March 20, 18 .
The doctor has just left me. At last I have obtained a categorical
answer! Dodge as he might, he could not help saying what he thought, at
last. Yes, I shall die soon, very soon. The streams are opening, and I
shall float away, probably with the last snows .... whither? God knows!
To the sea also. Well, all right! If I must die, then 't is better to
die in the spring. But is it not ridiculous to begin one's diary perhaps
a fortnight before one's death? Where 's the harm? And in what way are
fourteen days less than fourteen years, fourteen centuries? In the
presence of eternity, they say, everything is of no account--yes; but,
in that case, eternity also is of no account. I am falling into
speculation, I think: that is a bad sign--am not I beginning to turn
coward?--It will be better if I narrate something. It is raw and windy
out of doors,--I am forbidden to go out. But what shall I narrate? A
well-bred man does not talk about his maladies; composing a novel, or
something of that sort, is not in my line; reflections about exalted
themes are beyond my powers; descriptions of life round about me do not
even interest me; and to do nothing is tiresome; to read--is idleness.
Eh! I will narrate to myself the story of my own life. A capital idea!
When death is approaching it is proper, and can offend no one. I begin.
I was born thirty years ago, the son of a fairly wealthy landed
proprietor. My father was a passionate gambler; my mother was a lady
with character .... a very virtuous lady. Only, I have never known a
woman whose virtue afforded less satisfaction. She succumbed under the
burden of her merits, and tortured everybody, beginning with herself.
During the whole fifty years of her life, she never once rested, never
folded her hands; she was eternally bustling and fussing about, like an
ant--and without any result whatever, which cannot be said of the ant.
An implacable worm gnawed her day and night. Only once did I behold her
perfectly quiet,--namely, on the first day after her death, in her
coffin. As I gazed at her, it really seemed to me that her face
expressed mild surprise; the half-open lips, the sunken cheeks, and the
gently-motionless eyes seemed to breathe forth the words: "How good it
is not to stir!" Yes, 't is good, 't is good to part at last from the
fatiguing consciousness of life, from the importunate and uneasy sense
of existence! But that is not the point.
I grew up badly, and not cheerfully. Both my father and my mother loved
me; but that did not make things any the easier for me. My father had no
power whatever in his own house, and no importance, in his quality of a
man given over to a shameful and ruinous vice. He admitted his fall,
and, without having the strength to renounce his favourite passion, he
endeavoured, at least, by his constantly affectionate and discreet mien,
by his submissive humility, to win the indulgence of his exemplary wife.
My mamma, in fact, bore her misfortune with that magnificent and
ostentatious long-suffering of virtue which contains so much of
self-satisfied pride. She never reproached my father for anything, she
silently surrendered to him her last penny, and paid his debts; he
lauded her to her face and behind her back, but was not fond of staying
at home, and petted me on the sly, as though he were himself afraid of
contaminating me by his presence. But his ruffled features exhaled such
kindness at those times, the feverish smirk on his lips was replaced by
such a touching smile, his brown eyes, surrounded by fine wrinkles,
beamed with so much love, that I involuntarily pressed my cheek to his
cheek, moist and warm with tears. I wiped away those tears with my
handkerchief, and they flowed again, without effort, like the water in
an overfilled glass. I set to crying myself, and he soothed me, patted
my back with his hand, kissed me all over my face with his quivering
lips. Even now, more than twenty years after his death, when I recall my
poor father, dumb sobs rise in my throat, and my heart beats--beats as
hotly and bitterly, it languishes with as much sorrowful compassion, as
though it still had a long time to beat and as though there were
anything to feel compassion about!
My mother, on the contrary, always treated me in one way,
affectionately, but coldly. Such mothers, moral and just, are frequently
to be met with in children's books. She loved me, but I did not love
her. Yes! I shunned my virtuous mother, and passionately loved my
vicious father.
But enough for to-day. I have made a beginning, and there is no cause
for me to feel anxious about the end, whatever it may be. My malady will
attend to that.
March 21.
