THE DIARY OF A 
 SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES
 
 THE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 IVAN TURGENIEFF 
 
 THE DIARY 
 OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 FATHERS AND CHILDREN 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BT 
 
 ISABEL F. HAPGOOD 
 
 PRINTED BT ARRANGEMENT WITH 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 WILLEY BOOK COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK
 
 COPTHIGHT, 1904, BT 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAttB 
 
 THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN . . 1 
 THREE PORTRAITS .... 93 
 
 THREE MEETINGS 147 
 
 MUMU 201 
 
 THE INN .255
 
 THE DIARY 
 OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 (1850)
 
 THE DIARY 
 OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 Hamlet of Ovetchi-Vody,* 
 March 20, 18 . 
 
 THE doctor has just left me. At last I 
 have obtained a categorical answer 1 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 per- 
 haps a fortnight before one's death? Where 's 
 the harm? And in what waj^ 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 specu- 
 lation, I think: that is a bad sign — am not I be- 
 ginning 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 
 
 ^ Sheep's- Waters or Springs. — Translator. 
 
 3
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 about his maladies; composing a novel, or some- 
 thing of that sort, is not in mj- 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 of- 
 fend 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. 
 Onlv, 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 fift}' 
 years of her hfe, she never once rested, never 
 folded her hands ; she was eternally bustling and 
 fussing about, like an ant — and without any re- 
 sult '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-mo- 
 tionless 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 con- 
 
 4
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 sciousness of life, from the importunate and un- 
 easy sense of existence! But that is not the 
 point. 
 
 I grew up badly, and not cheerfully. Both 
 my father and my motlier 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 affec- 
 tionate and discreet mien, by his submissive hu- 
 mility, to win the indulgence of his exemplary 
 wife. Mj^ mamma, in fact, bore her misfortune 
 with that magnificent and ostentatious long-suf- 
 fering of virtue which contains so much of self- 
 satisfied pride. She never reproached my fa- 
 ther 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 con- 
 taminating 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 
 
 5
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 with mv handkercliief, and thev flowed afirain, 
 without eiFort, hke the water in an overfilled 
 glass. I set to crying myself, and he soothed me, 
 patted my hack with his hand, kissed me all over 
 my face with his quivering lips. Even now, 
 more than twenty j^ears 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 begin- 
 ning, 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, drip- 
 ping; the sparrows are screaming like mad crea- 
 tures around the dark, sweating hedges; the 
 damp air irritates my chest sweetly but fright- 
 
 6
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 fully. 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 ruf- 
 fle 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 v/ent 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, crip- 
 pled by fate, who was fruitlessly consumed by an 
 anguished longing for his native land. My man- 
 nurse, Vasily, nicknamed " The Goose," would 
 
 7
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 sit, unshaved, in his everlasting old coat of blue 
 frieze, beside the stove in the frightfully sti- 
 fling atmosphere of the close anteroom, impreg- 
 nated through and through with the sour odour 
 of old kvas,— would sit and play cards with the 
 coachman, Potap, who had just got a new shee^D- 
 skin 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 bekiimmert dich so sehr? 
 'S ist ja schon im fremden Lande — 
 Herz, mein Herz, was willst du mehr? " 
 
 After my father's death, we definitively re- 
 moved 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 soundty, 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, Alexyei ^likhailitch 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 rat- 
 tling in his throat most painfully. The servants, 
 
 8
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 with frightened faces, throng the doors; in the 
 anteroom some one inquires in a hoarse voice: 
 *' Has the doctor been sent for? " In the court- 
 yard, 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, over- 
 whelmed, 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 — unbear- 
 able 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 fore- 
 boding 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, occa- 
 sionally 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 
 
 9
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 do something ; and my mother, meanwhile, slowty 
 made reverences to the floor, slowly raised her- 
 self and, as she crossed herself, pressed her fin- 
 gers 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 INIoscow, 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 Novgorod apples ; there, 
 in conclusion, I for the first time beheld through 
 the bushes of ripe ras])berries, 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 
 
 10
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 dumb. But one day, on the Bright Sunday,* 
 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 j)ond ! Oh, unhappy little spot beneath 
 the decrepit dam, where I used to catch min- 
 nows and gudgeons! And you, ye lofty birch- 
 trees, with long, pendulous branches, from 
 behind which, from the country road, the mel- 
 ancholy 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 fresh- 
 ness 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 famil- 
 
 ^ Easter. — Translator. 
 11
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 lar ravine; once more to follow with my eyes the 
 movin^J- 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 wea- 
 ther is far more suitable. It is in accord with 
 my work. Yesterday quite unseasonabh'' evoked 
 in me a midtitude of unnecessary feelings and 
 memories. That will not be repeated. Emo- 
 tional effusions are like liquorice-root: when j'^ou 
 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 INIoscow. . . . 
 
 But it just occurs to me: is it really worth 
 while to tell the story of ray life? 
 
 Xo, decidedly it is not worth while. . . . My 
 life is in no way diiferent from the lives of a 
 mass of other people. The parental home, the 
 university, service in inferior positions, retire- 
 ment, a small circle of acquaintances, down- 
 right poverty, modest pleasures, humble occupa- 
 tions, 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, be- 
 
 12
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 cause I am writing for my own pleasure; and if 
 my past presents even to me nothing very cheer- 
 ful, nor even very sorrowful, tliat means that 
 there really can be nothing in it worthy of atten- 
 tion. I had better try to analyse my own char- 
 acter 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 im- 
 portant question, and having, moreover, no need 
 to express myself bitterly on my own score, as do 
 people who are strongly convinced of their mer- 
 its, I must confess one thing: I have been an 
 utterly superfluous man in this world, or, if you 
 like to put it that wa}^ 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, Terentievna, 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. 
 
 13
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 ]March 23. 
 Winter again. The snow is falling in large 
 flakes. 
 
 Snperfluous, sn^Jerfluous. . . . That 's a capi- 
 tal word I have devised. The more deeply I 
 penetrate into myself, the more attentively I 
 scrntinise 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, agree- 
 able, 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 " super- 
 fluous " 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.^ I 
 speak of myself now calmly, without any gall. 
 . . . . 'T is a thing of the past! During the 
 whole course of mv life I have constantly found 
 
 1 A decidedly vulgar pun in the original. — Translator. 
 
 14
 
 A SUPEKi LLOUS MAN 
 
 my place occupied, possibly because I sought 
 my place in the wrong direction. I was sus- 
 picious, bashful, irritable, like all invalids; more- 
 over, 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 as- 
 sumed the aspect of anguished tension: I not 
 only seemed, but I actually became unnatural and 
 aiFected. I was conscious of it myself and made 
 haste to retire again into myself. Then a fright- 
 ful 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 dejec- 
 tion, and then began the same thing all over 
 again; in a word, I ran round like a squirrel in 
 a wheel. Whole daj^s passed in this torturing, 
 fruitless toil. Come now, tell me, pray, to whom 
 and for what is such a man of use? Why did 
 
 15
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 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 ]Mos- 
 cow in the dihgence. The road was good, but 
 the postihon had hitclied an extra trace-horse to 
 the four-span. This unhappy, fifth, wholly un- 
 necessary 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 shajDc 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 suc- 
 cession with his whip across its gaunt back and 
 under its pufFed-out belly — and said, not with- 
 out 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 men- 
 tion a thousand details, daily occurrences and in- 
 cidents, which, moreover, in the eyes of every 
 thoughtful man might serve as incontrovertible 
 proofs in my favour— that is to say. in favour 
 
 16
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 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 ejacu- 
 lated: "Ah! how do you do, Tchulkaturin ! " 
 ( Fate had favoured me with that name ^ ) or, 
 "Ah! so here 's Tchulkaturin ! " 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 ordinarj'- 
 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, 
 
 ^ Derived from tchuldk, stocking.— Translator. 
 
 17
 
 THE DIAKY OF 
 
 and so simply, so freely. ..." What a calam- 
 ity! ! " you tliink. 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 ex- 
 perts at holding our tongues; our w^omen 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 de- 
 clivity. 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 un- 
 hewn limestone crop out whitely here and there, 
 in consequence of which, even the peasant-carts 
 drive around it ; in the very centre of an astonish- 
 ingly untidy square rises a tiny yellowish struc- 
 ture with dark holes, and in the holes sit men in 
 
 18
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 large caps with visors, and pretend to be en- 
 gaged 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 author- 
 ities, a load of yellow hay is kept, and one gov- 
 ernmental 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 su- 
 perfluous 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 objec- 
 tions to happiness, I liave 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 my- 
 self in the town of O*** on business connected 
 with the Government service. . . . 
 
 Terentievna is absolutely determined to kill 
 me. Here is a specimen of our conversation : 
 
 Terentievna. O-okh, dear little father! why 
 do you keep writing? It is n't healthy for you 
 to write. 
 
 I. But I 'm bored, Terentievna. 
 
 She. But do drink some tea and lie down. 
 
 I. But I don't feel sleepy. 
 
 She. Akh, dear little father! Why do you 
 sav that? The Lord be with vou! Lie down 
 now, lie down : it 's better for you. 
 
 19
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 I. I shall die anyway, Terentievna. 
 
 She. The Lord forbid and have mercy! . . . 
 Well, now, do you order me to make tea? 
 
 I. I shall not survive this week, Terentievna. 
 
 She. li-i, dear little father! Why do you 
 say that? ... So I '11 go and prepare the sam- 
 ovar. 
 
 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 busi- 
 ness caused me to call on a certain Ozhogin, KiriU 
 jNIatweevitch, 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 jNIoscow. It is possible to 
 deduce from these lions alone that Ozhogin was 
 an opulent man. And, in fact, he owned four 
 hundred souls of serfs ; ^ he received at his house 
 the best society of the town of O***, and bore 
 the reputation of being a hospitable man. The 
 
 ^ Meaning male serfs. The women and children were not 
 reckoned. — Tuansi^vtor. 
 
 20
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 chief of police came to him, in a broad carroty- 
 hiied drozhky drawn by a pair of horses — a re- 
 markably 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 Tatar face; the 
 officer of Waj^s 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 wuth straps, 
 and that extremely noble expression of counte- 
 nance which is so characteristic of people who 
 have been under trial by the courts. He was 
 visited also by two landed proprietors, insep- 
 arable friends, both no longer young, and even 
 threadbare with age, the younger of wdiom was 
 constantly squelching the elder, and shutting his 
 mouth with one and the same reproach: " Come, 
 that will do, Sergyei Sergyeitch! What do you 
 know about it? For you write the word prohka 
 [cork] with the letter h. . . . Yes, gentlemen," 
 — he was wont to continue, with all the heat of 
 conviction, addressing those present: — " Ser- 
 gyei Sergyeitch writes not prohka, but hrohka" 
 And all present laughed, although, probably, 
 not one of them w^as particularly distinguished 
 for his skill in orthography; and the unhappy 
 Sergyei Sergyeitch held his peace, and bowed 
 his head with a pacific smile. But I am forget- 
 ting that my days are numbered, and am entering 
 
 21
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 into too gr^rat detail. So then, without further 
 circumlocution: Ozhogin was married and had 
 a dau<i'hter, Elizaveta Kirillovna, and I fell in 
 love with that daughter. 
 
 Ozhogin himself was a commonplace man, nei- 
 ther 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 
 briglit grey eyes gazed good-naturedly, and in 
 a straightforward manner from beneath child- 
 ishlv-arched brows; she smiled almost constantly, 
 and laughed also quite frequently. Pier fresh 
 voice had a very pleasant ring; she moved easih'', 
 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 acquain- 
 tance. I have not known how to behave to 
 women at all, and in tlieir presence I either 
 frowned and assumed a fierce expression, or dis- 
 played my teeth in a grin in the stupidest way, 
 and twisted my tongue about in my mouth with 
 embarrassment. With Elizaveta Kirillovna, on 
 the contrary, I felt myself at home from the very 
 first moment. This is how it came about. One 
 
 22
 
 A SUrERlLUOUS MAN 
 
 (lav I arrive at O/hcWin's before dinner, and 
 ask: " Is he at home? " 1 am told: " Yes, and he 
 is dressing; please come into the hall." ^ 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, neverthe- 
 less, 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 customarj^ in such circum- 
 stances, 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 agree- 
 able 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? " 
 
 1 The large music-room, also used for dancing, as a play-room for the 
 children in winter, and so forth, in Russian houses.— Translator. 
 
 23
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 " I prefer canary-birds," — I replied, not with- 
 out 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 Popka." 
 
 I went up, and bent over. 
 
 " 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 httle, in order 
 to look at me with her bright ej^es. I gazed at 
 her: the whole of her rosy young face was smil- 
 ing in so friendly a manner that I smiled also, 
 and almost laughed aloud with pleasure. The 
 door opened; ]Mr. Ozhogin entered. I imme- 
 diately 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, 
 Ozhogin'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 rela- 
 tions and habits, — that was a liappiness 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 tliat coni])arison were not so threadbare, I 
 
 ?1.
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 would decide to say that, from that hour, I began 
 to blossom out in spirit. Everji:hing in me and 
 round about me underwent such an instantaneous 
 change! jNIy whole life was illuminated by love, 
 — literally my wliole life, down to the smallest de- 
 tails, — like a dark, deserted chamber into which 
 a candle has been brought, I lay down to sleep 
 and I rose up, di'essed 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 
 Elizaveta Kirillovna had inspired me; and from 
 the very first day, I fell in love with her passion- 
 ately, and from the very first daj^ too, I knew that 
 I was in love. I saw her every day for the space 
 of three weeks. Those three weeks were the hap- 
 piest 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, per- 
 meates his whole being; he is swallowed up in 
 it; the consciousness of individuality vanishes in 
 him — he is in a state of bhss, as badly educated 
 poets say. But when, at last, that " spell " passes 
 
 25
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 off, a man sometimes feels vexed and regretful 
 that, in the midst of happiness, he was so unob- 
 servant 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, no- 
 thing 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 im- 
 placably 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 IMadame Ozhogin, Liza, I, 
 
 2G
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 and a certain BizmyonkofF, 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. Ozhogin remained at 
 home: his head ached, in consequence of his hav- 
 ing slept too long. The day was splendid, warm, 
 and calm. I must remark that gardens of enter- 
 tainment and jjublic 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, grunt- 
 ing, 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 mer- 
 chants, and sometimes the officials, will gladly go 
 thither on Sundays and feast-days, with their 
 samovar, 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 w^ent thither after dinner, 
 drank tea in due form, and then all four of us 
 set off for a stroll through the grove. Bizmyon- 
 koff gave his arm to old Madame Ozhogin ; I gave 
 mine to Liza. The day was already inclining 
 
 27
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 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 con- 
 dition of passionate and attentive adoration, 
 when your whole soul innocently and involun- 
 tarily follows every motion of the beloved being; 
 when you cannot satiate yourself with its pres- 
 ence, 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. JNI}' head reeled with excess of pleasure. 
 I hasten to remark that I^iza 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 
 
 28
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 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 even- 
 ing, and chatted very little. I held my peace, like 
 all inexperienced lovers, and she, in all proba- 
 bility, had nothing to say to me; but she seemed 
 to be meditating about something, and shook her 
 head in a queei 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 even- 
 ing, we had read together " The Prisoner of the 
 Caucasus." ^ With what eagerness had she lis- 
 tened 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, be- 
 gan to sing loudly some song, then suddenly 
 ceased. The grove ended on one side in a rather 
 
 1 By M. Y. Ldrmontoff. 
 
 29
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 steep and lofty cliff; below flowed a small, mean- 
 dering river, and beyond it, further than the eye 
 could see, stretched endless meadows, now swell- 
 ing 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; BizmyonkofF remained 
 behind with the old lady. We came out, halted, 
 and both of us involuntarily narrowed our ej'^es: 
 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 shad}" 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. Thej'^ say that the colour red 
 appeared to one blind man like the sound of 
 a trumj)et; I do not know to M'hat 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 re- 
 flected in her eyes in tiny, flaming spots. She 
 was startled, profoundly moved. She made no 
 
 30
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 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. . . . BizmyonkofF'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 mean- 
 while, 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. 
 
 " Lizaveta Kirillovna," — I said at last, — 
 " why did you weep? " 
 
 " I don't know,"— she answered after a brief 
 
 31
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 pause, looking at me witli her gentle eyes, still 
 wet with tears, — their glance seemed to me to 
 have undergone a change, — and again fell silent. 
 
 " I see that vou love nature . ..." I went 
 on.— That was not in the least what I had 
 meant to say, and my tongue hardly stam- 
 mered 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 con- 
 fession — no, indeed! I was waiting for a confid- 
 ing glance, a question. . . . But Liza stared at 
 the ground and held her peace. I repeated once 
 more, in an undertone: " AVhv? " 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 sud- 
 denly began to talk, incessantly addressing my- 
 self now to Bizmvonkoff, now to ^Madame Ozho- 
 gin. I did not look at Liza, but I could not 
 avoid perceiving that from the corner of the car- 
 riage 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 — 
 tliat break of which I have spoken — had been ef- 
 fected 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. 
 
 32
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 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 exactlj^ a suspicion, that had arisen within 
 me vanished: I ascribed the sudden constraint 
 in Liza's behaviour toward me to maidenly mod- 
 esty, to timidity. . . . Had not I read a thou- 
 sand times in many comjjositions, 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, mv 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 th}^ 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?" — Lentil to-morrow. 
 
 IMarch 25. A white winter dav. 
 
 I HAVE read over what I wrote yesterday, and 
 came near tearing up the whole note-book. It 
 seems to me that vi\\ style of narrative is too pro- 
 tracted and too mawkish. However, as my re- 
 maining memories of that period present no- 
 thing cheerful, save the joy of that peculiar 
 
 33
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 nature which Lerniontoff had in view when he 
 said that it is a cheerful and a painful thinf^ 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 fa- 
 vourable possible light for myself. . . . The mis- 
 fortune 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 tlioughts and observa- 
 tions 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 peri5lexit3% she felt her- 
 self embarrassed in my presence, she turned away 
 from me involuntarily, and at the same time 
 grew sad and pensive. . . . She was expecting 
 . . . . what? She hferself did not know .... 
 but I .... I, as I have already said, rejoiced 
 
 34
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 at that crisis. ... As God is my witness, I al- 
 most 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 dur- 
 ing 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 
 malad}' 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, 
 M^hat is the cause, what is the significance of every 
 separate sensation? 
 
 3,5
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 But, be that as it may, all these misunderstand- 
 ings, 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. Ozhogin's anteroom, an unfamiliar, ring- 
 ing 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 h'ing on 
 the bench, took an affectionate leave of Kirill 
 ]Matvyeevitch, touched his cap negligently as he 
 passed me — and vanished, clinking his spurs. 
 
 " Who is that? "—I asked Ozhogin. 
 
 " Prince N***," — replied the latter, with a 
 troubled face;—" he has been sent from Peters- 
 burg 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 j^esterday evening. I of- 
 fered 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 \^ou? " 
 
 " About an hour. He asked me to introduce 
 him to Olympiada Nikitichna." 
 
 " And did vou introduce him? " 
 
 36
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And did he make acquaintance with Lizaveta 
 Kirillovna? . . . ." 
 
 " Yes, he made her acquaintance, of course." 
 
 I said nothing for a while. 
 
 " Has he come to remain long, do j'^ou know? " 
 
 " Yes, I think he will be obliged to stay here 
 more than a fortnight." 
 
 And Kirill JNIatvyeevitch ran oiF to dress. 
 
 I paced up and down the hall several times. I 
 do not remember that Prince N***'s arrival pro- 
 duced any special impression on me at the time, 
 except that unpleasant sensation which usually 
 takes possession of us at the appearance of a new 
 face in our domestic circle. Perhaps that feeling 
 was mingled with something in the nature of 
 envy of the timid and obscure Moscow man for 
 the brilliant officer from Petersburg. — " The 
 Prince," — I thought, — " is a dandy of the capi- 
 tal; he will look down on us." ... I had not seen 
 him for more than a minute, but I had managed 
 to note that he was handsome, alert, and easy- 
 mannered. 
 
 After pacing the hall for a while, I came to 
 a halt, at last, in front of a mirror, pulled from 
 my pocket a tiny comb, imparted to my hair a 
 picturesque disorder and, as sometimes happens, 
 suddenly became engrossed in the contemplation 
 of my own visage. I remember that my attention 
 was concentrated with particular solicitude on 
 
 37
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 mv nose; the rather flabby and undefined out- 
 line of that feature was affording me no special 
 gratification — when, all of a sudden, in the dark 
 depths of the inclined glass, which reflected al- 
 most the entire room, the door opened, and the 
 graceful figure of Liza made its aiDpearance. I 
 do not know why I did not stir and kept the 
 same expression on my face. Liza craned her 
 head forward, gazed attentively at me and, ele- 
 vating her eyebrows, biting her lips, and holding 
 her breath, like a person who is delighted that he 
 has not been seen, cautiously retreated, and softly 
 drew the door to after her. The door creaked 
 faintly. Liza shuddered, and stood stock-still on 
 the spot. ... I did not move. . . . Again she 
 pulled at the door-handle, and disappeared. 
 There was no possibility of doubt : the expression 
 of Liza's face at the sight of my person denoted 
 nothing except a desire to beat a successful re- 
 treat, to avoid an unpleasant meeting; the swift 
 gleam of pleasure which I succeeded in detecting 
 in her eyes, when she thought that she really had 
 succeeded in escaping unperceived, — all that said 
 but too clearly: that young girl was not in love 
 with me. For a long, long time I could not with- 
 draw my gaze from the motionless, dumb door, 
 which again presented itself as a white spot in 
 the depths of the mirror; I tried to smile at my 
 own upright figure — hung my head, returned 
 home, and flung myself on the divan. I felt re- 
 
 38
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 markably heavy at heart, so heavy that I could 
 not weep .... and wliat was there to weep 
 about? . . . . " Can it be?" — I kept reiterating 
 incessantly, as I lay, like a dead man, on my back, 
 and with my hands folded on my breast: — " Can 
 it be? " . . . . How do you like that " Can it 
 be?" 
 
 March 26. A thaw. 
 When, on the following day, after long hesi- 
 tation and inward quailing, I entered the famil- 
 iar drawing-room of the Ozhogins', 1 was no 
 longer the same man whom they had known for 
 the space of three weeks. All my former habits, 
 from ^^'hich I had begun to wean myself under 
 the influence of an emotion which was new to me, 
 had suddenly made their appearance again, and 
 taken entire possession of me like the owners re- 
 turning to their house. 
 
 People like myself are generally guided not 
 so much by positive facts, as by their own im- 
 pressions; I, Mdio, no longer ago than the pre- 
 vious evening, had been dreaming of " the rap- 
 tures of mutual love," to-day cherished not the 
 slightest doubt as to my own " unhappiness," and 
 was in utter despair, although I myself was not 
 able to discover any reasonable pretext for my 
 despair. I could not be jealous of Prince N***, 
 and whatever merits he might possess, his mere ar- 
 rival was not sufficient instantly to extirpate 
 
 39
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 Liza's inclination for me. . . . But stay! — did 
 that inclination exist? I recalled the past. " And 
 the stroll in the forest? " I asked myself. " And 
 the expression of her face in the mirror? " — 
 " But," I went on, — " the stroll in the forest, ap- 
 parently. . . . Phew, good heavens! What an 
 insignificant being I am! " I exclaimed aloud, at 
 last. This is a specimen of the half -expressed, 
 half-thought ideas which, returning a thousand 
 times, revolved in a monotonous whirlwind in mv 
 Iiead. I repeat, — I returned to the Ozhogins' the 
 same mistrustful, suspicious, constrained person 
 that I had been from my childhood. . . . 
 
 I found the whole family in the drawing-room ; 
 BizmyonkofF was sitting there also, in one corner. 
 All appeared to be in high spirits: Ozhogin, in 
 particular, was fairly beaming, and his first 
 words Mere to communicate to me that Prince 
 X*** had spent the whole of the preceding even- 
 ing witli them. — " Well," I said to myself, " now 
 I understand why you are in such good humour." 
 I must confess that the Prince's second call puz- 
 zled me. I had not expected that. Generally 
 speaking, people like me expect everything in 
 the world except that which ought to happen in 
 the ordinary run of things. I sulked and as- 
 sumed the aspect of a wounded, but magnani- 
 mous man; I wanted to punish Liza for her un- 
 graciousness; from which, moreover, it must be 
 concluded, that, nevertheless, I was not yet in 
 
 40
 
 A SUPERFT.UOUS MAN 
 
 utter despair. They say, in some cases ^vhen you 
 are really beloved, it is even advantageous to 
 torture the adored object; but in my position, 
 it was unutterably stupid. liiza, in the most in- 
 nocent manner, paid no attention whatever to me. 
 Only old ]Madame Ozhogin noticed my solemn 
 taciturnity, and anxiously inquired after mj'' 
 health. Of course I answered her with a bitter 
 smile that " I was perfectly well, thank God." 
 Ozhogin continued to dilate on the subject of 
 his visitor; but, observing that I answered him 
 reluctantly, he addressed himself chiefly to Biz- 
 myonkofF, who was listening to him with great 
 attention, when a footman entered and an- 
 nounced Prince N***. The master of the house 
 instantly sprang to his feet, and rushed forth 
 to welcome him! Liza, on whom I immediately 
 darted an eagle glance, blushed with pleasure, 
 and fidgeted about on her chair. The Prince 
 entered, perfumed, gay, amiable. . . . 
 
 As I am not composing a novel for the in- 
 dulgent reader, but simply writing for my own 
 pleasure, there is no necessity for my having re- 
 course to the customary devices of the literary 
 gentlemen. So I will say at once, without fur- 
 ther procrastination, that Liza, from the very 
 first day, fell passionately in love with the Prince, 
 and the Prince fell in love with her— partly for 
 the lack of an}i:hing to do, but also partly because 
 Liza really was a very charming creature. There 
 
 41
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 was nothing remarkable in the fact that they fell 
 in love with each other. He, in all probability, 
 had not in the least expected to find such a pearl 
 in such a wretched shell (I am speaking of the 
 God-forsaken town of O***) , and she, up to that 
 time, had never beheld, even in her dreams, any- 
 thing in the least like this brilliant, clever, fasci- 
 nating aristocrat. 
 
 After the preliminary greetings, Ozhogin in- 
 troduced me to the Prince, who treated me very 
 politely. As a rule, he was j)olite to every 
 one, and despite the incommensurable distance 
 which existed between him and our obscure rural 
 circle, he understood not only how to avoid em- 
 barrassing any one, but even to have the appear- 
 ance of being our equal, and of only happening 
 to live in St. Petersburg. 
 
 That first evening. . . . Oh, that first even- 
 ing! In the happy days of our childhood, our 
 teachers used to narrate to us and hold up to us 
 as an example of manly fortitude the young 
 Lacedaemonian who, having stolen a fox and hid- 
 den it under his cloak, never once uttered a sound, 
 but permitted the animal to devour all his entrails, 
 and thus preferred death to dishonour. ... I 
 can find no better expression of my unutterable 
 sufferings in the course of that evening, when, 
 for the first time, I beheld the Prince by Liza's 
 side. INIy persistent, constrained smile, my an- 
 guished attention, my stupid taciturnity, my pain- 
 
 42
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 ful and vain longing to depart, all this, in all 
 probability, was extremely noticeable in its way. 
 Not one fox alone was ravaging my vitals — jeal- 
 ousy, envy, the consciousness of m\" own insig- 
 nificance, and impotent rage were rending me. 
 I could not but admit that the Prince was really 
 a very amiable young man. ... I devoured him 
 with my eyes; I really believe that I forgot to 
 wink as I gazed at him. He did not chat with 
 Liza exclusively, but, of course, he talked for 
 her alone. I must have bored him extremely. 
 .... He probably soon divined that he had to 
 do with a discarded lover, but, out of compassion 
 for me, and also from a profound sense of my 
 perfect harmlessness, he treated me with extraor- 
 dinary gentleness. You can imagine how that 
 hurt me ! 
 
 I remember that, in the course of the evening, 
 I tried to efface my fault ; I ( do not laugh at me, 
 whoever you may be under whose eyes these 
 lines may chance to fall, especially as this was my 
 final dream) .... I suddenly took it into my 
 head, God is my witness, among the varied tor- 
 ments, that Liza was trying to punish me for my 
 arrogant coldness at the beginning of my visit; 
 that she was angry with me, and was flirting with 
 the Prince merely out of vexation at me. I 
 seized a convenient opportunity, and approach- 
 ing her with a meek but caressing smile, I mur- 
 mured: " Enough, forgive me . . . however, I 
 
 43
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 do not ask it because I am afraid "—and without 
 awaiting her answer, I suddenly imparted to my 
 face an unusually vivacious and eas}' expression, 
 gave a wry laugh, threw my hand up over my 
 head in the direction of the ceiling (I remember 
 that I was trying to adjust my neckcloth), and 
 was even on the point of wheeling round on one 
 foot, as much as to say: "All is over, I 'm in 
 fine spirits, let every one be in fine spirits! " but 
 I did not wheel round, nevertheless, because I 
 was afraid of falling, owing to an imnatural 
 stiffness in mj'' knees. . . Liza did not under- 
 stand me in the least, looked into nw face with 
 surprise, smiled hurriedly, as though desirous of 
 getting rid of me as prom2:)tly as possible, and 
 again approached the Prince. Blind and deaf 
 as I w'as, I could not but inwardly admit that she 
 w^as not at all angry nor vexed with me at that 
 moment; she simply was not thinking about me. 
 The blow was decisive, mj" last hopes crumbled 
 to ruin with a crash — as a block of ice pene- 
 trated with the spring sun suddenly crumbles 
 into tiny fragments. I had received a blow on 
 the head at the first assault, and, like the Prus- 
 sians at Jena, in one day I lost everything. No, 
 she was not angry with me! . . . 
 
 Alas! on the contrary! She herself — I could 
 see that — was being undermined, as with a bil- 
 low. Like a young sapling, which has already 
 half deserted the bank, she bent eagerly forward 
 
 44
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 over the flood, ready to surrender to it both the 
 first blossoming of her spring, and lier whole life. 
 Any one to whose lot it has fallen to be a witness 
 to such an infatuation has lived through bitter 
 moments, if he himself loved and was not beloved. 
 I shall forever remember the devouring atten- 
 tion, the tender gaiety, the innocent self-forget- 
 fulness, the glance, half -childish and already 
 womanly, the happy smile which blossomed forth, 
 as it were, and never left the half-parted lips 
 and the blushing cheeks. . . . Everything of 
 which Liza had had a dim foreboding during our 
 stroll in the grove had now come to pass — and 
 she, surrendering herself wholly to love, had, at 
 the same time, grown quiet and sparkling like 
 young wine which has ceased to ferment, because 
 its time has come. . . . 
 
 I had the patience to sit out that first evening, 
 and the evenings which followed .... all, to 
 the very end! I could cherish no hope whatso- 
 ever. Liza and the Prince grew more and 
 more attached to each other with every day that 
 
 passed But I positively lost all sense of 
 
 my own dignity, and could not tear myself 
 away from the spectacle of my unhappiness. I 
 remember that one da}^ I made an effort not 
 to go, gave myself my word of honour in the 
 morning that I would remain at home, — and 
 at eight o'clock in the evening (I usually 
 went out at seven), I jumped up hke a lunatic, 
 
 45
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 put on my hat, and ran, panting, to KiriU 
 Matvyeevitch's. 
 
 My position was extremely awkward; I main- 
 tained obdurate silence, and sometimes for days 
 at a stretch never uttered a sound. I have 
 never been distinguished for eloquence, as I have 
 already said; but now every bit of sense I had 
 seemed to fly away in the presence of the Prince, 
 and I remained as poor as a church mouse. 
 JNIoreover, in private, I forced my unhappy 
 brain to toil to such a degree, slowly pondering 
 over everything I had marked or noted in the 
 course of the preceding day, that when I returned 
 to the Ozhogins', I hardly had enough strength 
 left to continue my observations. They spared 
 me as they would a sick man, I saw that. Every 
 morning I reached a fresh, definitive decision, 
 which had chiefly been hatched out during a sleep- 
 less night. Xow I prepared to have an explana- 
 tion with Liza, to give her some friendly advice 
 . . . but when I happened to be alone with her, 
 my tongue suddenly ceased to act, as though it 
 had congealed, and we both painfully awaited 
 the appearance of a third person; then, again, I 
 wanted to flee, for good and all, leaving behind 
 me, for the object of my afl*ections of course, a 
 letter filled with reproaches; and one day I set 
 about that letter, but the sense of justice had not 
 yet quite vanished from within me; I under- 
 stood that I had no right to upbraid anj" one for 
 
 46
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 anything, and flung my note into the fire; again 
 I suddenly offered the whole of myself as a sac- 
 rifice, in magnanimous fashion, and gave Liza 
 my blessing, wishing her happiness in her love, 
 and smiled in a gentle and friendly way on the 
 Prince from a corner. But the hard-hearted 
 lovers not only did not thank me for my sacrifice, 
 they did not even perceive it, and evidently stood 
 in no need either of my blessings or of my smiles. 
 . . . Then, with vexation, I suddenly passed 
 over into the diametrically opposite frame of 
 mind. I promised myself, as I swathed myself 
 in my cloak, Spanish fashion, to cut the lucky 
 rival's throat from round a corner, and with the 
 joy of a wild beast, I pictured to myself Liza's 
 despair. . . . But, in the first place, in the town 
 of O*** there were very few such corners, and, 
 in the second place, a board fence, a street-lan- 
 tern, a policeman in the distance. . . . No ! at such 
 a corner as that it would be more seemly to peddle 
 rings of bread than to shed human blood. I 
 must confess that, among other means of deliv- 
 erance, — as I very indefinitely expressed it when 
 holding a conference with myself, — I thought of 
 appealing straight to INIr. Ozhogin .... of 
 directing the attention of that nobleman to 
 the dangerous position of his daughter, to the 
 sad consequences of her frivolity. ... I even 
 began to talk with him one day on the very 
 ticklish subject, but framed my speech so craftily 
 
 47
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 and obscurely, tliat he listened and listened to me, 
 and suddenly, as though awaking from sleep, 
 swiftly rubbed the palm of his hand all over his 
 face, not sparing even his nose, snorted, and 
 walked away from me. 
 
 It is needless to say that, on adopting that de- 
 cision, I assured myself that I was acting from 
 the most disinterested motives, that I was de- 
 sirous of the universal welfare, that I was ful- 
 filling the duty of a friend of the family. . . . But 
 I venture to think that even if Kirill ^latvyee- 
 vitch had not cut short my effusions, I should still 
 have lacked the courage to finish my monologue. 
 I sometimes undertook, witli the pompousness of 
 an ancient sage, to weigh the Prince's merits; I 
 sometimes comforted myself with the hope that 
 it was merely a passing fancy, that Liza would 
 come to her senses, that her love was not genuine 
 love. . . . Oh, no ! In a word, I do not know of 
 a thought over which I did not brood at that time. 
 One remedy alone, I frankly confess, never en- 
 tered my head ; namely, it never once occurred to 
 me to commit suicide. Why that did not occur 
 to me, I do not know. . . . Perhaps even then 
 I had a foreboding that I had not long to live in 
 any case. 
 
 It is eas}^ to understand that, under such un- 
 toward conditions, my conduct, my behaviour to- 
 ward other people, w^as more characterised by 
 unnaturalness and constraint than ever. Even old 
 
 48
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 lady Ozhogin — that dull-witted being— began tc 
 shun me, and at times did not know from which 
 side to approach me. Bizmyonkoff , always cour- 
 teous and ready to be of service, avoided me. It 
 also seemed to me then that in him I had a fellow- 
 sufferer, that he also loved Liza. But he never 
 replied to my hints, and, in general, talked to me 
 with reluctance. The Prince behaved in a very 
 friendly manner to him; I may say that the 
 Prince respected him. Neither Bizmyonkoff 
 nor I interfered with the Prince and Liza; but 
 he did not shun them as I did, he did not look 
 like a wolf nor like a victim — and gladly joined 
 them whenever they washed it. He did not dis- 
 tinguish himself particularly by jocularity on 
 such occasions, it is true; but even in times past 
 there had been a quiet element in his mirth. 
 
 In this manner about tw^o wrecks passed. The 
 Prince was not only good-looking and clever: he 
 played on the piano, sang, drew very respectably, 
 and knew how to narrate well. His anecdotes, 
 drawn from the highest circles of society in the 
 capital, always produced a strong impression on 
 the hearers, which was all the more powerful 
 because he himself did not seem to attribute any 
 particular importance to them. . . . 
 
 The consequence of this guile, if you choose to 
 call it so, on the Prince's part was, that in the 
 course of his brief sojourn in the town of O*** 
 he absolutely bewitched the whole of society there. 
 
 49
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 It is always very easy for a man from tlie highest 
 circles to bewitch us steppe-dwellers. The 
 Prince's frequent calls on the Ozhogins (he spent 
 his evenings at their house) , as a matter of course, 
 aroused the envy of the other nobles and officials ; 
 but the Prince, being a man of the world and 
 clever, did not neglect a single one of them, 
 called on all of them, said at least one pleasant 
 word to all the dames and young ladies, permitted 
 himself to be stuffed with laboriously-heavy 
 viands and treated to vile wines witli magnificent 
 apj^ellations : in a word, behaved himself admir- 
 ably, cautiously, and cleverly. Prince X*** was, 
 altogether, a man of cheerful disposition, socia- 
 ble, amiable by inclination, and as a matter of cal- 
 culation also: how was it possible for him to 
 be otherwise than a complete success in every 
 way? 
 
 From the time of his arrival, every one in the 
 house had thought that the time flew by with re- 
 markable swiftness; everything went splendidly; 
 old Ozhogin, although he pretended not to notice 
 anything, was, in all probability, secretly rub- 
 bing his hands at the tliought of having such a 
 son-in-law. The Prince himself was conducting 
 the whole affair very quietly and decorously, 
 when, all of a sudden, an unforeseen event .... 
 
 Until to-morrow. To-day I am weary. These 
 reminiscences chafe me, even on the brink of the 
 grave. Terentievna thought to-day that my nose 
 
 50
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS INIAX 
 
 had grown even more pointed; and that 's a bad 
 sign, they say. 
 
 March 27. The thaw continues. 
 Matters were in the above-described condition: 
 the Prince and Liza loved each other, the elder 
 Ozhogins were waiting to see what would hap- 
 pen; Bizmyonkoff was present also — nothing 
 else could be said of him; I was flopping like a 
 fish on the ice, and keeping watch to the best of 
 my ability, — I remember that at that time I ap- 
 pointed to myself the task of at least not allow- 
 ing Liza to perish in the snare of the seducer, and 
 in consequence thereof, I had begun to pay par- 
 ticular attention to the maid-servants and the 
 fatal " back " entrance — although, on the other 
 hand, I sometimes dreamed for whole nights to- 
 gether about the touching magnanimity with 
 which, in the course of time, I would extend my 
 hand to the deluded victim and say to her: " The 
 wily man has betrayed thee ; but I am thy faith- 
 ful friend. ... let us forget the past and be 
 happy! " — when, suddenly, a joyful piece of 
 news was disseminated throughout the town: the 
 ]\Iarshal of Xobility for the county intended to 
 give a large ball in honour of the respected visi- 
 tor, at his own estate Gornostaevka, also called 
 Gubnyakova. All the hierarchies and powers of 
 the town of O*** received invitations, beginning 
 with the chief of police and ending with the 
 
 51
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 apothecary, a remarkably pimple-faced German, 
 with cruel pretensions to the ability to speak Rus- 
 sian purely, in consequence of which, he was con« 
 stantly using violent expressions with absolute 
 inappropriateness, as, for instance: "Devil take 
 me, I feel a dashing fine fellow to-day." ^ . . . 
 Terrible preparations began, as was fitting. 
 One cosmetic-shop sold sixteen dark-blue jars of 
 pomade, with the inscription, " a la jesmin " with 
 the Russian character denoting the hard pronun- 
 ciation after the u. The young ladies supplied 
 themselves with stiff gowns, torturingly tight 
 at the waist-line, and with promontories on the 
 stomach ; the mammas erected on their own heads 
 formidable decorations, under the pretext that 
 they were caps; the bustling fathers laj^ without 
 their hind legs, as the saying is.^ . . . 
 
 The longed-for dav arrived at last. I was 
 among those invited. The distance from the 
 town to Gornostaevka was reckoned at nine 
 versts. Kirila ^Nlatvyeevitch offered me a seat 
 in his carriage; but I declined. . . . Thus do 
 chastised children, desirous of revenging them- 
 selves well on their parents, refuse their favourite 
 viands at table. INIoreover, I felt that my pres- 
 ence would embarrass Liza. Bizmyonkoff took 
 my place. The Prince drove out in his own 
 calash, T in a miserable drozhky, which I had 
 
 • The pronunciation is also indicated as being faulty. — TranslatoBc 
 2 Ran themselves off their legs — Teanslatoh. 
 
 52
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 hired at an exorbitant price for this festive oc- 
 casion. 
 
