"He 's very charming, is n't he?"
She turned her face toward me; but we were standing so close to each
other that she was obliged to throw her head back a little, in order to
look at me with her bright eyes. I gazed at her: the whole of her rosy
young face was smiling in so friendly a manner that I smiled also, and
almost laughed aloud with pleasure. The door opened; Mr. Ozhógin
entered. I immediately went to him, and began to talk with him in a very
unembarrassed way; I do not know myself how I came to stay to dinner; I
sat out the whole evening, and on the following day, Ozhógin's lackey, a
long, purblind fellow, was already smiling at me, as a friend of the
house, as he pulled off my overcoat.
To find a refuge, to weave for myself even a temporary nest, to know the
joy of daily relations and habits,--that was a happiness which I, a
superfluous man, without domestic memories, had not experienced up to
that time. If there were anything about me suggestive of a flower, and
if that comparison were not so threadbare, I would decide to say that,
from that hour, I began to blossom out in spirit. Everything in me and
round about me underwent such an instantaneous change! My whole life was
illuminated by love,--literally my whole life, down to the smallest
details,--like a dark, deserted chamber into which a candle has been
brought. I lay down to sleep and I rose up, dressed myself, breakfasted,
and smoked my pipe in a way different from my habit; I even skipped as I
walked,--really I did, as though wings had suddenly sprouted on my
shoulders. I remember that I was not in doubt even for a minute, as to
the feeling with which Elizavéta Kiríllovna had inspired me; and from
the very first day, I fell in love with her passionately, and from the
very first day, too, I knew that I was in love. I saw her every day for
the space of three weeks. Those three weeks were the happiest time of my
life; but the remembrance of them is painful to me. I cannot think of
them alone: that which followed them involuntarily rises up before me,
and venomous grief slowly grips the heart which had just grown soft.
When a man is feeling very well, his brain, as every one knows, acts
very little. A calm and joyous feeling, a feeling of satisfaction,
permeates his whole being; he is swallowed up in it; the consciousness
of individuality vanishes in him--he is in a state of bliss, as badly
educated poets say. But when, at last, that "spell" passes off, a man
sometimes feels vexed and regretful that, in the midst of happiness, he
was so unobservant of himself that he did not redouble his thoughts, his
reflections, and his memories, that he did not prolong his enjoyment
.... as though a "blissful" man had any time, and as though it were
worth while to reflect about his own emotions! The happy man is like a
fly in the sunshine. That is why, when I recall those three weeks, I
find it almost impossible to retain in my mind an accurate, definite
impression, the more so, as in the whole course of that time, nothing of
particular note took place between us..... Those twenty days present
themselves to me as something warm, young, and fragrant, as a sort of
bright streak in my dim and grey-hued life. My memory suddenly becomes
implacably faithful and clear, only dating from the moment when the
blows of Fate descended upon me, speaking again in the words of those
same ill-bred writers.
Yes, those three weeks.... However, they did not precisely leave no
images behind in me. Sometimes, when I happen to think long of that
time, certain memories suddenly float forth from the gloom of the
past--as the stars unexpectedly start forth in the evening sky to meet
attentively-riveted eyes. Especially memorable to me is one stroll in a
grove outside the town. There were four of us: old Madame Ozhógin, Liza,
I, and a certain Bizmyónkoff, a petty official of the town of O***, a
fair-haired, good-natured, and meek young man. I shall have occasion to
allude to him again. Mr. Ozhógin remained at home: his head ached, in
consequence of his having slept too long. The day was splendid, warm,
and calm. I must remark that gardens of entertainment and public
amusement are not to the taste of the Russian. In governmental towns, in
the so-called Public Gardens, you will never encounter a living soul at
any season of the year; possibly some old woman will seat herself,
grunting, on a green bench baked through and through by the sun, in the
neighbourhood of a sickly tree, and that only when there is no dirty
little shop close to the gate. But if there is a sparse little
birch-grove in the vicinity of the town, the merchants, and sometimes
the officials, will gladly go thither on Sundays and feast-days, with
their samovár, patties, water-melons, and set out all those good gifts
on the dusty grass, right by the side of the road, seat themselves
around, and eat and drink tea in the sweat of their brows until the very
evening. Precisely that sort of small grove existed then two versts
distant from the town of O***. We went thither after dinner, drank tea
in due form, and then all four of us set off for a stroll through the
grove. Bizmyónkoff gave his arm to old Madame Ozhógin; I gave mine to
Liza. The day was already inclining toward evening. I was then in the
very ardour of first love (not more than a fortnight had elapsed since
we had become acquainted), in that condition of passionate and attentive
adoration, when your whole soul innocently and involuntarily follows
every motion of the beloved being; when you cannot satiate yourself with
its presence, or hear enough of its voice; when you smile and look like
a convalescent child, and any man of a little experience must see at the
first glance, a hundred paces off, what is going on in you.
