The Diary of a Superfluous Man, and Other Stories

"Boursier!" he shouted, as he ran swiftly down the stairs. – "Boursier!"

A quarter of an hour later he was seated in his calash with his servant.

Old Rogatchyóff was not at home that day. He had gone to the county town, to buy seersucker for kaftans to clothe his retainers. Pável Afanásievitch was sitting in his study, and inspecting a collection of faded butterflies. Elevating his eyebrows, and thrusting forth his lips, he was cautiously turning about with a pin the large wings of the "nocturnal sphinx," when suddenly, he felt a small but heavy hand on his shoulder. He glanced round – before him stood Vasíly.

"Good morning, Vasíly Ivánovitch," – said he, not without some surprise.

Vasíly looked at him and sat down in front of him on a chair.

Pável Afanásievitch was about to smile … but glanced at Vasíly, relaxed, opened his mouth, and clasped his hands.

"Come, tell me, Pável Afanásievitch," – began Vasíly, suddenly: – "do you intend to have the wedding soon?"

"I?.. soon … of course… I, so far as I am concerned … however, that is as you and your sister choose… I, for my part, am ready to-morrow, if you like."

"Very good, very good. You are a very impatient man, Pável Afanásievitch."

"How so, sir?"

"Listen," – added Vasíly Ivánovitch, rising to his feet: – "I know everything; you understand me, and I order you to marry Olga without delay, to-morrow."

"But excuse me, excuse me," – returned Rogatchyóff, without rising from his seat; – "you order me? I myself have sought the hand of Olga Ivánovna, and there is no need to order me. I must confess, Vasíly Ivánovitch, somehow, I don't understand you…"

"Thou dost not understand?"

"No, really, I don't understand, sir."

"Wilt thou give me thy word to marry her to-morrow?"

"Why, good gracious, Vasíly Ivánovitch … have n't you yourself repeatedly postponed our marriage? If it had not been for you, it would have taken place long ago. And even now I have no idea of refusing. But what is the meaning of your threats, of your urgent demands?"

Pável Afanásievitch wiped the perspiration from his face.

"Wilt thou give me thy word? Speak! Yes, or no?" – repeated Vasíly with pauses between his words.

"Certainly … I give it, sir, but …"

"Good. Remember… And she has confessed everything."

"Who has confessed?"

"Olga Ivánovna."

"But what has she confessed?"

"Why do you dissimulate with me, Pável Afanásievitch? Surely, I 'm not a stranger to you."

"How am I dissimulating? I don't understand you, I don't understand you, positively I don't understand you. What could Olga Ivánovna confess?"

"What? You bore me! You know well what."

"May God slay me if …"

"No, I will slay thee – if thou dost not marry her … dost understand?"

"What!.." Pável Afanásievitch leaped to his feet, and stood before Vasíly. – "Olga Ivánovna … you say …"

"Thou 'rt clever, my good fellow, very clever, I must admit." Vasíly, with a smile, tapped him on the shoulder. – "In spite of the fact that thou art so mild of aspect …"

"My God, O God!.. You will drive me mad… What do you mean to say? Explain yourself, for God's sake!"

Vasíly bent over him and whispered something in his ear.

Rogatchyóff cried out: – "What?.. how?"

Vasíly stamped his foot.

"Olga Ivánovna? Olga?.."

"Yes … your betrothed bride…"

"My betrothed bride … Vasíly Ivánovitch … she … she … But I will have nothing to do with her!" – shouted Pável Afanásievitch. "I 'll have none of her! What do you take me for? To deceive me – to deceive me!.. Olga Ivánovna, is n't it sinful of you, are n't you ashamed?.." (Tears gushed from his eyes.) – "I thank you, Vasíly Ivánovitch, I thank you… And now I 'll have nothing to do with her! I won't! I won't! don't speak of such a thing!.. Akh, good heavens! – that I should have lived to see this day! But it is well, it is well!"

"Stop behaving like a baby," – remarked Vasíly Ivánovitch, coldly. – "Remember, you have given me your word that the wedding shall take place to-morrow."

"No, that shall not be! Enough, Vasíly Ivánovitch, I say to you once more – for whom do you take me? You do me much honour; many thanks, sir. Excuse me, sir."

"As you like!" – retorted Vasíly. – "Get your sword."

"Why?"

"This is why."

Vasíly drew out his slender, flexible French sword, and bent it slightly against the floor.

"You mean … to fight … with me?.."

