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The diary of a superfluous man, and other stories

by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev · English · Gutenberg #9615 · 386,761 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The diary of a superfluous man, and other stories

Author: Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Translator: Constance Garnett


        
Release date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9615]
                Most recently updated: June 16, 2015

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9615

Credits: Produced by Keren Vergon, Lazar Liveanu and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN, AND OTHER STORIES ***




Produced by Keren Vergon, Lazar Liveanu and PG Distributed Proofreaders








THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN

AND OTHER STORIES

by

Ivan Turgenev



_Translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett_


1899



CONTENTS


THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN

A TOUR IN THE FOREST

YAKOV PASINKOV

ANDREI KOLOSOV

A CORRESPONDENCE



THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN


VILLAGE OF SHEEP'S SPRINGS, _March_ 20, 18--.

The doctor has just left me. At last I have got at something definite!
For all his cunning, he had to speak out at last. Yes, I am soon, very
soon, to die. The frozen rivers will break up, and with the last snow I
shall, most likely, swim away ... whither? God knows! To the ocean too.
Well, well, since one must die, one may as well die in the spring. But
isn't it absurd to begin a diary a fortnight, perhaps, before death?
What does it matter? And by how much are fourteen days less than
fourteen years, fourteen centuries? Beside eternity, they say, all is
nothingness--yes, but in that case eternity, too, is nothing. I see I
am letting myself drop into metaphysics; that's a bad sign--am I not
rather faint-hearted, perchance? I had better begin a description of
some sort. It's damp and windy out of doors.

I'm forbidden to go out. What can I write about, then? No decent man
talks of his maladies; to write a novel is not in my line; reflections
on elevated topics are beyond me; descriptions of the life going on
around me could not even interest me; while I am weary of doing
nothing, and too lazy to read. Ah, I have it, I will write the story of
all my life for myself. A first-rate idea! Just before death it is a
suitable thing to do, and can be of no harm to any one. I will begin.

I was born thirty years ago, the son of fairly well-to-do landowners.
My father had a passion for gambling; my mother was a woman of
character ... a very virtuous woman. Only, I have known no woman whose
moral excellence was less productive of happiness. She was crushed
beneath the weight of her own virtues, and was a source of misery to
every one, from herself upwards. In all the fifty years of her life,
she never once took rest, or sat with her hands in her lap; she was for
ever fussing and bustling about like an ant, and to absolutely no good
purpose, which cannot be said of the ant. The worm of restlessness
fretted her night and day. Only once I saw her perfectly tranquil, and
that was the day after her death, in her coffin. Looking at her, it
positively seemed to me that her face wore an expression of subdued
amazement; with the half-open lips, the sunken cheeks, and
meekly-staring eyes, it seemed expressing, all over, the words, 'How
good to be at rest!' Yes, it is good, good to be rid, at last, of the
wearing sense of life, of the persistent, restless consciousness of
existence! But that's neither here nor there.

I was brought up badly and not happily. My father and mother both loved
me; but that made things no better for me. My father was not, even in
his own house, of the slightest authority or consequence, being a man
openly abandoned to a shameful and ruinous vice; he was conscious of
his degradation, and not having the strength of will to give up his
darling passion, he tried at least, by his invariably amiable and
humble demeanour and his unswerving submissiveness, to win the
condescending consideration of his exemplary wife. My mother certainly
did bear her trial with the superb and majestic long-suffering of
virtue, in which there is so much of egoistic pride. She never
reproached my father for anything, gave him her last penny, and paid
his debts without a word. He exalted her as a paragon to her face and
behind her back, but did not like to be at home, and caressed me by
stealth, as though he were afraid of contaminating me by his presence.
But at such times his distorted features were full of such kindness,
the nervous grin on his lips was replaced by such a touching smile, and
his brown eyes, encircled by fine wrinkles, shone with such love, that
I could not help pressing my cheek to his, which was wet and warm with
tears. I wiped away those tears with my handkerchief, and they flowed
again without effort, like water from a brimming glass. I fell to
crying, too, and he comforted me, stroking my back and kissing me all
over my face with his quivering lips. Even now, more than twenty years
after his death, when I think of my poor father, dumb sobs rise into my
throat, and my heart beats as hotly and bitterly and aches with as
poignant a pity as if it had long to go on beating, as if there were
anything to be sorry for!

My mother's behaviour to me, on the contrary, was always the same,
kind, but cold. In children's books one often comes across such
mothers, sermonising and just. She loved me, but I did not love her.
Yes! I fought shy of my virtuous mother, and passionately loved my
vicious father.

But enough for to-day. It's a beginning, and as for the end, whatever
it may be, I needn't trouble my head about it. That's for my illness to
see to.


_March_ 21.

To-day it is marvellous weather. Warm, bright; the sunshine frolicking
gaily on the melting snow; everything shining, steaming, dripping; the
sparrows chattering like mad things about the drenched, dark hedges.

Sweetly and terribly, too, the moist air frets my sick chest. Spring,
spring is coming! I sit at the window and look across the river into
the open country. O nature! nature! I love thee so, but I came forth
from thy womb good for nothing--not fit even for life. There goes a
cock-sparrow, hopping along with outspread wings; he chirrups, and
every note, every ruffled feather on his little body, is breathing with
health and strength....

What follows from that? Nothing. He is well and has a right to chirrup
and ruffle his wings; but I am ill and must die--that's all. It's not
worth while to say more about it. And tearful invocations to nature are
mortally absurd. Let us get back to my story.

I was brought up, as I have said, very badly and not happily. I had no
brothers or sisters. I was educated at home. And, indeed, what would my
mother have had to occupy her, if I had been sent to a boarding-school
or a government college? That's what children are for--that their
parents may not be bored. We lived for the most part in the country,
and sometimes went to Moscow. I had tutors and teachers, as a matter of
course; one, in particular, has remained in my memory, a dried-up,
tearful German, Rickmann, an exceptionally mournful creature, cruelly
maltreated by destiny, and fruitlessly consumed by an intense pining
for his far-off fatherland. Sometimes, near the stove, in the fearful
stuffiness of the close ante-room, full of the sour smell of stale
kvas, my unshaved man-nurse, Vassily, nicknamed Goose, would sit,
playing cards with the coachman, Potap, in a new sheepskin, white as
foam, and superb tarred boots, while in the next room Rickmann would
sing, behind the partition--

    Herz, mein Herz, warum so traurig?
    Was bekümmert dich so sehr?
    'Sist ja schön im fremden Lande--
    Herz, mein Herz--was willst du mehr?'

After my father's death we moved to Moscow for good. I was twelve years
old. My father died in the night from a stroke. I shall never forget
that night. I was sleeping soundly, as children generally do; but I
remember, even in my sleep, I was aware of a heavy gasping noise at
regular intervals. Suddenly I felt some one taking hold of my shoulder
and poking me. I opened my eyes and saw my nurse. 'What is it?' 'Come
along, come along, Alexey Mihalitch is dying.' ... I was out of bed and
away like a mad thing into his bedroom. I looked: my father was lying
with his head thrown back, all red, and gasping fearfully. The servants
were crowding round the door with terrified faces; in the hall some one
was asking in a thick voice: 'Have they sent for the doctor?' In the
yard outside, a horse was being led from the stable, the gates were
creaking, a tallow candle was burning in the room on the floor, my
mother was there, terribly upset, but not oblivious of the proprieties,
nor of her own dignity. I flung myself on my father's bosom, and hugged
him, faltering: 'Papa, papa...' He lay motionless, screwing up his eyes
in a strange way. I looked into his face--an unendurable horror caught
my breath; I shrieked with terror, like a roughly captured bird--they
picked me up and carried me away. Only the day before, as though aware
his death was at hand, he had caressed me so passionately and
despondently.

A sleepy, unkempt doctor, smelling strongly of spirits, was brought. My
father died under his lancet, and the next day, utterly stupefied by
grief, I stood with a candle in my hands before a table, on which lay
the dead man, and listened senselessly to the bass sing-song of the
deacon, interrupted from time to time by the weak voice of the priest.
The tears kept streaming over my cheeks, my lips, my collar, my
shirt-front. I was dissolved in tears; I watched persistently, I
watched intently, my father's rigid face, as though I expected
something of him; while my mother slowly bowed down to the ground,
slowly rose again, and pressed her fingers firmly to her forehead, her
shoulders, and her chest, as she crossed herself. I had not a single
idea in my head; I was utterly numb, but I felt something terrible was
happening to me.... Death looked me in the face that day and took note
of me.

We moved to Moscow after my father's death for a very simple cause: all
our estate was sold up by auction for debts--that is, absolutely all,
except one little village, the one in which I am at this moment living
out my magnificent existence. I must admit that, in spite of my youth
at the time, I grieved over the sale of our home, or rather, in
reality, I grieved over our garden. Almost my only bright memories are
associated with our garden. It was there that one mild spring evening I
buried my best friend, an old bob-tailed, crook-pawed dog, Trix. It was
there that, hidden in the long grass, I used to eat stolen
apples--sweet, red, Novgorod apples they were. There, too, I saw for
the first time, among the ripe raspberry bushes, the housemaid Klavdia,
who, in spite of her turned-up nose and habit of giggling in her
kerchief, aroused such a tender passion in me that I could hardly
breathe, and stood faint and tongue-tied in her presence; and once at
Easter, when it came to her turn to kiss my seignorial hand, I almost
flung myself at her feet to kiss her down-trodden goat-skin slippers.
My God! Can all that be twenty years ago? It seems not long ago that I
used to ride on my shaggy chestnut pony along the old fence of our
garden, and, standing up in the stirrups, used to pick the two-coloured
poplar leaves. While a man is living he is not conscious of his own
life; it becomes audible to him, like a sound, after the lapse of time.

Oh, my garden, oh, the tangled paths by the tiny pond! Oh, the little
sandy spot below the tumbledown dike, where I used to catch gudgeons!
And you tall birch-trees, with long hanging branches, from beyond which
came floating a peasant's mournful song, broken by the uneven jolting
of the cart, I send you my last farewell!... On parting with life, to
you alone I stretch out my hands. Would I might once more inhale the
fresh, bitter fragrance of the wormwood, the sweet scent of the mown
buckwheat in the fields of my native place! Would I might once more
hear far away the modest tinkle of the cracked bell of our parish
church; once more lie in the cool shade under the oak sapling on the
slope of the familiar ravine; once more watch the moving track of the
wind, flitting, a dark wave over the golden grass of our meadow!... Ah,
what's the good of all this? But I can't go on to-day. Enough till
to-morrow.


_March_ 22.

To-day it's cold and overcast again. Such weather is a great deal more
suitable. It's more in harmony with my task. Yesterday, quite
inappropriately, stirred up a multitude of useless emotions and
memories within me. This shall not occur again. Sentimental out-breaks
are like liquorice; when first you suck it, it's not bad, but
afterwards it leaves a very nasty taste in the mouth. I will set to
work simply and serenely to tell the story of my life. And so, we moved
to Moscow....

But it occurs to me, is it really worth while to tell the story of my
life?

No, it certainly is not.... My life has not been different in any
respect from the lives of numbers of other people. The parental home,
the university, the government service in the lower grades, retirement,
a little circle of friends, decent poverty, modest pleasures,
unambitious pursuits, moderate desires--kindly tell me, is that new to
any one? And so I will not tell the story of my life, especially as I
am writing for my own pleasure; and if my past does not afford even me
any sensation of great pleasure or great pain, it must be that there is
nothing in it deserving of attention. I had better try to describe my
own character to myself. What manner of man am I?... It may be observed
that no one asks me that question--admitted. But there, I'm dying, by
Jove!--I'm dying, and at the point of death I really think one may be
excused a desire to find out what sort of a queer fish one really was
after all.

Thinking over this important question, and having, moreover, no need
whatever to be too bitter in my expressions in regard to myself, as
people are apt to be who have a strong conviction of their valuable
qualities, I must admit one thing. I was a man, or perhaps I should say
a fish, utterly superfluous in this world. And that I propose to show
to-morrow, as I keep coughing to-day like an old sheep, and my nurse,
Terentyevna, gives me no peace: 'Lie down, my good sir,' she says, 'and
drink a little tea.'... I know why she keeps on at me: she wants some
tea herself. Well! she's welcome! Why not let the poor old woman
extract the utmost benefit she can from her master at the last ... as
long as there is still the chance?


_March_ 23.

Winter again. The snow is falling in flakes. Superfluous,
superfluous.... That's a capital word I have hit on. The more deeply I
probe into myself, the more intently I review all my past life, the
more I am convinced of the strict truth of this expression.
Superfluous--that's just it. To other people that term is not
applicable.... People are bad, or good, clever, stupid, pleasant, and
disagreeable; but superfluous ... no. Understand me, though: the
universe could get on without those people too... no doubt; but
uselessness is not their prime characteristic, their most distinctive
attribute, and when you speak of them, the word 'superfluous' is not
the first to rise to your lips. But I ... there's nothing else one can
say about me; I'm superfluous and nothing more. A supernumerary, and
that's all. Nature, apparently, did not reckon on my appearance, and
consequently treated me as an unexpected and uninvited guest. A
facetious gentleman, a great devotee of preference, said very happily
about me that I was the forfeit my mother had paid at the game of life.
I am speaking about myself calmly now, without any bitterness.... It's
all over and done with! Throughout my whole life I was constantly
finding my place taken, perhaps because I did not look for my place
where I should have done. I was apprehensive, reserved, and irritable,
like all sickly people. Moreover, probably owing to excessive
self-consciousness, perhaps as the result of the generally unfortunate
cast of my personality, there existed between my thoughts and feelings,
and the expression of those feelings and thoughts, a sort of
inexplicable, irrational, and utterly insuperable barrier; and whenever
I made up my mind to overcome this obstacle by force, to break down
this barrier, my gestures, the expression of my face, my whole being,
took on an appearance of painful constraint. I not only seemed, I
positively became unnatural and affected. I was conscious of this
myself, and hastened to shrink back into myself. Then a terrible
commotion was set up within me. I analysed myself to the last thread,
compared myself with others, recalled the slightest glances, smiles,
words of the people to whom I had tried to open myself out, put the
worst construction on everything, laughed vindictively at my own
pretensions to 'be like every one else,'--and suddenly, in the midst of
my laughter, collapsed utterly into gloom, sank into absurd dejection,
and then began again as before--went round and round, in fact, like a
squirrel on its wheel. Whole days were spent in this harassing,
fruitless exercise. Well now, tell me, if you please, to whom and for
what is such a man of use? Why did this happen to me? what was the
reason of this trivial fretting at myself?--who knows? who can tell?

I remember I was driving once from Moscow in the diligence. It was a
good road, but the driver, though he had four horses harnessed abreast,
hitched on another, alongside of them. Such an unfortunate, utterly
useless, fifth horse--fastened somehow on to the front of the shaft by
a short stout cord, which mercilessly cuts his shoulder, forces him to
go with the most unnatural action, and gives his whole body the shape
of a comma--always arouses my deepest pity. I remarked to the driver
that I thought we might on this occasion have got on without the fifth
horse.... He was silent a moment, shook his head, lashed the horse a
dozen times across his thin back and under his distended belly, and
with a grin responded: 'Ay, to be sure; why do we drag him along with
us? What the devil's he for?' And here am I too dragged along. But,
thank goodness, the station is not far off.

Superfluous.... I promised to show the justice of my opinion, and I
will carry out my promise. I don't think it necessary to mention the
thousand trifles, everyday incidents and events, which would, however,
in the eyes of any thinking man, serve as irrefutable evidence in my
support--I mean, in support of my contention. I had better begin
straight away with one rather important incident, after which probably
there will be no doubt left of the accuracy of the term superfluous. I
repeat: I do not intend to indulge in minute details, but I cannot pass
over in silence one rather serious and significant fact, that is, the
strange behaviour of my friends (I too used to have friends) whenever I
met them, or even called on them. They used to seem ill at ease; as
they came to meet me, they would give a not quite natural smile, look,
not into my eyes nor at my feet, as some people do, but rather at my
cheeks, articulate hurriedly, 'Ah! how are you, Tchulkaturin!' (such is
the surname fate has burdened me with) or 'Ah! here's Tchulkaturin!'
turn away at once and positively remain stockstill for a little while
after, as though trying to recollect something. I used to notice all
this, as I am not devoid of penetration and the faculty of observation;
on the whole I am not a fool; I sometimes even have ideas come into my
head that are amusing, not absolutely commonplace. But as I am a
superfluous man with a padlock on my inner self, it is very painful for
me to express my idea, the more so as I know beforehand that I shall
express it badly. It positively sometimes strikes me as extraordinary
the way people manage to talk, and so simply and freely.... It's
marvellous, really, when you think of it. Though, to tell the truth, I
too, in spite of my padlock, sometimes have an itch to talk. But I did
actually utter words only in my youth; in riper years I almost always
pulled myself up. I would murmur to myself: 'Come, we'd better hold our
tongue.' And I was still. We are all good hands at being silent; our
women especially are great in that line. Many an exalted Russian young
lady keeps silent so strenuously that the spectacle is calculated to
produce a faint shudder and cold sweat even in any one prepared to face
it. But that's not the point, and it's not for me to criticise others.
I proceed to my promised narrative.

A few years back, owing to a combination of circumstances, very
insignificant in themselves, but very important for me, it was my lot
to spend six months in the district town O----. This town is all built
on a slope, and very uncomfortably built, too. There are reckoned to be
about eight hundred inhabitants in it, of exceptional poverty; the
houses are hardly worthy of the name; in the chief street, by way of an
apology for a pavement, there are here and there some huge white slabs
of rough-hewn limestone, in consequence of which even carts drive round
it instead of through it. In the very middle of an astoundingly dirty
square rises a diminutive yellowish edifice with black holes in it, and
in these holes sit men in big caps making a pretence of buying and
selling. In this place there is an extraordinarily high striped post
sticking up into the air, and near the post, in the interests of public
order, by command of the authorities, there is kept a cartload of
yellow hay, and one government hen struts to and fro. In short,
existence in the town of O---- is truly delightful. During the first
days of my stay in this town, I almost went out of my mind with
boredom. I ought to say of myself that, though I am, no doubt, a
superfluous man, I am not so of my own seeking; I'm morbid myself, but
I can't bear anything morbid.... I'm not even averse to happiness--
indeed, I've tried to approach it right and left.... And so it is no
wonder that I too can be bored like any other mortal. I was staying in
the town of O---- on official business.

Terentyevna has certainly sworn to make an end of me. Here's a specimen
of our conversation:--

TERENTYEVNA. Oh--oh, my good sir! what are you for ever writing for?
it's bad for you, keeping all on writing.

I. But I'm dull, Terentyevna.

SHE. Oh, you take a cup of tea now and lie down. By God's mercy you'll
get in a sweat and maybe doze a bit.

I. But I'm not sleepy.

SHE. Ah, sir! why do you talk so? Lord have mercy on you! Come, lie
down, lie down; it's better for you.

I. I shall die any way, Terentyevna!

SHE. Lord bless us and save us!... Well, do you want a little tea?

I. I shan't live through the week, Terentyevna!

SHE. Eh, eh! good sir, why do you talk so?... Well, I'll go and heat
the samovar.

Oh, decrepit, yellow, toothless creature! Am I really, even in your
eyes, not a man?


_March 24. Sharp frost_.

On the very day of my arrival in the town of O----, the official
business, above referred to, brought me into contact with a certain
Kirilla Matveitch Ozhogin, one of the chief functionaries of the
district; but I became intimate, or, as it is called, 'friends' with
him a fortnight later. His house was in the principal street, and was
distinguished from all the others by its size, its painted roof, and
the lions on its gates, lions of that species extraordinarily
resembling unsuccessful dogs, whose natural home is Moscow. From those
lions alone, one might safely conclude that Ozhogin was a man of
property. And so it was; he was the owner of four hundred peasants; he
entertained in his house all the best society of the town of O----, and
had a reputation for hospitality. At his door was seen the mayor with
his wide chestnut-coloured droshky and pair--an exceptionally bulky
man, who seemed as though cut out of material that had been laid by for
a long time. The other officials, too, used to drive to his receptions:
the attorney, a yellowish, spiteful creature; the land surveyor, a
wit--of German extraction, with a Tartar face; the inspector of means
of communication--a soft soul, who sang songs, but a scandalmonger; a
former marshal of the district--a gentleman with dyed hair, crumpled
shirt front, and tight trousers, and that lofty expression of face so
characteristic of men who have stood on trial. There used to come also
two landowners, inseparable friends, both no longer young and indeed a
little the worse for wear, of whom the younger was continually crushing
the elder and putting him to silence with one and the same reproach.
'Don't you talk, Sergei Sergeitch! What have you to say? Why, you spell
the word cork with two _k_'s in it.... Yes, gentlemen,' he would go on,
with all the fire of conviction, turning to the bystanders, 'Sergei
Sergeitch spells it not cork, but kork.' And every one present would
laugh, though probably not one of them was conspicuous for special
accuracy in orthography, while the luckless Sergei Sergeitch held his
tongue, and with a faint smile bowed his head. But I am forgetting that
my hours are numbered, and am letting myself go into too minute
descriptions. And so, without further beating about the bush,--Ozhogin
was married, he had a daughter, Elizaveta Kirillovna, and I fell in
love with this daughter.

