An Ordinary Story by Ivan Goncharov

Author:Ivan Goncharov [Goncharov, Ivan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781468310764
Publisher: Ardis Publishers
Published: 2015-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

III

Wednesday came round. In Yuliya Pavlovna’s drawing room some twelve or fifteen guests assembled. Four young ladies, two foreigners with beards, the hostess’ friends from abroad and one officer formed a small circle.

An old man sat apart from them in an armchair, a retired army man, apparently, with two tufts of gray hair under his nose and numerous ribbons in his buttonhole. He was discussing the forthcoming land leases with an elderly man.

In another room an old lady and two men were playing cards. A very young lady sat at the piano while another was chatting there with a student.

The Aduyevs arrived. Not many people could enter a room with such ease and dignity as Pyotr Ivanych. Alexander followed him with a kind of reluctance.

What a difference between them: one a whole head taller, well-built, robust, a man of a strong healthy nature with self-assurance in his eyes and manners. But no one could guess Pyotr Ivanych’s thoughts or character either from a single glance or movement or word–everything within him was so concealed by his manners and the art of self-control. His gestures and his glances both seemed calculated. His pale, calm expression showed that the slightest outburst of passion in this man came under the despotic rule of his mind, that his heart beat or didn’t beat by dictate of his head.

On the other hand, everything in Alexander pointed to a weak and gentle constitution, that is, the changeable expression of his face, and a kind of laziness or slowness and unevenness of movement and the cloudy glance which would at once show what feeling troubled his heart or what thought flickered in his head. He was of medium height, but thin and pale–not by nature like Pyotr Ivanych, but as a result of his constant emotional agitation. The hair on his head and cheeks had not grown thick like his uncle’s, but drooped down over his temples and the back of his neck in long, thin, but unusually soft, silky and light locks with a beautiful wave.

The uncle introduced his nephew. “But isn’t my friend Surkov here?” Pyotr Ivanych asked, looking about with surprise. “He’s forgotten you.”

“Oh, no! I’m very grateful to him,” the hostess answered. “He comes to call on me. You know, except for friends of my late husband, I see almost no one.”

“But where is he?”

“He’ll be here shortly. Imagine, he gave his word to get me and my cousin without fail a box for tomorrow at the theater when, they say, none is to be had… He went for them just now.”

“And he’ll get them. I’ll guarantee he will; he’s a genius at that. He always gets them for me when neither friends nor influence helps. Where he gets them and for how much money–that’s his secret.”

Surkov, indeed, arrived. His dress was in the latest style, but every pleat and every detail sharply expressed his ambition to be fashionable, to surpass all dandys, and even fashion itself. If, for example, open frockcoats were in style, then his frockcoat was opened up to the point of resembling a bird’s spread wings.

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