The Diary of a Superfluous Man and Other Stories by Ivan Turgenev
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
VILLAGE OF SHEEP'S SPRINGS, March 20, 18—.
March 24. Sharp frost.
March 25. A white winter day.
March 26. Thaw.
March 27. Thaw continuing.
March 30. Frost.
A TOUR IN THE FOREST
I. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA
II. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
III. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA
IV. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA
V. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
VI. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA
VII. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
VIII. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA
IX. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
X. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA
XI. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
XII. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA
XIII. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
XIV. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
XV. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
AND OTHER STORIES
Translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
VILLAGE OF SHEEP'S SPRINGS, March
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
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.
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,
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 bekuemmert dich so sehr?
'Sist ja schoen 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
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-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
But it occurs to me, is it really worth while to tell the story of
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
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?
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
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
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
'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,
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
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
'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
'And did you introduce him?'
'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
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,
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
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 armlessness, 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
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
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
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 a
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
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
'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
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
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
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
'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
I looked at his blanched face, at the blood-stained handkerchief,
and utterly confounded, put to shame, and annihilated, I pressed his
'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
'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
'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
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....
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
... 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
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
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
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
'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
'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.
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
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, Tresor,
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,
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.
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
Sinking into nothing, I cease to be superfluous ...
Ah, how brilliant that sun is! Those mighty beams breathe of
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 Tresor.
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
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
'This manuscript was read
And the Contents of it Not Approved
By Peter Zudotyeshin
My My My
My 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
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
'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.'
'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
'How far, brother, is it still to Svyatoe?'
'How far to Svyatoe?'
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
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
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
'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
'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
'What's that? a meidan too?' I inquired.
'No,' answered Yegor; 'here's where the thieves' town stood.'
'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....
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
'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.
'And whereabouts, now?'
'To the Charred Wood,' said Kondrat.
'You 're going to the Charred Wood? mind you don't get into the
'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
'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
'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
'Enough of your nonsense, Alexandritch,' he observed in an
undertone: 'don't you see we're out with a gentleman? You mind; he'll
'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
'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?'
'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
“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
'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
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
'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
'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
'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.
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
'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
'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
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
'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
'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.'
'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
'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.
'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,
'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
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
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
'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
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
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
'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
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
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 Fraeulein 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
Fraeulein, 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
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
'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
'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
'What's this? is it true?' ... he asked me. 'You read another man's
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
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?'
Pasinkov was silent again for a little.
'I thought so. And you went to her to-day and began reproaching
'Yes, yes, yes!...' I articulated desperately. 'Now you can despise
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
'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?'
I jumped up from the sofa.
'But I won't let you. Good heavens! how can you! what will he
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
'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?'
'Well, and he?—made a great to-do, I suppose?' I articulated with
'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
'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
'Why? No, you can go occasionally. On the contrary, you are
absolutely bound to go and see them, so that nothing should be
'Ah, Yakov, you will despise me now!' I cried, hardly keeping back
'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
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 whose face struck me as exceedingly familiar. I
looked attentively at the man, and to my great delight recognised him
as Elisei, Pasinkov's servant.
I at once told the driver to stop, jumped out of the coach, and went
up to Elisei.
'Hullo, friend!' I began, with difficulty concealing my excitement;
'are you here with your master?'
'Yes, I'm with my master,' he responded slowly, and then suddenly
cried out: 'Why, sir, is it you? I didn't know you.'
'Are you here with Yakov Ivanitch?'
'Yes, sir, with him, to be sure ... whom else would I be with?'
'Take me to him quickly.'
'To be sure! to be sure! This way, please, this way ... we're
stopping here at the tavern.' Elisei led me across the square,
incessantly repeating—'Well, now, won't Yakov Ivanitch be pleased!'
This man, of Kalmuck extraction, and hideous, even savage
appearance, but the kindest-hearted creature and by no means a fool,
was passionately devoted to Pasinkov, and had been his servant for ten
'Is Yakov Ivanitch quite well?' I asked him.
Elisei turned his dusky, yellow little face to me.
'Ah, sir, he's in a poor way ... in a poor way, sir! You won't know
his honour.... He's not long for this world, I'm afraid. That's how it
is we've stopped here, or we had been going on to Odessa for his
'Where do you come from?'
'From Siberia, sir.'
'Yes, sir. Yakov Ivanitch was sent to a post out there. It was there
his honour got his wound.'
'Do you mean to say he went into the military service?'
'Oh no, sir. He served in the civil service.'
'What a strange thing!' I thought.
Meanwhile we had reached the tavern, and Elisei ran on in front to
announce me. During the first years of our separation, Pasinkov and I
had written to each other pretty often, but his last letter had reached
me four years before, and since then I had heard nothing of him.
'Please come up, sir!' Elisei shouted to me from the staircase;
'Yakov Ivanitch is very anxious to see you.'
I ran hurriedly up the tottering stairs, went into a dark little
room—and my heart sank.... On a narrow bed, under a fur cloak, pale as
a corpse, lay Pasinkov, and he was stretching out to me a bare, wasted
hand. I rushed up to him and embraced him passionately.
'Yasha!' I cried at last; 'what's wrong with you?'
'Nothing,' he answered in a faint voice; 'I'm a bit feeble. What
chance brought you here?'
I sat down on a chair beside Pasinkov's bed, and, never letting his
hands out of my hands, I began gazing into his face. I recognised the
features I loved; the expression of the eyes and the smile were
unchanged; but what a wreck illness had made of him!
He noticed the impression he was making on me.
'It's three days since I shaved,' he observed; 'and, to be sure,
I've not been combed and brushed, but except for that ... I'm not so
'Tell me, please, Yasha,' I began; 'what's this Elisei's been
telling me ... you were wounded?'
'Ah! yes, it's quite a history,' he replied. 'I'll tell you it
later. Yes, I was wounded, and only fancy what by?—an arrow.'
'Yes, an arrow; only not a mythological one, not Cupid's arrow, but
a real arrow of very flexible wood, with a sharply-pointed tip at one
end.... A very unpleasant sensation is produced by such an arrow,
especially when it sticks in one's lungs.'
'But however did it come about? upon my word!...'
'I'll tell you how it happened. You know there always was a great
deal of the absurd in my life. Do you remember my comical
correspondence about getting my passport? Well, I was wounded in an
absurd fashion too. And if you come to think of it, what
self-respecting person in our enlightened century would permit himself
to be wounded by an arrow? And not accidentally—observe—not at sports
of any sort, but in a battle.'
'But you still don't tell me ...'
'All right, wait a minute,' he interrupted. 'You know that soon
after you left Petersburg I was transferred to Novgorod. I was a good
time at Novgorod, and I must own I was bored there, though even there I
came across one creature....' (He sighed.) ... 'But no matter about
that now; two years ago I got a capital little berth, some way off,
it's true, in the Irkutsk province, but what of that! It seems as
though my father and I were destined from birth to visit Siberia. A
splendid country, Siberia! Rich, fertile—every one will tell you the
same. I liked it very much there. The natives were put under my rule;
they're a harmless lot of people; but as my ill-luck would have it,
they took it into their heads, a dozen of them, not more, to smuggle in
contraband goods. I was sent to arrest them. Arrest them I did, but one
of them, crazy he must have been, thought fit to defend himself, and
treated me to the arrow.... I almost died of it; however, I got all
right again. Now, here I am going to get completely cured.... The
government—God give them all good health!—have provided the cash.'
Pasinkov let his head fall back on the pillow, exhausted, and ceased
speaking. A faint flush suffused his cheeks. He closed his eyes.
'He can't talk much,' Elisei, who had not left the room, murmured in
A silence followed; nothing was heard but the sick man's painful
'But here,' he went on, opening his eyes, 'I've been stopping a
fortnight in this little town.... I caught cold, I suppose. The
district doctor here is attending me—you'll see him; he seems to know
his business. I'm awfully glad it happened so, though, or how should we
have met?' (And he took my hand. His hand, which had just before been
cold as ice, was now burning hot.) 'Tell me something about yourself,'
he began again, throwing the cloak back off his chest. 'You and I
haven't seen each other since God knows when.'
I hastened to carry out his wish, so as not to let him talk, and
started giving an account of myself. He listened to me at first with
great attention, then asked for drink, and then began closing his eyes
again and turning his head restlessly on the pillow. I advised him to
have a little nap, adding that I should not go on further till he was
well again, and that I should establish myself in a room beside him.
'It's very nasty here ...' Pasinkov was beginning, but I stopped his
mouth, and went softly out. Elisei followed me.
'What is it, Elisei? Why, he's dying, isn't he?' I questioned the
Elisei simply made a gesture with his hand, and turned away.
Having dismissed my driver, and rapidly moved my things into the
next room, I went to see whether Pasinkov was asleep. At the door I ran
up against a tall man, very fat and heavily built. His face,
pock-marked and puffy, expressed laziness—and nothing else; his tiny
little eyes seemed, as it were, glued up, and his lips looked polished,
as though he were just awake.
'Allow me to ask,' I questioned him, 'are you not the doctor?'
The fat man looked at me, seeming with an effort to lift his
overhanging forehead with his eyebrows.
'Yes, sir,' he responded at last.
'Do me the favour, Mr. Doctor, won't you, please, to come this way
into my room? Yakov Ivanitch, is, I believe, now asleep. I am a friend
of his and should like to have a little talk with you about his
illness, which makes me very uneasy.'
'Very good,' answered the doctor, with an expression which seemed to
try and say, 'Why talk so much? I'd have come anyway,' and he followed
'Tell me, please,' I began, as soon as he had dropped into a chair,
'is my friend's condition serious? What do you think?'
'Yes,' answered the fat man, tranquilly.
'And...is it very serious?'
'Yes, it's serious.'
'So that he may...even die?'
I confess I looked almost with hatred at the fat man.
'Good heavens!' I began; 'we must take some steps, call a
consultation, or something. You know we can't...Mercy on us!'
'A consultation?—quite possible; why not? It's possible. Call in
The doctor spoke with difficulty, and sighed continually. His
stomach heaved perceptibly when he spoke, as it were emphasising each
'Who is Ivan Efremitch?'
'The parish doctor.'
'Shouldn't we send to the chief town of the province? What do you
think? There are sure to be good doctors there.'
'Well! you might.'
'And who is considered the best doctor there?'
'The best? There was a doctor Kolrabus there ... only I fancy he's
been transferred somewhere else. Though I must own there's no need
really to send.'
'Even the best doctor will be of no use to your friend.'
'Why, is he so bad?'
'Yes, he's run down.' 'In what way precisely is he ill?'
'He received a wound.... The lungs were affected in consequence ...
and then he's taken cold too, and fever was set up ... and so on. And
there's no reserve force; a man can't get on, you know yourself, with
no reserve force.'
We were both silent for a while.
'How about trying homoeopathy?...' said the fat man, with a sidelong
glance at me.
'Homoeopathy? Why, you're an allopath, aren't you?'
'What of that? Do you think I don't understand homoeopathy? I
understand it as well as the other! Why, the chemist here among us
treats people homeopathically, and he has no learned degree whatever.'
'Oh,' I thought, 'it's a bad look-out!...'
'No, doctor,' I observed, 'you had better treat him according to
your usual method.'
'As you please.'
The fat man got up and heaved a sigh.
'You are going to him? 'I asked.
'Yes, I must have a look at him.'
And he went out.
I did not follow him; to see him at the bedside of my poor, sick
friend was more than I could stand. I called my man and gave him orders
to drive at once to the chief town of the province, to inquire there
for the best doctor, and to bring him without fail. There was a slight
noise in the passage. I opened the door quickly.
The doctor was already coming out of Pasinkov's room.
'Well?' I questioned him in a whisper.
'It's all right. I have prescribed a mixture.'
'I have decided, doctor, to send to the chief town. I have no doubt
of your skill, but as you're aware, two heads are better than one.'
'Well, that's very praiseworthy!' responded the fat man, and he
began to descend the staircase. He was obviously tired of me.
I went in to Pasinkov.
'Have you seen the local Aesculapius?' he asked.
'Yes,' I answered.
'What I like about him,' remarked Pasinkov, 'is his astounding
composure. A doctor ought to be phlegmatic, oughtn't he? It's so
encouraging for the patient.'
I did not, of course, try to controvert this.
Towards the evening, Pasinkov, contrary to my expectations, seemed
better. He asked Elisei to set the samovar, announced that he was going
to regale me with tea, and drink a small cup himself, and he was
noticeably more cheerful. I tried, though, not to let him talk, and
seeing that he would not be quiet, I asked him if he would like me to
read him something. 'Just as at Winterkeller's—do you remember?' he
answered. 'If you will, I shall be delighted. What shall we read? Look,
there are my books in the window.'...
I went to the window and took up the first book that my hand chanced
'What is it?' he asked.
'Ah, Lermontov! Excellent! Pushkin is greater, no doubt.... Do you
remember: “Once more the storm-clouds gather close Above me in the
perfect calm” ... or, “For the last time thy image sweet In thought I
dare caress.” Ah! marvellous! marvellous! But Lermontov's fine too.
Well, I'll tell you what, dear boy: you take the book, open it by
chance, and read what you find!'
I opened the book, and was disconcerted; I had chanced upon 'The
Last Will.' I tried to turn over the page, but Pasinkov noticed my
action and said hurriedly: 'No, no, no, read what turned up.'
There was no getting out of it; I read 'The Last Will.'
[Footnote: THE LAST WILL
Alone with thee, brother,
I would wish to be;
On earth, so they tell me,
I have not long to stay,
Soon you will go home:
See that ... But nay! for my fate
To speak the truth, no one
Is very greatly troubled.
But if any one asks ...
Well, whoever may ask,
Tell them that through the breast
I was shot by a bullet;
That I died honourably for the Tsar,
That our doctors are not much good,
And that to my native land
I send a humble greeting.
My father and mother, hardly
Will you find living....
I'll own I should be sorry
That they should grieve for me.]
'Splendid thing!' said Pasinkov, directly I had finished the last
verse. 'Splendid thing!
But, it's queer,' he added, after a brief pause, 'it's queer you
should have chanced just on that.... Queer.'
I began to read another poem, but Pasinkov was not listening to me;
he looked away, and twice he repeated again: 'Queer!'
I let the book drop on my knees.
'“There is a girl, their neighbour,”' he whispered, and turning to
me he asked—'I say, do you remember Sophia Zlotnitsky?'
I turned red.
'I should think I did!'
'She was married, I suppose?...'
'To Asanov, long, long ago. I wrote to you about it.'
* * * * *
But if either of them is living,
Say I am lazy about writing,
That our regiment has been sent forward,
And that they must not expect me home.
There is a girl, their neighbour....
As you remember, it's long
Since we parted.... She will not
Ask for me.... All the same,
You tell her all the truth,
Don't spare her empty heart—
Let her weep a little....
It will not hurt her much!
'To be sure, to be sure, so you did. Did her father forgive her in
'He forgave her; but he would not receive Asanov.'
'Obstinate old fellow! Well, and are they supposed to be happy?'
'I don't know, really...I fancy they 're happy. They live in the
country, in ——province. I've never seen them, though I have been
through their parts.'
'And have they any children?'
'I think so.... By the way, Pasinkov?...' I began questioningly.
He glanced at me.
'Confess—do you remember, you were unwilling to answer my question
at the time—did you tell her I cared for her?'
'I told her everything, the whole truth.... I always told her the
truth. To be hypocritical with her would have been a sin!'
Pasinkov was silent for a while.
'Come, tell me,' he began again: 'did you soon get over caring for
her, or not?'
'Not very soon, but I got over it. What's the good of sighing in
Pasinkov turned over, facing me.
'Well, I, brother,' he began—and his lips were quivering—'am no
match for you there; I've not got over caring for her to this day.'
'What!' I cried in indescribable amazement; 'did you love her?'
'I loved her,' said Pasinkov slowly, and he put both hands behind
his head. 'How I loved her, God only knows. I've never spoken of it to
any one, to any one in the world, and I never meant to ... but there!
“On earth, so they tell me, I have not long to stay.” ... What does it
Pasinkov's unexpected avowal so utterly astonished me that I could
positively say nothing. I could only wonder, 'Is it possible? how was
it I never suspected it?'
'Yes,' he went on, as though speaking to himself, 'I loved her. I
never ceased to love her even when I knew her heart was Asanov's. But
how bitter it was for me to know that! If she had loved you, I should
at least have rejoiced for you; but Asanov.... How did he make her care
for him? It was just his luck! And change her feelings, cease to care,
she could not! A true heart does not change....'
I recalled Asanov's visit after the fatal dinner, Pasinkov's
intervention, and I could not help flinging up my hands in
'You learnt it all from me, poor fellow!' I cried; 'and you
undertook to go and see her then!'
'Yes,' Pasinkov began again; 'that explanation with her ... I shall
never forget it.' It was then I found out, then I realised the meaning
of the word I had chosen for myself long before: resignation. But still
she has remained my constant dream, my ideal.... And he's to be pitied
who lives without an ideal!'
I looked at Pasinkov; his eyes, fastened, as it were, on the
distance, shone with feverish brilliance.
'I loved her,' he went on, 'I loved her, her, calm, true,
unapproachable, incorruptible; when she went away, I was almost mad
with grief.... Since then I have never cared for any one.'...
And suddenly turning, he pressed his face into the pillow, and began
I jumped up, bent over him, and began trying to comfort him....
'It's no matter,' he said, raising his head and shaking back his
hair; 'it's nothing; I felt a little bitter, a little sorry ... for
myself, that is.... But it's all no matter. It's all the fault of those
verses. Read me something else, more cheerful.'
I took up Lermontov and began hurriedly turning over the pages; but,
as fate would have it, I kept coming across poems likely to agitate
Pasinkov again. At last I read him 'The Gifts of Terek.'
'Jingling rhetoric!' said my poor friend, with the tone of a
preceptor; 'but there are fine passages. Since I saw you, brother, I've
tried my hand at poetry, and began one poem—“The Cup of Life”—but it
didn't come off! It's for us, brother, to appreciate, not to create....
But I'm rather tired; I'll sleep a little—what do you say? What a
splendid thing sleep is, come to think of it! All our life's a dream,
and the best thing in it is dreaming too.'
'And poetry?' I queried.
'Poetry's a dream too, but a dream of paradise.'