Ozhogin himself was a commonplace person, neither good-looking nor
bad-looking; his wife resembled an aged chicken; but their daughter had
not taken after her parents. She was very pretty and of a bright and
gentle disposition. Her clear grey eyes looked out kindly and directly
from under childishly arched brows; she was almost always smiling, and
she laughed too, pretty often. Her fresh voice had a very pleasant
ring; she moved freely, rapidly, and blushed gaily. She did not dress
very stylishly, only plain dresses suited her. I did not make friends
quickly as a rule, and if I were at ease with any one from the
first--which, however, scarcely ever occurred--it said, I must own, a
great deal for my new acquaintance. I did not know at all how to behave
with women, and in their presence I either scowled and put on a morose
air, or grinned in the most idiotic way, and in my embarrassment turned
my tongue round and round in my mouth. With Elizaveta Kirillovna, on
the contrary, I felt at home from the first moment. It happened in this
way.

I called one day at Ozhogin's before dinner, asked, 'At home?' was
told, 'The master's at home, dressing; please to walk into the
drawing-room.' I went into the drawing-room; I beheld standing at the
window, with her back to me, a girl in a white gown, with a cage in her
hands. I was, as my way was, somewhat taken aback; however, I showed no
sign of it, but merely coughed, for good manners. The girl turned round
quickly, so quickly that her curls gave her a slap in the face, saw me,
bowed, and with a smile showed me a little box half full of seeds. 'You
don't mind?' I, of course, as is the usual practice in such cases,
first bowed my head, and at the same time rapidly crooked my knees, and
straightened them out again (as though some one had given me a blow
from behind in the legs, a sure sign of good breeding and pleasant,
easy manners), and then smiled, raised my hand, and softly and
carefully brandished it twice in the air. The girl at once turned away
from me, took a little piece of board out of the cage, began vigorously
scraping it with a knife, and suddenly, without changing her attitude,
uttered the following words: 'This is papa's parrot.... Are you fond of
parrots?' 'I prefer siskins,' I answered, not without some effort. 'I
like siskins, too; but look at him, isn't he pretty? Look, he's not
afraid.' (What surprised me was that I was not afraid.) 'Come closer.
His name's Popka.' I went up, and bent down. 'Isn't he really sweet?'
She turned her face to me; but we were standing so close together, that
she had to throw her head back to get a look at me with her clear eyes.
I gazed at her; her rosy young face was smiling all over in such a
friendly way that I smiled too, and almost laughed aloud with delight.
The door opened; Mr. Ozhogin came in. I promptly went up to him, and
began talking to him very unconstrainedly. I don't know how it was, but
I stayed to dinner, and spent the whole evening with them; and next day
the Ozhogins' footman, an elongated, dull-eyed person, smiled upon me
as a friend of the family when he helped me off with my overcoat.

To find a haven of refuge, to build oneself even a temporary nest, to
feel the comfort of daily intercourse and habits, was a happiness I, a
superfluous man, with no family associations, had never before
experienced. If anything about me had had any resemblance to a flower,
and if the comparison were not so hackneyed, I would venture to say
that my soul blossomed from that day. Everything within me and about me
was suddenly transformed! My whole life was lighted up by love, the
whole of it, down to the paltriest details, like a dark, deserted room
when a light has been brought into it. I went to bed, and got up,
dressed, ate my breakfast, and smoked my pipe--differently from before.
I positively skipped along as I walked, as though wings were suddenly
sprouting from my shoulders. I was not for an instant, I remember, in
uncertainty with regard to the feeling Elizaveta Kirillovna inspired in
me. I fell passionately in love with her from the first day, and from
the first day I knew I was in love. During the course of three weeks I
saw her every day. Those three weeks were the happiest time in my life;
but the recollection of them is painful to me. I can't think of them
alone; I cannot help dwelling on what followed after them, and the
intensest bitterness slowly takes possession of my softened heart.

When a man is very happy, his brain, as is well known, is not very
active. A calm and delicious sensation, the sensation of satisfaction,
pervades his whole being; he is swallowed up by it; the consciousness
of personal life vanishes in him--he is in beatitude, as badly educated
poets say. But when, at last, this 'enchantment' is over, a man is
sometimes vexed and sorry that, in the midst of his bliss, he observed
himself so little; that he did not, by reflection, by recollection,
redouble and prolong his feelings ... as though the 'beatific' man had
time, and it were worth his while to reflect on his sensations! The
happy man is what the fly is in the sunshine. And so it is that, when I
recall those three weeks, it is almost impossible for me to retain in
my mind any exact and definite impression, all the more so as during
that time nothing very remarkable took place between us.... Those
twenty days are present to my imagination as something warm, and young,
and fragrant, a sort of streak of light in my dingy, greyish life. My
memory becomes all at once remorselessly clear and trustworthy, only
from the instant when, to use the phrase of badly-educated writers, the
blows of destiny began to fall upon me.

Yes, those three weeks.... Not but what they have left some images in
my mind. Sometimes when it happens to me to brood a long while on that
time, some memories suddenly float up out of the darkness of the
past--like stars which suddenly come out against the evening sky to
meet the eyes straining to catch sight of them. One country walk in a
wood has remained particularly distinct in my memory. There were four
of us, old Madame Ozhogin, Liza, I, and a certain Bizmyonkov, a petty
official of the town of O----, a light-haired, good-natured, and
harmless person. I shall have more to say of him later. Mr. Ozhogin had
stayed at home; he had a headache, from sleeping too long. The day was
exquisite; warm and soft. I must observe that pleasure-gardens and
picnic-parties are not to the taste of the average Russian. In district
towns, in the so-called public gardens, you never meet a living soul at
any time of the year; at the most, some old woman sits sighing and
moaning on a green garden seat, broiling in the sun, not far from a
sickly tree--and that, only if there is no greasy little bench in the
gateway near. But if there happens to be a scraggy birchwood in the
neighbourhood of the town, tradespeople and even officials gladly make
excursions thither on Sundays and holidays, with samovars, pies, and
melons; set all this abundance on the dusty grass, close by the road,
sit round, and eat and drink tea in the sweat of their brows till
evening. Just such a wood there was at that time a mile and a half from
the town of O---. We repaired there after dinner, duly drank our fill
of tea, and then all four began to wander about the wood. Bizmyonkov
walked with Madame Ozhogin on his arm, I with Liza on mine. The day was
already drawing to evening. I was at that time in the very fire of
first love (not more than a fortnight had passed since our first
meeting), in that condition of passionate and concentrated adoration,
when your whole soul innocently and unconsciously follows every
movement of the beloved being, when you can never have enough of her
presence, listen enough to her voice, when you smile with the look of a
child convalescent after sickness, and a man of the smallest experience
cannot fail at the first glance to recognise a hundred yards off what
is the matter with you. Till that day I had never happened to have Liza
on my arm. We walked side by side, stepping slowly over the green
grass. A light breeze, as it were, flitted about us between the white
stems of the birches, every now and then flapping the ribbon of her hat
into my face. I incessantly followed her eyes, until at last she turned
gaily to me and we both smiled at each other. The birds were chirping
approvingly above us, the blue sky peeped caressingly at us through the
delicate foliage. My head was going round with excess of bliss. I
hasten to remark, Liza was not a bit in love with me. She liked me; she
was never shy with any one, but it was not reserved for me to trouble
her childlike peace of mind. She walked arm in arm with me, as she
would with a brother. She was seventeen then.... And meanwhile, that
very evening, before my eyes, there began that soft inward ferment
which precedes the metamorphosis of the child into the woman.... I was
witness of that transformation of the whole being, that guileless
bewilderment, that agitated dreaminess; I was the first to detect the
sudden softness of the glance, the sudden ring in the voice--and oh,
fool! oh, superfluous man! For a whole week I had the face to imagine
that I, I was the cause of this transformation!

This was how it happened.

We walked rather a long while, till evening, and talked little. I was
silent, like all inexperienced lovers, and she, probably, had nothing
to say to me. But she seemed to be pondering over something, and shook
her head in a peculiar way, as she pensively nibbled a leaf she had
picked. Sometimes she started walking ahead, so resolutely...then all
at once stopped, waited for me, and looked round with lifted eyebrows
and a vague smile. On the previous evening we had read together. _The
Prisoner of the Caucasus_. With what eagerness she had listened to me,
her face propped in both hands, and her bosom pressed against the
table! I began to speak of our yesterday's reading; she flushed, asked
me whether I had given the parrot any hemp-seed before starting, began
humming some little song aloud, and all at once was silent again. The
copse ended on one side in a rather high and abrupt precipice; below
coursed a winding stream, and beyond it, over an immense expanse,
stretched the boundless prairies, rising like waves, spreading wide
like a table-cloth, and broken here and there by ravines. Liza and I
were the first to come out at the edge of the wood; Bizmyonkov and the
elder lady were behind. We came out, stood still, and involuntarily we
both half shut our eyes; directly facing us, across a lurid mist, the
vast, purple sun was setting. Half the sky was flushed and glowing; red
rays fell slanting on the meadows, casting a crimson reflection even on
the side of the ravines in shadow, lying in gleams of fire on the
stream, where it was not hidden under the overhanging bushes, and, as
it were, leaning on the bosom of the precipice and the copse. We stood,
bathed in the blazing brilliance. I am not capable of describing all
the impassioned solemnity of this scene. They say that by a blind man
the colour red is imagined as the sound of a trumpet. I don't know how
far this comparison is correct, but really there was something of a
challenge in this glowing gold of the evening air, in the crimson flush
on sky and earth. I uttered a cry of rapture and at once turned to
Liza. She was looking straight at the sun. I remember the sunset glow
was reflected in little points of fire in her eyes. She was
overwhelmed, deeply moved. She made no response to my exclamation; for
a long while she stood, not stirring, with drooping head.... I held out
my hand to her; she turned away from me, and suddenly burst into tears.
I looked at her with secret, almost delighted amazement.... The voice
of Bizmyonkov was heard a couple of yards off. Liza quickly wiped her
tears and looked with a faltering smile at me. The elder lady came out
of the copse leaning on the arm of her flaxen-headed escort; they, in
their turn, admired the view. The old lady addressed some question to
Liza, and I could not help shuddering, I remember, when her daughter's
broken voice, like cracked glass, sounded in reply. Meanwhile the sun
had set, and the afterglow began to fade. We turned back. Again I took
Liza's arm in mine. It was still light in the wood, and I could clearly
distinguish her features. She was confused, and did not raise her eyes.
The flush that overspread her face did not vanish; it was as though she
were still standing in the rays of the setting sun.... Her hand
scarcely touched my arm. For a long while I could not frame a sentence;
my heart was beating so violently. Through the trees there was a
glimpse of the carriage in the distance; the coachman was coming at a
walking pace to meet us over the soft sand of the road.

'Lizaveta Kirillovna,' I brought out at last, 'what did you cry for?'

'I don't know,' she answered, after a short silence. She looked at me
with her soft eyes still wet with tears--her look struck me as changed,
and she was silent again.

'You are very fond, I see, of nature,' I pursued. That was not at all
what I meant to say, and the last words my tongue scarcely faltered out
to the end. She shook her head. I could not utter another word.... I
was waiting for something ... not an avowal--how was that possible? I
waited for a confiding glance, a question.... But Liza looked at the
ground, and kept silent. I repeated once more in a whisper: 'Why was
it?' and received no reply. She had grown, I saw that, ill at ease,
almost ashamed.

A quarter of an hour later we were sitting in the carriage driving to
the town. The horses flew along at an even trot; we were rapidly whirled
along through the darkening, damp air. I suddenly began talking, more
than once addressing first Bizmyonkov, and then Madame Ozhogin. I did
not look at Liza, but I could see that from her corner in the carriage
her eyes did not once rest on me. At home she roused herself, but would
not read with me, and soon went off to bed. A turning-point, that
turning-point I have spoken of, had been reached by her. She had ceased
to be a little girl, she too had begun ... like me ... to wait for
something. She had not long to wait.

But that night I went home to my lodgings in a state of perfect
ecstasy. The vague half presentiment, half suspicion, which had been
arising within me, had vanished. The sudden constraint in Liza's manner
towards me I ascribed to maidenly bashfulness, timidity.... Hadn't I
read a thousand times over in many books that the first appearance of
love always agitates and alarms a young girl? I felt supremely happy,
and was already making all sorts of plans in my head.

If some one had whispered in my ear then: 'You're raving, my dear chap!
that's not a bit what's in store for you. What's in store for you is to
die all alone, in a wretched little cottage, amid the insufferable
grumbling of an old hag who will await your death with impatience to
sell your boots for a few coppers...'!

Yes, one can't help saying with the Russian philosopher--'How's one to
know what one doesn't know?'

Enough for to-day.


_March 25. A white winter day._

I have read over what I wrote yesterday, and was all but tearing up the
whole manuscript. I think my story's too spun out and too sentimental.
However, as the rest of my recollections of that time presents nothing
of a pleasurable character, except that peculiar sort of consolation
which Lermontov had in view when he said there is pleasure and pain in
irritating the sores of old wounds, why not indulge oneself? But one
must know where to draw the line. And so I will continue without any
sort of sentimentality.

During the whole of the week after the country excursion, my position
was in reality in no way improved, though the change in Liza became
more noticeable every day. I interpreted this change, as I have said
before, in the most favourable way for me.... The misfortune of
solitary and timid people--who are timid from self-consciousness--is
just that, though they have eyes and indeed open them wide, they see
nothing, or see everything in a false light, as though through coloured
spectacles. Their own ideas and speculations trip them up at every
step. At the commencement of our acquaintance, Liza behaved confidingly
and freely with me, like a child; perhaps there may even have been in
her attitude to me something more than mere childish liking.... But
after this strange, almost instantaneous change had taken place in her,
after a period of brief perplexity, she felt constrained in my
presence; she unconsciously turned away from me, and was at the same
time melancholy and dreamy.... She was waiting ... for what? She did
not know ... while I ... I, as I have said above, was delighted at this
change.... Yes, by God, I was ready to expire, as they say, with
rapture. Though I am prepared to allow that any one else in my place
might have been deceived.... Who is free from vanity? I need not say
that all this was only clear to me in the course of time, when I had to
lower my clipped and at no time over-powerful wings.

The misunderstanding that had arisen between Liza and me lasted a whole
week--and there is nothing surprising in that: it has been my lot to be
a witness of misunderstandings that have lasted for years and years.
Who was it said, by the way, that truth alone is powerful? Falsehood is
just as living as truth, if not more so. To be sure, I recollect that
even during that week I felt from time to time an uneasy gnawing astir
within me ... but solitary people like me, I say again, are as
incapable of understanding what is going on within them as what is
taking place before their eyes. And, besides, is love a natural
feeling? Is it natural for man to love? Love is a sickness; and for
sickness there is no law. Granting that there was at times an
unpleasant pang in my heart; well, everything inside me was turned
upside down. And how is one to know in such circumstances, what is all
right and what is all wrong? and what is the cause, and what the
significance, of each separate symptom? But, be that as it may, all
these misconceptions, presentiments, and hopes were shattered in the
following manner.

One day--it was in the morning about twelve o'clock--I had hardly
entered Mr. Ozhogin's hall, when I heard an unfamiliar, mellow voice in
the drawing-room, the door opened, and a tall and slim man of
five-and-twenty appeared in the doorway, escorted by the master of the
house. He rapidly put on a military overcoat which lay on the slab, and
took cordial leave of Kirilla Matveitch. As he brushed past me, he
carelessly touched his foraging cap, and vanished with a clink of his
spurs.

'Who is that?' I asked Ozhogin.

'Prince N., 'the latter responded, with a preoccupied face; 'sent from
Petersburg to collect recruits. But where are the servants?' he went on
in a tone of annoyance; 'no one handed him his coat.'

We went into the drawing-room.

'Has he been here long?' I inquired.

'Arrived yesterday evening, I'm told. I offered him a room here, but he
refused. He seems a very nice fellow, though.'

'Has he been long with you?'

'About an hour. He asked me to introduce him to Olimpiada Nikitishna.'

'And did you introduce him?'

'Of course.'

'And Lizaveta Kirillovna, too, did he ...'

'He made her acquaintance, too, of course.'

I was silent for a space.

'Has he come here for long, do you know?'

'Yes, I believe he has to be here for a fortnight.'

And Kirilla Matveitch hurried away to dress. I walked several times up
and down the drawing-room. I don't recollect that Prince N.'s arrival
made any special impression on me at the time, except that feeling of
hostility which usually possesses us on the appearance of any new
person in our domestic circle. Possibly there was mingled with this
feeling something too of the nature of envy--of a shy and obscure
person from Moscow towards a brilliant officer from Petersburg. 'The
prince,' I mused, 'is an upstart from the capital; he'll look down upon
us....' I had not seen him for more than an instant, but I had had time
to perceive that he was good-looking, clever, and at his ease. After
pacing the room for some time, I stopped at last before a
looking-glass, pulled a comb out of my pocket, gave a picturesque
carelessness to my hair, and, as sometimes happens, became suddenly
absorbed in the contemplation of my own face. I remember my attention
centred anxiously about my nose; the soft and undefined outlines of
that feature afforded me no great satisfaction, when suddenly in the
dark depths of the sloping mirror, which reflected almost the whole
room, the door opened, and the slender figure of Liza appeared. I don't
know why I did not stir, and kept the same expression on my face. Liza
craned her head forward, looked intently at me, and raising her
eyebrows, biting her lips, and holding her breath as any one does who
is glad at not being noticed, she cautiously drew back and stealthily
drew the door to after her. The door creaked slightly. Liza started and
stood rooted to the spot... I still kept from stirring ... she pulled
the handle again and vanished. There was no possibility of doubt: the
expression of Liza's face at the sight of my figure, that expression in
which nothing could be detected except a desire to get away again
successfully, to escape a disagreeable interview, the quick flash of
delight I had time to catch in her eyes when she fancied she really had
managed to creep away unnoticed--it all spoke too clearly; that girl
did not love me. For a long, long while I could not take my eyes off
that motionless, dumb door, which was once more a patch of white in the
looking-glass. I tried to smile at my own long face--dropped my head,
went home again, and flung myself on the sofa. I felt extraordinarily
heavy at heart, so much so that I could not cry ... and, besides, what
was there to cry about...? 'Is it possible?' I repeated incessantly,
lying, as though I were murdered, on my back with my hands folded on my
breast--'is it possible?'...Don't you think that's rather good, that
'is it possible?'


_March 26. Thaw._

When, next day, after long hesitation and with a low sinking at my
heart, I went into the Ozhogins' familiar drawing-room, I was no longer
the same man as they had known during the last three weeks. All my old
peculiarities, which I had begun to get over, under the influence of a
new feeling, reappeared and took possession of me, like proprietors
returning to their house. People of my sort are usually guided, not so
much by positive facts, as by their own impressions: I, who no longer
ago than the day before had been dreaming of the 'raptures of love
returned,' was that day no less convinced of my 'unhappiness,' and was
absolutely despairing, though I was not myself able to find any
rational ground for my despair. I could not as yet be jealous of Prince
N., and whatever his qualities might be, his mere arrival was not
sufficient to extinguish Liza's good-will towards me at once.... But
stay, was there any good-will on her part? I recalled the past. 'What
of the walk in the wood?' I asked myself. 'What of the expression of
her face in the glass?' 'But,' I went on, 'the walk in the wood, I
think ... Fie on me! my God, what a wretched creature I am!' I said at
last, out loud. Of such sort were the unphrased, incomplete thoughts
that went round and round a thousand times over in a monotonous whirl
in my head. I repeat, I went back to the Ozhogins' the same
hypersensitive, suspicious, constrained creature I had been from my
childhood up....

I found the whole family in the drawing-room; Bizmyonkov was sitting
there, too, in a corner. Every one seemed in high good-humour; Ozhogin,
in particular, positively beamed, and his first word was to tell me
that Prince N. had spent the whole of the previous evening with them.
Liza gave me a tranquil greeting. 'Oh,' said I to myself; 'now I
understand why you're in such spirits.' I must own the prince's second
visit puzzled me. I had not anticipated it. As a rule fellows like me
anticipate everything in the world, except what is bound to occur in
the natural order of things; I sulked and put on the air of an injured
but magnanimous person; I tried to punish Liza by showing my
displeasure, from which one must conclude I was not yet completely
desperate after all. They do say that in some cases when one is really
loved, it's positively of use to torment the adored one; but in my
position it was indescribably stupid. Liza, in the most innocent way,
paid no attention to me. No one but Madame Ozhogin observed my solemn
taciturnity, and she inquired anxiously after my health. I replied, of
course, with a bitter smile, that I was thankful to say I was perfectly
well. Ozhogin continued to expatiate on the subject of their visitor;
but noticing that I responded reluctantly, he addressed himself
principally to Bizmyonkov, who was listening to him with great
attention, when a servant suddenly came in, announcing the arrival of
Prince N. Our host jumped up and ran to meet him; Liza, upon whom I at
once turned an eagle eye, flushed with delight, and made as though she
would move from her seat. The prince came in, all agreeable perfume,
gaiety, cordiality....

