Yesterday I had not the strength to go on with my diary; like
Poprishtchin, I lay, for the most part, on my bed, and talked to
Terentyevna. What a woman! Sixty years ago she lost her first betrothed
from the plague, she has outlived all her children, she is inexcusably
old, drinks tea to her heart's desire, is well fed, and warmly clothed;
and what do you suppose she was talking to me about, all day yesterday?
I had sent another utterly destitute old woman the collar of an old
livery, half moth-eaten, to put on her vest (she wears strips over the
chest by way of vest) ... and why wasn't it given to her? 'But I'm your
nurse; I should think... Oh ... oh, my good sir, it's too bad of you
... after I've looked after you as I have!' ... and so on. The
merciless old woman utterly wore me out with her reproaches.... But to
get back to my story.
And so, I suffered like a dog, whose hindquarters have been run over by
a wheel. It was only then, only after my banishment from the Ozhogins'
house, that I fully realised how much happiness a man can extract from
the contemplation of his own unhappiness. O men! pitiful race, indeed!
... But, away with philosophical reflections.... I spent my days in
complete solitude, and could only by the most roundabout and even
humiliating methods find out what was passing in the Ozhogins'
household, and what the prince was doing. My man had made friends with
the cousin of the latter's coachman's wife. This acquaintance afforded
me some slight relief, and my man soon guessed, from my hints and
little presents, what he was to talk about to his master when he pulled
his boots off every evening. Sometimes I chanced to meet some one of
the Ozhogins' family, Bizmyonkov, or the prince in the street.... To
the prince and to Bizmyonkov I bowed, but I did not enter into
conversation with them. Liza I only saw three times: once, with her
mamma, in a fashionable shop; once, in an open carriage with her father
and mother and the prince; and once, in church. Of course, I was not
impudent enough to approach her, and only watched her from a distance.
In the shop she was very much preoccupied, but cheerful.... She was
ordering something for herself, and busily matching ribbons. Her mother
was gazing at her, with her hands folded on her lap, and her nose in
the air, smiling with that foolish and devoted smile which is only
permissible in adoring mothers. In the carriage with the prince, Liza
was ... I shall never forget that meeting! The old people were sitting
in the back seats of the carriage, the prince and Liza in the front.
She was paler than usual; on her cheek two patches of pink could just
be seen. She was half facing the prince; leaning on her straight right
arm (in the left hand she was holding a sunshade), with her little head
drooping languidly, she was looking straight into his face with her
expressive eyes. At that instant she surrendered herself utterly to
him, intrusted herself to him for ever. I had not time to get a good
look at his face--the carriage galloped by too quickly,--but I fancied
that he too was deeply touched.
The third time I saw her in church. Not more than ten days had passed
since the day when I met her in the carriage with the prince, not more
than three weeks since the day of my duel. The business upon which the
prince had come to O---- was by now completed. But he still kept
putting off his departure. At Petersburg, he was reported to be ill. In
the town, it was expected every day that he would make a proposal in
form to Kirilla Matveitch. I was myself only awaiting this final blow
to go away for ever. The town of O---- had grown hateful to me. I could
not stay indoors, and wandered from morning to night about the suburbs.
One grey, gloomy day, as I was coming back from a walk, which had been
cut short by the rain, I went into a church. The evening service had
only just begun, there were very few people; I looked round me, and
suddenly, near a window, caught sight of a familiar profile. For the
first instant, I did not recognise it: that pale face, that spiritless
glance, those sunken cheeks--could it be the same Liza I had seen a
fortnight before? Wrapped in a cloak, without a hat on, with the cold
light from the broad white window falling on her from one side, she was
gazing fixedly at the holy image, and seemed striving to pray, striving
to awake from a sort of listless stupor. A red-cheeked, fat little page
with yellow trimmings on his chest was standing behind her, and, with
his hands clasped behind his back, stared in sleepy bewilderment at his
mistress. I trembled all over, was about to go up to her, but stopped
short. I felt choked by a torturing presentiment. Till the very end of
the evening service, Liza did not stir. All the people went out, a
beadle began sweeping out the church, but still she did not move from
her place. The page went up to her, said something to her, touched her
dress; she looked round, passed her hand over her face, and went away.
I followed her home at a little distance, and then returned to my
lodging.
