one and the same purpose, that of illustrating the struggle between the new spirit which came from the West in consequence of Peter the Great's reforms, and the instinctive resistance of the national Russian character against this stream of foreign influence. In spite of all his explanations, he scarcely made it plain why, after showing himself a resolute partisan of the new ideas in A Common Story and in Oblomoff, he came to place himself quite as firmly, in The Abyss, on the side of the past, as against the present and the future. His position, when he had explained it, remained as enigmatical as it was before.

  " The only way in which this enigma is to be solved, is, we think, by examining the personality of Gontcharoff himself. It has generally been held that of all the authors of the first order who adorned that literary Pleiad, of which ornaments he unquestionably was one of the purest and most splendid—Gontcharoff was also the most objective. He has always been represented as an impossible observer, disdainful even to indifference of the facts and the characters which he has depicted in his works. At the risk of seeming paradoxical, I venture to believe that this is a mistake, and that the basis of the three novels of the illustrious writer is nothing else than the permanent inward struggle between diametrically opposed sides of his own character. The two Adouevs of A Common Story, Oblomoff and Stoltz, Raisky and his old aunt in The Abyss, seem to

  me to be successive incarnations of the two contrasted facets of the soul of the man who created these types.

  " By his temperament, Gontcharoff was all his life the typical representative of the national Russian laisscr-aller against which his cultivated intelligence and his vast and varied knowledge energetically protested. This doubling of the type, so frequent with us Slavs, perpetually weighed down to the ground his great intellect and his beautiful soul. What will render immortal and for ever sympathetic to Russian readers the various works of this incomparable writer, is the constant recurrence in them of the most typical sides of our national character, the complexity of which is the real cause of all the incoherence of social life in Russia during nearly two centuries.

  " When this is definitely understood and established, our critics will waste their time no longer in endeavouring to draw more or less ingenious parallels between Gontcharoff, on the one side, and Tourgenieff, Dostoieffsky and Tolstoi, on the other. The author of Oblomoff will take his place apart, and his works will be studied as a valuable testimony to a condition of mind which explains many of the historical faults which have been made in Russia during the last fifty years."

  This lucid exposition of the place held by Gontcharoff among his contemporaries cannot, I think, fail to be of service to those who make their first acquaintance with him in the pages of A Common Story.

  EDMUND GOSSE.

  A COMMON STORY

  CHAPTER I

  In the village of Grahae one summer day on the estate of Anna Pavlovna, a landowner of moderate means, every one in the house was up by daybreak, from its mistress to the house-dog Barbos. £ But Anna Pavlovna's only son, Alexandr Fedoritch, was still sleeping tlie sound sleep of a Boy of twenty; every/" one else in the house was _bustling and hurrying about. But they alf walked on tlp-iofiL and spoke in whispers, so as not to wake the young master. If any one made the least noise or spoke aloud, Anna Pavlovna would rush out at once like a lioness enraged and punish the indiscreet person with a severe rebuke or an abusive epithet, or, when her anger and her energy were equal to it, with a blow. "T

  In the kitchen three servants were kept busy codEing on a scale fit for a dinner of ten persons, though the whole family consisted of no more than Anna Pavlovna and her son Alexandr Fedoritch. In the coach house they were rubbing and greasing the carriage. AIL were busy and were r-working with all their might 'Barbos^vas the only one^ who was doing nothing, but even^Tie"~tbok a share in the general activity in his own way. When a groom or coachman came near him or a maid ran by, he wagged his tail and sniffed the passing figure anxiously, while his eyes seemed to ask : " Are they ever going to tell me why we are all in such a bustle to-day ? "

  T he bustle was because Anna Pa vlovn a was sending her son to Petersburg to get a post In the Civil Service there, v or, as "she herself expressed it, to see the world and show

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  himself. A fatal day for her ! This was why she was so i

  broken-down and unhappy. Often in her distress she would open her mouth to give some direction, and would suddenly stop in the middle of a word, her voice failed and she turned aside, and wiped away her tears, or let them fall into the trunk which she was herself packing with Sashenka's linen.

  Tears had long been gathering in her heart, they rose into her throat and choked her and were ready to burst out *

  in torrents; but she was saving them up as it were for the leave-taking and did not often waste them drop by drop.

  It was not only Anna Pavlovna who was grieved at the coming separation. Sashenka's valet, Yevsay, was also }

  terribly.distressed. He was to set off with his master to Petersburg, and had to leave the warmest corner in the house, a place on the stove in the room of Agrafena, the prime minister of Anna Pavlovna's household, who was also, a fact of prime importance to "Yevsay, in charge of the keys of the stores.

  Behind the stove there was only room for two chairs and a table, which was set with tea, coffee, and eatables. Yevsay »

  had long had a place behind the stove and in the heart of Agrafena. On the other chair she was sitting herself.

  The relations of A grafena and Yevsay were by now ancient history in the household. They, like every one else in the world, had been the subject of gossip and scandal, t

  and then like every one else they had been dropped. Even their mistress had grown used to seeing them together, and '

  for ten whole years they had been happy. Can many '

  people out of all their lives count up ten years of happines
s ? And now the moment of parting was at hand. Good-bye to the warm corner, good-bye to Agrafena Ivanovna, no more playing cards, and coffee and vodka and liqueurs— good-bye to it all!

  Yevsay sat in silence, sighing deeply.

  Agrafena, with a frown on her face, was bustling about her duties. She showed her sorrow in her own peculiar way. She poured out tea to-day with exasperation, and instead of giving the first cup of strong tea to her mistress as usual, she poured it away, as though she could not bear any one to get the benefit of it, and she took all reproof with stolid indifference*

  She boiled the coffee too long, the cream was burnt, the cups slipped out of her hands. She could not put the tray down on the table without a crash; she could not shut the cupboard or the doors without slamming them. She did not shed tears, but was angry with everything and everybody instead. This, however, was always a prominent characteristic of hers. She was not often contented; things were mostly not to her taste; she used to grumble and complain of everything. But at this moment, so fatal for her, her character showed its full capabilities. More than anything she seemed to be angry with Yevsay.

  " Agrafena Ivanovna !" he said in a sad subdued voice, quite out of keeping with his tall stout figure.

  " Well, why did you sit down there, you booby ?" she asked, just as though he had taken a seat there for the first time. " Get along with you, I want to get out a towel."

  "Ah, Agrafena Ivanovna !" he repeated lazily, sighing and getting up from his chair, and then at once falling back into it when she had taken the towel.

  " He can do nothing but whimper! Here the fellow sticks ! Good Lord, what a nuisance, there's no getting rid of him!"

  A nd she drop ped her spoon with a loud clank into the slop-5asin. " * * " Agrafena !" broke in suddenly from the other room,

  S sk " are ^° u °^ °^ Y9 u L se J??£s_? Q on>t y ou H? ow l ^ at Sashenka "** i s resfingj^ TTave you come to blows, or what is it, at parting with your sweetheart ? "