"Precisely so."

"But, Vasíly Ivánovitch, pray, enter into my position! How can I – judge for yourself – after what you have told me?.. I am an honest man, Vasíly Ivánovitch; I am a nobleman."

"You are a nobleman, you are an honest man, – then be so good as to fight with me."

"Vasíly Ivánovitch!"

"You appear to be a coward, Mr. Rogatchyóff?"

"I am not in the least a coward, Vasíly Ivánovitch. You have thought to frighten me, Vasíly Ivánovitch. 'Come, now,' you said to yourself, 'I 'll scare him, and he 'll turn cowardly; he will instantly consent to anything.'… No, Vasíly Ivánovitch, I 'm the same sort of nobleman as yourself, although I have not received my education in the capital, it is true; and you will not succeed in terrifying me, excuse me."

"Very good," – retorted Vasíly: – "where is your sword?"

"Eróshka!" – shouted Pável Afanásievitch.

A man entered.

"Get my sword – yonder – thou knowest where it is – in the garret … and be quick about it…"

Eróshka withdrew. Pável Afanásievitch suddenly turned extremely pale, hastily took off his dressing-gown, put on a kaftan of a reddish hue with large strass buttons … wound a neckcloth round his neck… Vasíly watched him, and examined the fingers of his right hand.

"So how is it to be? Are we to fight, Pável Afanásievitch?"

"If we must fight, we must," – returned Rogatchyóff, hastily buttoning his waistcoat.

"Hey, Pável Afanásievitch, heed my advice: marry … why shouldst thou not?.. But I, believe me …"

"No, Vasíly Ivánovitch," – Rogatchyóff interrupted him. "You will either kill me or maim me, I know; but I have no intention of losing my honour; if I must die, I will."

Eróshka entered and hurriedly handed Rogatchyóff a wretched little old sword, in a cracked, leather scabbard. At that time all nobles wore swords when they had powdered hair; but the nobles of the steppes only powdered their hair a couple of times a year. Eróshka retreated to the door, and fell to weeping. Pável Afanásievitch thrust him out of the room.

"But, Vasíly Ivánovitch," – he remarked, with some agitation, – "I cannot fight with you instantly: permit me to defer our duel until to-morrow; my father is not at home; and it would not be a bad thing to put my affairs in order, in case of a catastrophe."

"I see that you are beginning to quail again, my dear sir."

"No, no, Vasíly Ivánovitch; but judge for yourself…"

"Listen!"… shouted Lutchínoff: – "you are driving me out of patience… Either give me your word to marry immediately, or fight … or I will trounce you with a cudgel, like a coward, do you understand?"

"Let us go into the park," – replied Rogatchyóff between his teeth.

But suddenly the door opened, and the old nurse Efímovna, all dishevelled, forced her way into the room, fell on her knees before Rogatchyóff and clasped his feet…

"My dear little father!" – she wailed: – "my child … what is this thou art projecting? Do not ruin us miserable ones, dear little father! For he will kill thee, my dear little dove! But only give us the command, give us the command, and we 'll kill that insolent fellow with our caps… Pável Afanásievitch, my darling child, have the fear of God before thine eyes!"

A multitude of pale and agitated faces showed themselves in the doorway … the red beard of the Elder even made its appearance…

"Let me go, Efímovna, let me go!" – muttered Rogatchyóff.

"I will not let thee go, my own one, I will not let thee go. What art thou doing, dear little father, what art thou doing? And what will Afanásy Lúkitch say? Why, he will drive all of us out of the white world… And why do ye stand there? Seize the unbidden guest by the arms, and lead him forth from the house, that no trace of him may remain…"

"Rogatchyóff!" – shouted Vasíly Ivánovitch, menacingly.

"Thou hast gone crazy, Efímovna, thou art disgracing me,"… said Pável Afanásievitch. – "Go away, go, with God's blessing, and begone, all of you, do you hear? Do you hear?.."

Vasíly Ivánovitch walked swiftly to the open window, drew out a small silver whistle, and whistled lightly… Boursier answered close at hand. Lutchínoff immediately turned to Pável Afanásievitch.

"How is this comedy to end?"

"Vasíly Ivánovitch, I will come to you to-morrow – what am I to do with this crazy woman?.."

"Eh! I see that it is useless to talk long with you," – said Vasíly, and swiftly raised his cane…

Pável Afanásievitch dashed forward, thrust aside Efímovna, seized his sword, and rushed through the other door into the park.