'She is lost!' I cried, when I had got into my room.
As a man, I don't know to this day what my sensations were at that
moment. I flung myself, I remember, with clasped hands, on the sofa and
fixed my eyes on the floor. But I don't know--in the midst of my woe I
was, as it were, pleased at something.... I would not admit this for
anything in the world, if I were not writing only for myself.... I had
been tormented, certainly, by terrible, harassing suspicions ... and
who knows, I should, perhaps, have been greatly disconcerted if they
had not been fulfilled. 'Such is the heart of man!' some middle-aged
Russian teacher would exclaim at this point in an expressive voice,
while he raises a fat forefinger, adorned with a cornelian ring. But
what have we to do with the opinion of a Russian teacher, with an
expressive voice and a cornelian on his finger?
Be that as it may, my presentiment turned out to be well founded.
Suddenly the news was all over the town that the prince had gone away,
presumably in consequence of a summons from Petersburg; that he had
gone away without making any proposal to Kirilla Matveitch or his wife,
and that Liza would have to deplore his treachery till the end of her
days. The prince's departure was utterly unexpected, for only the
evening before his coachman, so my man assured me, had not the
slightest suspicion of his master's intentions. This piece of news
threw me into a perfect fever. I at once dressed, and was on the point
of hastening to the Ozhogins', but on thinking the matter over I
considered it more seemly to wait till the next day. I lost nothing,
however, by remaining at home. The same evening, there came to see me
in all haste a certain Pandopipopulo, a wandering Greek, stranded by
some chance in the town of O----, a scandalmonger of the first
magnitude, who had been more indignant with me than any one for my duel
with the prince. He did not even give my man time to announce him; he
fairly burst into my room, warmly pressed my hand, begged my pardon a
thousand times, called me a paragon of magnanimity and courage, painted
the prince in the darkest colours, censured the old Ozhogins, who, in
his opinion, had been punished as they deserved, made a slighting
reference to Liza in passing, and hurried off again, kissing me on my
shoulder. Among other things, I learned from him that the prince, _en
vrai grand seigneur_, on the eve of his departure, in response to a
delicate hint from Kirilla Matveitch, had answered coldly that he had
no intention of deceiving any one, and no idea of marrying, had risen,
made his bow, and that was all.... Next day I set off to the Ozhogins'.
The shortsighted footman leaped up from his bench on my appearance,
with the rapidity of lightning. I bade him announce me; the footman
hurried away and returned at once. 'Walk in,' he said; 'you are begged
to go in.' I went into Kirilla Matveitch's study.... The rest
to-morrow.
_March 30. Frost._
And so I went into Kirilla Matveitch's study. I would pay any one
handsomely, who could show me now my own face at the moment when that
highly respected official, hurriedly flinging together his
dressing-gown, approached me with outstretched arms. I must have been a
perfect picture of modest triumph, indulgent sympathy, and boundless
magnanimity.... I felt myself something in the style of Scipio
Africanus. Ozhogin was visibly confused and cast down, he avoided my
eyes, and kept fidgeting about. I noticed, too, that he spoke
unnaturally loudly, and in general expressed himself very vaguely.
Vaguely, but with warmth, he begged my forgiveness, vaguely alluded to
their departed guest, added a few vague generalities about deception
and the instability of earthly blessings, and, suddenly feeling the
tears in his eyes, hastened to take a pinch of snuff, probably in order
to deceive me as to the cause of his tearfulness.... He used the
Russian green snuff, and it's well known that that article forces even
old men to shed tears that make the human eye look dull and senseless
for several minutes.
I behaved, of course, very cautiously with the old man, inquired after
the health of his wife and daughter, and at once artfully turned the
conversation on to the interesting subject of the rotation of crops. I
was dressed as usual, but the feeling of gentle propriety and soft
indulgence which filled me gave me a fresh and festive sensation, as
though I had on a white waistcoat and a white cravat. One thing
agitated me, the thought of seeing Liza.... Ozhogin, at last, proposed
of his own accord to take me up to his wife. The kind-hearted but
foolish woman was at first terribly embarrassed on seeing me; but her
brain was not capable of retaining the same impression for long, and so
she was soon at her ease. At last I saw Liza ... she came into the
room....
