THE COMPLETE NOVELLAS & SHORT STORIES OF FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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.

      “Tomorrow,” 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-rnorrow. You must work tonight, till five o’clock in the morning, as I said, and then get to bed. Or else you will be good for nothing tomorrow. 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 tomorrow 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 bo 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