 I will not describe the ball. Everythin<^ about 
 it was as usual: musicians with remarkably false 
 horns in the gallery; flustered landed proprie- 
 tors with antiquated families; lilac ice-cream, 
 slimy orgeat; men in patched boots and knitted 
 cotton gloves; provincial lions with convulsively- 
 distorted faces; and so forth, and so forth. And 
 all this little world circled round its sun — round 
 the Prince. Lost in the throng, unnoticed even 
 by the maidens of eight-and-forty with pimples 
 on their brows and blue flowers on their temples, 
 I kept incessantly gazing now at the Prince, now 
 at Liza. She was very charmingly dressed and 
 very pretty that evening. They only danced to- 
 gether twice (he danced the mazurka ^ with her, 
 't is true!), but, at all events, so it seemed to 
 me, there existed between them a certain mys- 
 terious, unbroken communication. Even when 
 he was not looking at her, was not talking 
 to her, he seemed constantly to be addressing her, 
 and her alone; he was handsome and brilliant, 
 and charming with others — for her alone. She 
 was evidently conscious that she w^as the queen of 
 the ball — and beloved; her face simultaneously 
 beamed with childish joy and innocent pride, and 
 
 ^ The mazurka, which is still a great favourite in Russia, greatly 
 resembles the cotillon in everything except the steps, which are viva- 
 cious. Both the cotillon and the mazurka are danced — one before, 
 the other after supper— at Court balls and other dances. — Translator. 
 
 53
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 then suddenly was lighted up with a different, a 
 more profound feeling. She exhaled an atmos- 
 2)here of haj^piness. I observed all this. ... It 
 was not the first time I had had occasion to watch 
 them. ... At first this greatly pained me, then 
 it seemed to touch me, and at last it enraged me. 
 I suddenly felt myself remarkably malicious and, 
 I remember, I rejoiced wonderfully over this new 
 sensation, and even conceived a certain respect 
 for myself. " Let 's show them that we have n't 
 perished yet! " I said to myself. When the first 
 sounds summoning to the mazurka thundered 
 out, I calmly glanced around, coldlj% and with 
 much ease of manner, approached a long-faced 
 young lady with a red and shining nose, an awk- 
 wardly gaping mouth, which looked as though 
 it had been unhooked, and a sinewy neck, which 
 reminded one of the handle of a bass-viol, — ap- 
 proached her, and curtly clicking my heels to- 
 gether, invited her for the dance. She wore a 
 pink gown, which seemed to have faded recently 
 and not quite completely; above her head quiv- 
 ered some sort of a faded melancholy fly on a 
 very thick brass spring; and, altogether, the 
 young woman was impregnated through and 
 through, if one may so express one's self, with a 
 sort of sour boredom and antiquated ill-success. 
 From the very beginning of the evening, she had 
 not stirred from her seat; no one had thought of 
 asking her to dance. One sixteen-year-old j^outh, 
 
 54'
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 in default of any other partner, had been on the 
 point of appeahng to this young woman, and had 
 ah'eady taken one step in her direction, but had 
 bethought himself, taken one look, and briskly 
 concealed himself in the crowd. You can im- 
 agine with what joyful surprise she accepted my 
 proposal ! 
 
 I solemnly led her the whole length of the hall, 
 found two chairs, and seated myself with her in 
 the circle of the mazurka, the tenth pair, almost 
 opposite the Prince, to whom, of course, the first 
 place had been conceded. The Prince, as I have 
 ^ already said, was dancing with Liza. Neither 
 my partner nor I were incommoded with invita- 
 tions; consequently, we had plentj?^ of time for 
 conversation. Truth to tell, my lady was not dis- 
 tinguished by ability to utter words in coherent 
 speech: she emploj^ed her mouth more for the 
 execution of a strange downward smile, hitherto 
 unbeheld by me; at the same time, she rolled her 
 eyes upward, as though some invisible force were 
 stretching her face; but I had no need of her 
 eloquence. Fortunately, I felt vicious, and my 
 partner did not inspire me with timidit^^ I set 
 to criticising everything and ever3'bod3^ in the 
 world, la\ang special stress on whipper-snappers 
 from the capital, and Petersburg fops, and 
 waxed so angry, at last, that my lady gradually 
 ceased to smile, and instead of rolling her eyes 
 upward, she suddenly began — with amazement, 
 
 55
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 it must have been — to look cross-eyed, and in 
 such a queer way, to boot, as though she had per- 
 ceived, for the first time, that she had a nose 
 on her face ; and my next neighbour, one of those 
 hons of whom I have spoken above, more than 
 once scanned me with a glance, even turned to 
 me with the expression of an actor on the stage 
 who has waked up in an unknown land, as much 
 as to say: " Art thou still at it? " However, while 
 I sang like a nightingale, as the saying is, I still 
 continued to watch the Prince and Liza. They 
 were constantly invited ; but I suffered less when 
 both of them were dancing; and even when they 
 were sitting side by side and chatting with each 
 other, and smiling with that gentle smile w^hich 
 refuses to leave the face of happy lovers, — even 
 then I was not so greatly pained; but when Liza 
 was fluttering through the hall M'ith some gallant 
 dandy, and the Prince, with her blue gauze scarf 
 on his knees, thoughtfully followed her with his 
 eyes, as though admiring his conquest, — then, 
 oh, then I experienced unbearable tortures, and 
 in my vexation I emitted such mahcious remarks, 
 that the pupils of my partner's eyes reclined com- 
 pletel}^ from both sides, on her nose! 
 
 In the meantime, the mazurka was drawing to 
 a close. . . . They began to execute the figure 
 known as " la confidente." In this figure the 
 lady seats herself in the centre of the circle, 
 chooses another lady for her confidante and 
 
 56
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 whispers in her ear the name of the gentleman 
 with whom she wishes to dance ; the cavaher leads 
 up to her the dancers, one by one, and the con- 
 fidante refuses them until, at last, the happy 
 man who has already been designated makes his 
 appearance. Liza sat in the centre of the circle, 
 and chose the daughter of the hostess, one of 
 those young girls of whom it is said that they are 
 " God bless them." ^ The Prince began to search 
 for the chosen man. In vain did he present about 
 half a score of young men (the hostess' daughter 
 refused them all, with a pleasant smile), and, at 
 last, had recourse to me. Something unusual 
 took place in me at that moment: I seemed to 
 wink with my whole body, and tried to decline; 
 nevertheless, I rose and went. The Prince con- 
 ducted me to Liza. . . . She did not even glance 
 at me; the hostess' daughter shook her head in 
 negation, the Prince turned toward me, and, 
 prompted probably by the goose-like expression 
 of my face, made me a profound bow. This 
 mocking reverence, this refusal, presented to me 
 by my triumphant rival, his negligent smile, 
 Liza's indifferent inattention, — all this provoked 
 an explosion on my part. I stepped up to the 
 Prince and whispered in a frenzied rage: "I 
 think you are permitting yourself to jeer at me? " 
 The Prince stared at me with scornful sur- 
 prise, again took me by the hand, and with the air 
 
 ^ Utterly insignificant. —Translator. 
 
 57
 
 THE DIAKY OF 
 
 of leading me back to my seat, replied coldly: 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes, you, you!" — I went on in a whisper, 
 obeying him, nevertheless; that is to ssiy, follow- 
 ing him to my seat ; — " you ! Eut I do not intend 
 to allow any frivolous Petersburg upstart . . .'•' 
 
 The Prince smiled calmly, almost patronis- 
 ingly, gripped my hand hard, whispered: " I 
 understand you; but this is not the proper place; 
 we will talk it over," turned away from me, 
 approached BizmyonkofF and led him to Liza. 
 The pale little petty official proved to be the 
 chosen cavalier. Liza rose to meet him. 
 
 As I sat beside my partner with the melancholy 
 fly on her head, I felt myself almost a hero. My 
 heart thumped violently within me, my bosom 
 swelled nobly under my starched shirt-front, my 
 breath came fast and deep — and all of a sudden, 
 I stared at the adjacent lion in so magnificent 
 a manner, that he involuntarily wiggled the leg 
 which was turned toward me. Having rid my- 
 self of this man, I ran my eyes over the circle 
 of dancers. ... It seemed to me that two or 
 three gentlemen were gazing at me not without 
 amazement; but, on the whole, my conversation 
 with the Prince had not been noticed. . . . Mv 
 rival was already seated on his chair, perfectly 
 composed, and with his former smile on his face. 
 Bizmyonkoff led Liza to her place. She gave 
 him a friendly nod and immediately turned to 
 
 58
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 the Prince, as it seemed to me, with a certain 
 anxiety; but he laughed in response, waved his 
 hand gracefully, and must have said something 
 very agreeable to her, for she flushed all over 
 with pleasure, dropped her eyes, and then riveted 
 them on him once more with affectionate re- 
 proach. 
 
 The heroic frame of mind which had suddenly 
 developed in me did not disappear until the end 
 of the mazurka; but I made no more jests, and 
 did not criticise, and merely cast a severe and 
 gloomy glance from time to time at my lady, 
 who was, evidently, beginning to be afraid of 
 me, and was reduced to a state of complete stam- 
 mering and winked incessantly, when I led her 
 to the natural stronghold of her mother, a very 
 fat woman with a red head-dress. Having 
 handed over the frightened young girl as be- 
 hooved me, I walked off to the window, clasped 
 my hands, and waited to see what would 
 happen. I waited a good while. The Prince was 
 constantly surrounded by the host, — precisely 
 that, surrounded, as England is surrounded by 
 the sea,— not to mention the other members of the 
 county Marshal of the Nobility's family, and 
 the other guests; and, moreover, he could not, 
 without arousing universal surprise, approach 
 such an insignificant man as I, and enter into 
 conversation with him. This insignificance of 
 mine, I remember, was even a source of delight 
 
 59
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 to me then. "Fiddlesticks!" I thought, as I 
 watched him turning courteously now to one, now 
 to another respected personage who sought the 
 honour of being noticed bv him, if onlv for " the 
 twinkling of an eye," as the poets say:—" Fiddle- 
 sticks, my dear fellow ! . . . . Thou wilt come to 
 me by and by — for I haye insulted thee." 
 
 At last the Prince, having cleverly got rid of 
 the crowd of his adorers, strode past me, darted 
 a glance, not exactly at the window, nor yet 
 exactly at my hair, was on the point of turning 
 away, and suddenly came to a halt, as though 
 he had just remembered something. 
 
 " Akh, yes!" — he said, addressing me with a 
 smile; — "by the way, I have a little matter of 
 business with j^ou." 
 
 Two landed proprietors, the most persistent 
 of all, who were obstinately following up the 
 Prince, probably thought that the " little matter 
 of business " was connected with the service, and 
 respectfully retreated. The Prince put his arm 
 in mine, and led me to one side. ]My heart 
 thumped in my breast. 
 
 " You," — he began, drawling out the word 
 you, and staring at my chin with a contemptu- 
 ous expression which, strange to say, was infi- 
 nitely becoming to his fresh, handsome face, — 
 " you said something insolent to me, I believe." 
 
 " I said what I thought,"— I retorted, raising 
 my voice. 
 
 60
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 " Ssssh .... speak more quietly," — he re- 
 marked: — "well-bred men do not shout. Per- 
 haps you would like to fight with me? " 
 
 *' That is your affair," — I rephed, drawing 
 myself up. 
 
 " I shall be compelled to call you out,"— he 
 said carelessly, — " if you do not withdraw your 
 expressions. . . ." 
 
 " I have no intention of withdrawing any- 
 thing," — I retorted proudly. 
 
 " Really? "—he remarked, not without a sneer- 
 ing smile. — " In that case," — he went on, after a 
 brief pause, — " I shall have the honour to send 
 my second to you to-morrow." 
 
 " Very well, sir," — I said in the most indiffer- 
 ent tone I could muster. 
 
 The Prince bowed slightly. 
 
 " I cannot forbid you to think me a frivolous 
 man," — he added, arrogantly narrowing his eyes; 
 — " but it is impossible that the Princes X*** 
 should be upstarts. Farewell for the present, 
 Mr. . . . Mr. Shtukaturin." 
 
 He quickly turned his back on me, and again 
 approached his host, who had already begun to 
 grow agitated. 
 
 " INIr. Shtukaturin"! .... My name is 
 Tchulkaturin. ... I could find no reply to make 
 to this last insult of his, and only stared after him 
 in a violent rage. — " Farewell until to-morrow," 
 I whispered, setting mj'^ teeth, and immediately 
 
 61
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 hunted up an officer of my acquaintance, Captain 
 KoloberdyaefF of the uhlans, a desperate ca- 
 rouser and a splendid fellow, narrated to him in 
 a few words my quarrel with the Prince, and 
 asked him to be my second. He, of course, im- 
 mediately consented, and I wended my way 
 homeward. 
 
 I could not get to sleep all night — from agi- 
 tation, not from pusillanimity. I am no cow- 
 ard. I even thought very little indeed about the 
 impending possibility of losing my life, that high- 
 est good on earth, according to the Germans. 
 I thought of Liza only, of my dead hopes, of 
 what I ought to do. " Ought I to try to kill the 
 Prince? " I asked myself, and, of course, wanted 
 to kill him, — not out of vengeance, but out of a 
 desire for Liza's good. " But she will not sur- 
 vive that blow," I went on. " Xo, it will be better 
 to let him kill me! " 
 
 I confess that it was also pleasant to me to 
 think that I, an obscure man from the country, 
 had forced so important a personage to fight a 
 duel with me. 
 
 Dawn found me engrossed in these cogita- 
 tions; and later in the morning, KoloberdyaefF 
 presented himself. 
 
 " Well," — he asked me, noisily entering my 
 bedroom, — " and where 's the Prince's second?'* 
 
 " Why, good gracious! " — I replied with vexa- 
 tion, — " it 's only seven o'clock in the morn- 
 
 62
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 ing now; I presume the Prince is still fast 
 asleep." 
 
 " In that case,"— returned the irrepressible 
 cavalry -captain, — " order them to give me some 
 tea. I have a headache from last night's doings. 
 .... 1 have n't even been undressed. How- 
 ever,"— he added with a yawn, — " I rarely do 
 undress anyway." 
 
 Tea was served to him. He drank six glasses 
 with rum, smoked four pipes, told me that on the 
 preceding day he had bought for a song a horse 
 which the coachmen had given up as a bad job, 
 and intended to break it in by tying up one of 
 its forelegs, — and fell asleep, without undress- 
 ing, on the couch, with his pipe still in his mouth. 
 I rose, and put my papers in order. One note 
 of invitation from Liza, the only note I had re- 
 ceived from her, I was on the point of putting 
 in my breast, but changed my mind, and tossed 
 it into a box. KoloberdyaefF was snoring faintly, 
 with his head hanging down from the leather 
 cushions. ... I remember that I surveyed for a 
 long time his dishevelled, dashing, care-free and 
 kindly face. At ten o'clock my servant an- 
 nounced the arrival of BizmyonkofF. The Prince 
 had selected him for his second. 
 
 Together we roused the soundly-sleeping cap- 
 tain. He rose, stared at us with eyes owlishly 
 stupid from sleep, and in a hoarse voice asked 
 for vodka; — he recovered himself, and after hav- 
 
 r>3
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 ing exchanged salutes with Bizmyonkoff, went 
 out with him into the next room for consultation. 
 The conference of the seconds did not last long. 
 A quarter of an hour later they both came to me 
 in my bedroom; Koloberdyaeff announced to me 
 that " M-e shall fight to-day, at three o'clock, with 
 ])istols." I silently bowed my head, in token of 
 assent. BizmvonkofF immediately took leave of 
 us, and drove away. He was somewhat pale and 
 inwardly agitated, like a man A^ho is not accus- 
 tomed to that sort of performance, but was very 
 polite and cold. I seemed, somehow, to feel 
 ashamed in his presence, and I did not dare to 
 look him in the eye. 
 
 Koloberdyaeff began to talk about his horse 
 again. This conversation was very much to my 
 taste. I was afraid he might mention Liza. But 
 my good captain was no scandal-monger, and, 
 more than that, he desj)ised all women, calling 
 them, God knows why, " salad." At two o'clock 
 we lunched, and at three were already on the field 
 of action — in that same birch-grove where I had 
 once strolled with Liza, a couple of paces from 
 that chff . 
 
 We were the first to arrive. But the Prince 
 and Bizmyonkoff did not make us wait long for 
 them. The Prince was, without exaggeration, 
 as fresh as a rose ; his brown eyes gazed out with 
 extreme affability from beneath the visor of his 
 military cap. He was smoking a straw cigar, 
 
 64
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS JNIAN 
 
 and on catching sight of Koloberdj^aefF he shook 
 hands with him in a cordial manner. He even 
 bowed very charmingly to me. I, on the con- 
 trary, felt conscious that I was pale, and my 
 hands, to my intense vexation, were trembling 
 slightly; . . . my throat was dry. . . Never, u]) 
 to that time, had I fought a duel. " O God! " 
 I thought; "if only that sneering gentleman 
 does not take mj" agitation for timidity! " I in- 
 wardly consigned my nerves to all the fiends ; but 
 on glancing, at last, straight at the Prince's 
 face, and catching on his lips an almost imper- 
 ceptible smile, I suddenly became inflated with 
 wrath, and immediatelv recovered my equanim- 
 ity. 
 
 In the meantime, our seconds had arranged 
 the barrier, had paced off the distance, and 
 loaded the pistols. Koloberdj^aefF did most of 
 the active part; BizmyonkofF chiefly watched 
 him. It was a magnificent day — quite equal to 
 the day of the never-to-be-forgotten stroll. The 
 dense azure of the sky again peeped through tlie 
 gilded green of the leaves. Their rustling 
 seemed to excite me. The Prince continued to 
 smoke his cigar, as he leaned his shoulder against 
 the trunk of a linden. . . . 
 
 " Be so good as to take your places, gentlemen ; 
 all is ready," — said KoloberdyaefF at last, hand- 
 ing us the pistols. 
 
 The Prince retreated a few paces, halted, and 
 
 65
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 turning his head back over his shoulder, asked 
 me: " And do you still refuse to witlidraw j'our 
 •words? "... I tried to answer him; but my voice 
 failed me, and I contented myself with a dis- 
 dainful motion of the hand. The Prince laughed 
 again, and took his place. We began to apj^roach 
 each other. I raised my pistol, and was on the 
 point of taking aim at the breast of my enemy, — 
 at that moment he really was my enemy, — but 
 suddenly elevated the barrel, as though some one 
 had jogged my elbow, and fired. The Prince 
 staggered, raised his left hand to his left temple 
 — a thin stream of blood trickled down his cheek 
 from beneath his white wash-leather glove. Biz- 
 myonkoff flew to him. 
 
 " It is nothing," — he said, taking off his cap, 
 which had been perforated; — " if it did not enter 
 my head, that means it is only a scratch." 
 
 He calmly pulled a batiste handkerchief from 
 his pocket, and laid it on his curls, which were wet 
 with blood. I looked at him as though jDctrified, 
 and did not stir from the spot. 
 
 " Please go to the barrier! " — remarked Kolo- 
 berdyaeff to me with severit}'. 
 
 I obeyed. 
 
 " Shall the duel go on? " — he added, address- 
 ing Bizmyonkoff. 
 
 Bizmyonkoff made him no reply; but the 
 Prince, without removing the handkerchief from 
 the wound, nor even giving himself the satis- 
 
 66
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 faction of teasing me at the barrier, replied with 
 a smile: " The duel is ended," and fired into the 
 air. I nearly wept with vexation and rage. That 
 man, by his magnanimity, had definitively tram- 
 pled me in the mud, had cut my throat. I wanted 
 to protest, I wanted to demand that he should 
 fire at me; but he stepped up to me, and offering 
 me his hand, " Everything is forgotten between 
 us, is it not? " — he said, in a cordial voice. 
 
 I cast a glance at his pale face, at that blood- 
 stained handkerchief, and utterly losing my head, 
 blushing with shame, and annihilated, I pressed 
 his hand. . . 
 
 " Gentlemen! " — he added, addressing the sec- 
 onds: — "I hope that all this will remain a 
 secret? " 
 
 "Of course!" — exclaimed KoloberdyaefF, — 
 ^' but. Prince, allow me. . . ." 
 
 And he himself bound up his head. 
 
 The Prince, as he departed, bowed to me once 
 more; but BizmyonkofF did not even bestow a 
 glance on me. Slain, — morally slain,— I returned 
 home with KoloberdyaefF. 
 
 " But what ails you? " — the captain asked me. 
 " Calm yourself; the wound is not dangerous. 
 He can dance to-morrow, if he likes. Or are 
 you sorry that you did not kill him? In that case, 
 you 're wrong; he 's a splendid fellow." 
 
 "Why did he spare me? ! "— I muttered at 
 last. 
 
 67
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 " Oho! so that 's it! "—calmly retorted the cap- 
 tain. . . " Okh, these romancers will be the 
 death of me! " 
 
 I positively refuse to describe my tortures in 
 the course of the evening which followed this un- 
 lucky duel. My pride suffered inexpressibly. 
 It was not my conscience which tormented me; 
 the consciousness of my stupidity annihilated me. 
 " I myself have dealt myself the last, the final 
 blow!" I kept repeating as I paced my room 
 with long strides. ..." The Prince wounded by 
 me and forgiving me ... . yes, Liza is his now. 
 Xothing can save her now, nor hold her back 
 on the brink of perdition." I was very well aw^are 
 that our duel could not remain a secret, in spite 
 of the Prince's words; in any case, it could not 
 remain a secret to Liza. " The Prince is not so 
 stupid"— I whispered in a frenzy— " as not to 
 take advantage of it." . . . And, nevertheless, I 
 was mistaken: the whole town heard about the 
 duel and its actual cause,— on the very next day, 
 of course; but it was not the Prince who had 
 babbled— on the contrary; when he had presented 
 himself to Liza with a bandaged head and an 
 excuse which had been prepared in advance, she 
 already knew ever^i:hing. . . A\'hether Bizmyon- 
 koff had betrayed me, or whether the news had 
 reached her by other roads, I cannot say. And, 
 after all, is it possible to conceal anything in a 
 small town? You can imagine how Liza took it, 
 
 ^8
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS INIAN 
 
 how the whole Ozh(Sgin family took it! As for 
 me, I suddenly became the object of universal 
 indignation, of loathing, a monster, a crazily 
 jealous man, and a cannibal. INIy few acquain- 
 tances renounced me, as they would have re- 
 nounced a leper. The town authorities appealed 
 to the Prince with a proposition to chastise me 
 in a stern and exemplary manner; only the per- 
 sistent and importunate entreaties of the Prince 
 himself warded off the calamity which menaced 
 my head. This man was fated to annihilate me 
 in every way. By his magnanimity he had shut 
 me up as though with my coffin-lid. It is need- 
 less to say that the Ozhogins' house was imme- 
 diately closed to me. Kirila Matvyeevitch even 
 returned to me a j^lain pencil, which I had left 
 at his residence. In reality, he was preciseh^ 
 the last man who should have been incensed with 
 me. IVIy " crazy " jealousy, as they called it in 
 the town, had defined, elucidated, so to speak, the 
 relations between Liza and the Prince. The old 
 Ozhogins themselves and the other residents be- 
 gan to look upon him almost in the light of a be- 
 trothed husband. In reality, that could not have 
 been quite agreeable to him; but he liked Liza 
 very much ; and moreover, at that time he had not, 
 as yet, attained his object. . . . With all the tact 
 of a clever man of the world, he accommodated 
 himself to his new position, immediately' entered 
 into the spirit of his new part, as the saying is. . . . 
 
 69
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 But I ! ... I then gave up in despair, so far 
 as I myself was concerned, and so far as my 
 future was concerned. When sufferings reach 
 such a pitch that they make our whole inward 
 heing crack and creak like an overloaded cart, 
 they ought to cease being ridiculous. . . . But 
 no! laughter not only accompanies tears to the 
 end, to exhaustion, to the point where it is im- 
 possible to shed any more of them,— not at all! 
 it still rings and resounds at a point where the 
 tongue grows dumb and lamentation itself dies 
 away. . . . And then, in the first place, as I have 
 no intention of appearing absurd even to nwself, 
 and in the second place, as I am frightfully tired, 
 I shall defer the continuation and, God Milling, 
 the conclusion of my story until to-morrow. . . , 
 
 March 29. A light frost; last night 
 there was a thaw. 
 
 Yesterday I was unable to go on with my diary ; 
 like Poprishshtchin, I lay most of the time in 
 bed, and chatted with Terentievna. There 's a 
 woman for you! Sixtj- years ago she lost her 
 first betrothed from the plague, she has outlived 
 all her children, she herself is unpardonably old, 
 she drinks tea to her heart's content, she is well- 
 fed, warmly clad; but what do you think she 
 talked to me about yesterdaj^? I had ordered 
 that the cape of an old livery-coat should be 
 given to another utterly denuded old woman for 
 
 70
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 a waistcoat ( she wears a breast-piece in the shape 
 of a waistcoat). . . . The cape was pretty thor- 
 oughly eaten by moths, so why should not she 
 have it? " Well, it strikes me that I 'm your 
 nurse. . . . O-okh, my dear little father, 't is a sin 
 for 3'ou to do that. . . . And have n't I been 
 tending you?" .... and so forth. The mer- 
 ciless old woman fairly wore me out with 
 her reproaches. . . . But let us return to the 
 story. 
 
 So, then, I suffered like a dog which has had 
 the hind part of its body run over by a wheel. 
 Only then, — only after my expulsion from the 
 Ozhogins' house, — did I become definitively 
 aware how much pleasure a man may derive from 
 the contemplation of his own unhappiness. Oh, 
 men ! ye are, in reality, a pitiful race ! . . . AVell, 
 but that is in the nature of a philosophical remark. 
 ... I passed my days in utter solitude, and only 
 in the most roundabout and even base ways was I 
 able to find out what was going on in the Ozho- 
 gin family, what the Prince was doing. JNIy 
 servant struck up an acquaintance with the great- 
 aunt of the wife of his coachman. This acquain- 
 tance afforded me some alleviation, and my 
 servant speedily was able, from my hints and 
 gifts, to divine what it behooved him to talk about 
 with his master, when he was pulling off the lat- 
 ter's boots at night. Sometimes I chanced to meet 
 in the street some member of the Ozhogin family, 
 
 71
 
 THE DIxVRY OF 
 
 BizmyonkofF, or the Prince. . . . With the 
 Prince and BizmyonkofF I exchanged bows, but 
 I did not enter into conversation. 1 saw Liza 
 thrice in all : once with her mamma, in a milliner's 
 shop, once in an open calash with her father, 
 her mother, and the Prince; once in church. 
 Of course, I did not venture to approach her, and 
 oiily gazed at her from afar. In the shop she was 
 anxious but cheerful. . . . She was ordering 
 something for herself, and busily trying on rib- 
 bons. Her mother was gazing at her, w^ith hands 
 clasped on her stomach, her nose elevated, and 
 indulging in that stupid and affectionate smile 
 which is permissible only to fond mothers. Liza 
 was in the calash with the Prince. ... I shall 
 never forget that meeting! The old Ozhogins 
 were sitting on the back seat of the calash, the 
 Prince and Liza in front. She was paler than 
 usual; two pink streaks were barely discernible 
 on her cheeks. She was half -turned toward the 
 Prince; supporting herself on her outstretched 
 right hand (she was holding her parasol in her 
 left), and wearily bending her head, she was 
 gazing straight into his face with her expressive 
 eyes. At that moment she was surrendering her- 
 self utterly to him, trusting him irrevocabh'. I 
 did not have a chance to get a good look at 
 his face, — the calash dashed past too swiftly, — 
 but it seemed to me that he also was deeply 
 moved. 
 
 72
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 The third time I saw her was in church. Not 
 more than ten days had elapsed since the day 
 when I had encountered her in the calash with 
 the Prince, not more than three weeks since my 
 duel. The business on account of which the 
 Prince had come to Q*** had long been finished ; 
 but he still deferred his departure; he reported 
 in Petersburg that he was ill. In the city, people 
 were expecting every day a formal proposal on 
 his part to Kirila Matvyeevitch. I myself was 
 only waiting for this last blow, in order to retire 
 forever. The town of O*** had grown loath- 
 some to me. I could not sit still at home, and from 
 morning till night I dragged mj^self about the 
 suburbs. One grey, wet day, as I was return- 
 ing from a stroll which had been cut short by the 
 rain, I stepped into the church. The evening 
 service was only just beginning, there were very 
 few people present ; I looked about me, and sud- 
 denly, near a window, I descried a familiar pro- 
 file. At first I did not recognise it; that pale 
 face, that extinct glance, those sunken cheeks- 
 could it be the same Liza whom I had seen two 
 weeks before? Enveloped in a cloak, with no 
 hat on her head, illuminated from one side by a 
 cold ray of light, which fell through the broad 
 window of white glass, she was staring immov- 
 ably at the ikonostasis, and, apparently, making 
 a violent effort to pray, striving to escape from 
 some sort of dejected rigidity. A fat, red- 
 
 73
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 cheeked page with yellow cartridge-cases on his 
 breast ^ was standing behind her, with his hands 
 clasped behind his back, and staring with sleepy 
 surprise at his mistress. I shuddered all over; 
 I started to go to her, but stopped short. A 
 torturing forboding gripped my breast. Liza 
 never stirred until the very end of vespers. All 
 the congregation departed, a chanter began to 
 sweep out the church, and still she did not stir 
 from her place. The page approached her, and 
 touched her gown ; she glanced round, passed her 
 hand over her face, and went away. I escorted 
 her, at a distance, to her house, then returned 
 home. 
 
 " She is ruined! " I exclaimed, as I entered my 
 room. 
 
 Being a man, I do not know to this day what 
 was the nature of my sensations then. I remem- 
 ber that, folding my arms, I flung myself on the 
 divan, and riveted mv eyes on the floor; but I 
 did not know why, onh% in the midst of my grief, 
 I seemed to be pleased at something. ... I 
 would not have admitted that on any account, 
 if I were not writing for myself. ... I really 
 had been tortured by painful, terrible forebod- 
 ings .... and, who knows, perhaps I should 
 have been disconcerted if thev had not been ful- 
 filled. " Such is the human heart ! " some mid- 
 dle-aged Russian teacher would exclaim at this 
 
 ^ The page is called a kazdk, and dressed uccordingly. —Translator- 
 
 74
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 point, in an expressive voice, raising on high his 
 thick forefinger adorned with a carnehan ring. 
 But what care we for the opinion of a Russian 
 teacher with an expressive voice, and a carnehan 
 ring on his finger? 
 
 Be that as it may, my forebodings had turned 
 out to be correct. The news suddenlj^ spread 
 through the town that the Prince had taken his 
 departure, in consequence, nominallj^ of an order 
 from Petersburg ; that he had gone away without 
 having made any proposal of marriage either to 
 Kirila JNIatvyeevitch or to his spouse, and that 
 Liza would continue to mourn his perfidy to the 
 end of her days. The Prince's departure had 
 been entirely unexpected, because, as late as the 
 evening before, his coachman, according to the as- 
 sertions of my servant, had not in the least sus- 
 pected his master's intention. This news threw 
 me into a fever. I immediately dressed myself, 
 was on the point of running to the Ozhogins'; 
 but after thinking the matter over, I concluded 
 that it would be decorous to wait until the follow- 
 ing day. However, I lost nothing by remaining 
 at home. That evening there ran in to see me 
 a certain Pandopipopulo, a Greek on his travels, 
 who had accidentally got stranded in O***, a 
 gossip of the first magnitude, who, more than 
 any one else, had seethed with indignation against 
 me for my duel with the Prince. He did not 
 even give my servant time to announce him, but 
 
 M<^ Mr 
 
 7o
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 fairly forced his way into my room, shook me 
 viirorouslv bv the hand, made a thousand excuses 
 for liis conduct, called me a model of mag'nanim- 
 ity and fearlessness, depicted the Prince in the 
 blackest colours, did not spare the old Ozhogins, 
 M-hom Fate had, in his opinion, justly punished; 
 he gave a hit at Liza also in passing, and ran off, 
 after kissing me on the shoulder. Among other 
 things, I learned from him that the Prince, en 
 vrcii grand seigneur, on the eve of his departure, 
 had replied coldly to a delicate hint from Kirila 
 JNIatvj'eevitch, that he had not intended to deceive 
 any one and was not thinking of marrying; had 
 risen, and made his bow, and that was the last 
 they had seen of him. . . . 
 
 On the following day, I betook mj'self to the 
 Ozhogins'. The blear-eyed footman, at m}^ ap- 
 pearance, sprang from the bench in the ante- 
 Toom with lightning-like swiftness; I ordered 
 3iim to announce me. The lackey hastened off, 
 and immediately returned: " Please enter," said 
 he; " I am ordered to invite you in." I entered 
 Kirila ^Nlatvyeevitch's study. . . . Until to-mor- 
 row. 
 
 March 30. A frost. 
 
 So, then, I entered Kirila Matvyeevitch'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 Bu- 
 
 76
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 khara dressing-gown round him, stepped forward 
 to meet me with outstretched hands. I must 
 have fairly radiated an atmosphere of modest 
 triumph, patronising sympatliy, and hmitless 
 magnanimity. ... I felt that I was something 
 in the nature of Scipio Africanus. Ozhogin 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 in- 
 definite remarks about the deceitfulness and in- 
 stability of earthly blessings, and suddenly, be- 
 coming conscious of a tear in his eye, he hastened 
 to take a pinch of snufF, probably with the ob- 
 ject 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 con- 
 versation artfully on the interesting question of 
 rotation of crops. I was dressed as usual; but 
 the feeling of soft decorum and gentle conde- 
 scension which filled my breast, afforded me a 
 
 77
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 festive and fresh sensation, as though I were 
 rearing a white waistcoat and a white neckcloth. 
 One thing disturbed me: the thought of meeting 
 Liza again. . . . At last Ozhogin himself pro- 
 posed to conduct me to his wife. That good, but 
 stupid woman, on beholding me, at first became 
 frightfully embarrassed; but her brain was in- 
 capable of preserving one and the same impres- 
 sion 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 ad- 
 vance 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 re- 
 ception. ... I stared at her in astonishment. 
 . . . What a change had taken place in her! Be- 
 tween 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 ac- 
 
 78
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 quired a more defined outline .... her gaze 
 had become more profound, more firm, and dark. 
 I sat with the Ozhogins 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 shghtly: "You can say 
 anything you like, but j'ou 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 Ozhogins 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 Ozhogins. I did not doubt that Liza still 
 loved and would long love the Prince .... but, 
 being a man tamed now by circumstances and 
 
 79
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 who liad 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 ex- 
 perienced persons, is regarded as the most trust- 
 worthy 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 Ozhogins' house as of 
 yore. Kirila JNIatvyeevitch 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 
 Kirila INIatvyeevitch : he spared her in every possi- 
 ble way ; old oNIadame Ozhogin 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, Bizmyonkoff . 
 The old Ozhogins treated him sternly, even 
 roughly; they could not pardon him for having 
 acted as second ; but lie continued to come to their 
 
 80
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 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 compen- 
 diums of literatiu-e put it, an unprecedented ex- 
 ample 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 un- 
 certainty. 
 
 Behind the Ozhogins' house lay a fairly spa- 
 cious 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. Kirila JNIatvyeevitch 
 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 
 
 81
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 dinner-time, and she immediately presented her- 
 self, 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 Kirila 
 JNIatvyeevitch, put on my hat, and emerged from 
 the anteroom into the courtyard, and from the 
 courtyard into the street, but instantly, with ex- 
 traordinary swiftness, slipped back through the 
 gate and made my way past the kitchen into 
 the garden. Luckily, no one espied me. With- 
 out pausing long to think, I entered the grove 
 with hast}" steps. Before me, on the path, stood 
 Liza. JNIy 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-allej^ 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 audi- 
 ble, and Bizmyonkoff emerged from the coppice. 
 I promj^tly 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 ar- 
 
 82
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 boiir. This arbour was circular in shape, a tiny lit- 
 tle building, with one door and one small window; 
 in the centre was to be seen an old table with a sin- 
 gle 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; BizmyonkofF was 
 holding the left in both his hands. He was gaz- 
 ing at her with sympathy. 
 
 " How do you feel to-day? " — he asked her, in 
 a low voice. 
 
 " Just the same! " — she replied; — " neither bet- 
 ter nor worse. — Emptiness, frightful emjDti- 
 ness! " — she added, dejectedly raising her eyes. 
 
 BizmyonkofF made no reply. 
 
 "What think you," she went on; — "will he 
 write to me again? " 
 
 " I think not, Lizaveta Kirillovna! " 
 
 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. 
 
 83
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 I could not be his wife ; but I was happj'- . . . not 
 for long. ... I was happy. ..." 
 
 BiznivonkofF lowered his eyes. 
 
 " Akh," — she went on with animation; — "if 
 you only knew how loathsome that Tchulkaturin 
 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." 
 
 " Tchulkaturin loves you," — remarked Biz- 
 myonkoff. 
 
 " 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 in- 
 dispensable to me: without j'-ou I should have per- 
 ished. You have helped me to endure terrible mo- 
 ments. . . ." 
 
 She ceased. . . . BizmyonkofF began to stroke 
 her hand with paternal tenderness. " There 's no 
 help for it, there 's no help for it, Lizaveta Kiril- 
 lovna," — he repeated, several times in succession. 
 
 " Yes, and now," — she said dully, — " I think I 
 should die if it were not for j'ou. You alone sus- 
 tain me ; moreover, you remind me .... For you 
 know evervthinof. Do you remember how hand- 
 some he was that day? .... But forgive me: it 
 must be painful for you. . . ." 
 
 84
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 "Speak, speak! What do you mean? God 
 bless you! " — BizmyonkofF interrupted her. She 
 squeezed his hand. 
 
 " You are very kind, Bizmyonkoff ," — 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. INIay 
 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. 
 
 BizmyonkofF 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 mj^self never 
 thought of such a thing. Only poor papa hoped 
 for that. And now I am still not utterly un- 
 happy : there remains to me the memory, and how- 
 ever 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. 
 
 85
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 I do not know how long I had been standing 
 there, without stirring from the spot, absorbed in 
 a soi-t of irrational surprise, when suddenly the 
 sound of footsteps became audible again. I 
 started and peered cautiously from my ambush. 
 BizmvonkofF and Liza were returninof by the 
 same path. Both were greatly agitated, especially 
 BizmyonkofF. He had been weeping, ajipar- 
 ently. Liza halted, gazed at him, and uttered the 
 following words distinctly: " I consent, Bizmyon- 
 kofF. I would not have consented, had you merely 
 wished to save me, to extricate me from a fright- 
 ful position; but you love me, you know all — and 
 you love me; I shall never find a more trustwor- 
 thy, faithful friend. I will be your wife." 
 
 BizmyonkofF kissed her hand ; she smiled sadlj'- 
 at him, and went to the house. BizmyonkofF 
 dashed into the thicket, and I went my way. As 
 BizmyonkofF 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 Ozhogins 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 role of the Prince 
 .... as to that, there is nothing to be said; the 
 role of BizmyonkofF also is comprehensible .... 
 
 86
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 But I? Why was I mixed up in it? . . . wliat 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!"^ — 
 one more little day, then another, and nothing will 
 be either bitter or sweet to me any more. 
 
 March 31. 
 
 Things are bad. I write these lines in bed. The 
 weather has changed suddenly since yesterday. 
 To-day is hot — almost a summer day. Every- 
 thing is thawing, crumbling, and streaming. 
 There is an odour of ploughed earth in the air: 
 a heavy, powerful, oppressive odour. The steam 
 is rising everywhere. The sun is fairly beating, 
 fairly blazing down. I am in a bad way. I feel 
 that I am decomposing. 
 
 I started out to write a diary, and instead of 
 that, what have I done? I have narrated one 
 incident out of my own life. I have been bab- 
 bling, sleeping memories have waked up and car- 
 ried me away. I have written leisurely, in de- 
 tail, as though I still had years before me; and 
 now, lo, there is no time to continue. Death, 
 death is advancing. I can already hear its men- 
 acing crescendo. . . Time 's up. . . . Time 's 
 up! . . . 
 
 1 The hurlaki on the Volga used to tow the barges from Astrakhan 
 to Nizhni Novgorod Fair, against the current. The stevedores also 
 are called hurlaki, and, as they lade the barges, their chantey runs 
 (more literally than I have translated it above): "Yet another little 
 time, yet again, . . ." and so forth. — Translator. 
 