The weather is wonderful to-day. It is warm and bright; the sun is
playing gaily on the slushy snow; everything is glittering, smoking,
dripping; the sparrows are screaming like mad creatures around the dark,
sweating hedges; the damp air irritates my chest sweetly but
frightfully. The spring, the spring is coming! I am sitting by the
window, and looking out across the little river to the fields. O Nature!
Nature! I love thee so, but I came forth from thy womb unfitted even for
life. Yonder is a male sparrow hopping about with outspread wings; he is
screaming--and every sound of his voice, every ruffled feather on his
tiny body breathes forth health and strength.
What is to be concluded from that? Nothing. He is healthy and has a
right to scream and ruffle up his feathers; but I am ill and must
die--that is all. It is not worth while to say any more about that. And
tearful appeals to nature are comically absurd. Let us return to my
story.
I grew up, as I have already said, badly and not cheerfully. 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 off to boarding-school
or to a government institute? That 's what children are for--to keep
their parents from being bored. We lived chiefly in the country, and
sometimes went to Moscow. I had governors and teachers, as is the
custom. A cadaverous and tearful German, Riechmann, has remained
particularly memorable to me,--a remarkably melancholy being, crippled
by fate, who was fruitlessly consumed by an anguished longing for his
native land. My man-nurse, Vasíly, nicknamed "The Goose," would sit,
unshaved, in his everlasting old coat of blue frieze, beside the stove
in the frightfully stifling atmosphere of the close anteroom,
impregnated through and through with the sour odour of old kvas,--would
sit and play cards with the coachman, Potáp, who had just got a new
sheepskin coat, white as snow, and invincible tarred boots,--while
Riechmann would be singing on the other side of the partition:
"Herz, mein Herz, warum so traurig?
Was bekümmert dich so sehr?
'S ist ja schön im fremden Lande--
Herz, mein Herz, was willst du mehr?"
After my father's death, we definitively removed to Moscow. I was then
twelve years of age. My father died during the night of a stroke of
apoplexy. I shall never forget that night. I was sleeping soundly, as
all children are in the habit of sleeping; but I remember, that even
athwart my slumber I thought I heard a heavy, laboured breathing.
Suddenly I felt some one seize me by the shoulder and shake me. I
open my eyes: in front of me stands my man-nurse.--"What 's the
matter?"--"Come along, come along, Alexyéi Mikhaílitch is dying...." I
fly out of the bed like a mad creature, and into the bedroom. I look: my
father is lying with his head thrown back, all red in the face, and
rattling in his throat most painfully. The servants, with frightened
faces, throng the doors; in the anteroom some one inquires in a hoarse
voice: "Has the doctor been sent for?" In the courtyard, a horse is
being led out of the stable, the gate is creaking, a tallow candle is
burning in the room on the floor; mamma is there also, overwhelmed, but
without losing either her decorum or the consciousness of her own
dignity. I flung myself on my father's breast, embraced him, and
stammered out: "Papa, papa!"... He lay motionless and puckered up his
eyes in a strange sort of way. I looked him in the face--unbearable
horror stopped my breath; I squeaked with terror, like a roughly-grasped
bird. They dragged me from him and carried me away. Only the night
before, as though with a foreboding of his approaching death, he had
caressed me so fervently and so sadly.
They brought a dishevelled and sleepy doctor, with a strong smell of
lovage vodka. My father died under his lancet, and on the following day,
thoroughly stupefied with grief, I stood with a candle in my hand in
front of the table on which lay the corpse, and listened unheeding to
the thick-voiced intoning of the chanter, occasionally broken by the
feeble voice of the priest; tears kept streaming down my cheeks, over my
lips, and my collar and my cuffs; I was consumed with tears, I stared
fixedly at the motionless face of my father, as though I were expecting
him to do something; and my mother, meanwhile, slowly made reverences
to the floor, slowly raised herself and, as she crossed herself, pressed
her fingers strongly to her brow, her shoulders, and her body. There was
not a single thought in my head; I had grown heavy all over, but I felt
that something dreadful was taking place with me..... It was then that
Death looked into my face, and made a note of me.