Vasíly darted after him. They both ran to a wooden arbour artfully painted in the Chinese manner, locked themselves in, and bared their swords. Rogatchyóff had once upon a time taken lessons in fencing; but he barely knew how to parry properly. The blades crossed. Vasíly was, evidently, playing with Rogatchyóff's sword. Pável Afanásievitch sighed, turned pale, and gazed with consternation into Lutchínoff's face. In the meanwhile, cries resounded in the park; a throng of people rushed to the arbour. Suddenly Rogatchyóff heard a heart-rending, senile roar … he recognised his father's voice. Afanásy Lúkitch, hatless, and with dishevelled locks, was running in front of all, waving his arms despairingly…

With a powerful and unexpected turn of his blade, Vasíly knocked the sword from Pável Afanásievitch's hand.

"Marry, brother," – he said to him. – "Stop being a fool!"

"I will not marry!" – whispered Rogatchyóff, closed his eyes, and trembled all over.

Afanásy Lúkitch began to pound on the door of the arbour.

"Thou wilt not?" – shouted Vasíly.

Rogatchyóff shook his head in the negative.

"Well, then, the devil take thee!"

Poor Pável Afanásievitch fell dead: Lutchínoff's sword had pierced his heart… The door burst open, old Rogatchyóff rushed into the arbour, but Vasíly had already managed to spring out of the window…

Two hours later, he entered Olga Ivánovna's room… She darted to meet him in affright… He silently bowed to her, drew out his sword, and pierced Pável Afanásievitch's portrait at the place of the heart. Olga shrieked, and fell senseless on the floor… Vasíly directed his steps to Anna Pávlovna. He found her in the room of the holy pictures.

"Mamma," – he said, – "we are avenged."

The poor old woman shuddered and went on praying.

A week later, Vasíly took his departure for Petersburg, – and two years afterward he returned to the country, crippled with paralysis, and speechless. He no longer found either Anna Pávlovna or Olga Ivánovna alive, and soon died himself in the arms of Yúditch, who fed him like a baby, and was the only person who could understand his incoherent babble.

THREE MEETINGS

(1851)

[Pg 148]

[Pg 149]

I

Passa que' colli e vieni allegramente;Non ti curar di tanta compania —Vieni pensando a me segretamente —Ch'io t'accompagna per tutta la via.20

During the whole course of the summer, I had gone a-hunting nowhere so frequently as to the large village of Glínnoe, situated twenty versts from my hamlet. In the environs of this village there are, in all probability, the very best haunts of game in all our county. After having tramped through all the adjacent bush-plots and fields, I invariably, toward the end of the day, turned aside into the neighbouring marsh, almost the only one in the countryside, and thence returned to my cordial host, the Elder of Glínnoe, with whom I always stopped. It is not more than two versts from the marsh to Glínnoe; the entire road runs through a valley, and only midway of the distance is one compelled to cross a small hillock. On the crest of this hillock lies a homestead, consisting of one uninhabited little manor-house and a garden. It almost always happened that I passed it at the very acme of the sunset glow, and I remember, that on every such occasion, this house, with its hermetically-sealed windows, appeared to me like a blind old man who had come forth to warm himself in the sunlight. He is sitting, dear man, close to the highway; the splendour of the sunlight has long since been superseded for him by eternal gloom; but he feels it, at least, on his upturned and outstretched face, on his flushed cheeks. It seemed as though no one had lived in the house itself for a long time; but in a tiny detached wing, in the courtyard, lodged a decrepit man who had received his freedom, tall, stooping, and grey-haired, with expressive and impassive features. He was always sitting on a bench in front of the wing's solitary little window, gazing with sad pensiveness into the distance, and when he caught sight of me, he rose a little way and saluted, with that deliberate gravity which distinguishes old house-serfs who have belonged not to the generation of our fathers, but to our grandfathers. I sometimes entered into conversation with him, but he was not loquacious; all I learned from him was that the farm on which he dwelt belonged to the granddaughter of his old master, a widow, who had a younger sister; that both of them lived in towns, and beyond the sea, and never showed themselves at home; that he was anxious to finish his life as speedily as possible, because "you eat and eat bread so that you get melancholy: so long do you eat." This old man's name was Lukyánitch.