 87
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 And where 's the harm? Does it make any dif- 
 ference wliat I have told? In the presence of 
 death all the last earthly vanities disappear. I 
 feel that I am quieting down; I am becoming 
 more simple, more clear. I have acquired sense, 
 but too late! ... 'T is strange! I am growing 
 still — 't is true, and, nevertheless, I am overcome 
 with dread. Yes, I am overcome with dread. 
 Half-leaning over the voiceless, yawning gulf, 
 I shudder, I turn aside, with eager attention I 
 gaze about in all directions. Every object is 
 doubly dear to me. I cannot gaze my fill at my 
 poor, cheerless room, as I bid farewell to every 
 tiny fleck on my walls! Sate yourselves for the 
 last time, ye eyes of mine! Life is withdrawing; 
 it is flowing evenly and softly away from me, 
 like the shore from the glances of the traveller 
 by sea. The aged, yellow face of my nurse, 
 bound up in a dark kerchief, the hissing samovar 
 on the table, the pot of geranium in front of the 
 window, and thou, my poor dog, Tresor, the pen 
 wherewith I indite these lines, mv own hand, I 
 see vou now .... there vou are, there. . . . 
 Is it possible .... to-day perhaps ... I shall 
 see you no more? 'T is painful for a living being 
 to part with life! Why dost thou fawn on me, 
 poor dog? Why dost thou lean thy breast 
 against my bed convulsively tucking under thy 
 short tail, and never taking from me thy kind, 
 sad eyes? Art thou sorrj^ for me? Dost thou 
 
 88
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 already feel instinctively that thy master will 
 soon be no more? Akh, if I could also pass in 
 review mentally all the objects in my room! I 
 know that these memories are cheerless and in- 
 significant, but I have no others. Emptiness, 
 frightful emptiness! as Liza said. 
 
 Oh, mj^ God! JNIy God! Here I am dying. 
 . . . JNIy heart capable of love, and ready to love, 
 will soon cease to beat. . . And can it be that it 
 will be silenced forever, without having even once 
 tasted of happiness, without having a single 
 time swelled beneath the sweet burden of joy? 
 Alas! 't is impossible, impossible, I know. . . If 
 at least now, before my death — and death, never- 
 theless, is a sacred thing, for it elevates every 
 being — if some charming, sad, friendh^ voice 
 were to sing over me the parting song of my 
 own woe, perhaps I might become reconciled to 
 it. But to die is stupid, stupid. . . 
 
 I believe I am beginning to rave. 
 
 Farewell life, farewell my garden, and you, 
 my lindens! When summer comes, see that you 
 do not forget to cover yourselves with flowers 
 from top to bottom .... and may good people 
 lie in your fragrant shade, on the cool grass 
 beneath the lisping murmur of your leaves, 
 lightly agitated by the breeze. Farewell, fare- 
 well ! Farewell everything, and forever ! 
 
 Farewell, Liza! I have written these two 
 words— and have almost laughed- That exclam- 
 
 89
 
 THE DIARY OF 
 
 ation seems bookish. I seem to be composing 
 a sentimental novel, and ending up a despairing 
 letter. . . . 
 
 To-morrow is the first of April. Can it be 
 that I shall die to-morrow? That would be ra- 
 ther indecorous even. However, it befits me. . . 
 
 How the doctor did gabble to-day. . . . 
 
 April 1. 
 
 'T IS over. Life is ended. I really shall die 
 to-day. It is hot out of doors . . . almost sti- 
 fling .... or is it that my chest is alreadj'- re- 
 fusing to breathe? ]My little comedy has been 
 played through. The curtain is falling. 
 
 In becoming annihilated, I shall cease to be 
 superfluous. . . 
 
 Akh, how brilliant that sun is ! Those powerful 
 rays exhale eternity. . . 
 
 Farewell, Terentievna! . . . This morning, 
 as she sat by the window, she fell to weeping 
 .... perhaps over me . . . and perhaps, be- 
 cause she herself must die before long also. I 
 made her promise " not to hurt " Tresor. 
 
 It is difficult for me to write. ... I drop my 
 pen. . . 'T is time! Death is already drawing 
 near with increasing rumble, like a carriage by 
 night on the pavement: it is here, it is hovering 
 around me, like that faint breath which made 
 the hair of the prophet stand upright on his 
 head. . . 
 
 90
 
 A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 I am dying. . . Live on, ye living. 
 
 And may the youiifr life pla}-^ 
 At the entrance of the grave, 
 And Nature the indifferent 
 With beauty beam forever! 
 
 Note of the Editor.— Under this last line there is the profile of a 
 head with a large crest-curl and moustache, with eyes en face, and 
 ray-like eyelashes; and under the head some one has written the 
 following words: 
 
 The abov manuscript has been read 
 
 And the Contints Thereof Bin Approved 
 
 By Pyetr Zudotydshin 
 
 M M M M 
 
 Dear Sir 
 
 Pyetr Zudoty^sbin. 
 
 My Dear Sir. 
 
 But as the chirography of these lines does not in the least agree 
 with the chirography in which the remainder of the note-book is 
 written, the editor considers himself justified in concluding that the 
 above-mentioned lines were added afterward by another person ; the 
 more so, as it has come to his (the editor's) knowledge that Mr. 
 Tchulkaturin really did die on the night of April 1-2, 18 . . , in his 
 natal estate— Ovetchi Vody. 
 
 91
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 (1840)
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 THE neighbours " constitute one of the most 
 serious drawbacks to country hfe. I knew 
 one landed proprietor of the Government of 
 Vologda, who, at every convenient opportunity, 
 was wont to repeat the following words: " Thank 
 God, I have no neighbours! " — and I must ad- 
 mit that I could not refrain from envying that 
 lucky mortal. 
 
 My little village is situated in one of the most 
 thickly-populated governments of Russia. I am 
 surrounded by a vast multitude of petty neigh- 
 bours, beginning with the well-intentioned and 
 respected landed proprietors, clad in capacious 
 dress-coats, and more capacious waistcoats, — and 
 ending with arrant roysterers, who wear hussar- 
 jackets with long sleeves and the so-called 
 " fimsky " knot on the back. In the ranks of 
 these nobles, however, I have accidentally dis- 
 covered one very amiable young fellow. Once 
 upon a time he was in the military service, then 
 he retired, and settled down for good and all 
 in the country. According to his account, he 
 served two years in the B*** regiment; but I 
 positively cannot understand how that man 
 
 9,5
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 could have discharged any duties whatsoever, not 
 only for the space of two years, but even for 
 the space of two days. He was born " for a 
 peaceful life, for rustic tranquillity," that is to 
 say, for indolent, careless vegetation, which, I 
 may remark in parenthesis, is not devoid of great 
 and inexhaustible charms. 
 
 He enjoyed a very respectable property: 
 without troubling himself too much about the 
 management of his estate, he spent about ten thou- 
 sand rubles ^ a year, procured for himself a capi- 
 tal cook (my friend was fond of good eating) ; 
 he also imported from ^Moscow the newest French 
 books and journals. He read nothing in Rus- 
 sian except the reports of his overseer, and that 
 with great difficulty. From morning until dinner 
 (if he did not go off hunting), he did not doff 
 his dressing-gown; he sorted over some sketches 
 or other pertaining to the management, or be- 
 took himself to the stable, or to the thresliing- 
 shed, and indulged in a good laugh with the 
 peasant wives, who rattled their chains, as the 
 saying is, in his presence, out of ostentation. 
 After dinner my friend dressed himself before 
 the mirror with great care, and drove off to some 
 neighbour endowed with two or three pretty 
 3'oung daughters; heedlessh^ and pacifically, he 
 
 ^ A ruble, at the present time, is worth, on an averag-e, about fifty- 
 two cents. At the period here referred to, the silver ruble would pur- 
 chase more than a ruble nowadays, while the paper ruble was worth 
 very little. — TnAxsLAxoR. 
 
 96
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 dangled after one of them, played at blind-man's 
 buif with them, returned home rather late, and 
 immediately sank into heroic slumber. He could 
 not feel bored, because he never devoted him- 
 self to absolute inaction, and he was not fas- 
 tidious as to his choice of occupations, and, like 
 a child, was amused with the smallest trifle. On 
 the other hand, he felt no special attachment to 
 life, and, it sometimes happened, that when it 
 became necessary to outrun a wolf or a fox, he 
 would launch his horse at full speed over such 
 ravines, that to this day I cannot understand 
 why he did not break his neck a hundred times. 
 He belonged to the category of people who evoke 
 in you the thought that they are not aware of their 
 own value, that beneath their external generosity 
 great and mighty passions are concealed; but he 
 would have laughed in your face, if he could 
 have guessed that you cherished such an opinion 
 concerning him; yes, and, I am bound to admit, 
 I think myself that if my friend was haunted in 
 his youth by any aspiration, indistinct but power- 
 ful, toward what is very prettily called " some- 
 thing higher," that aspiration had long, long ago 
 calmed down in him and pined away. 
 
 He was rather obese, and enjoyed splendid 
 health. In our age, it is impossible not to like 
 people who give little thought to themselves, be- 
 cause they are extremeh^ rare .... and my 
 friend almost completely forgot his own person. 
 
 97
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 However, I have already said too much about 
 him, I think — and my chattering is all the more 
 ill-placed, since he does not serve as the subject 
 of my story. His name was Piotr Feodorovitch 
 LutchinofF. 
 
 One autumn day, five of us thorough-going 
 sportsmen had assembled together at Piotr Feo- 
 dorovitch's. We had spent the entire morning 
 in the fields, had coursed two wolves and a mul- 
 titude of hares, and had returned home in the 
 ravishingly-agreeable frame of mind which in- 
 vades every well-regulated man after a successful 
 hunt. 
 
 Twilight was descending. The wind was play- 
 ing over the dark fields, and noisily rocking the 
 naked crests of the birches and lindens which sur- 
 rounded Lutchinoff's house. We arrived, and 
 alighted from our horses. . . On the porch I 
 halted and glanced about me: long storm-clouds 
 were crawling heavily across the grey sky; a 
 dark-brown bush was writhing in the wind, and 
 creaking piteously; the yellow grass bent feebly 
 and sadly to the ground ; flocks of blackbirds were 
 flying to and fro among the mountain-ash trees, 
 dotted with clusters of bright-scarlet berries ; ^ 
 in the slender and brittle branches of the birch- 
 trees tomtits were hopping and whistling; the 
 dogs were barking hoarsely in the village. Melan- 
 
 ^ A very good preserve, with a slightly wild or bitter taste, is made 
 from these berries in Russia. It is a favourite preserve for putting 
 in tea. — Teanslatoe. 
 
 98
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 choly overpowered me .... for whicli reason I en- 
 tered the dining-room with genuine pleasure. The 
 shutters were closed; on the round tahle, covered 
 with a cloth of dazzling whiteness, in the midst 
 of crystal caraifes filled with red wine, burned 
 eight candles in silver candlesticks; a fire blazed 
 merrily on the hearth — and an old, very comely 
 butler, with a huge bald spot, dressed in Eng- 
 lish fashion, stood in respectful immobility in 
 front of another table, which was already adorned 
 with a large soup-tureen, encircled with a light, 
 fragrant steam. In the anteroom we had passed 
 another respectable man, engaged in cooling 
 the champagne — " according to the strict rules 
 of the art." 
 
 The dinner was, as is usual on such occasions, 
 extremely agreeable; we laughed, recounted the 
 incidents which had occurred during the hunt, 
 and recalled with rapture two notable " drives." 
 After having dined rather heartily, we disposed 
 ourselves in broad arm-chairs in front of the 
 fireplace; a capacious silver bowl made its ap- 
 pearance on the table, and, a few moments later, 
 the flitting flame of rum announced to us our 
 host's pleasant intention to " brew a punch."— 
 Piotr Feodorovitch was a man not lacking in 
 taste; he knew, for example, that nothing has 
 such deadly effect on the fancy as the even, cold, 
 and pedantic light of lamps— therefore he or- 
 dered that only two candles should be left in 
 
 99
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 the room. Strange half-shadows quivered on the 
 walls, produced by the fitJlul play of the fire on 
 the hearth, and the flame of the punch .... a 
 quiet, extremely agreeable comfort replaced in 
 our hearts the somewhat obstreperous jollity 
 which had reigned at dinner. 
 
 Conversations have their fates— like books (ac- 
 cording to the Latin apothegm), like everything 
 in the world. Our conversation on that evening 
 was peculiarly varied and vivacious. In part it 
 rose to decidedly important general questions, 
 then lightly and unconstrainedly returned to the 
 commonplaces of everyday life. . . . After chat- 
 ting a good deal, we all suddenlj' fell silent. At 
 such times, they saj^ the angel of silence flits past. 
 
 I do not know why my companions ceased 
 talking, but I stopped because my eyes had sud- 
 denly paused on three dust}^ portraits in black 
 wooden frames. The colours had been rubbed 
 off, and here and there the canvas was warped, 
 but the faces could still be distinguished. The 
 middle portrait represented a woman, young in 
 years, in a white gown with lace borders, and a 
 tall coiffure of the eighties. On her right, against 
 a perfectly black background, w^as visible the 
 round, fat face of a good-natured Russian 
 landed proprietor five-and-twenty years of age, 
 with a low, broad forehead, a stubby nose, and an 
 ingenuous smile. The powdered French coiffure 
 was extremely out of keeping with the expres- 
 
 100
 
 THREE POKTHAITS 
 
 sion of his Slavonic countenance. The artist had 
 depicted him in a kaftan of crimson hue with 
 large strass buttons; in his hand he held some 
 sort of unusual flower. The third portrait, 
 painted by another and more experienced hand, 
 represented a man of thirty, in a green uniform 
 of the 25eriod of Katherine II, with red fac- 
 ings, a white under-waistcoat, and a thin batiste 
 neckerchief. With one hand he leaned on a 
 cane with a gold head, the other he had thrust 
 into his waistcoat. His thin, swarthy face 
 breathed forth insolent arrogance. His long, 
 slender eyebrows almost met over his pitch-black 
 eyes; on his pale, barely -perceptible lips played 
 an evil smile. 
 
 "What makes you stare at those faces?" — 
 Piotr Feodorovitch asked me. 
 
 "Because!" — I answered, looking at him. 
 
 " Would you like to hear the whole storj^ about 
 those three persons? " 
 
 " Pray, do us the favour to tell it," — we re- 
 plied with one voice. 
 
 Piotr Feodorovitch rose, took a candle, raised 
 it to the portraits, and in the voice of a man who 
 is exhibiting wild animals, "Gentlemen!" he 
 proclaimed : " this ladj^ is the adopted daughter of 
 my own great-grandfather, Olga Ivanovna XX., 
 called LutchinofF, wlio died unmarried forty 
 years ago. This gentleman," — pointing to the 
 portrait of the man in uniform, — " is sergeant 
 
 101
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 of the Guards, Vasily Ivanovitch Lutchinoff, 
 who departed this hfe, by the will of God, in 
 the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety. 
 And this gentleman, to whom I have not the 
 honour to be related, is a certain Pavel Afana- 
 sievitch Rogatchyoff, who never served any- 
 where, so far as I am aware. Please to note the 
 hole which is in his breast, in the exact place of 
 the heart. This hole, which is, as you see, regular, 
 and three-cornered, probably could not have hap- 
 pened accidentally. . . . Xow," — he went on in 
 his ordinary voice, — " please to take your seats, 
 arm j'ourselves with patience, and listen." 
 
 Gentlemen (he began) I descend from a 
 fairly ancient race. I am not proud of my 
 descent, because my ancestors were all frightful 
 spendthrifts. This reproach, however, does not 
 apply to my great-grandfather, Ivan Andreevitch 
 Lutchinoif, — on the contrary, he bore the repu- 
 tation of being an extraordinarily penurious and 
 even miserly man — during the last years of his 
 life, at all events. He passed his youth in Peters- 
 burg, and was a witness of Elizaveta's reign. 
 In Petersburg he married, and had by his wife, 
 who was also my great-grandmother, four chil- 
 dren — three sons, Vasily, Ivan and Pavel (my 
 grandfather) , and one daughter, Natalya. In ad- 
 dition to these, Ivan Andreevitch took into his 
 family the daughter of a distant relative, a full 
 
 102
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 and nameless orphan, — Olga Ivanovna, of whom 
 I have already spoken. jNIy great-grandfather's 
 subjects were, probably, aware of his existence, 
 because they were in the habit of sending to him 
 (when no particular catastrophe had happened) 
 a very considerable sum in quit-rents; — but they 
 had never beheld his face. The village of Lutchi- 
 novko, deprived of the light of its master's 
 countenance, was thriving, — when, all of a sud- 
 den, one fine morning, a heavy travelling carriage 
 drove into the village, and drew up in front of 
 the Elder's cottage. Tlie peasants, startled by 
 such an unprecedented event, flocked thither and 
 beheld their master, mistress, and all the pair's 
 off*spring, with the exception of the eldest, Vasily, 
 who had remained in Petersburg. From that 
 memorable day forth, and to the very day of his 
 death, Ivan Andreevitch never quitted Lutchi- 
 novko. He built himself a house, this very house 
 in which I now have the pleasure of chatting 
 with you; he also built the church, and began 
 to live the life of a landed proprietor. Ivan An- 
 dreevitch was a man of huge stature, gaunt, 
 taciturn, and extremely slow in all his move- 
 ments; he never wore a dressing-gown, and no 
 one, with the exception of his valet, had ever seen 
 him with unpowdered hair. Ivan Andreevitch 
 habitually walked with his hands clasped behind 
 his back, slowly turning his head at every step. 
 Every day he walked in the long linden alley, 
 
 103
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 which he had planted with his own hands, — and 
 before his death he had the satisfaction of en- 
 joying the shade of those hndens. 
 
 Ivan Andreevitch was extremely parsimonious 
 of his words; this remarkable circumstance may 
 serve as a p^roof of his taciturnity — that in the 
 space of twenty years he never said a single word 
 to his spouse, Anna Pavlovna. Altogether, his 
 relations to Anna Pavlovna were of a very 
 strange nature. — She administered all the domes- 
 tic affairs, at dinner she always sat by her hus- 
 band's side, — he would ruthlessly have chastised 
 an}' man w^ho presumed to utter one disrespectful 
 word to her, — and yet he himself never spoke 
 to her, and never touched her hand. Anna 
 Pavlovna was a pale, timid, crushed woman; 
 every day she prayed in church on her knees/ 
 and never smiled. It was said that formerly, 
 that is to sa3% before their arrival in the coun- 
 try, they had lived in grand style; it was said, 
 also, that Anna Pavlovna had broken her mari- 
 tal vows, that her husband had found out about 
 her fault. . . . However that may have been, 
 Ivan Andreevitch, even when he lay dj^ing, did 
 
 ^Except during Lent, and for special prayers on Christmas Day, 
 New Year's Day and Pentecost (Trinity Sunday), iiardly any kneel- 
 ing is prescribed by the rubrics of the Eastern Catholic Church. 
 During Easter-tide and on all Sundays it is forbidden by the rubrics, 
 on the ground that joy in the resurrection should overpower the sense 
 of sin and contrition. These rules are not always regarded. But a 
 person who kneels much is conspicuous, and spectators assume that the 
 posture indicates great grief or contrition— as above. — Tuanslatok. 
 
 104
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 not become reconciled to her. She never left him 
 during his last illness; but he seemed not to no- 
 tice her. One night, Anna Pavlovna was sitting 
 in Ivan Andreevitch's bedroom; he was tortured 
 with insomnia; the shrine-lamp was burning in 
 front of the holy picture ; my great-grandfather's 
 servant, Yiiditch, concerning whom I shall have 
 a couple of words to say to you hereafter, had 
 left the room. Anna Pavlovna rose, crossed the 
 chamber, and flung herself, sobbing, on her 
 knees before her husband's bed, tried to sav some- 
 thing — and stretched out her arms. . . . Ivan 
 Andreevitch looked at her — and shouted in a 
 weak but firm voice: " Man! " The servant en- 
 tered. Anna Pavlovna hastily rose to her feet, 
 and returned, reeling, to her place. 
 
 Ivan Andreevitch's children were extremely 
 afraid of him. They grew up in the country, 
 and were witnesses of Ivan Andreevitch's strange 
 behaviour to his wife. They all passionately loved 
 Anna Pavlovna, but dared not express their love. 
 She herself seemed to shun them. . . . You re- 
 member my grandfather, gentlemen: to the day 
 of his death, he always used to go about on tip- 
 toe, and he spoke in a whisper .... that 's 
 what habit will do! My grandfather and his 
 brother Ivan Ivanovitch were plain, kind, peace- 
 able and melancholy people; my grand'tante 
 Natalya married a coarse, stupid man, as you 
 know% and until her death cherished for him a 
 
 105
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 dumb, servile, sheep-like love; but their brother 
 Vasily was not like that. 
 
 I think I have told you that Ivan Andreevitch 
 left him in Petersburg. He was twenty years 
 old at the time. His father confided him to the 
 care of a distant relative, a man no longer young, 
 a bachelor and a frightful Voltairian. 
 
 Vasily grew up, and entered the service. He 
 was small of stature, but well built and extremely 
 agile; he spoke French splendidly, and was re- 
 nowned for his skill at fighting with the broad- 
 sword. He was considered one of the most bril- 
 liant young men of the beginning of Katherine 
 II's reign. My father often told me that he knew 
 more than one old woman who could not men- 
 tion Vasily Ivanovitch Lutchinoff without heart- 
 felt emotion. Picture to yourself a man gifted 
 with remarkable strength of will, passionate and 
 calculating, patient and daring, secretive to the 
 last degree and — according to the words of all 
 his contemporaries — bewitchingly, enchantingly 
 amiable. He had neither conscience nor good- 
 nature nor honour, although no one could call 
 him a positively bad man. He was selfish — but 
 knew how to conceal his selfishness, and was pas- 
 sionately fond of independence. When Vasily 
 Ivanovitch used, smilingly, to screw up his black 
 eyes, when he wanted to fascinate any one, they 
 say that it was impossible to resist him — and 
 even people who were convinced of the coldness 
 
 106
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 and hardness of his spirit more than once sur- 
 rendered to the bewitching power of his influence. 
 He zealously served himself, and made others 
 toil also for his benefit, and always succeeded in 
 everything, because he never lost his head, did 
 not disdain flattery as a means, and understood 
 how to flatter. 
 
 Ten years after Ivan Andreevitch settled in 
 the country, he came to Lutchinovko as a bril- 
 liant officer of the Guards, for four months, — 
 and in that space of time succeeded in turning 
 the head even of the surly old man, his father. 
 It is strange! Ivan Andreevitch listened with 
 delight to his son's tales of his conquests. His 
 brothers were dumb in his presence, and admired 
 him as a superior being. And even Anna Pav- 
 lovna herself came to love him almost more 
 than all her other children, who were so sincerely 
 devoted to her. 
 
 Vasily Ivanovitch came to the country, in the 
 first place, in order to see his relatives; but, in 
 the second place also, in order to get as much 
 money as possible out of his father. He had 
 lived sumptuously and kept open house in Peters- 
 burg, and had contracted a multitude of debts. 
 It was not easy for him to reconcile himself to 
 his parent's stinginess, and, although Ivan An- 
 dreevitch gave him for his trip alone more money, 
 in all probability, than he gave all his other chil- 
 dren in the space of the twenty years which they 
 
 107
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 spent in the paternal house, yet Vasily stuck 
 to the famihar Russian rule: " Take all you can 
 get!" 
 
 Ivan Andreevitch had a servant, Yiiditch by 
 name, as tall, gaunt, and taciturn a man as his 
 master. They say that this Yiiditch was, in part, 
 the cause of the strange behaviour of Ivan An- 
 dreevitch to Anna Pavlovna: thej^ saj^ that it 
 was he who discovered the guilty liaison of my 
 great -grandmother with one of my great-grand- 
 father's best friends. Probably Yiiditch deeply 
 repented of his ill-judged zeal, because it would 
 be difficult to conceive of a more kind-hearted 
 man. His memory is held sacred to this day by 
 all my house-serfs. Yiiditch enjoyed the un- 
 bounded confidence of my great-grandfather. 
 At that period, landed proprietors had money, 
 but did not hand it over to loan institutions for 
 safe-keeping, but kept it themselves in coffers, 
 in cellars, and the like. Ivan Andreevitch kept 
 all his money in a huge iron-bound coffer, which 
 stood under the head of his bed. The key to 
 this coffer was handed over to Yiiditch. Every 
 evening, when he went to bed, Ivan Andreevitch 
 ordered this chest to be opened in his presence, 
 tapped all the tightly-stuffed sacks in turn with 
 his cane, and on Saturdays, he and Yiiditch un- 
 tied the sacks and carefully counted over the 
 money. 
 
 Vasily found out about all these performances 
 
 108
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 and was fired with a desire to rummage a bit 
 in the sacred coffer. In the course of five or six 
 days he mollified Yiiditch, that is to say, he re- 
 duced the poor old fellow to such a state that — as 
 the saying is — he fairly worshipped his young 
 master. After having properly prepared him, 
 Vasily assumed a careworn and gloomy aspect, 
 for a long time refused to answer Yuditch's in- 
 quiries and, at last, told him that he had gam- 
 bled awa}^ all his money, and intended to lay 
 violent hands on himself if he did not obtain 
 money from somewhere. Yuditch began to sob, 
 flung himself on his knees before him, begged 
 him to remember God, not to ruin his soul. Va- 
 sily, without uttering a word, locked himself up 
 in his chamber. After a while, he heard some 
 one knocking cautiously on his door. He opened 
 the door and beheld on the threshold Yuditch, 
 pale and trembling, with a key in his hands. 
 Vasily immediately understood everything. At 
 first he resisted for a long time. Yuditch kept 
 repeating with tears; "Pray, master, take it!" 
 ... At last, Vasily consented. This hapiDcned 
 on Monday. The idea occurred to Vasily to re- 
 place the money he abstracted with bits of glass. 
 He reckoned on Ivan Andreevitch's not paying 
 any special heed to the barely perceptible differ- 
 ence in the sound when he tapped the sacks with 
 his cane, — and by Saturday he hoped to obtain 
 money and replace it in the sacks. No sooner 
 
 109
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 thought than done. His father, in fact, did not 
 notice anything. But Vasily did not obtain 
 money by Saturday: he had hoped, with the 
 money he had taken, to clean out at the card-table 
 a certain wealthy neighbour— and, on the con- 
 trary, he lost everything himself. In the mean- 
 time, Saturday arrived; the turn came for the 
 sacks stuffed with bits of glass. Picture to your- 
 selves, gentlemen, the amazement of Ivan An- 
 dreevitch ! 
 
 "What 's the meaning of this?"— he thun- 
 dered. 
 
 Yiiditch made no reply. 
 
 " Hast thou stolen this money? " 
 No, sir. 
 
 " Then has some one taken the key from thee? " 
 
 " I have not given the kev to anv one." 
 
 " Not to any one? If thou hast not given it 
 to any one — thou art the thief. Confess! " 
 
 " I am not a thief, Ivan Andreevitch." 
 
 " Whence came these bits of glass, damn it? 
 So thou art deceiving me? For the last time 
 I say to thee — confess! " 
 
 Yuditch hung liis head and clasped his hands 
 behind his back. 
 
 "Hey there, people!" shouted Ivan Andree- 
 vitch in a raging voice. — " The rods! " 
 
 " What? You mean to ... . whip . . . 
 me? " whispered Yuditch. 
 
 " Thou shalt catch it ! And how art thou any 
 
 no
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 better than the rest? Thou art a thief! Well, 
 now, Yiiclitch! I had not expected such rascality 
 from thee! " 
 
 " I have grown grey in your service, Ivan An- 
 dreevitch," said Yiiditch with an effort. 
 
 " And what care I about tliy grey hair? May 
 the devil take thee and thy service! " 
 
 The people entered. 
 
 " Take him, and give him a good flogging! " 
 
 Ivan Andreevitch's lips were pale and trem- 
 bling. He ramped about the room like a wild 
 beast in a confined cage. 
 
 The men did not dare to execute his com- 
 mands. 
 
 " What are you standing there for, you vile 
 serfs? have I got to lay hands on him myself, I 'd 
 like to know? " 
 
 Yiiditch started for the door. 
 
 "Stop!" yelled Ivan Andreevitch. — " Yii- 
 ditch, for the last time I say to thee, I entreat 
 thee, Yiiditch, confess." 
 
 " I cannot," moaned Yiiditch. 
 
 "Then seize him, the old sycophant! . . . 
 Flog him to death! On my head be it! " thun- 
 dered the maddened old man. The torture be- 
 gan. . . . 
 
 Suddenly the door flew open, and Vasi'ly en- 
 tered. He was almost paler than his father, his 
 hands trembled, his upper lip was raised and dis- 
 closed a row of white, even teeth. 
 
 Ill
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 " I am guilty," he said in a dull but steady 
 voice. — " I took the money." 
 
 The men stopped short. 
 
 " Thou! what? ! thou, Vaska! without the con- 
 sent of Yuditch? " 
 
 " Xo! "— said Yiiditch:— " with my consent. 
 I myself gave the key to Vasily Ivanovitch. Dear 
 little father, Vasily Ivanovitch! why have j'ou 
 deigned to trouble yourself? " 
 
 " So that 's who the thief is! "—shouted Ivan 
 Andreevitch. — " Thanks, Vasily, thanks! But 
 I shall not spare thee, Yuditch, all the same. 
 Why didst not thou confess all to me at once? 
 Hey, there, you! why have you stopped? or do 
 you no longer recognise my authority? And 
 I '11 settle with you, my dear little dove!" he 
 added, turning to Vasily. 
 
 The men were on the point of setting to work 
 again on Yuditch. 
 
 " Don't touch him! " whispered Vasfly through 
 his teeth. The servants did not heed him. 
 — " Back! " he shouted, and hurled himself upon 
 them. . . . They staggered back. 
 
 "Ah! a rebel! "—moaned Ivan Andreevitch, 
 and raising his cane, he advanced on his son. 
 
 Vasily leaped aside, grasped the hilt of his 
 sword, and bared it half-way. All began to 
 tremble. Anna Pavlovna, attracted bv the noise, 
 frightened and pale, made her appearance in the 
 doorway. 
 
 112
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 Ivan Andreevitch's face underwent a frightful 
 change. He staggered, dropped his cane, and 
 fell heavily into an arm-chair, covering his face 
 with both hands. No one stirred; all stood as 
 though rooted to the spot, not excepting even 
 Vasily. He convulsively gripped the steel hilt 
 of his sword, his eyes flashed with a morose, evil 
 gleam. . . . 
 
 " Go away all . . . begone," — said Ivan An- 
 dreevitch in a low voice, without removing his 
 hands from his face. 
 
 The whole throng withdrew. Vasily halted on 
 the threshold, then suddenly tossed his head, em- 
 braced Yiiditch, kissed his mother's hand . . . 
 and two hours later he was no longer in the vil- 
 lage. He had departed for Petersburg. 
 
 On the evening of that day, Yiiditch was sit- 
 ting on the porch of the house-serfs' cottage. 
 The servants swarmed around him, pitied him, 
 and bitterly blamed the master. 
 
 " Stop, my lads," he said to them at last;— 
 " enough of that .... why do you abuse him? 
 I don't believe that he, our dear little father, is 
 pleased himself with his desperate deed. . . ." 
 
 As a result of this affair, Vasily never saw his 
 parents again. Ivan Andreevitch died without 
 him, probably with such grief at his heart as may 
 God spare any of us from experiencing. In the 
 meantime, Vasily Ivanovitch went out in society, 
 made merry after his own fashion, and squan- 
 
 113
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 dered money. How he obtained the money, I 
 cannot say with certainty. He procured for him- 
 self a French servant, a clever and intelligent 
 young fellow, a certain Boursier. This man be- 
 came passionately attached to him, and aided 
 him in all his numerous performances. I have no 
 intention of narrating to you in detail all the 
 pranks of my great-uncle; he distinguished him- 
 self by such unbounded audacity, such snaky 
 tact, such incredible cold-bloodedness, such adroit 
 and subtle wit, that, I must confess, I can under- 
 stand the limitless power of that unprincipled 
 man over the most noble souls. . . . 
 
 Soon after his father's death, Vasily Iva- 
 novitch, notwithstanding all his tact, was chal- 
 lenged to a duel by an outraged husband. He 
 fought, severely wounded his antagonist, and 
 was forced to quit the capital : he was ordered 
 to reside permanently on his hereditary estate. 
 Vasily Ivanovitch was thirty years of age. You 
 can easily imagine, gentlemen, with what feelings 
 this man, who had become accustomed to the 
 brilliant life of the capital, journeyed to his na- 
 tive place. They say that, on the road, he fre- 
 quently got out of his kibitka, flung himself face 
 down on the snow, and wept. No one in Lu- 
 tchinovko recognised the former jolly, amiable 
 Vasfly Ivanovitch. He spoke to no one, he went 
 off hunting from morning until night, with visi- 
 ble impatience endured the timid caresses of his 
 
 114
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 mother, and jeered pitilessly at his brothers, and 
 at their wives (both of them were already mar- 
 ried). . . . 
 
 So far I have said nothing to you, I believe, 
 about Olga Ivanovna. She had been brought 
 to Lutchinovko as an infant at the breast; she 
 had almost died on the way. Olga Ivanovna had 
 been reared, as the saying is, in the fear of God 
 and of her parents. ... It must be confessed 
 that Ivan Andreevitch and Anna Pavlovna both 
 treated her like a daughter. But there was con- 
 cealed in her a feeble spark of that fire which 
 blazed so brightly in the soul of Vasily Ivano- 
 vitch. In the meantime, while Ivan Andree- 
 vitch's own children did not dare to indulge in 
 conjectures concerning the strange, speechless 
 quarrel between their parents, Olga, from her 
 earliest years had been disturbed and pained by 
 the position of Anna Pavlovna. Like Vasily, she 
 loved independence; all oppression revolted her. 
 She had attached herself to her benefactress with 
 all the powers of her soul; she hated old Lutchi- 
 nofF, and more than once, as she sat at table, she 
 had fixed upon him such sombre glances, that even 
 the man who was serving the viands felt fright- 
 ened. Ivan Andreevitch did not notice all those 
 glances, because, in general, he paid no attention 
 whatever to his family. 
 
 At first, Anna Pavlovna endeavoured to ex- 
 terminate this hatred in her— but several bold 
 
 115
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 questions on Olga's part forced her to complete 
 silence. Ivan Andreevitch's children adored 
 Olga, and the old woman loved her also, although 
 with rather a cold affection. 
 
 Prolonged sorrow had crushed all cheerfulness, 
 all strong feeling, in this poor woman; nothing 
 so clearly proves Vasily's bewitching amiability 
 as the fact that he made even his mother love him 
 ardently. Effusions of tenderness on the jDart 
 of children was not in the spirit of that age, and 
 therefore it is not surprising that Olga did not 
 venture to display her devotion, although she 
 always kissed Anna Pavlovna's hand with par- 
 ticular respect in the evening, when she bade her 
 good-night. She was barely able to read and 
 write. Twenty years later, Russian girls began 
 to read novels in the style of the " Adventures of 
 Marquis G***,"— " Fanfan and Lolotte,"-of 
 "Alexyei; or. The Cot in the Forest ";— they 
 began to learn to play on the clavichord and to 
 sing romances in the st\de of the following, once 
 verv familiar song: 
 
 "Men in the light 
 
 Cling to us like flies '" — and so forth. 
 
 But in the '70s (Olga Ivanovna was born in the 
 year 1757) , our rustic beauties had no concep- 
 tion of all these accomplishments. It would be 
 difficult for us now to picture to ourselves a 
 
 116
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 young Russian girl of good birth of that e])och. 
 We can, it is true, judge from our granchnothers 
 as to the degree of education of noble gentle- 
 women in the times of Katherine II; but how is 
 one to distinguish that which was inculcated in 
 them in the course of their long life, from that 
 which they were in the days of their youth ? 
 
 Olga Ivanovna spoke a little French, but with 
 a strong Russian accent; in her day, there was no 
 thought of such a thing as the emigres} In a 
 word, with all her good qualities, she was, never- 
 theless, a decided savage, and, probably, in the 
 simplicity of her heart, she more than once ad- 
 ministered chastisement with her own hands to 
 some unlucky maid. . . . 
 
 Some time before Vasilv Ivanovitch's arrival, 
 Olga Ivanovna had been betrothed to a neigh- 
 bour,— Pavel Afanasievitch RogatchyofF, an ex- 
 tremely good-natured and honourable man. Na- 
 ture had forgotten to endow him with gall. His 
 own servants did not obey him; they sometimes 
 all went off, from the first to the last of them, 
 and left poor Rogatchyoff without any dinner 
 . . . but nothing could disturb the tranquillity 
 of his soul. He had been distinguished, even 
 from his childhood, by his obesity and sluggish- 
 ness; he had never served anj^vhere, and he was 
 
 1 Many exiles caused by the French Revolution found refuge in 
 Russia as tutors. Some founded families there, intermarrying' with 
 Russians, and their Russified names are easily recognisable.— Trans- 
 lator. 
 
 117
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 fond of going to church and singing in the choir. 
 Look at that good-natured, round face, gentle- 
 men; gaze at that tranquil, brilliant smile . . . . 
 does not it make you feel cheerful yourselves? 
 Once in a Avhile his father had driven over to 
 Lutchinovko, and had brought with him, on fes- 
 tival days, his Pavlusha, whom the little Lutchi- 
 nofFs tormented in every possible ^vsty. Pavlusha 
 grew up, began to go to Ivan Andreevitch's of 
 his own accord, fell in love witli Olga Ivanovna, 
 and offered her his hand and liis heart — not to 
 her personally, but to her benefactors. Her 
 benefactors gave tlieir consent. They never even 
 thought of asking Olga Ivanovna whether she 
 liked RogatchyofF. At that epoch, — as our 
 grandmothers used to say, — " such luxuries were 
 not in fashion." But Olga speedily got used to 
 her betrothed: it was impossible not to grow at- 
 tached to that gentle, indulgent being. 
 
 Rogatchyoff had received no education what- 
 soever; all he could say in French was " bon- 
 zhour " — and in secret he even regarded that word 
 as improper. And some jester had also taught 
 him the following, which professed to be a French 
 song: " Sonetchka, Sonetchka! Que voulez-vous 
 de moi — I adore you — mais je ne peux pas." . . . 
 He was always humming this song in an under- 
 tone when he felt in good spirits. His father 
 also was a man of indescribably kind dispo- 
 sition; he was forever going about in a long 
 
 118
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 nankeen coat, and no matter what was said to him, 
 he assented to everything with a smile. 
 
 From the time of Pavel Afanasievitch's be- 
 trothal both the Rogatchyoifs— father and son — 
 began to bustle about frightfully; they made over 
 their house, they built on various " galleries," they 
 chatted in friendly wise with the workmen, they 
 treated them to vodka. They did not manage 
 to finish all the additional building by winter — so 
 they deferred the wedding until the summer; in 
 the summer, Ivan Andreevitch died — and the wed- 
 ding was postponed luitil the following spring; 
 in the winter, Vasily Ivanovitch arrived. Ro- 
 gatchyofF was introduced to him ; Vasily received 
 him coldly and carelessh', and in the course of 
 time, frightened him to such a degree by his arro- 
 gant treatment that poor Rogatchyoff quivered 
 like a leaf at his mere appearance, maintained si- 
 lence, and smiled constrainedly. Vasily once came 
 near driving him off for good — by offering to bet 
 with him that he, Rogatchyoff, was imable to 
 stop smiling. Poor Pavel Afanasievitch almost 
 wept with confusion, but — 't is an actual fact! — 
 the smile, the very stupid, constrained smile, 
 would not quit his face ! And Vasily slowly toyed 
 with the ends of his neckcloth, and stared at him 
 in quite too scornful a manner. 
 
 Pavel Afanasievitch's father also learned of 
 Vasily 's arrival, and a few days later— for the 
 sake of " the greater solemnity "—he set out for 
 
 119
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 Liitcliinovko with the intention of " congratu- 
 lating the amiable visitor on his arrival in his 
 native parts." Afanasy Afanasievitch was re- 
 nowned throughout the whole countrj^side for his 
 eloquence — that is to say, for his ability to utter, 
 without hesitation, a rather long and cunningly- 
 concocted speech, with a slight admixture of 
 bookish words. Alas! on this occasion he did 
 not maintain his reputation; he became confused 
 much worse than his son, Pavel Afanasievitch. 
 He stammered out something very unintelligible, 
 and, although lie had never touched vodka in his 
 life, having this time, " by way of countenance," 
 drunk a small glassful (he had found Vasily 
 at luncheon), he had endeavoured, at least, to 
 clear his throat with a certain amount of inde- 
 pendence, and had not produced the smallest 
 sound. As he set out for home, Pavel Afanasie- 
 vitch whispered to his parent : " Well, dear little 
 father? " Afanasy Liikitch replied to him with 
 irritation, also in a whisper: " Don't mention it! " 
 The RogatchyofFs began to come more rarely 
 to Lutchinovko. Rut they were not the only 
 ones whom Vasily intimidated: he aroused in 
 his brothers, in their wives, even in Anna Pav- 
 lovna herself, a painful and involuntary sense of 
 discomfort .... they began to avoid him in all 
 possible ways. Vasily could not help noticing 
 this, but, apparently, he had no intention of al- 
 tering his behaviour to them, when, all of a sud- 
 
 120
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 den, at the beginning of the spring, he again re- 
 vealed himself as the same amiable, charming man 
 they had previously known him to be. . . . 
 