As I am not composing a romance for a gentle reader, but simply writing
for my own amusement, it stands to reason I need not make use of the
usual dodges of our respected authors. I will say straight out without
further delay that Liza fell passionately in love with the prince from
the first day she saw him, and the prince fell in love with her
too--partly from having nothing to do, and partly from a propensity for
turning women's heads, and also owing to the fact that Liza really was
a very charming creature. There was nothing to be wondered at in their
falling in love with each other. He had certainly never expected to
find such a pearl in such a wretched shell (I am alluding to the
God-forsaken town of O----), and she had never in her wildest dreams
seen anything in the least like this brilliant, clever, fascinating
aristocrat.

After the first courtesies, Ozhogin introduced me to the prince, who
was very affable in his behaviour to me. He was as a rule very affable
with every one; and in spite of the immeasurable distance between him
and our obscure provincial circle, he was clever enough to avoid being
a source of constraint to any one, and even to make a show of being on
our level, and only living at Petersburg, as it were, by accident.

That first evening.... Oh, that first evening! In our happy days of
childhood our teachers used to describe and set up before us as an
example the manly fortitude of the young Spartan, who, having stolen a
fox and hidden it under his tunic, without uttering one shriek let it
devour all his entrails, and so preferred death itself to disgrace....
I can find no better comparison for my indescribable sufferings during
the evening on which I first saw the prince by Liza's side. My
continual forced smile and painful vigilance, my idiotic silence, my
miserable and ineffectual desire to get away--all that was doubtless
something truly remarkable in its own way. It was not one wild beast
alone gnawing at my vitals; jealousy, envy, the sense of my own
insignificance, and helpless hatred were torturing me. I could not but
admit that the prince really was a very agreeable young man.... I
devoured him with my eyes; I really believe I forgot to blink as usual,
as I stared at him. He talked not to Liza alone, but all he said was of
course really for her. He must have felt me a great bore. He most
likely guessed directly that it was a discarded lover he had to deal
with, but from sympathy for me, and also a profound sense of my
absolute harmlessness, he treated me with extraordinary gentleness. You
can fancy how this wounded me! In the course of the evening I tried, I
remember, to smooth over my mistake. I positively (don't laugh at me,
whoever you may be, who chance to look through these lines--especially
as it was my last illusion...) ... I, positively, in the midst of my
different sufferings, imagined all of a sudden that Liza wanted to
punish me for my haughty coldness at the beginning of my visit, that
she was angry with me and only flirting with the prince from pique....
I seized my opportunity and with a meek but gracious smile, I went up
to her, and muttered--'Enough, forgive me, not that I'm afraid ...' and
suddenly, without awaiting her reply, I gave my features an
extraordinarily cheerful and free-and-easy expression, with a set grin,
passed my hand above my head in the direction of the ceiling (I wanted,
I remember, to set my cravat straight), and was even on the point of
pirouetting round on one foot, as though to say, 'All is over, I am
happy, let's all be happy,'--I did not, however, execute this
manoeuvre, as I was afraid of losing my balance, owing to an unnatural
stiffness in my knees.... Liza failed absolutely to understand me; she
looked in my face with amazement, gave a hasty smile, as though she
wanted to get rid of me as quickly as possible, and again approached
the prince. Blind and deaf as I was, I could not but be inwardly aware
that she was not in the least angry, and was not annoyed with me at
that instant: she simply never gave me a thought. The blow was a final
one. My last hopes were shattered with a crash, just as a block of ice,
thawed by the sunshine of spring, suddenly falls into tiny morsels. I
was utterly defeated at the first skirmish, and, like the Prussians at
Jena, lost everything at once in one day. No, she was not angry with
me!...

Alas, it was quite the contrary! She too--I saw that--was being swept
off her feet by the torrent. Like a young tree, already half torn from
the bank, she bent eagerly over the stream, ready to abandon to it for
ever the first blossom of her spring and her whole life. A man whose
fate it has been to be the witness of such a passion, has lived through
bitter moments if he has loved himself and not been loved. I shall for
ever remember that devouring attention, that tender gaiety, that
innocent self-oblivion, that glance, still a child's and already a
woman's, that happy, as it were flowering smile that never left the
half-parted lips and glowing cheeks.... All that Liza had vaguely
foreshadowed during our walk in the wood had come to pass now--and she,
as she gave herself up utterly to love, was at once stiller and
brighter, like new wine, which ceases to ferment because its full
maturity has come....

I had the fortitude to sit through that first evening and the
subsequent evenings ... all to the end! I could have no hope of
anything. Liza and the prince became every day more devoted to each
other ... But I had absolutely lost all sense of personal dignity, and
could not tear myself away from the spectacle of my own misery. I
remember one day I tried not to go, swore to myself in the morning that
I would stay at home, and at eight o'clock in the evening (I usually
set off at seven) leaped up like a madman, put on my hat, and ran
breathless into Kirilla Matveitch's drawing-room. My position was
excessively absurd. I was obstinately silent; sometimes for whole days
together I did not utter a sound. I was, as I have said already, never
distinguished for eloquence; but now everything I had in my mind took
flight, as it were, in the presence of the prince, and I was left bare
and bereft. Besides, when I was alone, I set my wretched brain working
so hard, slowly going over everything I had noticed or surmised during
the preceding day, that when I went back to the Ozhogins' I scarcely
had energy left to observe again. They treated me considerately, as a
sick person; I saw that. Every morning I adopted some new, final
resolution, for the most part painfully hatched in the course of a
sleepless night. At one time I made up my mind to have it out with
Liza, to give her friendly advice ... but when I chanced to be alone
with her, my tongue suddenly ceased to work, froze as it were, and we
both, in great discomfort, waited for the entrance of some third
person. Another time I meant to run away, of course for ever, leaving
my beloved a letter full of reproaches, and I even one day began this
letter; but the sense of justice had not yet quite vanished in me. I
realised that I had no right to reproach any one for anything, and I
flung what I had written in the fire. Then I suddenly offered myself up
wholly as a sacrifice, gave Liza my benediction, praying for her
happiness, and smiled in meek and friendly fashion from my corner at
the prince. But the cruel-hearted lovers not only never thanked me for
my self-sacrifice, they never even noticed me, and were, apparently,
quite ready to dispense with my smiles and my blessings....

Then, in wrath, I suddenly flew into quite the opposite mood. I swore
to myself, wrapping my cloak about me like a Spaniard, to rush out from
some dark corner and stab my lucky rival, and with brutal glee I
imagined Liza's despair.... But, in the first place, such corners were
few in the town of O----; and, secondly--the wooden fence, the street
lamp, the policeman in the distance.... No! in such corners it was
somehow far more suitable to sell buns and oranges than to shed human
blood. I must own that, among other means of deliverance, as I very
vaguely expressed it in my colloquies with myself, I did entertain the
idea of having recourse to Ozhogin himself ... of calling the attention
of that nobleman to the perilous situation of his daughter, and the
mournful consequences of her indiscretion....

I even once began speaking to him on a certain delicate subject; but my
remarks were so indirect and misty, that after listening and listening
to me, he suddenly, as it were, waking up, rubbed his hand rapidly and
vigorously all over his face, not sparing his nose, gave a snort, and
walked away from me. It is needless to say that in resolving on this
step I persuaded myself that I was acting from the most disinterested
motives, was desirous of the general welfare, and was doing my duty as
a friend of the house.... But I venture to think that even had Kirilla
Matveitch not cut short my outpourings, I should in any case not have
had courage to finish my monologue. At times I set to work with all the
solemnity of some sage of antiquity, weighing the qualities of the
prince; at times I comforted myself with the hope that it was all of no
consequence, that Liza would recover her senses, that her love was not
real love ... oh, no! In short, I know no idea that I did not worry
myself with at that time. There was only one resource which never, I
candidly admit, entered my head: I never once thought of taking my
life. Why it did not occur to me I don't know.... Possibly, even then,
I had a presentiment I should not have long to live in any case.

It will be readily understood that in such unfavourable circumstances
my manner, my behaviour with people, was more than ever marked by
unnaturalness and constraint. Even Madame Ozhogin--that creature
dull-witted from her birth up--began to shun me, and at times did not
know in what way to approach me. Bizmyonkov, always polite and ready to
do services, avoided me. I fancied even at that time that I had in him
a companion in misfortune--that he too loved Liza. But he never
responded to my hints, and altogether showed a reluctance to converse
with me. The prince behaved in a very friendly way to him; the prince,
one might say, respected him. Neither Bizmyonkov nor I was any obstacle
to the prince and Liza; but he did not shun them as I did, nor look
savage nor injured--and readily joined them when they desired it. It is
true that on such occasions he was not conspicuous for any special
mirthfulness; but his good-humour had always been somewhat subdued in
character.

In this fashion about a fortnight passed by. The prince was not only
handsome and clever: he played the piano, sang, sketched fairly well,
and was a good hand at telling stories. His anecdotes, drawn from the
highest circles of Petersburg society, always made a great impression
on his audience, all the more so from the fact that he seemed to attach
no importance to them....

The consequence of this, if you like, simple accomplishment of the
prince's was that in the course of his not very protracted stay in the
town of O---- he completely fascinated all the neighbourhood. To
fascinate us poor dwellers in the steppes is at all times a very easy
task for any one coming from higher spheres. The prince's frequent
visits to the Ozhogins (he used to spend his evenings there) of course
aroused the jealousy of the other worthy gentry and officials of the
town. But the prince, like a clever person and a man of the world,
never neglected a single one of them; he called on all of them; to
every married lady and every unmarried miss he addressed at least one
flattering phrase, allowed them to feed him on elaborately solid
edibles, and to make him drink wretched wines with magnificent names;
and conducted himself, in short, like a model of caution and tact.
Prince N---- was in general a man of lively manners, sociable and
genial by inclination, and in this case incidentally from prudential
motives also; he could not fail to be a complete success in everything.

Ever since his arrival, all in the house had felt that the time had
flown by with unusual rapidity; everything had gone off beautifully.
Papa Ozhogin, though he pretended that he noticed nothing, was
doubtless rubbing his hands in private at the idea of such a
son-in-law. The prince, for his part, managed matters with the utmost
sobriety and discretion, when, all of a sudden, an unexpected
incident....

Till to-morrow. To-day I'm tired. These recollections irritate me even
at the edge of the grave. Terentyevna noticed to-day that my nose has
already begun to grow sharp; and that, they say, is a bad sign.


_March 27. Thaw continuing._

Things were in the position described above: the prince and Liza were
in love with each other; the old Ozhogins were waiting to see what
would come of it; Bizmyonkov was present at the proceedings--there was
nothing else to be said of him. I was struggling like a fish on the
ice, and watching with all my might,--I remember that at that time I
set myself the task of preventing Liza at least from falling into the
snares of a seducer, and consequently began paying particular attention
to the maidservants and the fateful 'back stairs'--though, on the other
hand, I often spent whole nights in dreaming with what touching
magnanimity I would one day hold out a hand to the betrayed victim and
say to her, 'The traitor has deceived thee; but I am thy true friend
... let us forget the past and be happy!'--when sudden and glad
tidings overspread the whole town. The marshal of the district proposed
to give a great ball in honour of their respected guest, on his private
estate Gornostaevka. All the official world, big and little, of the
town of O---- received invitations, from the mayor down to the
apothecary, an excessively emaciated German, with ferocious pretensions
to a good Russian accent, which led him into continually and quite
inappropriately employing racy colloquialisms.... Tremendous
preparations were, of course, put in hand. One purveyor of cosmetics
sold sixteen dark-blue jars of pomatum, which bore the inscription _à
la jesmin_. The young ladies provided themselves with tight dresses,
agonising in the waist and jutting out sharply over the stomach; the
mammas put formidable erections on their heads by way of caps; the busy
papas were half dead with the bustle. The longed-for day arrived at
last. I was among those invited. From the town to Gornostaevka was
reckoned between seven and eight miles. Kirilla Matveitch offered me a
seat in his coach; but I refused.... In the same way children, who have
been punished, wishing to pay their parents out, refuse their favourite
dainties at table. Besides, I felt that my presence would be felt as a
constraint by Liza. Bizmyonkov took my place. The prince drove in his
own carriage, and I in a wretched little droshky, hired for an immense
sum for this solemn occasion. I am not going to describe that ball.
Everything about it was just as it always is. There was a band, with
trumpets extraordinarily out of tune, in the gallery; there were
country gentlemen, greatly flustered, with their inevitable families,
mauve ices, viscous lemonade; servants in boots trodden down at heel
and knitted cotton gloves; provincial lions with spasmodically
contorted faces, and so on and so on. And all this little world was
revolving round its sun--round the prince. Lost in the crowd,
unnoticed even by the young ladies of eight-and-forty, with red pimples
on their brows and blue flowers on the top of their heads, I stared
incessantly, first at the prince, then at Liza. She was very charmingly
dressed and very pretty that evening. They only twice danced together
(it is true, he danced the mazurka with her); but it seemed, to me at
least, that there was a sort of secret, continuous communication
between them. Even while not looking at her, while not speaking to her,
he was still, as it were, addressing her, and her alone. He was
handsome and brilliant and charming with other people--for her sake
only. She was apparently conscious that she was the queen of the ball,
and that she was loved. Her face at once beamed with childlike delight
and innocent pride, and was suddenly illuminated by another, deeper
feeling. Happiness radiated from her. I observed all this.... It was
not the first time I had watched them.... At first this wounded me
intensely; afterwards it, as it were, touched me; but, finally, it
infuriated me. I suddenly felt extraordinarily wrathful, and, I
remember, was extraordinarily delighted at this new sensation, and even
conceived a certain respect for myself. 'We'll show them we're not
crushed yet,' I said to myself. When the first inviting notes of the
mazurka sounded, I looked about me with composure, and with a cool and
easy air approached a long-faced young lady with a red and shiny nose,
a mouth that stood awkwardly open, as though it had come unbuttoned,
and a scraggy neck that recalled the handle of a bass-viol. I went up
to her, and, with a perfunctory scrape of my heels, invited her to the
dance. She was wearing a dress of faded rosebud pink, not full-blown
rose colour; on her head quivered a striped and dejected beetle of some
sort on a thick bronze pin; and altogether this lady was, if one may so
express it, soaked through and through with a sort of sour ennui and
inveterate lack of success. From the very commencement of the evening
she had not once stirred from her seat; no one had thought of asking
her to dance. One flaxen-headed youth of sixteen had, through lack of a
partner, been on the point of addressing this lady, and had taken a
step in her direction, but had thought better of it, stared at her, and
hurriedly dived into the crowd. You can fancy with what joyful
amazement she agreed to my proposal! I led her in triumph right across
the ballroom, picked out two chairs, and sat down with her in the ring
of the mazurka, among ten couples, almost opposite the prince, who had,
of course, been offered the first place. The prince, as I have said
already, was dancing with Liza. Neither I nor my partner was disturbed
by invitations; consequently, we had plenty of time for conversation.
To tell the truth, my partner was not conspicuous for her capacity for
the utterance of words in consecutive speech; she used her mouth
principally for the achievement of a strange downward smile such as I
had never till then beheld; while she raised her eyes upward, as though
some unseen force were pulling her face in two. But I did not feel her
lack of eloquence. Happily I felt full of wrath, and my partner did not
make me shy. I fell to finding fault with everything and every one in
the world, with especial emphasis on town-bred youngsters and
Petersburg dandies; and went to such lengths at last, that my partner
gradually ceased smiling, and instead of turning her eyes upward, began
suddenly--from astonishment, I suppose--to squint, and that so
strangely, as though she had for the first time observed the fact that
she had a nose on her face. And one of the lions, referred to above,
who was sitting next me, did not once take his eyes off me; he
positively turned to me with the expression of an actor on the stage,
who has waked up in an unfamiliar place, as though he would say, 'Is it
really you!' While I poured forth this tirade, I still, however, kept
watch on the prince and Liza. They were continually invited; but I
suffered less when they were both dancing; and even when they were
sitting side by side, and smiling as they talked to each other that
sweet smile which hardly leaves the faces of happy lovers, even then I
was not in such torture; but when Liza flitted across the room with
some desperate dandy of an hussar, while the prince with her blue gauze
scarf on his knees followed her dreamily with his eyes, as though
delighting in his conquest;--then, oh! then, I went through intolerable
agonies, and in my anger gave vent to such spiteful observations, that
the pupils of my partner's eyes simply fastened on her nose!

Meanwhile the mazurka was drawing to a close. They were beginning the
figure called _la confidente_. In this figure the lady sits in the
middle of a circle, chooses another lady as her confidant, and whispers
in her ear the name of the gentleman with whom she wishes to dance.

Her partner conducts one after another of the dancers to her; but the
lady, who is in the secret, refuses them, till at last the happy man
fixed on beforehand arrives. Liza sat in the middle of the circle and
chose the daughter of the host, one of those young ladies of whom one
says, 'God help them!'... The prince proceeded to discover her choice.
After presenting about a dozen young men to her in vain (the daughter
of the house refused them all with the most amiable of smiles), he at
last turned to me.

Something extraordinary took place within me at that instant; I, as it
were, twitched all over, and would have refused, but got up and went
along. The prince conducted me to Liza.... She did not even look at me;
the daughter of the house shook her head in refusal, the prince turned
to me, and, probably incited by the goose-like expression of my face,
made me a deep bow. This sarcastic bow, this refusal, transmitted to me
through my triumphant rival, his careless smile, Liza's indifferent
inattention, all this lashed me to frenzy.... I moved up to the prince
and whispered furiously, 'You think fit to laugh at me, it seems?'

The prince looked at me with contemptuous surprise, took my arm again,
and making a show of re-conducting me to my seat, answered coldly, 'I?'

'Yes, you!' I went on in a whisper, obeying, however--that is to say,
following him to my place; 'you; but I do not intend to permit any
empty-headed Petersburg up-start----'

The prince smiled tranquilly, almost condescendingly, pressed my arm,
whispered, 'I understand you; but this is not the place; we will have a
word later,' turned away from me, went up to Bizmyonkov, and led him up
to Liza. The pale little official turned out to be the chosen partner.
Liza got up to meet him.

Sitting beside my partner with the dejected beetle on her head, I felt
almost a hero. My heart beat violently, my breast heaved gallantly
under my starched shirt front, I drew deep and hurried breaths, and
suddenly gave the local lion near me such a magnificent glare that
there was an involuntary quiver of his foot in my direction. Having
disposed of this person, I scanned the whole circle of dancers.... I
fancied two or three gentlemen were staring at me with some perplexity;
but, in general, my conversation with the prince had passed
unnoticed.... My rival was already back in his chair, perfectly
composed, and with the same smile on his face. Bizmyonkov led Liza back
to her place. She gave him a friendly bow, and at once turned to the
prince, as I fancied, with some alarm. But he laughed in response, with
a graceful wave of his hand, and must have said something very
agreeable to her, for she flushed with delight, dropped her eyes, and
then bent them with affectionate reproach upon him.

The heroic frame of mind, which had suddenly developed in me, had not
disappeared by the end of the mazurka; but I did not indulge in any
more epigrams or 'quizzing.' I contented myself with glancing
occasionally with gloomy severity at my partner, who was obviously
beginning to be afraid of me, and was utterly tongue-tied and
continuously blinking by the time I placed her under the protection of
her mother, a very fat woman with a red cap on her head. Having
consigned the scared maiden lady to her natural belongings, I turned
away to a window, folded my arms, and began to await what would happen.
I had rather long to wait. The prince was the whole time surrounded by
his host--surrounded, simply, as England is surrounded by the sea,--to
say nothing of the other members of the marshal's family and the rest
of the guests. And besides, he could hardly go up to such an
insignificant person as me and begin to talk without arousing a general
feeling of surprise. This insignificance, I remember, was positively a
joy to me at the time. 'All right,' I thought, as I watched him
courteously addressing first one and then another highly respected
personage, honoured by his notice, if only for an 'instant's flash,' as
the poets say;--'all right, my dear ... you'll come to me soon--I've
insulted you, anyway.' At last the prince, adroitly escaping from the
throng of his adorers, passed close by me, looked somewhere between the
window and my hair, was turning away, and suddenly stood still, as
though he had recollected something. 'Ah, yes!' he said, turning to me
with a smile, 'by the way, I have a little matter to talk to you
about.'

Two country gentlemen, of the most persistent, who were obstinately
pursuing the prince, probably imagined the 'little matter' to relate to
official business, and respectfully fell back. The prince took my arm
and led me apart. My heart was thumping at my ribs.

'You, I believe,' he began, emphasising the word _you,_ and looking at
my chin with a contemptuous expression, which, strange to say, was
supremely becoming to his fresh and handsome face, 'you said something
abusive to me?'

'I said what I thought,' I replied, raising my voice.

'Sh ... quietly,' he observed; 'decent people don't bawl. You would
like, perhaps, to fight me?'

'That's your affair,' I answered, drawing myself up.

'I shall be obliged to challenge you,' he remarked carelessly, 'if you
don't withdraw your expressions....'

'I do not intend to withdraw from anything,' I rejoined with pride.

'Really?' he observed, with an ironical smile.

'In that case,' he continued, after a brief pause, 'I shall have the
honour of sending my second to you to-morrow.'

'Very good, 'I said in a voice, if possible, even more indifferent.

The prince gave a slight bow.

'I cannot prevent you from considering me empty-headed,' he added, with
a haughty droop of his eyelids; 'but the Princes N---- cannot be
upstarts. Good-bye till we meet, Mr.... Mr. Shtukaturin.'