One day, for some reason or other, I tarried long in the fields; a very fair amount of game had presented itself, and the day had turned out fine for hunting – from early morning it had been still and grey, as though thoroughly permeated with evening. I wandered far a-field, and it was not only already completely dark, but the moon had risen and night had long been standing in the sky, as the expression runs, when I reached the familiar farm. I had to pass along the garden… All around lay such tranquillity…

I crossed the broad road, cautiously made my way through the dusty nettles, and leaned against the low, wattled hedge.21 Motionless before me lay the small garden all illuminated and, as it were, soothed to stillness by the silvery rays of the moon, – all fragrant and humid; laid out in ancient fashion, it consisted of a single oblong grass-plot. Straight paths came together exactly in the centre, in a circular flower-bed, thickly overgrown with asters; tall lindens surrounded it in an even border. In one spot only was this border, a couple of fathoms in length, broken, and through the gap a part of the low-roofed house was visible, with two windows lighted, to my amazement. Young apple-trees reared themselves here and there over the meadow; athwart their slender branches the nocturnal sky gleamed softly blue, and the dreamy light of the moon streamed down; in front of each apple-tree, on the whitening grass, lay its faint, mottled shadow. On one side of the garden the lindens were confusedly green, inundated with motionless, palely-brilliant light; on the other, they stood all black and opaque; a strange, repressed rustling arose at times in their dense foliage; they seemed to be calling to the paths which vanished under them, as though luring them beneath their dim canopy. The whole sky was studded with stars; mysteriously did their soft blue scintillations stream down from on high; they seemed to be gazing with quiet intentness at the distant earth. Small, thin clouds now and then sailed across the moon, momentarily converting its tranquil gleam into an obscure but luminous mist… Everything was dreaming. The air, all warm, all perfumed, did not even vibrate; it only shivered now and then, as water shivers when disturbed by a falling branch… One was conscious of a certain thirst, a certain swooning in it… I bent over the fence: a wild scarlet poppy reared its erect little stalk before me from the matted grass; a large, round drop of night dew glittered with a dark gleam in the heart of the open blossom. Everything was dreaming; everything was taking its ease luxuriously round about; everything seemed to be gazing upward, stretching itself out, motionless, expectant… What was it that that warm, not yet sleeping night, was waiting for?

It was waiting for a sound; that sensitive stillness was waiting for a living voice – but everything maintained silence. The nightingales had long since ceased their song … and the sudden booming of a beetle as it flew past, the light smacking of a tiny fish in the fish-pond behind the lindens at the end of the garden, the sleepy whistle of a startled bird, a distant cry in the fields, – so far away that the ear could not distinguish whether it was a man, or a wild animal, or a bird which had uttered it, – a short, brisk trampling of hoofs on the road: all these faint sounds, these rustlings, only rendered the stillness more profound… My heart yearned within me, with an indefinite feeling, akin not precisely to expectation, nor yet to a memory of happiness. I dared not stir; I was standing motionless before this motionless garden steeped in moonlight and in dew, and, without myself knowing why, was staring importunately at those two windows, which shone dimly red in the soft half-darkness, when suddenly a chord rang out of the house, – rang out and rolled forth in a flood… The irritatingly-resonant air thundered back an echo… I gave an involuntary start.

The chord was followed by the sound of a woman's voice… I began to listen eagerly – and … can I express my amazement?.. two years previously, in Italy, at Sorrento, I had heard that selfsame song, that selfsame voice… Yes, yes…

"Vieni pensando a me segretamente …"

It was they; I had recognised them; those were the sounds… This is the way it had happened. I was returning home from a long stroll on the seashore. I was walking swiftly along the street; night had long since descended, – a magnificent night, southern, not calm and sadly-pensive as with us, no! but all radiant, sumptuous, and very beautiful, like a happy woman in her bloom; the moon shone with incredible brilliancy; great, radiant stars fairly throbbed in the dark-blue sky; the black shadows were sharply defined against the ground illuminated to yellowness. On both sides of the street stretched the stone walls of gardens; orange-trees reared above them their crooked branches; the golden globes of heavy fruit, hidden amidst the interlacing leaves, were now barely visible, now glowed brightly, as they ostentatiously displayed themselves in the moonlight. On many trees the blossoms shone tenderly white; the air was all impregnated with fragrance languishingly powerful, penetrating, and almost heavy, although inexpressibly sweet.