 The first revelation of this sudden change was 
 on the occasion of Vasily's unexpected call on 
 the Rogatchyoffs. Afanasy Liikitch, in particu- 
 lar, was thoroughly daunted by the sight of Lu- 
 tchinofF's calash, but his fear very speedily van- 
 ished. Never had Vasily been more amiable and 
 merry. He linked his arm in the arm of young 
 RogatchyofF, walked out with him to inspect the 
 buildings, chatted with the carpenters, gave them 
 advice, himself made a few notches with the axe, 
 ordered them to show him Afanasy Lukitch's 
 stud-horses, himself drove them at the end of 
 a rope— and altogether, by his cordial amiability, 
 reduced the kind-hearted steppe-dwellers to such 
 a condition that they both repeatedly embraced 
 him. At home, also, Vasily turned all heads for 
 a few days as of yore : he devised various amusing 
 games, he procured musicians, invited in the 
 neighbours of both sexes, narrated the tittle-tattle 
 of the town to the old ladies in the most diverting 
 manner, paid some court to the young women, 
 invented unheard-of amusements, fireworks, and 
 so forth:— in a word, he enlivened everything and 
 everybody. The sad, gloomy house of the Lu- 
 tchinofFs was suddenly converted into a noisy, 
 brilliant, enchanting sort of dwelling, of which the 
 whole countryside talked.— This sudden change 
 
 121
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 amazed many, delighted all, and various rumours 
 got into circulation; the knowing ones said that 
 some hidden trouble had, up to that time, been 
 afflicting Vasily Ivanovitch, that the possibility 
 of returning to the capital had presented itself to 
 him. . . . But no one divined the true cause of 
 Vasily Ivanovitch's regeneration. 
 
 Olga Ivanovna, gentlemen, was very far from 
 being uncomely. — But her beauty consisted 
 rather in remarkable softness and freshness of 
 person, in a tranquil charm of movement, than in 
 strict regularity of features. Nature had en- 
 dowed her with a certain independence; her edu- 
 cation—she had been reared an orphan— had de- 
 veloped in her caution and firmness. Olga did 
 not belong to the category of quiet and languid 
 young gentlewomen; but one feeling alone had 
 fully ripened in her: hatred for her benefactor. 
 However, other and more womanly passions also 
 could flame up in Olga Ivanovna's soul with un- 
 usual, unhealthy force .... but there was in 
 her none of that proud coldness, nor that compact 
 strength of soul, nor that selfish concentration, 
 without which every passion speedily vanishes.— 
 The first outbursts of such half-active, half -pas- 
 sive souls are sometimes remarkably violent; but 
 they very soon undergo a change, especially when 
 it becomes a question of the ruthless application 
 of accepted principles; they fear the conse- 
 quences. . . . And, yet, gentlemen. I must con- 
 
 122
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 fess to you frankly: women of that sort produce 
 upon me a very strong impression. . . . 
 
 (At these words, the narrator tossed off a glass 
 of water at one draught.— " Nonsense! non- 
 sense! "—I thought, as I looked at his round chin: 
 — " on you, my dear friend, no one in the world 
 produces ' a very strong impression.' ") ... 
 
 Piotr Feodorovitch went on : 
 
 Gentlemen, I believe in blood, in race. There was 
 more blood in Olga Ivanovna, than, for example, 
 in her nominal sister — Natalya. How did that 
 " blood " show itself ?— you ask me.— Why, in 
 everything; in the outline of her hands and of her 
 lips, in the sound of her voice, in her glance, in her 
 walk, in the way she dressed her hair, — in the folds 
 of her gown, in short. In all these trifles there was 
 a certain hidden something, although I must ad- 
 mit that that .... how shall I express it? ... . 
 that distinction which had fallen to the lot of Olga 
 Ivanovna would not have attracted the attention 
 of Vasily if he had met her in Petersburg. But 
 in the country, in the wilds, she not only excited 
 his attention, — but even, altogether, was the sole 
 cause of the change of which I have just spoken. 
 Judge for yourselves: Vasfly Ivanovitch was 
 fond of enjoying life; he could not help being 
 bored in the country; his brothers were kind- 
 hearted fellows, but extremely limited in mind; 
 
 123
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 lie had nothing in common with them. His sis- 
 ter Xatalya and her husband had had four chil- 
 ch-en in the space of three years ; between her and 
 A'asily lay a whole abyss. . . Anna Pavlovna 
 went to church, prayed, fasted, and prepared her- 
 self for death. There remained only Olga, a rosy, 
 timid, charming young girl. . . At first Vasily 
 (lid not notice her . . . and who would turn his 
 attention on an adopted child, an orphan, a 
 foundling? .... One day, at the very begin- 
 ning of spring, he was walking through the gar- 
 den, and with his cane switching off the heads of 
 the chicory, those stupid yellow flowers which 
 make their appearance in such abundance first of 
 all, in the meadows as yet hardly green. — He was 
 strolling in the garden in front of the house, 
 raised his head — and beheld Olga Ivanovna. — 
 She was sitting with her side to the window, and 
 gazing pensively at a striped kitten, which, purr- 
 ing and blinking, had cuddled down on her lap, 
 and with great satisfaction was presenting its 
 little nose to the spring sunshine, already fairly 
 brilliant. Olga Ivanovna wore a white morning- 
 gown with short sleeves; her bare, faintly-rosy, 
 as yet not fully-developed shoulders and arms 
 breathed forth freshness and health; a small cap 
 discreetly confined her thick, soft, silky locks ; her 
 face was slightly flushed; she had not been long 
 awake. Her slender, supple neck was bent for- 
 ward so charmingly; her unconfined form re- 
 
 124
 
 THREE rORTRAITS 
 
 posed so engagingly and modestly that Vasily 
 Ivanovitch (a great connoisseur!) involuntarily 
 halted and took a look. It suddenly came into 
 his head that Olga Ivanovna ought not to be left 
 in her pristine ignorance, that in time she might 
 turn out to be a very charming and very amiable 
 woman. He crept up to the window, raised him- 
 self on tiptoe, and imprinted a silent kiss on Olga 
 Ivanovna's smooth, white arm, a little below the 
 elbow. — Olga screamed and sprang to her feet, 
 the kitten elevated its tail, and leaped into the 
 garden; Vasih^ Ivanovitch detained her with his 
 hand. . . . Olga blushed all over, to her very 
 ears; he began to jest at her fright .... invited 
 her to walk with him; but suddenly Olga Iva- 
 novna noticed the negligence of her attire — 
 " more swiftly than the swift-footed doe," she 
 slipped into the next room. 
 
 That same day, Vasily set off for the Roga- 
 tchyoffs'. He suddenly grew gay, and brightened 
 up in spirit. Vasily did not fall in love with Olga, 
 no! — one must not trifle with the word love. . . . 
 He had found for himself an occupation, he had 
 set himself a task, and was rejoicing with the joy 
 of an active man. He never even called to mind 
 the fact that she was his mother's adopted child, 
 the betrothed of another man; he did not deceive 
 himself for a single instant ; he was very well aware 
 that she could not be his wife. . . . Perhaps pas- 
 sion was his excuse — not a lofty, not a noble pas- 
 
 125
 
 TIIKEE PORTKAITS 
 
 sion, 't Is true, but, nevertheless, a tolerably strong 
 and torturing jDassion. Of course he did not fall 
 in love like a child; he did not surrender himself 
 to unbounded raptures; he knew well what he 
 wanted and what he was aiming at. 
 
 Vasily Ivanovitch possessed to perfection the 
 abiUty to win the favour of others, even of those 
 who were prejudiced or timid. Olga speedily 
 ceased to shun him. Vasily Ivanovitch intro- 
 duced her into a new world. He imported a 
 clavichord for her, gave her music lessons (he 
 played very fairly himself on the flute), he read 
 books to her, he had long talks with her. . . . The 
 poor young steppe-girl's head was turned; Va- 
 sily had completel}^ subjugated her. He knew 
 how to talk to her about that which, hitherto, had 
 been foreign to her, and to talk in a language 
 which she understood. Olga gradually brought 
 herself to express all her feelings to him; he 
 helped her, suggested to her the words which she 
 could not find; he did not startle her; he now re- 
 pressed, now encouraged her impulses. . . . Vasily 
 occupied himself with her education not out of a 
 disinterested desire to awaken and develop her 
 abilities ; he simply wanted to bring her somewhat 
 closer to him, and he knew, moreover, that it is 
 easier to attract an inexperienced, shy, but vain 
 young girl by the mind than by the heart. Even 
 if Olga had been a remarkable being, Vasilj' could 
 not possibly have observed it, because he treated 
 
 126
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 her like a child ; hut 3^011 ah-eady know, gentlemen, 
 that there was nothino- noteworthy about Olga. 
 
 Vasily strove, as much as possible, to work on 
 her imagination, and often of an evening she 
 would leave him with such a whirl of new images, 
 words, and thoughts in her head, that she was 
 unable to get to sleej) until dawn, and sighing 
 sadly, she pressed her burning cheeks against her 
 cold pillows ; or she rose and went to the window, 
 and gazed timorously and eagerly into the far- 
 away gloom. Vasily filled every moment of her 
 life; she could not think of any one else. She 
 soon ceased to take any notice of RogatchyofF. 
 Vasily, being a shrewd and clever man, did not 
 speak to Olga in his presence; but he either con- 
 fused him to the verge of tears, or got up some 
 boisterous game, a stroll in the evening, a rowing- 
 party on the river by night with lanterns and 
 music, — in a word, he did not give Pavel Afana- 
 sievitch a chance to recover his ground. But, 
 despite all Vasily Ivanovitch's cleverness, Ro- 
 gatchyofF was dimly conscious that he, the be- 
 trothed and the future husband of Olga, had be- 
 come, as it were, a stranger to her .... but, in 
 his infinite good-heartedness, he was afraid of 
 wounding her by a reproach, although he really 
 loved her and prized her affection. When he was 
 alone wqth her, he did not know what to talk 
 about, and merely endeavoured to serve her in 
 every possible way. Two months passed. Every 
 
 127
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 trace of independence, of will, disap2:)eared in 
 Olga; the weak and taciturn Rogatchyoif could 
 not serve her as a prop; she did not even try to 
 resist the fascination, and with a sinking heart 
 she gave herself unconditionally to Vasily. . . . 
 
 Olga Ivanovna, it is probahle, then learned the 
 joys of love; but not for long. Although Vasily 
 — for the lack of any other occupation — not only 
 did not discard her, but even became attached to 
 her, and petted her, yet Olga lost herself to such a 
 degree that she did not find bliss even in love, and 
 nevertheless she was unable to tear herself away 
 from Vasih". She began to be afraid of every- 
 thing, she did not dare to think; she talked of 
 nothing; she ceased to read; she became a prey 
 to melancholy. Sometimes Vasily succeeded in 
 drawing her after him, and making her forget 
 everybody and everything; but on tlie following 
 day he found her pale and silent, with cold hands, 
 with a senseless smile on her lips. . . . 
 
 A decidedly difficult time began for Vasily; 
 but no difficulties could daunt him. He concen- 
 trated himself completely, like an expert gam- 
 bler. He could not count upon Olga Ivanovna in 
 the slightest degree; she was incessantly betray- 
 ing herself, paling, and blushing and weeping 
 . . . her new role w^as beyond her strength. 
 Vasily toiled for two ; in his boisterous and noisy 
 joy only an experienced observer could have de- 
 tected a feverish tenseness; he played with his 
 
 128
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 brothers, his sisters, the RogatchyofFs, the neigh- 
 bours, both men and women,— as though they 
 had been pawns; he was eternally on the alert, 
 he never allowed a single glance, a single move- 
 ment to escape him, although he appeared to be 
 the most care-free of mortals; every morning he 
 entered into battle, and every evening he cele- 
 brated a victory. He was not in the least op- 
 pressed by this strange activity; he slept four 
 hours a day, he ate very little, and was healthy, 
 fresh, and gay. In the meantime, the wedding- 
 day was approaching; Vasily succeeded in con- 
 vincing Pavel Af anasievitch himself of the neces- 
 sity of a postponement; then he despatched him 
 to ^loscow to make some purchases, and himself 
 entered into correspondence with his Petersburg 
 friends. He exerted himself not so much out of 
 compassion for Olga Ivanovna, as out of a de- 
 sire and love for fuss and bustle. . . . ^Moreover, 
 he had begun to grow tired of Olga Ivanovna, 
 and more than once already, after a fierce out- 
 burst of passion, he had looked at her as he had 
 been wont to look at Rogatchyoff. Lutchinoff 
 always remained a puzzle to every one; in the 
 very coldness of his implacable spirit you felt con- 
 scious of the presence of a strange, almost south- 
 ern flame, and in the maddest heat of passion, 
 cold emanated from that man.— In the presence 
 of others, he upheld Olga Ivanovna as before; but 
 when he was alone with her, he played with her 
 
 129
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 as a cat plays with a mouse — he either terrified 
 her with sophisms, or he exiiibited heavy and 
 vicious tedium, or, in conclusion, he threw himself 
 at her feet again, swept her away, as a whirlwind 
 sweeps a chip .... and he was not then pre- 
 tending to be in love . . . but really was swoon- 
 ing with it himself. . . 
 
 One day, quite late in the evening, Vasi'ly was 
 sitting alone in his own room and attentively 
 perusing the latest letters he had received from 
 Petersburg — when, suddenly, the door creaked 
 softly and Palashka, Olga Ivanovna's maid, en- 
 tered. 
 
 " What dost thou want? " — Vasily asked her, 
 quite curtly. 
 
 " JNIy mistress begs that you will come to 
 her." 
 
 " I can't at present. Go away. . . Well, why 
 dost thou stand there? " — he went on, perceiving 
 that Palashka did not leave the room. 
 
 " My mistress ordered me to say that there is 
 very great need, sir." 
 
 " Well, but what 's the matter? " 
 
 " Please to see for yourself, sir. . . ." 
 
 Vasily rose, with vexation tossed the letters into 
 a casket, and betook himself to Olga Ivanovna. 
 She was sitting alone in a corner, — pale and mo- 
 tionless. 
 
 " What do you want? "—he asked her, not very 
 politely. 
 
 130
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 Olga looked at him, and with a shudder, cov- 
 ered her eyes. 
 
 " What ails you? what 's the matter with thee, 
 Olga? " 
 
 He took her hand. . . Olga Ivanovna's hand 
 was as cold as ice. . . She tried to speak .... 
 and her voice died away. The poor woman had 
 no doubt left in lier mind as to her condition. 
 
 Vasily was somewhat disconcerted. Olga Iva- 
 novna's room was a couple of paces from the bed- 
 room of Anna Pavlovna. Vasily cautiously 
 seated himself beside Olga, kissed and warmed 
 her hands, and argued with her in a whisper. She 
 listened to him, and shivered silently, slightly. 
 Palashka stood in the doorway and softly wiped 
 away her tears. In the adjoining room a pen- 
 dulum was beating heavily and regularly, and the 
 breathing of a sleeper was audible. Olga Iva- 
 novna's torpor dissolved, at last, in tears and dull 
 sobs. Tears are the equivalent of a thunder- 
 storm: after them a person is always quieter. 
 When Olga Ivanovna had become somewhat com- 
 posed, and only sobbed convulsively from time to 
 time like a child, Vasily knelt down before her, 
 and with caresses and tender promises soothed her 
 completely, gave her a drink of water, put her 
 to bed, and went away. All night long he did 
 not undress himself, wrote two or three letters, 
 burned two or three papers, got out a golden 
 locket with the portrait of a black-browed and 
 
 131
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 black-eyed woman, \Wth a bold, sensual face, 
 gazed long at her features, and paced his cham- 
 ber in thought. On the following morning, at 
 tea, he beheld, with a good deal of dissatisfaction, 
 poor Olga's reddened, swollen eyes, and pale, dis- 
 traught face. After breakfast, he proposed to 
 her that she should take a stroll with him in 
 the park. Olga followed Vasily like an obedi- 
 ent sheep. But when, two hours later, she re- 
 turned from the park, she looked dreadfully ; she 
 told Anna Pavlovna that she felt ill, and went to 
 bed. During the walk, Vasily had announced to 
 her, with all due penitence, that he was secretly 
 married — he was just as much a bachelor as I 
 am. Olga Ivanovna did not fall down in a swoon 
 — people fall in swoons only on the stage; but 
 she became suddenly petrified, although she not 
 only had not been hoping to marry Vasily Iva- 
 novitch, but had even, somehow, been afraid 
 to think of it. Vasily began to demonstrate to 
 her the necessity of parting from him and mar- 
 rying Rogatchyoff. Olga Ivanovna looked at 
 him with dumb horror. Vasily talked coldly, 
 practically, sensibly; he blamed himself, he ex- 
 pressed regret, — but all his arguments wound up 
 with the following words: " We must act." Olga 
 lost her head completely; she was frightened 
 and ashamed; dismal, heavy despair took posses- 
 sion of her; she longed for death — and sadly 
 awaited Vasily's decision. 
 
 132
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 " We must confess all to my mother," he said 
 at last. 
 
 Olga turned deadly pale; her limbs gave way 
 beneath her. 
 
 " Don't be frightened, don't be frightened," 
 — Vasily kept repeating: — "rely on me; I will 
 not forsake thee ... I will arrange everything 
 . . . trust in me." 
 
 The poor woman gazed at him with love . . . yes, 
 with love, and with profound, though hopeless 
 devotion. 
 
 " I will arrange everything, everything," — 
 said Vasily to her at parting . . . and for the 
 last time kissed her ice-cold hands. 
 
 Olga Ivanovna had just risen from her bed on 
 the following morning, when her door opened 
 . . . and Anna Pavlovna made her appearance 
 on the threshold. She was supported by Vasily. 
 Silently she made her way to an arm-chair, and 
 silently seated herself. Vasily stood beside her. 
 He seemed composed; his brows were contracted, 
 and his lips were slightly parted. Anna Pav- 
 lovna, pale, indignant, wrathful, tried to speak, 
 but her voice failed her. Olga Ivanovna with 
 terror, took in, in a single glance, her benefac- 
 tress and her lover; she felt a frightful sinking 
 at the heart . . . with a shriek she fell down on 
 her knees in the middle of the room and covered 
 her face with her hands. . . . 
 
 " So it is true ... it is true? " whispered 
 
 133
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 Anna Pavlovna, and bent toward her. . . . "An- 
 swer! " — she went on harshly, seizing Olga by 
 the arm. 
 
 " ^Nlamma! " rang out Vasily's brazen voice, — 
 " you promised me not to insult her." 
 
 " I won't . . . come, confess .... confess 
 ... is it true? Is it true? " 
 
 " ]Manmia . . . remember! . . ." said Vasilv, 
 slowly. 
 
 That one word shook Anna Pavlovna violently. 
 She leaned against the back of her chair, and fell 
 to sobbing. 
 
 Olga Ivanovna softly raised her head and at- 
 tempted to fling herself at the old woman's feet, 
 but Vasfly restrained her, raised her up, and 
 seated her in another arm-chair. Anna Pavlovna 
 continued to weep and whisper incoherent 
 words. . . . 
 
 " Listen, mamma," — began Vasfly. " Don't 
 be so overwhelmed ! This calamity can still be al- 
 leviated. ... If RogatchyofF . . . ." 
 
 Olga Ivanovna shuddered and straightened 
 herself up. 
 
 " If Rogatchyoff," — pursued Vasilj^ with a 
 significant glance at Olga Ivanovna, — " has im- 
 agined that he can with impunity disgrace an 
 honourable family . . . ." 
 
 Olga Ivanovna was terrified. 
 
 " In my house,"— moaned Anna Pavlovna. 
 
 " Calm j^ourself, mamma. He has taken ad- 
 
 134
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 vantage of lier inexperience, of her youth, he 
 .... did you wish to say something? "—he 
 added, perceiving that Olga was trying to get at 
 him. 
 
 Olga Ivanovna fell back in her chair. 
 
 " I shall go at once to RogatchyofF. I shall 
 force him to wed her this very day. Be assured, 
 I shall not permit him to jeer at us. ..." 
 
 " But . . . Vasily Ivanovitch . . . you ..." 
 whispered Olga. 
 
 He stared long and coldly at her. She relapsed 
 into silence. 
 
 " JNIamma, give me your word not to disturb 
 her until my arrival. See— she is barely alive. 
 Yes, and you require rest yourself. Trust to 
 me: I answer for everything; in any case, await 
 my return. I repeat to you — do not kill her, nor 
 yourself — rely upon me." 
 
 He walked to the door, and paused. 
 
 " Mamma,"— he said: " come with me. Leave 
 her alone, I beg of you." 
 
 Anna Pavlovna rose, went to the holy picture, 
 made a reverence to the floor, and softly followed 
 her son. Olga Ivanovna followed her silently 
 and immovably with her eyes. Vasily hastily 
 came back, seized her hand, whispered in her ear : 
 *' Trust to me, and do not betray us," — and im- 
 mediately withdrew. . . . 
 
 "Boursier!" he shouted, as he ran swiftly 
 down the stairs. — " Boursier! " 
 
 135
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 A quarter of an hour later he was seated in his 
 calash with his servant. 
 
 Old Rogatchyoff was not at home that day. 
 He had gone to the county town, to buj^ seer- 
 sucker for kaftans to clothe his retainers. Pavel 
 Afanasievitch was sitting in his study, and in- 
 specting a collection of faded butterflies. Ele- 
 vating his eyebrows, and thrusting forth his lips, 
 he was cautiously turning about with a i^in the 
 large wings of the " nocturnal sjDhinx," when 
 suddenly, he felt a small but heavy hand on his 
 shoulder. He glanced round— before him stood 
 Vasily. 
 
 " Good morning, Vasily Ivanovitch,"— said he, 
 not without some surprise. 
 
 Vasily looked at him and sat down in front of 
 him on a chair. 
 
 Pavel Afanasievitch was about to smile . . . 
 but glanced at Vasily, relaxed, opened his mouth, 
 and clasped his hands. 
 
 " Come, tell me, Pavel Afanasievitch,"— began 
 Vasily, 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 im- 
 patient man, Pavel Afanasievitch." 
 
 " How so, sir? " 
 
 136
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 " Listen,"— added Vasfly Ivanovitch, rising 
 to his feet: — " I know everything; you under- 
 stand me, and I order you to marry Olga without 
 delay, to-morrow." 
 
 " But excuse me, excuse me,"— returned Ro- 
 gatchyoff, without rising from his seat;— "you 
 order me? I myself have sought the hand of 
 Olga Ivanovna, and there is no need to order me. 
 I must confess, Vasily Ivanovitch, 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, Vasily Ivanovitch .... 
 have n't you yourself repeatedly postponed our 
 marriage? If it had not been for you, it would 
 have taken f)lace long ago. And even now I 
 have no idea of refusing. But what is the mean- 
 ing of your threats, of your urgent demands? " 
 
 Pavel Afanasievitch wiped the perspiration 
 from his face. 
 
 " Wilt thou give m.e thy word? Speak! Yes, 
 or no? "—repeated Vasily with pauses between 
 his words. 
 
 " Certainly ... I give it, sir, but . . . ." 
 
 " Good. Remember. . . . And she has con- 
 fessed everything." 
 
 " Who has confessed? " 
 
 " Olga Ivanovna." 
 
 137
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 " But what has she confessed? " 
 
 " Why do you dissimulate with me, Pavel 
 Afanasievitch? Surely, I 'm not a stranger to 
 you. 
 
 " How am I dissimulating? I don't understand 
 you, I don't imderstand you, positively I don't 
 understand you. What could Olga Ivanovna 
 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! . . . ." Pavel Afanasievitch leaped 
 to his feet, and stood before Vasily.— " Olga Iva- 
 novna .... you say . . . ." 
 
 " Thou 'rt clever, my good fellow, very clever, 
 I must admit." Vasily, 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! " 
 
 Vasily bent over him and whispered something 
 in his ear. 
 
 Rogatchj'off cried out: — " What? .... how? '* 
 
 Vasily stamped his foot. 
 
 " Olga Ivanovna? Olga? . . ." 
 
 " Yes .... your betrothed bride. . . ." 
 
 " My betrothed bride .... Vasily Ivano- 
 vitch .... she .... she .... But I will have no- 
 
 138
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 thing to do with her! "—shouted Pavel Afanasie- 
 vitch. "I '11 have none of her! What do you 
 take me for? To deceive me — to deceive me! 
 . . . Olga Ivanovna, is n't it sinful of you, are n't 
 you ashamed? . . . ." (Tears gushed from his 
 eyes.) —"I thank you, Vasily Ivanovitch, I thank 
 you. . . . And now I '11 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 
 Vasfly Ivanovitch, coldly. — " Remember, you 
 have given me your word that the wedding shall 
 take place to-morrow." 
 
 " No, that shall not be ! Enough, Vasily Iva- 
 novitch, 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 Vasily.—" Get your 
 sword." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " This is why." 
 
 Vasily drew out his slender, flexible French 
 sword, and bent it slightly against the floor. 
 
 " You mean .... to fight .... with me? . . ." 
 
 " Precisely so." 
 
 " But, Vasily Ivanovitch, pray, enter into 
 my position! How can I — judge for yourself 
 —after what you have told me? . . . I am 
 
 139
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 an honest man, Vasily Ivanovitch ; I am a noble- 
 man." 
 
 " You are a nobleman, you are an honest man, 
 — then be so good as to fight with me." 
 
 "Vasily Ivanovitch!" 
 
 " You appear to be a coward, ISIr. Roga- 
 tchyofF? " 
 
 " I am not in tlie least a coward, Vasilv Ivano- 
 vitch. You have thought to frighten me, Vasily 
 Ivanovitch. ' Come, now,' you said to yourself, 
 ' I '11 scare him, and he '11 turn cowardly ; he will 
 instantly consent to anything.' .... Xo, Vasilj^ 
 Ivanovitch, I 'm tlie same sort of nobleman as 
 yourself, although I have not received my edu- 
 cation in the capital, it is true; and you will not 
 succeed in terrifying me, excuse me." 
 
 "Very crood," — retorted Vasilv: — "where is 
 3'our sword (* " 
 
 "Eroshka!" — shouted Pavel Afanasievitch. 
 
 A man entered. 
 
 " Get my sword — yonder — thou knowest where 
 it is — in the garret .... and be quick about 
 
 it. . . . 
 
 Eroslika withdrew. Pavel Afanasievitch sud- 
 denly turned extremely pale, hastily took off his 
 dressing-gown, put on a kaftan of a reddish hue 
 with large strass buttons .... wound a neck- 
 cloth round his neck. . . . Vasily watched him, 
 and examined the fingers of his right hand. 
 
 " So how is it to be? Are we to fight, Pavel 
 Afanasievitch? " 
 
 140
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 " If we must fight, we nnist," — returned Ro- 
 gatchyofF, liastily buttoning liis waistcoat. 
 
 "Hey, I*avel Afanasievitch, heed my advice: 
 marry .... whj' shouldst thou not? . . . But 
 I, beheve me . . . ." 
 
 " No, Vasily Ivanovitch," — RogatchvofF in- 
 terrupted 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." 
 
 Eroshka entered and hurriedly handed Ro- 
 gatchyofF 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. Eroshka 
 retreated to the door, and fell to weeping. 
 Pavel Afanasievitch thrust him out of the 
 room. 
 
 " But, Vasily Ivanovitch," — he remarked, with 
 some agitation, — " I cannot fight with you in- 
 stantly: permit me to defer our duel until to- 
 morrow; m3^ 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, Vasily Ivanovitch; but judge for 
 yourself. . . ." 
 
 "Listen!" . . . shouted LutchinofF:— " you 
 are driving me out of patience. . . . Either give 
 me your word to marry immediately, or fight 
 
 141
 
 THREE rORTRAITS 
 
 .... or I will trounce you with a cudgel, like 
 a coward, do you understand? " 
 
 " Let us go into the park," — replied Roga- 
 tchyofF between his teeth. 
 
 But suddenly the door opened, and the old 
 nurse Efimovna, all dishevelled, forced her way 
 into the room, fell on her knees before Roga- 
 tch}^6ff 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 fa- 
 ther! For he will kill thee, my dear little dove! 
 But only give us the command, give us the 
 command, and we '11 kill that insolent fellow 
 w^ith our caps. . . . Pavel Afanasievitch, my dar- 
 ling 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, Efimovna, let me go! " — mut- 
 tered RogatchyofF. 
 
 " I will not let thee go, my own one, I will not 
 let thee go. What art thou doing, dear little 
 father, what art tliou doing? And what will 
 xVfanasy Lukitch 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. 
 
 142 
 
 • • •
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 " RogatchyofF! " — shouted Vasily Ivanovitch, 
 menacingly. 
 
 " Thou hast gone crazy, Efimovna, thou art 
 disgracing me," .... said Pavel Afanasievitch. 
 — " Go away, go, with God's blessing, and be- 
 gone, all of you, do you hear? Do you hear? . . ." 
 
 Vasily Ivanovitch walked swiftly to the open 
 window, drew out a small silver wliistle, and whis- 
 tled lightly. . . . Boursier answered close at 
 hand. LutchinofF immediately turned to Pavel 
 Afanasievitch. 
 
 " How is this comedy to end? " 
 
 " Vasily Ivanovitch, 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 Vasily, and swiftly raised his 
 cane. . . . 
 
 Pavel Afanasievitch dashed forward, thrust 
 aside Efimovna, seized his sword, and rushed 
 through the other door into the park. 
 
 Vasily darted after him. They both ran to a 
 wooden arbour artfully painted in the Chinese 
 manner, locked themselves in, and bared their 
 swords. RogatchyofF had once upon a time taken 
 lessons in fencing; but he barely knew how to 
 parry properly. The blades crossed. Vasfly was, 
 evidently, playing with Rogatchyoif's sword. Pa- 
 vel Afanasievitch sighed, turned pale, and gazed 
 with consternation into LutchinofF's face. In the 
 
 143
 
 THREE PORTRAITS 
 
 meanwhile, cries resounded in the park; a throng 
 of people rushed to the arbour. Suddenly Ro- 
 gatchyoff heard a heart-rending, senile roar .... 
 he recognised his father's voice. Afanasy Lii- 
 kitch, hatless, and with dishevelled locks, was 
 running in front of all, waving his arms de- 
 spairingly 
 
 AVith a powerful and unexpected turn of his 
 blade, Vasily knocked the sword from Pavel 
 Afanasievitch's hand. 
 
 " ^larry, brother," — he said to him. — " Stop 
 being a fool! " 
 
 " I will not marry! " — whispered Rogatchyoff, 
 closed his eyes, and trembled all over. 
 
 Afanasy Liikitch began to pound on the door 
 of the arbour. 
 
 " Thou wilt not? "—shouted Vasily. 
 
 Rogatchyoff shook his head in the negative. 
 
 " Well, then, the devil take thee! " 
 
 Poor Pavel Afanasievitch fell dead: Lutchi- 
 noff 's sword had pierced his heart. . . . The door 
 burst open, old Rogatchyoff rushed into the ar- 
 bour, but Vasily had already managed to spring 
 out of the window. . . 
 
 Two hours later, he entered Olga Ivanovna's 
 room. . . She darted to meet him in affright. 
 . . . He silently bowed to her, drew out his sword, 
 and pierced Pavel Afanasievitch's portrait at the 
 place of the heart. Olga shrieked, and fell 
 senseless on the floor. . . . Vasily directed his 
 
 144
 
 THREE rORTRAITS 
 
 steps to Anna Pavlovna. 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, Vasily took his departure for 
 Petersburg, — and two years afterward he re- 
 turned to the country, crippled with paralysis, 
 and speechless. He no longer found either Anna 
 Pavlovna or Olga Ivanovna alive, and soon died 
 himself in the arms of Yuditch, who fed him like 
 a baby, and was the only person who could un- 
 derstand his incoherent babble. 
 
 145
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 (1851)
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 Passa que' colli e vieni allegramente; 
 Non ti curar di tanta compania — 
 Vieni pensando a me segretamente — 
 Ch'io t' accorapagna per tutta la via.^ 
 
 DURING the whole course of the summer, 
 I had gone a-hunting nowhere so frequently 
 as to the large village of Glinnoe, 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, al- 
 most the only one in the countryside, and thence 
 returned to my cordial host, the Elder of Glin- 
 noe, with whom I always stopped. It is not more 
 than two versts from the marsh to Glinnoe; 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 
 
 1 Pass through these hills and come cheerily to me: care thou not 
 for too great a company. Come thou, and think secretly of me, that 
 I may be thy comrade all the way. 
 
 149
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 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 
 \\ho had come forth to warm himself in the 
 sunlight. He is sitting, dear man, close to the 
 highwa}"; the splendour of the sunlight lias long 
 since been superseded for him by eternal gloom; 
 but he feels it, at least, on his upturned and out- 
 stretched 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 solitaiy little w^indow, gazing with sad 
 pensiveness into the distance, and when he caught 
 sight of me, he rose a little waj'^ and saluted, with 
 that deliberate gravity which distinguishes old 
 house-serfs who have belonged not to the gen- 
 eration 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 be- 
 longed 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 
 
 150
 
 TIIKEK MEETINGS 
 
 anxious to finish his hfe 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 Lukyanitch. 
 
 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 liad turned out 
 fine for hunting — from early morning it had 
 been still and grey, as though thoroughly per- 
 meated 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 famihar farm. I had to pass along the gar- 
 den. . . All around lay such tranquillity. . . 
 
 I crossed the broad road, cautiously made mj'' 
 way through the dusty nettles, and leaned against 
 the low, wattled hedge. ^ 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 ex- 
 actly in the centre, in a circular flower-bed, 
 thickly overgrown with asters; tall lindens sur- 
 rounded 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- 
 
 1 In central and southern Russia where timber is scarce, fences, 
 and even the walls of barns and store-houses, are made of interlaced 
 boughs. —Translator. 
 
 151
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 roofed house was visible, with two windows 
 lighted, to my amazement. Young apple-trees 
 reared themselves here and there over the mea- 
 dow ; 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, re- 
 pressed 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 con- 
 verting its tranquil gleam into an obscure but 
 luminous mist. . . . Ever}i:hing was dreaming. 
 The air, all warm, all perfumed, did not even vi- 
 brate; 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 
 
 152
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 heart of the open blossom. Everything was 
 dreaming; everything was taking its ease kix- 
 uriously 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 still- 
 ness was waiting for a living voice— but every- 
 thing maintained silence. The nightingales had 
 long since ceased their song . . . and the sud- 
 den 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 
 w^histle of a startled bird, a distant cry in the 
 fields,— so far away that the ear could not dis- 
 tinguish 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 still- 
 ness more profound. . . ^ly 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 be- 
 fore this motionless garden steeped in moon- 
 light 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 thun- 
 
 153
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 dered 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, ra- 
 diant 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 displaj^ed themselves in the moon- 
 light. On many trees the blossoms shone tenderly 
 white ; the air was all impregnated with fragrance 
 
 154.
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 languishingly jjowerful, penetrating, and almost 
 heavy, although inexpressibly sweet. 
 
 I walked on, and, I must confess,— having al- 
 ready become accustomed to all these wonders, — 
 I was thinking only of how I might most speedily 
 reach my inn, when suddenly, from a small pa- 
 vilion, 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 w^as un- 
 familiar, and in its sounds there was something 
 so winning, it seemed so permeated with the pas- 
 sion and joyous expectation expressed by the 
 words of the song, that I instantly and involun- 
 tarily 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 hght in one win- 
 dow 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 w\^s disconcerted, I did not know what to say; 
 
 155
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 but at that same moment the Unknown threw her- 
 self backward with a faint shriek, the bhnd 
 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 pre- 
 sented itself before me was strikingly beautiful. 
 It had flashed too rapidly before my eyes to per- 
 mit of mv immediately recalling each individual 
 feature; but the general impression was inde- 
 scribably 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 tender- 
 ness there had been in the soft inclination of her 
 form, how much afl'ection 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 sur- 
 prise and anticipation. I listened .... listened 
 with strained attention. . . It seemed to me now 
 
 156
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 that I heard some one's quiet breathing beliind 
 the darkened window, now a rustle and quiet 
 laughter. At last, steps resounded in tlie dis- 
 tance . . . they came nearer; a man of almost 
 identical stature with myself made his appear- 
 ance 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 aj^art, 
 and pulling my Iiat 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 w-ent 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. INIy heart began to beat violently within 
 me. " Is not this a dream? " I thought. And lo! 
 again the final " vieni! " rang out. . . . Can it 
 
 157
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 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 Un- 
 known 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. Xow, also, an ample white gown en- 
 folded 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 tlirice, in 
 a loud and ringing voice: " Addio! " The beau- 
 tiful 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. Every- 
 thing 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. 
 
 158
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 As soon as I recovered myself— and this was 
 not very soon, I must admit— I immediately di- 
 rected 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 bespat- 
 tered with dried mud, shone out sharply white in 
 the moonlight. The shutters of the house were 
 closed, as before. 
 
 I have forgotten to say, that for about a week 
 previous to that day, I had not visited Glinnoe. 
 For more than half an hour I paced to and fro 
 in perplexity in front of the fence, so that, at last, 
 I attracted the attention of the old watch-dog, 
 which, nevertheless, did not begin to bark at me, 
 but merely looked at me from under the gate 
 in a remarkably ironical manner, with his pur- 
 blind little eyes puckered up. I understood his 
 hint, and beat a retreat. But before I had man- 
 aged to traverse half a verst, I suddenly heard 
 the sound of a horse's hoofs behind me. ... In 
 a few minutes a rider, mounted on a black horse, 
 dashed past me at a swift trot, and swiftly turn- 
 ing toward me his face, where I could descry 
 nothing save an aquiline nose and a very hand- 
 some moustache under his military cap, which was 
 pulled well down on his brow, turned into the 
 right-hand road, and immediately vanished be- 
 hind the forest. 
 
 " So that is he," I thought to myself, and my 
 
 159
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 heart stirred within me in a strange sort of way. 
 It seemed to me that I recognised him; his figure 
 really did suggest the figure of the man whom I 
 had seen enter the garden-gate in Sorrento. Half 
 an hour later I was in Glinnoe at my host's, had 
 roused him, and had immediately begun to in- 
 terrogate him as to the persons who had arrived 
 at the neighbouring farm. He replied with an 
 effort that the ladies had arrived. 
 
 "But what ladies?" 
 
 " Whv, everybody knows what ladies," he re- 
 plied very languidly. 
 
 " Russians? " 
 
 " What else should they be?— Russians, of 
 course." 
 
 " Not foreigners? " 
 
 "Hey?" 
 
 " Have they been here long? " 
 
 " Not long, of course." 
 
 " And have they come to stay long? " 
 
 " That I don't know." 
 
 " Are they wealthy? " 
 
 " And that, too, we don't know. Perhaps they 
 are wealth3\" 
 
 " Did not a gentleman come with them? " 
 
 " A gentleman? " 
 
 " Yes, a gentleman." 
 
 The Elder sighed. 
 
 "O, okh, O Lord!"— he ejaculated with a 
 yawn. ..." N-n-o, there was no ... . gentle- 
 
 160
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 man, I think there was no gentleman. I don't 
 know! " — he suddenly added. 
 
 " And what sort of other neighbours are living 
 here? " 
 
 " What sort? everybody knows what sort, — all 
 sorts." 
 
 " All sorts? — And what are their names? " 
 
 "Whose — the lady proprietors'? or the neigh- 
 bours'? " 
 
 " The lady proprietors'." 
 
 Again the Elder yawned. 
 
 "What are their names? "—he muttered.— 
 "Why, God knows what their names are! The 
 elder, I think, is named Anna Feodorovna, and 
 the other . . . No, I don't know that one's name." 
 
 "Well, what 's their surname, at least?" 
 
 " Their surname? " 
 
 " Yes, their surname, their family name." 
 
 " Their family name. . . . Yes. Why, as God 
 is my witness, I don't know." 
 
 " Are they young? " 
 
 " Well, no. They are not." 
 
 " How old are they, then? " 
 
 " Why, the youngest must be over forty." 
 
 " Thou art inventing the whole of this." 
 
 The Elder w^as silent for a while. 
 
 " Well, you must know best. But I don't 
 
 know. 
 
 " Well, thou art wound up to say one thing! " 
 —I exclaimed with vexation. 
 
 161
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 Knowing, by experience, that there is no pos- 
 sibiHty of extracting anything lucid from a Rus- 
 sian man when once he undertakes to answer in 
 that way (and, moreover, my host had only just 
 thrown himself down to sleep, and swayed for- 
 ward slightly before every answer, opening his 
 eyes widely with child-like surprise, and with dif- 
 ficulty ungluing his lips, smeared with the honey 
 of the first, sweet slumber),— I gave up in de- 
 spair, and declining supper, went into the barn. 
 
