The Same Old Story Read online

  The Same Old Story

  Ivan Goncharov

  Translated by Stephen Pearl

  Alma Classics Ltd

  Hogarth House

  32-34 Paradise Road

  Richmond

  Surrey TW9 1SE

  United Kingdom

  www.almaclassics.com

  The Same Old Story first published in Russian in 1847

  This translation first published by Alma Classics Ltd in 2015

  Cover design: nathanburtondesign.com

  Translation and Translator’s Ruminations © Stephen Pearl, 2015

  Published with the support of the

  Institute for Literary Translation, Russia.

  Notes © Alma Classics, 2015

  Printed in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

  isbn: 978-1-84749-562-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the express prior consent of the publisher.

  Contents

  The Same Old Story

  part i

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  part ii

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Note on the Text

  Notes

  Translator’s Ruminations

  Acknowledgements

  To Brigitte

  always there to slap on the mortar

  at times when the bricks get dislodged

  – and this bricklayer is at his testiest

  S.P.

  The Same Old Story

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  One summer in the village of Grachi, in the household of Anna Pavlovna Aduyeva, a landowner of modest means, all its members, from the mistress herself down to Barbos, the watchdog, had risen with the dawn.

  The only exception was Alexander Fyodorych, Anna Pavlovna’s son who, as befits a twenty-year-old, was sleeping the sleep of the just. The house was full of hustle and bustle. People were going back and forth, but moving on tiptoe and speaking in whispers for fear of waking the young master. At the slightest sound of a raised voice, or of anyone bumping into anything, Anna Pavlovna, like an enraged lioness, would appear and severely berate the offenders, tell them off in no uncertain terms – and even, on occasion, when sufficiently provoked, would, as far as her strength permitted, box an ear or two. The clatter coming from the kitchen was as noisy as if they were preparing to feed an army, even though there were only two members of the mistress’s family: herself and her son, Alexander.

  In the coach house, the carriage was being cleaned and greased. Everyone was busily at work – except Barbos, who was doing nothing, although even he had his own way of contributing to the general commotion. Whenever one of the servants, a coachman or a maid slipped past him, he would wag his tail and carefully sniff the passer-by, and the very expression in his eyes seemed to be asking: “Will someone please tell me what all this hustle and bustle is about?”

  Well, what it was all about was that Anna Pavlovna was sending her son off to St Petersburg to make a career – or, as she would put it, to see and be seen. What a terrible day it was for her! And that was why she was looking so downcast and unhappy. Often in the midst of the turmoil she would open her mouth to tell someone to do something, stop suddenly in the middle of a word and remain speechless; she would turn her head aside to wipe away a tear, but if she couldn’t catch it in time, she would let it drip onto the very trunk which she happened to be packing. The tears would well up from deep in her heart, where they had long been accumulating, rise to her throat and lie heavy on her chest, ready to burst into a flood any moment: it was as if she was hoarding them all to unload at the moment of parting, and would rarely shed only a single, solitary tear.

  She was not the only one reduced to tears at the prospect of Sashenka’s departure: his valet, Yevsei, was also deeply distressed. He would be accompanying his master to St Petersburg, and would be leaving behind his cosy nook in the house. It was in the room of Agrafena, the first minister of Anna Pavlovna’s household and – what was even more important for Yevsei – her housekeeper and keeper of the keys.

  Behind the bunk bed there was just enough space to squeeze in two chairs and a table, on which tea, coffee and other goodies were prepared. Yevsei had staked a firm claim on both his place behind the stove and in Agrafena’s heart – and it was she who occupied the other chair.

  The Agrafena and Yevsei story was an old one in that house. Like every other subject, their story was on everyone’s lips and set everyone’s tongues wagging, but after a while, inevitably, people lost interest and the tongues stopped wagging. The mistress herself had got used to seeing them together, and they had enjoyed a good ten blissful years. After all, how many people can count as many as ten years of happiness in their whole lives? But finally came the time to say goodbye to all that. Farewell cosy corner, farewell Agrafena, farewell the card games, the vodka, the coffee, the cherry brandy – farewell the lot!

  Yevsei sat in silence, sighing deeply. Agrafena, frowning, busied herself with her housework. She had her own way of expressing her frustration. That day she poured the tea furiously, and instead of serving the first cup of strong tea to her mistress, just splashed it about as if to say “No one’s getting any!” and was impervious to recriminations. Her coffee boiled over, the cream was burnt and cups slipped out of her grasp. She didn’t just put a tray on the table: she banged it down; she didn’t just close a cupboard door: she slammed it shut. She didn’t cry, but just vented her anger on everyone and everything in her path. Of course, this was in any case one of her dominant characteristics. She was never content; everything rubbed her the wrong way; she was constantly grumbling and complaining. But that moment of fateful adversity revealed this side of her at its most melodramatic. Worse still, she even took it out on Yevsei himself.

  “Agrafena Ivanovna!” he said plaintively, but gently, in a tone not quite in keeping with his long and solid frame.

  “What do you think you’re doing, you dunderhead, lounging around here?” she retorted, as if it were the very first time he had ever sat there. “Out of my way, I have to get a towel.”