Pasinkov closed his eyes.
I stood for a little while at his bedside. I did not think he would
get to sleep quickly, but soon his breathing became more even and
prolonged. I went away on tiptoe, turned into my own room, and lay down
on the sofa. For a long while I mused on what Pasinkov had told me,
recalled many things, wondered; at last I too fell asleep....
Some one touched me; I started up; before me stood Elisei.
'Come in to my master,' he said.
I got up at once.
'What's the matter with him?'
'Delirious? And hasn't it ever been so before with him?'
'Yes, he was delirious last night, too; only to-day it is something
I went to Pasinkov's room. He was not lying down, but sitting up in
bed, his whole body bent forward. He was slowly gesticulating with his
hands, smiling and talking, talking all the time in a weak, hollow
voice, like the whispering of rushes. His eyes were wandering. The
gloomy light of a night light, set on the floor, and shaded off by a
book, lay, an unmoving patch on the ceiling; Pasinkov's face seemed
paler than ever in the half darkness.
I went up to him, called him by his name—he did not answer. I began
listening to his whispering: he was talking of Siberia, of its forests.
From time to time there was sense in his ravings.
'What trees!' he whispered; 'right up to the sky. What frost on
them! Silver ... snowdrifts.... And here are little tracks ... that's a
hare's leaping, that's a white weasel... No, it's my father running
with my papers. Here he is!... Here he is! Must go; the moon is
shining. Must go, look for my papers.... Ah! A flower, a crimson
flower—there's Sophia.... Oh, the bells are ringing, the frost is
crackling.... Ah, no; it's the stupid bullfinches hopping in the
bushes, whistling.... See, the redthroats! Cold.... Ah! here's
Asanov.... Oh yes, of course, he's a cannon, a copper cannon, and his
gun-carriage is green. That's how it is he's liked. Is it a star has
fallen? No, it's an arrow flying.... Ah, how quickly, and straight into
my heart!... Who shot it? You, Sonitchka?'
He bent his head and began muttering disconnected words. I glanced
at Elisei; he was standing, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing
ruefully at his master.
'Ah, brother, so you've become a practical person, eh?' he asked
suddenly, turning upon me such a clear, such a fully conscious glance,
that I could not help starting and was about to reply, but he went on
at once: 'But I, brother, have not become a practical person, I
haven't, and that's all about it! A dreamer I was born, a dreamer!
Dreaming, dreaming.... What is dreaming? Sobakevitch's peasant—that's
Almost till morning Pasinkov wandered in delirium; at last he
gradually grew quieter, sank back on the pillow, and dozed off. I went
back into my room. Worn out by the cruel night, I slept soundly.
Elisei again waked me.
'Ah, sir!' he said in a shaking voice, 'I do believe Yakov Ivanitch
I ran in to Pasinkov. He was lying motionless. In the light of the
coming day he looked already a corpse. He recognised me.
'Good-bye,' he whispered; 'greet her for me, I'm dying....'
'Yasha!' I cried; 'nonsense! you are going to live....'
'No, no! I am dying.... Here, take this as a keepsake.' ... (He
pointed to his breast.) ...
'What's this?' he began suddenly; 'look: the sea ... all golden, and
blue isles upon it, marble temples, palm-trees, incense....'
He ceased speaking ... stretched....
Within half an hour he was no more. Elisei flung himself weeping at
his feet. I closed his eyes.
On his neck there was a little silken amulet on a black cord. I took
Three days afterwards he was buried.... One of the noblest hearts
was hidden for ever in the grave. I myself threw the first handful of
earth upon him.
Another year and a half passed by. Business obliged me to visit
Moscow. I took up my quarters in one of the good hotels there. One day,
as I was passing along the corridor, I glanced at the black-board with
the list of visitors staying in the hotel, and almost cried out aloud
with astonishment. Opposite the number 12 stood, distinctly written in
chalk, the name, Sophia Nikolaevna Asanova. Of late I had chanced to
hear a good deal that was bad about her husband. I had learned that he
was addicted to drink and to gambling, had ruined himself, and was
generally misconducting himself. His wife was spoken of with
respect.... In some excitement I went back to my room. The passion,
that had long long ago grown cold, began as it were to stir within my
heart, and it throbbed. I resolved to go and see Sophia Nikolaevna.
'Such a long time has passed since the day we parted,' I thought, 'she
has, most likely, forgotten everything there was between us in those
I sent Elisei, whom I had taken into my service after the death of
Pasinkov, with my visiting-card to her door, and told him to inquire
whether she was at home, and whether I might see her. Elisei quickly
came back and announced that Sophia Nikolaevna was at home and would
I went at once to Sophia Nikolaevna. When I went in, she was
standing in the middle of the room, taking leave of a tall stout
'As you like,' he was saying in a rich, mellow voice; 'he is not a
harmless person, he's a useless person; and every useless person in a
well-ordered society is harmful, harmful, harmful!'
With those words the tall gentleman went out. Sophia Nikolaevna
turned to me.
'How long it is since we met!' she said. 'Sit down, please....'
We sat down. I looked at her.... To see again after long absence the
features of a face once dear, perhaps beloved, to recognise them, and
not recognise them, as though across the old, unforgotten countenance a
new one, like, but strange, were looking out at one; instantaneously,
almost unconsciously, to note the traces time has laid upon it;—all
this is rather melancholy. 'I too must have changed in the same way,'
each is inwardly thinking....
Sophia Nikolaevna did not, however, look much older; though, when I
had seen her last, she was sixteen, and that was nine years ago.
Her features had become still more correct and severe; as of old,
they expressed sincerity of feeling and firmness; but in place of her
former serenity, a sort of secret ache and anxiety could be discerned
in them. Her eyes had grown deeper and darker. She had begun to show a
likeness to her mother....
Sophia Nikolaevna was the first to begin the conversation.
'We are both changed,' she began. 'Where have you been all this
'I've been a rolling stone,' I answered. 'And have you been living
in the country all the while?'
'For the most part I've been in the country. I'm only here now for a
'How are your parents?'
'My mother is dead, but my father is still in Petersburg; my
brother's in the service; Varia lives with him.'
'And your husband?'
'My husband,' she said in a rather hurried voice—'he's just now in
South Russia for the horse fairs. He was always very fond of horses,
you know, and he has started stud stables ... and so, on that account
... he's buying horses now.'
At that instant there walked into the room a little girl of eight
years old, with her hair in a pigtail, with a very keen and lively
little face, and large dark grey eyes. On seeing me, she at once drew
back her little foot, dropped a hasty curtsey, and went up to Sophia
'This is my little daughter; let me introduce her to you,' said
Nikolaevna, putting one finger under the little girl's round chin;
'she would not stop at home—she persuaded me to bring her with me.'
The little girl scanned me with her rapid glance and faintly dropped
'She is a capital little person,' Sophia Nikolaevna went on:
'there's nothing she's afraid of. And she's good at her lessons; I must
say that for her.'
'Comment se nomme monsieur?' the little girl asked in an undertone,
bending over to her mother.
Sophia Nikolaevna mentioned my name.
The little girl glanced at me again.
'What is your name?' I asked her.
'My name is Lidia,' answered the little girl, looking me boldly in
'I expect they spoil you,' I observed.
'Who spoil me?'
'Who? everyone, I expect; your parents to begin with.'
(The little girl looked, without a word, at her mother.) 'I can
fancy Konstantin Alexandritch,' I was going on ...
'Yes, yes,' Sophia Nikolaevna interposed, while her little daughter
kept her attentive eyes fastened upon her; 'my husband, of course—he
is very fond of children....'
A strange expression flitted across Lidia's clever little face.
There was a slight pout about her lips; she hung her head.
'Tell me,' Sophia Nikolaevna added hurriedly; 'you are here on
business, I expect?'
'Yes, I am here on business.... And are you too?'
'Yes.... In my husband's absence, you understand, I'm obliged to
look after business matters.'
'Maman!' Lidia was beginning.
'Quoi, mon enfant?'
'Non—rien.... Je te dirai apres.'
Sophia Nikolaevna smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
'Tell me, please,' Sophia Nikolaevna began again; 'do you remember,
you had a friend ... what was his name? he had such a good-natured face
... he was always reading poetry; such an enthusiastic—'
'Yes, yes, Pasinkov ... where is he now?'
'He is dead.'
'Dead?' repeated Sophia Nikolaevna; 'what a pity!...'
'Have I seen him?' the little girl asked in a hurried whisper.
'No, Lidia, you've never seen him.—What a pity!' repeated Sophia
'You regret him ...' I began; 'what if you had known him, as I knew
him?... But, why did you speak of him, may I ask?'
'Oh, I don't know....' (Sophia Nikolaevna dropped her eyes.)
'Lidia,' she added; 'run away to your nurse.'
'You'll call me when I may come back?' asked the little girl.
The little girl went away. Sophia Nikolaevna turned to me.
'Tell me, please, all you know about Pasinkov.' I began telling her
his story. I sketched in brief words the whole life of my friend;
tried, as far as I was able, to give an idea of his soul; described his
last meeting with me and his end.
'And a man like that,' I cried, as I finished my story—'has left
us, unnoticed, almost unappreciated! But that's no great loss. What is
the use of man's appreciation? What pains me, what wounds me, is that
such a man, with such a loving and devoted heart, is dead without
having once known the bliss of love returned, without having awakened
interest in one woman's heart worthy of him!... Such as I may well know
nothing of such happiness; we don't deserve it; but Pasinkov!... And
yet haven't I met thousands of men in my life, who could not compare
with him in any respect, who were loved? Must one believe that some
faults in a man—conceit, for instance, or frivolity—are essential to
gain a woman's devotion? Or does love fear perfection, the perfection
possible on earth, as something strange and terrible?'
Sophia Nikolaevna heard me to the end, without taking her stern,
searching eyes off me, without moving her lips; only her eyebrows
contracted from time to time.
'What makes you suppose,' she observed after a brief silence, 'that
no woman ever loved your friend?'
'Because I know it, know it for a fact.'
Sophia Nikolaevna seemed about to say something, but she stopped.
She seemed to be struggling with herself.
'You are mistaken,' she began at last; 'I know a woman who loved
your dead friend passionately; she loves him and remembers him to this
day ... and the news of his death will be a fearful blow for her.'
'Who is this woman? may I know?'
'My sister, Varia.'
'Varvara Nikolaevna!' I cried in amazement.
'What? Varvara Nikolaevna?' I repeated, 'that...'
'I will finish your sentence,' Sophia Nikolaevna took me up; 'that
girl you thought so cold, so listless and indifferent, loved your
friend; that is why she has never married and never will marry. Till
this day no one has known of this but me; Varia would die before she
would betray her secret. In our family we know how to suffer in
I looked long and intently at Sophia Nikolaevna, involuntarily
pondering on the bitter significance of her last words.
'You have surprised me,' I observed at last. 'But do you know,
Sophia Nikolaevna, if I were not afraid of recalling disagreeable
memories, I might surprise you too....'
'I don't understand you,' she rejoined slowly, and with some
'You certainly don't understand me,' I said, hastily getting up;
'and so allow me, instead of verbal explanation, to send you something
'But what is it?' she inquired.
'Don't be alarmed, Sophia Nikolaevna, it's nothing to do with me.'
I bowed, and went back to my room, took out the little silken bag I
had taken off Pasinkov, and sent it to Sophia Nikolaevna with the
'This my friend wore always on his breast and died with it on him.
In it is the only note you ever wrote him, quite insignificant in its
contents; you can read it. He wore it because he loved you
passionately; he confessed it to me only the day before his death. Now,
when he is dead, why should you not know that his heart too was yours?'
Elisei returned quickly and brought me back the relic.
'Well?' I queried; 'didn't she send any message?'
I was silent for a little.
'Did she read my note?'
'No doubt she did; the maid took it to her.'
'Unapproachable,' I thought, remembering Pasinkov's last words. 'All
right, you can go,' I said aloud.
Elisei smiled somewhat queerly and did not go.
'There's a girl ...' he began, 'here to see you.'
'Didn't my master say anything to you?'
'No.... What is it?'
'When my master was in Novgorod,' he went on, fingering the
door-post, 'he made acquaintance, so to say, with a girl. So here is
this girl, wants to see you. I met her the other day in the street. I
said to her, “Come along; if the master allows it, I'll let you see
'Ask her in, ask her in, of course. But ... what is she like?'
'An ordinary girl...working class...Russian.'
'Did Yakov Ivanitch care for her?'
'Well, yes ... he was fond of her. And she...when she heard my
master was dead, she was terribly upset. She's a good sort of girl.'
'Ask her in, ask her in.'
Elisei went out and at once came back. He was followed by a girl in
a striped cotton gown, with a dark kerchief on her head, that half hid
her face. On seeing me, she was much taken aback and turned away.
'What's the matter?' Elisei said to her; 'go on, don't be afraid.'
I went up to her and took her by the hand.
'What is your name?' I asked her.
'Masha,' she replied in a soft voice, stealing a glance at me.
She looked about two-or three-and-twenty; she had a round, rather
simple-looking, but pleasant face, soft cheeks, mild blue eyes, and
very pretty and clean little hands. She was tidily dressed.
'You knew Yakov Ivanitch?' I pursued.
'I used to know him,' she said, tugging at the ends of her kerchief,
and the tears stood in her eyes.
I asked her to sit down.
She sat down at once on the edge of a chair, without any affectation
of ceremony. Elisei went out.
'You became acquainted with him in Novgorod?'
'Yes, in Novgorod,' she answered, clasping her hands under her
kerchief. 'I only heard the day before yesterday, from Elisei
Timofeitch, of his death. Yakov Ivanitch, when he went away to Siberia,
promised to write to me, and twice he did write, and then he wrote no
more. I would have followed him out to Siberia, but he didn't wish it.'
'Have you relations in Novgorod?'
'Did you live with them?'
'I used to live with mother and my married sister; but afterwards
mother was cross with me, and my sister was crowded up, too; she has a
lot of children: and so I moved. I always rested my hopes on Yakov
Ivanitch, and longed for nothing but to see him, and he was always good
to me—you can ask Elisei Timofeitch.'
'I have his letters,' she went on. 'Here, look.' She took several
letters out of her pocket, and handed them to me. 'Read them,' she
I opened one letter and recognised Pasinkov's hand.
'Dear Masha!' (he wrote in large, distinct letters) 'you leaned your
little head against my head yesterday, and when I asked why you do so,
you told me—“I want to hear what you are thinking.” I'll tell you what
I was thinking; I was thinking how nice it would be for Masha to learn
to read and write! She could make out this letter ...'
Masha glanced at the letter.
'That he wrote me in Novgorod,' she observed, 'when he was just
going to teach me to read. Look at the others. There's one from
Siberia. Here, read this.'
I read the letters. They were very affectionate, even tender. In one
of them, the first one from Siberia, Pasinkov called Masha his best
friend, promised to send her the money for the journey to Siberia, and
ended with the following words—'I kiss your pretty little hands; the
girls here have not hands like yours; and their heads are no match for
yours, nor their hearts either.... Read the books I gave you, and think
of me, and I'll not forget you. You are the only, only girl that ever
cared for me; and so I want to belong only to you....'
'I see he was very much attached to you,' I said, giving the letters
back to her.
'He was very fond of me,' replied Masha, putting the letters
carefully into her pocket, and the tears flowed slowly down her cheeks.
'I always trusted in him; if the Lord had vouchsafed him long life, he
would not have abandoned me. God grant him His heavenly peace!'...
She wiped her eyes with a corner of her kerchief.
'Where are you living now?' I inquired.
'I'm here now, in Moscow; I came here with my mistress, but now I'm
out of a place. I did go to Yakov Ivanitch's aunt, but she is very poor
herself. Yakov Ivanitch used often to talk of you,' she added, getting
up and bowing; 'he always loved you and thought of you. I met Elisei
Timofeitch the day before yesterday, and wondered whether you wouldn't
be willing to assist me, as I'm out of a place just now....'
'With the greatest pleasure, Maria ... let me ask, what's your name
from your father?'
'Petrovna,' answered Masha, and she cast down her eyes.
'I will do anything for you I can, Maria Petrovna,' I continued; 'I
am only sorry that I am a visitor here, and know few good families.'
'If I could get a situation of some sort ... I can't cut out, but I
can sew, so I'm always doing sewing ... and I can look after children
'Give her money,' I thought; 'but how's one to do it?'
'Listen, Maria Petrovna,' I began, not without faltering; 'you must,
please, excuse me, but you know from Pasinkov's own words what a friend
of his I was ... won't you allow me to offer you—for the immediate
present—a small sum?' ...
Masha glanced at me.
'What?' she asked.
'Aren't you in want of money?' I said.
Masha flushed all over and hung her head.
'What do I want with money?' she murmured; 'better get me a
'I will try to get you a situation, but I can't answer for it for
certain; but you ought not to make any scruple, really ... I'm not like
a stranger to you, you know.... Accept this from me, in memory of our
I turned away, hurriedly pulled a few notes out of my pocket-book,
and handed them to her.
Masha was standing motionless, her head still more downcast.
'Take it,' I persisted.
She slowly raised her eyes to me, looked me in the face mournfully,
slowly drew her pale hand from under her kerchief and held it out to
I laid the notes in her cold fingers. Without a word, she hid the
hand again under her kerchief, and dropped her eyes.
'In future, Maria Petrovna,' I resumed, 'if you should be in want of
anything, please apply directly to me. I will give you my address.'
'I humbly thank you,' she said, and after a short pause she added:
'He did not speak to you of me?'
'I only met him the day before his death, Maria Petrovna. But I'm
not sure ... I believe he did say something.'
Masha passed her hand over her hair, pressed her cheek lightly,
thought a moment, and saying 'Good-bye,' walked out of the room.
I sat at the table and fell into bitter musings. This Masha, her
relations with Pasinkov, his letters, the hidden love of Sophia
Nikolaevna's sister for him.... 'Poor fellow! poor fellow!' I
whispered, with a catching in my breath. I thought of all Pasinkov's
life, his childhood, his youth, Fraeulein Frederike.... 'Well,' I
thought, 'much fate gave to thee! much cause for joy!'
Next day I went again to see Sophia Nikolaevna. I was kept waiting
in the ante-room, and when I entered, Lidia was already seated by her
mother. I understood that Sophia Nikolaevna did not wish to renew the
conversation of the previous day.