 I could not get to sleep for a long time. 
 " Who is she? "—I kept incessantly asking my- 
 self:—" a Russian? If a Russian, why does she 
 speak in Italian? .... The Elder declares that 
 she is not young. . . . But he 's lying. . . . And 
 ^vho is that happy man ? . . Positively, I can com- 
 prehend nothing. . . But what a strange adven- 
 ture! Is it possible that thus, twice in succes- 
 sion But I will infallibly find out w^ho 
 
 she is, and why she has come hither." . . . Agi- 
 tated by such disordered, fragmentary thoughts 
 as these, I fell asleep late, and saw strange 
 visions. . . . Now it seems to me that I am 
 wandering in some desert, in the very blaze of 
 noonday— and suddenly, I behold in front of 
 me, a huge spot of shadow running over the red- 
 hot yellow sand. . . I raise my head— 't is she, 
 my beauty, whisking through the air, all white, 
 with long white wings, and beckoning me to 
 her. I dart after her; but she floats on hghtly 
 
 1G2
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 and swiftly, and I cannot rise from the ground, 
 and stretch out eager hands in vain. . . . " Ad- 
 dio! " she says to me, as she flies away. — " Why 
 hast thou not wings? . . Addiol" .... And 
 lo, from all sides, "Addiol" resounds. Every 
 grain of sand shouts and squeaks at me: "Ad- 
 diol " . . . then rings out in an intolerahle, 
 piercing trill. . . I brush it aside, as I would a 
 gnat, I seek her with my eyes . . . and already 
 she has become a cloud, and is floating upward 
 softly toward the sun; the sun quivers, rocks, 
 laughs, stretches out to meet her long golden 
 threads, and now those threads have enmeshed 
 her, and she melts into them, but I shout at the 
 top of my lungs, like a madman: " That is not 
 the sun, that is not the sun, that is an Italian 
 spider. Who gave it a passport for Russia ? I '11 
 show him up for what he is: I saw him stealing 
 oranges from other people's gardens." . . . Then 
 it seems to me that I am walking along a narrow 
 mountain path. . . I hurry onward: I must get 
 somewhere or other as quickly as possible, some 
 unheard-of happiness is awaiting me. Suddenly 
 a vast cliff rears itself up in front of me. I seek a 
 passage; I go to the right, I go to the left— 
 there is no passage! And now behind the cliff a 
 voice suddenly rings out: " Passa, passa quci 
 colli." ... It is calling me, that voice; it re- 
 peats its mournful summons. I fling myself 
 about in anguish, I seek even the smallest cleft. 
 
 163
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 . . . Alas! the cliff is perpendicular, there is 
 granite everywhere. . . . " Passa qiiei colli/' wails 
 the voice again. My heart aches, and I hurl my 
 breast against the smooth stone ; I scratch it with 
 my nails, in my frenzy. ... A dark passage 
 suddenly opens before me. . . Swooning with 
 joy, I dash forward. . . " Nonsense! " some one 
 cries to me: — " thou shalt not pass through." . . 
 I look: Lukyanitch is standing in front of me 
 and threatening, and brandishing his arms. . . I 
 hastily fumble in my pockets: I w^ant to bribe 
 him ; but there is nothing in my pockets. . . . 
 
 " Lukyanitch," — I say to him, — " let me pass; 
 I will reward thee afterward." 
 
 " You are mistaken, signor," Lukyanitch re- 
 plies to me, and his face assumes a strange ex- 
 pression: — " I am not a house-serf; recognise in 
 me Don Quixote de La INIancha, the famous w^an- 
 dering knight ; all my life long I have been seek- 
 ing my Dulcinea — and I have not been able to 
 find her, and I will not tolerate it, that you shall 
 find yours." 
 
 " Passa quel colli " . . . . rings out again the 
 almost sobbing voice. 
 
 "Stand aside, signor!" — I shout wrathfully, 
 and am on the point of precipitating myself for- 
 ward . . . but the knight's long spear wounds 
 me in the very heart. . . I fall dead, . . I lie 
 on my back. . . I cannot move . . . and lo, I 
 see that she is coming with a lamp in her hand, 
 
 164<
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 and elevating it with a fine gesture above her 
 head, she peers about her in the gloom, and creep- 
 ing cautiously up, bends over me. . . 
 
 " So this is he, that jester! " she says with a dis- 
 dainful laugh. — " This is he who wanted to know 
 who I am! " and the hot oil from her lamp drips 
 straight upon mj^ wounded heart. . . 
 
 "Psyche!" — I exclaim with an effort, and 
 awake. 
 
 All night long I slept badlj^ and was afoot be- 
 fore daybreak. Hastily dressing and arming 
 myself, I wended my way straight to the manor. 
 ]My impatience was so great that the dawn had 
 only just begun to flush the sky when I reached 
 the familiar gate. Round me the larks were sing- 
 ing, the daws were cawing on the birches; but in 
 the house everything was still buried in death- 
 like matutinal slumber. Even the dog was 
 snoring behind the fence. With the anguish 
 of expectation, exasperated almost to the 
 point of wrath, I paced to and fro on the 
 dewy grass, and kept casting incessant glances 
 at the low-roofed and ill-favoured little house 
 which contained within its walls that mysterious 
 being. . . . 
 
 Suddenly the wicket-gate creaked faintly, 
 opened, and Lukyanitch made his appearance 
 on the threshold, in some sort of strij^ed kaziik 
 coat. His bristling, long-drawn face seemed to 
 me more surly than ever. Gazing at me not with- 
 
 165
 
 <( 
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 out surprise, he was on the point of shutting the 
 wicket again. 
 
 " My good fellow, m-y good fellow! " — I cried 
 hastily. 
 
 " What do you want at such an earl}' hour? " — 
 he returned slowly and dully. 
 
 " Tell me, please, they say that your mistress 
 has arrived? " 
 
 Lukyanitch made no reply for a while. 
 
 " She has arrived. . ." 
 Alone?" 
 With her sister." 
 
 " Were there not guests with you last night? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 And he drew the wicket toward him. 
 
 " Stay, staj'', my dear fellow. . . . Do me a 
 favour. ..." 
 
 Lukyanitch coughed and shivered with cold. 
 
 " But what is it you want? " 
 
 " Tell me, please, how old is your mistress? " 
 
 Lukyanitch darted a suspicious glance at 
 me. 
 
 " How old is the mistress? I don't know. She 
 must be over forty." 
 
 " Over forty! And how old is her sister? " 
 
 " Why, she 's in the neighbourhood of forty." 
 
 " You don't say so! And is she good-looking? '* 
 
 "Who, the sister?" 
 
 *' Yes, the sister." 
 
 Lukyanitch grinned. 
 
 166
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 " I don't know ; that 's as a person fancies. In 
 my opinion, she is n't comely." 
 
 " How so? " 
 
 " Because— she 's very ill-favoured. A bit 
 puny." 
 
 " You don't say sol And has no one except 
 them come hither? " 
 
 " No one. Who should come ? " 
 
 *' But that cannot be! ... I ... ." 
 
 *' Eh, master! there 's no end of talking with 
 you, apparently,"— retorted the old man with 
 vexation. — " Whew, how cold it is! Good-bye." 
 
 " Stay, stay .... here 's something for 
 thee. . . ." And I held out to him a quarter of 
 a ruble which I had prepared beforehand; but 
 my hand came into contact with the swiftly 
 banged wicket-gate. The silver coin fell to the 
 ground, rolled away, and lay at my feet. 
 
 "Ah, thou old rascal!"— I thought— " Don 
 Quixote de La Mancha! Evidently, thou hast re- 
 ceived orders to hold thy tongue. . . . But wait, 
 thou shalt not trick me." . . . 
 
 I promised myself that I would elucidate the 
 matter, at any cost. For about half an hour I 
 paced to and fro, without knowing what decision 
 to adopt. At last I made up my mind first to 
 inquire in the village, precisely who had arrived 
 at the manor, and who she was, then to return, 
 and, as the saying runs, not desist until the matter 
 was cleared up. — And if the Unknown should 
 
 167
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 come out of the house, I would, at last, see her by 
 daylight, near at hand, like a living woman, not 
 like a vision. 
 
 It was about a verst to the village, and I imme- 
 diately betook myself thither, stepping out lightly 
 and alertly: a strange audacity was seething and 
 sparkling in my blood; the invigorating fresh- 
 ness of the morning excited me after the uneasy 
 night. — In the village I learned from two peas- 
 ants, who were on their way to their work, every- 
 thing which I could learn from them; namely: 
 I learned that the manor, together with the village 
 M'hich I had entered, was called Mikhailovskoe, 
 that it belonged to the widow of a ^Nlajor, Anna 
 Feodorovna ShlykofF; that she had with her her 
 sister, an unmarried woman, Pelageya Feodo- 
 rovna BadaefF by name; that both of them were 
 advanced in years, were wealthy, hardly ever lived 
 at home, were always travelling about, kept no 
 one in attendance on them except two female 
 domestic serfs and a male cook ; that Anna Feo- 
 dorovna had recently returned from ISIoscow with 
 no one but her sister. . . . This last circum- 
 stance greatly perturbed me: it was impossible 
 to assume that the peasants also had been com- 
 manded to hold their peace about my Unknown. 
 But it was utterly impossible to concede that 
 Anna Feodorovna ShlykofF, a widow of five-and- 
 forty, and that young, cliarming woman, whom 
 I had seen on the previous evening, were one and 
 
 168
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 the same person. Pelageya Feodorovna, judpf- 
 ing from the description, was not distinguished 
 for her beauty either, and, in addition to that, 
 at the mere thought tliat the woman whom I had 
 seen at Sorrento could bear the name of Pelageya, 
 and still more of BadaefF, I shrugged my shoul- 
 ders and laughed maliciously. And neverthe- 
 less, I had beheld her the night before in that 
 house. ... I had beheld her, beheld her with 
 my own eyes, I reflected. Irritated, enraged, but 
 still more inclined to stand by my intention, I 
 would have liked to return at once to the manor 
 . . . . but glanced at my watch; it was not yet 
 six o'clock. I decided to wait a while. Every 
 one was still asleep at the farm, in all probability 
 . . . and to prowl about the house at such an hour 
 would only serve to arouse unnecessary suspicion ; 
 and besides, in front of me stretched bushes, and 
 beyond them an aspen wood was visible. . . 
 
 I must do myself the justice to say, that, not- 
 withstanding the thoughts whicli were exciting 
 me, the noble passion for the hunt had not yet 
 grown wholly mute within me; "perchance," I 
 thought, — " I shall hit upon a covey, — and that 
 will serve to pass away the time." I entered the 
 bushes. But, truth to tell, I walked in a very 
 careless way, quite out of consonance with the 
 rules of the art: I did not follow my dog con- 
 stantly with my ej'-es, I did not snort over a 
 thick bush, in the hope that a red-browed black 
 
 169
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 snipe would fly thence with a whirr and a crash, 
 but kept incessantly looking at my watch, which 
 never serves any purpose whatsoever. And, at 
 last, it was going on nine. — " 'T is time! " I ex- 
 claimed aloud, and was on the point of turning 
 back to the manor, when suddenly a huge black 
 woodcock actually did begin to flutter out of 
 the thick grass a couple of paces from me. I 
 fired at the magnificent bird, and wounded it 
 under the wing; it almost fell to the ground, but 
 recovered itself, started off, fluttering its wings 
 swiftly and, diving toward the wood, tried to soar 
 above the first aspens on the edge, but its strength 
 failed, and it rolled headlong into the thicket. It 
 would have been utterly unpardonable to abandon 
 such a prize. I strode briskly after it, entered 
 the forest, made a sign to Dianka, and a few 
 moments later I heard a feeble clucking and 
 flapping; it was the unlucky woodcock, strug- 
 gling under the paws of my quick-scented hound. 
 I picked it up, put it in my game-bag, glanced 
 round, and — remained rooted to the spot, as it 
 were. . . . 
 
 The forest which I had entered was very dense 
 and wild, so that I had with difficulty made my 
 way to the spot where the bird had fallen; but 
 at a short distance from me wound a cart-road, 
 and along this road were riding on horseback 
 my beauty and the man who had overtaken me 
 on the night before; I recognised him by his 
 
 170
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 moustache. They were riding softly, in silence, 
 holding each other by the hand ; their horses were 
 barely putting one foot before the other, lazily 
 swaying from side to side and handsomely 
 stretching out their long necks. When I had 
 recovered from my first alarm . . . precisely 
 that, alarm: I can give no other appellation to 
 the feeling which suddenly seized upon me. . . . 
 I fairly bored into her with my eyes. How beau- 
 tiful she was! how enchantingly her graceful 
 form moved toward me amid the emerald green! 
 Soft shadows, tender reflections glided over her 
 — over her long grey habit, over her slender, 
 shghtly-bent neck, over her faintly-rosy face, over 
 her glossy black hair, which escaped luxuriantly 
 from under her low-crowned hat. But how shall 
 I transmit that expression of utter, passionate 
 bliss of a person passionate to the point of 
 speechlessness, which breathed forth from her 
 features? Her head seemed to be bending be- 
 neath the burden of it ; moist, golden sparks glit- 
 tered in her dark eyes, which were half -concealed 
 by her eyelashes ; they gazed nowhere, those happy 
 eyes, and the slender brows drooped over them. 
 An irresolute, child-like smile— the smile of pro- 
 found happiness, strayed over her lips ; it seemed 
 as though excess of happiness had wearied and 
 even broken her a little, as a flower in full bloom 
 sometimes breaks its own stem. Both her hands 
 lay powerless: one, in the hand of the man who 
 
 171
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 was riding by her side, the other on her horse's 
 mane. 
 
 I succeeded in getting a good look at her 
 — and at him also. . . . He was a handsome, 
 stately man, with an ini-Russian face. He was 
 gazing at her boldly and merrily, and, so far 
 as I was able to observe, was admiring her not 
 without secret pride. He was admiring her, the 
 villain, and was very well-satisfied with himself, 
 and not sufficiently touched, not sufficiently 
 moved, — precisely that, moved. . . And, as a mat- 
 ter of fact, what man does deserve such devotion, 
 what soul, even the most beautiful, is worthy of 
 furnishing another soul such happiness? I must 
 sav, that I was envious of him! .... In the 
 meantime, they had both arrived on a level with 
 me . . . my dog suddenly bounded out into the 
 road and began to bark. ]My Unknown started, 
 cast a swift glance aroimd and, catching sight 
 of me, dealt her steed a violent blow on the 
 neck with her whip. The horse snorted, reared 
 up on his hind legs, threw both his hoofs forward 
 simultaneously, and dashed off at a gallop. . . . 
 The man immediately gave the spur to his black 
 horse, and when I emerged by the road into the 
 border of the forest a few moments later, both 
 of them were already galloping off into the 
 golden distance, across the fields, rising smartly 
 and regularly in their saddles . . . and were not 
 galloping in the direction of the farm. . . . 
 
 172
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 I gazed. . . . They speedily (lisaj)peared be- 
 hind a hillock, brilliantly illuminated for the last 
 time by the sun against the dark line of the hori- 
 zon. I stood, and stood, then returned with slow 
 steps to the forest and sat down on the path, 
 covering my eyes with my hand. — I have ob- 
 served that after meeting strangers, all that is 
 necessary is to close the eyes — and their features 
 immediately start up before you; any one can 
 verify my observation on the street. The more 
 familiar the faces, the more difficult is it for them 
 to present themselves, the more indefinite is their 
 impression; you recall them, but you do not see 
 them, .... and you can never possibly picture 
 to yourself your own face. . . . The very mi- 
 nutest separate feature is known to you, but the 
 entire image will not constitute itself. So then, 
 I sat down, closed my eyes— and immediately 
 beheld the Unknown and her companion, and 
 their horses, and everything. . . . The man's 
 smiling countenance stood before me with par- 
 ticular sharpness and distinctness. I began to 
 stare intently at it ... it became confused, and 
 dissolved into a sort of crimson mist, and after 
 it, her image also floated away and sank, and 
 would not return. 
 
 "Well, never mind!"— I thought; — "at all 
 events, I have seen them, seen them both clearl\-. 
 ... It remains for me now to find out their 
 names." Endeavour to find out their names! 
 
 173
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 What ill-judged, petty curiosity! But I swear 
 that it was not curiosity which had flamed up in 
 me. In truth, it simply seemed to me impossible 
 not to discover, eventually, who they were, after 
 accident had so strangely and so persistently 
 brought us together. INIoreover, my former im- 
 patient perplexity no longer existed; it had been 
 replaced by a certain confused, sorrowful feeling, 
 of which I was somewhat ashamed. ... I was 
 jealous. . . . 
 
 I did not hasten back to the farm. I must 
 confess that I had become ashamed to pry into 
 the secrets of others. Moreover, the appearance 
 of the fond pair by daylight, in the light of the 
 sun, although it was unexpected and, I repeat, 
 strange, had not exactly soothed, but chilled me. 
 I no longer found anything supernatural, mirac- 
 ulous in this occurrence .... nothing resem- 
 bling an impossible dream. . . . 
 
 I began to hunt again with greater assiduity 
 than before; but still, there were no genuine rap- 
 tures. I hit upon a covey, which engaged my 
 attention for an hour and a half. . . The voun"; 
 partridges did not respond to my whistle for a 
 long time, — probably because I did not whistle 
 wdth sufficient " objectivity." — The sun had al- 
 ready risen quite high (my watch indicated twelve 
 o'clock), when I directed my steps toward the 
 manor. I walked without haste. Yonder, at last, 
 the low-roofed little house peeped forth from its 
 
 174
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 hill. I approached .... and not without 
 secret satisfaction beheld Lukyunitch. iVs of 
 yore, he was sitting motionless on the bench in 
 front of the wing. The gate was closed— also 
 the shutters. 
 
 "Good morning, uncle!"— I shouted to him 
 from afar. — " Hast thou come out to warm thy- 
 self? " 
 
 Lukyanitch turned his gaunt face toward me 
 and silently doffed his cap. 
 
 I went up to him. 
 
 " Good morning, uncle, good morning,"— I 
 repeated, wishing to encourage him. — " Wh}"," 
 — I added, unexpectedly descrying my quar- 
 terruble on the ground, — " didst not thou see 
 it?" 
 
 And I pointed out to him the silver circle, half 
 peeping from beneath the short grass. 
 
 " Yes, I saw it." 
 
 " Then why didst thou not pick it up? " 
 
 " Because it was n't my money, so I did n't 
 pick it up." 
 
 "What a fellow^ thou art, brother!" — I re- 
 turned, not without embarrassment, and picking 
 up the coin, I offered it to him again.—" Take . 
 it, take it, for tea." 
 
 " Much obliged,"— Lukyanitch answered me, 
 with a composed smile. — " It is n't necessary; I '11 
 manage to pull through without it. ISIuch 
 obliged." 
 
 175
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 " But I am ready to give you still more, with 
 pleasure!" — I replied in confusion. 
 
 " What for? Please don't disturb yourself— 
 much obliged for your good-will, but we still have 
 a crust of bread. And perhaps we sha'n't eat 
 that up— that 's as it may happen." 
 
 And he rose, and put out his hand to the wicket- 
 gate. 
 
 " Stay, stay, old man,"— I began, almost in 
 desperation; — "how uncommunicative thou art 
 to-day, really. . . . Tell me, at least, has your 
 mistress risen yet? " 
 
 " She has." ' 
 
 " And .... is she at home? " 
 
 " No, she 's not at home." 
 
 " Has she gone off on a visit, praj'? " 
 
 " No, sir: she has gone to Moscow." 
 
 " To Moscow! How is that? Why, she was 
 here this morning! " 
 
 " She was." 
 
 *' And she passed the night here? " 
 
 " She did." 
 
 " And she came hither recently? " 
 1 es. 
 
 " What next, my good man? " 
 
 "Why, this: it must be about an hour since 
 she deigned to start back to INIoscow." 
 
 "To Moscow!" 
 
 I stared in petrification at Lukyanitch; I had 
 not expected this, I admit. 
 
 176
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 Lukyanitch stared at me. ... A crafty, senile 
 smile distended his withered lips and ahnost 
 beamed in his melancholy eyes. 
 
 "And did she go away with her sister?" — I 
 said at last. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " So that now there is no one in the house? " 
 
 " "XT " 
 
 No one. . . . 
 
 " This old man is deceiving me," — flashed 
 through my head.—" 'T is not without cause that 
 he is grinning so craftily.— Listen, Lukyanitch," 
 — I said aloud;— "dost wish to do me one fa- 
 vour f 
 
 " What is it you wish? "—he enunciated slowly, 
 evidently beginning to feel annoyed by my ques- 
 tions. 
 
 " Thou sayest that there is no one in the house; 
 canst thou show it to me? I should be very grate- 
 ful to thee." 
 
 " That is, you want to inspect the rooms? " 
 
 " Yes, the rooms." 
 
 Lukyanitch remained silent for a space. 
 
 " Very well,"— he said at last.—" Pray, en- 
 
 LvX • • • • 
 
 And bending down, he stepped across the 
 threshold of the wicket-gate. I followed him. 
 After traversing a tiny courtyard, we ascended 
 the tottering steps of the porch. The old man gave 
 the door a push; there was no lock on it: a cord 
 with a knot stuck out through the key-hole. . . . 
 
 177
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 We entered the house. It consisted in all of five or 
 six low-ceiled rooms, and, so far as I could make 
 out in the faint hght, which streamed sparsely 
 through the rifts in the shutters, the furniture in 
 these rooms was extremely plain and decrepit. 
 In one of them (namely, in the one which opened 
 on the garden) stood a small, antiquated piano. 
 ... I raised its warped lid and struck the keys : 
 a shrill, hissing sound rang out and died feebly 
 away, as though complaining of my audacity. 
 It was impossible to discern from an3'thing that 
 people had recently left the liouse; it had a dead 
 and stifling sort of smell — the odour of an unin- 
 habited dwelling; here and there, indeed, a dis- 
 carded paper gave one to understand, by its 
 whiteness, that it had been dropped there recently. 
 I picked up one such bit of paper; it proved to be 
 a scrap of a letter; on one side in a dashing 
 feminine handwriting were scrawled the w'ords 
 *' se taire? " on the other I made out the word 
 " honlieur." . . . On a small round table near the 
 window stood a nosegay of half-faded flowers 
 in a glass, and a green, rumpled ribbon was lying 
 there also .... I took that ribbon as a souvenir. 
 — Lukyanitch opened a narrow door, pasted over 
 with wall-paper. 
 
 " Here," — said he, extending his hand: — " this 
 here is the bedroom, and yonder, beyond it, is 
 the room for the maids, and there are no other 
 chambers. . . ." 
 
 178
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 We returned by way of the corridor. — " And 
 what room is that j'onder? " — I asked, pointing 
 at a broad, white door witli a lock. 
 
 " That? " — Lukvanitch answered me, in a dull 
 voice. — " That 's nothing." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Because. ... 'T is a store-room. . ." And 
 he started to go into the anteroom. 
 
 "A store-room? Cannot I look at it?" . . . 
 
 " "\^^lat makes you want to do that, master, 
 really? ! " — replied Lukyanitch with displeasure. 
 
 — "What is there for you to look at? Chests, 
 old crockery . . . 't is a store-room, and nothing 
 more. ..." 
 
 " All the same, show it to me, please, old man," 
 
 — I said, although I was inwardly ashamed of my 
 indecent persistence. — " I should like, you see 
 .... I should like to have just such a house my- 
 self at home, in my village . . . ." 
 
 I was ashamed: I could not complete the sen- 
 tence I had begun. 
 
 Lukyanitch stood with his grey head bent on 
 his breast, and stared at me askance in a strange 
 sort of ^vay. 
 
 " Show it," — I said. 
 
 " Well, as you like," — he replied at last, got 
 the key, and reluctantly o]3ened the door. 
 
 I glanced into the store-room. There really 
 was nothing noteworthy about it. On the walls 
 hung old portraits with gloomy, almost black 
 
 179
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 countenances, and vicious eyes. The floor was 
 strewn with all sorts of rubbish. 
 
 " Well, have you seen all you want? " — asked 
 Lukyanitch, gruffly. 
 
 " Yes; thanks! " — I hastily replied. 
 
 He slammed to the door. I went out into the 
 anteroom, and from the anteroom into the court- 
 yard. 
 
 Lukyanitch escorted me, muttering: " Good- 
 bye, sir! " and went off to his own wing. 
 
 " But who was the lady visitor at your house 
 last night?" — I called after him: — "I met her 
 this morning in the grove." 
 
 I had hoped to daze him with my sudden ques- 
 tion, to evoke a thoughtless answer. But the old 
 man merely laughed dully, and slammed the door 
 behind him when he went in. 
 
 I retraced my steps to Glinnoe. I felt awk- 
 ward, like a boy who has been put to shame. 
 
 " No," — I said to myself: — " evidently, I shall 
 not obtain a solution to this puzzle. I '11 give it 
 up! I will think no more of all this." 
 
 An hour later, I set out on my homeward drive, 
 enraged and irritated. 
 
 A week elapsed. Try as I might to banish 
 from me the memory of the Unknown, of her 
 companion, of my meetings with them, — it kept 
 constantly returning, and besieged me with all 
 the importunate persistence of an after-dinner 
 fly. . . . I^ukyanitch, with his mj^sterious looks 
 
 180
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 and reserved speeches, witli his coldly-mournful 
 smile, also recurred incessantly to my memory. 
 The house itself, when I tliought of it, — tliat 
 house itself gazed at me cunningly and stupidly 
 through its half -closed shutters, and seemed to 
 be jeering at me, as though it were saying to me: 
 " And all the same thou shalt not find out any- 
 thing! " At last I could endure it no longer, and 
 one fine day I drove to Glinnoe, and from Glin- 
 noe set out on foot .... whither? The reader 
 can easily divine. 
 
 I must confess that, as I approached the mys- 
 terious manor, I felt a decidedly violent agitation. 
 The exterior of the house had not undergone the 
 slightest change: the same closed windows, the 
 same melancholy and desolate aspect; only, on 
 the bench, in front of the wing, instead of old 
 Lukyanitch, sat some young house-serf or other, 
 of twenty, in a long nankeen kaftan and a red 
 shirt. He was sitting with his curly head resting 
 on his palm, and dozing, swaying to and fro from 
 time to time, and quivering. 
 
 "Good morning, brother!"— I said in a loud 
 voice. 
 
 He immediately sprang to his feet and stared 
 at me with widely-opened, panic-stricken eyes. 
 
 "Good morning, brother!" I repeated: — 
 " And where is the old man? " 
 
 "What old man?"— said the young fellow, 
 slowly. 
 
 181
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 " Lukyanitch." 
 
 "Ah, Lukyanitch!" — He darted a glance 
 aside. — " Do you want Lukyanitch?" 
 
 " Yes, I do. Is he at home? " 
 
 " X-no," — enunciated the young fellow, bro- 
 kenly, — " he, you know . . . how shall I . . . 
 tell . . . you . . . about .... that . . . ." 
 
 "Ishe'iU?" 
 
 " Xo." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 " Why, he is n't here at all." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because. Something .... unpleasant . . . 
 happened to him." 
 
 " Is he dead? " — I inquired with surprise. 
 
 " He strani^led himself." 
 
 " Strangled himself! " — I exclaimed in af- 
 fright, and clasped my hands. 
 
 We both gazed in each other's eyes in silence. 
 
 " How long ago? " — I said at last. 
 
 " Why, to-day is the fifth day since. They 
 buried him yesterda5\" 
 
 "But why did he strangle himself? " 
 
 " The Lord knows. He was a freeman, on 
 wages; he did not know want, the masters petted 
 him as though he were a relation. For we have 
 such good masters — may God give them health! 
 I simply can't understand what came over him. 
 Evidently, the Evil One entrapped him." 
 
 "But iiow did he do it?" 
 
 182
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 (( 
 
 Why, so. He took and strano'led liimself.'* 
 " And nothing of the sort had been previously 
 noticed in him? " 
 
 " How shall I tell you. . . . There was no- 
 thing .... particular. He was always a ver}'' 
 melancholy man. He used to groan, and groan. 
 ' I 'm so bored,' he would say. Well, and then 
 there was his age. Of late, he really did begin 
 to meditate something. He used to come to us in 
 the village; for I 'm his nephew. — ' Well, Vasya, 
 my lad,' he would say, ' prithee, brother, come and 
 spend the night with me! ' — ' What for, uncle? ' 
 — 'Why, because I'm frightened, somehow; 
 't is tiresome alone.' Well, and so I 'd go to him. 
 He would come out into the courtyard and stare 
 and stare so at the house, and shake and shake 
 his head, and how he would sigh! . . . Just be- 
 fore that night, that is to say, the one on which 
 he put an end to his life, he came to us again, 
 and invited me. AVell, and so I went. When 
 we reached his wing, he sat for a while on the 
 bench; then he rose, and went out. I wait, and 
 ' he 's rather long in coming back ' — says I, and 
 went out into the courtyard, and shouted, ' Un- 
 cle ! hey, uncle ! ' ]My uncle did not call back. 
 Thinks I : ' Whither can he have gone ? surely, not 
 into the house ? ' and I went into the house. 
 Twilight was already drawing on. And as I was 
 passing the store-room, I heard something 
 scratching there, behind the door; so I took and 
 
 183
 
 THREE ^MEETINGS 
 
 opened the door. Behold, there he sat doubled up 
 under the window. 
 
 " ' What art thou doing there, uncle? ' says I. 
 But he turns round, and how he shouts at me, and 
 his eyes are so keen, so keen, they fairly blaze, 
 like a cat's. 
 
 " ' What dost thou want? Dost not see — I am 
 shaving myself.' And his voice was so hoarse. 
 ]My hair suddenly rose upright, and I don't know 
 why I got frightened . . . evidently, about that 
 time the devils had already assailed him. 
 
 " ' What, in the dark? '—says I, and my knees 
 fairly shook. 
 
 " ' Come,' says he, ' it 's all right, begone! ' 
 
 " I went, and he came out of the store-room 
 and locked the door. So we went back to the 
 wing, and the terror immediately left me. 
 
 " ' What wast thou doing in the store-room, 
 uncle? ' says I. — He was fairly frightened. 
 
 "'Hold thy tongue!' says he; 'hold thy 
 tongue! ' and he crawled up on the oven-bench. 
 
 " ' Well,' thinks I to myself,—' 't will be better 
 for me not to speak to him; he surely must be 
 feeling ill to-day.' So I went and lay down on 
 the oven-bench myself, too. And a night-light 
 was burning in a corner. So, I am lying there, 
 and just dozing, you know . . . when suddenly 
 I hear the door creaking softly . . . and it opens 
 — so, a little. And my uncle was lying with his 
 back to the door, and, as j^ou may remember, 
 
 184
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 he was always a little hard of hearing. But this 
 time he sprang up suddenly. . . 
 
 " ' Who 's calling me, hey? who is it? hast come 
 for me, for me? ! ' and out he ran into the yard 
 without his hat. . . . 
 
 " I thought: ' AVhat 's the matter with him? ' 
 and, sinful man that I am, I fell asleep imme- 
 diately. The next morning I woke up ... . 
 and Lukyaiiitch was not there. 
 
 " I went out of doors and began to call him — he 
 was nowhere. I asked the watchman: 
 " ' Has n't my uncle come out? ' says I. 
 " 'No,' says he, ' I have n't seen him.' . . . 
 " ' Has n't something happened to him, bro- 
 ther? ' . . . . says I. . . 
 
 " ' Oi! ' . . . . We were both fairly frightened. 
 " ' Come, Feodosyeitch,' says I, ' come on,' says 
 I, — ' let 's see whether he is n't in the house.' 
 
 " ' Come on,'— says he, ' Vasily Timofyeitch! ' 
 but he himself was as white as clay. 
 
 " We entered the house. . . I was about to 
 pass the store-room, but I glanced and the pad- 
 lock was hanging open on the hasp, and I pushed 
 the door, but the door was fastened inside. . . . 
 Feodosyeitch immediately ran round, and peeped 
 in at the window. 
 
 "'Vasily Timofyeitch!' he cries;— 'his legs 
 are hanging, his legs . . . ' 
 
 " I ran to the window. And they were his legs, 
 Lukyanitch's legs. And he liad hanged himself 
 
 W5
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 in the middle of the room. — Well, we sent for the 
 judge. . . . They took him down from the rope; 
 the rope was tied with twelve knots." 
 
 " Well, what did the court say? " 
 
 " What did the court say? Nothing. They 
 pondered and j^ondered what the cause might 
 he. There was no cause. And so they decided 
 that he must have been out of his mind. His head 
 had been aching of late, he had been complaining 
 very frequently of his head. ..." 
 
 I chatted for about half an hour longer with the 
 young fellow, and went away, at last, completely 
 disconcerted. I must confess that I could not 
 look at that rickety house without a secret, super- 
 stitious terror. ... A month later I quitted my 
 country-seat, and little by little all these horrors, 
 these mysterious encounters, vanished from my 
 mind. 
 
 II 
 
 Three years passed. The greater part of that 
 time I spent in Petersburg and abroad ; and even 
 when I did run down to my place in the country, 
 it was only for a few days at a time, so that I 
 never chanced to be in Glinnoe or in INIikhailov- 
 skoe on a single occasion. Nowhere had I seen 
 my beauty nor the man. One day, toward the 
 end of the third year, in Moscow, I chanced to 
 meet Madame Shlykoif and her sister, Pelageya 
 
 186
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 Badaeff— that same Pelageya whom I, sinful 
 man that I am, had hitherto regarded as a myth- 
 ical being — at an evening gathering in the house 
 of one of my acquaintances. Neither of the 
 ladies was any longer young, and both possessed 
 pleasing exteriors; their conversation was char- 
 acterised by wit and mirth: they had travelled 
 a great deal, and travelled with profit ; easy gaiety 
 was observable in their manners. But they and 
 my acquaintance had positively nothing in com- 
 mon. I was presented to tliem. Madame Shly- 
 kofF and I dropped into conversation (her sister 
 was being entertained by a passing geologist). 
 I informed her that I had the pleasure of being 
 her neighbour in *** county. 
 
 " Ah! I really do possess a small estate there," 
 — she remarked, — " near Glinnoe." 
 
 "Exactly, exactly,"— I returned:—"! know 
 your Mikhailovskoe. Do you ever go thither? " 
 
 "I?-Rarely." 
 
 " Were you there three years ago? " 
 
 " Stay! I think I was. Yes, I was, that is true." 
 
 " With your sister, or alone? " 
 
 She darted a glance at me. 
 
 " With my sister. We spent about a week 
 there. On business, vou know. However, we 
 saw no one." 
 
 " H'm. ... I think there are verj^ few neigh- 
 bours there." 
 
 " Yes, very few. I 'm not fond of neighbours." 
 
 187
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 " Tell me,"— I began;—" I believe you had a 
 catastrophe there that same year. Lukya- 
 nitch . . . ." 
 
 JNIadame ShlvkofF's eves immediately filled 
 with tears. 
 
 " And did you know him? " — she said with vi- 
 vacity.—" Such a misfortune! He was a very 
 fine, good old man . . . and just fancy, without 
 any cause, you know . . . ." 
 
 Madame ShlvkofF's sister approached us. She 
 was, in all probability, beginning to be bored by 
 the learned disquisitions of the geologist about 
 the formation of the banks of the Volga. 
 
 " Just fancy, Pauline,"— began my compan- 
 ion; — " monsieur knew Lukyanitch." 
 
 " Really? Poor old man! " 
 
 " I hunted more than once in the environs of 
 ^Nlikhailovskoe at that period, when you were 
 there three years ago," — I remarked. 
 
 "I?" — returned Pelageya, in some astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "Well, j^es, of course!" — hastily interposed 
 her sister; "is it possible that thou dost not re- 
 call it? " 
 
 And she looked her intently in the eye. 
 
 " Akh, yes, yes . . . that is true!" — replied 
 Pelageya, suddenly. 
 
 " Ehe— he! " 1 thought: " I don't believe you 
 were in Mikhailovskoe, my dear." 
 
 " Will not you sing us something, Pelageya 
 
 188
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 Feodorovna? " — suddenly began a tall young 
 man, with a crest of fair hair and tur})i(lly-sweet 
 little eyes. 
 
 " Really, I don't know,"— said ^liss Badaeff. 
 
 "And do you sing? " — I exclaimed with vi- 
 vacity, springing up briskly from my seat. " For 
 heaven's sake .... akh, for heaven's sake, do 
 sing us something." 
 
 " But what shall I sing to you? " 
 
 " Don't you know," — I began, using my ut- 
 most endeavours to impart to my face an indif- 
 ferent and easy expression, — " an Italian song 
 ... it begins this way : ' Passa quei colli ' ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Pelageya with perfect inno- 
 cence. " Do you want me to sing that? Very 
 well." 
 
 And she seated herself at the piano. I, like 
 Hamlet, riveted my eyes on Madame ShlykofF. 
 It seemed to me that at the first note she gave a 
 slight start; but she sat quietly to the end. ^Nliss 
 BadaefF sang quite well. The song ended, the 
 customary j)laudits resounded. They began to 
 urge her to sing something else; but the two sis- 
 ters exchanged glances, and a few minutes later 
 they took their departure. As they left the room 
 I overheard the word " imiporiun." 
 
 " I deserved it! " I thought— and did not meet 
 them again. 
 
 Still another year elapsed. I transferred my 
 residence to Petersburg. Winter arrived; tlie 
 
 T89
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 masquerades began. One day, as I emerged at 
 eleven o'clock at night from the house of a friend, 
 I felt myself in such a gloomy frame of mind that 
 I decided to betake myself to the masquerade in 
 the Assembly of the Nobility/ For a long time 
 I roamed about among the columns and past the 
 mirrors with a discreetly-fatalistic expression on 
 my countenance — with that expression which, so 
 far as I have observed, makes its appearance in 
 such cases on the faces of the most well-bred per- 
 sons — why, the Lord only knows. For a long 
 time I roamed about, now and then parrj'ing with 
 a jest the advances of divers shrill dominoes with 
 suspicious lace and soiled gloves, and still more 
 rarely addressing them. For a long time I sur- 
 rendered my ears to the blare of the trumpets and 
 the whining of the violins; at last, being pretty 
 well bored, I was on the point of going home 
 .... and .... and remained. I caught sight 
 of a woman in a black domino, leaning against a 
 column,— and no sooner had I caught sight of her 
 than I stopped short, stepped up to her, and . . . 
 will the reader believe me? .... immediately 
 recognised in her my Unknown. How I recog- 
 nised her: whether by the glance which she ab- 
 stractedly cast upon me through the oblong aper- 
 ture in her mask, or by the wonderful outlines of 
 her shoulders and arms, or by the peculiarly femi- 
 nine stateliness of her whole form, or, in conclu- 
 
 iThe Nobles' Club. —Translator. 
 
 190
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 sion, by some secret voice wliich suddenly spoke in 
 me, — I cannot say .... only, recognise her I 
 did. AVith a quiver in my heart, I walked past lier 
 several times. She did not stir; in her attitude 
 there was something so hopelessly sorrowful that, 
 as I gazed at her, I involuntarily recalled two 
 lines of a Spanish romance: 
 
 Soy un cuadro de tristeza, 
 Arrimado a la pared. ^ 
 
 I stepped behind the column against wliich she 
 was leaning, and bending my head down to her 
 very ear, enunciated softly : 
 
 " Passa qiiei colli/' . . . 
 
 She began to tremble all over, and turned 
 swiftly round to me. Our eyes met at very 
 short range, and I was able to observe how fright 
 had dilated her pupils. Feebly extending one 
 hand in perplexity, she gazed at me. 
 
 " On iNIay 6, 184*, in Sorrento, at ten o'clock in 
 the evening, in della Croce Street,"— I said in a 
 dehberate voice, without taking my eyes from her ; 
 " afterward, in Russia, in the *** Government, 
 in the hamlet of ^likhailovskoe, on June 22, 
 184*." .... 
 
 I said all this in French. She recoiled a little, 
 scanned me from head to foot with a look of 
 
 1 " I am a picture of sorrow. 
 Leaning against the wall." 
 
 101
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 amazement, and whispering, " Venez'' swiftly 
 left the room. I followed her. 
 
 We walked on in silence. It is beyond my 
 power to express what I felt as I walked side by 
 side with her. It was as though a very beautiful 
 dream had suddenh^ become reality ... as though 
 the statue of Galatea had descended as a living 
 woman from its pedestal in the sight of the 
 swooning Pygmalion. ... I could not believe 
 it, I could hardly breathe. 
 
 We traversed several rooms. ... At last, in 
 one of them, she paused in front of a small divan 
 near the window, and seated herself. I sat down 
 beside her. 
 
 She slowly turned her head toward me, and 
 looked intently at me. 
 
 " Do you .... do you come from liiml " she 
 said. 
 
 Her voice was weak and unsteady. . . 
 
 Her question somewhat disconcerted me. 
 
 " No .... not from him,"— I replied halt- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Do you know him? " 
 
 " Yes," — I replied, with mysterious solemnity. 
 I wanted to keep up my role. — " Yes, I know 
 him." 
 
 She looked distrustfully at me, started to say 
 something, and dropped her eyes. 
 