  “Come on, Agrafena Ivanovna!” he repeated lazily, sighing and rising from his chair, only to sit down again the moment she came back with the towel.

  “All he can do is snivel! That’s the rascal I have to put up with! What a pain! Good God! – and he never leaves me alone!” she said, as she dropped a spoon with a clatter into the washing-up basin.

  Suddenly, there was a shout from the next room: “Agrafena! How could you? You must be out of your mind; don’t you know that Sashenka is sleeping? Starting a fight with your darling by way of a goodbye?”

  “That’s right, so she wants me to sit here like a corpse without showing my feelings because you’re leaving!” Agrafena hissed under her breath, drying a cup with both hands as if she was trying to break it in pieces.

  “Goodbye, goodbye,” said Yevsei, sighing deeply. “It’s our last day, Agrafena Ivanovna!”

  “And good riddance! I
want you to get the hell out of here; at least there’ll be more room for me. Yes, clear out: nowhere to move with your legs in the way all the time!” He reached to touch her shoulder and got another earful in return. He heaved another sigh, but stayed put anyway. He knew that Agrafena didn’t want him to move, and he was not at all put out.

  “I wonder who’s going to be sitting in my seat,” he said with a sigh.

  “The Devil,” she snapped.

  “I hope to God it won’t be Proshka – and who’s going to play the card game with you?”

  “So what if it is Proshka – what’s so wrong with that?” she retorted venomously.

  Yevsei got up.

  “Not with Proshka! God no, don’t play with him!” Yevsei was clearly upset and almost menacing.

  “And who’s going to stop me? You, with your ugly mug?”

  “My dear Agrafena Ivanovna,” he began cajolingly, putting his arms around her waist – that is, if there had been the slightest sign of a waist.

  His attempt was met with an elbow in the chest.

  “My dear Agrafena Ivanovna,” he repeated, “do you think he’s going to love you like I do? He’s a fly-by-night; he’s after any woman who happens to pass by. Not me, oh no, I’ll stick to you like glue. If it wasn’t for the master’s orders – well… you’d see!” As he spoke he grunted and waved his arm. As for Agrafena, her distress was too much for her, and she burst into tears.

  “And you’re really going to leave me, damn you?” she said in tears. “How can you come up with such nonsense, you halfwit?! Me, team up with Proshka? You know as well as I do that you can never get any sense out of him, and he can’t keep his hands to himself – that’s all he knows.”

  “You mean he’s already been after you? What a bastard! You only have to say the word, and I’d soon show him…”

  “Just let him try, he’d soon get what’s coming to him! It’s not as if there aren’t other women in the house – I’m not the only one. Me team up with him! The very idea! I can’t even stand being near him, he has manners like a pig. Before you know it, he’s managed to hit someone, or snatch something from the master’s table right under your nose.”

  “Look, you never know what may happen when the Devil’s at work, so just in case, why not get Grishka to sit here? He’s a harmless lad, hard-working and respectful.”

  Agrafena jumped on him: “Another one of your great ideas! Dumping any Tom, Dick or Harry on me; what do you take me for? Get out of here! It must have been the Devil himself who put me up to teaming up with a hobgoblin like you for my sins – and for that I’ll never forgive myself… what an idea!”

  “May God reward you for your virtue! That’ll be a weight off my mind!” Yevsei exclaimed.

  “So, now you’re relieved,” she screamed again, like an animal in pain. “You must be really happy – I hope you enjoy it!” Her lips were white with anger. They both fell silent.

  “Agrafena Ivanovna,” Yevsei began timidly, after a pause.

  “Now what?”

  “Well, I forgot; I haven’t had a bite to eat the whole morning.”

  “Oh, so that’s it!”

  “Well, I was too upset.”

  From behind a loaf of sugar on the lowest shelf, she produced a glass of vodka and two enormous hunks of bread with some ham which she had carefully prepared for him well beforehand. She shoved it all at him in a manner you wouldn’t even shove it to a dog, and a piece fell on the floor.

  “There, now choke on it. I hope to God you… quietly! Everyone in the house can hear the noise you’re making with your mouth.”

  She turned her back on him as if she hated him, and he slowly began to eat, watching Agrafena warily and covering his mouth with the other hand.

  Meanwhile a coach had appeared at the gate with three horses harnessed to it. A yoke had been thrown over the neck of the shaft horse. The little bell fastened to the saddle rang with a muffled and constricted sound like a drunk who had been bound and thrown into the guardhouse. The coachman tethered the horses under the awning of the barn, took off his cap, produced from it a dirty towel and mopped his brow. Anna Pavlovna saw him through the window and her face went pale. She went weak at the knees and her hands dropped, although it was a sight she had been expecting all along. She recovered her composure and called Agrafena.

  “Go and see if Sashenka is sleeping, but on tiptoe and without making a sound,” she said. “My darling may have a long sleep, and it’s the last day, so I’ll hardly have a chance to look at him. No, wait! If I let you go, you’ll just blunder in like a cow! I’d better go myself.”