We removed our residence to Moscow, after the death of my father, for a
very simple reason: all our estate was sold under the hammer for
debt,--positively everything, with the exception of one wretched little
hamlet, the very one in which I am now finishing my magnificent
existence. I confess that, in spite of the fact that I was young at the
time, I grieved over the sale of our nest; that is to say, in reality, I
grieved over our park only. With that park are bound up my sole bright
memories. There, on one tranquil spring evening, I buried my best
friend, an old dog with a bob tail and crooked paws--Trixie; there,
hiding myself in the tall grass, I used to eat stolen apples, red, sweet
Nóvgorod apples; there, in conclusion, I for the first time beheld
through the bushes of ripe raspberries, Klaudia the maid, who, despite
her snub nose, and her habit of laughing in her kerchief, aroused in me
such a tender passion that in her presence I hardly breathed, felt like
swooning, and was stricken dumb. But one day, on the Bright Sunday,[4]
when her turn came to kiss my lordly hand, I all but flung myself down
and kissed her patched goatskin shoes. Great heavens! Can it be twenty
years since all that happened? It does not seem so very long since I
used to ride my shaggy, chestnut horse along the old wattled hedge of
our park, and, rising in my stirrups, pluck the double-faced leaves of
the poplars. While a man is living he is not conscious of his own life;
like a sound, it becomes intelligible to him a little while afterward.
Oh, my park! Oh, my overgrown paths along the little pond! Oh, unhappy
little spot beneath the decrepit dam, where I used to catch minnows and
gudgeons! And you, ye lofty birch-trees, with long, pendulous branches,
from behind which, from the country road, the melancholy song of the
peasant used to be wafted, unevenly broken by the jolts of the rough
cart--I send you my last farewells!... As I part with life I stretch out
my hands to you alone. I should like once more to inhale the bitter
freshness of the wormwood, the sweet scent of the reaped buckwheat in
the fields of my natal spot; I should like once more to hear from afar
the modest jangling of the cracked bell on our parish church; once more
to lie in the cool shadow beneath the oak-bush on the slope of the
familiar ravine; once more to follow with my eyes the moving trace of
the wind, as it flew like a dark streak over the golden grass of our
meadow....
Ekh, to what end is all this? But I cannot go on to-day. Until
to-morrow.
March 22.
To-day it is cold and overcast again. Such weather is far more suitable.
It is in accord with my work. Yesterday quite unseasonably evoked in me
a multitude of unnecessary feelings and memories. That will not be
repeated. Emotional effusions are like liquorice-root: when you take
your first suck at it, it does n't seem bad, but it leaves a very bad
taste in your mouth afterward. I will simply and quietly narrate the
story of my life.
So then, we went to live in Moscow....
But it just occurs to me: is it really worth while to tell the story of
my life?
No, decidedly it is not worth while.... My life is in no way different
from the lives of a mass of other people. The parental home, the
university, service in inferior positions, retirement, a small circle of
acquaintances, downright poverty, modest pleasures, humble occupations,
moderate desires--tell me, for mercy's sake, who does not know all that?
And I, in particular, shall not tell the story of my life, because I am
writing for my own pleasure; and if my past presents even to me nothing
very cheerful, nor even very sorrowful, that means that there really can
be nothing in it worthy of attention. I had better try to analyse my own
character to myself.
What sort of a man am I?... Some one may remark to me that no one asks
about that.--Agreed. But, you see, I am dying,--God is my witness, I am
dying,--and really before death the desire to know what sort of a fellow
I have been is pardonable, I think.
After having thoroughly pondered this important question, and having,
moreover, no need to express myself bitterly on my own score, as do
people who are strongly convinced of their merits, I must confess one
thing: I have been an utterly superfluous man in this world, or, if you
like to put it that way, an utterly useless bird. And I intend to prove
that to-morrow, because to-day I am coughing like an aged sheep, and my
nurse, Teréntievna, will give me no peace. "Lie down, dear little father
mine," she says, "and drink your tea."... I know why she worries me: she
wants some tea herself! Well! All right! Why not permit the poor old
woman to extract, at the finish, all possible profit from her master?...