 " You were waiting for him in Sorrento,"— I 
 went on;— "you met him at INIikhailovskoe, you 
 rode on horseback with him. . . ."
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 *' How could you . . . ." she began. 
 
 " I know ... I know all. . . ." 
 
 " Your face seems familiar to me, somehow," — 
 she continued: — "but no . . . ." 
 
 " No, I am a stranger to you." 
 
 " Then what is it that vou want? " 
 
 " I know that also," — I persisted. 
 
 I understood very well that I must take advan- 
 tage of the excellent beginning to go furtlier, 
 that my repetitions of " I know all, I know," 
 were becoming ridicuk)us — but my agitation was 
 so great, that unexpected meeting had thrown me 
 into such confusion, I had lost my self-control to 
 such a degree that I positively was unable to say 
 anything else. INIoreover, I really knew nothing 
 more. I felt conscious that I was talking non- 
 sense, felt conscious that, from the mysterious, 
 omniscient being which I must at first appear to 
 her to be, I should soon be converted into a sort 
 of grinning fool .... but there was no help 
 for it. 
 
 " Yes, I know all," — I muttered once more. 
 
 She darted a glance at me, rose quickly to her 
 feet, and was on the point of departing. 
 
 But this was too cruel. I seized her hand. 
 
 " For God's sake,"— I began,—" sit down, 
 listen to me. . . ." 
 
 She reflected, and seated herself. 
 
 " I just told you,"— I went on fervently,— 
 " that I knew every tiling— that is nonsense. I 
 know nothing; I do not know either who you 
 
 19.3
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 are, or who he is, and if I have been able to sur- 
 prise you by what I said to you a while ago by 
 the column, you must ascribe that to chance alone, 
 to a strange, incomprehensible chance, which, as 
 though in derision, has brought me in contact with 
 you twice, and almost in identically the same way 
 on both occasions, and has made me the involun- 
 tary witness of that which, perhaps, you would 
 like to keep secret. ..." 
 
 And thereupon, without the slightest circumlo- 
 cution, I related to her everything: my meet- 
 ings with her in Sorrento, in Russia, my futile 
 inquiries in Mikhailovskoe, even my conversa- 
 tion in Moscow with Madame Shlykoff and her 
 sister. 
 
 " Now you know everything," — I went on, 
 when I had finished my story. — " I will not under- 
 take to describe to you what an overwhelming im- 
 pression you made on me: to see you and not 
 to be bewitched by you is impossible. On the 
 other hand, there is no need for me to tell you 
 what the nature of that imnression was. Re- 
 member under what conditions I beheld j^ou both 
 times. . . . Believe me, I am not fond of indulg- 
 ing in senseless hopes, but you must understand 
 also that inexpressible agitation which has seized 
 upon me to-day, and you must pardon the awk- 
 ward artifice to which I decided to have recourse 
 in order to attract your attention, if only for a 
 moment . . . ." 
 
 194
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 She listened to my confused explanations witli- 
 out raising her head. 
 
 " What do you want of me? "—she said at last. 
 
 " I ? . . . I want nothing ... I am happy 
 as I am. ... I have too much respect for such 
 secrets." 
 
 "Really? But, up to this point, apparently 
 . . . . However," — she went on, — " I will not re- 
 proach you. Any man would have done the same 
 in your place. INIoreover, chance really has 
 brought us together so persistently . . . that 
 would seem to give you a certain right to frank- 
 ness on my part. Listen: I am not one of those 
 uncomprehended and unhappy women who go 
 to masquerades for the sake of chattering to the 
 first man they meet about their sufferings, who 
 require hearts filled with sympathy. ... I re- 
 quire sympathy from no one; my own heart is 
 dead, and I have come hither in order to bury 
 it definitively." 
 
 She raised a handkerchief to her lips. 
 
 " I hope "—she went on with a certain amount 
 of effort—" that you do not take my words for 
 the ordinary effusions of a masquerade. You 
 must understand that I am in no mood for 
 xnax. ... 
 
 And, in truth, there was something terrible in 
 her voice, despite all the softness of its tones. 
 
 " I am a Russian,"— she said in Russian;— up 
 to that point she had expressed herself in the 
 
 195
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 French language:—" although I have lived little 
 in Russia. ... It is not necessarj^ for me to 
 know your name. Anna Feodorovna is an old 
 friend of mine; I really did go to IMikliailovskoe 
 under the name of her sister. . . It was impos- 
 sible at that time for me to meet him openly. . . 
 And even without that, rumours had begun to 
 circulate ... at that time, obstacles still existed 
 —he was not free. . . Those obstacles have dis- 
 appeared . . . but he whose name should become 
 mine, he with whom you saw me, has abandoned 
 me. 
 
 She made a gesture with her hand, and paused 
 awhile. . . . 
 
 " You really do not know him? You have not 
 met him? " 
 
 " Not once." 
 
 " He has spent almost all this time abroad. But 
 he is here now. . . . That is my whole history," 
 —she added;—" you see, there is nothing myste- 
 rious about it, nothing peculiar." 
 
 " And Sorrento? "—I timidly interposed. 
 
 " I made his acquaintance in Sorrento," — she 
 answered slowly, becoming pensive. 
 
 Both of us held our peace. A strange dis- 
 composure took possession of me. I was sitting 
 beside her, beside that woman whose image had 
 so often flitted through my dreams, had so tor- 
 turingly agitated and irritated me,— I was sit- 
 ting beside her and felt a cold and a weight at 
 
 190
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 my heart. I knew that nothing would come of 
 that meeting, that between lier and me there was 
 a gulf, that when we parted we should ])art for- 
 ever. With her head bowed forward and both 
 hands lying in her lap, she sat there indifferent 
 and careless. I know that carelessness of incur- 
 able grief, I know that indifference of irrecover- 
 able happiness! The masks strolled past us in 
 couples; the sounds of the "monotonous and 
 senseless " w altz now" reverberated dully in the 
 distance, now were wafted by in sharp gusts ; the 
 merry ball-music agitated me heavily and mourn- 
 fu%. " Can it be," — I thought, — " that this wo- 
 man is the same who appeared to me once on a 
 time in the window of that little country house 
 far aw^ay, in all the splendour of triumphant 
 beautv? . . . ." And vet, time seemed not to 
 have touched her. The lower part of her face, un- 
 concealed by the lace of her mask, was of almost 
 childish delicacy; but a chill emanated from her, 
 as from a statue. . . . Galatea had returned to 
 her pedestal, and would descend from it no more. 
 
 Suddenly she di'ew herself up, darted a glance 
 into the next room, and rose. 
 
 " Give me your arm,"— she said to me. " Let us 
 go away quickly, quickly." 
 
 We returned to the ball-room. She walked so 
 fast that I could barely keep up with her. She 
 came to a standstill beside one of the columns. 
 
 " Let us wait here,"— she whispered. 
 
 197
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 " Are you looking for any one? "—I began. . . . 
 
 But she paid no heed to me: her eager gaze was 
 fixed upon the jrowd. Languidly and menacingly 
 did her great black eyes look forth from beneath 
 the black velvet. 
 
 I turned in the direction of her gaze and un- 
 derstood everything. Along the corridor formed 
 by the row of columns and the wall, he was walk- 
 ing, that man whom I had met with her in the for- 
 est. I recognised him instantly: he had hardlj^ 
 changed at all. His golden-brown moustache 
 curled as handsomely as ever, his brown eyes 
 beamed with the same calm and self-confident 
 cheerfulness as of yore. He was walking without 
 haste, and, lightly bending his slender figure, was 
 narrating something to a woman in a domino, 
 whose arm was linked in his. As he came on a 
 level with us, he suddenly raised his head, looked 
 first at me, then at the woman with whom I was 
 standing, and probably recognised her ej^es, for 
 his eyebrows quivered slightly,— he screwed up 
 his eyes, and a barely perceptible, but intolerably 
 insolent smile hovered over his hps. He bent 
 down to his companion, and whispered a couple 
 of words in her ear; she immediately glanced 
 round, her blue eyes hastily scanned us both, and 
 with a soft laugh she menaced him with her little 
 hand. He slightly shrugged one shoulder, she 
 nestled up to him coquettishly. . . . 
 
 I turned to my Unknown. She was gazing 
 
 198
 
 THREE MEETINGS 
 
 after the receding pair, and suddenly, tearing her 
 arm from mine, she rushed toward the door. I 
 was about to dash after her; but turning round, 
 she gave me such a look that I made her a ])ro- 
 found bow, and remained where I was. I under- 
 stood that to pursue her would be both rude and 
 stupid. 
 
 " Tell me, please, my dear fellow,"— I said, 
 half an hour later, to one of my friends— the 
 living directory of Petersburg:— " who is that 
 tall, handsome gentleman with a moustache? " 
 
 " That? . . . that is some foreigner or other, 
 a rather enigmatic individual, who very rarely 
 makes his appearance on our horizon. Why do 
 you ask? " 
 
 " Oh, because! " . . . . 
 
 I returned home. Since that time I have never 
 met my Unknown anywhere. Had I known the 
 name of the man whom she loved, I might, prob- 
 ably, have found out, eventually, who she was, 
 but I myself did not desire that. I have said 
 above that that woman appeared to me like a 
 dream-vision— and like a dream-vision she went 
 past and vanished forever. 
 
 199
 
 i
 
 MUMtT 
 
 (1852)
 
 MUMU 
 
 IN one of the remote streets of Moscow, in a 
 grey house with white pillars, an entresol, and 
 a crooked balcony, dwelt in former days a well- 
 born lady, a widow, surrounded by numerous do- 
 mestics. Her sons were in the service in Peters- 
 burg, her daughters were married; she rarely 
 went out into society, and was living out the last 
 years of a miserly and tedious old age in solitude. 
 Her day, cheerless and stormy, was long since" 
 over; but her evening also was blacker than night. 
 Among the ranks of her menials, the most re- 
 markable person was the yard-porter, Gerasim, 
 a man six feet five inches in height, built like an 
 epic hero, and a deaf-mute from his birth. His 
 mistress had taken him from the village, where 
 he lived alone, in a tinj^ cottage, apart from his 
 brethren, and was considered the most punctual 
 of the taxable serfs. Endowed with remarkable 
 strength, he did the work of four persons. ]Mat- 
 ters made progress in his hands, and it was a 
 cheerful sight to watch him when he ploughed 
 and, applying his huge hands to the primitive 
 plough, seemed to be carving open the elastic 
 
 203
 
 MUMU 
 
 bosom of the eartli alone, without the aid of 
 Ills little nag ; or about St. Peter's Day ^ wield- 
 ing the scythe so shatteringly that he might 
 even have hewn off a young birch-wood from its 
 roots; or threshing briskly and unremittingly 
 with a chain seven feet in length, while the firm, 
 oblong muscles on his shoulders rose and fell like 
 levers. His uninterrupted muteness imparted to 
 his indefatigable labour a grave solemnity. He 
 was a splendid peasant, and had it not been for 
 his infirmity, any maiden would willingl}^ have 
 married him. . . . But Gerasim was brought to 
 3I0SCOW, boots were bought for him, a broom and 
 a shovel were put into his hand, and he was ap- 
 pointed to be the yard-porter. 
 
 At first he felt a violent dislike for his new 
 life. From his childhood he had been accustomed 
 to field-labour, to country life. Set apart by his 
 infirmity from communion with his fellow-men, 
 he had grown up dumb and mighty, as a tree 
 grows on fruitful soil. . . . Transported to the 
 town, lie did not understand what was happening 
 to him; — he felt bored and puzzled, as a healthy 
 young bull is puzzled when he has just been taken 
 from the pasture, where the grass grew up to his 
 belly, — when he has been taken, and placed in a 
 railway -wagon, — and, lo, with his robust bod}^ en- 
 \'eloped now with smoke and sparks, again with 
 billows of steam, he is drawn headlong onward, 
 
 1 June 29 (O. S.)-July 13 (N. S.). -Translator. 
 
 204
 
 ]MUMU 
 
 drawn with rumble and squeaking, and whitlier 
 — God only knows! (Tenisim's occupations in his 
 new employment seemed to him a mere farce 
 after his onerous labours as a peasant; in half an 
 hour he had finished everything, and he was 
 again standing in the middle of the courtyard and 
 staring, open-mouthed, at all the passers-by, as 
 though desirous of obtaining from them the so- 
 lution of his enigmatic situation; or he would 
 suddenly go off to some corner and, flinging his 
 broom or his shovel far from him, would tlu'ow 
 himself on the ground face downward, and lie 
 motionless on his breast for whole hours at a time, 
 like a captured wild beast. 
 
 But man grows accustomed to everything, and 
 Gerasim got used, at last, to town life! He 
 had not much to do; his entire duty consisted in 
 keeping the courtyard clean, fetching a cask of 
 water twice a day, hauling and chopping up 
 wood for the kitchen and house,^ and in not ad- 
 mitting strangers, and keeping watch at night. 
 And it must be said that he discharged his duty 
 with zeal; not a chip was ever strewn about his 
 courtyard, nor any dirt; if in muddy weather 
 the broken-winded nag for hauling water and the 
 barrel entrusted to his care got stranded any- 
 where, all he had to do was to apply his shoulder, 
 
 1 Formerly all Moscow houses were obliged to get their water in 
 barrels on wheels from the river or from public fountains. Birch- 
 wood is still used for cooking and heating.— Tiun«' •-"'r. 
 
 20,5
 
 ]MUMU 
 
 — and not only the cart, but the horse also, would 
 be pried from the spot. If he undertook to chop 
 A\'ood, his axe would ring like glass, and splinters 
 and billets would flv in every direction; and as 
 for strangers — after lie had, one night, caught 
 two thieves, and had banged their heads together, 
 and mauled them so that there was no necessity 
 for taking them to the police-station afterward, 
 every one in the neighbourhood began to respect 
 him greatly, and even by day, passers-by who were 
 not in the least rascals, but siniply strangers to 
 him, at the sight of the ominous yard-porter, 
 would brandish their arms as though in self-de- 
 fence, and shout at him as though he were able 
 to hear their cries. 
 
 With all the other domestics Gerasim sustained 
 relations which were not exactly friendly, — they 
 were afraid of him, — but gentle; he regarded 
 them as members of the family. They expressed 
 their meaning to him by signs, and he under- 
 stood them, accurately executed all orders, but 
 knew his own rights also, and no one dared to 
 take his seat at table. On the whole, Gerasim 
 was of stern and serious disposition, and was fond 
 of orderliness in all things; even the cocks did not 
 venture to fight in his presence — but if they did, 
 woe be to them! if he caught sight of them, he 
 would instantly seize them by the legs, whirl 
 them round like a wheel half a score of times in the 
 air, and hurl them in opposite directions. There 
 
 206
 
 MUMU 
 
 were geese also in his lady mistress's courtyard, 
 but a goose, as every one knows, is a serious and 
 sensible bird; Gerasim felt respect for them, 
 tended them, and fed them; he himself bore a 
 resemblance to a stately gander. 
 
 He was allotted a tiny cliamber over the 
 kitchen; he arranged it himself after his own 
 taste, constructed a bed of oaken planks on four 
 blocks— truly a bed fit for an epic hero; a hun- 
 dred puds ^ might have been loaded u])on it,— 
 it would not have given way. Under the bed 
 was a stout chest; in one corner stood a small table 
 of the same sturdy quality, and beside the table 
 a three-legged chair, and so firm and squatty that 
 Gerasim himself would pick it up, drop it, and 
 grin. This little den was fastened with a pad- 
 lock which suggested a kaldtch ^ in shape, only 
 black ; Gerasim always carried the key to this lock 
 with him, in his belt. He was not fond of having 
 people come into his room. 
 
 In this manner a year passed, at the end of 
 w^hich a small incident happened to Gerasim. 
 
 The old gentlewoman with whom he lived as 
 yard-porter in all things followed the ancient 
 customs, and kept a numerous train of domestics; 
 she had in her house not onty laundresses, seam- 
 stresses, carpenters, tailors, and dressmakers, but 
 
 ^ A pud is about thirty-six pounds, English. —Tkaksi-,\tor. 
 2 A peculiarly shaped and delicious wheaten roll, which is made 
 particularly well in Moscow. —Translator. 
 
 207
 
 MUMU 
 
 also one saddler, who set up to be a veterinary and 
 a medical man for the servants as well (there 
 was a house-physician for the mistress), and, in 
 conclusion, there was a shoemaker, by the name 
 of Kapiton Klimoff, a bitter drunkard. Klimoff 
 regarded himself as an injured being and not 
 appreciated at his true value, a cultured man 
 used to the ways of the capital, who ought not 
 to live in INIoscow, without occupation, in a sort of 
 desert spot, and if he drank, — as he himself ex- 
 pressed it, with pauses between his words, and 
 thumping himself on the breast, — he drank in re- 
 ality from grief. One dav he was under discus- 
 sion by the mistress and her head butler, Gavrila, 
 a man who would seem, from his little yellow 
 eyes and his duck's-bill nose, to have been desig- 
 nated by Fate itself as a commanding person- 
 age. The mistress was complaining about the 
 depraved morals of Kapiton, who had been 
 picked up somewhere in the street only the night 
 before. 
 
 "Well, Gavrila," — she suddenly remarked: — 
 " shall not we marry him? What dost thou think 
 about it? Perhaps that will steady him." 
 
 " Why should n't we marry him, ma'am? It 
 can be done, ma'am,"— replied Gavrila; — " and it 
 would even be a very good thing." 
 
 " Yes; only who would marry him? " 
 
 " Of course, ma'am. However, as you like, 
 ma'am. He can always be put to some use, so to 
 
 208
 
 MUMU 
 
 speak; you would n't reject him out of any ten 
 men." 
 
 " I think he hkes Tatyana? " 
 
 Gavrila was about to make some reply, but 
 compressed his lips. 
 
 "Yes! ... let him woo Tatyana," — the mis- 
 tress announced her decision, as she took a pincli 
 of snuff with satisfaction: — " dost liear me? " 
 
 " I obey, ma'am," — enunciated Gavrila, and 
 withdrew. 
 
 On returning to his chamber (it was situated 
 in a wing, and was almost completely filled witli 
 wrought-iron coffers) , Gavrila first sent away his 
 wife, and then seated himself bj^ the window, and 
 became engrossed in meditation. The mistress's 
 sudden command had evidently dazed him. At 
 last he rose, and ordered Kapiton to be called. 
 Kapiton presented himself. . . . But before we 
 repeat their conversation to the reader, we con- 
 sider it not superfluous to state, in a few words, 
 who this Tatyana was, whom Kapiton was to 
 marry, and why his mistress's command had dis- 
 concerted the major-domo. 
 
 Tatyana, who, as we have said above, served 
 as laundress (but, in her quality of expert and 
 well-trained laundress, she was given only the 
 delicate linen) , was a woman of eight-and-twenty, 
 small, thill, fair-haired, with moles on her left 
 cheek. JNloles on the left cheek are regarded as a 
 bad sign in Russia— as the presage of an unhappy 
 
 209
 
 MUMU 
 
 life. . . . Tatyana could not boast of her luck. 
 From early youth she had been ill-treated; she 
 had worked for two, and had never received any 
 caresses; she was badly clothed; she received the 
 very smallest of wages; she had practically no 
 relatives ; an old butler in the village who had been 
 discharged for uselessness was her uncle, and 
 her other uncles were common peasants,— that is 
 all. At one time she had been a beauty, but her 
 beauty soon left her. She was of extremely meek, 
 or, to put it more accurately, frightened disposi- 
 tion, felt the most complete indifference for her- 
 self, and was deadly afraid of other people. Her 
 sole thought was as to how she might finish her 
 work by the appointed time. She never talked 
 with any one, and she trembled at the mere men- 
 tion of the mistress's name, although she hardly 
 knew her by sight. 
 
 When Gerasim was brought from the country, 
 she almost swooned with terror at the sight of his 
 huge form, used all possible efforts to avoid meet- 
 ing him, and even screwed up her eyes when she 
 was obliged to run past him, as she scurried from 
 the house to the laundry. At first, Gerasim paid 
 no special attention to her, then he began to laugh 
 when she crossed his path ; then he began to gaze 
 at her with pleasure, and at last he never took his 
 eyes from her. Whether he had taken a liking 
 to her because of her gentle expression of coun- 
 tenance, or of the timidity of her movements— 
 
 210
 
 MUMU 
 
 God knows! And behold, one day, as she was 
 making her way across the courtyard, cautiously 
 elevating on her outspread fingers a starched 
 wrapper belonging to her mistress , . . some one 
 suddenly grasped her by the elbow; she turned 
 round and fairly screamed aloud: behind her stood 
 Gerasim. Laughing stupidly, and bellowing af- 
 fectionateljs he was offering her a gingerbread 
 cock with gold tinsel on its tail and wings. She 
 tried to refuse it, but he thrust it forcibly straight 
 into her hand, nodded his head, walked away, and, 
 turning round, bellowed once more something of 
 a very friendly nature to her. From that day 
 forth he gave her no peace; wherever she went, 
 he immediately came to meet her, smiled, bel- 
 lowed, waved his hands, suddenly drew a ribbon 
 from his breast and thrust it into her hand, and 
 cleaned the dust away in front of her with his 
 broom. 
 
 The poor girl simply did not know how to take 
 it or what to do. The whole household speedily 
 found out about the pranks of the dumb yard- 
 porter; jeers, jests, stinging remarks showered 
 down on Tatyana. But none of them could bring 
 himself to ridicule Gerasim; the latter was not 
 fond of jests; and they let her alone in his pres- 
 ence. Willy-nilly the girl became his protegee. 
 Like all deaf and dumb people, he was very per- 
 spicacious, and understood perfectly well when 
 they were laughing at him or at her. One day, 
 
 211
 
 mu:mu 
 
 at dinner, the keeper of the hnen, Tatyana's chief, 
 undertook, as the saying is, to hanter her, and 
 carried it to such a pitch that the latter, poor 
 creature, did not know where to look, and almost 
 wept with vexation. Gerasim suddenly rose half- 
 way, stretched out his enormous liand, laid it on 
 the head of the keeper of the linen, and glared 
 into her face with such ferocity that the latter 
 fairly bent over the table. All fell silent. Gera- 
 sim picked up his spoon again, and went on 
 eating his cabbage-soup. " Just see that dumb 
 devil, that forest fiend!" all muttered under 
 their breaths, and the keeper of the linen rose 
 and went off to the maids' room. On another oc- 
 casion, observing that Kapiton — that same Kapi- 
 ton of whom we have just been speaking — was 
 chatting in rather too friendly a manner with Ta- 
 tyana, Gerasim beckoned the man to him, led him 
 away to the carriage-house, and seizing by its end 
 a shaft which was standing in the corner, he men- 
 aced him sliofhtlv but significantlv with it. From 
 that time forth no one dared to address a word 
 to Tatyana. And all this ran smoothh' in his 
 hands. Xo sooner had the linen-keeper, it is true, 
 run into the maids' liall than she fell down in a 
 swoon, and altogether behaved in such an artful 
 manner, that on that very same day she brought 
 to the knowledge of the mistress Gerasim's rude 
 behaviour; but the capricious old lady merely 
 laughed several times, to the extreme offence of 
 
 212
 
 MUMU 
 
 her linen-keej^er, made her repeat, " What didst 
 thou say? Did he bend thee down with his heavy 
 hand?" and on the following day sent a silver 
 ruble to Gerasini. She favoured him as a faitlii'ul 
 and powerful watchman. Gerasim held her in 
 decided awe, but, nevertheless, he trusted in her 
 graciousness, and was making ready to betake 
 himself to her with the request that she would 
 permit him to marry Tatyana. He was only 
 waiting for the new kaftan promised him by the 
 major-domo, in order that he might present him- 
 self before his mistress in decent shape, when sud- 
 denly this same mistress took into her head the 
 idea of marrying Tatyana to Kapiton. 
 
 The reader will now be able readih' to under- 
 stand the cause of the perturbation which seized 
 upon Gavrila, the major-domo, after his conver- 
 sation with his mistress. " The mistress," — he 
 thought, as he sat by the window,—" of course, 
 favours Gerasim " (this was well known to Ga- 
 vrila, and therefore he also showed indulgence 
 to him) ; " still, he is a dumb brute. I can't in- 
 form the mistress that Gerasim is courting Ta- 
 tyana. And, after all, 't is just; what sort of a 
 husband is he? And, on the other hand. Lord for- 
 give! for just as soon as that forest fiend finds 
 out that Tatvana is to be married to Kai)iton, 
 he '11 smash everything in the house, by Heaven 
 he will! For you can't reason with him — you 
 can't prevail upon him, the devil tliat he is, in any 
 
 213
 
 MU]MU 
 
 way whatsoever — sinful man that I am to have 
 said so wicked a thing .... that 's so! " . . . . 
 
 The appearance of Kapiton broke the thread 
 of Gavrila's meditations. The giddy-pated shoe- 
 maker entered, threw liis liands behind him, and, 
 leaning up against a projecting corner of the 
 wall near the door, in a free-and-easy way he 
 stuck his right leg crosswise in front of the left 
 and shook his head, as much as to say: " Here I 
 am. What 's your will? " 
 
 Gavrila looked at Kapiton and began to drum 
 on the jamb of the window with his fingers. 
 Kapiton merely narrowed his leaden eyes a bit, 
 but did not lower them, even smiled slightly and 
 passed his hand over his whitish hair, which stood 
 out in disarray in all directions, as much as to sav : 
 *' Well, yes, 't is I. What are you staring for? " 
 
 " Good,"— said Gavrila, and paused for a 
 space. 
 
 " Thou 'rt a nice one," — remarked Gavrila, and 
 paused awhile. — " A nice person, there 's no de- 
 nying that! " 
 
 Kapiton merely shrugged his shoulders. " And 
 art thou any better, pray? " he said to himself. 
 
 *' Come, now, just look at thyself; come, look," 
 — went on Gavrila reprovingly;—" Well, art not 
 thou ashamed of thyself? " 
 
 Kapiton surveyed with a calm glance his 
 threadbare and tattered coat and his patched 
 trousers, scanned with particular attention his 
 
 214 
 
 i
 
 MUMU 
 
 shoes perforated ^\ ith holes, especially the one 
 on whose toe his right foot rested in so dandified 
 a manner, and again fixed his eyes on the major- 
 domo. 
 
 "What of it, sir?" 
 
 " What of it, sir? "—repeated Gavrila.— 
 " What of it, sir? And thou sayest: ' What of it, 
 sir? ' to boot! Thou lookest like the devil, — Lord 
 forgive me, sinful man that I am,— that 's what 
 thou lookest like." 
 
 Kapiton winked his little eyes briskh'. 
 
 " Curse away, curse away, Gavrila Andreitch," 
 he thought to himself. 
 
 " Thou hast been drunk again, apparently," — 
 began Gavrila; — "drunk again, surely? Hey? 
 Come, answer." 
 
 " Owing to the feebleness of my health, I have 
 succumbed to spirituous beverages, in fact," — 
 returned Kapiton. 
 
 " Owing to feebleness of health? .... Thou 
 art not whipped enough, that 's what; and thou 
 hast served thine apprenticeship in Peter ^ to boot. 
 . . . jNIuch thou didst learn in thine apprentice- 
 ship! Thou dost nothing but eat the bread of 
 idleness." 
 
 " In that case, Gavrila Andreitch, I have but 
 one judge, — the Lord God Himself, and no one 
 else. He alone knows what sort of a man I am 
 in this world, and whether I really do eat the bread 
 
 ^ St. Petersburg. —Translator. 
 
 215
 
 MUMU 
 
 of idleness. And as for thy reflections concern- 
 in"- drunkenness, — in that case also 1 am not to 
 blame, but rather one of my comrades; for he 
 led me astray, and after he had accomplished his 
 crafty purpose, he went away; that is to say, 
 I . . . ." 
 
 " And thou didst remain behind, thou goose, in 
 the street. Akh, thou dissolute man! Well, but 
 that 's not the point,"— went on the major-domo, 
 — " but this. The mistress . . . ." here he 
 paused for a moment,— " it is the mistress's 
 pleasure that thou shouldst marry. Hearest 
 thou? She thinks that thou wilt grow steady 
 when thou art married. Dost understand? " 
 
 " How can I help understanding, sir? " 
 
 " Well, yes. In my opinion, 't would be better 
 to take thee firmly in hand. Well, but that 's her 
 affair. How now? Dost thou consent? " 
 
 Kapiton displayed his teeth in a grin. 
 
 " ^larriage is a good thing for a man, Gavrila 
 Andreitch; and I, on my part, agree with very 
 great pleasure." 
 
 " Well, yes,"— returned Gavrila, and thought 
 to himself :—" there 's no denying it, the man 
 talks with exactness." — " Only, see here,"— he 
 went on, aloud: — " an inconvenient bride has been 
 picked out for thee." 
 
 " Who is she, permit me to inquire? "... 
 
 " Tatyana." 
 
 "Tat'vana?" 
 
 216 
 
 i
 
 MUMU 
 
 And Kapiton's eyes fairly popped out of his 
 head, and he started away from the wall. 
 
 "Well, what art thou scared at? ... Is n't 
 she to thy taste? " 
 
 "To my taste, forsooth, Gavrfla Andreitch! 
 The girl herself is all right; she 's a good worker, 
 a meek lass. . . . But you know yourself, (la- 
 vrila Andreitch, that that forest fiend, that spec- 
 tre of the steppes, is courting her, j'-ou know . . . ." 
 
 " I know, brother, I know all,"— the major- 
 domo interrupted him, with vexation: — " but, 
 seest thou . . . ." 
 
 " But, good gracious, Gavrfla Andreitch ! why, 
 he '11 murder me; by Heaven, he '11 murder me, 
 he '11 mash me like a fly! Why, he has a hand— 
 just look for yourself what a hand he has; why, 
 he simply has the hand of JNIinin and Pozharsky.^ 
 For he 's deaf, he '11 kill me, and not hear that 
 he is killing! He flourishes his huge fists exactly 
 as though he were asleep. And there 's no pos- 
 sibility of stopping him. Why? Because, you 
 know 3'ourself, Gavrfla Andreitch, he 's deaf, 
 and stupid as an owl into the bargain. Why, he 's 
 a sort of wild beast, a heathen idol, Gavrfla An- 
 dreitch, — worse than an idol ... he 's a sort of 
 aspen-block; why should I now suffer from him? 
 
 1 Mfnin, the burgher of Nizhni Novgorod, and Prince Pozhdrsky, 
 who led the Russians against the invading Poles in 161.?, and expelled 
 them from Russia. Their expulsion was followed by the election to 
 the throne of the first Romanoff Tzar, Mikhail Feddorovitch.— Trans- 
 lator. 
 
 217
 
 MUMU 
 
 Of course nothing matters to me now ; I have en- 
 dured, I have practised patience, I have smeared 
 myself with oil like a glazed Kolomna jug, — all 
 the same, I 'm a man, and not some sort of insig- 
 nificant jug, as a matter of fact." 
 
 " I know, I know; don't give a description. . . ." 
 
 " O Lord, my God! "—went on the shoemaker, 
 hotly: — "when will the end come? When, O 
 Lord ! I 'm a miserable wretch, a hopeless wretch. 
 'T is fate, my fate, when you come to think of 
 it! In my younger years I was thrashed by a 
 German master; in the best period of my life 
 I was beaten by my own brother; and at last, in 
 my riper years, to what have I come? . . ." 
 
 " Ekh, limp linden-bast soul! "—said Gavrila. 
 — " Why dost thou dilate on the matter, really, 
 nowf 
 
 " What do you mean by * why,' Gavrila Andre- 
 itch? I 'm not afraid of blows, Gavrila Andre- 
 itch. Let the master thrash me within doors, but 
 give me a greeting before folks, and still I 'm 
 numbered among men; but in this case, from 
 whom must I . . . ." 
 
 "Come, now, begone! "—Gavrila interrupted 
 him, impatiently. 
 
 Kapiton turned and took himself off. 
 
 " And supposing there were no question of 
 him,"— shouted the major-domo after him;— 
 " dost thou consent? " 
 
 218
 
 MUMU 
 
 " I announce my assent," — reiDlied Kapiton, 
 and lurched out of the room. 
 
 His eloquence did not abandon liim even in ex- 
 tremities. 
 
 The major-domo paced the length of the room 
 several times. 
 
 " Well, now summon Tatyana,"— he said at 
 last. 
 
 In a few moments Tatyana entered almost in- 
 audibly, and halted on the threshold. 
 
 " What is your command, Gavrila Andreitch? " 
 — she said in a quiet voice. 
 
 The major-domo gazed fixedly at her. 
 
 " Come," — said he, — " Taniusha, wouldst thou 
 like to marry? The mistress has hunted up a 
 bridegroom for thee." 
 
 " I obey, Gavrila Andreitch. But who has 
 been appointed as my bridegroom? " — she added 
 with hesitation. 
 
 *' Kapiton, the shoemaker." 
 
 *' I obey, sir." 
 
 " He is a reckless man — that 's a fact. But 
 the mistress pins her hopes on thee in that re- 
 spect." 
 
 " I obey, sir." 
 
 " It 's a pity about one thing: .... there 's 
 that deaf man, Garaska, who 's paying court to 
 thee. And how hast thou bewitched that bear? I 
 do believe he '11 kill thee, the bear that he is. . . ." 
 
 219
 
 MUMtr 
 
 " He will, Gavrila Andreitch, he '11 infallibly 
 kill me." 
 
 " He will. . . . Well, we '11 see about that. 
 What makes thee say, ' He "11 kill me ' ? Has he 
 the right to kill thee, pray? Judge for thyself." 
 
 " Why, I don't know, Gavrila Andreitch, whe- 
 ther he has a right or not." 
 
 " What a girl! I suppose thou hast not made 
 him any promise. . . ." 
 
 " What do you mean, sir? " 
 
 The major-domo paused for a while, and 
 thought : 
 
 "Thou art a meek soul! "—" Well, very 
 good,"— he added; "we will have another talk 
 about it, and now, go thy way, Tatyana; I see 
 that thou really art an obedient girl." 
 
 Tatyana turned, leaned lightly against the 
 door- jamb, and left the room. 
 
 " But perhaps the mistress will have forgotten 
 about this wedding by to-morrow,"— meditated 
 the major-domo. "Why have I been alarmed? 
 We '11 pinion that insolent fellow if he makes 
 any trouble— we '11 send word to the pohce. . . . 
 Ustinya Feodorovna! "— he shouted in a loud 
 voice to his wife, " prepare the samovar, my good 
 woman. . . ." 
 
 All that day, Tatyana hardly quitted the laun- 
 dry. At first she wept, then she wiped away her 
 tears, and set to work as of yore. Kapiton sat un- 
 til the dead of night in a drinking establishment 
 
 220
 
 MUMU 
 
 with a friend of gloomy aspect, and narrated to 
 him in detail how he had hved in Peter with a 
 certain gentleman who liad everything tliat heart 
 could desire, and was a great stickler for order, 
 and withal permitted himself one little delin- 
 quency: he was wont to get awfully fuddled, and 
 as for the feminine sex, he simply had all the 
 qualities to attract. . .His gloomy conu'ade 
 merely expressed assent; but when Kapiton an- 
 nounced, at last, that, owing to certain circum- 
 stances, he must lay violent hands upon himself 
 on the morrow, the gloomy comrade remarked 
 that it was time to go to bed. And they parted 
 churlishly, and in silence. 
 
 In the meantime, the major-domo's expecta- 
 tions were not reahsed. The idea of Kapiton's 
 wedding had so captivated the mistress, that even 
 during the night she had talked of nothing else 
 with one of her companions, whom she kept in the 
 house solely in case of sleeplessness, and who, 
 like night cabmen, slept by day. When Gavrila 
 entered her room after tea with his report, her 
 first question was: 
 
 " And how about our wedding? " 
 
 He replied, of course, that it was progressing 
 famously, and that Kapiton would present him- 
 self to her that same day to thaiik her. 
 
 The mistress was slightly indisposed; she did 
 not occupy herself long with business. The 
 major-domo returned to his own room and called 
 
 221
 
 ]MUMU 
 
 a council. The matter really did require partic- 
 ular consideration. Tatyana did not make any 
 objection, of course; but Kapiton declared, in the 
 hearing of all, that he had but one head, and not 
 two or three heads. . . . Gerasim gazed surlily 
 and swiftly at everybody, never left the maids' 
 porch, and, apparently, divined that something 
 unpleasant for him was brewing. The assembled 
 company ( among them was present the old butler, 
 nicknamed Uncle Tail, to whom all respectfully 
 turned for advice, although all they heard from 
 him was " Yes! yes! yes! yes!") began, by way 
 of precaution, for safety, by locking Kapiton up 
 in the lumber-room with the filtering-machine 
 and set to thinking hard. Of course, it was easy 
 to resort to force; but God forbid! there would 
 be a row, the mistress would get uneasj' — and a 
 calamity would ensue! What was to be done? 
 
 They thought and thought, and eventually they 
 hit upon something. It had been repeatedly no- 
 ticed that Gerasim could not abide intoxicated 
 persons. . . . As he sat at the gate, he turned 
 away angrily whenever anj^ man with a load of 
 drink aboard passed him with unsteady steps, and 
 the visor of his cap over his ear. They decided 
 to instruct Tatyana to pretend to be intoxicated, 
 and to walk past Gerasim reeling and staggering. 
 The poor girl would not consent for a long time, 
 but they prevailed upon her; moreover, she her- 
 self saw that otherwise she would not be able to 
 
 222
 
 MUMU 
 
 get rid of her adorer. Slie did it. Ka])iton was 
 released from the kiniber-rooin ; the affair con- 
 cerned him, anyhow. Gerasim was sitting on tlie 
 guard-stone at the gate and jabbing the ground 
 with liis shovel. . . . There were people staring 
 at him from round all the corners, from behind 
 the window-shades. . . . 
 
 The ruse was completely successful. When 
 first he caught sight of Tatyana, he nodded his 
 head with an affectionate bellow; then he took 
 a closer look, dropped his shovel, sprang to his 
 feet, stepped up to her, put his face close down 
 to her face. . . She reeled worse than ever with 
 terror, and closed her eyes. . . . He seized her by 
 the arm, dashed the whole length of the courtyard, 
 and entering the room where the council was in 
 session with her, he thrust her straight at Kapiton. 
 Tatyana was fairly swooning. . . . Gerasim stood 
 there, glared at her, waved his hand, laughed, and 
 departed, clumping heavily to his little den. . . . 
 For four-and-twenty hours he did not emerge 
 thence. Antipka, the postilion, related afterward 
 how, peeping through a crack, he had beheld 
 Gerasim seated on his bed, with his head resting 
 on his hand, quietly, peaceably, and only bellow- 
 ing from time to time; then he would rock him- 
 self to and fro, cover his eyes, and shake his 
 head, as postilions or stevedores do when they 
 strike up their melancholy chanteys. Antipka 
 was frightened, and he retreated from the crack. 
 
 223
 
 MUMU 
 
 But when, on the following day, Gerasim 
 emerged from his den, no particular change was 
 noticeable in him. He merely seemed to have 
 become more surly, and paid not the slightest at- 
 tention to Tatyana and Kapiton. On that same 
 evening, both of them, with geese under their 
 arms, wended their wa}' to the mistress, and a 
 week later they were married. On the wedding- 
 day itself, Gerasim did not alter his demeanour 
 in the slightest degree; only, he returned from 
 the river without w'ater : somehow, he had smashed 
 the cask on the road; and at night, in the stable, 
 he so zealously curried his horse that the animal 
 reeled like a blade of grass in a gale, and shifted 
 from foot to foot under his iron fists. 
 
 All this took place in the spring. Another 
 year passed, in the course of which Kapiton finally 
 became a thorough-going drunkard, and as a man 
 utterly unfit for anything, was despatched with 
 the train of freight-sledges to a distant village, 
 together with his wife. On the day of departure 
 he made a great show of courage at first, and de- 
 clared that, no matter where thej^ might send him, 
 even to the place where the peasant-wives wash 
 shirts and put their clothes-beaters in the sky, he 
 would not come to grief; but afterward he be- 
 came low-spirited, began to complain that he was 
 being taken to uncivilised people, and finally 
 weakened to such a degree that he was unable even 
 to put his own cap on his head. Some compas- 
 
 224'
 
 MUMU 
 
 sionate soul pulled it down on his brow, adjusted 
 the visor, and banged it down on top. And when 
 all was ready, and the peasants were already 
 holding the reins in their hands, and only waiting 
 for the word: " With God's blessing! " Gerasim 
 emerged from his tiny chamber, approached Ta- 
 tyana, and presented her with a souvenir con- 
 sisting of a red cotton kerchief, which he had 
 bought expressly for her a year before. Tatyana, 
 who up to that moment had borne all the vicissi- 
 tudes of her life with great equanimity, could hold 
 out no longer, and then and there burst into tears, 
 and, as she took her seat in the cart, exchanged 
 three kisses with Gerasim, in Christian fashion.^ 
 He wanted to escort her to the town barrier, and 
 at first walked alongside her cart, but suddenly 
 halted at the Crimean Ford, waved his hand and 
 directed his steps along the river. 
 
