Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – The Diary of a Superfluous Man – Contents
< < < March 29. A light frost; last night there was a thaw.
March 31. > > >
March 30. A frost.
So, then, I entered Kiríla Matvyéevitch’s study. I would give a good deal to any one who could have shown me my own face at the moment when that worthy official, hastily wrapping his Bukhará dressing-gown round him, stepped forward to meet me with outstretched hands. I must have fairly radiated an atmosphere of modest triumph, patronising sympathy, and limitless magnanimity…. I felt that I was something in the nature of Scipio Africanus. Ozhógin was visibly embarrassed and depressed, avoided my eye, and shifted from foot to foot where he stood. I also noticed that he talked in an unnaturally-loud manner, and altogether expressed himself very indefinitely;—indefinitely, but with fervour, did he beg my pardon, indefinitely alluded to the departed visitor, added a few general and indefinite remarks about the deceitfulness and instability of earthly blessings, and suddenly, becoming conscious of a tear in his eye, he hastened to take a pinch of snuff, probably with the object of deluding me as to the cause which was making him weep…. He used green Russian snuff, and every one knows that that plant makes even old men shed tears, athwart which the human eye peers forth dimly and senselessly for the space of several minutes.
As a matter of course I treated the old man very cautiously, inquired after the health of his wife and daughter, and at once turned the conversation artfully on the interesting question of rotation of crops. I was dressed as usual; but the feeling of soft decorum and gentle condescension which filled my breast, afforded me a festive and fresh sensation, as though I were wearing a white waistcoat and a white neckcloth. One thing disturbed me: the thought of meeting Liza again…. At last Ozhógin himself proposed to conduct me to his wife. That good, but stupid woman, on beholding me, at first became frightfully embarrassed; but her brain was incapable of preserving one and the same impression for long together, and therefore she speedily recovered her equanimity. At last I saw Liza…. She entered the room….
I had expected that I should find in her an abashed, penitent sinner, and had already in advance imparted to my face the most cordial and encouraging expression…. Why should I lie? I really loved her and thirsted for the happiness of forgiving her, of putting out my hand to her; but, to my unspeakable amazement, in reply to my significant bow, she laughed coldly, remarked carelessly: “Ah? so it ‘s you?” and immediately turned away from me. Her laugh appeared to me forced, it is true, and, in any case, was ill-suited to her dreadfully emaciated face…. But, nevertheless, I had not expected such a reception…. I stared at her in astonishment…. What a change had taken place in her! Between the former child and this woman there was nothing in common. She seemed to have grown taller, to have drawn herself up straighter; all her features, especially her lips, seemed to have acquired a more defined outline …. her gaze had become more profound, more firm, and dark. I sat with the Ozhógins until dinner; she rose, left the room and returned to it, calmly replied to questions, and deliberately took no heed of me. I could see that she wished to make me feel that I was not worthy even of her anger, although I had come near killing her lover. At last I lost patience: a malicious hint broke from my lips…. She shuddered, darted a swift glance at me, rose, and, walking to the window, said in a voice which trembled slightly: “You can say anything you like, but you must know that I love that man and shall always love him, and do not consider him to blame toward me in the slightest degree, on the contrary ….” Her voice broke with a tinkle, she paused …. tried to control herself, but could not, and burst into tears and left the room…. The elder Ozhógins grew confused…. I shook hands with both of them, sighed, cast a glance upward, and went away.
I am too weak, there is too little time left to me, I am not in a condition to describe with my former minuteness this new series of torturing meditations, firm intentions, and other fruits of the so-called inward conflict, which started up in me after the renewal of my acquaintance with the Ozhógins. I did not doubt that Liza still loved and would long love the Prince …. but, being a man tamed now by circumstances and who had resigned himself to his fate, I did not even dream of her love: I merely desired her friendship, I wanted to win her confidence, her respect, which, according to the assertions of experienced persons, is regarded as the most trustworthy foundation for happiness in marriage….. Unhappily, I had lost sight of one rather important circumstance—namely, that Liza had hated me ever since the day of the duel. I learned this too late.