The time for that has not yet gone by.
March 23.
Winter again. The snow is falling in large flakes.
Superfluous, superfluous.... That 's a capital word I have devised. The
more deeply I penetrate into myself, the more attentively I scrutinise
the whole of my own past life, the more convinced do I become of the
strict justice of that expression. Superfluous--precisely that. That
word is not appropriate to other people.... People are bad, good,
clever, stupid, agreeable, and disagreeable; but superfluous.... no.
That is to say, understand me: the universe could dispense with these
people also .... of course; but uselessness is not their chief quality,
is not their distinguishing characteristic, and when you are speaking of
them, the word "superfluous" is not the first one that comes to your
tongue. But I .... of me nothing else could possibly be said:
superfluous--that is all. Nature had not, evidently, calculated on my
appearance, and in consequence of this, she treated me like an
unexpected and unbidden guest. Not without cause did one wag, a great
lover of Swedish whist, say of me, that my mother had discarded.[5] I
speak of myself now calmly, without any gall..... 'T is a thing of the
past! During the whole course of my life I have constantly found my
place occupied, possibly because I sought my place in the wrong
direction. I was suspicious, bashful, irritable, like all invalids;
moreover, probably owing to superfluous vanity,--or by reason of the
deficient organisation of my person,--between my feelings and my
thoughts and the expression of those feelings and thoughts there existed
some senseless, incomprehensible and insuperable barrier; and when I
made up my mind to overcome that impediment by force, to break down that
barrier, my movements, the expression of my face, my entire being
assumed the aspect of anguished tension: I not only seemed, but I
actually became unnatural and affected. I was conscious of it myself and
made haste to retire again into myself. Then a frightful tumult arose
within me. I analysed myself to the last shred; I compared myself with
other people; I recalled the smallest glances, the smiles, the words of
the people before whom I would have liked to expand; I interpreted
everything from its bad side, and laughed maliciously over my
pretensions "to be like the rest of the world,"--and suddenly, in the
midst of my laughter, I sadly relaxed utterly, fell into foolish
dejection, and then began the same thing all over again; in a word, I
ran round like a squirrel in a wheel. Whole days passed in this
torturing, fruitless toil. Come now, tell me, pray, to whom and for what
is such a man of use? Why did this happen with me, what was the cause
of this minute fidgeting over myself--who knows? Who can say?
I remember, one day I was driving out of Moscow in the diligence. The
road was good, but the postilion had hitched an extra trace-horse to the
four-span. This unhappy, fifth, wholly unnecessary horse, fastened
in rough fashion to the fore-end of a thick, short rope, which
ruthlessly saws its haunches, rubs its tail, makes it run in the most
unnatural manner, and imparts to its whole body the shape of a comma,
always arouses my profound compassion. I remarked to the postilion
that, apparently, the fifth horse might be dispensed with on that
occasion..... He remained silent awhile, shook the back of his neck,
lashed the horse half a score of times in succession with his whip
across its gaunt back and under its puffed-out belly--and said, not
without a grin: "Well, you see, it has stuck itself on, that 's a fact!
What the devil 's the use?"
And I, also, have stuck myself on... But the station is not far off, I
think.