 This happened toward evening. He walked 
 quietly, and stared at the water. Suddenly it 
 seemed to liim as though something were floun- 
 derino- in the ooze close to the bank. He bent 
 down, and beheld a small puppy, white with black 
 spots, which, despite all its endeavours, utterly 
 unable to crawl out of the water, was struggling, 
 slipping, and quivering all over its wet, gaunt 
 little body. Gerasim gazed at the unfortunate 
 puppy, picked it up with one hand, thrust it into 
 his breast, and set out with great strides home- 
 
 ^ These kisses are bestowed on the cheeks, alternately.— Translator. 
 
 225
 
 MUMtr 
 
 ward. He entered his little den, laid the rescued 
 puppy on his bed, covered it with his heavy coat, 
 ran first to the stable for straw, then to the 
 kitchen for a cup of milk. Cautiously throwing 
 back the coat and spreading out the straw, he 
 placed the milk on the bed. The poor little dog 
 was only three weeks old ; it had only recently got 
 its eyes open, and one eye even appeared to be a 
 little larger than the other; it did not yet know 
 how to drink out of a cup, and merely trembled 
 and blinked. Gerasim grasped it lightly with 
 two fingers by the head, and bent its muzzle down 
 to the milk. The dog suddenly began to drink 
 greedily, snorting, shaking itself and lapping. 
 Gerasim gazed and gazed, and then suddenly be- 
 gan to laugh. . . . All night he fussed over it, 
 put it to bed, wiped it off, and at last fell asleep 
 himself beside it in a joyous, tranquil slumber. 
 
 No mother tends her infant as Gerasim tended 
 his nursling. (The dog proved to be a bitch.) 
 In the beginning she w^as very weak, puny, and ill- 
 favoured, but little by little she improved in health 
 and looks, and at the end of eight months, thanks 
 to the indefatigable care of her rescuer, she had 
 turned into a very fair sort of a dog of Spanish 
 breed, with long ears, a feathery tail in the form 
 of a trumpet, and large, expressive eyes. She 
 attached herself passionately to Gerasim, never 
 left him by a pace, and was always following him, 
 wagging her tail. And he had given her a name, 
 
 226
 
 MUMU 
 
 too, — the dumb know that their bellowing attracts 
 other people's attention to them: — he called her 
 Mumu. All the people in the house took a liking 
 to her, and also called her dear little Mumu. 
 She was extremely intelligent, fawned upon every 
 one, but loved Gerasim alone. Genisim himself 
 loved her madly .... and it was disagreeable 
 to him when others stroked her: whether he was 
 afraid for her, or jealous of her — God knows I 
 She waked him up in the morning by tugging at 
 his coat-tails; she led to him by the reins the old 
 water-horse, with whom she dwelt in great amity ; 
 with importance depicted on her face, she went 
 with him to the river; she stood guard over the 
 brooms and shovels, and allowed no one to enter 
 his room. He cut out an aperture in his door 
 expressly for her, and she seemed to feel that only 
 in Gerasim's little den was she the full mistress, 
 and therefore, on entering it, with a look of satis- 
 faction, she immediately leaped upon the bed. At 
 night she did not sleep at aU, but she did not 
 bark without discernment, like a stupid watch- 
 dog, which, sitting on its haunches and elevating 
 its muzzle, and shutting its eyes, barks simply 
 out of tedium, at the stars, and usually three 
 times in succession; nol Mumu's shrill voice never 
 resounded without cause! Either a stranger was 
 approaching too close to the fence, or some sus- 
 picious noise or rustling had arisen somewhere. 
 .... In a word, she kept capital watch. 
 
 227
 
 MUMU 
 
 Truth to tell, there was, in addition to her, an 
 old dog in the courtyard, yellow in hue speckled 
 with dark brown, Peg-top by name (Voltchok) ; 
 but that dog was never unchained, even by night, 
 and he himself, owing to his decrepitude, did 
 not demand freedom, but lay there, curled up in 
 his kennel, and only now and then emitted a 
 hoarse, almost soundless bark, which he immedi- 
 ately broke off short, as though himself conscious 
 of its utter futilit3\ 
 
 JNIumu did not enter the manor-house, and when 
 Gerasim carried wood to the rooms she always 
 remained behind and impatiently awaited him, 
 with ears pricked up, and her head turning now 
 to the right, then suddenly to the left, at the 
 slightest noise indoors. . . . 
 
 In this manner still another year passed. Gera- 
 sim continued to discharge his avocations as yard- 
 porter and was very well satisfied with his lot, 
 when suddenly an unexpected incident occurred. 
 . . . Namely, one fine summer day the mistress, 
 with her hangers-on, was walking about the draw- 
 ing-room. She was in good spirits, and was laugh- 
 ing and jesting; tlie hangers-on were laughing 
 and jesting also, but felt no particular mirth; the 
 people of the household were not very fond of see- 
 ing the mistress in merry mood, because, in the 
 first place, at such times she demanded instan- 
 taneous and complete sympathy from every one, 
 and flew into a rage if there was a face which 
 
 228
 
 MUMU 
 
 did not beam with satisfaction; and, in the sec- 
 ond place, these fits did not last very lon^, and 
 were generally succeeded by a gloomy and cross- 
 grained frame of mind. On that day, she seemed 
 to have got up happily; at cards, she held four 
 knaves: the fulfilment of desire (she always told 
 fortunes with the cards in the morning) , — and 
 her tea struck her as particularly delicious, in 
 consequence whereof the maid received praise in 
 words and ten kopeks in money. With a sweet 
 smile on her wrinkled lips, the lady of the house 
 strolled about her drawing-room and approached 
 the window. A flower-garden was laid out in 
 front of the window, and in the very middle of the 
 border, under a rose-bush, lay ^lumu assiduously 
 gnawing a bone. The mistress caught sight of 
 her. 
 
 "My God!" — she suddenly exclaimed; — 
 "what dog is that?" 
 
 The hanger-on whom the mistress addressed 
 floundered, poor creature, with that painful un- 
 easiness which generally takes possession of a 
 dependent j^erson when he does not quite know 
 how he is to understand his superior's excla- 
 mation. 
 
 " I . . . d . . do . . . . on't know, ma'am," 
 she stammered; " I think it belongs to the dumb 
 man." 
 
 " My God! " — her mistress interrupted lier: — 
 *' why, it is a very pretty dog! Order it to be 
 
 229
 
 MUMtJ 
 
 brought hither. Has he had it long? Plow is it 
 that I have not seen it before? . . . Order it to 
 be brought hither." 
 
 The hanger-on immediateh' fluttered out into 
 the anteroom. 
 
 " Man, man! " — she screamed,—" bring ]Mumu 
 here at once! She is in the flower-garden." 
 
 " And so her name is INIumu," — said the mis- 
 tress; — "a very nice name." 
 
 " Akh, very nice indeed, ma'am!" — repHed 
 the dependent. — "Be quick, Stepan!" 
 
 Stepan, a sturdy young fellow, who served as 
 footman, rushed headlong to the garden and tried 
 to seize JNIumu ; but the latter cleverly slipped out 
 of his fingers, and elevating her tail, set off at 
 full gallop to Gerasim, who was in the kitchen 
 beating out and shaking out the water-cask, twirl- 
 ing it about in his hands like a child's drum. Ste- 
 pan ran after her, and tried to seize her at the very 
 feet of her master; but the agile dog would not 
 surrender herself into the hands of a stranger, 
 and kept leaping and evading him. Gerasim 
 looked on at all this tumult with a grin; at last 
 Stepan rose in wrath, and hastil}^ gave him to 
 understand by signs that the mistress had ordered 
 the dog to be brought to her. Gerasim was some- 
 what surprised, but he called ^lumu, lifted her 
 from the ground, and handed her to Stepan. Ste- 
 pan carried her into the drawing-room, and placed 
 her on the polished wood floor. The mistress 
 
 230
 
 MUMU 
 
 began to call the dog to her in a caressing voice. 
 Mumii, who had never in her lii'e been in such 
 magnificent rooms, was extremely frightened, 
 and tried to dart through the door, but, rebuffed 
 by the obsequious Stepjin, fell to trembling, and 
 crouched against the wall. 
 
 " Mumu, JNIumii, come hither to me," — said 
 the mistress; — " come, thou stupid creature .... 
 don't be afraid. . . ." 
 
 " Come, Mumu, come to the mistress,"— re- 
 peated the dependents; — " come! " 
 
 But Mumii looked anxiously about and did not 
 stir from the spot. 
 
 " Bring her something to eat," — said the mis- 
 tress. — "What a stupid thing she is! She won't 
 come to the mistress. What is she afraid of ? " 
 
 " She feels strange still," — remarked one of the 
 dependents, in a timid and imploring voice. 
 
 Stepan brought a saucer of milk and set it in 
 front of JNIumu, but ^lumii did not even smell of 
 the milk, and kept on trembling and gazing about 
 her, as before. 
 
 " Akh, who ever saw such a creature! "—said 
 the mistress, as she approached her, bent down 
 and was on the point of stroking her ; but ]Mumu 
 turned her head and displayed her teeth in a snarl. 
 — The mistress hastily drew back her hand. 
 
 A momentary- silence ensued. iNlumii whined 
 faintly, as though complaining and excusing her- 
 self. . . The mistress retreated and frowned. 
 
 231
 
 MUMtr 
 
 The dog's sudden movement had frightened 
 her. 
 
 "Akh!"— cried all the dependents with one 
 accord:— "She did n't bite you, did she? God 
 forbid!" (Mumii had never bitten an}^ one in 
 her life.) " Aklilakh!" 
 
 " Take her awa}',"— said the old woman, in an 
 altered voice, — " the horrid little dog! What a 
 vicious beast she is! " 
 
 And slowly turning, she went toward her bou- 
 doir. The dependents exchanged timorous 
 glances and started to follow her, but she 
 paused, looked coldly at them, said : " Why do 
 you do that? for I have not bidden you," and left 
 the room. 
 
 The dependents ^vaved their hands in despair at 
 Stepan; the latter picked up JNIumii and flung 
 her out into the yard as speedily as possible, 
 straight at Gerasim's feet ; and half an hour later 
 a profound stillness reigned in the house, and the 
 old gentlewoman sat on her divan more lowering 
 than a thunder-cloud. 
 
 What trifles, when one comes to think of it, can 
 sometimes put a person out of tune ! 
 
 The lady was out of sorts until evening, talked 
 with no one, did not play cards, and passed a bad 
 night. She took it into her head that they had 
 not given her tlie same eau de cologne whicli they 
 usually gave her, that her pillow smelled of soap, 
 and made the keeper of the linen-closet smell 
 
 232
 
 MUMU 
 
 all the bed-linen twice,— in a word, she was 
 upset and extremely incensed. On the follow- 
 ing morning she ordered Gavrila to be sum- 
 moned to her presence an hour earlier than 
 usual. 
 
 "Tell me, please,"— she began, as soon as the 
 latter, not without some inward quaking, had 
 crossed the threshold of her boudoir, — " why that 
 dog was barking in our courtyard all night long? 
 It prevented my getting to sleep 1 " 
 
 " A dog, ma'am .... which one, ma'am? . . . 
 Perhaps it was the dumb man's dog,"— he uttered 
 in a voice that was not altogether firm. 
 
 " I don't know whether it belongs to the dumb 
 man or to some one else, only it interfered with 
 my sleep. And I am amazed that there is such a 
 horde of dogs! I want to know about it. We 
 have a watch-dog, have we not? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, we have, ma'am, Peg-top, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " Well, what need have we for any more dogs? 
 They onl}^ create disorder. There 's no head to 
 the house,— that 's what 's the matter. And what 
 does the dumb man want of a dog? Who has 
 given him permission to keep a dog in my court- 
 yard? Yesterday I went to the window, and it 
 was lying in the garden; it had brought some 
 nasty thing there, and was gnawing it,— and I 
 have roses planted there. . . ." 
 
 The lady paused for a while. 
 
 233
 
 MUMU 
 
 "See that it is removed this very day .... 
 dost hear me? " 
 
 " I obey, ma'am." 
 
 " This very day. And now, go. I will have 
 thee called for thy report later." 
 
 Gavrila left the room. 
 
 As he passed through the drawing-room, the 
 major-domo transferred a small bell from one 
 table to another, for show, softly blew his duck's- 
 bill nose in the hall, and went out into the ante- 
 room. In the anteroom, on a locker, Stepan was 
 sleeping in the attitude of a slain warrior in a 
 battalion picture, with his bare legs projecting 
 from his coat, which serv^ed him in lieu of a cov- 
 erlet. 
 
 The major-domo nudged him, and imparted 
 to him in an undertone some order, to which 
 Stepan replied with a half -yawn, half -laugh. The 
 major-domo withdrew, and Stepan sprang to his 
 feet, drew on his kaftan and his boots, went out 
 and came to a standstill on the porch. Five min- 
 utes had not elapsed before Gerasim made his ap- 
 pearance with a huge fagot of firewood on his 
 back, accompanied by his inseparable JNIumu. 
 {The mistress had issued orders that her bed- 
 room and boudoir were to be heated even in sum- 
 mer.) Gerasim stood sideways to the door, gave 
 it a push with his shoulder, and precipitated him- 
 self into the house with his burden. Mumu, ac- 
 cording to her wont, remained behind to wait for 
 
 234.
 
 MUMU 
 
 him. Then Stepan, seizing a favourable mo- 
 ment, made a sudden dash at her, Hke a hawk 
 pouncing on a chicken, crushed her to the ground 
 with his breast, gathered her up in his arms, and 
 without stopping to don so much as his cap, ran 
 out into the street with her, jumped into the first 
 drozhky tliat came to hand, and gallo])ed off to 
 the Game Market. There he speecHly hunted uj) 
 a jDurchaser, to whom he sold her for half a ruble, 
 stipulating only that the latter should keep her 
 tied up for at least a week, and immediately re- 
 turned home; but before he reached the house, 
 he alighted from the drozhky, and making a cir- 
 cuit of the house, he leaped over the fence into 
 the yard from a back alley ; he was afraid to enter 
 by the wicket, lest he should encounter Gerasim. 
 But his anxiety was wasted; Gerasim was no 
 longer in the courtyard. On coming out of the 
 house he had instantlv bethought himself of 
 Mumu; he could not remember that she had ever 
 failed to await his return, and he began to run 
 in every direction to hunt for her, to call her after 
 his own fashion ... he dashed into his little 
 chamber, to the hay-loft; he darted into the street, 
 — hither and thither. . . . She was gone! Heap- 
 pealed to the domestics, with the most despairing 
 signs inquired about her; pointing fourteen inclies 
 from the ground, he drew her form with his 
 hands. . . . Some of them really did not know 
 what had become of ^Nlumu, and only shook tlieir 
 
 235
 
 MUMtr 
 
 heads; others did know and grinned at him in 
 reply, but the major-domo assumed a very pom- 
 pous mien and began to shout at the coachmen. 
 Then Gerasim fled far away from the courtj^ard. 
 
 Twihght was already falling when he returned. 
 One was justified in assuming, from his exhausted 
 aspect, from his unsteady gait, from his dusty 
 clothing, that he had wandered over the half of 
 JNIoscow. He halted in front of the mistress's 
 windows, swept a glance over the porch on which 
 seven house-serfs were gathered, turned away, 
 and bellowed once more: " Mumii! "— Mumu did 
 not respond. He went away. All stared after 
 him, but no one smiled, no one uttered a word 
 . . . and the curious postilion, Antipka, narrated 
 on the following morning in the kitchen, that the 
 dumb man had moaned all night long. 
 
 All the following day Gerasim did not show 
 himself, so that Potap the coachman was obliged 
 to go for water in his stead, which greatly dis- 
 pleased coachman Potap. The mistress asked 
 Gavrila whether her command had been executed. 
 Gavrila replied that it had. The next morning 
 Gerasim emerged from his chamber to do his 
 work. He came to dinner, ate and went off 
 again, without having exchanged greetings with 
 any one. His face, which was inanimate at the 
 best of times, as is the case with all deaf and 
 dumb persons, now seemed to have become abso- 
 lutely petrified. After dinner he again quitted 
 
 236
 
 MUMU 
 
 the courtyard, but not for long, returned and 
 immediately directed his steps to the hay-barn. 
 Night came, a clear, moonlight night. Sighing 
 heavil}' and incessantly tossing from side to side, 
 Gerasim was lying there, when he suddenly 
 felt as though something were tugging at the 
 skirts of his garments; he trembled all over, but 
 did not raise his head, nevertheless, and even 
 screw^ed his eyes up tight; but the tugging was 
 repeated, more energetically than before; he 
 sprang to his feet .... before him, with a frag- 
 ment of rope about her neck, ^lumii was capering 
 about. A prolonged shriek of joy burst from his 
 speechless breast; he seized Mumii and clasped 
 her in a close embrace; in one moment she had 
 licked his nose, his eyes, and his beard. . . Pie 
 stood still for a while, pondering, cautiously 
 slipped down from the hay-mow, cast a glance 
 round him, and having made sure that no one was 
 watching him, he safely regained his little 
 chamber. 
 
 Even before this Gerasim had divined that the 
 dog had not disappeared of her own volition ; that 
 she must have been carried away by the mistress's 
 command; for the domestics had explained to 
 him by signs how his Mumu had snapped at her 
 — and he decided to take precautions of his own. 
 First he fed ]Mumu with some bread, caressed her, 
 and put her to bed ; then he began to consider how 
 he might best conceal her. At last he hit upon 
 
 237
 
 MUMU 
 
 the idea of leaving her all day in his room, and 
 only looking in now and then to see how she was 
 getting along, and taking her out for exercise 
 at night. He closed the opening in his door com- 
 pactly by stuffing in an old coat of his, and as 
 soon as it was daylight he was in the courtyard, 
 as though nothing had happened, even preserving 
 (innocent guile!) his former dejection of coun- 
 tenance. It could not enter the head of the poor 
 deaf man that INIumu would betray herself by her 
 whining; as a matter of fact, every one in the 
 house was speedily aware that the dumb man's dog 
 had come back and was locked up in his room; 
 but out of compassion for him and for her, and 
 partly, perhaps, out of fear of him, they did not 
 give him to understand that his secret had been 
 discovered. 
 
 The major-domo alone scratched the back of 
 his head and waved his hand in despair, as much 
 as to say: " Well, I wash my hands of the mat- 
 ter! Perhaps the mistress will not get to know 
 of it!" And never had the dumb man worked 
 so zealously as on that day ; he swept and scraped 
 out the entire courtyard, he rooted up all the 
 blades of grass to the very last one, witli his own 
 hand pulled up all the props in the garden-fence, 
 with a view to making sure that they were suffi- 
 ciently firm, and then hammered them in again, 
 — in a word, he fussed and bustled about so, that 
 even the mistress noticed his zeal.
 
 MUMU 
 
 Twice in the course of the day Gerasim went 
 stealthily to his captive; and when night came, 
 he lay down to sleep in her company, in the little 
 room, not in the hay-barn, and only at one o'clock 
 did he go out to take a stroll with her in the fresli 
 air. Having walked quite a long time with her 
 in the courtyard, he was preparing to return, 
 when suddenly a noise resounded outside the 
 fence in the direction of the alley. Mumii pricked 
 up her ears, began to growl, approached the fence, 
 sniffed, and broke forth into a loud and piercing 
 bark. Some drunken man or other had taken 
 it into his head to nestle down there for the night. 
 At that very moment, the mistress had just got 
 to sleep after a prolonged " nervous excitement " ; 
 she always had these excited fits after too hearty 
 a supper. The sudden barking woke her; her 
 heart began to beat violently, and to collapse. 
 
 "Maids, maids!"— she moaned. — " ^Nlaids! " 
 
 The frightened maids flew to her bedroom. 
 
 " Okh, okh, I 'm dying! "—said she, throwing 
 her hands apart in anguish. — " There 's that dog 
 again, again! . . . Okh, send for the doctor! 
 Thev want to kill me. . . The dog, the dog again! 
 Okh! " 
 
 And she flung back her head, which was in- 
 tended to denote a swoon. 
 
 They ran for the doctor, that is to say, for the 
 household medical man, Khariton. The whole 
 art of this healer consisted in the ^act that he wore 
 
 239
 
 MUMU 
 
 boots with soft soles, understood how to feel the 
 pulse delicately, slept fourteen hours out of the 
 twenty-four, spent the rest of the time in sighing, 
 and was incessantly treating tlie mistress to laurel 
 drops. This healer immediately hastened to her, 
 fumigated with burnt feathers, and when the mis- 
 tress opened her eyes, immediately presented to 
 her on a silver tray a wine-glass with the inevitable 
 drops. 
 
 The mistress took them, but immediately, with 
 tearful eyes, began to complain of the dog, of 
 Gavrila, of her lot, that she, a poor old woman, 
 had been abandoned by every one, that no one had 
 any pity on her, and that every one desired her 
 death. In the meantime the unlucky ^lumii con- 
 tinued to bark, while Gerasim strove in vain to call 
 her away from the fence. 
 
 " There . . . there .... it goes again ! . . ." 
 stammered the mistress, and again rolled up her 
 eyes. The medical man whispered to one of 
 the maids; she rushed into the anteroom, and 
 explained matters to Stepan; the latter ran to 
 awaken Gavrila, and Gavrila, in a passion, gave 
 orders that the whole household should be roused. 
 
 Gerasim turned round, beheld the twinkling 
 lights and shadows in the windows, and, fore- 
 boding in his heart a catastrophe, he caught up 
 Mumii under his arm, ran into liis room and 
 locked the door. A few moments later, five men 
 were thumping at his door, but feeling the re- 
 
 240
 
 MUMU 
 
 sistance of the bolt, desisted. Gavrila ran u]) in a 
 frightful hurry, ordered them all to remain there 
 until morning and stand guard, while he himself 
 burst into the maids' hall and gave orders through 
 the eldest companion, LiubofF ^ Liubimovna, — to- 
 gether with whom he was in the habit of stealing 
 and enjoying tea, sugar, and other groceries, — 
 that the mistress w^as to be informed that the dog, 
 unfortunately, had run home again from some- 
 where or other, but that it would not be alive on 
 the morrow, and that the mistress must do them 
 the favour not to be angry, and must calm down. 
 The mistress probably would not have calmed 
 down very speedily, had not the medical man, in 
 his haste, poured out forty drops instead of 
 twelve. The strength of the laurel took its effect 
 — in a quarter of an hour the mistress was sleep- 
 ing soundly and peacefully, and Gerasim was 
 lying, all pale, on his bed, tightly compressing 
 Mumii's mouth. 
 
 On the following morning the mistress awoke 
 quite late. Gavrila was w^aiting for her awaken- 
 ing in order to make a decisive attack upon Gera- 
 sim's asylum, and was himself prepared to endure 
 a heavy thunder-storm. But the thunder-storm 
 did not come off. As she lay in bed, the mistress 
 ordered the eldest dependent to be called to her. 
 
 " Liuboff Liubimovna,"— she began in a soft, 
 weak voice; she sometimes liked to pretend to 
 
 ^ Amy or Charity.— Translatou. 
 
 24.1
 
 MUMU 
 
 be a persecuted and defenceless sufferer; it is 
 needless to state that at such times all the people 
 in the house felt very uncomfortable: — " LiuboiF 
 Liubimovna, you see what my condition is; 
 go, my dear, to Gavrila Andreitch, and have 
 a talk with him; it cannot be possible that some 
 nasty little dog or other is more precious to 
 him than the tranquillity, the very life of his 
 mistress! I should not like to believe that," — 
 she added, with an expression of profound emo- 
 tion:—" Go, my dear, be so good, go to Gavrila 
 Andreitch." 
 
 Liuboff Liubimovna betook herself to Ga- 
 vrila's room. What conversation took place be- 
 tween them is not known; but a while later a 
 whole throng of domestics marched through the 
 courtyard in the direction of Gerasim's little den ; 
 in front walked Gavrila, holding on his cap with 
 his hand, although there was no wind; around 
 him walked footmen and cooks ; Uncle Tail gazed 
 out of the window, and issued orders — that is to 
 say, he merely spread his hands apart ; in the rear 
 of all, the small urchins leaped and capered, one 
 half of them being strangers who had run in. On 
 the narrow stairway leading to the den sat one 
 sentry; at the door stood two others with clubs. 
 They began to ascend the staircase, and occupied 
 it to its full length. Gavrila went to the door, 
 knocked on it with his fist, and shouted : 
 
 "Open!" 
 
 242
 
 MUMU 
 
 A suppressed bark made itself audible; but 
 there was no reply. 
 
 " Open, I say! "—he repeated. 
 
 " But, Gavrila Andreitch," — remarked Stepau 
 from below: — " he 's deaf, you know— he does n't 
 hear." 
 
 All burst out laughing. 
 
 " What is to be done? "—retorted Gavrila from 
 the top of the stairs. 
 
 " Why, he has a hole in his door," — replied 
 Stepan;— " so do you wiggle a stick around in it 
 a bit." 
 
 Gavrila bent down. 
 
 " He has stuffed it ujJ with some sort of coat, 
 that hole." 
 
 " But do you poke the coat inward." 
 
 At this point another dull bark rang out. 
 
 " See there, see there, she 's giving herself 
 away!" — some one remarked in the crowd, and 
 again there was laughter. 
 
 Gavrila scratched behind his ear. 
 
 " Xo, brother," — he went on at last;—" do thou 
 poke the coat through thyself, if thou wishest." 
 
 "Why, certainly!" 
 
 And Stepan scrambled up, took a stick, thrust 
 the coat inside, and began to wiggle the stick 
 about in the opening, saying: " Come forth, come 
 forth!" He was still wiggling the stick when 
 the door of the little chamber flew suddenly and 
 swiftly open — and the whole train of menials 
 
 243
 
 MUMU 
 
 rolled head over heels down the stairs, Gavrila in 
 the lead. Uncle Tail shut the window. 
 
 " Come, come, come, come! " — shouted Gavrila 
 from the courtyard; — " just look out, look out! " 
 
 Gerasim stood motionless on the threshold. 
 The crowd assembled at tlie foot of the staircase. 
 Gerasim stared at all these petty folk in their 
 foreign kaftans from above, with his arms lightly 
 set akimbo; in his scarlet peasant shirt he seemed 
 like a giant in comparison with them. Gavrila 
 advanced a pace. 
 
 "See here, brother," -said he:-" I '11 take 
 none of thy impudence." 
 
 And he began to explain to him by signs: " The 
 mistress insists upon having thy dog : hand it over 
 instantly, or 't will be tlie worse for thee." 
 
 Gerasim looked at him, pointed to the dog, 
 made a sign with his hand at his own neck, as 
 though he were drawing up a noose, and cast an 
 inquiring glance at the major-domo. 
 
 " Yes, yes," — replied the latter, nodding his 
 head; — " jxs, she insists." 
 
 Gerasim dropped liis eyes, then suddenly 
 shook himself, again pointed at Mumii, who all 
 this time had been standing by his side, innocently 
 wagging her tail and moving her ears to and fro 
 with curiosity, repeated the sign of strangling 
 over his own neck, and significantly smote him- 
 self on the breast, as though declaring that he 
 would take it upon himself to annihilate ]Mumu. 
 
 244
 
 MUMU 
 
 " But thou wilt deceive,"— waved Gavrila to 
 him in reply, 
 
 Gerasim looked at him, laughed disdainfully, 
 smote himself again on the breast, and slammed 
 the door. 
 
 All present exchanged glances in silence. 
 
 "Well, and what 's the meaning of this? "— 
 began Gavrila. — " He has locked himself in." 
 
 " Let him alone, Gavrila Andreitch," — said 
 Stepan; — "he '11 do it, if he has promised. 
 That 's the sort of fellow he is. . . . If he once 
 promises a thing, it 's safe. He is n't like us 
 folks in that respect. What is true is true. 
 Yes." 
 
 " Yes," — repeated all, and wagged their heads. 
 -"That's so. Yes." 
 
 Uncle Tail opened the window and said " Yes," 
 also. 
 
 "Well, we shall see, I supj^ose,"— returned 
 Gavrila; — " but the guard is not to be removed, 
 notwithstanding. Hey, there, Eroshka! "— he 
 added, addressing a poor man in a yellow nankeen 
 kazak coat, who was reckoned as the gardener: — 
 " what hast thou to do ? Take a stick and sit here, 
 and if anything happens, run for me on the in- 
 stant." 
 
 Eroshka took a stick and sat down on the last 
 step of the staircase. The crowd dispersed, with 
 the exception of a few curious bodies and the 
 small urchins, while Gavrfla returned home, and 
 
 245
 
 :mumu 
 
 tliroiigh LiubofF Liubimovna gave orders that the 
 mistress should be informed that everything had 
 been done, and that he himself, in order to make 
 quite sure, had sent the postilion for a policeman. 
 The mistress tied a knot in her handkerchief, 
 poured eau de cologne on it, sniifed at it, wiped 
 her temples, sipped her tea and, being still under 
 the influence of the laurel drops, fell asleep again. 
 
 An hour after all this commotion, the door of 
 the tiny den opened and Genisim made his ap- 
 pearance. He wore a new holiday kaftan; he 
 Avas leading ^Nlumu by a string. Eroshka drew 
 aside and let him pass. Gerasim directed his waj^ 
 toward the gate. All the small boys who were 
 in the courtyard followed him with their eyes 
 in silence. He did not even turn round; he did 
 not put on his cap until he reached the street. 
 Gavrfla despatched after him that same Eroshka, 
 in the capacity of observer. Eroshka, perceiving 
 from afar that he had entered an eating-house in 
 company with his dog, awaited his reappearance. 
 
 In the eating-house they knew Gerasim and 
 understood his signs. He ordered cabbage-soup 
 with meat, and seated himself, with his arms 
 resting on the table. Mumii stood beside his 
 chair, calmly gazing at him with her intelligent 
 eyes. Her coat was fairly shining with gloss: it 
 was evident that she had recently been brushed. 
 They brought the cabbage-soup to Gerasim. He 
 crumbled up bread in it, cut the meat up into 
 
 246
 
 MUMU 
 
 small pieces, and set the plate on the floor, ^riinui 
 began to eat with her customary politeness, hardly 
 touching her muzzle to the food; CTcrasim stared 
 long at her; two heavy tears rolled suddenly from 
 his eyes; one fell on the dog's sloi)ing forehead, 
 the other into the soup. He covered liis face with 
 his hand. Mumii ate half a plateful and retired, 
 licking her chops. Gerasim rose, paid for the 
 soup, and set out, accompanied by the somewhat 
 astounded glance of the waiter. Eroshka, on 
 catching sight of Gerasim, sprang round the cor- 
 ner, and allowing him to pass, again set out on his 
 track. 
 
 Gerasim walked on without haste, and did not 
 release Mumu from the cord. On reaching the 
 corner of the street he halted, as though in 
 thought, and suddenly directed his course, with 
 swift strides, straight toward the Crimean Ford. 
 On the way he entered the yard of a house, to 
 which a wing was being built, and brought tlience 
 two bricks under his arm. From the Crimean 
 Ford he turned along the bank, advanced to a 
 certain spot, where stood two boats with oars, tied 
 to stakes (he had already noted them previously) , 
 and sprang into one of them, in company with 
 Mumii. A lame little old man emerged from 
 behind a hut placed in one corner of a vege- 
 table-garden, and shouted at him. But Gerasim 
 only nodded his head, and set to rowing so vig- 
 orously, although against the current, that in an 
 
 247
 
 MUMU 
 
 instant he had darted off to a distance of a 
 hundred fatlioms. The old man stood and stood, 
 scratched his back, first with the left hand 
 then with the right, and returned, limping, to 
 his hut. 
 
 But Gerasim rowed on and on. And now he 
 had left ^loscow behind him. Now, already mea- 
 dows, fields, groves stretched along the shores, and 
 peasant cottages made their appearance. It 
 smacked of the country. He flung aside the oars, 
 bent his head down to ]\Iumu, who was sitting in 
 front of him on a dry thwart,— the bottom was 
 inundated with water,— and remained motionless, 
 with his mighty hands crossed on her back, wliile 
 the boat drifted a little backward with the current 
 toward the town. At last Gerasim straightened 
 up hastily, with a sort of painful wrath on his 
 face, wound the rope around the bricks he had 
 taken, arranged a noose, put it on Mumii's neck, 
 lifted her over the river, for the last time gazed 
 at her. . . . She gazed back at him confidingly 
 and without alarm, waving her httle tail slightly. 
 He turned away, shut his eyes, and opened his 
 hands. . . Gerasim heard nothing, neither the 
 swift whine of the falling JNIumii, nor the loud 
 splash of the water; for him the noisiest day 
 was silent and speechless, as not even the quiet- 
 est night is to us, and when he opened his eyes 
 again, the little waves were hurrying down the 
 river as before; as before thej^ were plashing 
 
 248
 
 :mu]siu 
 
 about the sides of the boat, and only far astern 
 toward the shore certain broad circles were 
 spreading. 
 
 Eroshka, as soon as Gerasim vanished from his 
 sight, returned home and reported what he had 
 seen. 
 
 "Well, yes,"— remarked Stepan;— "he will 
 drown her. You may be easy about that. If he 
 has once promised a thing . . . ." 
 
 Throughout the day no one saw Gerasim. He 
 did not dine at home. Evening came ; all, except 
 him, assembled for supper. 
 
 "What a queer fellow that Gerasim is!"— 
 squealed a fat laundress. " The idea of making 
 such a fuss over a dog! . . . Really! " 
 
 " But Gerasim has been here,"— suddenly ex- 
 claimed Stepan, as he scooped up his buckwheat 
 groats with his spoon. 
 
 "What? When?" 
 
 " Why, a couple of hours ago. Certainly he 
 has! I met him at the gate; he has gone away 
 from here again ; he wxnt out of the courtyard. I 
 wanted to ask him about his dog, but he evidently 
 was out of sorts. Well, and he jostled me; it 
 must have been done by accident, he only wanted 
 to get me out of the way; as much as to say: 
 'Don't bother me! '—but he gave me such a dig 
 in the spine, that 61, 61, oil "—And Stepan 
 shrugged his shoulders with an involuntary grim- 
 ace, and rubbed the nape of his nftck.— " Yes," 
 
 249
 
 MUMU 
 
 — he added; — " his hand is an apt one, there 's no 
 denying that! " 
 
 All laughed at Stepan and, after supper, dis- 
 persed to their beds. 
 
 And in the meantime, on that same night, on 
 the T*** highway, a giant was marching onward 
 diligently and unremittingly, with a sack on his 
 shoulders, and a long staiF in his hands. It was 
 Gerasim. He was hurrying on, without look- 
 ing behind him, hurrying home, to his own 
 house in the country, to his native place. After 
 drowning poor IMumii, he had hastened to his 
 little den, had briskly put together a few articles 
 of clothing in an old horse-cloth, had tied it up 
 with a knot, slung it across his shoulder, and 
 taken himself off. He had noted well the road 
 when he had been brought to JNIoscow ; the village 
 from which his mistress had taken him lay at 
 most five-and-twenty versts from the highway. 
 He walked along it wuth a certain invincible har- 
 dihood, with despairing, yet joyful firmness. 
 He strode onward, his breast expanded broadly; 
 his eyes were bent eagerly straight ahead. He 
 hastened onward as though his aged mother were 
 waiting for him in his native place, as though she 
 had summoned him to her after long wanderings 
 in foreign lands, among strange peoples. . . The 
 summer night, which had only just descended, 
 was warm and tranquil; on the one hand, in the 
 direction where the sun had gone down, the rim 
 
 2.50
 
 MUMU 
 
 of the sky was still white, with a erimson p^leam 
 from the last reflection of the vanished day,— on 
 the other hand, the hlue-grey gloom was rising. 
 Night had come thence. Hundreds of quail were 
 whistling all around, corn-crakes were vying with 
 each other in their calls. . . . Gerasim could not 
 hear them, he could not hear even the delicate 
 nocturnal rustling of the trees past whicli lie 
 was hearing his mighty feet, hut he discerned the 
 familiar scent of the ripening rye, which was 
 exhaled from the dark fields; he felt the breeze 
 wafting to meet him, — the breeze from his native 
 place,— beating on his face, playing with his hair 
 and beard; he beheld in front of him the road 
 homeward, gleaming white, straight as an arrow ; 
 he beheld in the skj^ innumerable stars, which 
 illuminated his path, and like a lion he stepped out 
 powerfully and alertly, so that when the rising 
 sun lighted up with its moistly-crimson rays the 
 gallant fellow who had just been driven to ex- 
 tremities, three-and-thirty versts already lay be- 
 tween him and JNIoscow. . . . 
 
 At the end of two days he was at home in his 
 own little cottage, to the great amazement of the 
 soldier's wife who had removed thither. After 
 praying before the holy pictures, he inmiediately 
 betook himself to the overseer. Tlie overseer was 
 astounded at first; but the haying was only just 
 beginning. Gerasim, being a capital workman, 
 immediately had a scythe put into his hand — 
 
 2.>1
 
 MUMU 
 
 and he went off to mow as of ^^ore, to mow in 
 such fashion that the peasants simply sweated 
 through and through as they watched his swings 
 and strokes. . . . 
 
 But in ]\Ioscow, on the day following Gera- 
 sim's flight, they discovered it. They went into 
 his room, ransacked it, and told Gavrila. The 
 latter came, made an inspection, shrugged his 
 shoulders, and decided that the dumb man had 
 either run away or drowned himself along with 
 his stupid dog. The police were informed, and 
 the matter was reported to the mistress. The 
 mistress flew into a rage, fell to weeping, or- 
 dered him to be hunted up at any cost, asserted 
 that she had never ordered the dog to be made 
 away with, and, at last, so berated Gavrila, 
 that the latter did nothing all day but shake 
 his head and add: "Well!" until Uncle Tail 
 brought him to his senses by saying to him: 
 "We-ell!" At last new^s came from the vil- 
 lage of Gerasim's arrival there. The mistress 
 calmed down somewhat; at first she was minded 
 to issue an order demanding his immediate re- 
 turn to Moscow, but aftenvard she announced 
 that she wanted nothing to do with so ungrateful 
 a man. JVIoreover, she died herself soon after, 
 and her heirs had other things to think about be- 
 sides Gerasim ; and they dismissed the rest of their 
 mother's serfs on quit-rent. 
 
 And Gerasim is living yet, poor, wretched f el- 
 
 252
 
 MUMU 
 
 low, in his lonely hut; he is healthy and powerful 
 as of yore, and, as of yore, he does the work of 
 four men, and, as of yore, he is staid and dignified. 
 But the nei<^'hhours have noticed that ever since 
 his return from IMoscow he has entirely ceased 
 to have anything to do with ^v()men, he does not 
 even look at them, and he keeps not a single dog 
 on his premises. — " However,"— say the pea- 
 sants, — " 't is lucky for him that he needs no wo- 
 man; and as for a dog— wliat should he do with 
 a dog? you could n't drag a thief into his yard 
 with a noose!" Such is the fame of the dumb 
 man's heroic strength. 
 
 ^j3
 
 THE INN 
 
 (1852)
 
 THE INN 
 
 Ox the great B*** highway, almost equidis- 
 tant from the two county towns through 
 which it passes, there was still standing, not long 
 since, a sj^acious inn, very well known to drivers 
 of troika-teams, to freight-sledge ]3easants, to 
 merchants' clerks, to traders of the petty-burgher 
 class, and, in general, to all the numerous and 
 varied travellers, who at all seasons of the year 
 roll along our roads. Everybody used to drop 
 in at this inn; except only some landed proprie- 
 tor's carriage, drawn by six home-bred horses, 
 would glide solemnly past, which, however, did 
 not prevent the coachman and the lackey on the 
 foot-board from looking with i)articular feeling 
 and attention at the porch but too familiar to 
 them; or some very poor fellow, in a rickety cart, 
 with fifteen kopeks in the purse stuffed into his 
 bosom, on coming to the fine inn, would urge on 
 his weak nag, hastening to his night's lodging in 
 the suburb on the great highway, to the house of 
 the peasant-host, where you will find nothing ex- 
 cept hay and bread, but. on the other hand, will 
 not be obliged to pay a kopek too much. 
 