I began to frequent the Ozhógins’ house as of yore. Kiríla Matvyéevitch was more cordial to me and petted me more than ever. I even have cause to think that at the time he would have gladly given me his daughter, although I was not an enviable match: public opinion condemned him and Liza, and, on the other hand, extolled me to the skies. Liza’s treatment of me did not change: she maintained silence most of the time, obeyed when she was bidden to eat, displayed no outward signs of grief, but, nevertheless, she wasted away like a candle. I must do justice to Kiríla Matvyéevitch: he spared her in every possible way; old Madame Ozhógin merely bristled up as she looked at her poor child. There was only one man whom Liza did not avoid, although she did not talk much to him, namely, Bizmyónkoff. The old Ozhógins treated him sternly, even roughly; they could not pardon him for having acted as second; but he continued to come to their house, as though he did not notice their disfavour. With me he was very cold, and,—strange to say!—I felt afraid of him, as it were. This state of things lasted for about a fortnight. At last, after a sleepless night, I made up my mind to have an explanation with Liza, to lay bare my heart before her; to tell her that, notwithstanding the past, notwithstanding all sorts of rumours and gossip, I should regard myself as too happy if she would favour me with her hand, would restore to me her trust. I really, without jesting, imagined that I was exhibiting, as the compendiums of literature put it, an unprecedented example of magnanimity, and that she would give her consent out of sheer amazement. In any case, I wanted to clear up the situation with her, and escape, definitively, from my state of uncertainty.
Behind the Ozhógins’ house lay a fairly spacious garden, terminating in a linden coppice, neglected and overgrown. In the middle of this coppice rose an old arbour in the Chinese style; a board fence separated the garden from a blind-alley. Liza sometimes strolled for hours at a time alone in this garden. Kiríla Matvyéevitch knew this and had given orders that she was not to be disturbed, and kept a watch over her: “Let her grief wear itself out,” he said. When she was not to be found in the house, it was only necessary to ring a small bell on the porch at dinner-time, and she immediately presented herself, with the same obdurate taciturnity on her lips and in her gaze, and some sort of crumpled leaf in her hand. So, one day, observing that she was not in the house, I pretended that I was making ready to depart, took leave of Kiríla Matvyéevitch, put on my hat, and emerged from the anteroom into the courtyard, and from the courtyard into the street, but instantly, with extraordinary swiftness, slipped back through the gate and made my way past the kitchen into the garden. Luckily, no one espied me. Without pausing long to think, I entered the grove with hasty steps. Before me, on the path, stood Liza. My heart began to beat violently in my breast. I stopped short, heaved a deep sigh, and was on the point of approaching her, when all of a sudden, without turning round, she raised her hand and began to listen…. From behind the trees, in the direction of the blind-alley, two knocks rang out clearly, as though some one were tapping on the fence. Liza clapped her hands, a faint squeaking of the wicket-gate became audible, and Bizmyónkoff emerged from the coppice. I promptly hid myself behind a tree. Liza turned silently toward him…. Silently he drew her arm through his, and both walked softly along the path. I stared after them in astonishment. They halted, looked about them, disappeared behind the bushes, appeared again, and finally entered the arbour. This arbour was circular in shape, a tiny little building, with one door and one small window; in the centre was to be seen an old table with a single leg, overgrown with fine green moss; two faded little plank divans stood at the sides, at some distance from the damp and dark-hued walls. Here, on unusually hot days, and that once a year, and in former times, they had been in the habit of drinking tea. The door would not shut at all; the frame had long ago fallen out of the window and, catching by one corner, dangled mournfully, like the wounded wing of a bird. I stole up to the arbour and cautiously glanced through a crack of the window. Liza was sitting on one of the little divans, with drooping head; her right hand lay on her lap; Bizmyónkoff was holding the left in both his hands. He was gazing at her with sympathy.
“How do you feel to-day?”—he asked her, in a low voice.
“Just the same!”—she replied;—”neither better nor worse.—Emptiness, frightful emptiness!”—she added, dejectedly raising her eyes.
Bizmyónkoff made no reply.
“What think you,” she went on;—”will he write to me again?”