He quickly turned his back on me, and again approached his host, who
was already beginning to get excited.

Mr. Shtukaturin!... My name is Tchulkaturin.... I could think of
nothing to say to him in reply to this last insult, and could only gaze
after him with fury. 'Till to-morrow,' I muttered, clenching my teeth,
and I at once looked for an officer of my acquaintance, a cavalry
captain in the Uhlans, called Koloberdyaev, a desperate rake, and a
very good fellow. To him I related, in few words, my quarrel with the
prince, and asked him to be my second. He, of course, promptly
consented, and I went home.

I could not sleep all night--from excitement, not from cowardice. I am
not a coward. I positively thought very little of the possibility
confronting me of losing my life--that, as the Germans assure us,
highest good on earth. I could think only of Liza, of my ruined hopes,
of what I ought to do. 'Ought I to try to kill the prince?' I asked
myself; and, of course, I wanted to kill him--not from revenge, but
from a desire for Liza's good. 'But she will not survive such a blow,'
I went on. 'No, better let him kill me!' I must own it was an agreeable
reflection, too, that I, an obscure provincial person, had forced a man
of such consequence to fight a duel with me.

The morning light found me still absorbed in these reflections; and,
not long after it, appeared Koloberdyaev.

'Well,' he asked me, entering my room with a clatter, 'where's the
prince's second?' 'Upon my word,' I answered with annoyance, 'it's
seven o'clock at the most; the prince is still asleep, I should
imagine.' 'In that case,' replied the cavalry officer, in nowise
daunted, 'order some tea for me. My head aches from yesterday
evening.... I've not taken my clothes off all night. Though, indeed,'
he added with a yawn, 'I don't as a rule often take my clothes off.'

Some tea was given him. He drank off six glasses of tea and rum, smoked
four pipes, told me he had on the previous day bought, for next to
nothing, a horse the coachman refused to drive, and that he was meaning
to drive her out with one of her fore legs tied up, and fell asleep,
without undressing, on the sofa, with a pipe in his mouth. I got up and
put my papers to rights. One note of invitation from Liza, the one note
I had received from her, I was on the point of putting in my bosom, but
on second thoughts I flung it in a drawer. Koloberdyaev was snoring
feebly, with his head hanging from the leather pillow.... For a long
while, I remember, I scrutinised his unkempt, daring, careless, and
good-natured face. At ten o'clock the man announced the arrival of
Bizmyonkov. The prince had chosen him as second.

We both together roused the soundly sleeping cavalry officer. He sat
up, stared at us with dim eyes, in a hoarse voice demanded vodka. He
recovered himself, and exchanging greetings with Bizmyonkov, he went
with him into the next room to arrange matters. The consultation of the
worthy seconds did not last long. A quarter of an hour later, they both
came into my bedroom. Koloberdyaev announced to me that 'we're going to
fight to-day at three o'clock with pistols.' In silence I bent my head,
in token of my agreement. Bizmyonkov at once took leave of us, and
departed. He was rather pale and inwardly agitated, like a man unused
to such jobs, but he was, nevertheless, very polite and chilly. I felt,
as it were, conscience-stricken in his presence, and did not dare look
him in the face. Koloberdyaev began telling me about his horse. This
conversation was very welcome to me. I was afraid he would mention
Liza. But the good-natured cavalry officer was not a gossip, and,
moreover, he despised all women, calling them, God knows why, green
stuff. At two o'clock we had lunch, and at three we were at the place
fixed upon--the very birch copse in which I had once walked with Liza,
a couple of yards from the precipice.

We arrived first; but the prince and Bizmyonkov did not keep us long
waiting. The prince was, without exaggeration, as fresh as a rose; his
brown eyes looked out with excessive cordiality from under the peak of
his cap. He was smoking a cigar, and on seeing Koloberdyaev shook his
hand in a friendly way.

Even to me he bowed very genially. I was conscious, on the contrary, of
being pale, and my hands, to my terrible vexation, were slightly
trembling ... my throat was parched.... I had never fought a duel
before. 'O God!' I thought; 'if only that ironical gentleman doesn't
take my agitation for timidity!' I was inwardly cursing my nerves; but
glancing, at last, straight in the prince's face, and catching on his
lips an almost imperceptible smile, I suddenly felt furious again, and
was at once at my ease. Meanwhile, our seconds were fixing the barrier,
measuring out the paces, loading the pistols. Koloberdyaev did most;
Bizmyonkov rather watched him. It was a magnificent day--as fine as the
day of that ever-memorable walk. The thick blue of the sky peeped, as
then, through the golden green of the leaves. Their lisping seemed to
mock me. The prince went on smoking his cigar, leaning with his
shoulder against the trunk of a young lime-tree....

'Kindly take your places, gentlemen; ready,' Koloberdyaev pronounced at
last, handing us pistols.

The prince walked a few steps away, stood still, and, turning his head,
asked me over his shoulder, 'You still refuse to take back your words,
then?'

I tried to answer him; but my voice failed me, and I had to content
myself with a contemptuous wave of the hand. The prince smiled again,
and took up his position in his place. We began to approach one
another. I raised my pistol, was about to aim at my enemy's chest--but
suddenly tilted it up, as though some one had given my elbow a shove,
and fired. The prince tottered, and put his left hand to his left
temple--a thread of blood was flowing down his cheek from under the
white leather glove, Bizmyonkov rushed up to him.

'It's all right,' he said, taking off his cap, which the bullet had
pierced; 'since it's in the head, and I've not fallen, it must be a
mere scratch.'

He calmly pulled a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, and put it
to his blood-stained curls.

I stared at him, as though I were turned to stone, and did not stir.

'Go up to the barrier, if you please!' Koloberdyaev observed severely.

I obeyed.

'Is the duel to go on?' he added, addressing Bizmyonkov.

Bizmyonkov made him no answer. But the prince, without taking the
handkerchief from the wound, without even giving himself the
satisfaction of tormenting me at the barrier, replied with a smile.
'The duel is at an end,' and fired into the air. I was almost crying
with rage and vexation. This man by his magnanimity had utterly
trampled me in the mud; he had completely crushed me. I was on the
point of making objections, on the point of demanding that he should
fire at me. But he came up to me, and held out his hand.

'It's all forgotten between us, isn't it?' he said in a friendly voice.

I looked at his blanched face, at the blood-stained handkerchief, and
utterly confounded, put to shame, and annihilated, I pressed his hand.

'Gentlemen!' he added, turning to the seconds, 'everything, I hope,
will be kept secret?'

'Of course!' cried Koloberdyaev; 'but, prince, allow me ...'

And he himself bound up his head.

The prince, as he went away, bowed to me once more. But Bizmyonkov did
not even glance at me. Shattered--morally shattered--went homewards
with Koloberdyaev.

'Why, what's the matter with you?' the cavalry captain asked me. 'Set
your mind at rest; the wound's not serious. He'll be able to dance by
to-morrow, if you like. Or are you sorry you didn't kill him? You're
wrong, if you are; he's a first-rate fellow.'

'What business had he to spare me!' I muttered at last.

'Oh, so that's it!' the cavalry captain rejoined tranquilly... 'Ugh,
you writing fellows are too much for me!'

I don't know what put it into his head to consider me an author.

I absolutely decline to describe my torments during the evening
following upon that luckless duel. My vanity suffered indescribably. It
was not my conscience that tortured me; the consciousness of my
imbecility crushed me. 'I have given myself the last decisive blow by
my own act!' I kept repeating, as I strode up and down my room. 'The
prince, wounded by me, and forgiving me... Yes, Liza is now his. Now
nothing can save her, nothing can hold her back on the edge of the
abyss.' I knew very well that our duel could not be kept secret, in
spite of the prince's words; in any case, it could not remain a secret
for Liza.

'The prince is not such a fool,' I murmured in a frenzy of rage, 'as
not to profit by it.'... But, meanwhile, I was mistaken. The whole town
knew of the duel and of its real cause next day, of course. But the
prince had not blabbed of it; on the contrary, when, with his head
bandaged and an explanation ready, he made his appearance before Liza,
she had already heard everything.... Whether Bizmyonkov had betrayed
me, or the news had reached her by other channels, I cannot say.
Though, indeed, can anything ever be concealed in a little town? You
can fancy how Liza received him, how all the family of the Ozhogins
received him! As for me, I suddenly became an object of universal
indignation and loathing, a monster, a jealous bloodthirsty madman. My
few acquaintances shunned me as if I were a leper. The authorities of
the town promptly addressed the prince, with a proposal to punish me in
a severe and befitting manner. Nothing but the persistent and urgent
entreaties of the prince himself averted the calamity that menaced me.
That man was fated to annihilate me in every way. By his generosity he
had shut, as it were, a coffin-lid down upon me. It's needless to say
that the Ozhogins' doors were at once closed against me. Kirilla
Matveitch even sent me back a bit of pencil I had left in his house. In
reality, he, of all people, had no reason to be angry with me. My
'insane' (that was the expression current in the town) jealousy had
pointed out, defined, so to speak, the relations of the prince to Liza.
Both the old Ozhogins themselves and their fellow-citizens began to
look on him almost as betrothed to her. This could not, as a fact, have
been quite to his liking. But he was greatly attracted by Liza; and
meanwhile, he had not at that time attained his aims. With all the
adroitness of a clever man of the world, he took advantage of his new
position, and promptly entered, as they say, into the spirit of his new
part....

But I!... For myself, for my future, I renounced all hopes, at that
time. When suffering reaches the point of making our whole being creak
and groan, like an overloaded cart, it ought to cease to be ridiculous
... but no! laughter not only accompanies tears to the end, to
exhaustion, to the impossibility of shedding more--it even rings and
echoes, where the tongue is dumb, and complaint itself is dead.... And
so, as in the first place I don't intend to expose myself as ridiculous,
even to myself, and secondly as I am fearfully tired, I will put off the
continuation, and please God the conclusion, of my story till
tomorrow....


_March 29.

A slight frost; yesterday it was thawing._

Yesterday I had not the strength to go on with my diary; like
Poprishtchin, I lay, for the most part, on my bed, and talked to
Terentyevna. What a woman! Sixty years ago she lost her first betrothed
from the plague, she has outlived all her children, she is inexcusably
old, drinks tea to her heart's desire, is well fed, and warmly clothed;
and what do you suppose she was talking to me about, all day yesterday?
I had sent another utterly destitute old woman the collar of an old
livery, half moth-eaten, to put on her vest (she wears strips over the
chest by way of vest) ... and why wasn't it given to her? 'But I'm your
nurse; I should think... Oh ... oh, my good sir, it's too bad of you
... after I've looked after you as I have!' ... and so on. The
merciless old woman utterly wore me out with her reproaches.... But to
get back to my story.

And so, I suffered like a dog, whose hindquarters have been run over by
a wheel. It was only then, only after my banishment from the Ozhogins'
house, that I fully realised how much happiness a man can extract from
the contemplation of his own unhappiness. O men! pitiful race, indeed!

... But, away with philosophical reflections.... I spent my days in
complete solitude, and could only by the most roundabout and even
humiliating methods find out what was passing in the Ozhogins'
household, and what the prince was doing. My man had made friends with
the cousin of the latter's coachman's wife. This acquaintance afforded
me some slight relief, and my man soon guessed, from my hints and
little presents, what he was to talk about to his master when he pulled
his boots off every evening. Sometimes I chanced to meet some one of
the Ozhogins' family, Bizmyonkov, or the prince in the street.... To
the prince and to Bizmyonkov I bowed, but I did not enter into
conversation with them. Liza I only saw three times: once, with her
mamma, in a fashionable shop; once, in an open carriage with her father
and mother and the prince; and once, in church. Of course, I was not
impudent enough to approach her, and only watched her from a distance.
In the shop she was very much preoccupied, but cheerful.... She was
ordering something for herself, and busily matching ribbons. Her mother
was gazing at her, with her hands folded on her lap, and her nose in
the air, smiling with that foolish and devoted smile which is only
permissible in adoring mothers. In the carriage with the prince, Liza
was ... I shall never forget that meeting! The old people were sitting
in the back seats of the carriage, the prince and Liza in the front.
She was paler than usual; on her cheek two patches of pink could just
be seen. She was half facing the prince; leaning on her straight right
arm (in the left hand she was holding a sunshade), with her little head
drooping languidly, she was looking straight into his face with her
expressive eyes. At that instant she surrendered herself utterly to
him, intrusted herself to him for ever. I had not time to get a good
look at his face--the carriage galloped by too quickly,--but I fancied
that he too was deeply touched.

The third time I saw her in church. Not more than ten days had passed
since the day when I met her in the carriage with the prince, not more
than three weeks since the day of my duel. The business upon which the
prince had come to O---- was by now completed. But he still kept
putting off his departure. At Petersburg, he was reported to be ill. In
the town, it was expected every day that he would make a proposal in
form to Kirilla Matveitch. I was myself only awaiting this final blow
to go away for ever. The town of O---- had grown hateful to me. I could
not stay indoors, and wandered from morning to night about the suburbs.
One grey, gloomy day, as I was coming back from a walk, which had been
cut short by the rain, I went into a church. The evening service had
only just begun, there were very few people; I looked round me, and
suddenly, near a window, caught sight of a familiar profile. For the
first instant, I did not recognise it: that pale face, that spiritless
glance, those sunken cheeks--could it be the same Liza I had seen a
fortnight before? Wrapped in a cloak, without a hat on, with the cold
light from the broad white window falling on her from one side, she was
gazing fixedly at the holy image, and seemed striving to pray, striving
to awake from a sort of listless stupor. A red-cheeked, fat little page
with yellow trimmings on his chest was standing behind her, and, with
his hands clasped behind his back, stared in sleepy bewilderment at his
mistress. I trembled all over, was about to go up to her, but stopped
short. I felt choked by a torturing presentiment. Till the very end of
the evening service, Liza did not stir. All the people went out, a
beadle began sweeping out the church, but still she did not move from
her place. The page went up to her, said something to her, touched her
dress; she looked round, passed her hand over her face, and went away.
I followed her home at a little distance, and then returned to my
lodging.

'She is lost!' I cried, when I had got into my room.

As a man, I don't know to this day what my sensations were at that
moment. I flung myself, I remember, with clasped hands, on the sofa and
fixed my eyes on the floor. But I don't know--in the midst of my woe I
was, as it were, pleased at something.... I would not admit this for
anything in the world, if I were not writing only for myself.... I had
been tormented, certainly, by terrible, harassing suspicions ... and
who knows, I should, perhaps, have been greatly disconcerted if they
had not been fulfilled. 'Such is the heart of man!' some middle-aged
Russian teacher would exclaim at this point in an expressive voice,
while he raises a fat forefinger, adorned with a cornelian ring. But
what have we to do with the opinion of a Russian teacher, with an
expressive voice and a cornelian on his finger?

Be that as it may, my presentiment turned out to be well founded.
Suddenly the news was all over the town that the prince had gone away,
presumably in consequence of a summons from Petersburg; that he had
gone away without making any proposal to Kirilla Matveitch or his wife,
and that Liza would have to deplore his treachery till the end of her
days. The prince's departure was utterly unexpected, for only the
evening before his coachman, so my man assured me, had not the
slightest suspicion of his master's intentions. This piece of news
threw me into a perfect fever. I at once dressed, and was on the point
of hastening to the Ozhogins', but on thinking the matter over I
considered it more seemly to wait till the next day. I lost nothing,
however, by remaining at home. The same evening, there came to see me
in all haste a certain Pandopipopulo, a wandering Greek, stranded by
some chance in the town of O----, a scandalmonger of the first
magnitude, who had been more indignant with me than any one for my duel
with the prince. He did not even give my man time to announce him; he
fairly burst into my room, warmly pressed my hand, begged my pardon a
thousand times, called me a paragon of magnanimity and courage, painted
the prince in the darkest colours, censured the old Ozhogins, who, in
his opinion, had been punished as they deserved, made a slighting
reference to Liza in passing, and hurried off again, kissing me on my
shoulder. Among other things, I learned from him that the prince, _en
vrai grand seigneur_, on the eve of his departure, in response to a
delicate hint from Kirilla Matveitch, had answered coldly that he had
no intention of deceiving any one, and no idea of marrying, had risen,
made his bow, and that was all.... Next day I set off to the Ozhogins'.
The shortsighted footman leaped up from his bench on my appearance,
with the rapidity of lightning. I bade him announce me; the footman
hurried away and returned at once. 'Walk in,' he said; 'you are begged
to go in.' I went into Kirilla Matveitch's study.... The rest
to-morrow.


_March 30. Frost._

And so I went into Kirilla Matveitch's study. I would pay any one
handsomely, who could show me now my own face at the moment when that
highly respected official, hurriedly flinging together his
dressing-gown, approached me with outstretched arms. I must have been a
perfect picture of modest triumph, indulgent sympathy, and boundless
magnanimity.... I felt myself something in the style of Scipio
Africanus. Ozhogin was visibly confused and cast down, he avoided my
eyes, and kept fidgeting about. I noticed, too, that he spoke
unnaturally loudly, and in general expressed himself very vaguely.
Vaguely, but with warmth, he begged my forgiveness, vaguely alluded to
their departed guest, added a few vague generalities about deception
and the instability of earthly blessings, and, suddenly feeling the
tears in his eyes, hastened to take a pinch of snuff, probably in order
to deceive me as to the cause of his tearfulness.... He used the
Russian green snuff, and it's well known that that article forces even
old men to shed tears that make the human eye look dull and senseless
for several minutes.

I behaved, of course, very cautiously with the old man, inquired after
the health of his wife and daughter, and at once artfully turned the
conversation on to the interesting subject of the rotation of crops. I
was dressed as usual, but the feeling of gentle propriety and soft
indulgence which filled me gave me a fresh and festive sensation, as
though I had on a white waistcoat and a white cravat. One thing
agitated me, the thought of seeing Liza.... Ozhogin, at last, proposed
of his own accord to take me up to his wife. The kind-hearted but
foolish woman was at first terribly embarrassed on seeing me; but her
brain was not capable of retaining the same impression for long, and so
she was soon at her ease. At last I saw Liza ... she came into the
room....

I had expected to find in her a shamed and penitent sinner, and had
assumed beforehand the most affectionate and reassuring expression of
face.... Why lie about it? I really loved her and was thirsting for the
happiness of forgiving her, of holding out a hand to her; but to my
unutterable astonishment, in response to my significant bow, she
laughed coldly, observed carelessly, 'Oh, is that you?' and at once
turned away from me. It is true that her laugh struck me as forced, and
in any case did not accord well with her terribly thin face ... but,
all the same, I had not expected such a reception.... I looked at her
with amazement ... what a change had taken place in her! Between the
child she had been and the woman before me, there was nothing in
common. She had, as it were, grown up, straightened out; all the
features of her face, especially her lips, seemed defined ... her gaze
had grown deeper, harder, and gloomier. I stayed on at the Ozhogins'
till dinner-time. She got up, went out of the room, and came back
again, answered questions with composure, and designedly took no notice
of me. She wanted, I saw, to make me feel that I was not worth her
anger, though I had been within an ace of killing her lover. I lost
patience at last; a malicious allusion broke from my lips.... She
started, glanced swiftly at me, got up, and going to the window,
pronounced in a rather shaky voice, 'You can say anything you like, but
let me tell you that I love that man, and always shall love him, and do
not consider that he has done me any injury, quite the contrary.'...
Her voice broke, she stopped ... tried to control herself, but could
not, burst into tears, and went out of the room.... The old people were
much upset.... I pressed the hands of both, sighed, turned my eyes
heavenward, and withdrew.

I am too weak, I have too little time left, I am not capable of
describing in the same detail the new range of torturing reflections,
firm resolutions, and all the other fruits of what is called inward
conflict, that arose within me after the renewal of my acquaintance
with the Ozhogins. I did not doubt that Liza still loved, and would
long love, the prince ... but as one reconciled to the inevitable, and
anxious myself to conciliate, I did not even dream of her love. I
desired only her affection, I desired to gain her confidence, her
respect, which, we are assured by persons of experience, forms the
surest basis for happiness in marriage.... Unluckily, I lost sight of
one rather important circumstance, which was that Liza had hated me
ever since the day of the duel. I found this out too late. I began, as
before, to be a frequent visitor at the house of the Ozhogins. Kirilla
Matveitch received me with more effusiveness and affability than he had
ever done. I have even ground for believing that he would at that time
have cheerfully given me his daughter, though I was certainly not a
match to be coveted. Public opinion was very severe upon him and Liza,
while, on the other hand, it extolled me to the skies. Liza's attitude
to me was unchanged. She was, for the most part, silent; obeyed, when
they begged her to eat, showed no outward signs of sorrow, but, for all
that, was wasting away like a candle. I must do Kirilla Matveitch the
justice to say that he spared her in every way. Old Madame Ozhogin only
ruffled up her feathers like a hen, as she looked at her poor nestling.
There was only one person Liza did not shun, though she did not talk
much even to him, and that was Bizmyonkov. The old people were rather
short, not to say rude, in their behaviour to him. They could not
forgive him for having been second in the duel. But he went on going to
see them, as though he did not notice their unamiability. With me he
was very chilly, and--strange to say--I felt, as it were, afraid of
him. This state of things went on for a fortnight. At last, after a
sleepless night, I resolved to have it out with Liza, to open my heart
to her, to tell her that, in spite of the past, in spite of all
possible gossip and scandal, I should consider myself only too happy if
she would give me her hand, and restore me her confidence. I really did
seriously imagine that I was showing what they call in the school
reading-books an unparalleled example of magnanimity, and that, from
sheer amazement alone, she would consent. In any case, I resolved to
have an explanation and to escape, at last, from suspense.