Superfluous.... I promised to prove the justice of my opinion, and I
will fulfil my promise. I do not consider it necessary to mention a
thousand details, daily occurrences and incidents, which, moreover, in
the eyes of every thoughtful man might serve as incontrovertible proofs
in my favour--that is to say, in favour of my view; it is better for me
to begin directly with one decidedly important event, after which,
probably, no doubt will remain as to the accuracy of the word
superfluous. I repeat: I have no intention of entering into details, but
I cannot pass over in silence one decidedly curious and noteworthy
circumstance,--namely, the strange manner in which my friends treated me
(I also had friends) every time I chanced to meet them, or even dropped
in to see them. They seemed to grow uneasy; as they came to meet me they
either smiled in a not entirely natural manner, looked not at my eyes,
not at my feet, as some people do, but chiefly at my cheeks, hastily
ejaculated: "Ah! how do you do, Tchulkatúrin!" (Fate had favoured me
with that name[6]) or, "Ah! so here 's Tchulkatúrin!" immediately
stepped aside, went apart, and even remained for some time thereafter
motionless, as though they were trying to recall something. I noticed
all this, because I am not deficient in penetration and the gift of
observation; on the whole, I am not stupid; decidedly amusing thoughts
sometimes come into my head even, not at all ordinary thoughts; but, as
I am a superfluous man with a dumbness inside me, I dread to express my
thought, the more so, as I know beforehand that I shall express it very
badly. It even seems strange to me, sometimes, that people can talk,
and so simply, so freely.... "What a calamity!!" you think. I am bound
to say that my tongue pretty often itched, in spite of my dumbness; and
I actually did utter words in my youth, but in riper years I succeeded
in restraining myself almost every time. I would say to myself in an
undertone: "See here, now, 't will be better for me to hold my tongue
awhile," and I quieted down. We are all experts at holding our tongues;
our women in particular have that capacity: one exalted young Russian
lady maintains silence so vigorously that such a spectacle is capable of
producing a slight shiver and cold perspiration even in a man who has
been forewarned. But that is not the point, and it is not for me to
criticise other people. I will proceed to the promised story.
Several years ago, thanks to a concurrence of trivial but, for me, very
important circumstances, I chanced to pass six months in the county town
of O***. This town is built entirely on a declivity. It has about eight
hundred inhabitants, remarkably poor; the wretched little houses are
outrageously bad; in the main street, under the guise of a pavement,
formidable slabs of unhewn limestone crop out whitely here and there, in
consequence of which, even the peasant-carts drive around it; in the
very centre of an astonishingly untidy square rises a tiny yellowish
structure with dark holes, and in the holes sit men in large caps with
visors, and pretend to be engaged in trade; there, also, rears itself
aloft a remarkably tall, striped pole, and beside the pole, by way of
order, at the command of the authorities, a load of yellow hay is kept,
and one governmental hen stalks about. In a word, in the town of O***
existence is excellent.
During the early days of my sojourn in that town I nearly went out of my
mind with ennui. I must say of myself that, although I am a superfluous
man, of course, yet it is not of my own will; I am sickly myself, but I
cannot endure anything sickly.... I would have no objections to
happiness, I have even tried to approach it from the right and from the
left.... And, therefore, it is not surprising that I can also feel
bored, like any other mortal. I found myself in the town of O*** on
business connected with the Government service....
Teréntievna is absolutely determined to kill me. Here is a specimen of
our conversation:
_Teréntievna._ O-okh, dear little father! why do you keep writing? It is
n't healthy for you to write.
_I._ But I 'm bored, Teréntievna.
_She._ But do drink some tea and lie down.
_I._ But I don't feel sleepy.
_She._ Akh, dear little father! Why do you say that? The Lord be with
you! Lie down now, lie down: it 's better for you.
_I._ I shall die anyway, Teréntievna.
_She._ The Lord forbid and have mercy!... Well, now, do you order me to
make tea?
_I._ I shall not survive this week, Teréntievna.
_She._ Ii-i, dear little father! Why do you say that?... So I 'll go and
prepare the samovár.
Oh, decrepit, yellow, toothless creature! Is it possible that to you I
am not a man!
March 24. A hard frost.
On the very day of my arrival in the town of O***, the above-mentioned
governmental business caused me to call on a certain Ozhógin, Kiríll
Matvyéevitch, one of the chief officials of the county; but I made
acquaintance with him, or, as the saying is, got intimate with him, two
weeks later. His house was situated on the principal street, and was
distinguished from all the rest by its size, its painted roof, and two
lions on the gate, belonging to that race of lions which bear a
remarkable likeness to the unsuccessful dogs whose birthplace is Moscow.