“I think not, Lizavéta Kiríllovna!”
She remained silent for a while.
“And, in fact, what is there for him to write about? He told me everything in his first letter. I could not be his wife; but I was happy … not for long…. I was happy….”
Bizmyónkoff lowered his eyes.
“Akh,”—she went on with animation;—”if you only knew how loathsome that Tchulkatúrin is to me!… It always seems to me that I can see ….. his blood … on that man’s hands.” (I writhed behind my crack.) “However,”—she added thoughtfully;—”who knows,—perhaps had it not been for that duel …. Akh, when I beheld him wounded, I immediately felt that I was all his.”
“Tchulkatúrin loves you,”—remarked Bizmyónkoff.
“What do I care for that? Do I need any one’s love?…” She paused, and added slowly: … “except yours. Yes, my friend, your love is indispensable to me: without you I should have perished. You have helped me to endure terrible moments….”
She ceased…. Bizmyónkoff began to stroke her hand with paternal tenderness. “There ‘s no help for it, there ‘s no help for it, Lizavéta Kiríllovna,”—he repeated, several times in succession.
“Yes, and now,”—she said dully,—”I think I should die if it were not for you. You alone sustain me; moreover, you remind me …. For you know everything. Do you remember how handsome he was that day?…. But forgive me: it must be painful for you….”
“Speak, speak! What do you mean? God bless you!”—Bizmyónkoff interrupted her. She squeezed his hand.
“You are very kind, Bizmyónkoff,”—she went on:—”you are as kind as an angel. What am I to do? I feel that I shall love him until I die. I have forgiven him, I am grateful to him. May God grant 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 now and then recall his Liza to mind. Let us go out,”—she added, after a brief pause.
Bizmyónkoff raised her hand to his lips.
“I know,”—she began with warmth,—”every one is blaming me, every one is casting stones at me now. Let them! All the same, I would not exchange my unhappiness for their happiness … no! no!… He did not love me long, but he did love me! He never deceived me: he did not tell me that I was to be his wife; I myself never thought of such a thing. Only poor papa hoped for that. And now I am still not utterly unhappy: there remains to me the memory, and however terrible the consequences may be …. I am stifling here …. it was here that I saw him for the last time…. Let us go out into the air.”
They rose. I barely managed to leap aside and hide behind a thick linden. They came out of the arbour and, so far as I was able to judge from the sound of their footsteps, went off into the grove. I do not know how long I had been standing there, without stirring from the spot, absorbed in a sort of irrational surprise, when suddenly the sound of footsteps became audible again. I started and peered cautiously from my ambush. Bizmyónkoff and Liza were returning by the same path. Both were greatly agitated, especially Bizmyónkoff. He had been weeping, apparently. Liza halted, gazed at him, and uttered the following words distinctly: “I consent, Bizmyónkoff. I would not have consented, had you merely wished to save me, to extricate me from a frightful position; but you love me, you know all—and you love me; I shall never find a more trustworthy, faithful friend. I will be your wife.”
Bizmyónkoff kissed her hand; she smiled sadly at him, and went to the house. Bizmyónkoff dashed into the thicket, and I went my way. As Bizmyónkoff had probably said to Liza precisely what I had intended to say to her, and as she had given him precisely the answer which I had hoped to hear from her, there was no necessity for my troubling myself further. A fortnight later she married him. The old Ozhógins were glad to get any bridegroom.
Well, tell me now, am not I a superfluous man? Did not I play in the whole of that affair the part of a superfluous man? The rôle of the Prince …. as to that, there is nothing to be said; the rôle of Bizmyónkoff also is comprehensible …. But I? Why was I mixed up in it?… what a stupid, fifth wheel to the cart I was!… Akh, ‘t is bitter, bitter!… So now, as the stevedores on the Volga say: “Heave-ho! heave-ho!”[15]—one more little day, then another, and nothing will be either bitter or sweet to me any more.
< < < March 29. A light frost; last night there was a thaw.
March 31. > > >
Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – The Diary of a Superfluous Man – Contents
Copyright holders – Public Domain Book
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