Behind the Ozhogins' house was a rather large garden, which ended in a
little grove of lime-trees, neglected and overgrown. In the middle of
this thicket stood an old summer-house in the Chinese style: a wooden
paling separated the garden from a blind alley. Liza would sometimes
walk, for hours together, alone in this garden. Kirilla Matveitch was
aware of this, and forbade her being disturbed or followed; let her
grief wear itself out, he said. When she could not be found indoors,
they had only to ring a bell on the steps at dinner-time and she made
her appearance at once, with the same stubborn silence on her lips and
in her eyes, and some little leaf crushed up in her hand. So, noticing
one day that she was not in the house, I made a show of going away,
took leave of Kirilla Matveitch, put on my hat, and went out from the
hall into the courtyard, and from the courtyard into the street, but
promptly darted in at the gate again with extraordinary rapidity and
hurried past the kitchen into the garden. Luckily no one noticed me.
Without losing time in deliberation, I went with rapid steps into the
grove. In a little path before me was standing Liza. My heart beat
violently. I stood still, drew a deep sigh, and was just on the point
of going up to her, when suddenly she lifted her hand without turning
round, and began listening.... From behind the trees, in the direction
of the blind alley, came a distinct sound of two knocks, as though some
one were tapping at the paling. Liza clapped her hands together, there
was heard the faint creak of the gate, and out of the thicket stepped
Bizmyonkov. I hastily hid behind a tree. Liza turned towards him
without speaking.... Without speaking, he drew her arm in his, and the
two walked slowly along the path together. I looked after them in
amazement. They stopped, looked round, disappeared behind the bushes,
reappeared again, and finally went into the summer-house. This
summer-house was a diminutive round edifice, with a door and one little
window. In the middle stood an old one-legged table, overgrown with
fine green moss; two discoloured deal benches stood along the sides,
some distance from the damp and darkened walls. Here, on exceptionally
hot days, in bygone times, perhaps once a year or so, they had drunk
tea. The door did not quite shut, the window-frame had long ago come
out of the window, and hung disconsolately, only attached at one
corner, like a bird's broken wing. I stole up to the summer-house, and
peeped cautiously through the chink in the window. Liza was sitting on
one of the benches, with her head drooping. Her right hand lay on her
knees, the left Bizmyonkov was holding in both his hands. He was
looking sympathetically at her.

'How do you feel to-day?' he asked her in a low voice.

'Just the same,' she answered, 'not better, nor worse.--The emptiness,
the fearful emptiness!' she added, raising her eyes dejectedly.

Bizmyonkov made her no answer.

'What do you think,' she went on: 'will he write to me once more?'

'I don't think so, Lizaveta Kirillovna!'

She was silent.

'And after all, why should he write? He told me everything in his first
letter. I could not be his wife; but I have been happy ... not for long
... I have been happy ...'

Bizmyonkov looked down.

'Ah,' she went on quickly, 'if you knew how I loathe that Tchulkaturin
... I always fancy I see on that man's hands ... his blood.' (I
shuddered behind my chink.) 'Though indeed,' she added, dreamily, 'who
knows, perhaps, if it had not been for that duel.... Ah, when I saw him
wounded I felt at once that I was altogether his.'

'Tchulkaturin loves you,' observed Bizmyonkov.

'What is that to me? I don't want any one's love.'... She stopped and
added slowly, 'Except yours. Yes, my friend, your love is necessary to
me; except for you, I should be lost. You have helped me to bear
terrible moments ...'

She broke off ... Bizmyonkov began with fatherly tenderness stroking
her hand.

'There's no help for it! What is one to do! what is one to do, Lizaveta
Kirillovna!' he repeated several times.

'And now indeed,' she went on in a lifeless voice, 'I should die, I
think, if it were not for you. It's you alone that keep me up; besides,
you remind me of him.... You knew all about it, you see. Do you
remember how fine he was that day.... But forgive me; it must be hard
for you....'

'Go on, go on! Nonsense! Bless you!' Bizmyonkov interrupted her.

She pressed his hand.

'You are very good, Bizmyonkov,' she went on;' you are good as an
angel. What can I do! I feel I shall love him to the grave. I have
forgiven him, I am grateful to him. God give him happiness! May God
give him a wife after his own heart'--and her eyes filled with
tears--'if only he does not forget me, if only he will sometimes think
of his Liza!--Let us go,' she added, after a brief silence.

Bizmyonkov raised her hand to his lips.

'I know,' she began again hotly, 'every one is blaming me now, every
one is throwing stones at me. Let them! I wouldn't, any way, change my
misery for their happiness ... no! no!... He did not love me for long,
but he loved me! He never deceived me, he never told me I should be his
wife; I never dreamed of it myself. It was only poor papa hoped for it.
And even now I am not altogether unhappy; the memory remains to me, and
however fearful the results ... I'm stifling here ... it was here I saw
him the last time.... Let's go into the air.'

They got up. I had only just time to skip on one side and hide behind a
thick lime-tree. They came out of the summer-house, and, as far as I
could judge by the sound of their steps, went away into the thicket. I
don't know how long I went on standing there, without stirring from my
place, plunged in a sort of senseless amazement, when suddenly I heard
steps again. I started, and peeped cautiously out from my hiding-place.
Bizmyonkov and Liza were coming back along the same path. Both were
greatly agitated, especially Bizmyonkov.

I fancied he was crying. Liza stopped, looked at him, and distinctly
uttered the following words: 'I do consent, Bizmyonkov. I would never
have agreed if you were only trying to save me, to rescue me from a
terrible position, but you love me, you know everything--and you love
me. I shall never find a trustier, truer friend. I will be your wife.'

Bizmyonkov kissed her hand: she smiled at him mournfully and moved away
towards the house. Bizmyonkov rushed into the thicket, and I went my
way. Seeing that Bizmyonkov had apparently said to Liza precisely what
I had intended to say to her, and she had given him precisely the reply
I was longing to hear from her, there was no need for me to trouble
myself further. Within a fortnight she was married to him. The old
Ozhogins were thankful to get any husband for her.

Now, tell me, am I not a superfluous man? Didn't I play throughout the
whole story the part of a superfluous person? The prince's part ... of
that it's needless to speak; Bizmyonkov's part, too, is
comprehensible.... But I--with what object was I mixed up in it?... A
senseless fifth wheel to the cart!... Ah, it's bitter, bitter for
me!... But there, as the barge-haulers say, 'One more pull, and one
more yet,'--one day more, and one more yet, and there will be no more
bitter nor sweet for me.


_March 31_.

I'm in a bad way. I am writing these lines in bed. Since yesterday
evening there has been a sudden change in the weather. To-day is hot,
almost a summer day. Everything is thawing, breaking up, flowing away.
The air is full of the smell of the opened earth, a strong, heavy,
stifling smell. Steam is rising on all sides. The sun seems beating,
seems smiting everything to pieces. I am very ill, I feel that I am
breaking up.

I meant to write my diary, and, instead of that, what have I done? I
have related one incident of my life. I gossiped on, slumbering
reminiscences were awakened and drew me away. I have written, without
haste, in detail, as though I had years before me. And here now,
there's no time to go on. Death, death is coming. I can hear her
menacing _crescendo_. The time is come ... the time is come!...

And indeed, what does it matter? Isn't it all the same whatever I
write? In sight of death the last earthly cares vanish. I feel I have
grown calm; I am becoming simpler, clearer. Too late I've gained
sense!... It's a strange thing! I have grown calm--certainly, and at
the same time ... I'm full of dread. Yes, I'm full of dread. Half
hanging over the silent, yawning abyss, I shudder, turn away, with
greedy intentness gaze at everything about me. Every object is doubly
precious to me. I cannot gaze enough at my poor, cheerless room, saying
farewell to each spot on my walls. Take your fill for the last time, my
eyes. Life is retreating; slowly and smoothly she is flying away from
me, as the shore flies from the eyes of one at sea. The old yellow face
of my nurse, tied up in a dark kerchief, the hissing samovar on the
table, the pot of geranium in the window, and you, my poor dog, Tresór,
the pen I write these lines with, my own hand, I see you now ... here
you are, here.... Is it possible ... can it be, to-day ... I shall
never see you again! It's hard for a live creature to part with life!
Why do you fawn on me, poor dog? why do you come putting your forepaws
on the bed, with your stump of a tail wagging so violently, and your
kind, mournful eyes fixed on me all the while? Are you sorry for me? or
do you feel already that your master will soon be gone? Ah, if I could
only keep my thoughts, too, resting on all the objects in my room! I
know these reminiscences are dismal and of no importance, but I have no
other. 'The emptiness, the fearful emptiness!' as Liza said.

O my God, my God! Here I am dying.... A heart capable of loving and
ready to love will soon cease to beat.... And can it be it will be
still for ever without having once known happiness, without having once
expanded under the sweet burden of bliss? Alas! it's impossible,
impossible, I know.... If only now, at least, before death--for death
after all is a sacred thing, after all it elevates any being--if any
kind, sad, friendly voice would sing over me a farewell song of my own
sorrow, I could, perhaps, be resigned to it. But to die stupidly,
stupidly....

I believe I'm beginning to rave.

Farewell, life! farewell, my garden! and you, my lime-trees! When the
summer comes, do not forget to be clothed with flowers from head to
foot ... and may it be sweet for people to lie in your fragrant shade,
on the fresh grass, among the whispering chatter of your leaves,
lightly stirred by the wind. Farewell, farewell! Farewell, everything
and for ever!

Farewell, Liza! I wrote those two words, and almost laughed aloud. This
exclamation strikes me as taken out of a book. It's as though I were
writing a sentimental novel and ending up a despairing letter....

To-morrow is the first of April. Can I be going to die to-morrow? That
would be really too unseemly. It's just right for me, though ...

How the doctor did chatter to-day.


_April_ 1.

It is over.... Life is over. I shall certainly die to-day. It's hot
outside ... almost suffocating ... or is it that my lungs are already
refusing to breathe? My little comedy is played out. The curtain is
falling.

Sinking into nothing, I cease to be superfluous ...

Ah, how brilliant that sun is! Those mighty beams breathe of eternity ...

Farewell, Terentyevna!... This morning as she sat at the window she was
crying ... perhaps over me ... and perhaps because she too will soon
have to die. I have made her promise not to kill Tresór.

It's hard for me to write.... I will put down the pen.... It's high
time; death is already approaching with ever-increasing rumble, like a
carriage at night over the pavement; it is here, it is flitting about
me, like the light breath which made the prophet's hair stand up on
end.

I am dying.... Live, you who are living,

    'And about the grave
    May youthful life rejoice,
    And nature heedless
    Glow with eternal beauty.

_Note by the Editor_.--Under this last line was a head in profile with
a big streak of hair and moustaches, with eyes _en face_, and eyelashes
like rays; and under the head some one had written the following words:

    'This manuscript was read
    And the Contents of it Not Approved
    By Peter Zudotyeshin
    My My My
    My dear Sir,
    Peter Zudotyeshin,
    Dear Sir.'

But as the handwriting of these lines was not in the least like the
handwriting in which the other part of the manuscript was written, the
editor considers that he is justified in concluding that the above
lines were added subsequently by another person, especially since it
has come to his (the editor's) knowledge that Mr. Tchulkaturin actually
did die on the night between the 1st and 2nd of April in the year 18--,
at his native place, Sheep's Springs.


       *       *       *       *       *


A TOUR IN THE FOREST





FIRST DAY


The sight of the vast pinewood, embracing the whole horizon, the sight
of the 'Forest,' recalls the sight of the ocean. And the sensations it
arouses are the same; the same primaeval untouched force lies
outstretched in its breadth and majesty before the eyes of the
spectator. From the heart of the eternal forest, from the undying bosom
of the waters, comes the same voice: 'I have nothing to do with
thee,'--nature says to man, 'I reign supreme, while do thou bestir
thyself to thy utmost to escape dying.' But the forest is gloomier and
more monotonous than the sea, especially the pine forest, which is
always alike and almost soundless. The ocean menaces and caresses, it
frolics with every colour, speaks with every voice; it reflects the
sky, from which too comes the breath of eternity, but an eternity as it
were not so remote from us.... The dark, unchanging pine-forest keeps
sullen silence or is filled with a dull roar--and at the sight of it
sinks into man's heart more deeply, more irresistibly, the sense of his
own nothingness. It is hard for man, the creature of a day, born
yesterday, and doomed to death on the morrow, it is hard for him to
bear the cold gaze of the eternal Isis, fixed without sympathy upon
him: not only the daring hopes and dreams of youth are humbled and
quenched within him, enfolded by the icy breath of the elements;
no--his whole soul sinks down and swoons within him; he feels that the
last of his kind may vanish off the face of the earth--and not one
needle will quiver on those twigs; he feels his isolation, his
feebleness, his fortuitousness;--and in hurried, secret panic, he turns
to the petty cares and labours of life; he is more at ease in that
world he has himself created; there he is at home, there he dares yet
believe in his own importance and in his own power.

Such were the ideas that came into my mind, some years ago, when,
standing on the steps of a little inn on the bank of the marshy little
river Ressetta, I first gazed upon the forest. The bluish masses of
fir-forest lay in long, continuous ridges before me; here and there was
the green patch of a small birch-copse; the whole sky-line was hugged
by the pine-wood; nowhere was there the white gleam of a church, nor
bright stretches of meadow--it was all trees and trees, everywhere the
ragged edge of the tree-tops, and a delicate dim mist, the eternal mist
of the forest, hung over them in the distance. It was not indolent
repose this immobility of life suggested; no--the absence of life,
something dead, even in its grandeur, was what came to me from every
side of the horizon. I remember big white clouds were swimming by,
slowly and very high up, and the hot summer day lay motionless upon the
silent earth. The reddish water of the stream glided without a splash
among the thick reeds: at its bottom could be dimly discerned round
cushions of pointed moss, and its banks sank away in the swampy mud,
and sharply reappeared again in white hillocks of fine crumbling sand.
Close by the little inn ran the trodden highroad.

On this road, just opposite the steps, stood a cart, loaded with boxes
and hampers. Its owner, a thin pedlar with a hawk nose and mouse-like
eyes, bent and lame, was putting in it his little nag, lame like
himself. He was a gingerbread-seller, who was making his way to the
fair at Karatchev. Suddenly several people appeared on the road, others
straggled after them ... at last, quite a crowd came trudging into
sight; all of them had sticks in their hands and satchels on their
shoulders. From their fatigued yet swinging gait, and from their
sun-burnt faces, one could see they had come from a long distance. They
were leatherworkers and diggers coming back from working for hire.

An old man of seventy, white all over, seemed to be their leader. From
time to time he turned round and with a quiet voice urged on those who
lagged behind. 'Now, now, now, lads,' he said, 'no--ow.' They all
walked in silence, in a sort of solemn hush. Only one of them, a little
man with a wrathful air, in a sheepskin coat wide open, and a lambswool
cap pulled right over his eyes, on coming up to the gingerbread man,
suddenly inquired: 'How much is the gingerbread, you tomfool?'

'What sort of gingerbread will it be, worthy sir?' the disconcerted
gingerbread--man responded in a thin, little voice. 'Some are a
farthing--and others cost a halfpenny. Have you a halfpenny in your
purse?'

'But I guess it will sweeten the belly too much,' retorted the
sheepskin, and he retreated from the cart.

'Hurry up, lads, hurry up,' I heard the old man's voice: 'it's far yet
to our night's rest.'

'An uneducated folk,' said the gingerbread-man, with a squint at me,
directly all the crowd had trudged past: 'is such a dainty for the
likes of them?'

And quickly harnessing his horse, he went down to the river, where a
little wooden ferry could be seen. A peasant in a white felt 'schlik'
(the usual headgear in the forest) came out of a low mud hut to meet
him, and ferried him over to the opposite bank. The little cart, with
one wheel creaking from time to time, crawled along the trodden and
deeply rutted road.

I fed my horses, and I too was ferried over. After struggling for a
couple of miles through the boggy prairie, I got at last on to a narrow
raised wooden causeway to a clearing in the forest. The cart jolted
unevenly over the round beams of the causeway: I got out and went along
on foot. The horses moved in step snorting and shaking their heads from
the gnats and flies. The forest took us into its bosom. On the
outskirts, nearer to the prairie, grew birches, aspens, limes, maples,
and oaks. Then they met us more rarely, the dense firwood moved down on
us in an unbroken wall. Further on were the red, bare trunks of pines,
and then again a stretch of mixed copse, overgrown with underwood of
hazelnut, mountain ash, and bramble, and stout, vigorous weeds. The
sun's rays threw a brilliant light on the tree-tops, and, filtering
through the branches, here and there reached the ground in pale streaks
and patches. Birds I scarcely heard--they do not like great forests.
Only from time to time there came the doleful, thrice-repeated call of
a hoopoe, and the angry screech of a nuthatch or a jay; a silent,
always solitary bird kept fluttering across the clearing, with a flash
of golden azure from its lovely feathers. At times the trees grew
further apart, ahead of us the light broke in, the cart came out on a
cleared, sandy, open space. Thin rye was growing over it in rows,
noiselessly nodding its pale ears. On one side there was a dark,
dilapidated little chapel, with a slanting cross over a well. An unseen
brook was babbling peaceably with changing, ringing sounds, as though
it were flowing into an empty bottle. And then suddenly the road was
cut in half by a birch-tree recently fallen, and the forest stood
around, so old, lofty, and slumbering, that the air seemed pent in. In
places the clearing lay under water. On both sides stretched a forest
bog, all green and dark, all covered with reeds and tiny alders. Ducks
flew up in pairs--and it was strange to see those water-birds darting
rapidly about among the pines. 'Ga, ga, ga, ga,' their drawn-out call
kept rising unexpectedly. Then a shepherd drove a flock through the
underwood: a brown cow with short, pointed horns broke noisily through
the bushes and stood stockstill at the edge of the clearing, her big,
dark eyes fixed on the dog running before me. A slight breeze brought
the delicate, pungent smell of burnt wood. A white smoke in the
distance crept in eddying rings over the pale, blue forest air, showing
that a peasant was charcoal-burning for a glass-factory or for a
foundry. The further we went on, the darker and stiller it became all
round us. In the pine-forest it is always still; there is only, high
overhead, a sort of prolonged murmur and subdued roar in the tree-tops.
One goes on and on, and this eternal murmur of the forest never ceases,
and the heart gradually begins to sink, and a man longs to come out
quickly into the open, into the daylight; he longs to draw a full
breath again, and is oppressed by the fragrant damp and decay....

For about twelve miles we drove on at a walking pace, rarely at a trot.
I wanted to get by daylight to Svyatoe, a hamlet lying in the very
heart of the forest. Twice we met peasants with stripped bark or long
logs on carts.

'Is it far to Svyatoe?' I asked one of them.

'No, not far.'

'How far?'

'It'll be a little over two miles.'

Another hour and a half went by. We were still driving on and on. Again
we heard the creak of a laden cart. A peasant was walking beside it.

'How far, brother, is it still to Svyatoe?'

'What?'

'How far to Svyatoe?'

'Six miles.'

The sun was already setting when at last I got out of the forest and
saw facing me a little village. About twenty homesteads were grouped
close about an old wooden church, with a single green cupola, and tiny
windows, brilliantly red in the evening glow. This was Svyatoe. I drove
into its outskirts. A herd returning homewards overtook my cart, and
with lowing, grunting and bleating moved by us. Young girls and
bustling peasant women came to meet their beasts. Whiteheaded boys with
merry shrieks went in chase of refractory pigs. The dust swirled along
the street in light clouds, flushed crimson as they rose higher in the
air.

I stopped at the house of the village elder, a crafty and clever
'forester,' one of those foresters of whom they say he can see two
yards into the ground. Early next morning, accompanied by the village
elder's son, and another peasant called Yegor, I set off in a little
cart with a pair of peasant's horses, to shoot woodcocks and moorhens.
The forest formed a continuous bluish ring all round the sky-line;
there was reckoned to be two hundred acres, no more, of ploughed land
round Svyatoe; but one had to go some five miles to find good places
for game. The elder's son was called Kondrat. He was a flaxen-haired,
rosy-cheeked young fellow, with a good-natured, peaceable expression of
face, obliging and talkative. He drove the horses. Yegor sat by my
side. I want to say a few words about him.