We began to talk—I really don't remember what about—about the news
of the town, public affairs.... Lidia often put in her little word, and
looked slily at me. An amusing air of importance had suddenly become
apparent on her mobile little visage.... The clever little girl must
have guessed that her mother had intentionally stationed her at her
I got up and began taking leave. Sophia Nikolaevna conducted me to
'I made you no answer yesterday,' she said, standing still in the
doorway; 'and, indeed, what answer was there to make? Our life is not
in our own hands; but we all have one anchor, from which one can never,
without one's own will, be torn—a sense of duty.'
Without a word I bowed my head in sign of assent, and parted from
the youthful Puritan.
All that evening I stayed at home, but I did not think of her; I
kept thinking and thinking of my dear, never-to-be-forgotten
Pasinkov—the last of the idealists; and emotions, mournful and tender,
pierced with sweet anguish into my soul, rousing echoes on the strings
of a heart not yet quite grown old.... Peace to your ashes, unpractical
man, simple-hearted idealist! and God grant to all practical men—to
whom you were always incomprehensible, and who, perhaps, will laugh
even now over you in the grave—God grant to them to experience even a
hundredth part of those pure delights in which, in spite of fate and
men, your poor and unambitious life was so rich!
In a small, decently furnished room several young men were sitting
before the fire. The winter evening was only just beginning; the
samovar was boiling on the table, the conversation had hardly taken a
definite turn, but passed lightly from one subject to another. They
began discussing exceptional people, and in what way they differed from
ordinary people. Every one expounded his views to the best of his
abilities; they raised their voices and began to be noisy. A small,
pale man, after listening long to the disquisitions of his companions,
sipping tea and smoking a cigar the while, suddenly got up and
addressed us all (I was one of the disputants) in the following
'Gentlemen! all your profound remarks are excellent in their own
way, but unprofitable.
Every one, as usual, hears his opponent's views, and every one
retains his own convictions. But it's not the first time we have met,
nor the first time we have argued, and so we have probably by now had
ample opportunity for expressing our own views and learning those of
others. Why, then, do you take so much trouble?'
Uttering these words, the small man carelessly flicked the ash off
his cigar into the fireplace, dropped his eyelids, and smiled serenely.
We all ceased speaking.
'Well, what are we to do then, according to you?' said one of us;
'play cards, or what? go to sleep? break up and go home?'
'Playing cards is agreeable, and sleep's always salutary,' retorted
the small man; 'but it's early yet to break up and go home. You didn't
understand me, though. Listen: I propose, if it comes to that, that
each of you should describe some exceptional personality, tell us of
any meeting you may have had with any remarkable man. I can assure you
even the feeblest description has far more sense in it than the finest
'It's a strange thing,' observed one of us, an inveterate jester;
'except myself I don't know a single exceptional person, and with my
life you are all, I fancy, familiar already. However, if you insist—'
'No!' cried another, 'we don't! But, I tell you what,' he added,
addressing the small man, 'you begin. You have put a stopper on all of
us, you're the person to fill the gap. Only mind, if we don't care for
your story, we shall hiss you.'
'If you like,' answered the small man. He stood close to the fire;
we sat round him and kept quiet. The small man looked at all of us,
glanced at the ceiling, and began as follows:—
'Ten years ago, my dear friends, I was a student at Moscow. My
father, a virtuous landowner of the steppes, had handed me over to a
retired German professor, who, for a hundred roubles a month, undertook
to lodge and board me, and to watch over my morals. This German was the
fortunate possessor of an exceedingly solemn and decorous manner; at
first I went in considerable awe of him. But on returning home one
evening, I saw, with indescribable emotion, my preceptor sitting with
three or four companions at a round table, on which there stood a
fair-sized collection of empty bottles and half-full glasses. On seeing
me, my revered preceptor got up, and, waving his arms and stammering,
presented me to the honourable company, who all promptly offered me a
glass of punch. This agreeable spectacle had a most illuminating effect
on my intelligence; my future rose before me in the most seductive
images. And, as a fact, from that memorable day I enjoyed unbounded
freedom, and all but worried my preceptor to death. He had a wife who
always smelt of smoke and pickled cucumbers; she was still youngish,
but had not a single front tooth in her head. All German women, as we
know, very quickly lose those indispensable ornaments of the human
frame. I mention her, solely because she fell passionately in love with
me and fed me almost into my grave.'
'To the point, to the point,' we shouted. 'Surely it's not your own
adventures you're going to tell us?'
'No, gentlemen!' the small man replied composedly. 'I am an ordinary
mortal. And so I lived at my German's, as the saying is, in clover. I
did not attend lectures with too much assiduity, while at home I did
positively nothing. In a very short time, I had got to know all my
comrades and was on intimate terms with all of them. Among my new
friends was one rather decent and good-natured fellow, the son of a
town provost on the retired list. His name was Bobov. This Bobov got in
the habit of coming to see me, and seemed to like me. I, too ... do you
know, I didn't like him, nor dislike him; I was more or less
indifferent.... I must tell I hadn't in all Moscow a single relation,
except an old uncle, who used sometimes to ask me for money. I never
went anywhere, and was particularly afraid of women; I also avoided all
acquaintance with the parents of my college friends, ever after one
such parent (in my presence) pulled his son's hair—because a button
was off his uniform, while at the very time I hadn't more than six
buttons on my whole coat. In comparison with many of my comrades, I
passed for being a person of wealth; my father used to send me every
now and then small packets of faded blue notes, and consequently I not
only enjoyed a position of independence, but I was continually
surrounded by toadies and flatterers.... What am I saying?—why, for
that matter, so was my bobtail dog Armishka, who, in spite of his
setter pedigree, was so frightened of a shot, that the very sight of a
gun reduced him to indescribable misery. Like every young man, however,
I was not without that vague inward fermentation which usually, after
bringing forth a dozen more or less shapeless poems, passes off in a
peaceful and propitious manner. I wanted something, strove towards
something, and dreamed of something; I'll own I didn't know precisely
what it was I dreamed of. Now I understand what was lacking:—I felt my
loneliness, thirsted for the society of so-called live people; the word
Life waked echoes in my heart, and with a vague ache I listened to the
sound of it.... Valerian Nikitich, pass me a cigarette.'
Lighting the cigarette, the small man continued:
'One fine morning Bobov came running to me, out of breath: “Do you
know, old man, the great news? Kolosov has arrived.” “Kolosov? and who
on earth is Mr. Kolosov?”
'“You don't know him? Andriusha Kolosov! Come, old boy, let's go to
him directly. He came back last night from a holiday engagement.” “But
what sort of fellow is he?” “An exceptional man, my boy, let me assure
you!” “An exceptional man,” I answered; “then you go alone. I'll stop
at home. I know your exceptional men! A half-tipsy rhymester with an
everlastingly ecstatic smile!” ... “Oh no! Kolosov's not like that.” I
was on the point of observing that it was for Mr. Kolosov to call on
me; but, I don't know why, I obeyed Bobov and went. Bobov conducted me
to one of the very dirtiest, crookedest, and narrowest streets in
Moscow.... The house in which Kolosov lodged was built in the
old-fashioned style, rambling and uncomfortable. We went into the
courtyard; a fat peasant woman was hanging out clothes on a line
stretched from the house to the fence.... Children were squalling on
the wooden staircase...'
'Get on! get on!' we objected plaintively.
'I see, gentlemen, you don't care for the agreeable, and cling
solely to the profitable. As you please! We groped our way through a
dark and narrow passage to Kolosov's room; we went in. You have most
likely an approximate idea of what a poor student's room is like.
Directly facing the door Kolosov was sitting on a chest of drawers,
smoking a pipe. He gave his hand to Bobov in a friendly way, and
greeted me affably. I looked at Kolosov and at once felt irresistibly
drawn to him. Gentlemen! Bobov was right: Kolosov really was a
remarkable person. Let me describe a little more in detail.... He was
rather tall, slender, graceful, and exceedingly good-looking. His
face...I find it very difficult to describe his face. It is easy to
describe all the features one by one; but how is one to convey to any
one else what constitutes the distinguishing characteristic, the
essence of just that face?'
'What Byron calls “the music of the face,”' observed a tightly
buttoned-up, pallid gentleman.
'Quite so.... And therefore I will confine myself to a single
remark: the especial “something” to which I have just referred
consisted in Kolosov's case in a carelessly gay and fearless expression
of face, and also in an exceedingly captivating smile. He did not
remember his parents, and had had a wretched bringing-up in the house
of a distant relative, who had been degraded from the service for
taking bribes. Up to the age of fifteen, he had lived in the country;
then he found his way into Moscow, and after two years spent in the
care of an old deaf priest's wife, he entered the university and began
to get his living by lessons. He gave instruction in history,
geography, and Russian grammar, though he had only a dim notion of
these branches of science; but in the first place, there is an
abundance of 'textbooks' among us in Russia, of the greatest usefulness
to teachers; and secondly, the requirements of the respectable
merchants, who confided their children's education to Kolosov, were
exceedingly limited. Kolosov was neither a wit nor a humorist; but you
cannot imagine how readily we all fell under that fellow's sway. We
felt a sort of instinctive admiration of him; his words, his looks, his
gestures were all so full of the charm of youth that all his comrades
were head over ears in love with him. The professors considered him as
a fairly intelligent lad, but 'of no marked abilities,' and lazy.
Kolosov's presence gave a special harmony to our evening reunions.
Before him, our liveliness never passed into vulgar riotousness; if we
were all melancholy—this half childlike melancholy, in his presence,
led on to quiet, sometimes fairly sensible, conversation, and never
ended in dejected boredom. You are smiling, gentlemen—I understand
your smile; no doubt, many of us since then have turned out pretty
cads! But youth ... youth....'
'Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story!
The days of our youth are the days of our glory....'
commented the same pallid gentleman.
'By Jove, what a memory he's got! and all from Byron!' observed the
storyteller. 'In one word, Kolosov was the soul of our set. I was
attached to him by a feeling stronger than any I have ever felt for any
woman. And yet, I don't feel ashamed even now to remember that strange
love—yes, love it was, for I recollect I went through at that time all
the tortures of that passion, jealousy, for instance. Kolosov liked us
all equally, but was particularly friendly with a silent,
flaxen-haired, and unobtrusive youth, called Gavrilov. From Gavrilov he
was almost inseparable; he would often speak to him in a whisper, and
used to disappear with him out of Moscow, no one knew where, for two or
three days at a time.... Kolosov did not care to be questioned, and I
was lost in surmises. It was not simple curiosity that disturbed me. I
longed to become the friend, the attendant squire of Kolosov; I was
jealous of Gavrilov; I envied him; I could never find an explanation to
satisfy me of Kolosov's strange absences. Meanwhile he had none of that
air of mysteriousness about him, which is the proud possession of
youths endowed with vanity, pallor, black hair, and 'expressive' eyes,
nor had he anything of that studied carelessness under which we are
given to understand that vast forces are slumbering; no, he was quite
open and free; but when he was possessed by passion, an intense,
impulsive energy was apparent in everything about him; only he did not
waste his energies in vain, and never under any circumstances became
high-flown or affected. By the way ... tell me the truth, hasn't it
happened to you to sit smoking a pipe with an air of as weary solemnity
as if you had just resolved on a grand achievement, while you were
simply pondering on what colour to choose for your next pair of
trousers?... But the point is, that I was the first to observe in
Kolosov, always cheerful and friendly as he was, these instinctive,
passionate impulses.... They may well say that love is penetrating. I
made up my mind at all hazards to get into his confidence. It was no
use for me to lay myself out to please Kolosov; I had such a childlike
adoration for him that he could have no doubt of my devotion ... but to
my indescribable vexation, I had, at last, to yield to the conviction
that Kolosov avoided closer intimacy with me, that he was as it were
oppressed by my uninvited attachment. Once, when with obvious
displeasure he asked me to lend him money—the very next day he
returned me the loan with ironical gratitude. During the whole winter
my relations with Kolosov were utterly unchanged; I often compared
myself with Gavrilov, and could not make out in what respect he was
better than I.... But suddenly everything was changed. In the middle of
April, Gavrilov fell ill, and died in the arms of Kolosov, who never
left his room for an instant, and went nowhere for a whole week
afterwards. We were all grieved for poor Gavrilov; the pale, silent lad
seemed to have had a foreboding of his end. I too grieved sincerely for
him, but my heart ached with expectation of something.... One ever
memorable evening ... I was alone, lying on the sofa, gazing idly at
the ceiling ... some one rapidly opened the door of my room and stood
still in the doorway; I raised my head; before me stood Kolosov.
He slowly came in and sat down beside me. 'I have come to you,' he
began in a rather thick voice, 'because you care more for me than any
of the others do.... I have lost my best friend'—his voice shook a
little—'and I feel lonely.... None of you knew Gavrilov ... none of
you knew....' He got up, paced up and down the room, came rapidly
towards me again.... 'Will you take his place?' he said, and gave me
his hand. I leaped up and flung myself on his breast. My genuine
delight touched him.... I did not know what to say, I was choking....
Kolosov looked at me and softly laughed. We had tea. At tea he talked
of Gavrilov; I heard that that timid, gentle boy had saved Kolosov's
life, and I could not but own to myself that in Gavrilov's place I
couldn't have resisted chattering about it—boasting of my luck. It
struck eight. Kolosov got up, went to the window, drummed on the panes,
turned swiftly round to me, tried to say something ... and sat down on
a chair without a word. I took his hand. 'Kolosov, truly, truly I
deserve your confidence!' He looked straight into my eyes. 'Well, if
so,' he brought out at last, 'take your cap and come along.' 'Where
to?' 'Gavrilov did not ask me.' I was silent at once. 'Can you play at
We went out, took a cab to one of the gates of the town. At the gate
we got out. Kolosov went on in front very quickly; I followed him. We
walked along the highroad. After we had gone three-quarters of a mile,
Kolosov turned off. Meanwhile night had come on. On the right in the
fog were the twinkling lights, the innumerable church-spires of the
immense city; on the left, two white horses were grazing in a meadow
skirting the forest: before us stretched fields covered with greyish
mists. I followed Kolosov in silence. He stopped all at once, stretched
his hand out in front of him, and said: 'Here, this is where we are
going.' I saw a small dark house; two little windows showed a dim light
in the fog. 'In this house,' Kolosov went on, 'lives a man called
Sidorenko, a retired lieutenant, with his sister, an old maid, and his
daughter. I shall pass you off as a relation of mine—you must sit down
and play at cards with him.' I nodded without a word.
I wanted to show Kolosov that I could be as silent as Gavrilov....
But I will own I was suffering agonies of curiosity. As we went up to
the steps of the house, I caught sight, at a lighted window, of the
slender figure of a girl.... She seemed waiting for us and vanished at
once. We went into a dark and narrow passage. A crooked, hunchback old
woman came to meet us, and looked at me with astonishment. 'Is Ivan
Semyonitch at home?' inquired Kolosov. 'He is at home.'... 'He is at
home!' called a deep masculine voice from within. We went into the
dining-room, if dining-room one can call the long, rather dirty room; a
small old piano huddled unassumingly in a corner beside the stove; a
few chairs stood out along the walls which had once been yellow. In the
middle of the room stood a tall, stooping man of fifty, in a greasy
dressing-gown. I looked at him more attentively: a morose looking
countenance, hair standing up like a brush, a low forehead, grey eyes,
immense whiskers, thick lips.... 'A nice customer!' I thought. 'It's a
longish time since we've seen you, Andrei Nikolaevitch,' he observed,
holding out his hideous red hand, 'a longish time it is! And where's
Sevastian Sevastianovitch?' 'Gavrilov is dead,' answered Kolosov
mournfully. 'Dead! you don't say so! And who's this?' 'My relation—I
have the honour to present to you Nikolai Alexei....' 'All right, all
right,' Ivan Semyonitch cut him short, 'delighted, delighted. And does
he play cards?' 'Play, of course he does!' 'Ah, then, that's capital;
we'll sit down directly. Hey! Matrona Semyonovna—where are you? the
card-table—quick!... And tea!' With these words Mr. Sidorenko walked
into the next room. Kolosov looked at me. 'Listen,' he said, 'you can't
think how ashamed I am!'... I shut him up. 'Come, you there, what's
your name, this way,' called Ivan Semyonitch. I went into the
drawing-room. The drawing-room was even smaller than the dining-room.
On the walls hung some monstrosities of portraits; in front of the
sofa, of which the stuffing protruded in several places, stood a green
table; on the sofa sat Ivan Semyonitch, already shuffling the cards.
Near him on the extreme edge of a low chair sat a spare woman in a
white cap and a black gown, yellow and wrinkled, with short-sighted
eyes and thin cat-like lips. 'Here,' said Ivan Semyonitch, 'let me
introduce him; the first man's dead; Andrei Nikolaevitch has brought us
another; let's see how he plays!' The old lady bowed awkwardly and
cleared her throat. I looked round; Kolosov was no longer in the room.
'Stop that coughing, Matrona Semyonovna; sheep cough,' grumbled
Sidorenko. I sat down; the game began. Mr. Sidorenko got fearfully hot
and furious at my slightest mistake; he pelted his sister with abusive
epithets, but she had apparently had time to get used to her brother's
amenities, and only blinked in response. But when he announced to
Matrona Semyonovna that she was 'Antichrist,' the poor old woman fired
up. 'Ivan Semyonitch,' she protested with heat, 'you were the death of
your wife, Anfisa Karpovna, but you shan't worry me into my grave!'
'Indeed?' 'No! you shan't.' 'Indeed?' 'No! you shan't.' They kept it up
in this fashion for some time. My position was, as you perceive, not
merely an unenviable one: it was positively idiotic. I couldn't
conceive what had induced Kolosov to bring me.... I have never been a
good card-player; but on that occasion I was aware myself that I was
playing excruciatingly badly. 'No!' the retired lieutenant repeated
continually,' you can't hold a candle to Sevastianovitch! No! you play
carelessly!' I, you may be sure, was inwardly wishing him at the devil.