  She went.

  “Yes, you go, oh no, you’re no cow!” Agrafena grumbled to herself on her way back to her room. “Some cow! You’d be lucky to have more cows like me!”

  On her way, Anna Pavlovna saw Alexander Fyodorych coming towards her. He was a fair-haired young man, in the flower of his youth, health and strength. He bade his mother a cheerful “Good morning”, but, suddenly catching sight of the trunks and packages, he was taken aback and moved silently to the window and started drawing on it with his finger. A minute later, he was back talking to his mother, quite untroubled, and even happily inspecting the preparations for the journey.

  “Dear boy, you seem to have overslept – your face is even a little swollen; come, let me dab some rose water on your eyes and cheeks.”

  “No, Mummy, please don’t.”

  “What do you want for breakfast? Tea first or coffee? I’ve ordered chopped meat with sour cream for you.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Mummy.”

  Anna Pavlovna continued packing his linen, but then stopped and gave her son a sorrowful look.

  “Sasha!” she said after a pause.

  “What is it, Mummy?”

  She hesitated before speaking, as if she were apprehensive.

  “Where are you going, my dear, and why?” she asked timidly.

  “Where to? What do you mean, Mummy? To St Petersburg, and then… and then, well, to…”

  “Listen, Sasha,” she said nervously, putting her hand on his shoulder, clearly intending to make one last attempt, “there’s still time; think it over, don’t go!”

  “Don’t go! How do you mean, ‘don’t go’? I mean, you’ve just packed my linen and all,” he said, at a loss for words.

  “The linen is packed? Well, watch this: look, now it’s unpacked.” In a trice she had emptied the trunk.

  “What are you doing, Mummy? I was all packed and ready to go – and now this. What will people say?”

  He was downcast.

  “It’s not for my sake that I want to stop you going, but rather for your own sake. Why go there? To find happiness? Is your life here so bad? Doesn’t your mother spend her days finding ways of indulging your slightest whim? Of course, at your age, a mother’s attentions alone are not enough to make you happy – and I don’t expect them to. Just look around you: you’re the centre of attention. And what about Sonyushka, Maria Vasilyevna’s daughter? There – you’re blushing! For three nights she hasn’t slept, pray God her health doesn’t suffer! Look how she loves you, my darling.”

  “Come on, Mummy, what are you talking about, she’s…”

  “Don’t deny it, you think I don’t… see. And let’s not forget, she’s taken your handkerchiefs to hem. ‘I won’t let anyone but me do them,’ she says, ‘and I’ll sew on the name tags.’ So you see, what more could you want? Stay here!”

  He listened in silence, his head lowered, and playing with the tassel of his dressing gown.

  “What will you find in St Petersburg?” she went on. “You think your life there will be the same as it is here? God only knows what things you will see, and what troubles you’ll have to contend with – cold, hunger, penury, the lot. Bad people are everywhere, but you won’t find good ones easily. When it comes to your st
anding, it’s the same everywhere, whether in the country or in the capital. Unless you see life in St Petersburg, it will seem to you, living here, that you’re the world’s most important person; and it’s the same in all respects, my dear! You’re well educated, smart and good. I’m an old lady: all I have left is you to gladden my eyes. God willing, you’ll get married, maybe have children, and I could look after them – your life would be free of trouble, and free of cares, and you could live it out peacefully and quietly, envying no one; but there, what if things don’t turn out well? Then you might remember my words… stay, Sashenka, please!”

  He coughed and gave a sigh, but didn’t say a word.

  “Just take a look outside!” she said, opening the door to the balcony. “Won’t you be sorry to leave this corner of the world? A whiff of fresh air blew into the room from the balcony. From the house, a wood of linden, dog rose, bird cherry and lilac spread as far as the eye could see. Between the trees, flowers of all colours could be glimpsed, paths ran in all directions; beyond, a lake quietly lapped its shores, bathed on one side by the golden rays of the morning sun, its surface as smooth as a mirror; on the other side, it was a deep blue, like the sky reflected in it, the surface barely ruffled. Fields sown with grain of many colours, stretching in a semicircle around the dark wood, rippled in the breeze.

  Anna Pavlovna, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, pointed out these sights in turn to her son.

  “Just look,” she said, “at the beauty with which God has clothed our fields! Over there you have fields of rye from which we will reap a harvest of as much as 4,000 bushels alone; over there you have wheat and buckwheat; only this year it doesn’t look as if the buckwheat will be as good as last year’s crop. And look at the wood: see how big it’s grown! Just think, how great is God’s wisdom! The firewood from our property will bring in at least a thousand. And then there’s the game as well! And it’s all yours, my son – I’m just your bailiff. Look at the lake; what a delight – truly divine! The lake is positively teeming with fish like ruff, perch and carp, enough to feed us all, including the servants; the only fish we need to buy is sturgeon. Over there, your cattle and horses are grazing. Here you alone are the master, but there, maybe everyone will be bossing you around. And here you are, wanting to run away from this heaven on earth to somewhere or other where, God forbid, you may end up floundering in some maelstrom… Stay here!”