He was considered the cleverest sportsman in the whole district. Every
step of the ground for fifty miles round he had been over again and
again. He seldom fired at a bird, for lack of powder and shot; but it
was enough for him to decoy a moorhen or to detect the track of a
grouse. Yegor had the character of being a straightforward fellow and
'no talker.' He did not care for talking and never exaggerated the
number of birds he had taken--a trait rare in a sportsman. He was of
medium height, thin, and had a pale, long face, and big, honest eyes.
All his features, especially his straight and never-moving lips, were
expressive of untroubled serenity. He gave a slight, as it were inward
smile, whenever he uttered a word--very sweet was that quiet smile. He
never drank spirits, and worked industriously; but nothing prospered
with him. His wife was always ailing, his children didn't live; he got
poorer and poorer and could never pick up again. And there is no
denying that a passion for the chase is no good for a peasant, and any
one who 'plays with a gun' is sure to be a poor manager of his land.
Either from constantly being in the forest, face to face with the stern
and melancholy scenery of that inhuman country, or from the peculiar
cast and formation of his character, there was noticeable in every
action of Yegor's a sort of modest dignity and stateliness--stateliness
it was, and not melancholy--the stateliness of a majestic stag. He had
in his time killed seven bears, lying in wait for them in the oats. The
last he had only succeeded in killing on the fourth night of his
ambush; the bear persisted in not turning sideways to him, and he had
only one bullet. Yegor had killed him the day before my arrival. When
Kondrat brought me to him, I found him in his back yard; squatting on
his heels before the huge beast, he was cutting the fat out with a
short, blunt knife.

'What a fine fellow you've knocked over there!' I observed.

Yegor raised his head and looked first at me, then at the dog, who had
come with me.

'If it's shooting you've come after, sir, there are woodcocks at
Moshnoy--three coveys, and five of moorhens,' he observed, and set to
work again.

With Yegor and with Kondrat I went out the next day in search of sport.
We drove rapidly over the open ground surrounding Svyatoe, but when we
got into the forest we crawled along at a walking pace once more.

'Look, there's a wood-pigeon,' said Kondrat suddenly, turning to me:
'better knock it over!'

Yegor looked in the direction Kondrat pointed, but said nothing. The
wood-pigeon was over a hundred paces from us, and one can't kill it at
forty paces; there is such strength in its feathers. A few more remarks
were made by the conversational Kondrat; but the forest hush had its
influence even on him; he became silent. Only rarely exchanging a word
or two, looking straight ahead, and listening to the puffing and
snorting of the horses, we got at last to 'Moshnoy.' That is the name
given to the older pine-forest, overgrown in places by fir saplings. We
got out; Kondrat led the cart into the bushes, so that the gnats should
not bite the horses. Yegor examined the cock of his gun and crossed
himself: he never began anything without the sign of the cross.

The forest into which we had come was exceedingly old. I don't know
whether the Tartars had wandered over it, but Russian thieves or
Lithuanians, in disturbed times, might certainly have hidden in its
recesses. At a respectful distance from one another stood the mighty
pines with their slightly curved, massive, pale-yellow trunks. Between
them stood in single file others, rather younger. The ground was
covered with greenish moss, sprinkled all over with dead pine-needles;
blueberries grew in dense bushes; the strong perfume of the berries,
like the smell of musk, oppressed the breathing. The sun could not
pierce through the high network of the pine-branches; but it was
stiflingly hot in the forest all the same, and not dark; like big drops
of sweat the heavy, transparent resin stood out and slowly trickled
down the coarse bark of the trees. The still air, with no light or
shade in it, stung the face. Everything was silent; even our footsteps
were not audible; we walked on the moss as on a carpet. Yegor in
particular moved as silently as a shadow; even the brushwood did not
crackle under his feet. He walked without haste, from time to time
blowing a shrill note on a whistle; a woodcock soon answered back, and
before my eyes darted into a thick fir-tree. But in vain Yegor pointed
him out to me; however much I strained my eyes, I could not make him
out. Yegor had to take a shot at him. We came upon two coveys of
moorhens also. The cautious birds rose at a distance with an abrupt,
heavy sound. We succeeded, however, in killing three young ones.

At one _meidan_ [Footnote 1: _Meidan_ is the name given to a place
where tar has been made.--Author's Note.] Yegor suddenly stopped and
called me up.

'A bear has been trying to get water,' he observed, pointing to a
broad, fresh scratch, made in the very middle of a hole covered with
fine moss.

'Is that the print of his paw?' I inquired.

'Yes; but the water has dried up. That's the track of him too on that
pine; he has been climbing after honey. He has cut into it with his
claws as if with a knife.'

We went on making our way into the inner-most depths of the forest.
Yegor only rarely looked upwards, and walked on serenely and
confidently. I saw a high, round rampart, enclosed by a half-choked-up
ditch.

'What's that? a _meidan_ too?' I inquired.

'No,' answered Yegor; 'here's where the thieves' town stood.'

'Long ago?'

'Long ago; our grandfathers remember it. Here they buried their
treasure. And they took a mighty oath: on human blood.'

We went on another mile and a half; I began to feel thirsty.

'Sit down a little while,' said Yegor: 'I will go for water; there is a
well not far from here.'

He went away; I was left alone.

I sat down on a felled stump, leaned my elbows on my knees, and after a
long stillness, raised my head and looked around me. Oh, how still and
sullenly gloomy was everything around me--no, not gloomy even, but
dumb, cold, and menacing at the same time! My heart sank. At that
instant, at that spot, I had a sense of death breathing upon me, I felt
I almost touched its perpetual closeness. If only one sound had
vibrated, one momentary rustle had arisen, in the engulfing stillness
of the pine-forest that hemmed me in on all sides! I let my head sink
again, almost in terror; it was as though I had looked in, where no man
ought to look.... I put my hand over my eyes--and all at once, as
though at some mysterious bidding, I began to remember all my life....

There passed in a flash before me my childhood, noisy and peaceful,
quarrelsome and good-hearted, with hurried joys and swift sorrows; then
my youth rose up, vague, queer, self-conscious, with all its mistakes
and beginnings, with disconnected work, and agitated indolence....
There came back, too, to my memory the comrades who shared those early
aspirations ... then like lightning in the night there came the gleam
of a few bright memories ... then the shadows began to grow and bear
down on me, it was darker and darker about me, more dully and quietly
the monotonous years ran by--and like a stone, dejection sank upon my
heart. I sat without stirring and gazed, gazed with effort and
perplexity, as though I saw all my life before me, as though scales had
fallen from my eyes. Oh, what have I done! my lips involuntarily
murmured in a bitter whisper. O life, life, where, how have you gone
without a trace? How have you slipped through my clenched fingers? Have
you deceived me, or was it that I knew not how to make use of your
gifts? Is it possible? is this fragment, this poor handful of dusty
ashes, all that is left of you? Is this cold, stagnant, unnecessary
something--I, the I of old days? How? The soul was athirst for
happiness so perfect, she rejected with such scorn all that was small,
all that was insufficient, she waited: soon happiness would burst on
her in a torrent--and has not one drop moistened the parched lips? Oh,
my golden strings, you that once so delicately, so sweetly quivered,--I
have never, it seems, heard your music ... you had but just
sounded--when you broke. Or, perhaps, happiness, the true happiness of
all my life, passed close by me, smiled a resplendent smile upon
me--and I failed to recognise its divine countenance. Or did it really
visit me, sit at my bedside, and is forgotten by me, like a dream? Like
a dream, I repeated disconsolately. Elusive images flitted over my
soul, awakening in it something between pity and bewilderment ... you
too, I thought, dear, familiar, lost faces, you, thronging about me in
this deadly solitude, why are you so profoundly and mournfully silent?
From what abyss have you arisen? How am I to interpret your enigmatic
glances? Are you greeting me, or bidding me farewell? Oh, can it be
there is no hope, no turning back? Why are these heavy, belated drops
trickling from my eyes? O heart, why, to what end, grieve more? try to
forget if you would have peace, harden yourself to the meek acceptance
of the last parting, to the bitter words 'good-bye' and 'for ever.' Do
not look back, do not remember, do not strive to reach where it is
light, where youth laughs, where hope is wreathed with the flowers of
spring, where dovelike delight soars on azure wings, where love, like
dew in the sunrise, flashes with tears of ecstasy; look not where is
bliss, and faith and power--that is not our place!

'Here is water for you,' I heard Yegor's musical voice behind me:
'drink, with God's blessing.'

I could not help starting; this living speech shook me, sent a
delightful tremor all through me. It was as though I had fallen into
unknown, dark depths, where all was hushed about me, and nothing could
be heard but the soft, persistent moan of some unending grief.... I was
faint and could not struggle, and all at once there floated down to me
a friendly voice, and some mighty hand with one pull drew me up into
the light of day. I looked round, and with unutterable consolation saw
the serene and honest face of my guide. He stood easily and gracefully
before me, and with his habitual smile held out a wet flask full of
clear liquid.... I got up.

'Let's go on; lead the way,' I said eagerly. We set off and wandered a
long while, till evening. Directly the noonday heat was over, it became
cold and dark so rapidly in the forest that one felt no desire to
remain in it.

'Away, restless mortals,' it seemed whispering sullenly from each pine.
We came out, but it was some time before we could find Kondrat. We
shouted, called to him, but he did not answer. All of a sudden, in the
profound stillness of the air, we heard his 'wo, wo,' sound distinctly
in a ravine close to us.... The wind, which had suddenly sprung up, and
as suddenly dropped again, had prevented him from hearing our calls.
Only on the trees which stood some distance apart were traces of its
onslaught to be seen; many of the leaves were blown inside out, and
remained so, giving a variegated look to the motionless foliage. We got
into the cart, and drove home. I sat, swaying to and fro, and slowly
breathing in the damp, rather keen air; and all my recent reveries and
regrets were drowned in the one sensation of drowsiness and fatigue, in
the one desire to get back as soon as possible to the shelter of a warm
house, to have a good drink of tea with cream, to nestle into the soft,
yielding hay, and to sleep, to sleep, to sleep....




SECOND DAY


The next morning the three of us set off to the 'Charred Wood.' Ten
years before, several thousand acres in the 'Forest' had been burnt
down, and had not up to that time grown again; here and there, young
firs and pines were shooting up, but for the most part there was
nothing but moss and ashes. In this 'Charred Wood,' which is reckoned
to be about nine miles from Svyatoe, there are all sorts of berries
growing in great profusion, and it is a favourite haunt of grouse, who
are very fond of strawberries and bilberries.

We were driving along in silence, when suddenly Kondrat raised his
head.

'Ah!' he exclaimed: 'why, that's never Efrem standing yonder! 'Morning
to you, Alexandritch,' he added, raising his voice, and lifting his
cap.

A short peasant in a short, black smock, with a cord round the waist,
came out from behind a tree, and approached the cart.

'Why, have they let you off?' inquired Kondrat.

'I should think so!' replied the peasant, and he grinned. 'You don't
catch them keeping the likes of me.'

'And what did Piotr Filippitch say to it?'

'Filippov, is it? Oh, he's all right.'

'You don't say so! Why, I thought, Alexandritch--well, brother, thought
I, now you 're the goose that must lie down in the frying-pan!'

'On account of Piotr Filippov, hey? Get along! We've seen plenty like
him. He tries to pass for a wolf, and then slinks off like a
dog.--Going shooting your honour, hey?' the peasant suddenly inquired,
turning his little, screwed-up eyes rapidly upon me, and at once
dropping them again.

'Yes.'

'And whereabouts, now?'

'To the Charred Wood,' said Kondrat.

'You 're going to the Charred Wood? mind you don't get into the fire.'

'Eh?'

'I've seen a lot of woodcocks,' the peasant went on, seeming all the
while to be laughing, and making Kondrat no answer. 'But you'll never
get there; as the crow flies it'll be fifteen miles. Why, even Yegor
here--not a doubt but he's as at home in the forest as in his own
back-yard, but even he won't make his way there. Hullo, Yegor, you
honest penny halfpenny soul!' he shouted suddenly.

'Good morning, Efrem,' Yegor responded deliberately.

I looked with curiosity at this Efrem. It was long since I had seen
such a queer face. He had a long, sharp nose, thick lips, and a scanty
beard. His little blue eyes positively danced, like little imps. He
stood in a free-and-easy pose, his arms akimbo, and did not touch his
cap.

'Going home for a visit, eh?' Kondrat questioned him.

'Go on! on a visit! It's not the weather for that, my lad; it's set
fair. It's all open and free, my dear; one may lie on the stove till
winter time, not a dog will stir. When I was in the town, the clerk
said: "Give us up," says he, "'Lexandritch; you just get out of the
district, we'll let you have a passport, first-class one ..." but
there, I'd pity on you Svyatoe fellows: you'd never get another thief
like me.'

Kondrat laughed.

'You will have your joke, uncle, you will, upon my word,' he said, and
he shook the reins. The horses started off.

'Wo,' said Efrem. The horses stopped. Kondrat did not like this prank.

'Enough of your nonsense, Alexandritch,' he observed in an undertone:
'don't you see we're out with a gentleman? You mind; he'll be angry.'

'Get on with you, sea-drake! What should he be angry about? He's a
good-natured gentleman. You see, he'll give me something to drink. Hey,
master, give a poor scoundrel a dram! Won't I drink it!' he added,
shrugging his shoulder up to his ear, and grating his teeth.

I could not help smiling, gave him a copper, and told Kondrat to drive
on.

'Much obliged, your honour,' Efrem shouted after us in soldierly
fashion. 'And you'll know, Kondrat, for the future from whom to learn
manners. Faint heart never wins; 'tis boldness gains the day. When you
come back, come to my place, d'ye hear? There'll be drinking going on
three days at home; there'll be some necks broken, I can tell you; my
wife's a devil of a woman; our yard's on the side of a precipice....
Ay, magpie, have a good time till your tail gets pinched.' And with a
sharp whistle, Efrem plunged into the bushes.

'What sort of man is he?' I questioned Kondrat, who, sitting in the
front, kept shaking his head, as though deliberating with himself.

'That fellow?' replied Kondrat, and he looked down. 'That fellow?' he
repeated.

'Yes. Is he of your village?'

'Yes, he's a Svyatoe man. He's a fellow.... You wouldn't find the like
of him, if you hunted for a hundred miles round. A thief and
cheat--good Lord, yes! Another man's property simply, as it were, takes
his eye. You may bury a thing underground, and you won't hide it from
him; and as to money, you might sit on it, and he'd get it from under
you without your noticing it.'

'What a bold fellow he is!'

'Bold? Yes, he's not afraid of any one. But just look at him; he's a
beast by his physiognomy; you can see by his nose.' (Kondrat often used
to drive with gentlemen, and had been in the chief town of the
province, and so liked on occasion to show off his attainments.)
'There's positively no doing anything with him. How many times they've
taken him off to put him in the prison!--it's simply trouble thrown
away. They start tying him up, and he'll say, "Come, why don't you
fasten that leg? fasten that one too, and a little tighter: I'll have a
little sleep meanwhile; and I shall get home before your escort." And
lo and behold! there he is back again, yes, back again, upon my soul!
Well as we all about here know the forest, being used to it from
childhood, we're no match for him there. Last summer he came at night
straight across from Altuhin to Svyatoe, and no one had ever been known
to walk it--it'll be over thirty miles. And he steals honey too; no one
can beat him at that; and the bees don't sting him. There's not a hive
he hasn't plundered.'

'I expect he doesn't spare the wild bees either?'

'Well, no, I won't lay a false charge against him. That sin's never
been observed in him. The wild bees' nest is a holy thing with us. A
hive is shut in by fences; there's a watch kept; if you get the
honey--it's your luck; but the wild bee is a thing of God's, not
guarded; only the bear touches it.'

'Because he is a bear,' remarked Yegor.

'Is he married?'

'To be sure. And he has a son. And won't he be a thief too, the son!
He's taken after his father. And he's training him now too. The other
day he took a pot with some old coppers in it, stolen somewhere, I've
no doubt, went and buried it in a clearing in the forest, and went home
and sent his son to the clearing. "Till you find the pot," says he, "I
won't give you anything to eat, or let you into the place." The son
stayed the whole day in the forest, and spent the night there, but he
found the pot. Yes, he's a smart chap, that Efrem. When he's at home,
he's a civil fellow, presses every one; you may eat and drink as you
will, and there'll be dancing got up at his place and merry-making of
all sorts. And when he comes to the meeting--we have a parish meeting,
you know, in our village--well, no one talks better sense than he does;
he'll come up behind, listen, say a word as if he chopped it off, and
away again; and a weighty word it'll be, too. But when he's about in
the forest, ah! that means trouble! We've to look out for mischief.
Though, I must say, he doesn't touch his own people unless he's in a
fix. If he meets a Svyatoe man: "Go along with you, brother," he'll
shout, a long way away; "the forest devil's upon me: I shall kill
you!"--it's a bad business!'

'What can you all be thinking about? A whole district can't get even
with one man?'

'Well, that's just how it is, any way.'

'Is he a sorcerer, then?'

'Who can say! Here, some days ago, he crept round at night to the
deacon's near, after the honey, and the deacon was watching the hive
himself. Well, he caught him, and in the dark he gave him a good
hiding. When he'd done, Efrem, he says to him: "But d'you know who it
is you've been beating?" The deacon, when he knew him by his voice, was
fairly dumfoundered.

"Well, my good friend," says Efrem, "you won't get off so easily for
this." The deacon fell down at his feet. "Take," says he, "what you
please." "No," says he. "I'll take it from you at my own time and as I
choose." And what do you think? Since that day the deacon's as though
he'd been scalded; he wanders about like a ghost. "It's taken," says
he, "all the heart out of me; it was a dreadful, powerful saying, to be
sure, the brigand fastened upon me." That's how it is with him, with
the deacon.'

'That deacon must be a fool,' I observed.

'A fool? Well, but what do you say to this? There was once an order
issued to seize this fellow, Efrem. We had a police commissary then, a
sharp man. And so a dozen chaps went off into the forest to take Efrem.
They look, and there he is coming to meet them.... One of them shouts,
"Here he is, hold him, tie him!" But Efrem stepped into the forest and
cut himself a branch, two fingers' thickness, like this, and then out
he skips into the road again, looking so frightful, so terrible, and
gives the command like a general at a review: "On your knees!" All of
them fairly fell down. "But who," says he, "shouted hold him, tie him?
You, Seryoga?" The fellow simply jumped up and ran ... and Efrem after
him, and kept swinging his branch at his heels.... For nearly a mile he
stroked him down. And afterwards he never ceased to regret: "Ah," he'd
say, "it is annoying I didn't lay him up for the confession." For it
was just before St. Philip's day. Well, they changed the police
commissary soon after, but it all ended the same way.'

'Why did they all give in to him?'

'Why! well, it is so....'

'He has frightened you all, and now he does as he likes with you.'

'Frightened, yes.... He'd frighten any one. And he's a wonderful hand
at contrivances, my goodness, yes! I once came upon him in the forest;
there was a heavy rain falling; I was for edging away.... But he looked
at me, and beckoned to me with his hand like this. "Come along," says
he, "Kondrat, don't be afraid. Let me show you how to live in the
forest, and to keep dry in the rain." I went up to him, and he was
sitting under a fir-tree, and he'd made a fire of damp twigs: the smoke
hung about in the fir-tree, and kept the rain from dripping through. I
was astonished at him then. And I'll tell you what he contrived one
time' (and Kondrat laughed); 'he really did do a funny thing. They'd
been thrashing the oats at the thrashing-floor, and they hadn't
finished; they hadn't time to rake up the last heap; well, they 'd set
two watch-men by it for the night, and they weren't the boldest-hearted
of the chaps either. Well, they were sitting and gossiping, and Efrem
takes and stuffs his shirt-sleeves full of straw, ties up the
wrist-bands, and puts the shirt up over his head. And so he steals up
in that shape to the thrashing-floor, and just pops out from behind the
corner and gives them a peep of his horns. One chap says to the other:
"Do you see?" "Yes," says the other, and didn't he give a screech all
of a sudden ... and then the fences creaked and nothing more was seen
of them. Efrem shovelled up the oats into a bag and dragged it off
home. He told the story himself afterwards. He put them to shame, he
did, the chaps.... He did really!'

Kondrat laughed again. And Yegor smiled. 'So the fences creaked and
that was all?' he commented. 'There was nothing more seen of them,'
Kondrat assented. 'They were simply gone in a flash.'

We were all silent again. Suddenly Kondrat started and sat up.

'Eh, mercy upon us!' he ejaculated; 'surely it's never a fire!'

'Where, where?' we asked.

'Yonder, see, in front, where we 're going.... A fire it is! Efrem
there, Efrem--why, he foretold it! If it's not his doing, the damned
fellow!...'

I glanced in the direction Kondrat was pointing. Two or three miles
ahead of us, behind a green strip of low fir saplings, there really was
a thick column of dark blue smoke slowly rising from the ground,
gradually twisting and coiling into a cap-shaped cloud; to the right
and left of it could be seen others, smaller and whiter.

A peasant, all red and perspiring, in nothing but his shirt, with his
hair hanging dishevelled about his scared face, galloped straight
towards us, and with difficulty stopped his hastily bridled horse.

'Mates,' he inquired breathlessly, 'haven't you seen the foresters?'

'No, we haven't. What is it? is the forest on fire?'

'Yes. We must get the people together, or else if it gets to Trosnoe ...'

The peasant tugged with his elbows, pounded with his heels on the
horse's sides.... It galloped off.

Kondrat, too, whipped up his pair. We drove straight towards the smoke,
which was spreading more and more widely; in places it suddenly grew
black and rose up high. The nearer we moved to it, the more indefinite
became its outlines; soon all the air was clouded over, there was a
strong smell of burning, and here and there between the trees, with a
strange, weird quivering in the sunshine, gleamed the first pale red
tongues of flame.