This torture continued for two hours; they beat me hollow. Before the
end of the last rubber, I heard a slight sound behind my chair—I
looked round and saw Kolosov; beside him stood a girl of seventeen, who
was watching me with a scarcely perceptible smile. 'Fill me my pipe,
Varia,' muttered Ivan Semyonitch. The girl promptly flew off into the
other room. She was not very pretty, rather pale, rather thin; but
never before or since have I seen such hair, such eyes. We finished the
rubber somehow; I paid up, Sidorenko lighted his pipe and grumbled:
'Well, now it's time for supper!' Kolosov presented me to Varia,
that is, to Varvara Ivanovna, the daughter of Ivan Semyonitch. Varia
was embarrassed; I too was embarrassed. But in a few minutes Kolosov,
as usual, had got everything and everyone into full swing; he sat Varia
down to the piano, begged her to play a dance tune, and proceeded to
dance a Cossack dance in competition with Ivan Semyonitch. The
lieutenant uttered little shrieks, stamped and cut such incredible
capers that even Matrona Semyonovna burst out laughing and retreated to
her own room upstairs. The hunchback old woman laid the table; we sat
down to supper. At supper Kolosov told all sorts of nonsensical
stories; the lieutenant's guffaws were deafening; I peeped from under
my eyelids at Varia. She never took her eyes off Kolosov ... and from
the expression of her face alone, I could divine that she both loved
him and was loved by him. Her lips were slightly parted, her head bent
a little forward, a faint colour kept flitting across her whole face;
from time to time she sighed deeply, suddenly dropped her eyes, and
softly laughed to herself.... I rejoiced for Kolosov.... But at the
same time, deuce take it, I was envious....
After supper, Kolosov and I promptly took up our caps, which did
not, however, prevent the lieutenant from saying, with a yawn: 'You've
paid us a long visit, gentlemen; it's time to say good-bye.' Varia
accompanied Kolosov into the passage: 'When are you coming, Andrei
Nikolaevitch?' she whispered to him. 'In a few days, for certain.'
'Bring him too,' she added, with a very sly smile. 'Of course, of
course.' ... 'Your humble servant!' thought I....
On the way home, I heard the following story. Six months before,
Kolosov had become acquainted with Mr. Sidorenko in a rather queer way.
One rainy evening, Kolosov was returning home from shooting, and had
reached the gate of the city, when suddenly, at no great distance from
the highroad, he heard groans, interspersed with curses. He had a gun;
without thinking long, he made straight for the sound, and found a man
lying on the ground with a dislocated ankle. This man was Mr.
Sidorenko. With great difficulty he got him home, handed him over to
the care of his frightened sister and his daughter, and ran for the
doctor.... Meantime it was nearly morning; Kolosov was almost dropping
with fatigue. With the permission of Matrona Semyonovna, he lay down on
the sofa in the parlour, and slept till eight o'clock. On waking up he
would at once have gone home; but they kept him and gave him some tea.
In the night he had twice succeeded in catching a glimpse of the pale
face of Varvara Ivanovna; he had not particularly noticed her, but in
the morning she made a decidedly agreeable impression on him. Matrona
Semyonovna garrulously praised and thanked Kolosov; Varvara sat silent,
pouring out the tea, glanced at him now and then, and with timid
shame-faced attentiveness handed him first a cup of tea, then the
cream, then the sugar-basin. Meanwhile the lieutenant waked up, loudly
called for his pipe, and after a short pause bawled: 'Sister! hi,
sister!' Matrona Semyonovna went to his bedroom. 'What about
that...what the devil's his name? is he gone?' 'No, I'm still here,'
answered Kolosov, going up to the door; 'are you better now?' 'Yes,'
answered the lieutenant; 'come in here, my good sir.' Kolosov went in.
Sidorenko looked at him, and reluctantly observed: 'Well, thanks; come
sometimes and see me—what's your name? who the devil's to know?'
'Kolosov,' answered Andrei. 'Well, well, come and see us; but it's no
use your sticking on here now, I daresay they're expecting you at
home.' Kolosov retreated, said good-bye to Matrona Semyonovna, bowed to
Varvara Ivanovna, and returned home. From that day he began to visit
Ivan Semyonitch, at first at long intervals, then more and more
frequently. The summer came on; he would sometimes take his gun, put on
his knapsack, and set off as if he were going shooting. He would go to
the retired lieutenant's, and stay on there till evening.
Varvara Ivanovna's father had served twenty-five years in the army,
had saved a small sum of money, and bought himself a few acres of land
a mile and a half from Moscow. He could scarcely read and write; but in
spite of his external clumsiness and coarseness, he was shrewd and
cunning, and even, on occasion, capable of sharp practice, like many
Little Russians. He was a fearful egoist, obstinate as an ox, and in
general exceedingly impolite, especially with strangers; I even
detected in him something like a contempt for the whole human race. He
indulged himself in every caprice, like a spoilt child; would know no
one, and lived for his own pleasure. We were once somehow or other
talking about marriages with him; 'Marriage ... marriage,' said he;
'whom the devil would I let my daughter marry? Eh? what should I do it
for? for her husband to knock her about as I used to my wife? Besides,
whom should I be left with?' Such was the retired lieutenant, Ivan
Semyonitch. Kolosov used to go and see him, not on his account, of
course, but for the sake of his daughter. One fine evening, Andrei was
sitting in the garden with her, chatting about something; Ivan
Semyonitch went up to him, looked sullenly at Varia, and called Andrei
away. 'Listen, my dear fellow,' he said to him; 'you find it good fun,
I see, gossiping with my only child, but I'm dull in my old age; bring
some one with you, or I've nobody to deal a card to; d'ye hear? I
shan't give admittance to you by yourself.' The next day Kolosov turned
up with Gavrilov, and poor Sevastian Sevastianovitch had for a whole
autumn and winter been playing cards in the evenings with the retired
lieutenant; that worthy treated him without ceremony, as it is
called—in other words, fearfully rudely. You now probably realise why
it was that, after Gavrilov's death, Kolosov took me with him to Ivan
Semyonitch's. As he communicated all these details, Kolosov added, 'I
love Varia, she is the dearest girl; she liked you.'
I have forgotten, I fancy, to make known to you that up to that time
I had been afraid of women and avoided them, though I would sometimes,
in solitude, spend whole hours in dreaming of tender interviews, of
love, of mutual love, and so on. Varvara Ivanovna was the first girl
with whom I was forced to talk, by necessity—by necessity it really
was. Varia was an ordinary girl, and yet there are very few such girls
in holy Russia. You will ask me—why so? Because I never noticed in her
anything strained, unnatural, affected; because she was a simple,
candid, rather melancholy creature, because one could never call her 'a
young lady.' I liked her soft smile; I liked her simple-hearted,
ringing little voice, her light and mirthful laugh, her attentive
though by no means 'profound' glances. The child promised nothing; but
you could not help admiring her, as you admire the sudden, soft cry of
the oriole at evening, in the lofty, dark birch-wood. I must confess
that at the present time I should pass by such a creature with some
indifference; I've no taste now for solitary evening strolls, and
orioles; but in those days ...
I've no doubt, gentlemen, that, like all well-educated persons, you
have been in love at least once in the course of your life, and have
learnt from your own experience how love springs up and develops in the
human heart, and therefore I'm not going to enlarge too much on what
took place with me at that time. Kolosov and I used to go pretty often
to Ivan Semyonitch's; and though those damned cards often drove me to
utter despair, still, in the mere proximity of the woman one loves (I
had fallen in love with Varia) there is a sort of strange, sweet,
tormenting joy. I made no effort to suppress this growing feeling;
besides, by the time I had at last brought myself to call the emotion
by its true name, it was already too strong.... I cherished my love in
silence, and jealously and shyly concealed it. I myself enjoyed this
agonising ferment of silent passion. My sufferings did not rob me of my
sleep, nor of my appetite; but for whole days together I was conscious
of that peculiar physical sensation in my breast which is a symptom of
the presence of love. I am incapable of depicting the conflict of
various sensations which took place within me when, for example,
Kolosov came in from the garden with Varia, and her whole face was
aglow with ecstatic devotion, exhaustion from excess of bliss.... She
so completely lived in his life, was so completely taken up with him,
that unconsciously she adopted his ways, looked as he looked, laughed
as he laughed.... I can imagine the moments she passed with Andrei, the
raptures she owed to him.... While he ... Kolosov did not lose his
freedom; in her absence he did not, I suppose, even think of her; he
was still the same unconcerned, gay, and happy fellow we had always
And, as I have already told you, we used, Kolosov and I, to go
pretty often to Ivan Semyonitch's. Sometimes, when he was out of
humour, the retired lieutenant did not make me sit down to cards; on
such occasions, he would shrink into a corner in silence, scowling and
looking crossly at every one. The first time I was delighted at his
letting me off so easily; but afterwards I would sometimes begin myself
begging him to sit down to whist, the part of third person was so
insupportable! I was so unpleasantly in Kolosov's and Varia's way,
though they did assure each other that there was no need to mind me!...
Meanwhile time went on.... They were happy.... I have no great
fondness for describing other people's happiness. But then I began to
notice that Varia's childish ecstasy had gradually given way to a more
womanly, more restless feeling. I began to surmise that the new song
was being sung to the old tune—that is, that Kolosov was...little by
little...cooling. This discovery, I must own, delighted me; I did not
feel, I must confess, the slightest indignation against Andrei.
The intervals between our visits became longer and longer.... Varia
began to meet us with tear-stained eyes. Reproaches were heard ...
Sometimes I asked Kolosov with affected indifference, 'Well, shall we
go to Ivan Semyonitch's to-day?' ... He looked coldly at me, and
answered quietly, 'No, we're not going.' I sometimes fancied that he
smiled slily when he spoke to me of Varia.... I failed generally to
fill Gavrilov's place with him.... Gavrilov was a thousand times more
good-natured and foolish than I.
Now allow me a slight digression.... When I spoke of my university
comrades, I did not mention a certain Mr. Shtchitov. He was
five-and-thirty; he had been a student for ten years already. I can see
even now his rather long pale face, his little brown eyes, his long
hawk nose crooked at the end, his thin sarcastic lips, his solemn
upstanding shock of hair, and his chin that lost itself complacently in
the wide striped cravat of the colour of a raven's wing, the shirt
front with bronze buttons, the open blue frock-coat and striped
waistcoat.... I can hear his unpleasantly jarring laugh.... He went
everywhere, was conspicuous at all possible kinds of 'dancing classes.'
... I remember I could not listen to his cynical stories without a
peculiar shudder.... Kolosov once compared him to an unswept Russian
refreshment bar ... a horrible comparison! And with all that, there was
a lot of intelligence, common sense, observation, and wit in the
man.... He sometimes impressed us by some saying so apt, so true and
cutting, that we were all involuntarily reduced to silence and looked
at him with amazement. But, to be sure, it is just the same to a
Russian whether he has uttered an absurdity or a clever thing.
Shtchitov was especially dreaded by those self-conscious, dreamy, and
not particularly gifted youths who spend whole days in painfully
hatching a dozen trashy lines of verse and reading them in sing-song to
their 'friends,' and who despise every sort of positive science. One
such he simply drove out of Moscow, by continually repeating to him two
of his own lines. Yet all the while Shtchitov himself did nothing and
learnt nothing.... But that's all in the natural order of things. Well,
Shtchitov, God only knows why, began jeering at my romantic attachment
to Kolosov. The first time, with noble indignation, I told him to go to
the devil; the second time, with chilly contempt, I informed him that
he was not capable of judging of our friendship—but I did not send him
away; and when, on taking leave of me, he observed that without
Kolosov's permission I didn't even dare to praise him, I felt annoyed;
Shtchitov's last words sank into my heart.—For more than a fortnight I
had not seen Varia.... Pride, love, a vague anticipation, a number of
different feelings were astir within me ... with a wave of the hand and
a fearful sinking at my heart, I set off alone to Ivan Semyonitch's.
I don't know how I made my way to the familiar little house; I
remember I sat down several times by the road to rest, not from
fatigue, but from emotion. I went into the passage, and had not yet had
time to utter a single word when the door of the drawing-room flew open
and Varia ran to meet me. 'At last,' she said, in a quavering voice;
'where's Andrei Nikolaevitch?' 'Kolosov has not come,' I muttered with
an effort. 'Not come!' she repeated. 'Yes ... he told me to tell you
that ... he was detained....' I positively did not know what I was
saying, and I did not dare to raise my eyes. Varia stood silent and
motionless before me. I glanced at her: she turned away her head; two
big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. In the expression of her face
there was such sudden, bitter suffering; the conflict between
bashfulness, sorrow, and confidence in me was so simply, so touchingly
apparent in the unconscious movement of her poor little head that it
sent a pang to my heart. I bent a little forward ... she gave a hurried
start and ran away. In the parlour I was met by Ivan Semyonitch. 'How's
this, my good sir, are you alone?' he asked me, with a queer twitch of
his left eyelid. 'Yes, I've come alone,' I stammered. Sidorenko went
off into a sudden guffaw and departed into the next room.
I had never been in such a foolish position; it was too devilishly
disgusting! But there was nothing to be done. I began walking up and
down the room. 'What was the fat pig laughing at?' I wondered. Matrona
Semyonovna came into the room with a stocking in her hands and sat down
in the window. I began talking to her. Meanwhile tea was brought in.
Varia came downstairs, pale and sorrowful. The retired lieutenant made
jokes about Kolosov. 'I know,' said he, 'what sort of customer he is;
you couldn't tempt him here with lollipops now, I expect!' Varia
hurriedly got up and went away. Ivan Semyonitch looked after her and
gave a sly whistle. I glanced at him in perplexity. 'Can it be,' I
wondered, 'that he knows all about it?' And the lieutenant, as though
divining my thoughts, nodded his head affirmatively. Directly after tea
I got up and took leave. 'You, my good sir, we shall see again,'
observed the lieutenant. I did not say a word in reply.... I began to
feel simply frightened of the man.
On the steps a cold and trembling hand clutched at mine; I looked
round: Varia. 'I must speak to you,' she whispered. 'Come to-morrow
rather earlier, straight into the garden. After dinner papa is asleep;
no one will interfere with us.' I pressed her hand without a word, and
Next day, at three o'clock in the afternoon, I was in Ivan
Semyonitch's garden. In the morning I had not seen Kolosov, though he
had come to see me. It was a grey autumn day, but soft and warm.
Delicate yellow blades of grass nodded over the blanching turf; the
nimble tomtits were hopping about the bare dark-brown twigs; some
belated larks were hurriedly running about the paths; a hare was
creeping cautiously about among the greens; a herd of cattle wandered
lazily over the stubble. I found Varia in the garden under the
apple-tree on the little garden-seat; she was wearing a dark dress,
rather creased; her weary eyes, the dejected droop of her hair, seemed
to express genuine suffering.
I sat down beside her. We were both silent. For a long while she
kept twisting a twig in her hand; she bent her head, and uttered:
'Andrei Nikolaevitch....' I noticed at once, by the twitching of her
lips, that she was getting ready to cry, and began consoling her,
assuring her hotly of Andrei's devotion.... She heard me, nodded her
head mournfully, articulated some indistinct words, and then was silent
but did not cry. The first moments I had dreaded most of all had gone
off fairly well. She began little by little to talk about Andrei. 'I
know that he does not love me now,' she repeated: 'God be with him! I
can't imagine how I am to live without him.... I don't sleep at nights,
I keep weeping.... What am I to do! What am I to do! ...' Her eyes
filled with tears. 'I thought him so kind ... and here ...' Varia wiped
her eyes, cleared her throat, and sat up. 'It seems such a little while
ago,' she went on: 'he was reading to me out of Pushkin, sitting with
me on this bench....' Varia's naive communicativeness touched me. I
listened in silence to her confessions; my soul was slowly filled with
a bitter, torturing bliss; I could not take my eyes off that pale face,
those long, wet eyelashes, and half-parted, rather parched lips.... And
meanwhile I felt ... Would you care to hear a slight psychological
analysis of my emotions at that moment? in the first place I was
tortured by the thought that it was not I that was loved, not I that as
making Varia suffer: secondly, I was delighted at her confidence; I
knew she would be grateful to me for giving her an opportunity of
expressing her sorrow: thirdly, I was inwardly vowing to myself to
bring Kolosov and Varia together again, and was deriving consolation
from the consciousness of my magnanimity ... in the fourth place, I
hoped, by my self-sacrifice, to touch Varia's heart; and then ... You
see I do not spare myself; no, thank God! it's high time!
But from the bell-tower of the monastery near it struck five
o'clock; the evening was coming on rapidly. Varia got up hastily,
thrust a little note into my hand, and went off towards the house. I
overtook her, promised to bring Andrei to her, and stealthily, like a
happy lover, crept out by the little gate into the field. On the note
was written in an unsteady hand the words: To Andrei Nikolaevitch.
Next day I set off early in the morning to Kolosov's. I'm bound to
confess that, although I assured myself that my intentions were not
only honourable, but positively brimful of great-hearted
self-sacrifice, I was yet conscious of a certain awkwardness, even
timidity. I arrived at Kolosov's. There was with him a fellow called
Puzyritsin, a former student who had never taken his degree, one of
those authors of sensational novels of the so-called 'Moscow' or 'grey'
school. Puzyritsin was a very good-natured and shy person, and was
always preparing to be an hussar, in spite of his thirty-three years.
He belonged to that class of people who feel it absolutely necessary,
once in the twenty-four hours, to utter a phrase after the pattern of,
'The beautiful always falls into decay in the flower of its splendour;
such is the fate of the beautiful in the world,' in order to smoke his
pipe with redoubled zest all the rest of the day in a circle of 'good
comrades.' On this account he was called an idealist. Well, so
Puzyritsin was sitting with Kolosov reading him some 'fragment.' I
began to listen; it was all about a youth, who loves a maiden, kills
her, and so on. At last Puzyritsin finished and retreated. His absurd
production, solemnly bawling voice, his presence altogether, had put
Kolosov into a mood of sarcastic irritability. I felt that I had come
at an unlucky moment, but there was nothing to be done for it; without
any kind of preface, I handed Andrei Varia's note.
Kolosov looked at me in perplexity, tore open the note, ran his eyes
over it, said nothing, but smiled composedly. 'Oh, ho!' he said at
last; 'so you've been at Ivan Semyonitch's?'
'Yes, I was there yesterday, alone,' I answered abruptly and
'Ah!...' observed Kolosov ironically, and he lighted his pipe.