I walked on, and, I must confess, – having already become accustomed to all these wonders, – I was thinking only of how I might most speedily reach my inn, when suddenly, from a small pavilion, built upon the very wall of a garden along which I was passing, a woman's voice rang out. It was singing some song with which I was unfamiliar, and in its sounds there was something so winning, it seemed so permeated with the passion and joyous expectation expressed by the words of the song, that I instantly and involuntarily halted, and raised my head. There were two windows in the pavilion; but in both the Venetian blinds were lowered, and through their narrow chinks a dull light barely made its way.

After having repeated "vieni, vieni!" twice, the voice became silent; the faint sound of strings was audible, as though of a guitar which had fallen on the rug; a gown rustled, the floor creaked softly. The streaks of light in one window disappeared… Some one had approached from within and leaned against it. I advanced a couple of paces. Suddenly the blind clattered and flew open; a graceful woman, all in white, swiftly thrust her lovely head from the window, and stretching out her arms toward me, said: "Sei tu?"

I was disconcerted, I did not know what to say; but at that same moment the Unknown threw herself backward with a faint shriek, the blind slammed to, and the light in the pavilion grew still more dim, as though it had been carried out into another room. I remained motionless, and for a long time could not recover myself. The face of the woman who had so suddenly presented itself before me was strikingly beautiful. It had flashed too rapidly before my eyes to permit of my immediately recalling each individual feature; but the general impression was indescribably powerful and profound… I felt then and there that I should never forget that countenance. The moon fell straight on the wall of the pavilion, on the window whence she had shown herself to me, and, great heavens! how magnificently had her great, dark eyes shone in its radiance! In what a heavy flood had her half-loosened black hair fallen upon her uplifted, rounded shoulders! How much bashful tenderness there had been in the soft inclination of her form, how much affection in her voice, when she had called to me – in that hurried, but resonant whisper!

After standing for quite a long time on one spot, I at last stepped a little aside, into the shadow of the opposite wall, and began to stare thence at the pavilion with a sort of stupid surprise and anticipation. I listened … listened with strained attention… It seemed to me now that I heard some one's quiet breathing behind the darkened window, now a rustle and quiet laughter. At last, steps resounded in the distance … they came nearer; a man of almost identical stature with myself made his appearance at the end of the street, briskly strode up to a gate directly beneath the pavilion, which I had not previously noticed, knocked twice with its iron ring, without looking about him, waited a little, knocked again, and began to sing in an undertone: "Ecco ridente."… The gate opened … he slipped noiselessly through it. I started, shook my head, threw my hands apart, and pulling my hat morosely down on my brows, went off home in displeasure. On the following day I vainly paced up and down that street for two hours in the very hottest part of the day, past the pavilion, and that same evening went away from Sorrento without even having visited Tasso's house.

The reader can now picture to himself the amazement which suddenly took possession of me, when I heard that same voice, that same song, in the steppes, in one of the most remote parts of Russia… Now, as then, it was night; now, as then, the voice suddenly rang out from a lighted, unfamiliar room; now, as then, I was alone. My heart began to beat violently within me. "Is not this a dream?" I thought. And lo! again the final "vieni!" rang out… Can it be that the window will open? Can it be that the woman will show herself in it? – The window opened. In the window, a woman showed herself. I instantly recognised her, although a distance of fifty paces lay between us, although a light cloud obscured the moon. It was she, my Unknown of Sorrento.

But she did not stretch forth her bare arms as before: she folded them quietly, and leaning them on the window-sill, began to gaze silently and immovably at some point in the garden. Yes, it was she; those were her never-to-be-forgotten features, her eyes, the like of which I had never beheld. Now, also, an ample white gown enfolded her limbs. She seemed somewhat plumper than in Sorrento. Everything about exhaled an atmosphere of the confidence and repose of love, the triumph of beauty, of calm happiness. For a long time she did not stir, then she cast a glance backward into the room and, suddenly straightening herself up, exclaimed thrice, in a loud and ringing voice: "Addio!" The beautiful sounds were wafted far, far away, and for a long time they quivered, growing fainter and dying out beneath the lindens of the garden and in the fields behind me, and everywhere. Everything around me was filled for several minutes with the voice of this woman, everything rang in response to her, – rang with her. She shut the window, and a few moments later the light in the house vanished.

As soon as I recovered myself – and this was not very soon, I must admit – I immediately directed my course along the garden of the manor, approached the closed gate, and peered through the wattled fence. Nothing out of the ordinary was visible in the courtyard; in one corner, under a shed, stood a calash. Its front half, all bespattered with dried mud, shone out sharply white in the moonlight. The shutters of the house were closed, as before.