Up to that day, I had not once chanced to be arm in arm with Liza. I
walked by her side, treading softly on the green grass. A light breeze
seemed to be fluttering around us, between the white boles of the
birch-trees, now and then blowing the ribbon of her hat in my face. With
an importunate gaze I watched her, until, at last, she turned gaily to
me, and we smiled at each other. The birds chirped approvingly overhead,
the blue sky peered caressingly through the fine foliage. My head reeled
with excess of pleasure. I hasten to remark that Liza was not in the
least in love with me. She liked me; in general, she was not shy of any
one, but I was not fated to disturb her childish tranquillity. She
walked arm in arm with me, as with a brother. She was seventeen years
old at the time.... And yet, that same evening, in my presence, there
began in her that quiet, inward fermentation, which precedes the
conversion of a child into a woman..... I was witness to that change of
the whole being, that innocent perplexity, that tremulous pensiveness; I
was the first to note that sudden softness of glance, that ringing
uncertainty of voice--and, oh, stupid fool! oh, superfluous man! for a
whole week I was not ashamed to assume that I, I was the cause of that
change!
This is the way it happened.
We strolled for quite a long time, until evening, and chatted very
little. I held my peace, like all inexperienced lovers, and she, in all
probability, had nothing to say to me; but she seemed to be meditating
about something, and shook her head in a queer sort of way, pensively
nibbling at a leaf which she had plucked. Sometimes she began to stride
forward in such a decided way ... and then suddenly halted, waited for
me and gazed about her with eyebrows elevated and an absent-minded
smile. On the preceding evening, we had read together "The Prisoner of
the Caucasus."[9] With what eagerness had she listened to me, with her
face propped on both hands, and her bosom resting against the table! I
tried to talk about our reading of the evening before; she blushed,
asked me whether I had given the bull-finch any hemp-seed before we
started, began to sing loudly some song, then suddenly ceased. The grove
ended on one side in a rather steep and lofty cliff; below flowed a
small, meandering river, and beyond it, further than the eye could see,
stretched endless meadows, now swelling slightly like waves, now
spreading out like a table-cloth, here and there intersected with
ravines. Liza and I were the first to emerge on the edge of the grove;
Bizmyónkoff remained behind with the old lady. We came out, halted, and
both of us involuntarily narrowed our eyes: directly opposite us, in the
midst of the red-hot mist, the sun was setting, huge and crimson. Half
the sky was aglow and flaming; the red rays beat aslant across the
meadows, casting a scarlet reflection even on the shady side of the
ravine, and lay like fiery lead upon the river, where it was not hidden
under overhanging bushes, and seemed to be reposing in the lap of the
ravine and the grove. We stood there drenched in the blazing radiance.
It is beyond my power to impart all the passionate solemnity of that
picture. They say that the colour red appeared to one blind man like the
sound of a trumpet; I do not know to what degree that comparison is
just; but, actually, there was something challenging in that flaming
gold of the evening air, in the crimson glow of sky and earth. I cried
out with rapture, and immediately turned to Liza. She was gazing
straight at the sun. I remember, the glare of the sunset was reflected
in her eyes in tiny, flaming spots. She was startled, profoundly moved.
She made no answer to my exclamation, did not stir for a long time, and
hung her head.... I stretched out my hand to her; she turned away from
me, and suddenly burst into tears. I gazed at her with secret, almost
joyful surprise.... Bizmyónkoff's voice rang out a couple of paces from
us. Liza hastily wiped her eyes, and with a wavering smile looked at me.
The old lady emerged from the grove, leaning on the arm of her
fair-haired escort; both of them, in their turn, admired the view. The
old lady asked Liza some question, and I remember that I involuntarily
shivered when, in reply, her daughter's broken voice, like cracked
glass, resounded in reply. In the meanwhile, the sun had set, the glow
was beginning to die out. We retraced our steps. I again gave Liza my
arm. It was still light in the grove, and I could clearly discern her
features. She was embarrassed, and did not raise her eyes. The flush
which had spread all over her face did not disappear; she seemed still
to be standing in the rays of the setting sun.... Her arm barely touched
mine. For a long time I could not start a conversation, so violently was
my heart beating. We caught glimpses of the carriage far away, through
the trees; the coachman was driving to meet us at a foot-pace over the
friable sand of the road.
"Lizavéta Kiríllovna,"--I said at last,--"why did you weep?"
"I don't know,"--she answered after a brief pause, looking at me with
her gentle eyes, still wet with tears,--their glance seemed to me to
have undergone a change,--and again fell silent.
"I see that you love nature...." I went on.--That was not in the least
what I had meant to say, and my tongue hardly stammered out the last
phrase to the end. She shook her head. I could not utter a word more....
I was waiting for something .... not a confession--no, indeed! I was
waiting for a confiding glance, a question.... But Liza stared at the
ground and held her peace. I repeated once more, in an undertone: "Why?"
and received no reply. She was embarrassed, almost ashamed, I saw that.
A quarter of an hour later, we were all seated in the carriage and
driving toward the town. The horses advanced at a brisk trot; we dashed
swiftly through the moist, darkening air. I suddenly began to talk,
incessantly addressing myself now to Bizmyónkoff, now to Madame Ozhógin.