'Andrei,' I said to him, 'aren't you sorry for her?... If you had seen
And I launched into an eloquent description of my visit of the
previous day. I was genuinely moved. Kolosov did not speak, and smoked
'You sat with her under the apple-tree in the garden,' he said at
last. 'I remember in May I, too, used to sit with her on that seat....
The apple-tree was in blossom, the fresh white flowers fell upon us
sometimes; I held both Varia's hands... we were happy then.... Now the
apple-blossom is over, and the apples on the tree are sour.'
I flew into a passion of noble indignation, began reproaching Andrei
for coldness, for cruelty, argued with him that he had no right to
abandon a girl so suddenly, after awakening in her a multitude of new
emotions; I begged him at least to go and say good-bye to Varia.
Kolosov heard me to the end.
'Admitting,' he said to me, when, agitated and exhausted, I flung
myself into an armchair, 'that you, as my friend, may be allowed to
criticise me. But hear my defence, at least, though...'
Here he paused for a little while and smiled curiously. 'Varia's an
excellent girl,' he went on, 'and has done me no wrong whatever.... On
the contrary, I am greatly, very greatly indebted to her. I have left
off going to see her for a very simple reason—I have left off caring
'But why? why?' I interrupted him.
'Goodness knows why. While I loved her, I was entirely hers; I never
thought of the future, and everything, my whole life, I shared with her
... now this passion has died out in me.... Well, you would tell me to
be a humbug, to play at being in love, wouldn't you? But what for? from
pity for her? If she's a decent girl, she won't care for such charity
herself, but if she is glad to be consoled by my ... my sympathy, well,
she's not good for much!'
Kolosov's carelessly offhand expressions offended me, perhaps, the
more because they were applied to the woman with whom I was secretly in
love.... I fired up. 'Stop,' I said to him; 'stop! I know why you have
given up going to see Varia.'
'Taniusha has forbidden you to.'
In uttering these words, I fancied I was dealing a most cutting blow
at Andrei. Taniusha was a very 'easy-going' young lady, black-haired,
dark, five-and-twenty, free in her manners, and devilishly clever, a
Shtchitov in petticoats. Kolosov quarrelled with her and made it up
again half a dozen times in a month. She was passionately fond of him,
though sometimes, during their misunderstandings, she would vow and
declare that she thirsted for his blood.... And Andrei, too, could not
get on without her. Kolosov looked at me, and responded serenely,
'Not perhaps so,' I shouted, 'but certainly!'
Kolosov at last got sick of my reproaches.... He got up and put on
'Where are you going?'
'For a walk; you and Puzyritsin have given me a headache between
'You are angry with me?'
'No,' he answered, smiling his sweet smile, and holding out his hand
'Well, anyway, what do you wish me to tell Varia?'
'Eh?' ... He thought a little. 'She told you,' he said, 'that we had
read Pushkin together.... Remind her of one line of Pushkin's.' 'What
line? what line?' I asked impatiently. 'This one:
“What has been will not be again.”'
With those words he went out of the room. I followed him; on the
stairs he stopped.
'And is she very much upset?' he asked me, pulling his cap over his
'Very, very much!...'
'Poor thing! Console her, Nikolai; you love her, you know.'
'Yes, I have grown fond of her, certainly....'
'You love her,' repeated Kolosov, and he looked me straight in the
face. I turned away without a word, and we separated.
On reaching home, I was in a perfect fever.
'I have done my duty,' I thought; 'I have overcome my own egoism; I
have urged Andrei to go back to Varia!... Now I am in the right; he
that will not when he may...!' At the same time Andrei's indifference
wounded me. He had not been jealous of me, he told me to console
her.... But is Varia such an ordinary girl, is she not even worthy of
sympathy?... There are people who know how to appreciate what you
despise, Andrei Nikolaitch!... But what's the good? She does not love
me.... No, she does not love me now, while she has not quite lost hope
of Kolosov's return.... But afterwards...who knows, my devotion will
touch her. I will make no claims.... I will give myself up to her
wholly, irrevocably.... Varia! is it possible you will not love
Such were the speeches your humble servant was rehearsing in the
city of Moscow, in the year 1833, in the house of his revered
preceptor. I wept...I felt faint... The weather was horrible...a fine
rain trickled down the window panes with a persistent, thin, little
patter; damp, dark-grey storm-clouds hung stationary over the town. I
dined hurriedly, made no response to the anxious inquiries of the kind
German woman, who whimpered a little herself at the sight of my red,
swollen eyes (Germans—as is well known—are always glad to weep). I
behaved very ungraciously to my preceptor...and at once after dinner
set off to Ivan Semyonitch... Bent double in a jolting droshky, I kept
asking myself whether I should tell Varia all as it was, or go on
deceiving her, and little by little turn her heart from Andrei... I
reached Ivan Semyonitch's without knowing what to decide upon... I
found all the family in the parlour. On seeing me, Varia turned
fearfully white, but did not move from her place; Sidorenko began
talking to me in a peculiarly jeering way. I responded as best I could,
looking from time to time at Varia, and almost unconsciously giving a
dejected and pensive expression to my features. The lieutenant started
whist again. Varia sat near the window and did not stir. 'You're dull
now, I suppose?' Ivan Semyonitch asked her twenty times over.
At last I succeeded in seizing a favourable opportunity.
'You are alone again,' Varia whispered to me.
'Yes,' I answered gloomily; 'and probably for long.'
She swiftly drew in her head.
'Did you give him my letter?' she asked in a voice hardly audible.
'Well?'... she gasped for breath. I glanced at her.... There was a
sudden flash of spiteful pleasure within me.
'He told me to tell you,' I pronounced deliberately, 'that “what has
been will not be again....”'
Varia pressed her left hand to her heart, stretched her right hand
out in front, staggered, and went quickly out of the room. I tried to
overtake her.... Ivan Semyonitch stopped me. I stayed another two hours
with him, but Varia did not appear. On the way back I felt ashamed ...
ashamed before Varia, before Andrei, before myself; though they say it
is better to cut off an injured limb at once than to keep the patient
in prolonged suffering; but who gave me a right to deal such a
merciless blow at the heart of a poor girl?... For a long while I could
not sleep ... but I fell asleep at last. In general I must repeat that
'love' never once deprived me of sleep.
I began to go pretty often to Ivan Semyonitch's. I used to see
Kolosov as before, but neither he nor I ever referred to Varia. My
relations with her were of a rather curious kind. She became attached
to me with that sort of attachment which excludes every possibility of
love. She could not help noticing my warm sympathy, and talked eagerly
with me ... of what, do you suppose?... of Kolosov, nothing but
Kolosov! The man had taken such possession of her that she did not, as
it were, belong to herself. I tried in vain to arouse her pride ... she
was either silent or, if she talked—chattered on about Kolosov. I did
not even suspect in those days that sorrow of that kind—talkative
sorrow—is in reality far more genuine than any silent suffering. I
must own I passed many bitter moments at that time. I was conscious
that I was not capable of filling Kolosov's place; I was conscious that
Varia's past was so full, so rich ... and her present so poor.... I got
to the point of an involuntary shudder at the words 'Do you remember'
... with which almost every sentence of hers began. She grew a little
thinner during the first days of our acquaintance ... but afterwards
got better again, and even grew cheerful; she might have been compared
then with a wounded bird, not yet quite recovered. Meanwhile my
position had become insupportable; the lowest passions gradually gained
possession of my soul; it happened to me to slander Kolosov in Varia's
presence. I resolved to cut short such unnatural relations. But how?
Part from Varia—I could not.... Declare my love to her—I did not
dare; I felt that I could not, as yet, hope for a return. Marry her....
This idea alarmed me; I was only eighteen; I felt a dread of putting
all my future into bondage so early; I thought of my father, I could
hear the jeering comments of Kolosov's comrades.... But they say every
thought is like dough; you have only to knead it well—you can make
anything you like of it. I began, for whole days together, to dream of
marriage.... I imagined what gratitude would fill Varia's heart when I,
the friend and confidant of Kolosov, should offer her my hand, knowing
her to be hopelessly in love with another. Persons of experience, I
remembered, had told me that marriage for love is a complete absurdity;
I began to indulge my fancy; I pictured to myself our peaceful life
together in some snug corner of South Russia; an mentally I traced the
gradual transition in Varia's heart from gratitude to affection, from
affection to love.... I vowed to myself at once to leave Moscow, the
university, to forget everything and every one. I began to avoid
At last, one bright winter day (Varia had been somehow peculiarly
enchanting the previous evening), I dressed myself in my best, slowly
and solemnly sallied out from my room, took a first-rate sledge, and
drove down to Ivan Semyonitch's. Varia was sitting alone in the
drawing-room reading Karamzin. On seeing me she softly laid the book
down on her knees, and with agitated curiosity looked into my face; I
had never been to see them in the morning before.... I sat down beside
her; my heart beat painfully. 'What are you reading?' I asked her at
last. 'Karamzin.' 'What, are you taking up Russian literature?...' She
suddenly cut me short. 'Tell me, haven't you come from Andrei?' That
name, that trembling, questioning voice, the half-joyful, half-timid
expression of her face, all these unmistakable signs of persistent
love, pierced to my heart like arrows. I resolved either to part from
Varia, or to receive from her herself the right to chase the hated name
of Andrei from her lips for ever. I do not remember what I said to her;
at first I must have expressed myself in rather confused fashion, as
for a long while she did not understand me; at last I could stand it no
longer, and almost shouted, 'I love you, I want to marry you.' 'You
love me?' said Varia in bewilderment. I fancied she meant to get up, to
go away, to refuse me. 'For God's sake,' I whispered breathlessly,
'don't answer me, don't say yes or no; think it over; to-morrow I will
come again for a final answer.... I have long loved you. I don't ask of
you love, I want to be your champion, your friend; don't answer me now,
don't answer.... Till to-morrow.' With these words I rushed out of the
room. In the passage Ivan Semyonitch met me, and not only showed no
surprise at my visit, but positively, with an agreeable smile, offered
me an apple. Such unexpected amiability so struck me that I was simply
dumb with amazement. 'Take the apple, it's a nice apple, really!'
persisted Ivan Semyonitch. Mechanically I took the apple at last, and
drove all the way home with it in my hand.
You may easily imagine how I passed all that day and the following
morning. That night I slept rather badly. 'My God! my God!' I kept
thinking; 'if she refuses me! ... I shall die.... I shall die....' I
repeated wearily. 'Yes, she will certainly refuse me.... And why was I
in such a hurry!'... Wishing to turn my thoughts, I began to write a
letter to my father—a desperate, resolute letter. Speaking of myself,
I used the expression 'your son.' Bobov came in to see me. I began
weeping on his shoulder, which must have surprised poor Bobov not a
little.... I afterwards learned that he had come to me to borrow money
(his landlord had threatened to turn him out of the house); he had no
choice but to hook it, as the students say....
At last the great moment arrived. On going out of my room, I stood
still in the doorway. 'With what feelings,' thought I, 'shall I cross
this threshold again to-day?' ... My emotion at the sight of Ivan
Semyonitch's little house was so great that I got down, picked up a
handful of snow and pressed it to my face. 'Oh, heavens!' I thought,
'if I find Varia alone—I am lost!' My legs were giving way under me; I
could hardly get to the steps. Things were as I had hoped. I found
Varia in the parlour with Matrona Semyonovna. I made my bows awkwardly,
and sat down by the old lady. Varia's face was rather paler than
usual.... I fancied that she tried to avoid my eyes.... But what were
my feelings when Matrona Semyonovna suddenly got up and went into the
next room!... I began looking out of the window—I was trembling
inwardly like an autumn leaf. Varia did not speak.... At last I
mastered my timidity, went up to her, bent my head....
'What are you going to say to me?' I articulated in a breaking
Varia turned away—the tears were glistening on her eyelashes.
'I see,' I went on, 'it's useless for me to hope.'...
Varia looked shyly round and gave me her hand without a word.
'Varia!' I cried involuntarily...and stopped, as though frightened
at my own hopes.
'Speak to papa,' she articulated at last.
'You permit me to speak to Ivan Semyonitch?' ...
'Yes.'... I covered her hands with kisses.
'Don't, don't,' whispered Varia, and suddenly burst into tears.
I sat down beside her, talked soothingly to her, wiped away her
tears.... Luckily, Ivan Semyonitch was not at home, and Matrona
Semyonovna had gone up to her own little room. I made vows of love, of
constancy to Varia.
...'Yes,' she said, suppressing her sobs and continually wiping her
eyes; 'I know you are a good man, an honest man; you are not like
Kolosov.'... 'That name again!' thought I. But with what delight I
kissed those warm, damp little hands! with what subdued rapture I gazed
into that sweet face!... I talked to her of the future, walked about
the room, sat down on the floor at her feet, hid my eyes in my hands,
and shuddered with happiness.... Ivan Semyonitch's heavy footsteps cut
short our conversation. Varia hurriedly got up and went off to her own
room—without, however, pressing my hand or glancing at me. Mr.
Sidorenko was even more amiable than on the previous day: he laughed,
rubbed his stomach, made jokes about Matrona Semyonovna, and so on. I
was on the point of asking for his blessing there and then, but I
thought better of it and deferred doing so till the next day. His
ponderous jokes jarred upon me; besides I was exhausted.... I said
good-bye to him and went away.
I am one of those persons who love brooding over their own
sensations, though I cannot endure such persons myself. And so, after
the first transport of heartfelt joy, I promptly began to give myself
up to all sorts of reflections. When I had got half a mile from the
house of the retired lieutenant, I flung my hat up in the air, in
excessive delight, and shouted 'Hurrah!' But while I was being jolted
through the long, crooked streets of Moscow, my thoughts gradually took
another turn. All sorts of rather sordid doubts began to crowd upon my
mind. I recalled my conversation with Ivan Semyonitch about marriage in
general ... and unconsciously I murmured to myself, 'So he was putting
it on, the old humbug!' It is true that I continually repeated, 'but
then Varia is mine! mine!' ... Yet that 'but'—alas, that but!—and then, too, the words, 'Varia is mine!' aroused in me not a deep,
overwhelming rapture, but a sort of paltry, egoistic triumph.... If
Varia had refused me point-blank, I should have been burning with
furious passion; but having received her consent, I was like a man who
has just said to a guest, 'Make yourself at home,' and sees the guest
actually beginning to settle into his room, as if he were at home. 'If
she had loved Kolosov,' I thought, 'how was it she consented so soon?
It's clear she's glad to marry any one.... Well, what of it? all the
better for me.'... It was with such vague and curious feelings that I
crossed the threshold of my room. Possibly, gentlemen, my story does
not strike you as sounding true.
I don't know whether it sounds true or not, but I know that all I
have told is the absolute and literal truth. However, I gave myself up
all that day to a feverish gaiety, assured myself that I simply did not
deserve such happiness; but next morning....
A wonderful thing is sleep! It not only renews one's body: in a way
it renews one's soul, restoring it to primaeval simplicity and
naturalness. In the course of the day you succeed in tuning
yourself, in soaking yourself in falsity, in false ideas ... sleep with
its cool wave washes away all such pitiful trashiness; and on waking
up, at least for the first few instants, you are capable of
understanding and loving truth. I waked up, and, reflecting on the
previous day, I felt a certain discomfort.... I was, as it were,
ashamed of all my own actions. With instinctive uneasiness I thought of
the visit to be made that day, of my interview with Ivan Semyonitch....
This uneasiness was acute and distressing; it was like the uneasiness
of the hare who hears the barking of the dogs and is bound at last to
run out of his native forest into the open country...and there the
sharp teeth of the harriers are awaiting him.... 'Why was I in such a
hurry?' I repeated, just as I had the day before, but in quite a
different sense. I remember the fearful difference between yesterday
and to-day struck myself; for the first time it occurred to me that in
human life there lie hid secrets—strange secrets.... With childish
perplexity I gazed into this new, not fantastic, real world. By the
word 'real' many people understand 'trivial.' Perhaps it sometimes is
so; but I must own that the first appearance of reality before
me shook me profoundly, scared me, impressed me....
What fine-sounding phrases all about love that didn't come off, to
use Gogol's expression! ... I come back to my story. In the course of
that day I assured myself again that I was the most blissful of
mortals. I drove out of the town to Ivan Semyonitch's. He received me
very gleefully; he had been meaning to go and see a neighbour, but I
myself stopped him. I was afraid to be left alone with Varia. The
evening was cheerful, but not reassuring. Varia was neither one thing
nor the other, neither cordial nor melancholy ... neither pretty nor
plain. I looked at her, as the philosophers say, objectively—that is
to say, as the man who has dined looks at the dishes. I thought her
hands were rather red. Sometimes, however, my heart warmed, and
watching her I gave way to other dreams and reveries. I had only just
made her an offer, as it is called, and here I was already feeling as
though we were living as husband and wife ... as though our souls
already made up one lovely whole, belonged to one another, and
consequently were trying each to seek out a separate path for
'Well, have you spoken to papa?' Varia said to me, as soon as we
were left alone.
This inquiry impressed me most disagreeably.... I thought to myself,
'You're pleased to be in a desperate hurry, Varvara Ivanovna.'
'Not yet,' I answered, rather shortly, 'but I will speak to him.'
Altogether I behaved rather casually with her. In spite of my
promise, I said nothing definite to Ivan Semyonitch. As I was leaving,
I pressed his hand significantly, and informed him that I wanted to
have a little talk with him ... that was all.... 'Good-bye!' I said to
'Till we meet!' said she.
I will not keep you long in suspense, gentlemen; I am afraid of
exhausting your patience....We never met again. I never went back to
Ivan Semyonitch's. The first days, it is true, of my voluntary
separation from Varia did not pass without tears, self-reproach, and
emotion; I was frightened myself at the rapid drooping of my love;
twenty times over I was on the point of starting off to see her.
Vividly I pictured to myself her amazement, her grief, her wounded
feelings; but—I never went to Ivan Semyonitch's again. In her absence
I begged her forgiveness, fell on my knees before her, assured her of
my profound repentance—and once, when I met a girl in the street
slightly resembling her, I took to my heels without looking back, and
only breathed freely in a cook-shop after the fifth jam-puff. The word
'to-morrow' was invented for irresolute people, and for children; like
a baby, I lulled myself with that magic word. 'To-morrow I will go to
her, whatever happens,' I said to myself, and ate and slept well
to-day. I began to think a great deal more about Kolosov than about
Varia ... everywhere, continually, I saw his open, bold, careless face.