I had expected to find in her a shamed and penitent sinner, and had
assumed beforehand the most affectionate and reassuring expression of
face.... Why lie about it? I really loved her and was thirsting for the
happiness of forgiving her, of holding out a hand to her; but to my
unutterable astonishment, in response to my significant bow, she
laughed coldly, observed carelessly, 'Oh, is that you?' and at once
turned away from me. It is true that her laugh struck me as forced, and
in any case did not accord well with her terribly thin face ... but,
all the same, I had not expected such a reception.... I looked at her
with amazement ... what a change had taken place in her! Between the
child she had been and the woman before me, there was nothing in
common. She had, as it were, grown up, straightened out; all the
features of her face, especially her lips, seemed defined ... her gaze
had grown deeper, harder, and gloomier. I stayed on at the Ozhogins'
till dinner-time. She got up, went out of the room, and came back
again, answered questions with composure, and designedly took no notice
of me. She wanted, I saw, to make me feel that I was not worth her
anger, though I had been within an ace of killing her lover. I lost
patience at last; a malicious allusion broke from my lips.... She
started, glanced swiftly at me, got up, and going to the window,
pronounced in a rather shaky voice, 'You can say anything you like, but
let me tell you that I love that man, and always shall love him, and do
not consider that he has done me any injury, quite the contrary.'...
Her voice broke, she stopped ... tried to control herself, but could
not, burst into tears, and went out of the room.... The old people were
much upset.... I pressed the hands of both, sighed, turned my eyes
heavenward, and withdrew.
I am too weak, I have too little time left, I am not capable of
describing in the same detail the new range of torturing reflections,
firm resolutions, and all the other fruits of what is called inward
conflict, that arose within me after the renewal of my acquaintance
with the Ozhogins. I did not doubt that Liza still loved, and would
long love, the prince ... but as one reconciled to the inevitable, and
anxious myself to conciliate, I did not even dream of her love. I
desired only her affection, I desired to gain her confidence, her
respect, which, we are assured by persons of experience, forms the
surest basis for happiness in marriage.... Unluckily, I lost sight of
one rather important circumstance, which was that Liza had hated me
ever since the day of the duel. I found this out too late. I began, as
before, to be a frequent visitor at the house of the Ozhogins. Kirilla
Matveitch received me with more effusiveness and affability than he had
ever done. I have even ground for believing that he would at that time
have cheerfully given me his daughter, though I was certainly not a
match to be coveted. Public opinion was very severe upon him and Liza,
while, on the other hand, it extolled me to the skies. Liza's attitude
to me was unchanged. She was, for the most part, silent; obeyed, when
they begged her to eat, showed no outward signs of sorrow, but, for all
that, was wasting away like a candle. I must do Kirilla Matveitch the
justice to say that he spared her in every way. Old Madame Ozhogin only
ruffled up her feathers like a hen, as she looked at her poor nestling.
There was only one person Liza did not shun, though she did not talk
much even to him, and that was Bizmyonkov. The old people were rather
short, not to say rude, in their behaviour to him. They could not
forgive him for having been second in the duel. But he went on going to
see them, as though he did not notice their unamiability. With me he
was very chilly, and--strange to say--I felt, as it were, afraid of
him. This state of things went on for a fortnight. At last, after a
sleepless night, I resolved to have it out with Liza, to open my heart
to her, to tell her that, in spite of the past, in spite of all
possible gossip and scandal, I should consider myself only too happy if
she would give me her hand, and restore me her confidence. I really did
seriously imagine that I was showing what they call in the school
reading-books an unparalleled example of magnanimity, and that, from
sheer amazement alone, she would consent. In any case, I resolved to
have an explanation and to escape, at last, from suspense.
Behind the Ozhogins' house was a rather large garden, which ended in a
little grove of lime-trees, neglected and overgrown. In the middle of
this thicket stood an old summer-house in the Chinese style: a wooden
paling separated the garden from a blind alley. Liza would sometimes
walk, for hours together, alone in this garden. Kirilla Matveitch was
aware of this, and forbade her being disturbed or followed; let her
grief wear itself out, he said. When she could not be found indoors,
they had only to ring a bell on the steps at dinner-time and she made
her appearance at once, with the same stubborn silence on her lips and
in her eyes, and some little leaf crushed up in her hand. So, noticing
one day that she was not in the house, I made a show of going away,
took leave of Kirilla Matveitch, put on my hat, and went out from the
hall into the courtyard, and from the courtyard into the street, but
promptly darted in at the gate again with extraordinary rapidity and
hurried past the kitchen into the garden. Luckily no one noticed me.