I did not look at Liza, but I could not avoid perceiving that from the
corner of the carriage her gaze never once rested on me. At home she
recovered with a start, but would not read with me, and soon went off to
bed. The break--that break of which I have spoken--had been effected in
her. She had ceased to be a little girl; she was already beginning to
expect ... like myself .... something or other. She did not have to wait
long.
But that night I returned to my lodgings in a state of utter
enchantment. The confused something, which was not exactly a foreboding,
nor yet exactly a suspicion, that had arisen within me vanished: I
ascribed the sudden constraint in Liza's behaviour toward me to maidenly
modesty, to timidity.... Had not I read a thousand times in many
compositions, that the first appearance of love agitates and alarms a
young girl? I felt myself very happy, and already began to construct
various plans in my own mind....
If any one had then whispered in my ear: "Thou liest, my dear fellow!
that 's not in store for thee at all, my lad! thou art doomed to die
alone in a miserable little house, to the intolerable grumbling of an
old peasant-woman, who can hardly wait for thy death, in order that she
may sell thy boots for a song...."
Yes, one involuntarily says, with the Russian philosopher: "How is one
to know what he does not know?"--Until to-morrow.
March 25. A white winter day.
I have read over what I wrote yesterday, and came near tearing up the
whole note-book. It seems to me that my style of narrative is too
protracted and too mawkish. However, as my remaining memories of that
period present nothing cheerful, save the joy of that peculiar nature
which Lérmontoff had in view when he said that it is a cheerful and a
painful thing to touch the ulcers of ancient wounds, then why should not
I observe myself? But I must not impose upon kindness. Therefore I will
continue without mawkishness.
For the space of a whole week, after that stroll outside the town, my
position did not improve in the least, although the change in Liza
became more perceptible every day. As I have already stated, I
interpreted this change in the most favourable possible light for
myself.... The misfortune of solitary and timid men--those who are timid
through self-love--consists precisely in this--that they, having eyes,
and even keeping them staring wide open, see nothing, or see it in a
false light, as though through coloured glasses. And their own thoughts
and observations hinder them at every step.
In the beginning of our acquaintance Liza had treated me trustingly and
frankly, like a child; perhaps, even, in her liking for me there was
something of simple, childish affection.... But when that strange,
almost sudden crisis took place in her, after a short perplexity, she
felt herself embarrassed in my presence, she turned away from me
involuntarily, and at the same time grew sad and pensive.... She was
expecting .... what? She herself did not know .... but I .... I, as I
have already said, rejoiced at that crisis.... As God is my witness, I
almost swooned with rapture, as the saying is. However, I am willing to
admit that any one else in my place might have been deceived also....
Who is devoid of self-love? It is unnecessary to say that all this
became clear to me only after a time, when I was compelled to fold my
injured wings, which were not any too strong at best.
The misunderstanding which arose between Liza and me lasted for a whole
week,--and there is nothing surprising about that: it has been my lot to
be a witness of misunderstandings which have lasted for years and years.
And who was it that said that only the true is real? A lie is as
tenacious of life as is the truth, if not more so. It is a fact, I
remember, that even during that week I had a pang now and then .... but
a lonely man like myself, I will say once more, is as incapable of
understanding what is going on within him as he is of comprehending what
is going on before his eyes. Yes, and more than that: is love a natural
feeling? Is it natural to a man to love? Love is a malady; and for a
malady the law is not written. Suppose my heart did contract
unpleasantly within me at times; but, then, everything in me was turned
upside down. How is a man to know under such circumstances what is right
and what is wrong, what is the cause, what is the significance of every
separate sensation?
But, be that as it may, all these misunderstandings, forebodings, and
hopes were resolved in the following manner.
One day,--it was in the morning, about eleven o'clock,--before I had
contrived to set my foot in Mr. Ozhógin's anteroom, an unfamiliar,
ringing voice resounded in the hall, the door flew open, and,
accompanied by the master of the house, there appeared on the threshold
a tall, stately man of five-and-twenty, who hastily threw on his
military cloak, which was lying on the bench, took an affectionate leave
of Kiríll Matvyéevitch, touched his cap negligently as he passed me--and
vanished, clinking his spurs.
"Who is that?"--I asked Ozhógin.
"Prince N***,"--replied the latter, with a troubled face;--"he has been
sent from Petersburg to receive the recruits. But where are those
servants?"--he went on with vexation:--"there was no one to put on his
cloak."
We entered the hall.
"Has he been here long?"--I inquired.
"They say he came yesterday evening. I offered him a room in my house,
but he declined it. However, he seems to be a very nice young fellow."
"Did he stay long with you?"
"About an hour. He asked me to introduce him to Olympiáda Nikítichna."
"And did you introduce him?"
"Certainly."
"And did he make acquaintance with Lizavéta Kiríllovna?...."
"Yes, he made her acquaintance, of course."