I began going to see him as before. He gave me the same welcome as
ever. But how deeply I felt his superiority to me! How ridiculous I
thought all my fancies, my pensive melancholy, during the period of
Kolosov's connection with Varia, my magnanimous resolution to bring
them together again, my anticipations, my raptures, my remorse!... I
had played a wretched, drawn-out part of screaming farce, but he had
passed so simply, so well, through it all....
You will say, 'What is there wonderful in that? your Kolosov fell in
love with a girl, then fell out of love again, and threw her over....
Why, that happens with everybody....' Agreed; but which of us knows
just when to break with our past? Which of us, tell me, is not afraid
of the reproaches—I don't mean of the woman—the reproaches of every
chance fool? Which of us is proof against the temptation of making a
display of magnanimity, or of playing egoistically with another devoted
heart? Which of us, in fact, has the force of character to be superior
to petty vanity, to petty fine feelings, sympathy and
self-reproach?... Oh, gentlemen, the man who leaves a woman at that
great and bitter moment when he is forced to recognise that his heart
is not altogether, not fully, hers, that man, believe me, has a truer
and deeper comprehension of the sacredness of love than the
faint-hearted creatures who, from dulness or weakness, go on playing on
the half-cracked strings of their flabby and sentimental hearts! At the
beginning of my story I told you that we all considered Andrei Kolosov
an extraordinary man. And if a clear, simple outlook upon life, if the
absence of every kind of cant in a young man, can be called an
extraordinary thing, Kolosov deserved the name. At a certain age, to be
natural is to be extraordinary.... It is time to finish, though. I
thank you for your attention.... Oh, I forgot to tell you that three
months after my last visit I met the old humbug Ivan Semyonitch. I
tried, of course, to glide hurriedly and unnoticed by him, but yet I
could not help overhearing the words, 'Feather-headed scoundrels!'
'And what became of Varia?' asked some one.
'I don't know,' answered the story-teller.
We all got up and separated.
A few years ago I was in Dresden. I was staying at an hotel. From
early morning till late evening I strolled about the town, and did not
think it necessary to make acquaintance with my neighbours; at last it
reached my ears in some chance way that there was a Russian in the
hotel—lying ill. I went to see him, and found a man in galloping
consumption. I had begun to be tired of Dresden; I stayed with my new
acquaintance. It's dull work sitting with a sick man, but even dulness
is sometimes agreeable; moreover, my patient was not low-spirited and
was very ready to talk. We tried to kill time in all sorts of ways; We
played 'Fools,' the two of us together, and made fun of the doctor. My
compatriot used to tell this very bald-headed German all sorts of
fictions about himself, which the doctor had always 'long ago
anticipated.' He used to mimic his astonishment at any new, exceptional
symptom, to throw his medicines out of window, and so on. I observed
more than once, however, to my friend that it would be as well to send
for a good doctor before it was too late, that his complaint was not to
be trifled with, and so on. But Alexey (my new friend's name was Alexey
Petrovitch S——) always turned off my advice with jests at the expense
of doctors in general, and his own in particular; and at last one rainy
autumn evening he answered my urgent entreaties with such a mournful
look, he shook his head so sorrowfully and smiled so strangely, that I
felt somewhat disconcerted. The same night Alexey was worse, and the
next day he died. Just before his death his usual cheerfulness deserted
him; he tossed about uneasily in his bed, sighed, looked round him in
anguish ... clutched at my hand, and whispered with an effort, 'But
it's hard to die, you know ... dropped his head on the pillow, and shed
tears. I did not know what to say to him, and sat in silence by his
bed. But Alexey soon got the better of these last, late regrets.... 'I
say,' he said to me, 'our doctor'll come to-day and find me dead.... I
can fancy his face.'... And the dying man tried to mimic him. He asked
me to send all his things to Russia to his relations, with the
exception of a small packet which he gave me as a souvenir.
This packet contained letters—a girl's letters to Alexey, and
copies of his letters to her. There were fifteen of them. Alexey
Petrovitch S——had known Marya Alexandrovna B——long before, in their
childhood, I fancy. Alexey Petrovitch had a cousin, Marya Alexandrovna
had a sister. In former years they had all lived together; then they
had been separated, and had not seen each other for a long while. Later
on, they had chanced one summer to be all together again in the
country, and they had fallen in love—Alexey's cousin with Marya
Alexandrovna, and Alexey with her sister. The summer had passed by, the
autumn came; they parted. Alexey, like a sensible person, soon came to
the conclusion that he was not in love at all, and had effected a very
satisfactory parting from his charmer. His cousin had continued writing
to Marya Alexandrovna for nearly two years longer ... but he too
perceived at last that he was deceiving her and himself in an
unconscionable way, and he too dropped the correspondence.
I could tell you something about Marya Alexandrovna, gentle reader,
but you will find out what she was from her letters. Alexey wrote his
first letter to her soon after she had finally broken with his cousin.
He was at that time in Petersburg; he went suddenly abroad, fell ill,
and died at Dresden. I resolved to print his correspondence with Marya
Alexandrovna, and trust the reader will look at it with indulgence, as
these letters are not love-letters—Heaven forbid! Love-letters are as
a rule only read by two persons (they read them over a thousand times
to make up), and to a third person they are unendurable, if not
I. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA
ST. PETERSBURG, March 7, 1840.
DEAR MARYA ALEXANDROVNA,—
I fancy I have never written to you before, and here I am writing to
you now.... I have chosen a curious time to begin, haven't I? I'll tell
you what gave me the impulse. Mon cousin Theodore was with me to-day,
and...how shall I put it?...and he confided to me as the greatest
secret (he never tells one anything except as a great secret), that he
was in love with the daughter of a gentleman here, and that this time
he is firmly resolved to be married, and that he has already taken the
first step—he has declared himself! I made haste, of course, to
congratulate him on an event so agreeable for him; he has been longing
to declare himself for a great while...but inwardly, I must own, I was
rather astonished. Although I knew that everything was over between
you, still I had fancied.... In short, I was surprised. I had made
arrangements to go out to see friends to-day, but I have stopped at
home and mean to have a little gossip with you. If you do not care to
listen to me, fling this letter forthwith into the fire. I warn you I
mean to be frank, though I feel you are fully justified in taking me
for a rather impertinent person. Observe, however, that I would not
have taken up my pen if I had not known your sister was not with you;
she is staying, so Theodore told me, the whole summer with your aunt,
Madame B—-. God give her every blessing!
And so, this is how it has all worked out.... But I am not going to
offer you my friendship and all that; I am shy as a rule of
high-sounding speeches and 'heartfelt' effusions. In beginning to write
this letter, I simply obeyed a momentary impulse. If there is another
feeling latent within me, let it remain hidden under a bushel for the
I'm not going to offer you sympathy either. In sympathising with
others, people for the most part want to get rid, as quick as they can,
of an unpleasant feeling of involuntary, egoistic regret.... I
understand genuine, warm sympathy ... but such sympathy you would not
accept from just any one.... Do, please, get angry with me.... If
you're angry, you'll be sure to read my missive to the end.
But what right have I to write to you, to talk of my friendship, of
my feelings, of consolation? None, absolutely none; that I am bound to
admit, and I can only throw myself on your kindness.
Do you know what the preface of my letter's like? I'll tell you:
some Mr. N. or M. walking into the drawing-room of a lady who doesn't
in the least expect him, and who does, perhaps, expect some one
else.... He realises that he has come at an unlucky moment, but there's
no help for it.... He sits down, begins talking...goodness knows what
about: poetry, the beauties of nature, the advantages of a good
education...talks the most awful rot, in fact. But, meanwhile, the
first five minutes have gone by, he has settled himself comfortably;
the lady has resigned herself to the inevitable, and so Mr. N. or M.
regains his self-possession, takes breath, and begins a real
conversation—to the best of his ability.
In spite, though, of all this rigmarole, I don't still feel quite
comfortable. I seem to see your bewildered—even rather wrathful—face;
I feel that it will be almost impossible you should not ascribe to me
some hidden motives, and so, like a Roman who has committed some folly,
I wrap myself majestically in my toga, and await in silence your final
The question is: Will you allow me to go on writing to you?—I
remain sincerely and warmly devoted to you,
II. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY
VILLAGE OF X——, March 22, 1840.
I have received your letter, and I really don't know what to say to
you. I should not even have answered you at all, if it had not been
that I fancied that under your jesting remarks there really lies hid a
feeling of some friendliness. Your letter made an unpleasant impression
on me. In answer to your rigmarole, as you call it, let me too put to
you one question: What for? What have I to do with you, or you
with me? I do not ascribe to you any bad motives ... on the contrary,
I'm grateful for your sympathy ... but we are strangers to each other,
and I, just now at least, feel not the slightest inclination for
greater intimacy with any one whatever.—With sincere esteem, I remain,
III. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA
ST. PETERSBURG, March 30.
Thank you, Marya Alexandrovna, thank you for your note, brief as it
was. All this time I have been in great suspense; twenty times a day I
have thought of you and my letter. You can't imagine how bitterly I
laughed at myself; but now I am in an excellent frame of mind, and very
much pleased with myself. Marya Alexandrovna, I am going to begin a
correspondence with you! Confess, this was not at all what you expected
after your answer; I'm surprised myself at my boldness.... Well, I
don't care, here goes! But don't be uneasy; I want to talk to you, not
of you, but of myself. It's like this, do you see: it's absolutely
needful for me, in the old-fashioned phraseology, to open my heart to
some one. I have not the slightest right to select you for my
But listen: I won't demand of you an answer to my letters; I don't
even want to know whether you read my 'rigmarole'; but, in the name of
all that's holy, don't send my letters back to me!
Let me tell you, I am utterly alone on earth. In my youth I led a
solitary life, though I never, I remember, posed as a Byronic hero; but
first, circumstances, and secondly, a faculty of imaginative dreaming
and a love for dreaming, rather cool blood, pride, indolence—a number
of different causes, in fact, cut me off from the society of men. The
transition from dream-life to real life took place in me late...perhaps
too late, perhaps it has not fully taken place up to now. So long as I
found entertainment in my own thoughts and feelings, so long as I was
capable of abandoning myself to causeless and unuttered transports and
so on, I did not complain of my solitude. I had no associates; I had
what are called friends. Sometimes I needed their presence, as an
electrical machine needs a discharger—and that was all. Love...of that
subject we will not speak for the present. But now, I will own, now
solitude weighs heavy on me; and at the same time, I see no escape from
my position. I do not blame fate; I alone am to blame and am deservedly
punished. In my youth I was absorbed by one thing—my precious self; I
took my simple-hearted self-love for modesty; I avoided society—and
here I am now, a fearful bore to myself. What am I to do with myself?
There is no one I love; all my relations with other people are somehow
strained and false.
And I've no memories either, for in all my past life I can find
nothing but my own personality. Save me. To you I have made no
passionate protestations of love. You I have never smothered in a flood
of aimless babble. I passed by you rather coldly, and it is just for
that reason I make up my mind to have recourse to you now. (I have had
thoughts of doing so before this, but at that time you were not
free....) Among all my self-created sensations, pleasures and
sufferings, the one genuine feeling was the not great, but instinctive
attraction to you, which withered up at the time, like a single ear of
wheat in the midst of worthless weeds.... Let me just for once look
into another face, into another soul—my own face has grown hateful to
me. I am like a man who should have been condemned to live all his life
in a room with walls of looking-glass.... I do not ask of you any sort
of confessions—oh mercy, no! Bestow on me a sister's unspoken
sympathy, or at least the simple curiosity of a reader. I will
entertain you, I will really.
Meanwhile I have the honour to be your sincere friend,
IV. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA
ST. PETERSBURG, April 7.
I am writing to you again, though I foresee that without your
approval I shall soon cease writing. I must own that you cannot but
feel some distrust of me. Well, perhaps you are right too. In old days
I should have triumphantly announced to you (and very likely I should
have quite believed my own words myself) that I had 'developed,' made
progress, since the time when we parted. With condescending, almost
affectionate, contempt I should have referred to my past, and with
touching self-conceit have initiated you into the secrets of my real,
present life ... but, now, I assure you, Marya Alexandrovna, I'm
positively ashamed and sick to remember the capers and antics cut at
times by my paltry egoism. Don't be afraid: I am not going to force
upon you any great truths, any profound views. I have none of them—of
those truths and views. I have become a simple good fellow—really. I
am bored, Marya Alexandrovna, I'm simply bored past all enduring. That
is why I am writing to you.... I really believe we may come to be
But I'm positively incapable of talking to you, till you hold out a
hand to me, till I get a note from you with the one word 'Yes.' Marya
Alexandrovna, are you willing to listen to me? That's the
V. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY
VILLAGE OF X——, April 14.
What a strange person you are! Very well, then.—Yes!
VI. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA
ST. PETERSBURG, May 2, 1840.
Hurrah! Thanks, Marya Alexandrovna, thanks! You are a very kind and
I will begin according to my promise to talk about myself, and I
shall talk with a relish approaching to appetite.... That's just it. Of
anything in the world one may speak with fire, with enthusiasm, with
ecstasy, but with appetite one talks only of oneself.
Let me tell you, during the last few days a very strange experience
has befallen me. I have for the first time taken an all-round view of
my past. You understand me. Every one of us often recalls what is
over—with regret, or vexation, or simply from nothing to do. But to
bend a cold, clear gaze over all one's past life—as a traveller turns
and looks from a high mountain on the plain he has passed through—is
only possible at a certain age ... and a secret chill clutches at a
man's heart when it happens to him for the first time. Mine, anyway,
felt a sick pang. While we are young, such an all-round view is
impossible. But my youth is over, and, like one who has climbed on to a
mountain, everything lies clear before me.
Yes, my youth is gone, gone never to return!... Here it lies before
me, as it were in the palm of my hand.
A sorry spectacle! I will confess to you, Marya Alexandrovna, I am
very sorry for myself. My God! my God! Can it be that I have myself so
utterly ruined my life, so mercilessly embroiled and tortured
myself!... Now I have come to my senses, but it's too late. Has it ever
happened to you to save a fly from a spider? Has it? You remember, you
put it in the sun; its wings and legs were stuck together, glued....
How awkwardly it moved, how clumsily it attempted to get clear!...
After prolonged efforts, it somehow gets better, crawls, tries to open
its wings ... but there is no more frolicking for it, no more
light-hearted buzzing in the sunshine, as before, when it was flying
through the open window into the cool room and out again, freely
winging its way into the hot air.... The fly, at least, fell through
none of its own doing into the dreadful web ... but I!
I have been my own spider!
And, at the same time, I cannot greatly blame myself. Who, indeed,
tell me, pray, is ever to blame for anything—alone? Or, to put it
better, we are all to blame, and yet we can't be blamed. Circumstances
determine us; they shove us into one road or another, and then they
punish us for it. Every man has his destiny.... Wait a bit, wait a bit!
A cleverly worked-out but true comparison has just come into my head.
As the clouds are first condensed from the vapours of earth, rise from
out of her bosom, then separate, move away from her, and at last bring
her prosperity or ruin: so, about every one of us, and out of
ourselves, is fashioned—how is one to express it?—is fashioned a sort
of element, which has afterwards a destructive or saving influence on
us. This element I call destiny.... In other words, and speaking
simply, every one makes his own destiny and destiny makes every one....
Every one makes his destiny—yes!... but people like us make it too
much—that's what's wrong with us! Consciousness is awakened too early
in us; too early we begin to keep watch on ourselves.... We Russians
have set ourselves no other task in life but the cultivation of our own
personality, and when we're children hardly grown-up we set to work to
cultivate it, this luckless personality! Receiving no definite guidance
from without, with no real respect for anything, no strong belief in
anything, we are free to make what we choose of ourselves ... one can't
expect every one to understand on the spot the uselessness of intellect
'seething in vain activity' ... and so we get again one monster the
more in the world, one more of those worthless creatures in whom habits
of self-ccnsciousness distort the very striving for truth, and a
ludicrous simplicity exists side by side with a pitiful duplicity ...
one of those beings of impotent, restless thought who all their lives
know neither the satisfaction of natural activity, nor genuine
suffering, nor the genuine thrill of conviction.... Mixing up together
in ourselves the defects of all ages, we rob each defect of its good
redeeming side ... we are as silly as children, but we are not sincere
as they are; we are cold as old people, but we have none of the good
sense of old age.... To make up, we are psychologists. Oh yes, we are
great psychologists! But our psychology is akin to pathology; our
psychology is that subtle study of the laws of morbid condition and
morbid development, with which healthy people have nothing to do....
And, what is the chief point, we are not young, even in our youth we
are not young!
And at the same time—why libel ourselves? Were we never young, did
we never know the play, the fire, the thrill of life's forces? We too
have been in Arcady, we too have strayed about her bright meadows!...
Have you chanced, strolling about a copse, to come across those dark
grasshoppers which, jumping up from under your very feet, suddenly with
a whirring sound expand bright red wings, fly a few yards, and then
drop again into the grass? So our dark youth at times spread its
particoloured wings for a few moments and for no long flight.... Do you
remember our silent evening walks, the four of us together, beside your
garden fence, after some long, warm, spirited conversation? Do you
remember those blissful moments? Nature, benign and stately, took us to
her bosom. We plunged, swooning, into a flood of bliss. All around, the
sunset with a sudden and soft flush, the glowing sky, the earth bathed
in light, everything on all sides seemed full of the fresh and fiery
breath of youth, the joyous triumph of some deathless happiness. The
sunset flamed; and, like it, our rapturous hearts burned with soft and
passionate fire, and the tiny leaves of the young trees quivered
faintly and expectantly over our heads, as though in response to the
inward tremor of vague feelings and anticipations in us. Do you
remember the purity, the goodness and trustfulness of ideas, the
softening of noble hopes, the silence of full hearts? Were we not
really then worth something better than what life has brought us to?
Why was it ordained for us only at rare moments to see the longed-for
shore, and never to stand firmly on it, never to touch it:
'Never to weep with joy, like the first Jew
Upon the border of the promised land'!