Without losing time in deliberation, I went with rapid steps into the
grove. In a little path before me was standing Liza. My heart beat
violently. I stood still, drew a deep sigh, and was just on the point
of going up to her, when suddenly she lifted her hand without turning
round, and began listening.... From behind the trees, in the direction
of the blind alley, came a distinct sound of two knocks, as though some
one were tapping at the paling. Liza clapped her hands together, there
was heard the faint creak of the gate, and out of the thicket stepped
Bizmyonkov. I hastily hid behind a tree. Liza turned towards him
without speaking.... Without speaking, he drew her arm in his, and the
two walked slowly along the path together. I looked after them in
amazement. They stopped, looked round, disappeared behind the bushes,
reappeared again, and finally went into the summer-house. This
summer-house was a diminutive round edifice, with a door and one little
window. In the middle stood an old one-legged table, overgrown with
fine green moss; two discoloured deal benches stood along the sides,
some distance from the damp and darkened walls. Here, on exceptionally
hot days, in bygone times, perhaps once a year or so, they had drunk
tea. The door did not quite shut, the window-frame had long ago come
out of the window, and hung disconsolately, only attached at one
corner, like a bird's broken wing. I stole up to the summer-house, and
peeped cautiously through the chink in the window. Liza was sitting on
one of the benches, with her head drooping. Her right hand lay on her
knees, the left Bizmyonkov was holding in both his hands. He was
looking sympathetically at her.
'How do you feel to-day?' he asked her in a low voice.
'Just the same,' she answered, 'not better, nor worse.--The emptiness,
the fearful emptiness!' she added, raising her eyes dejectedly.
Bizmyonkov made her no answer.
'What do you think,' she went on: 'will he write to me once more?'
'I don't think so, Lizaveta Kirillovna!'
She was silent.
'And after all, why should he write? He told me everything in his first
letter. I could not be his wife; but I have been happy ... not for long
... I have been happy ...'
Bizmyonkov looked down.
'Ah,' she went on quickly, 'if you knew how I loathe that Tchulkaturin
... I always fancy I see on that man's hands ... his blood.' (I
shuddered behind my chink.) 'Though indeed,' she added, dreamily, 'who
knows, perhaps, if it had not been for that duel.... Ah, when I saw him
wounded I felt at once that I was altogether his.'
'Tchulkaturin loves you,' observed Bizmyonkov.
'What is that to me? I don't want any one's love.'... She stopped and
added slowly, 'Except yours. Yes, my friend, your love is necessary to
me; except for you, I should be lost. You have helped me to bear
terrible moments ...'
She broke off ... Bizmyonkov began with fatherly tenderness stroking
her hand.
'There's no help for it! What is one to do! what is one to do, Lizaveta
Kirillovna!' he repeated several times.
'And now indeed,' she went on in a lifeless voice, 'I should die, I
think, if it were not for you. It's you alone that keep me up; besides,
you remind me of him.... You knew all about it, you see. Do you
remember how fine he was that day.... But forgive me; it must be hard
for you....'
'Go on, go on! Nonsense! Bless you!' Bizmyonkov interrupted her.
She pressed his hand.
'You are very good, Bizmyonkov,' she went on;' you are good as an
angel. What can I do! I feel I shall love him to the grave. I have
forgiven him, I am grateful to him. God give him happiness! May God
give him a wife after his own heart'--and her eyes filled with
tears--'if only he does not forget me, if only he will sometimes think
of his Liza!--Let us go,' she added, after a brief silence.
Bizmyonkov raised her hand to his lips.
'I know,' she began again hotly, 'every one is blaming me now, every
one is throwing stones at me. Let them! I wouldn't, any way, change my
misery for their happiness ... no! no!... He did not love me for long,
but he loved me! He never deceived me, he never told me I should be his
wife; I never dreamed of it myself. It was only poor papa hoped for it.
And even now I am not altogether unhappy; the memory remains to me, and
however fearful the results ... I'm stifling here ... it was here I saw
him the last time.... Let's go into the air.'