'Well, thank God,' observed Kondrat, 'it seems it's an overground
fire.'

'What's that?'

'Overground? One that runs along over the earth. With an underground
fire, now, it's a difficult job to deal. What's one to do, when the
earth's on fire for a whole yard's depth? There's only one means of
safety--digging ditches,--and do you suppose that's easy? But an
overground fire's nothing. It only scorches the grasses and burns the
dry leaves! The forest will be all the better for it. Ouf, though,
mercy on us, look how it flares!'

We drove almost up to the edge of the fire. I got down and went to meet
it. It was neither dangerous nor difficult. The fire was running over
the scanty pine-forest against the wind; it moved in an uneven line,
or, to speak more accurately, in a dense jagged wall of curved tongues.
The smoke was carried away by the wind. Kondrat had told the truth; it
really was an overground fire, which only scorched the grass and passed
on without finishing its work, leaving behind it a black and smoking,
but not even smouldering, track. At times, it is true, when the fire
came upon a hole filled with dry wood and twigs, it suddenly and with a
kind of peculiar, rather vindictive roar, rose up in long, quivering
points; but it soon sank down again and ran on as before, with a slight
hiss and crackle. I even noticed, more than once, an oak-bush, with dry
hanging leaves, hemmed in all round and yet untouched, except for a
slight singeing at its base. I must own I could not understand why the
dry leaves were not burned. Kondrat explained to me that it was owing
to the fact that the fire was overground, 'that's to say, not angry.'
'But it's fire all the same,' I protested. 'Overground fire,' repeated
Kondrat. However, overground as it was, the fire, none the less,
produced its effect: hares raced up and down with a sort of disorder,
running back with no sort of necessity into the neighbourhood of the
fire; birds fell down in the smoke and whirled round and round; horses
looked back and neighed, the forest itself fairly hummed--and man felt
discomfort from the heat suddenly beating into his face....

'What are we looking at?' said Yegor suddenly, behind my back. 'Let's
go on.'

'But where are we to go?' asked Kondrat.

'Take the left, over the dry bog; we shall get through.'

We turned to the left, and got through, though it was sometimes
difficult for both the horses and the cart.

The whole day we wandered over the Charred Wood. At evening--the sunset
had not yet begun to redden in the sky, but the shadows from the trees
already lay long and motionless, and in the grass one could feel that
chill that comes before the dew--I lay down by the roadside near the
cart in which Kondrat, without haste, was harnessing the horses after
their feed, and I recalled my cheerless reveries of the day before.
Everything around was as still as the previous evening, but there was
not the forest, stifling and weighing down the spirit. On the dry moss,
on the crimson grasses, on the soft dust of the road, on the slender
stems and pure little leaves of the young birch-trees, lay the clear
soft light of the no longer scorching, sinking sun. Everything was
resting, plunged in soothing coolness; nothing was yet asleep, but
everything was getting ready for the restoring slumber of evening and
night-time. Everything seemed to be saying to man: 'Rest, brother of
ours; breathe lightly, and grieve not, thou too, at the sleep close
before thee.' I raised my head and saw at the very end of a delicate
twig one of those large flies with emerald head, long body, and four
transparent wings, which the fanciful French call 'maidens,' while our
guileless people has named them 'bucket-yokes.' For a long while, more
than an hour, I did not take my eyes off her. Soaked through and
through with sunshine, she did not stir, only from time to time turning
her head from side to side and shaking her lifted wings ... that was
all. Looking at her, it suddenly seemed to me that I understood the
life of nature, understood its clear and unmistakable though, to many,
still mysterious significance. A subdued, quiet animation, an
unhasting, restrained use of sensations and powers, an equilibrium of
health in each separate creature--there is her very basis, her
unvarying law, that is what she stands upon and holds to. Everything
that goes beyond this level, above or below--it makes no
difference--she flings away as worthless. Many insects die as soon as
they know the joys of love, which destroy the equilibrium. The sick
beast plunges into the thicket and expires there alone: he seems to
feel that he no longer has the right to look upon the sun that is
common to all, nor to breathe the open air; he has not the right to
live;--and the man who from his own fault or from the fault of others
is faring ill in the world--ought, at least, to know how to keep
silence.

'Well, Yegor!' cried Kondrat all at once. He had already settled
himself on the box of the cart and was shaking and playing with the
reins. 'Come, sit down. What are you so thoughtful about? Still about
the cow?'

'About the cow? What cow?' I repeated, and looked at Yegor: calm and
stately as ever, he certainly did seem thoughtful, and was gazing away
into the distance towards the fields already beginning to get dark.

'Don't you know?' answered Kondrat; 'his last cow died last night. He
has no luck.--What are you going to do?'....

Yegor sat down on the box, without speaking, and we drove off. 'That
man knows how to bear in silence,' I thought.




YAKOV PASINKOV

I


It happened in Petersburg, in the winter, on the first day of the
carnival. I had been invited to dinner by one of my schoolfellows, who
enjoyed in his youth the reputation of being as modest as a maiden, and
turned out in the sequel a person by no means over rigid in his
conduct. He is dead now, like most of my schoolfellows. There were to
be present at the dinner, besides me, Konstantin Alexandrovitch Asanov,
and a literary celebrity of those days. The literary celebrity kept us
waiting for him, and finally sent a note that he was not coming, and in
place of him there turned up a little light-haired gentleman, one of
the everlasting uninvited guests with whom Petersburg abounds.

The dinner lasted a long while; our host did not spare the wine, and by
degrees our heads were affected. Everything that each of us kept hidden
in his heart--and who is there that has not something hidden in his
heart?--came to the surface. Our host's face suddenly lost its modest
and reserved expression; his eyes shone with a brazen-faced impudence,
and a vulgar grin curved his lips; the light-haired gentleman laughed
in a feeble way, with a senseless crow; but Asanov surprised me more
than any one. The man had always been conspicuous for his sense of
propriety, but now he began by suddenly rubbing his hand over his
forehead, giving himself airs, boasting of his connections, and
continually alluding to a certain uncle of his, a very important
personage.... I positively should not have known him; he was
unmistakably jeering at us ... he all but avowed his contempt for our
society. Asanov's insolence began to exasperate me.

'Listen,' I said to him; 'if we are such poor creatures to your
thinking, you'd better go and see your illustrious uncle. But possibly
he's not at home to you.'

Asanov made me no reply, and went on passing his hand across his
forehead.

'What a set of people!' he said again; 'they've never been in any
decent society, never been acquainted with a single decent woman, while
I have here,' he cried, hurriedly pulling a pocket-book out of his
side-pocket and tapping it with his hand, 'a whole pack of letters from
a girl whom you wouldn't find the equal of in the whole world.'

Our host and the light-haired gentleman paid no attention to Asanov's
last words; they were holding each other by their buttons, and both
relating something; but I pricked up my ears.

'Oh, you 're bragging, Mr. nephew of an illustrious personage,' I said,
going up to Asanov; 'you haven't any letters at all.'

'Do you think so?' he retorted, and he looked down loftily at me;
'what's this, then?' He opened the pocket-book, and showed me about a
dozen letters addressed to him.... A familiar handwriting, I
fancied.... I feel the flush of shame mounting to my cheeks ... my
self-love is suffering horribly.... No one likes to own to a mean
action.... But there is nothing for it: when I began my story, I knew I
should have to blush to my ears in the course of it. And so, I am bound
to harden my heart and confess that....

Well, this was what passed: I took advantage of the intoxicated
condition of Asanov, who had carelessly dropped the letters on the
champagne-stained tablecloth (my own head was dizzy enough too), and
hurriedly ran my eyes over one of the letters....

My heart stood still.... Alas! I was myself in love with the girl who
had written to Asanov, and I could have no doubt now that she loved
him. The whole letter, which was in French, expressed tenderness and
devotion....

'Mon cher ami Constantin!' so it began ... and it ended with the words:
'be careful as before, and I will be yours or no one's.'

Stunned as by a thunderbolt, I sat for a few instants motionless; at
last I regained my self-possession, jumped up, and rushed out of the
room.

A quarter of an hour later I was back at home in my own lodgings.


      *       *       *       *       *


The family of the Zlotnitskys was one of the first whose acquaintance I
made on coming to Petersburg from Moscow. It consisted of a father and
mother, two daughters, and a son. The father, a man already grey, but
still vigorous, who had been in the army, held a fairly important
position, spent the morning in a government office, went to sleep after
dinner, and in the evening played cards at his club.... He was seldom
at home, spoke little and unwillingly, looked at one from under his
eyebrows with an expression half surly, half indifferent, and read
nothing except books of travels and geography. Sometimes he was unwell,
and then he would shut himself up in his own room, and paint little
pictures, or tease the old grey parrot, Popka. His wife, a sickly,
consumptive woman, with hollow black eyes and a sharp nose, did not
leave her sofa for days together, and was always embroidering
cushion-covers in canvas. As far as I could observe, she was rather
afraid of her husband, as though she had somehow wronged him at some
time or other. The elder daughter, Varvara, a plump, rosy, fair-haired
girl of eighteen, was always sitting at the window, watching the people
that passed by. The son, who was being educated in a government school,
was only seen at home on Sundays, and he, too, did not care to waste
his words. Even the younger daughter, Sophia, the girl with whom I was
in love, was of a silent disposition. In the Zlotnitskys' house there
reigned a perpetual stillness; it was only broken by the piercing
screams of Popka, but visitors soon got used to these, and were
conscious again of the burden and oppression of the eternal stillness.
Visitors, however, seldom looked in upon the Zlotnitskys; their house
was a dull one. The very furniture, the red paper with yellow patterns
in the drawing-room, the numerous rush-bottomed chairs in the
dining-room, the faded wool-work cushions, embroidered with figures of
girls and dogs, on the sofa, the branching lamps, and the
gloomy-looking portraits on the walls--everything inspired an
involuntary melancholy, about everything there clung a sense of chill
and flatness. On my arrival in Petersburg, I had thought it my duty to
call on the Zlotnitskys. They were relations of my mother's. I managed
with difficulty to sit out an hour with them, and it was a long while
before I went there again. But by degrees I took to going oftener and
oftener. I was drawn there by Sophia, whom I had not cared for at
first, and with whom I finally fell in love.

She was a slender, almost thin, girl of medium height, with a pale
face, thick black hair, and big brown eyes, always half closed. Her
severe and well-defined features, especially her tightly shut lips,
showed determination and strength of will. At home they knew her to be
a girl with a will of her own....

'She's like her eldest sister, like Katerina,' Madame Zlotnitsky said
one day, as she sat alone with me (in her husband's presence she did
not dare to mention the said Katerina). 'You don't know her; she's in
the Caucasus, married. At thirteen, only fancy, she fell in love with
her husband, and announced to us at the time that she would never marry
any one else. We did everything we could--nothing was of any use. She
waited till she was three-and-twenty, and braved her father's anger,
and so married her idol. There is no saying what Sonitchka might not
do! The Lord preserve her from such stubbornness! But I am afraid for
her; she's only sixteen now, and there's no turning her....'

Mr. Zlotnitsky came in, and his wife was instantly silent.

What had captivated me in Sophia was not her strength of will--no; but
with all her dryness, her lack of vivacity and imagination, she had a
special charm of her own, the charm of straightforwardness, genuine
sincerity, and purity of heart. I respected her as much as I loved
her.... It seemed to me that she too looked with friendly eyes on me;
to have my illusions as to her feeling for me shattered, and her love
for another man proved conclusively, was a blow to me.

The unlooked-for discovery I had made astonished me the more as Asanov
was not often at the Zlotnitskys' house, much less so than I, and had
shown no marked preference for Sonitchka. He was a handsome, dark
fellow, with expressive but rather heavy features, with brilliant,
prominent eyes, with a large white forehead, and full red lips under
fine moustaches. He was very discreet, but severe in his behaviour,
confident in his criticisms and utterances, and dignified in his
silence. It was obvious that he thought a great deal of himself. Asanov
rarely laughed, and then with closed teeth, and he never danced. He was
rather loosely and clumsily built. He had at one time served in the
--th regiment, and was spoken of as a capable officer.

'A strange thing!' I ruminated, lying on the sofa; 'how was it I
noticed nothing?' ... 'Be careful as before': those words in Sophia's
letter suddenly recurred to my memory. 'Ah!' I thought: 'that's it!
What a sly little hussy! And I thought her open and sincere.... Wait a
bit, that's all; I'll let you know....'

But at this point, if I can trust my memory, I began weeping bitterly,
and could not get to sleep all night.


       *       *       *       *       *


Next day at two o'clock I set off to the Zlotnitskys'. The father was
not at home, and his wife was not sitting in her usual place; after the
pancake festival of the preceding day, she had a headache, and had gone
to lie down in her bedroom. Varvara was standing with her shoulder
against the window, looking into the street; Sophia was walking up and
down the room with her arms folded across her bosom; Popka was
shrieking.

'Ah! how do you do?' said Varvara lazily, directly I came into the
room, and she added at once in an undertone, 'There goes a peasant with
a tray on his head.' ... (She had the habit of keeping up a running
commentary on the passers-by to herself.)

'How do you do?' I responded; 'how do you do, Sophia Nikolaevna? Where
is Tatiana Vassilievna?'

'She has gone to lie down,' answered Sophia, still pacing the room.

'We had pancakes,' observed Varvara, without turning round. 'Why didn't
you come? ... Where can that clerk be going?'  'Oh, I hadn't time.'
('Present arms!' the parrot screeched shrilly.) 'How Popka is shrieking
to-day!'

'He always does shriek like that,' observed Sophia.

We were all silent for a time.

'He has gone in at the gate,' said Varvara, and she suddenly got up on
the window-sill and opened the window.

'What are you about?' asked Sophia.

'There's a beggar,' responded Varvara. She bent down, picked up a
five-copeck piece from the window; the remains of a fumigating pastille
still stood in a grey heap of ashes on the copper coin, as she flung it
into the street; then she slammed the window to and jumped heavily down
to the floor....

'I had a very pleasant time yesterday,' I began, seating myself in an
arm-chair. 'I dined with a friend of mine; Konstantin Alexandritch was
there.... (I looked at Sophia; not an eyebrow quivered on her face.)
'And I must own,' I continued, 'we'd a good deal of wine; we emptied
eight bottles between the four of us.'

'Really!' Sophia articulated serenely, and she shook her head.

'Yes,' I went on, slightly irritated at her composure: 'and do you know
what, Sophia Nikolaevna, it's a true saying, it seems, that in wine is
truth.'

'How so?'

'Konstantin Alexandritch made us laugh. Only fancy, he began all at
once passing his hand over his forehead like this, and saying: "I'm a
fine fellow! I've an uncle a celebrated man!"....'

'Ha, ha!' came Varvara's short, abrupt laugh.

....'Popka! Popka! Popka!' the parrot dinned back at her.

Sophia stood still in front of me, and looked me straight in the face.

'And you, what did you say?' she asked; 'don't you remember?'

I could not help blushing.

'I don't remember! I expect I was pretty absurd too. It certainly is
dangerous to drink,' I added with significant emphasis; 'one begins
chattering at once, and one's apt to say what no one ought to know.
One's sure to be sorry for it afterwards, but then it's too late.'

'Why, did you let out some secret?' asked Sophia.

'I am not referring to myself.'

Sophia turned away, and began walking up and down the room again. I
stared at her, raging inwardly. 'Upon my word,' I thought, 'she is a
child, a baby, and how she has herself in hand! She's made of stone,
simply. But wait a bit....'

'Sophia Nikolaevna ...' I said aloud.

Sophia stopped.

'What is it?'

'Won't you play me something on the piano? By the way, I've something I
want to say to you,' I added, dropping my voice.

Sophia, without saying a word, walked into the other room; I followed
her. She came to a standstill at the piano.

'What am I to play you?' she inquired.

'What you like ... one of Chopin's nocturnes.'

Sophia began the nocturne. She played rather badly, but with feeling.
Her sister played nothing but polkas and waltzes, and even that very
seldom. She would go sometimes with her indolent step to the piano, sit
down, let her coat slip from her shoulders down to her elbows (I never
saw her without a coat), begin playing a polka very loud, and without
finishing it, begin another, then she would suddenly heave a sigh, get
up, and go back again to the window. A queer creature was that Varvara!

I sat down near Sophia.

'Sophia Nikolaevna,' I began, watching her intently from one side. 'I
ought to tell you a piece of news, news disagreeable to me.'

'News? what is it?'

'I'll tell you.... Up till now I have been mistaken in you, completely
mistaken.'

'How was that?' she rejoined, going on playing, and keeping her eyes
fixed on her fingers.

'I imagined you to be open; I imagined that you were incapable of
hypocrisy, of hiding your feelings, deceiving....'

Sophia bent her face closer over the music.

'I don't understand you.'

'And what's more,' I went on; 'I could never have conceived that you,
at your age, were already quite capable of acting a part in such
masterly fashion.'

Sophia's hands faintly trembled above the keys. 'Why are you saying
this?' she said, still not looking at me; 'I play a part?'

'Yes, you do.' (She smiled ... I was seized with spiteful fury.) ...
'You pretend to be indifferent to a man and ... and you write letters
to him,' I added in a whisper.

Sophia's cheeks grew white, but she did not turn to me: she played the
nocturne through to the end, got up, and closed the piano.

'Where are you going?' I asked her in some perplexity. 'You have no
answer to make me?'

'What answer can I make you? I don't know what you 're talking
about.... And I am not good at pretending....'

She began putting by the music.

The blood rushed to my head. 'No; you know what I am talking about,' I
said, and I too got up from my seat; 'or if you like, I will remind you
directly of some of your expressions in one letter: "be as careful as
before"....'

Sophia gave a faint start.

'I never should have expected this of you,' she said at last.

'I never should have expected,' I retorted, 'that you, Sophia
Nikolaevna, would have deigned to notice a man who ...'

Sophia turned with a rapid movement to me; I instinctively stepped back
a little from her; her eyes, always half closed, were so wide open that
they looked immense, and they glittered wrathfully under her frowning
brows.

'Oh! if that's it,' she said, 'let me tell you that I love that man,
and that it's absolutely no consequence to me what you think about him
or about my love for him. And what business is it of yours? ... What
right have you to speak of this? If I have made up my mind ...'

She stopped speaking, and went hurriedly out of the room. I stood
still. I felt all of a sudden so uncomfortable and so ashamed that I
hid my face in my hands. I realised all the impropriety, all the
baseness of my behaviour, and, choked with shame and remorse, I stood
as it were in disgrace. 'Mercy,' I thought, 'what I've done!'

'Anton Nikititch,' I heard the maid-servant saying in the outer-room,
'get a glass of water, quick, for Sophia Nikolaevna.'

'What's wrong?' answered the man.

'I fancy she's crying....'

I started up and went into the drawing-room for my hat.

'What were you talking about to Sonitchka?' Varvara inquired
indifferently, and after a brief pause she added in an undertone,
'Here's that clerk again.'

I began saying good-bye.

'Why are you going? Stay a little; mamma is coming down directly.'

'No; I can't now,' I said: 'I had better call and see her another
time.'

At that instant, to my horror, to my positive horror, Sophia walked
with resolute steps into the drawing-room. Her face was paler than
usual, and her eyelids were a little red. She never even glanced at me.

'Look, Sonia,' observed Varvara; 'there's a clerk keeps continually
passing our house.'

'A spy, perhaps...' Sophia remarked coldly and contemptuously.

This was too much. I went away, and I really don't know how I got home.

I felt very miserable, wretched and miserable beyond description. In
twenty-four hours two such cruel blows! I had learned that Sophia loved
another man, and I had for ever forfeited her respect. I felt myself so
utterly annihilated and disgraced that I could not even feel indignant
with myself. Lying on the sofa with my face turned to the wall, I was
revelling in the first rush of despairing misery, when I suddenly heard
footsteps in the room. I lifted my head and saw one of my most intimate
friends, Yakov Pasinkov.

I was ready to fly into a rage with any one who had come into my room
that day, but with Pasinkov I could never be angry. Quite the contrary;
in spite of the sorrow devouring me, I was inwardly rejoiced at his
coming, and I nodded to him. He walked twice up and down the room, as
his habit was, clearing his throat, and stretching out his long limbs;
then he stood a minute facing me in silence, and in silence he seated
himself in a corner.

I had known Pasinkov a very long while, almost from childhood. He had
been brought up at the same private school, kept by a German,
Winterkeller, at which I had spent three years. Yakov's father, a poor
major on the retired list, a very honest man, but a little deranged
mentally, had brought him, when a boy of seven, to this German; had
paid for him for a year in advance, and had then left Moscow and been
lost sight of completely.... From time to time there were dark, strange
rumours about him. Eight years later it was known as a positive fact
that he had been drowned in a flood when crossing the Irtish. What had
taken him to Siberia, God knows. Yakov had no other relations; his
mother had long been dead. He was simply left stranded on
Winterkeller's hands. Yakov had, it is true, a distant relation, a
great-aunt; but she was so poor, that she was afraid at first to go to
her nephew, for fear she should have the care of him thrust upon her.
Her fears turned out to be groundless; the kind-hearted German kept
Yakov with him, let him study with his other pupils, fed him (dessert,
however, was not offered him except on Sundays), and rigged him out in
clothes cut out of the cast-off morning-gowns--usually
snuff-coloured--of his mother, an old Livonian lady, still alert and
active in spite of her great age. Owing to all these circumstances, and
owing generally to Yakov's inferior position in the school, his
schoolfellows treated him in rather a casual fashion, looked down upon
him, and used to call him 'mammy's dressing-gown,' the 'nephew of the
mob-cap' (his aunt invariably wore a very peculiar mob-cap with a bunch
of yellow ribbons sticking straight upright, like a globe artichoke,
upon it), and sometimes the 'son of Yermak' (because his father had,
like that hero, been drowned in the Irtish). But in spite of those
nicknames, in spite of his ridiculous garb, and his absolute
destitution, every one was fond of him, and indeed it was impossible
not to be fond of him; a sweeter, nobler nature, I imagine, has never
existed upon earth. He was very good at lessons too.