These two lines of Fet's remind me of others, also his.... Do you
remember once, as we stood in the highroad, we saw in the distance a
cloud of pink dust, blown up by the light breeze against the setting
sun? 'In an eddying cloud,' you began, and we were all still at once to
'In an eddying cloud
Dust rises in the distance ...
Rider or man on foot
Is seen not in the dust.
I see some one trotting
On a gallant steed ...
Friend of mine, friend far away,
Think! oh, think of me!'
You ceased ... we all felt a shudder pass over us, as though the
breath of love had flitted over our hearts, and each of us—I am sure
of it—felt irresistibly drawn into the distance, the unknown distance,
where the phantom of bliss rises and lures through the mist. And all
the while, observe the strangeness; why, one wonders, should we have a
yearning for the far away? Were we not in love with each other? Was not
happiness 'so close, so possible'? As I asked you just now: why was it
we did not touch the longed-for shore? Because falsehood walked hand in
hand with us; because it poisoned our best feelings; because everything
in us was artificial and strained; because we did not love each other
at all, but were only trying to love, fancying we loved....
But enough, enough! why inflame one's wounds? Besides, it is all
over and done with. What was good in our past moved me, and on that
good I will take leave of you for a while. It's time to make an end of
this long letter. I am going out for a breath here of the May air, in
which spring is breaking through the dry fastness of winter with a sort
of damp, keen warmth. Farewell.—Yours,
VII. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO
VILLAGE OF X——,_May 1840.
I have received your letter, Alexey Petrovitch, and do you know what
feeling t aroused in me?—indignation ... yes, indignation ... and I
will explain to you at once why it aroused just that feeling in me.
It's only a pity I'm not a great hand with my pen; I rarely write, and
am not good at expressing my thoughts precisely and in few words. But
you will, I hope, come to my aid. You must try, on your side, to
understand me, if only to find out why I am indignant with you.
Tell me—you have brains—have you ever asked yourself what sort of
creature a Russian woman is? what is her destiny? her position in the
world—in short, what is her life? I don't know if you have had time to
put this question to yourself; I can't picture to myself how you would
answer it.... I should, perhaps, in conversation be capable of giving
you my ideas on the subject, but on paper I am scarcely equal to it. No
matter, though. This is the point: you will certainly agree with me
that we women, those of us at least who are not satisfied with the
common interests of domestic life, receive our final education, in any
case, from you men: you have a great and powerful influence on us. Now,
consider what you do to us. I am talking about young girls, especially
those who, like me, live in the wilds, and there are very many such in
Russia. Besides, I don't know anything of others and cannot judge of
them. Picture to yourself such a girl. Her education, suppose, is
finished; she begins to live, to enjoy herself. But enjoyment alone is
not much to her. She demands much from life, she reads, and dreams ...
of love. Always nothing but love! you will say.... Suppose so; but that
word means a great deal to her. I repeat that I am not speaking of a
girl to whom thinking is tiresome and boring.... She looks round her,
is waiting for the time when he will come for whom her soul yearns....
At last he makes his appearance—she is captivated; she is wax in his
hands. All—happiness and love and thought—all have come with a rush
together with him; all her tremors are soothed, all her doubts solved
by him. Truth itself seems speaking by his lips. She venerates him, is
over-awed at her own happiness, learns, loves. Great is his power over
her at that time!... If he were a hero, he would fire her, would teach
her to sacrifice herself, and all sacrifices would be easy to her! But
there are no heroes in our times.... Anyway, he directs her as he
pleases. She devotes herself to whatever interests him, every word of
his sinks into her soul. She has not yet learned how worthless and
empty and false a word may be, how little it costs him who utters it,
and how little it deserves belief! After these first moments of bliss
and hope there usually comes—through circumstances—(circumstances are
always to blame)—there comes a parting. They say there have been
instances of two kindred souls, on getting to know one another,
becoming at once inseparably united; I have heard it said, too, that
things did not always go smoothly with them in consequence ... but of
what I have not seen myself I will not speak,—and that the pettiest
calculation, the most pitiful prudence, can exist in a youthful heart,
side by side with the most passionate enthusiasm—of that I have to my
sorrow had practical experience. And so, the parting comes.... Happy
the girl who realises at once that it is the end of everything, who
does not beguile herself with expectations! But you, valorous, just
men, for the most part, have not the pluck, nor even the desire, to
tell us the truth.... It is less disturbing for you to deceive us....
However, I am ready to believe that you deceive yourselves together
with us.... Parting! To bear separation is both hard and easy. If only
there be perfect, untouched faith in him whom one loves, the soul can
master the anguish of parting.... I will say more. It is only then,
when she is left alone, that she finds out the sweetness of
solitude—not fruitless, but filled with memories and ideas. It is only
then that she finds out herself, comes to her true self, grows
strong.... In the letters of her friend far away she finds a support
for herself; in her own, she, very likely for the first time, finds
full self-expression.... But as two people who start from a stream's
source, along opposite banks, at first can touch hands, then only
communicate by voice, and finally lose sight of each other altogether;
so two natures grow apart at last by separation. Well, what then? you
will say; it's clear they were not destined to be together.... But
herein the difference between a man and a woman comes out. For a man it
means nothing to begin a new life, to shake off all his past; a woman
cannot do this. No, she cannot fling off her past, she cannot break
away from her roots—no, a thousand times no! And now begins a pitiful
and ludicrous spectacle.... Gradually losing hope and faith in
herself—and how bitter that is you cannot even imagine!—she pines and
wears herself out alone, obstinately clinging to her memories and
turning away from everything that the life around offers her.... But
he? Look for him! where is he? And is it worth his while to stand
still? When has he time to look round? Why, it's all a thing of the
past for him. Or else this is what happens: it happens that he feels a
sudden inclination to meet the former object of his feelings, that he
even makes an excursion with that aim.... But, mercy on us! the pitiful
conceit that leads him into doing that! In his gracious sympathy, in
his would-be friendly advice, in his indulgent explanation of the past,
such consciousness of his superiority is manifest! It is so agreeable
and cheering for him to let himself feel every instant—what a clever
person he is, and how kind! And how little he understands what he has
done! How clever he is at not even guessing what is passing in a
woman's heart, and how offensive is his compassion if he does guess
it!... Tell me, please, where is she to get strength to bear all this?
Recollect this, too: for the most part, a girl in whose brain—to her
misfortune—thought has begun to stir, such a girl, when she begins to
love, and falls under a man's influence, inevitably grows apart from
her family, her circle of friends. She was not, even before then,
satisfied with their life, though she moved in step with them, while
she treasured all her secret dreams in her soul.... But the discrepancy
soon becomes apparent.... They cease to comprehend her, and are ready
to look askance at everything she does.... At first this is nothing to
her, but afterwards, afterwards ... when she is left alone, when what
she was striving towards, for which she had sacrificed everything—when
heaven is not gained while everything near, everything possible, is
lost—what is there to support her? Jeers, sly hints, the vulgar
triumph of coarse commonsense, she could still endure somehow ... but
what is she to do, what is to be her refuge, when an inner voice begins
to whisper to her that all of them are right and she was wrong, that
life, whatever it may be, is better than dreams, as health is better
than sickness ... when her favourite pursuits, her favourite books,
grow hateful to her, books out of which there is no reading
happiness—what, tell me, is to be her support? Must she not inevitably
succumb in such a struggle? how is she to live and to go on living in
such a desert? To know oneself beaten and to hold out one's hand, like
a beggar, to persons quite indifferent, for them to bestow the sympathy
which the proud heart had once fancied it could well dispense with—all
that would be nothing! But to feel yourself ludicrous at the very
instant when you are shedding bitter, bitter tears ... O God, spare
My hands are trembling, and I am quite in a fever.... My face burns.
It is time to stop.... I'll send off this letter quickly, before I'm
ashamed of its feebleness. But for God's sake, in your answer not a
word—do you hear?—not a word of sympathy, or I'll never write to you
again. Understand me: I should not like you to take this letter as the
outpouring of a misunderstood soul, complaining.... Ah! I don't
VIII. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA
ST. PETERSBURG, May 28, 1840.
Marya Alexandrovna, you are a splendid person ... you ... your
letter revealed the truth to me at last! My God! what suffering! A man
is constantly thinking that now at last he has reached simplicity, that
he's no longer showing off, humbugging, lying ... but when you come to
look at him more attentively, he's become almost worse than before. And
this, too, one must remark: the man himself, alone that is, never
attains this self-recognition, try as he will; his eyes cannot see his
own defects, just as the compositor's wearied eyes cannot see the slips
he makes; another fresh eye is needed for that. My thanks to you, Marya
Alexandrovna.... You see, I speak to you of myself; of you I dare not
speak.... Ah, how absurd my last letter seems to me now, so flowery and
sentimental! I beg you earnestly, go on with your confession. I fancy
you, too, will be the better for it, and it will do me great good. It's
a true saying: 'A woman's wit's better than many a reason,' and a
woman's heart's far and away—by God, yes! If women knew how much
better, nobler, and wiser they are than men—yes, wiser—they would
grow conceited and be spoiled. But happily they don't know it; they
don't know it because their intelligence isn't in the habit of turning
incessantly upon themselves, as with us. They think very little about
themselves—that's their weakness and their strength; that's the whole
secret—I won't say of our superiority, but of our power. They lavish
their soul, as a prodigal heir does his father's gold, while we exact a
percentage on every worthless morsel.... How are they to hold their own
with us?... All this is not compliments, but the simple truth, proved
by experience. Once more, I beseech you, Marya Alexandrovna, go on
writing to me.... If you knew all that is coming into my brain! ... But
I have no wish now to speak, I want to listen to you. My turn will come
later. Write, write.—Your devoted,
IX. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY
VILLAGE OF X——, June 12, 1840.
I had hardly sent off my last letter to you, Alexey Petrovitch, when
I regretted it; but there was no help for it then. One thing reassures
me somewhat: I am sure you realised that it was under the influence of
feelings long ago suppressed that it was written, and you excused me. I
did not even read through, at the time, what I had written to you; I
remember my heart beat so violently that the pen shook in my fingers.
However, though I should probably have expressed myself differently if
I had allowed myself time to reflect, I don't mean, all the same, to
disavow my own words, or the feelings which I described to you as best
I could. To-day I am much cooler and far more self-possessed.
I remember at the end of my letter I spoke of the painful position
of a girl who is conscious of being solitary, even among her own
people.... I won't expatiate further upon them, but will rather tell
you a few instances; I think I shall bore you less in that way. In the
first place, then, let me tell you that all over the country-side I am
never called anything but the female philosopher. The ladies especially
honour me with that name. Some assert that I sleep with a Latin book in
my hand, and in spectacles; others declare that I know how to extract
cube roots, whatever they may be. Not a single one of them doubts that
I wear manly apparel on the sly, and instead of 'good-morning', address
people spasmodically with 'Georges Sand!'—and indignation grows apace
against the female philosopher. We have a neighbour, a man of
five-and-forty, a great wit ... at least, he is reputed a great wit ...
for him my poor personality is an inexhaustible subject of jokes. He
used to tell of me that directly the moon rose I could not take my eyes
off it, and he will mimic the way in which I gaze at it; and declares
that I positively take my coffee with moonshine instead of with
milk—that's to say, I put my cup in the moonlight. He swears that I
use phrases of this kind—'It is easy because it is difficult, though
on the other hand it is difficult because it is easy'.... He asserts
that I am always looking for a word, always striving 'thither,' and
with comic rage inquires: 'whither-thither? whither?' He has also
circulated a story about me that I ride at night up and down by the
river, singing Schubert's Serenade, or simply moaning, 'Beethoven,
Beethoven!' She is, he will say, such an impassioned old person, and so
on, and so on. Of course, all this comes straight to me. This surprises
you, perhaps. But do not forget that four years have passed since your
stay in these parts. You remember how every one frowned upon us in
those days. Their turn has come now. And all that, too, is no
consequence. I have to hear many things that wound my heart more than
that. I won't say anything about my poor, good mother's never having
been able to forgive me for your cousin's indifference to me. But my
whole life is burning away like a house on fire, as my nurse expresses
it. 'Of course,' I am constantly hearing, 'we can't keep pace with you!
we are plain people, we are guided by nothing but common-sense. Though,
when you come to think of it, what have all these metaphysics, and
books, and intimacies with learned folks brought you to?' You perhaps
remember my sister—not the one to whom you were once not
indifferent—but the other elder one, who is married. Her husband, if
you recollect, is a simple and rather comic person; you often used to
make fun of him in those days. But she's happy, after all; she's the
mother of a family, she's fond of her husband, her husband adores
her.... 'I am like every one else,' she says to me sometimes, 'but
you!' And she's right; I envy her....
And yet, I feel I should not care to change with her, all the same.
Let them call me a female philosopher, a queer fish, or what they
choose—I will remain true to the end ... to what? to an ideal, or
what? Yes, to my ideal. Yes, I will be faithful to the end to what
first set my heart throbbing—to what I have recognised, and recognise
still, as truth, and good.... If only my strength does not fail me, if
only my divinity does not turn out to be a dumb and soulless idol!...
If you really feel any friendship for me, if you have really not
forgotten me, you ought to aid me, you ought to solve my doubts, and
strengthen my convictions....
Though after all, what help can you give me? 'All that's rubbish,
fiddle-faddle,' was said to me yesterday by my uncle—I think you don't
know him—a retired naval officer, a very sensible man; 'husband,
children, a pot of soup; to look after the husband and children and
keep an eye on the pot—that's what a woman wants.'... Tell me, is he
If he really is right, I can still make up for the past, I can still
get into the common groove. Why should I wait any longer? what have I
to hope for? In one of your letters you spoke of the wings of youth.
How often—how long they are tied! And later on comes the time when
they fall off, and there is no rising above earth, no flying to heaven
any more. Write to me.—Yours,
X. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA
ST. PETERSBURG, June 16, 1840.
I hasten to answer your letter, dear Marya Alexandrovna. I will
confess to you that if it were not ... I can't say for business, for I
have none ... if it were not that I am stupidly accustomed to this
place, I should have gone off to see you again, and should have talked
to my heart's content, but on paper it all comes out cold and dead....
Marya Alexandrovna, I tell you again, women are better than men, and
you ought to prove this in practice. Let such as us fling away our
convictions, like cast-off clothes, or abandon them for a crust of
bread, or lull them into an untroubled sleep, and put over them—as
over the dead, once dear to us—a gravestone, at which to come at rare
intervals to pray—let us do all this; but you women must not be false
to yourselves, you must not be false to your ideal.... That word has
become ridiculous.... To fear being ridiculous—is not to love truth.
It happens, indeed, that the senseless laughter of the fool drives even
good men into giving up a great deal ... as, for instance, the defence
of an absent friend.... I have been guilty of that myself. But, I
repeat, you women are better than we.... In trifling matters you give
in sooner than we; but you know how to face fearful odds better than
we. I don't want to give you either advice or help—how should I?
besides, you have no need of it. But I hold out my hand to you; I say
to you, Have patience, struggle on to the end; and let me tell you,
that, as a sentiment, the consciousness of an honestly sustained
struggle is almost higher than the triumph of victory.... Victory does
not depend on ourselves. Of course your uncle is right from a certain
point of view; family life is everything for a woman; for her there is
no other life.
But what does that prove? None but Jesuits will maintain that any
means are good if only they attain the end. It's false! it's false!
Feet sullied with the mud of the road are unworthy to go into a holy
temple. At the end of your letter is a phrase I do not like; you want
to get into the common groove; take care, don't make a false step!
Besides—do not forget,—there is no erasing the past; and however much
you try, whatever pressure you put on yourself, you will not turn into
your sister. You have reached a higher level than she; but your soul
has been scorched in the fire, hers is untouched. Descend to her level,
stoop to her, you can; but nature will not give up her rights, and the
burnt place will not grow again....
You are afraid—let us speak plainly—you are afraid of being left
an old maid. You are, I know, already twenty-six. Certainly the
position of old maids is an unenviable one; every one is so ready to
laugh at them, every one comments with such ungenerous amusement on
their peculiarities and weaknesses. But if you scrutinise with a little
attention any old bachelor, one may just as well point the finger of
scorn at him; one will find plenty in him, too, to laugh at. There's no
help for it. There is no getting happiness by struggling for it. But we
must not forget that it's not happiness, but human dignity, that's the
chief aim in life.
You describe your position with great humour. I well understand all
the bitterness of it; your position one may really call tragic. But let
me tell you you are not alone in it; there is scarcely any quite modern
person who isn't placed in it. You will say that that makes it no
better for you; but I am of opinion that suffering in company with
thousands is quite a different matter from suffering alone. It is not a
matter of egoism, but a sense of a general inevitability which comes
All this is very fine, granted, you will say ... but not practicable
in reality. Why not practicable? I have hitherto imagined, and I hope I
shall never cease to imagine, that in God's world everything honest,
good, and true is practicable, and will sooner or later come to pass,
and not only will be realised, but is already being realised. Let each
man only hold firm in his place, not lose patience, nor desire the
impossible, but do all in his power. But I fancy I have gone off too
much into abstractions. I will defer the continuation of my reflections
till the next letter; but I cannot lay down my pen without warmly, most
warmly, pressing your hand, and wishing you from my soul all that is
good on earth.
Yours, A. S.
P.S.—By the way, you say it's useless for you to wait, that
you have nothing to hope for; how do you know that, let me ask?
XI. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO
VILLAGE OF X——, June 30, 1840.
How grateful I am to you for your letter, Alexey Petrovitch! How
much good it did me! I see you really are a good and trustworthy man,
and so I shall not be reserved with you. I trust you. I know you would
make no unkind use of my openness, and will give me friendly counsel.
Here is the question.
You noticed at the end of my letter a phrase which you did not quite
like. I will tell what it had reference to. There is one of the
neighbours here ... he was not here when you were, and you have not
seen him. He ... I could marry him if I liked; he is still young,
well-educated, and has property. There are no difficulties on the part
of my parents; on the contrary, they—I know for a fact—desire this
marriage. He is a good man, and I think he loves me ... but he is so
spiritless and narrow, his aspirations are so limited, that I cannot
but be conscious of my superiority to him. He is aware of this, and as
it were rejoices in it, and that is just what sets me against him. I
cannot respect him, though he has an excellent heart. What am I to do?
tell me! Think for me and write me your opinion sincerely.