They got up. I had only just time to skip on one side and hide behind a
thick lime-tree. They came out of the summer-house, and, as far as I
could judge by the sound of their steps, went away into the thicket. I
don't know how long I went on standing there, without stirring from my
place, plunged in a sort of senseless amazement, when suddenly I heard
steps again. I started, and peeped cautiously out from my hiding-place.
Bizmyonkov and Liza were coming back along the same path. Both were
greatly agitated, especially Bizmyonkov.
I fancied he was crying. Liza stopped, looked at him, and distinctly
uttered the following words: 'I do consent, Bizmyonkov. I would never
have agreed if you were only trying to save me, to rescue me from a
terrible position, but you love me, you know everything--and you love
me. I shall never find a trustier, truer friend. I will be your wife.'
Bizmyonkov kissed her hand: she smiled at him mournfully and moved away
towards the house. Bizmyonkov rushed into the thicket, and I went my
way. Seeing that Bizmyonkov had apparently said to Liza precisely what
I had intended to say to her, and she had given him precisely the reply
I was longing to hear from her, there was no need for me to trouble
myself further. Within a fortnight she was married to him. The old
Ozhogins were thankful to get any husband for her.
Now, tell me, am I not a superfluous man? Didn't I play throughout the
whole story the part of a superfluous person? The prince's part ... of
that it's needless to speak; Bizmyonkov's part, too, is
comprehensible.... But I--with what object was I mixed up in it?... A
senseless fifth wheel to the cart!... Ah, it's bitter, bitter for
me!... But there, as the barge-haulers say, 'One more pull, and one
more yet,'--one day more, and one more yet, and there will be no more
bitter nor sweet for me.
_March 31_.
I'm in a bad way. I am writing these lines in bed. Since yesterday
evening there has been a sudden change in the weather. To-day is hot,
almost a summer day. Everything is thawing, breaking up, flowing away.
The air is full of the smell of the opened earth, a strong, heavy,
stifling smell. Steam is rising on all sides. The sun seems beating,
seems smiting everything to pieces. I am very ill, I feel that I am
breaking up.
I meant to write my diary, and, instead of that, what have I done? I
have related one incident of my life. I gossiped on, slumbering
reminiscences were awakened and drew me away. I have written, without
haste, in detail, as though I had years before me. And here now,
there's no time to go on. Death, death is coming. I can hear her
menacing _crescendo_. The time is come ... the time is come!...
And indeed, what does it matter? Isn't it all the same whatever I
write? In sight of death the last earthly cares vanish. I feel I have
grown calm; I am becoming simpler, clearer. Too late I've gained
sense!... It's a strange thing! I have grown calm--certainly, and at
the same time ... I'm full of dread. Yes, I'm full of dread. Half
hanging over the silent, yawning abyss, I shudder, turn away, with
greedy intentness gaze at everything about me. Every object is doubly
precious to me. I cannot gaze enough at my poor, cheerless room, saying
farewell to each spot on my walls. Take your fill for the last time, my
eyes. Life is retreating; slowly and smoothly she is flying away from
me, as the shore flies from the eyes of one at sea. The old yellow face
of my nurse, tied up in a dark kerchief, the hissing samovar on the
table, the pot of geranium in the window, and you, my poor dog, Tresór,
the pen I write these lines with, my own hand, I see you now ... here
you are, here.... Is it possible ... can it be, to-day ... I shall
never see you again! It's hard for a live creature to part with life!
Why do you fawn on me, poor dog? why do you come putting your forepaws
on the bed, with your stump of a tail wagging so violently, and your
kind, mournful eyes fixed on me all the while? Are you sorry for me? or
do you feel already that your master will soon be gone? Ah, if I could
only keep my thoughts, too, resting on all the objects in my room! I
know these reminiscences are dismal and of no importance, but I have no
other. 'The emptiness, the fearful emptiness!' as Liza said.
O my God, my God! Here I am dying.... A heart capable of loving and
ready to love will soon cease to beat.... And can it be it will be
still for ever without having once known happiness, without having once
expanded under the sweet burden of bliss? Alas! it's impossible,
impossible, I know.... If only now, at least, before death--for death
after all is a sacred thing, after all it elevates any being--if any
kind, sad, friendly voice would sing over me a farewell song of my own
sorrow, I could, perhaps, be resigned to it. But to die stupidly,
stupidly....