When I saw him first, he was sixteen years old, and I was only just
thirteen. I was an exceedingly selfish and spoilt boy; I had grown up
in a rather wealthy house, and so, on entering the school, I lost no
time in making friends with a little prince, an object of special
solicitude to Winterkeller, and with two or three other juvenile
aristocrats; while I gave myself great airs with all the rest. Pasinkov
I did not deign to notice at all. I regarded the long, gawky lad, in a
shapeless coat and short trousers, which showed his coarse thread
stockings, as some sort of page-boy, one of the house-serfs--at best, a
person of the working class. Pasinkov was extremely courteous and
gentle to everybody, though he never sought the society of any one. If
he were rudely treated, he was neither humiliated nor sullen; he simply
withdrew and held himself aloof, with a sort of regretful look, as it
were biding his time. This was just how he behaved with me. About two
months passed. One bright summer day I happened to go out of the
playground after a noisy game of leap-frog, and walking into the garden
I saw Pasinkov sitting on a bench under a high lilac-bush. He was
reading. I glanced at the cover of the book as I passed, and read
_Schiller's Werke_ on the back. I stopped short.

'Do you mean to say you know German?' I questioned Pasinkov....

I feel ashamed to this day as I recall all the arrogance there was in
the very sound of my voice.... Pasinkov softly raised his small but
expressive eyes and looked at me.

'Yes,' he answered; 'do you?'

'I should hope so!' I retorted, feeling insulted at the question, and I
was about to go on my way, but something held me back.

'What is it you are reading of Schiller?' I asked, with the same
haughty insolence.

'At this moment I am reading "Resignation," a beautiful poem. Would you
like me to read it to you? Come and sit here by me on the bench.'

I hesitated a little, but I sat down. Pasinkov began reading. He knew

German far better than I did. He had to explain the meaning of several
lines for me. But already I felt no shame at my ignorance and his
superiority to me. From that day, from the very hour of our reading
together in the garden, in the shade of the lilac-bush, I loved
Pasinkov with my whole soul, I attached myself to him and fell
completely under his sway.

I have a vivid recollection of his appearance in those days. He changed
very little, however, later on. He was tall, thin, and rather awkwardly
built, with a long back, narrow shoulders, and a hollow chest, which
made him look rather frail and delicate, although as a fact he had
nothing to complain of on the score of health. His large, dome-shaped
head was carried a little on one side; his soft, flaxen hair straggled
in lank locks about his slender neck. His face was not handsome, and
might even have struck one as absurd, owing to the long, full, and
reddish nose, which seemed almost to overhang his wide, straight mouth.
But his open brow was splendid; and when he smiled, his little grey
eyes gleamed with such mild and affectionate goodness, that every one
felt warmed and cheered at heart at the very sight of him. I remember
his voice too, soft and even, with a peculiar sort of sweet huskiness
in it. He spoke, as a rule, little, and with noticeable difficulty. But
when he warmed up, his words flowed freely, and--strange to say!--his
voice grew still softer, his glance seemed turned inward and lost its
fire, while his whole face faintly glowed. On his lips the words
'goodness,' 'truth,' 'life,' 'science,' 'love,' however
enthusiastically they were uttered, never rang with a false note.
Without strain, without effort, he stepped into the realm of the ideal;
his pure soul was at any moment ready to stand before the 'holy shrine
of beauty'; it awaited only the welcoming call, the contact of another
soul.... Pasinkov was an idealist, one of the last idealists whom it
has been my lot to come across. Idealists, as we all know, are all but
extinct in these days; there are none of them, at any rate, among the
young people of to day. So much the worse for the young people of
to-day!

About three years I spent with Pasinkov, 'soul in soul,' as the saying
is.

I was the confidant of his first love. With what grateful sympathy and
intentness I listened to his avowal! The object of his passion was a
niece of Winterkeller's, a fair-haired, pretty little German, with a
chubby, almost childish little face, and confidingly soft blue eyes.
She was very kind and sentimental: she loved Mattison, Uhland, and
Schiller, and repeated their verses very sweetly in her timid, musical
voice. Pasinkov's love was of the most platonic. He only saw his
beloved on Sundays, when she used to come and play at forfeits with the
Winterkeller children, and he had very little conversation with her.
But once, when she said to him, 'mein lieber, lieber Herr Jacob!' he
did not sleep all night from excess of bliss. It never even struck him
at the time that she called all his schoolfellows 'mein lieber.' I
remember, too, his grief and dejection when the news suddenly reached
us that Fräulein Frederike--that was her name--was going to be married
to Herr Kniftus, the owner of a prosperous butcher's shop, a very
handsome man, and well educated too; and that she was marrying him, not
simply in submission to parental authority, but positively from love.
It was a bitter blow for Pasinkov, and his sufferings were particularly
severe on the day of the young people's first visit. The former
Fräulein, now Frau, Frederike presented him, once more addressing him
as 'lieber Herr Jacob,' to her husband, who was all splendour from top
to toe; his eyes, his black hair brushed up into a tuft, his forehead
and his teeth, and his coat buttons, and the chain on his waistcoat,
everything, down to the boots on his rather large, turned-out feet,
shone brilliantly. Pasinkov pressed Herr Kniftus's hand, and wished him
(and the wish was sincere, that I am certain) complete and enduring
happiness. This took place in my presence. I remember with what
admiration and sympathy I gazed at Yakov. I thought him a hero!.... And
afterwards, what mournful conversations passed between us. 'Seek
consolation in art,' I said to him. 'Yes,' he answered me; 'and in
poetry.' 'And in friendship,' I added. 'And in friendship,' he
repeated. Oh, happy days!...

It was a grief to me to part from Pasinkov. Just before I left school,
he had, after prolonged efforts and difficulties, after a
correspondence often amusing, succeeded in obtaining his certificates
of birth and baptism and his passport, and had entered the university.
He still went on living at Winterkeller's expense; but instead of
home-made jackets and breeches, he was provided now with ordinary
attire, in return for lessons on various subjects, which he gave the
younger pupils. Pasinkov was unchanged in his behaviour to me up to the
end of my time at the school, though the difference in our ages began
to be more noticeable, and I, I remember, grew jealous of some of his
new student friends. His influence on me was most beneficial. It was a
pity it did not last longer. To give a single instance: as a child I
was in the habit of telling lies.... In Yakov's presence I could not
bring my tongue to utter an untruth. What I particularly loved was
walking alone with him, or pacing by his side up and down the room,
listening while he, not looking at me, read poetry in his soft, intense
voice. It positively seemed to me that we were slowly, gradually,
getting away from the earth, and soaring away to some radiant, glorious
land of mystery.... I remember one night. We were sitting together
under the same lilac-bush; we were fond of that spot. All our
companions were asleep; but we had softly got up, dressed, fumbling in
the dark, and stealthily stepped out 'to dream.' It was fairly warm out
of doors, but a fresh breeze blew now and then and made us huddle
closer together. We talked, we talked a lot, and with much warmth--so
much so, that we positively interrupted each other, though we did not
argue. In the sky gleamed stars innumerable. Yakov raised his eyes, and
pressing my hand he softly cried out:

    'Above our heads
    The sky with the eternal stars....
    Above the stars their Maker....'

A thrill of awe ran through me; I felt cold all over, and sank on his
shoulder.... My heart was full.... Where are those raptures? Alas!
where youth is.

In Petersburg I met Yakov again eight years after. I had only just been
appointed to a position in the service, and some one had got him a
little post in some department. Our meeting was most joyful. I shall
never forget the moment when, sitting alone one day at home, I suddenly
heard his voice in the passage....

How I started; with what throbbing at the heart I leaped up and flung
myself on his neck, without giving him time to take off his fur
overcoat and unfasten his scarf! How greedily I gazed at him through
bright, involuntary tears of tenderness! He had grown a little older
during those seven years; lines, delicate as if they had been traced by
a needle, furrowed his brow here and there, his cheeks were a little
more hollow, and his hair was thinner; but he had hardly more beard,
and his smile was just the same as ever; and his laugh, a soft, inward,
as it were breathless laugh, was the same too....

Mercy on us! what didn't we talk about that day! ... The favourite
poems we read to one another! I began begging him to move and come and
live with me, but he would not consent. He promised, however, to come
every day to see me, and he kept his word.

In soul, too, Pasinkov was unchanged. He showed himself just the same
idealist as I had always known him. However rudely life's chill, the
bitter chill of experience, had closed in about him, the tender flower
that had bloomed so early in my friend's heart had kept all its pure
beauty untouched. There was no trace of sadness even, no trace even of
melancholy in him; he was quiet, as he had always been, but
everlastingly glad at heart.

In Petersburg he lived as in a wilderness, not thinking of the future,
and knowing scarcely any one. I took him to the Zlotnitskys'. He used
to go and see them rather often. Not being self-conscious, he was not
shy, but in their house, as everywhere, he said very little; they liked
him, however. Even the tedious old man, Tatiana Vassilievna's husband,
was friendly to him, and both the silent girls were soon quite at home
with him.

Sometimes he would arrive, bringing with him in the back pocket of his
coat some book that had just come out, and for a long time would not
make up his mind to read, but would keep stretching his neck out on one
side, like a bird, looking about him as though inquiring, 'could he?'
At last he would establish himself in a corner (he always liked sitting
in corners), would pull out a book and set to reading, at first in a
whisper, then louder and louder, occasionally interrupting himself with
brief criticisms or exclamations. I noticed that Varvara was readier to
sit by him and listen than her sister, though she certainly did not
understand much; literature was not in her line. She would sit opposite
Pasinkov, her chin in her hands, staring at him--not into his eyes, but
into his whole face--and would not utter a syllable, but only heave a
noisy, sudden sigh. Sometimes in the evenings we used to play forfeits,
especially on Sundays and holidays. We were joined on these occasions
by two plump, short young ladies, sisters, and distant relations of the
Zlotnitskys, terribly given to giggling, and a few lads from the
military school, very good-natured, quiet fellows. Pasinkov always used
to sit beside Tatiana Vassilievna, and with her, judge what was to be
done to the one who had to pay a forfeit.

Sophia did not like the kisses and such demonstrations, with which
forfeits are often paid, while Varvara used to be cross if she had to
look for anything or guess something. The young ladies giggled
incessantly--laughter seemed to bubble up by some magic in them,--I
sometimes felt positively irritated as I looked at them, but Pasinkov
only smiled and shook his head. Old Zlotnitsky took no part in our
games, and even looked at us rather disapprovingly from the door of his
study. Only once, utterly unexpectedly, he came in to us, and proposed
that whoever had next to pay a forfeit should waltz with him; we, of
course, agreed. It happened to be Tatiana Vassilievna who had to pay
the forfeit. She crimsoned all over, and was confused and abashed like
a girl of fifteen; but her husband at once told Sophia to go to the
piano, while he went up to his wife, and waltzed two rounds with her of
the old-fashioned _trois temps_ waltz. I remember how his bilious,
gloomy face, with its never-smiling eyes, kept appearing and
disappearing as he slowly turned round, his stern expression never
relaxing. He waltzed with a long step and a hop, while his wife
pattered rapidly with her feet, and huddled up with her face close to
his chest, as though she were in terror. He led her to her place, bowed
to her, went back to his room and shut the door. Sophia was just
getting up, but Varvara asked her to go on, went up to Pasinkov, and
holding out her hand, with an awkward smile, said, 'Will you like a
turn?' Pasinkov was surprised, but he jumped up--he was always
distinguished by the most delicate courtesy--and took Varvara by the
waist, but he slipped down at the first step, and leaving hold of his
partner at once, rolled right under the pedestal on which the parrot's
cage was standing.... The cage fell, the parrot was frightened and
shrieked, 'Present arms!' Every one laughed.... Zlotnitsky appeared at
his study door, looked grimly at us, and slammed the door to. From that
time forth, one had only to allude to this incident before Varvara, and
she would go off into peals of laughter at once, and look at Pasinkov,
as though anything cleverer than his behaviour on that occasion it was
impossible to conceive.

Pasinkov was very fond of music. He used often to beg Sophia to play
him something, and to sit on one side listening, and now and then
humming in a thin voice the most pathetic passages. He was particularly
fond of Schubert's Constellation. He used to declare that when he heard
the air played he could always fancy that with the sounds long rays of
azure light came pouring down from on high, straight upon him. To this
day, whenever I look upon a cloudless sky at night, with the softly
quivering stars, I always recall Schubert's melody and Pasinkov.... An
excursion into the country comes back to my mind. We set out, a whole
party of us, in two hired four-wheel carriages, to Pargolovo. I
remember we took the carriages from the Vladimirsky; they were very
old, and painted blue, with round springs, and a wide box-seat, and
bundles of hay inside; the brown, broken-winded horses that drew us
along at a slow trot were each lame in a different leg. We strolled a
long while about the pinewoods round Pargolovo, drank milk out of
earthenware pitchers, and ate wild strawberries and sugar. The weather
was exquisite. Varvara did not care for long walks: she used soon to
get tired; but this time she did not lag behind us. She took off her
hat, her hair came down, her heavy features lighted up, and her cheeks
were flushed. Meeting two peasant girls in the wood, she sat down
suddenly on the ground, called them to her, did not patronise them, but
made them sit down beside her. Sophia looked at them from some distance
with a cold smile, and did not go up to them. She was walking with
Asanov. Zlotnitsky observed that Varvara was a regular hen for sitting.
Varvara got up and walked away. In the course of the walk she several
times went up to Pasinkov, and said to him, 'Yakov Ivanitch, I want to
tell you something,' but what she wanted to tell him--remained unknown.

But it's high time for me to get back to my story.


       *       *       *       *       *


I was glad to see Pasinkov; but when I recalled what I had done the day
before, I felt unutterably ashamed, and I hurriedly turned away to the
wall again. After a brief pause, Yakov asked me if I were unwell.

'I'm quite well,' I answered through my teeth; 'only my head aches.'

Yakov made no reply, and took up a book. More than an hour passed by; I
was just coming to the point of confessing everything to Yakov ...
suddenly there was a ring at the outer bell of my flat.

The door on to the stairs was opened.... I listened.... Asanov was
asking my servant if I were at home.

Pasinkov got up; he did not care for Asanov, and telling me in a
whisper that he would go and lie down on my bed, he went into my
bedroom.

A minute later Asanov entered.

From the very sight of his flushed face, from his brief, cool bow, I
guessed that he had not come to me without some set purpose in his
mind. 'What is going to happen?' I wondered.

'Sir,' he began, quickly seating himself in an armchair, 'I have come
to you for you to settle a matter of doubt for me.'

'And that is?'

'That is: I wish to know whether you are an honest man.'

I flew into a rage. 'What's the meaning of that?' I demanded.

'I'll tell you what's the meaning of it,' he retorted, underlining as
it were each word. 'Yesterday I showed you a pocket-book containing
letters from a certain person to me.... To-day you repeated to that
person, with reproach--with reproach, observe--some expressions from
those letters, without having the slightest right to do so. I should
like to know what explanation you can give of this?'

'And I should like to know what right you have to cross-examine me,' I
answered, trembling with fury and inward shame.

'You chose to boast of your uncle, of your correspondence; I'd nothing
to do with it. You've got all your letters all right, haven't you?'

'The letters are all right; but I was yesterday in a condition in which
you could easily----'

'In short, sir,' I began, speaking intentionally as loud as I could, 'I
beg you to leave me alone, do you hear? I don't want to know anything
about it, and I'm not going to give you any explanation. You can go to
that person for explanations!' I felt that my head was beginning to go
round.

Asanov turned upon me a look to which he obviously tried to impart an
air of scornful penetration, pulled his moustaches, and got up slowly.

'I know now what to think,' he observed; 'your face is the best
evidence against you. But I must tell you that that's not the way
honourable people behave.... To read a letter on the sly, and then to
go and worry an honourable girl....'

'Will you go to the devil!' I shouted, stamping, 'and send me a second;
I don't mean to talk to you.'

'Kindly refrain from telling me what to do,' Asanov retorted frigidly;
'but I certainly will send a second to you.'

He went away. I fell on the sofa and hid my face in my hands. Some one
touched me on the shoulder; I moved my hands--before me was standing
Pasinkov.

'What's this? is it true?' ... he asked me. 'You read another man's
letter?'

I had not the strength to answer, but I nodded in assent.

Pasinkov went to the window, and standing with his back to me, said
slowly: 'You read a letter from a girl to Asanov. Who was the girl?'

'Sophia Zlotnitsky,' I answered, as a prisoner on his trial answers the
judge.

For a long while Pasinkov did not utter a word.

'Nothing but passion could to some extent excuse you,' he began at
last. 'Are you in love then with the younger Zlotnitsky?'

'Yes.'

Pasinkov was silent again for a little.

'I thought so. And you went to her to-day and began reproaching
her?...'

'Yes, yes, yes!...' I articulated desperately. 'Now you can despise
me....'

Pasinkov walked a couple of times up and down the room.

'And she loves him?' he queried.

'She loves him....'

Pasinkov looked down, and gazed a long while at the floor without
moving.

'Well, it must be set right,' he began, raising his head,' things can't
be left like this.'

And he took up his hat.

'Where are you going?'

'To Asanov.'

I jumped up from the sofa.

'But I won't let you. Good heavens! how can you! what will he think?'

Pasinkov looked at me.

'Why, do you think it better to keep this folly up, to bring ruin on
yourself, and disgrace on the girl?'

'But what are you going to say to Asanov?'

'I'll try and explain things to him, I'll tell him you beg his
forgiveness ...'

'But I don't want to apologise to him!'

'You don't? Why, aren't you in fault?'

I looked at Pasinkov; the calm and severe, though mournful, expression
of his face impressed me; it was new to me. I made no reply, and sat
down on the sofa.

Pasinkov went out.

In what agonies of suspense I waited for his return! With what cruel
slowness the time lingered by! At last he came back--late.

'Well?' I queried in a timid voice.

'Thank goodness!' he answered; 'it's all settled.'

'You have been at Asanov's?'

'Yes.'

'Well, and he?--made a great to-do, I suppose?' I articulated with an
effort.

'No, I can't say that. I expected more ... He ... he's not such a
vulgar fellow as I thought.'

'Well, and have you seen any one else besides?' I asked, after a brief
pause.

'I've been at the Zlotnitskys'.'

'Ah!...' (My heart began to throb. I did not dare look Pasinkov in the
face.) 'Well, and she?'

'Sophia Nikolaevna is a reasonable, kind-hearted girl.... Yes, she is a
kind-hearted girl. She felt awkward at first, but she was soon at ease.
But our whole conversation only lasted five minutes.'

'And you ... told her everything ... about me ... everything?'

'I told her what was necessary.'

'I shall never be able to go and see them again now!' I pronounced
dejectedly....

'Why? No, you can go occasionally. On the contrary, you are absolutely
bound to go and see them, so that nothing should be thought....'

'Ah, Yakov, you will despise me now!' I cried, hardly keeping back my
tears.

'Me! Despise you? ...' (His affectionate eyes glowed with love.)
'Despise you ... silly fellow! Don't I see how hard it's been for you,
how you're suffering?'

He held out his hand to me; I fell on his neck and broke into sobs.

After a few days, during which I noticed that Pasinkov was in very low
spirits, I made up my mind at last to go to the Zlotnitskys'. What I
felt, as I stepped into their drawing-room, it would be difficult to
convey in words; I remember that I could hardly distinguish the persons
in the room, and my voice failed me. Sophia was no less ill at ease;
she obviously forced herself to address me, but her eyes avoided mine
as mine did hers, and every movement she made, her whole being,
expressed constraint, mingled ... why conceal the truth? with secret
aversion. I tried, as far as possible, to spare her and myself from
such painful sensations. This meeting was happily our last--before her
marriage. A sudden change in my fortunes carried me off to the other
end of Russia, and I bade a long farewell to Petersburg, to the
Zlotnitsky family, and, what was most grievous of all for me, to dear
Yakov Pasinkov.


II

Seven years had passed by. I don't think it necessary to relate all
that happened to me during that period. I moved restlessly about over
Russia, and made my way into the remotest wilds, and thank God I did!
The wilds are not so much to be dreaded as some people suppose, and in
the most hidden places, under the fallen twigs and rotting leaves in
the very heart of the forest, spring up flowers of sweet fragrance.

One day in spring, as I was passing on some official duties through a
small town in one of the outlying provinces of Eastern Russia, through
the dim little window of my coach I saw standing before a shop in the
square a man

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