It is possible to deduce from these lions alone that Ozhógin was an
opulent man. And, in fact, he owned four hundred souls of serfs;[7] he
received at his house the best society of the town of O***, and bore the
reputation of being a hospitable man. The chief of police came to him,
in a broad carroty-hued drozhky drawn by a pair of horses--a remarkably
large man, who seemed to have been carved out of shop-worn material.
Other officials visited him also: the pettifogger, a yellowish and
rather malicious creature; the waggish surveyor, of German extraction,
with a Tatár face; the officer of Ways of Communication, a tender soul,
a singer, but a scandal-monger; a former county Marshal of Nobility, a
gentleman with dyed hair, and rumpled cuffs, trousers with straps,
and that extremely noble expression of countenance which is so
characteristic of people who have been under trial by the courts. He was
visited also by two landed proprietors, inseparable friends, both no
longer young, and even threadbare with age, the younger of whom was
constantly squelching the elder, and shutting his mouth with one and the
same reproach: "Come, that will do, Sergyéi Sergyéitch! What do you know
about it? For you write the word _próbka_ [cork] with the letter _b_....
Yes, gentlemen,"--he was wont to continue, with all the heat of
conviction, addressing those present:--"Sergyéi Sergyéitch writes not
_próbka_, but _bróbka_." And all present laughed, although, probably,
not one of them was particularly distinguished for his skill in
orthography; and the unhappy Sergyéi Sergyéitch held his peace, and
bowed his head with a pacific smile. But I am forgetting that my days
are numbered, and am entering into too great detail. So then, without
further circumlocution: Ozhógin was married and had a daughter,
Elizavéta Kiríllovna, and I fell in love with that daughter.
Ozhógin himself was a commonplace man, neither good nor bad; his wife
was beginning to look a good deal like an aged hen; but their daughter
did not take after her parents. She was very comely, of vivacious and
gentle disposition. Her bright grey eyes gazed good-naturedly, and in a
straightforward manner from beneath childishly-arched brows; she smiled
almost constantly, and laughed also quite frequently. Her fresh voice
had a very pleasant ring; she moved easily, swiftly, and blushed gaily.
She did not dress very elegantly; extremely simple gowns suited her
best.
As a rule, I have never made acquaintance quickly, and if I have felt at
ease with a person on first meeting,--which, however, has almost never
been the case,--I confess that that has spoken strongly in favour of the
new acquaintance. I have not known how to behave to women at all, and in
their presence I either frowned and assumed a fierce expression, or
displayed my teeth in a grin in the stupidest way, and twisted my tongue
about in my mouth with embarrassment. With Elizavéta Kiríllovna, on the
contrary, I felt myself at home from the very first moment. This is how
it came about. One day I arrive at Ozhógin's before dinner, and ask:
"Is he at home?" I am told: "Yes, and he is dressing; please come into
the hall."[8] I go into the hall; I see a young girl in a white gown
standing by the window, with her back toward me, and holding a cage in
her hands. I curl up a little, according to my habit; but, nevertheless,
I cough out of propriety. The young girl turns round quickly, so quickly
that her curls strike her in the face, catches sight of me, bows, and
with a smile shows me a little box, half-filled with seed.
"Will you excuse me?"
Of course, as is customary in such circumstances, I first bent my head,
and, at the same time, crooked and straightened my knees (as though some
one had hit me from behind in the back of my legs, which, as everybody
knows, serves as a token of excellent breeding and agreeable ease of
manner), and then smiled, raised my hand, and waved it twice cautiously
and gently in the air. The girl immediately turned away from me, took
from the cage a small board, and began to scrape it violently with a
knife, and suddenly, without changing her attitude, gave utterance to
the following words:
"This is papa's bull-finch.... Do you like bull-finches?"
"I prefer canary-birds,"--I replied, not without a certain effort.
"And I am fond of canary-birds also; but just look at him, see how
pretty he is. See, he is not afraid."--What surprised me was that I was
not afraid.--"Come closer. His name is Pópka."