But how grateful I am to you for your letter!... Do you know, I have
been haunted at times by such bitter thoughts.... Do you know, I had
come to the point of being almost ashamed of every feeling—not of
enthusiasm only, but even of faith; I used to shut a book with vexation
whenever there was anything about hope or happiness in it, and turned
away from a cloudless sky, from the fresh green of the trees, from
everything that was smiling and joyful. What a painful condition it
was! I say, was ... as though it were over!
I don't know whether it is over; I know hat if it does not return I
am indebted to you for it. Do you see, Alexey Petrovitch, how much good
you have done, perhaps, without suspecting it yourself! By the way, do
you know I feel very sorry for you? We are now in the full blaze of
summer, the days are exquisite, the sky blue and brilliant.... It
couldn't be lovelier in Italy even, and you are staying in the
stifling, baking town, and walking on the burning pavement. What
induces you to do so? You might at least move into some summer villa
out of town. They say there are bright spots at Peterhof, on the
I should like to write more to you, but it's impossible. Such a
sweet fragrance comes in from the garden that I can't stay indoors. I
am going to put on my hat and go for a walk.
... Good-bye till another time, good Alexey Petrovitch. Yours
devotedly, M. B.
P.S.—I forgot to tell you ... only fancy, that witty
gentleman, about whom I wrote to you the other day, has made me a
declaration of love, and in the most ardent terms. I thought at first
he was laughing at me; but he finished up with a formal proposal—what
do you think of him, after all his libels! But he is positively too
old. Yesterday evening, to tease him, I sat down to the piano before
the open window, in the moonlight, and played Beethoven. It was so nice
to feel its cold light on my face, so delicious to fill the fragrant
night air with the sublime music, through which one could hear at times
the singing of a nightingale. It is long since I have been so happy.
But write to me about what I asked you at the beginning of my letter;
it is very important.
XII. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA
ST. PETERSBURG, July 8, 1840.
DEAR MARYA ALEXANDROVNA,—Here is my opinion in a couple of words:
both the old bachelor and the young suitor—overboard with them both!
There is no need even to consider it. Neither of them is worthy of
you—that's as clear as that twice two makes four. The young neighbour
is very likely a good-natured person, but that's enough about him! I am
convinced that there is nothing in common between him and you, and you
can fancy how amusing it would be for you to live together! Besides,
why be in a hurry? Is it a possible thing that a woman like you—I
don't want to pay compliments, and that's why I don't expatiate
further—that such a woman should meet no one who would be capable of
appreciating her? No, Marya Alexandrovna, listen to me, if you really
believe that I am your friend, and that my advice is of use. But
confess, it was agreeable to see the old scoffer at your feet.... If I
had been in your place, I'd have kept him singing Beethoven's Adelaida
and gazing at the moon the whole night long.
Enough of them, though,—your adorers! It's not of them I want to
talk to you to-day. I am in a strange, half-irritated, half-emotional
state of mind to-day, in consequence of a letter I got yesterday. I am
enclosing a copy of it to you. This letter was written by one of my
friends of long ago, a colleague in the service, a good-natured but
rather limited person. He went abroad two years ago, and till now has
not written to me once. Here is his letter.—N.B. He is very
'CHER ALEXIS,—I am in Naples, sitting at the window in my room, in
Chiaja. The weather is superb. I have been staring a long while at the
sea, then I was seized with impatience, and suddenly the brilliant idea
entered my head of writing a letter to you. I always felt drawn to you,
my dear boy—on my honour I did. And so now I feel an inclination to
pour out my soul into your bosom ... that's how one expresses it, I
believe, in your exalted language. And why I've been overcome with
impatience is this. I'm expecting a friend—a woman; we're going
together to Baiae to eat oysters and oranges, and see the tanned
shepherds in red caps dance the tarantella, to bask in the sun, like
lizards—in short, to enjoy life to the utmost. My dear boy, I am more
happy than I can possibly tell you.
If only I had your style—oh! what a picture I would draw for you!
But unfortunately, as you are aware, I'm an illiterate person. The
woman I am expecting, and who has kept me now more than a hour
continually starting and looking at the door, loves me—but how I love
her I fancy even your fluent pen could not describe.
'I must tell you that it is three months since I got to know her,
and from the very first day of our acquaintance my love mounts
continually crescendo, like a chromatic scale, higher and
higher, and at the present moment I am simply in the seventh heaven. I
jest, but in reality my devotion to this woman is something
extraordinary, supernatural. Fancy, I scarcely talk to her, I can do
nothing but stare at her, and laugh like a fool. I sit at her feet, I
feel that I'm awfully silly and happy, simply inexcusably happy. It
sometimes happens that she lays her hand on my head.... Well, I tell
you, simply ... But there, you can't understand it; you 're a
philosopher and always were a philosopher. Her name is Nina, Ninetta,
as you like; she's the daughter of a rich merchant here. Fine as any of
your Raphaels; fiery as gunpowder, gay, so clever that it's amazing how
she can care for a fool like me; she sings like a bird, and her eyes
'Please excuse this unintentional break.... I fancied the door
creaked.... No, she's not coming yet, the heartless wretch! You will
ask me how all this is going to end, and what I intend to do with
myself, and whether I shall stay here long? I know nothing about it, my
boy, and I don't want to. What will be, will be.... Why, if one were to
be for ever stopping and considering ... 'She! ... she's running up the
staircase, singing.... She is here. Well, my boy, good-bye.... I've no
time for you now, I'm so sorry. She has bespattered the whole letter;
she slapped a wet nosegay down on the paper. For the first moment, she
thought I was writing to a woman; when she knew that it was to a
friend, she told me to send her greetings, and ask you if you have any
flowers, and whether they are sweet? Well, good-bye. ... If you could
hear her laughing. Silver can't ring like it; and the good-nature in
every note of it—you want to kiss her little feet for it. We are
going, going. Don't mind the untidy smudges, and envy yours, M.'
The letter was in fact bespattered all over, and smelt of
orange-blossom ... two white petals had stuck to the paper. This letter
has agitated me.... I remember my stay in Naples.... The weather was
magnificent then too—May was just beginning; I had just reached
twenty-two; but I knew no Ninetta. I sauntered about alone, consumed
with a thirst for bliss, at once torturing and sweet, so sweet that it
was, as it were, like bliss itself. ... Ah, what is it to be young! ...
I remember I went out once for a row in the bay. There were two of us;
the boatman and I ... what did you imagine? What a night it was, and
what a sky, what stars, how they quivered and broke on the waves! with
what delicate flame the water flashed and glimmered under the oars,
what delicious fragrance filled the whole sea—cannot describe this,
'eloquent' though my style may be. In the harbour was a French ship of
the line. It was all red with lights; long streaks of red, the
reflection of the lighted windows, stretched over the dark sea. The
captain of the ship was giving a ball. The gay music floated across to
me in snatches at long intervals. I recall in particular the trill of a
little flute in the midst of the deep blare of the trumpets; it seemed
to flit, like a butterfly, about my boat. I bade the man row to the
ship; twice he took me round it. ... I caught glimpses at the windows
of women's figures, borne gaily round in the whirl-wind of the
waltz.... I told the boatman to row away, far away, straight into the
darkness.... I remember a long while the music persistently pursued
me.... At last the sounds died away. I stood up in the boat, and in the
dumb agony of desire stretched out my arms to the sea.... Oh! how my
heart ached at that moment! How bitter was my loneliness to me! With
what rapture would I have abandoned myself utterly then, utterly ...
utterly, if there had been any one to abandon myself to! With what a
bitter emotion in my soul I flung myself down in the bottom of the boat
and, like Repetilov, asked to be taken anywhere, anywhere away! But my
friend here has experienced nothing like that. And why should he? He
has managed things far more wisely than I. He is living ... while I ...
He may well call me a philosopher.... Strange! they call you a
philosopher too.... What has brought this calamity on both of us?
I am not living.... But who is to blame for that? Why am I staying
on here, in Petersburg? what am I doing here? why am I wearing away day
after day? why don't I go into the country? What is amiss with our
steppes? has not one free breathing space in them? is one cramped in
them? A strange craze to pursue dreams, when happiness is perhaps
within reach! Resolved! I am going, going to-morrow, if I can. I am
going home—that is, to you,—it's just the same; we're only twenty
versts from one another. Why, after all, grow stale here! And how was
it this idea did not strike me sooner? Dear Marya Alexadrovna, we shall
soon see each other. It's extraordinary, though, that this idea never
entered my head before! I ought to have gone long, long ago. Good-bye
till we meet, Marya Alexandrovna.
I purposely gave myself twenty-four hours for reflection, and am now
absolutely convinced that I have no reason to stay here. The dust in
the streets is so penetrating that my eyes are bad. To-day I am
beginning to pack, the day after to-morrow I shall most likely start,
and within ten days I shall have the pleasure of seeing you. I trust
you will welcome me as in old days. By the way, your sister is still
staying at your aunt's, isn't she?
Marya Alexandrovna, let me press your hand warmly, and say from my
heart, Good-bye till we meet. I had been getting ready to go away, but
that letter has hastened my project. Supposing the letter proves
nothing, supposing even Ninetta would not please any one else, me for
instance, still I am going; that's decided now. Till we meet, yours,
XIII. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO
VILLAGE OF X——-,_July 16, 1840.
You are coming here, Alexey Petrovitch, you will soon be with us,
eh? I will not conceal from you that this news both rejoices and
disturbs me.... How shall we meet? Will the spiritual tie persist
which, as it seems to me, has sprung up between us? Will it not be
broken by our meeting? I don't know; I feel somehow afraid. I will not
answer your last letter, though I could say much; I am putting it all
off till our meeting. My mother is very much pleased at your coming....
She knew I was corresponding with you. The weather is delicious; we
will go a great many walks, and I will show you some new places I have
discovered.... I especially like one long, narrow valley; it lies
between hillsides covered with forest.... It seems to be hiding in
their windings. A little brook courses through it, scarcely seeming to
move through the thick grass and flowers.... You shall see. Come:
perhaps you will not be bored.
P.S.—I think you will not see my sister; she is still
staying at my aunt's. I fancy (but this is between ourselves) she is
going to marry a very agreeable young man—an officer. Why did you send
me that letter from Naples? Life here cannot help seeming dingy and
poor in contrast with that luxuriance and splendour. But Mademoiselle
Ninetta is wrong; flowers grow and smell sweet—with us too.
XIV. FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO
VILLAGE OF X——, January 1841.
I have written to you several times, Alexey Petrovitch ... you have
not answered. Are you living? Or perhaps you are tired of our
correspondence; perhaps you have found yourself some diversion more
agreeable than what can be afforded for you by the letters of a
provincial young lady. You remembered me, it is easy to see, simply
from want of anything better to do. If that's so, I wish you all
happiness. If you do not even now answer me, I will not trouble you
further. It only remains for me to regret my indiscretion in having
allowed myself to be agitated for nothing, in having held out a hand to
a friend, and having come for one minute out of my lonely corner. I
must remain in it for ever, must lock myself up—that is my apportioned
lot, the lot of all old maids. I ought to accustom myself to this idea.
It's useless to come out into the light of day, needless to wish for
fresh air, when the lungs cannot bear it. By the way, we are now hemmed
in all round by deadly drifts of snow. For the future I will be
wiser.... People don't die of dreariness; but of misery, perhaps, one
might perish. If I am wrong, prove it to me. But I fancy I am not
wrong. In any case, good-bye. I wish you all happiness.
XV. FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA
DRESDEN, September 1842.
I am writing to you, my dear Marya Alexandrovna, and I am writing
only because I do not want to die without saying good-bye to you,
without recalling myself to your memory. I am given up by the doctors
... and I feel myself that my life is ebbing away. On my table stands a
rose: before it withers, I shall be no more. This comparison is not,
however, altogether an apt one. A rose is far more interesting than I.
I am, as you see, abroad. It is now six months since I have been in
Dresden. I received your last letters—I am ashamed to confess—more
than a year ago. I lost some of them and never answered them.... I will
tell you directly why. But it seems you were always dear to me; to no
one but you have I any wish to say good-bye, and perhaps I have no one
else to take leave of.
Soon after my last letter to you (I was on the very point of going
down to your neighbourhood, and had made various plans in advance) an
incident occurred which had, one may truly say, a great influence on my
fate, so great an influence that here I am dying, thanks to that
incident. I went to the theatre to see a ballet. I never cared for
ballets; and for every sort of actress, singer, and dancer I had always
had a secret feeling of repulsion.... But it is clear there's no
changing one's fate, and no one knows himself, and one cannot foresee
the future. In reality, in life it's only the unexpected that happens,
and we do nothing in a whole lifetime but accommodate ourselves to
facts.... But I seem to be rambling off into philosophising again. An
old habit! In brief, I fell in love with a dancing-girl.
This was the more curious as one could not even call her a beauty.
It is true she had marvellous hair of ashen gold colour, and great
clear eyes, with a dreamy, and at the same time daring, look in
them.... Could I fail to know the expression of those eyes? For a whole
year I was pining and swooning in the light—of them! She was
splendidly well-made, and when she danced her national dance the
audience would stamp and shout with delight.... But, I fancy, no one
but I fell in love with her,—at least, no one was in love with her as
I was. From the very minute when I saw her for the first time (would
you believe it, I have only to close my eyes, and at once the theatre
is before me, the almost empty stage, representing the heart of a
forest, and she running in from the wing on the right, with a wreath of
vine on her head and a tiger-skin over her shoulders)—from that fatal
moment I have belonged to her utterly, just as a dog belongs to its
master; and if, now that I am dying, I do not belong to her, it is only
because she has cast me off.
To tell the truth, she never troubled herself particularly about me.
She scarcely noticed me, though she was very good-natured in making use
of my money. I was for her, as she expressed it in her broken French,
'oun Rousso, boun enfant,' and nothing more. But I ... I could not live
where she was not living; I tore myself away once for all from
everything dear to me, from my country even, and followed that woman.
You will suppose, perhaps, that she had brains. Not in the least!
One had only to glance at her low brow, one needed only one glimpse of
her lazy, careless smile, to feel certain at once of the scantiness of
her intellectual endowments. And I never imagined her to be an
exceptional woman. In fact, I never for one instant deceived myself
about her. But that was of no avail to me. Whatever I thought of her in
her absence, in her presence I felt nothing but slavish adoration....
In German fairy-tales, the knights often fall under such an
enchantment. I could not take my eyes off her features, I could never
tire of listening to her talk, of admiring all her gestures; I
positively drew my breath as she breathed. However, she was
good-natured, unconstrained—too unconstrained indeed,—did not give
herself airs, as actresses generally do. There was a lot of life in
her—that is, a lot of blood, that splendid southern blood, into which
the sun of those parts must have infused some of its beams. She slept
nine hours out of the twenty-four, enjoyed her dinner, never read a
single line of print, except, perhaps, the newspaper articles in which
she was mentioned; and almost the only tender feeling in her life was
her devotion to il Signore Carlino, a greedy little Italian, who waited
on her in the capacity of secretary, and whom, later on, she married.
And such a woman I could fall in love with—I, a man, versed in all
sorts of intellectual subtleties, and no longer young! ... Who could
have anticipated it? I, at least, never anticipated it. I never
anticipated the part I was to play. I never anticipated that I should
come to hanging about rehearsals, waiting, bored and frozen, behind the
scenes, breathing in the smut and grime of the theatre, making friends
with all sorts of utterly unpresentable persons.... Making friends, did
I say?— cringing slavishly upon them. I never anticipated that I
should carry a ballet-dancer's shawl; buy her her new gloves, clean her
old ones with bread-crumbs (I did even that, alas!), carry home her
bouquets, hang about the offices of journalists and editors, waste my
substance, give serenades, catch colds, wear myself out.... I never
expected in a little German town to receive the jeering nickname 'der
Kunst-barbar.'... And all this for nothing, in the fullest sense of the
word, for nothing. That's just it.
... Do you remember how we used, in talk and by letter, to reason
together about love and indulge in all sort of subtleties? But in
actual life it turns out that real love is a feeling utterly unlike
what we pictured to ourselves. Love, indeed, is not a feeling at all,
it's a malady, a certain condition of soul and body. It does not
develop gradually. One cannot doubt about it, one cannot outwit it,
though it does not always come in the same way. Usually it takes
possession of a person without question, suddenly, against his
will—for all the world like cholera or fever.... It clutches him, poor
dear, as the hawk pounces on the chicken, and bears him off at its
will, however he struggles or resists.... In love, there's no equality,
none of the so-called free union of souls, and such idealisms,
concocted at their leisure by German professors.... No, in love, one
person is slave, and the other master; and well may the poets talk of
the fetters put on by love. Yes, love is a fetter, and the heaviest to
bear. At least I have come to this conviction, and have come to it by
the path of experience; I have bought this conviction at the cost of my
life, since I am dying in my slavery.
What a life mine has been, if you think of it! In my first youth
nothing would satisfy me but to take heaven by storm for myself....
Then I fell to dreaming of the good of all humanity, of the good of my
country. Then that passed too. I was thinking of nothing but making a
home, family life for myself ... and so tripped over an ant-heap—and
plop, down into the grave.... Ah, we're great hands, we Russians, at
making such a finish!
But it's time to turn away from all that, it's long been time! May
this burden be loosened from off my soul together with life! I want,
for the last time, if only for an instant, to enjoy the sweet and
gentle feeling which is shed like a soft light within me, directly I
think of you. Your image is now doubly precious to me.... With it,
rises up before me the image of my country, and I send to it and to you
a farewell greeting. Live, live long and happily, and remember one
thing: whether you remain in the wilds of the steppes—where you have
sometimes been so sorrowful, but where I should so like to spend my
last days—or whether you enter upon a different career, remember life
deceives all but him who does not reflect upon her, and, demanding
nothing of her, accepts serenely her few gifts and serenely makes the
most of them. Go forward while you can. But if your strength fails you,
sit by the wayside and watch those that pass by without anger or envy.
They, too, have not far to go. In old days, I did not tell you this,
but death will teach any one. Though who says what is life, what is
truth? Do you remember who it was made no reply to that question? ...
Farewell, Marya Alexandrovna, farewell for the last time, and do not
remember evil against poor ALEXEY.