 In addition to its advantageous situation, the 
 
 25*7
 
 THE INN 
 
 inn of wliich we have just spoken possessed many 
 attractions: capital water in two deep wells with 
 creaking wheels and iron buckets on chains; a 
 spacious stable-yard with plenty of board sheds 
 on stout pillars ; an abundant supply of good oats 
 in the cellar ; a warm house, with a huge Russian 
 stove, into which, as upon the shoulders of an 
 epic hero, long logs were thrust ; two fairly-clean 
 little chambers with reddish-lilac paper on the 
 walls somewhat tattered at the bottom, with a 
 painted wooden divan, chairs to match, and two 
 l^ots of geranium in the windows, which, how- 
 ever, were never washed and were dim with the 
 dust of many years. This inn offered other com- 
 forts:— the blacksmith's shop was near at hand, 
 and the mill was situated almost alongside of it; 
 in conclusion, good food was to be had in it, 
 thanks to the fat and rosy-cheeked j^easant-wo- 
 man who was the cook, and who prepared the 
 viands in a savoury manner and with plenty of 
 fat, and was not stingy of her stores ; the nearest 
 dram-shop was only half a verst distant ; the land- 
 lord kept snufF, which, although mixed with 
 ashes, was extremel}' heady, and tickled the nose 
 agreeably: in a word, there were many reasons 
 why guests of every sort were not lacking in 
 that inn. Travellers had taken a fancy to it— that 
 is the principal thing; without that, as is well 
 known, no business will thrive; and it was liked 
 most of all because, as people said in the country- 
 
 258
 
 THE INN 
 
 side, the landlord himself was very lucky and suc- 
 ceeded iu all his enterprises, although he little 
 deserved his luck, and it was evident that il' a 
 man is destined to he lucky he will be. 
 
 This landlord was a petty burgher, Xai'ini Iva- 
 noff by name. He was of medium stature, thick- 
 set, stooping and broad-shouldered; he had a 
 large, round head, hair which was wavy and al- 
 ready grizzled, although in appearance he was not 
 over forty years of age; a plump and rosy face, 
 a low, but \vhite and smooth brow, and small, 
 bright blue eyes, w^ith which he gazed forth very 
 strangely— askance, and, at the same time, inso- 
 lently, which is a combination rarely encountered. 
 He always held his head in a drooping position, 
 and turned it with difficulty, perhaps because his 
 neck was very short; he walked briskly and did 
 not swing his arms, but opened his clenched fists 
 as he walked. When he smiled, — and he smiled 
 frequently, but without laughter, as though to 
 himself,— his large lips moved apart in an un- 
 pleasant way, and displayed a row of compact 
 and dazzHng teeth. He spoke abru])tly, and 
 with a certain surly sound in his voice. He 
 shaved off his beard, but did not adopt the for- 
 eign dress. His garments consisted of a long, 
 extremely-threadbare kaftan, ample bag-trousers, 
 and shoes worn on the bare feet. He often ab- 
 sented himself from home on business, — and he 
 had a great deal of business: he was a jobber of 
 
 250
 
 THE INN 
 
 horses, he hired land, he raised vegetables for the 
 market, he purchased gardens, and in general oc- 
 cupied himself with various commercial specula- 
 tions,— but his absences never lasted long; like the 
 hawk, to whom in particular, especially as to the 
 expression of his eyes, he bore a strong resem- 
 blance, he kept returning to his nest. He under- 
 stood how to keep that nest in order; he kept 
 track of everj^thing, he heard everything, and 
 gave orders about everything; he dealt out, he 
 served out, and calculated everything himself, 
 and while he did not reduce his price a kopek to 
 any one, yet he did not overcharge. 
 
 The lodgers did not enter into conversation 
 with him, and he himself was not fond of wasting 
 words without cause. " I need j^our money, and 
 you need my victuals," he was wont to explain, 
 as though he were tearing off each separate word : 
 " you and I have n't got to stand godparents to 
 a child and become cronies; the traveller has 
 eaten, I have fed him his fill, let him not outstay 
 his welcome. And if he is sleepy, then let him 
 sleep, not chatter." He kept sturdy and healthy, 
 but tame and submissive labourers; they were 
 extremely afraid of him. He never took a drop 
 of intoxicating liquor into his mouth, but he gave 
 each of them ten kopeks for vodka on festival 
 days; on other days they did not dare to drink. 
 People like Naiim speedily grow ricli ; . . . . but 
 Naum IvanofF had not reached the brilliant con- 
 
 260
 
 THE INN 
 
 dition in wliicli lie found liiniself — and he was 
 reckoned to be worth forty or fifty thousand 
 rubles — by strai'j^htforward wavs. , . . 
 
 Twenty years previous to the date at which we 
 have set the beginning of our story, an inn existed 
 on that same site upon the highway. Truth to 
 tell, it had not that dark-red })lank roof which 
 imparted to Naiim Ivanoff 's house the aspect of 
 a nobleman's manor-house; and it was poorer in 
 its construction, and the sheds in the stable-yard 
 were thatched, and the walls were made of wat- 
 tled boughs instead of boards; neither was it 
 distinguished by a triangular Greek pediment 
 on turned columns; but it was a very decent 
 sort of inn, nevertheless, — spacious, solid, and 
 warm,.— and travellers gladly frequented it. Its 
 landlord at that time was not Naiim Ivanoff, but 
 a certain Akim SemyonofF, the serf of a neigh- 
 bouring landed proprietress, Lizaveta Prokho- 
 rovna Kuntze — the widow of a staff -officer. 
 This Akim was an intelligent peasant, with good 
 business capacity, who, having started with two 
 wretched little nags as a carrier, in his youth, re- 
 turned a year later with three good horses, and 
 from that time forth spent the greater part of his 
 life in roaming along the highways, visited Kazan 
 and Odessa, Orenburg and Warsaw, and went 
 abroad to " Lipetzk," ^ and travelled toward the 
 last with two troikas of huge and powerful stal- 
 
 ^ Leipzig. 
 
 2G1
 
 THE INN 
 
 lions harnessed to two enormous carts. Whether 
 it was that he hecame hored by this homeless, 
 roving life, or whetlier he was seized with the 
 desire to set up a family (in one of his absences 
 his wife had died; the children which he had had 
 died also), at all events he decided, at last, to 
 abandon his former avocation and set up an inn. 
 
 With the permission of his mistress, he estab- 
 lished himself on tlie liighway, purchased in her 
 name half a desyatina ^ of land, and erected 
 thereon an inn. The venture proved a success. 
 He had more than enough money for the installa- 
 tion; the experience which he had acquired in his 
 prolonged wanderings to all parts of Russia was 
 of the greatest advantage to him: he knew how 
 to please travellers, especially men of his own 
 former calling, — three-horse-team carriers, — with 
 many of whom he was personally acquainted, and 
 whose patronage is particularh" valued b}' the 
 tavern-keepers: so much do these people eat and 
 consume for themselves and their robust horses. 
 Akim's inn became known for hundreds of versts 
 round about. . . . People were even fonder of 
 patronising him than they were of patronising 
 Naum, who afterward succeeded him, although 
 Akim was far from being comparable to Naiim 
 in his knowledge of the landlord's business. 
 
 Akim had everything established on the old- 
 
 1 A dssyatlna is 2.70 acres. He was obliged to buy the land in hia 
 owner's name: serfs could not hold landed property. — Tkanslatou. 
 
 262
 
 THE INN 
 
 tashioned footing, — warm but not (|uitc clean; 
 and it sometimes liappened that his oats turned 
 out to be hght, or (hunj), and tlie food also was 
 prepared in rather indifferent fasiiion; such vic- 
 tuals were sometimes served on his table as had 
 been better left in the oven for good, and that 
 not because he was stingy with material, but just 
 because it happened so— his wife had not looked 
 after things. On the other hand, he was ready 
 to deduct from the price, and he would even not 
 refuse to give credit. In a word, he was a good 
 man and an amiable landlord. He was liberal 
 also with his conversation and standing treat; 
 over the samovar he would sometimes get to oab- 
 bling so that you would prick uj) your ears, es- 
 pecially when he began to talk about Peter,^ 
 about the Tcherkessian steppes, or about foreign 
 parts; well, and as a matter of course, he was 
 fond of drinking with a nice man, only not to 
 excess, and more for the sake of sociability — so 
 travellers said of him. 
 
 ]Merchants bore great good-will toward him, 
 as, in general, did all those people who call them- 
 selves old-fashioned — those people who do not 
 set out on a journey without having girded 
 themselves and who do not enter a room with- 
 out crossing themselves,^ and who will not en- 
 ter into conversation with a man without hav- 
 
 ^St. Petersburg:. —Thansi^toh. 
 'To the holy pictures. — Transi.atoh. 
 
 2G3
 
 THE IXX 
 
 ing preliminarily bidden him " good morning." 
 Akim's mere personal appearance disposed one 
 in his favour; he was tall, rather gaunt, but 
 very well built, even in his mature years; he 
 had a long, comely and regular face, a high, open 
 brow, a thin, straight nose, and small lips. The 
 glance of his prominent brown eyes fairly beamed 
 with gentle cordiality, his thin, soft hair curled in 
 rings about his neck: very little of it remained 
 on the crown of his head. The sound of Akim's 
 voice was very agreeable, although weak; in his 
 youth he had been a capital singer, but his long 
 journeys in the open air, in winter, had impaired 
 his lungs. On the other hand, he spoke very flu- 
 ently and sweetly. When he laughed, ray-like 
 wrinkles, very pleasant to behold, spread them- 
 selves out around his eves; — such wrinkles are to 
 be seen only in kind people. Akim's movements 
 were generally slow and not devoid of a certain 
 self-confidence and sedate courtesy, as was befit- 
 ting a man of experience who had seen much in 
 his day. 
 
 In fact, Akim would have been all right, — or, 
 as they called him even in the manor-house, 
 whither he was wont to go frequently, as well as 
 unfailingly on Sundays after the morning service 
 in church, Akim Semyonovitch,^ — would have 
 been all right in every respect had he not had one 
 failing, M'hich has ruined many men on this earth, 
 
 ^ See note on p. 273.— Translator. 
 
 264.
 
 THE IXX 
 
 and in the end ruined liini also — a weakness for 
 the female sex. Akim's amorousness went to ex- 
 tremes: his heart was utterly unable to resist a 
 feminine glanee; he melted in it, as the first au- 
 tumnal snow melts in the sun .... and he had 
 to pay dearly for his superfluous sensibility. 
 
 In the course of the first year after he had set- 
 tled down upon the liighway, Akim was so oc- 
 cupied with the building of his inn, with the in- 
 stallation of his establishment, and with all the 
 worries which are inseparable from all new house- 
 holds, that he positively had not time to think 
 of women, and if any sinful thoughts did enter 
 his head, he promptly expelled them by the peru- 
 sal of divers holy books, for which he cherished a 
 great respect (he had taught himself to read and 
 write during his first trip as carrier) , by clianting 
 the Psalms in an undertone, or by some other pi- 
 ous occupation. ^Moreover, he was already in his 
 forty-sixth year, — and at that age all passions 
 sensibly calm down and grow cool; and the time 
 for marrying was past. xVkim himself had begun 
 to think that that folly, as he expressed it, had 
 broken loose from him . . . but evidently no man 
 can escape his fate. 
 
 Akim's former owner, Lizaveta Prokhorovna 
 Kuntze, who had been left a widow by her hus- 
 band, a staff-officer of German extraction, was 
 herself a native of the town of INIittau, where she 
 had passed the earl}' days of her childhood, and 
 
 20.5
 
 THE IXN 
 
 where she still had a very numerous and needy 
 family, concerning whom, however, she troubled 
 herself very little, especially since one of her bro- 
 thers, an officer in an arrny infantry regiment, 
 had unexpectedly presented himself at her house 
 and on the following daj^ had raised such an up- 
 roar that he had all but thrashed the mistress of 
 the house herself, and had addressed her, into the 
 bargain, as '' du Lumpcnmamsell! " while on the 
 preceding evening he had himself called her in 
 broken Russian: " sister and benefactress." Liza- 
 veta Prokhorovna hardly ever left the nice little 
 estate acquired by the efforts of her spouse, who 
 had been an architect ; ^ she herself managed it, 
 and managed it far from badly. Lizaveta Pro- 
 khorovna did not let slip the smallest source of 
 profit; she derived advantage to herself from 
 everything; and in this point, as well as in that 
 of remarkable cleverness in making one kopek 
 serve instead of tsvo, her German nationality be- 
 trayed itself; in everything else she had become 
 extremely Russified. She had a considerable 
 number of domestic serfs ; in particular, she kept 
 a great many maids, who, however, did not eat the 
 bread of idleness : from morning until night their 
 backs were bowed over work.^ She was fond of 
 
 ^ He had been a staff-officer in the civil service, according to Peter 
 the Great's Table of Ranks. — Thaksi.ator. 
 
 2 These numerous maids, in the old serf days, were employed in 
 making the most exquisite hnen, lace, embroidery, and so forth. — 
 Translatob. 
 
 266
 
 THE INN 
 
 driving out in her carriage witli liveried lackeys 
 on the foot-board; she was fond of having i)eo- 
 ple retail gossip to her and play the sycophant; 
 and she herself was a first-rate gossip; she was 
 fond of loading a man down with her favours, 
 and suddenly stunning him with disgrace — in 
 a word, I.izaveta Prokhorovna conducted herself 
 exactly like a nobly-born dame. — She favoured 
 Akim, — he paid her a good round quit-rent with 
 punctuality, — she chatted graciously with him, 
 and even, in jest, invited him to be her guest . . . 
 but it was precisely in the manor-house that ca- 
 lamity aw^aited Akim. 
 
 Among the number of Lizaveta Prokhorovna's 
 maids, there was one young girl of twenty, an 
 orphan, Dunyasha by name. She was not ill- 
 favoured, was well formed and clever; her fea- 
 tures, although not regular, were calculated to 
 please; her fresh complexion, her thick, fair hair, 
 her red lips, and a certain dashing, half -sneer- 
 ing, half -challenging expression of face, were 
 all quite charming in their way. ^loreover, in 
 spite of her orphaned state, she bore herself 
 staidlv, almost haufrhtilv; she was descended from 
 an ancient line of house-serfs; her late father, 
 Arefy, had been major-domo for thirty years, 
 and her grandfather, Stepan, had served as valet 
 to a gentleman long since deceased, a sergeant 
 of the Guards and a ])rince. She dressed neatly, 
 and was proud of her hands, which really were ex- 
 
 267
 
 THE IXN 
 
 tremely handsome. Dunyasha showed great dis- 
 dain for all her admirers, listened to their sweet 
 sayings with a conceited smile, and if she an- 
 swered them, it was chiefly by exclamation only, 
 in the nature of: " Yes! certainly! catch me doinc 
 that! the idea! "... These exclamations scarcely 
 ever left her tongue. Dunyasha had spent about 
 three years in ^Moscow, under instruction, where 
 she had acquired those ^^eculiar grimaces and 
 manners which characterise chambermaids who 
 have sojourned in the capitals. People spoke of 
 her as a conceited girl (a great encomium in the 
 mouths of domestics) who, although she had seen 
 much of life, had not lowered her dignity. She 
 sewed far from badly, moreover; but, neverthe- 
 less, Lizaveta Prokhorovna had no particular 
 liking for her, thanks to the head maid, Kiril- 
 lovna, a woman no longer young, sly, and fond of 
 intrigue. Kirillovna profited by her great in- 
 fluence over her mistress, and contrived very art- 
 fully to keep rivals out of the way. 
 
 And it was with this Dunyasha that Akim fell 
 in love! And in a way such as he had never 
 loved before. He beheld her for the first time 
 in church; she had only just returned from INIos- 
 cow; .... then he met her several times in the 
 manor-house; at last he spent a whole evening 
 with her at the overseer's, whither he had been 
 invited to tea, along with other honourable per- 
 sonages. The house-serfs did not look down 
 
 2G8
 
 THE INN 
 
 on him, although he did not hclong to their social 
 class, and wore a heard ; ' ])iit he was a cultured 
 man, could read and write, and— chief thing of 
 all — he had money; moreover, he did not dress 
 in peasant fashion, hut wore a long kaftan of 
 hlack cloth, hoots of dressed calf-leather, and a 
 small kerchief round his neck. To tell the truth, 
 some of the house-serfs did make remarks among 
 themselves to the effect, " 't is plain, neverthe- 
 less, that he is not one of us," hut to his face they 
 almost flattered him. That evening at the over- 
 seer's, Dunyasha comj)leted the conquest of 
 Akim's amorous heart, although she positively did 
 not reply by a single word to all his ingratiating 
 speeches, and only now and then cast a side- 
 long glance at him, as though astonished at see- 
 ing that peasant there. All this only inflamed 
 Akim the more. He went off home, thought, and 
 thought, and made up his mind to obtain her 
 hand. ... So thoroughly had she " bewitched " 
 him. But how shall we describe Dunyasha's 
 wrath and indignation when, five days later, Ki- 
 rillovna, affectionately calling her into her room, 
 announced to her that Akim (and evidently he 
 had understood how to set about the business), 
 — that that beard-wearer and peasant Akim, to 
 sit beside whom she had regarded as an insult, — 
 was courting her ! 
 
 At first Dunyasha flushed hot all over, then she 
 
 ^The beard was regarded as a mark of peasant origin.— Translator. 
 
 2G9
 
 THE IXX 
 
 emitted a forced laugli, then fell to weeping; 
 but Kirillovna conducted the attack so artfully, 
 so clearly made her feel her position in the house, 
 so cleverly hinted at Akim's decent appearance, 
 wealtli, and blind devotion, and, in conclusion, so 
 significantly alluded to the mistress's own wishes, 
 that Dunvasha left the room Avith hesitation 
 depicted on her face, and encountering Akim, 
 merely gazed intently into his ej'es, but did not 
 turn away. The fabulously lavish gifts of this 
 enamoured man dispelled her last doubts. . . . 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna, to whom Akim, in his joy, 
 had presented a hundred peaches on a large sil- 
 ver salver, gave her consent to his marriage with 
 Dunyasha, and the wedding took place. Akim 
 spared no expense — and the bride, who on the 
 eve of the wedding had sat in the maids' room like 
 one on the verge of expiring, and liad done no- 
 thing but cry on the very morning of the wed- 
 ding, while Kirillovna was dressing her for the 
 ceremony, was speedily comforted. . . . Her 
 mistress gave her her own shawl to wear in church 
 — and that verv same dav Akim gave her another 
 of the same sort, only almost better. 
 
 So then Akim married, and transported his 
 young wife to his inn. . . . The}^ began to live. 
 Dunyasha proved to be a bad housekeeper, a 
 poor helpmeet for her husband. She never looked 
 after anything, she grieved, was bored, unless 
 some passing officer was attentive to her and paid 
 
 270
 
 TlIK INN 
 
 court to her, as he sat behind the capacious 
 samovar; she fiXMjuently absented lierself, some- 
 times g"oing to the town to shop, sometimes to tlie 
 mistress's manor-house, whieh lay four versts (hs- 
 tant from the inn. In tlie manor-liouse slie re- 
 freshed herself; there peoi)le of her own sort sur- 
 rounded her; the maids envied her smart attire; 
 Kirillovna treated her to tea; Lizaveta Prokho- 
 rovna herself chatted with her. . . . Hut even 
 these visits did not pass off without l)itter emo- 
 tions for Dunvasha. . . . For instance, l)ein<r a 
 house-serf, she was not allowed to wear a bonnet, 
 and was obliged to muffle her head up in a ker- 
 chief . . . . " hke a merchant's wife," as the 
 crafty Kirillovna said to her. ..." Like the 
 wife of a i^etty burgher," thought Dunvasha to 
 herself. 
 
 JNIore than once there recurred to Akim's mind 
 the words of his only relative, an aged uncle, an 
 inveterate peasant, a man without family or land: 
 " Well, brother, Akimushka," he had said to him, 
 when he met him in the street, " I have heard that 
 thou 'rt a-courting. . . ." 
 
 "Well, yes, I am; what of it?" 
 
 " Ekh, Akim, Akim! Thou 'rt no mate for us 
 peasants now, there 's no denying it ; neither is she 
 a mate for thee." 
 
 " But why is n't she a mate for me? " 
 
 " Why, for this reason, at least," — returned the 
 other, pointing to Akim's beard, whieh he, to 
 
 271
 
 THE INN 
 
 please his bride, had begun to clip close— he 
 would not consent to shave it oiF entirely. . . . 
 Akim dropped his eyes; and the old man turned 
 away, wrapped about him the skirts of his sheep- 
 skin coat, which was ragged on the shoulders, and 
 went his way, shaking his head. 
 
 Yes, more than once did Akim grow pensive, 
 grunt and sigh. . . . But his love for his pretty 
 wife did not diminish; he was proud of her, 
 especially when he compared her, not only with 
 the other peasant women, or with his former 
 wife, whom he had married at the age of sixteen, 
 but with the other maids of the house-serf class: 
 as much as to say: " Just see what sort of a bird 
 we 've captured!" .... Her slightest caress 
 afforded him great pleasure. . . " Perhaps," he 
 thought to himself, " she '11 get used to me, she '11 
 grow accustomed to her new life. . ." ^loreover, 
 she conducted herself very well, and no one could 
 say an evil word concerning her. 
 
 Several years passed in this manner. Dunya- 
 sha really did end bv becoming used to her exis- 
 tence. The older Akim grew, the more attached 
 he became to her, and tlie more he trusted her ; her 
 friends, who had married men not of the peasant 
 class, suffered dire need, or were in distress, or 
 had fallen into evil hands. . . . But Akim con- 
 tinued to wax richer and richer. He succeeded in 
 everything — he was lucky; only one thing grieved 
 him: God had not given him any children. Dun- 
 
 272
 
 THE INN 
 
 yasha was already in her twenty-fifth year; every 
 one had come to call her Avdotya Arefyevna.^ 
 Nevertheless, she had not heconie a good house- 
 wife.— But she had come to love her home, she 
 attended to the stores of provisions, she looked 
 after tlie servant-maids. . . . Trutli to tell, she 
 did all this in an indifferent way, and did not ex- 
 ercise the proper oversight as to cleanliness and 
 order; but, on the other hand, in the principal 
 room of the inn, alongside the portrait of Akim, 
 hung her portrait, painted in oils and ordered 
 bv her from a home-bred artist, the son of the 
 parish deacon. — She was represented in a white 
 gown and a yellow shawl, with six rows of large 
 pearls on her neck, long earrings in her ears, and 
 rings on every finger. . . It was possible to recog- 
 nise her, — although the painter had depicted her 
 as extremely corpulent and rosy-cheeked, and 
 had painted her eyes black instead of grey, and 
 even a trifle squinting. . . He had not succeeded 
 at all with Akim : the latter had, somehow, turned 
 out very dark — a la Rembrandt, — so that a trav- 
 eller would sometimes step up and stare at it, and 
 merely bellow a bit. 
 
 ft-' 
 
 Avdotj^a had begun to dress with a good deal 
 of carelessness; she would throw a large kercliief 
 over her shoulders, and the gown under it would 
 
 ^ Neither field-serfs nor the superior house-serfs were addressed by 
 their patronymic (like the nobility). Dunvfisha is the diminutive 
 cf Avdoty. —Translator. 
 
 273
 
 THE INX 
 
 fit anyhow ; indolence had taken possession of her, 
 that sighing, languid, sleepy indolence to which 
 Russians are hut too greatly inclined, especially 
 when their existence is assured 
 
 Nevertheless, the affairs of Akim and his wife 
 tlirove very well; they lived in concord, and hore 
 the reputation of heing an exemplary married 
 pair. But, like the squirrel which is cleaning its 
 nose at the very moment when the arrow is 
 aimed at it, a man has no foreboding of his own 
 disaster— and suddenly down he crashes, as 
 though on the ice. . . . 
 
 One autumn evening a merchant with dry- 
 goods stopped at Akim's inn. He was making 
 his way, by devious roads, with two loaded 
 kibitkas, from ]\Ioscow to KharkofF; he was 
 one of those peddlers whom the wives and 
 daughters of landed proprietors sometimes await 
 with so much impatience. With this peddler, al- 
 ready an elderly man, were travelling two com- 
 rades, or, to put it more accurately, two work- 
 men—one pale, thin, hump-backed, the other a 
 stately, handsome young fellow of twenty. They 
 ordered supper, then sat down to drink tea; the 
 peddler invited the landlord and landlady to 
 drink a cup with him— and they did not re- 
 fuse. A conversation was speedily under way 
 between the two old men (Akim had seen his 
 fifty-sixth birthday) ; the peddler was making in- 
 quiries concerning the neighbouring landed pro- 
 
 274
 
 TIIK IXX 
 
 prietors,— and no one could impart to him all 
 necessary details about them better than could 
 Akim. The liimip-backed labourer kept continu- 
 ally going out to look at the carts, and at last took 
 himself off to sleep ; Avdotya was left to cliat witli 
 the other labourer. . . . She sat beside him and 
 talked little, and chiefly listened to what lie nar- 
 rated to her; but evidently his remarks ])leased 
 her; her face grew animated, a flush played over 
 her cheeks, and she laughed (juite often and 
 readily. The young labourer sat almost motion- 
 less, with his curly head bent toward the table; he 
 spoke softly without raising his voice, and without 
 haste; on the other hand his eyes, not large, but 
 audaciously brisrht and blue, fairly bored into 
 Avdotya; at first she turned away from them, 
 then she began to gaze into his face. The young 
 fellow's face was as fresh and smooth as a Cri- 
 mean apple; he smiled frequently and drununed 
 his white fingers on his white chin, already cov- 
 ered with sparse, dark down. He expressed him- 
 self after the merchant fashion, but witli great 
 ease, and with a certain careless self-confidence — 
 and kept staring at her all the while with the 
 same insistent and insolent look. . . . Suddenly 
 he moved a little closer to her, and without chang- 
 ing the expression of his face in the least, he said 
 to her: " Avdotya Arefyevna, there 's nobody in 
 the world nicer than you; I 'm ready to die for 
 you, I do believe." 
 
 275
 
 THE IXN 
 
 Avdotya laughed loudly. 
 
 " What 's the matter with thee? " — Akim asked 
 her. 
 
 " Why, this man here is telling such absurd 
 things," — she said, but without any special con- 
 fusion. 
 
 The old peddler grinned. 
 
 " He, he, yes, ma'am ; that Xaum of mine is 
 such a joker, sir. But you must n't listen to 
 him, ma'am." 
 
 " Yes, certainly! as if I would listen to him," 
 — she replied, and shook her head. 
 
 " He, he, of course, ma'am," — remarked the 
 old man. — " Well, but," — he added in a drawl, — 
 " good-bye, I 'm much obliged, ma'am, but now 
 't is time to go to roost, ma'am. ..." And he 
 rose to his feet. 
 
 " And we are much obliged, sir, too, sir," — said 
 Akim also, — " for the entertainment, that is to 
 say; but now we wish j^ou good night, sir. Rise, 
 Avdotpishka." 
 
 Avdotya rose, as though reluctantly, and after 
 her Xaum rose also .... and all dispersed. 
 
 The landlord and landlady betook themselves 
 to the small, closet-like room which served them 
 as a bedroom. Akim set to snoring instantly. 
 Avdotya could not get to sleep for a long time. 
 . . . At first she lay still, with her face turned 
 to the wall, then she began to toss about on the 
 hot feather-bed, now throwing off, now drawing 
 
 276
 
 THE INN 
 
 up the coverlet .... llicii she fell into a li«^Mit 
 doze. All of a sudden, a man's loud voice re- 
 sounded in the 3'ard; it was singing some slow hut 
 not mournful song, the words of which could not 
 be distinguished. Avdotya opened lier eyes, 
 raised herself on her elbow, and began to listen. 
 . . . The song still went on. ... It poured 
 forth sonorously on the autumnal air. 
 
 Akim raised his head. 
 
 " Who 's that singing? " — he inquired. 
 
 " I don't know," — she replied. 
 
 " He sings well,"— he added, after a brief 
 pause. — " Well. What a strong voice. I used to 
 sing in my day,"— he continued, — " and I sang 
 well, but my voice is ruined. But that 's a fine 
 singer. It must be that young fellow singing. 
 Naum is his name, I think." — And he turned 
 over on his other side — drew a deep breath, and 
 fell asleep again. 
 
 The voice did not cease for a long time there- 
 after. . . . Avdotya continued to listen and lis- 
 ten; at last it suddenly broke off short, as it were, 
 then uttered one more wild shout, and slowly died 
 away. Avdotya crossed herself, and laid her head 
 on the pillow. . . . Half an hour ela])se(l. . . . 
 She raised herself and began softly to get out of 
 bed. . . . 
 
 "Whither art thou going, wife?" — Aki'm 
 asked her through his sleep. 
 
 She stopped short. 
 
 277
 
 THE IXX 
 
 " To adjust the shrine-lamp," ^ — she answered; 
 " somehow or other I can't sleep." 
 
 " Thou hadst hetter say thy prayers," — stam- 
 mered Akim as he fell asleep. 
 
 Avdotya went to the shrine-lamp, began to ad- 
 just it, and incautiously extinguished it; she re- 
 turned and lay down in bed. Silence reigned. 
 
 Early on the following morning the merchant 
 set out on his way with his companions. Avdotj^a 
 was sleeping. Akim escorted them for about 
 half a verst; he was obliged to go to the mill. 
 On returning home he found his wife already 
 dressed, and no longer alone; with her was the 
 young fellow of the previous evening, Naiim. 
 They were standing by the table, near the win- 
 dow, and talking together. On catching sight 
 of Akim, Avdotya silently left the room, but 
 Xaum said that he had returned for his master's 
 mittens, which the latter had forgotten on the 
 bench, and he also left the room. 
 
 We shall now inform our readers of that which 
 they, no doubt, have already divined without our 
 aid : Avdotya had fallen passionately in love with 
 Naiim. How this could come to pass so quickly, 
 it is difficult to explain ; it is all the more difficult, 
 in that, up to that time, she had behaved in an 
 irreproachable manner, notwithstanding numer- 
 ous opportunities and temptations to betray lier 
 
 ^ It is customary to have a holy picture, with a shrine-lamp filled 
 with olive-oil burning before it, in bedrooms.— Translator. 
 
 278
 
 THE INN 
 
 marital vows. Later on, wlicn her relations witli 
 Naum became piiblie, many i)ersons in the coun- 
 tryside declared that on tliat very first evening 
 he had put some magic herb into her tea (peo- 
 ple with us still believe firmly in the etheacy of 
 this method) , and that this was very readily to be 
 discerned in Avdotya, who, they said, very soon 
 thereafter began to grow thin and bored. 
 
 However that may be, at all events Naiim be- 
 gan to be frequently seen at Akim's inn. First, 
 he journeyed past with that same merchant, but 
 three months later he made his appearance alone, 
 with his own wares; then a rumour became cur- 
 rent that he had taken up his residence in one 
 of the near-by towns of the county, and from that 
 time forth not a week passed that his stout, 
 painted cart, drawn by a pair of plump horses 
 which he drove himself, did not make its appear- 
 ance on the highway. 
 
 There was no great friendship between him and 
 Akim, but no hostility between them was appar- 
 ent; Akim paid no great attention to him, and 
 knew nothing about him, except that he was an 
 intelligent young fellow, who had started out 
 boldly. He did not suspect Avdotya's real feel- 
 ings, and continued to trust her as before. 
 
 Thus passed two years more. 
 
 Then, one summer day, before dinner, about 
 one o'clock, Lizaveta Prokhorovna, who ])recisely 
 during the course of those two years had some- 
 
 279
 
 THE IXN 
 
 how suddenly grown wrinkled and sallow, de- 
 spite all sorts of massage, rouge, and powder, — 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna, with her lap-dog and her 
 folding parasol, strolled forth for a walk in her 
 neat little German park. Lightly rustling her 
 starched gown, she was walking with minc- 
 ing steps along the sanded path, between two 
 rows of dahlias drawn up in military arraj^ 
 when suddenly she was overtaken b}^ our old 
 acquaintance, Kirillovna, who respectfully an- 
 nounced that a certain merchant from B*** de- 
 sired to see her on a very important matter. 
 Kirillovna, as of yore, enjoyed the mistress's 
 favour (in reality, she managed the estate of 
 ^Madame Kuntze), and some time previously had 
 received permission to wear a white mob-cap, 
 which imparted still more harshness to the thin 
 features of her swarthy face. 
 
 " A merchant? " — inquired the lady. " What 
 does he want? " 
 
 " I don't know, ma'am, what he wants," — re- 
 plied Kirillovna in a wheedling voice; — "but, 
 apparently, he wishes to purchase something 
 from vou, ma'am." 
 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna returned to the draw- 
 ing-room, seated herself in her customary place, 
 an arm-chair with a canopy, over which ivy me- 
 andered prettily, and ordered the merchant from 
 B*** to be summoned. 
 
 Xaum entered, made his bow, and halted at 
 the door. 
 
 280
 
 THE IXN 
 
 " I have heard that you wish to buy soniethinp;^ 
 from me,"— began Lizaveta Prokliorovna, and 
 thought to herself the while:— " What a hand- 
 some man this merchant is! " 
 
 " Exactly so, ma'am." 
 
 " And precisely what is it? " 
 
 " AVill you not deign to sell your inn? " 
 
 "What inn?" 
 
 " Why, the one which stands on the highway, 
 not far from here." 
 
 " But that inn does not belong to me. That is 
 Akim s mn. 
 
 " Why is n't it yours? It stands on your land, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " Assuming that the land is mine .... bought 
 in my name; still the inn is his." 
 
 " Just so, ma'am. So then, won't you sell it 
 to us, ma'am? " 
 
 " I am to sell it? " 
 
 " Just so, ma'am. And we would pay a good 
 price for it." 
 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna maintained silence for 
 a while. 
 
 "Really, this is strange," — slie began again; 
 "what are you saying? But how much would you 
 give?" — she added. — " That is to say, I am not 
 asking for myself, but for Akim.." 
 
 " Why, with all the buildings and, ma'am, de- 
 pendencies, ma'am . . . well . . . and, of course, 
 with the land attached to the inn, we would gi^'e 
 two thousand rubles, ma'am." 
 
 281
 
 THE IXX 
 
 "Two thousand rubles! That 's very little," 
 — replied Lizaveta Prokhorovna. 
 
 " That 's the proper price, ma'am." 
 
 *' But, have you talked it over with Aki'm? " 
 
 " Why should we talk with him, ma'am? Tlie 
 inn is yours, so we have thought best to discuss 
 it with you, ma'am." 
 
 " But I have already told you .... really, 
 this is astonishing! How is it that you do not 
 understand me? " 
 
 " Why don't we understand, ma'am? We 
 do." 
 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna looked at Naum, Naum 
 looked at Lizaveta Prokhorovna. 
 
 " How is it to be, then, ma'am? " — he began: 
 — " w^hat proposal have you to make on your side, 
 that is to say, ma'am? " 
 
 " On my side . . . ." Lizaveta Prokhorovna 
 fidgeted about in her easy-chair. — " In the first 
 place, I tell you that two thousand is not enough, 
 and in the second place . . . ." 
 
 " We '11 add a hundred, if you like." 
 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna rose. 
 
 " I see that you are talking at cross-purposes, 
 and I have already told j^ou that I cannot and 
 will not sell that inn. I cannot .... that is to 
 say, I will not." 
 
 Naum smiled and made no reply for a while. 
 
 " Well, as you like, ma'am . . . ." he remarked, 
 with a slight shrug of the shoulders; — " I will 
 
 282
 
 THE INN 
 
 bid you good-day, ma'am."— And he made his 
 bow, and grasped the door-liandle. 
 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna turned toward him. 
 
 " However, . . . . " she said, with harely ])er- 
 ceptible hesitation, — " you need not go just j-et." 
 — She rang the bell; KiriUovna made her ai)pear- 
 ance from the boudoir. 
 
 " Kirillovna, order the servants to give the mer- 
 chant tea. — I will see you later on,"— she added, 
 with a slight inclination of her head. 
 
 Naum bowed again, and left the room in com- 
 pany with Kirillovna. 
 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna paced up and down the 
 room a couple of times, then rang the bell again. 
 This time a page entered. She ordered him to 
 summon Kirillovna. In a few moments Kiril- 
 lovna entered, with barely a squeak of her new 
 goat's-leather shoes. 
 
 " Didst thou hear,"— began Lizaveta Prokho- 
 rovna, with a constrained smile,— "what that 
 merchant is proposing to me? Such a queer man, 
 really ! " 
 
 " No, ma'am, I did n't hear. . . . What is it, 
 ma'am? " — And Kirillovna slightly narrowed her 
 little, black, Kalmyk eyes. 
 
 " He wants to buy Akim's inn from me." 
 
 " And what of that, ma'am? " 
 
 " Why, seest thou .... But how about 
 Akim? I have given it to Akim." 
 
 " And, good gracious, my lady, what is it you 
 
 283
 
 THE IXX 
 
 are pleased to say ? Is n't that inn yours? Aren't 
 we your property, pray? And everything we 
 have, — is n't that also the property of the mis- 
 tress? " 
 
 " ^lercy me, what 's that thou 'rt saying, Ki- 
 rillovna?" — Lizaveta Prokhorovna got out her 
 batiste handkerchief and nervously blew her nose. 
 — " Akim bought that inn out of his own money." 
 
 " Out of his own money? And where did he 
 get that money? — Was n't it through j^our kind- 
 ness? And, then, see how long he has enjoyed 
 the use of the land. . . . Surely, all this is through 
 your kindness. And do you think, madam, that 
 even so he will not have more money left ? Why, 
 he 's richer than you are, as God is my witness, 
 ma am ! 
 
 " All that is so, of course, but, nevertheless, I 
 cannot. . . . How am I to sell that inn? " 
 
 " But why not sell it, ma'am? " — went on Ki- 
 rillovna. — " Luckily, a purchaser has turned up. 
 Permit me to inquire, ma'am, how much does he 
 offer you? " 
 
 " Over two thousand rubles," — said Lizaveta 
 Prokhorovna, softl)^ 
 
 " He '11 give more, madam, if he offers two 
 thousand at the first word. And you can set- 
 tle with Akim afterward ; you can reduce his quit- 
 rent, I suppose.— He will still be grateful." 
 
 " Of course, his quit-rent must be reduced. 
 But no, Kirillovna; how can I sell? . . ." And 
 
 284
 
 THE INN 
 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna paced u]) and down tlie 
 room. . . . "No, it is inij)()ssil)le; it isn't right; 
 .... no ; please say no more to me about it . . . 
 or I shall get angry. . . ." 
 
 But in spite of the prohibition of the excited 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna, Kirillovna continued to 
 talk, and half an hour later she returned to 
 Naum, whom she had left in the butler's pantry 
 with the samovar. 
 
 " What have you to tell me, my most re- 
 spected?" — said Naiim, foppislih' turning his 
 empty cup u])side down on his saucer. 
 
 " This is what I have to tell you," — returned 
 Kirillovna: — " that you are to go to the mistress; 
 she bids you come." 
 
 " I obey, ma'am," — replied Naum, rising, and 
 followed Kirillovna to the drawing-room. 
 
 The door closed behind them. . . . AVIien, at 
 last, that door opened again and Naum backed 
 out of it bowing, the matter was already settled; 
 Akim's inn belonged to him; he had acquired it 
 for two thousand eight hundred rubles in bank- 
 bills.^ They had decided to complete the deed 
 of sale as promptly as possible, and not to an- 
 nounce the sale until that was accomplished; 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna had received one hundred 
 rubles as deposit, and two hundred rubles went to 
 Kirillovna as commission. 
 
 ^ The difference in value between paper and silver money was con- 
 siderable in those days, and the sort of currency is generally specified. 
 — Tkanslator. 
 
 285
 
 THE INN 
 
 " I have got it at a bargain," — thought Naum. 
 as he chmbed into his cart; " I 'm glad it turned 
 out well." 
 
 At that very time, when the bargain which we 
 have described was being effected at the manor- 
 house, Akim was sitting alone on the wall-bench 
 under the window, in his own room, and stroking 
 his beard with an air of displeasure. . . . We 
 have stated above that he did not suspect his 
 wife's fondness for Naum, although kind persons 
 had, more than once, hinted to him that it was 
 high time for him to listen to reason; of course, 
 he himself was sometimes able to observe that 
 his housewife, for some time past, had become 
 more restive; but then, all the world knows that 
 the female sex is vain and capricious. Even when 
 it really seemed to liim that something was wrong, 
 he merely waved it from him ; he did not wish, as 
 the saying is, to raise a row ; his good-nature had 
 not diminished ^viih the years, and, moreover, 
 indolence was making itself felt. But on that day 
 he was very much out of sorts; on the previous 
 evening he had unexpectedly overheard on the 
 street a conversation between his maid-servant 
 and another woman, one of his neighbours. . . . 
 
 The woman had asked his maid-servant why 
 she had not run in to see her on the evening of 
 the holiday. " I was expecting thee," she said. 
 
 " Why, I would have come," — replied the 
 maid-servant, — " but, shameful to say, I caught 
 
 286
 
 THE INN 
 
 the mistress at her ca])ers .... bad luck to 
 her!" 
 
 " Thou didst catch her . . . ." repeated the 
 peasant-wife in a pecuharly-ch-awHng tone, prop- 
 ping her cheek on her hand. — " And where didst 
 thou catcli lier, my motlier? " 
 
 " Why, behind the hemp-patches— the priest's 
 hemp-patches. The mistress, seest thou, had gone 
 out to the hemp-patches to meet that fellow of 
 hers, tliat Naum, and I could n't see in the dark, 
 whether because of the moonlight, or what not, 
 the Lord knows, and so I ran right against them." 
 
 " Thou didst run against them," — re])eated 
 the peasant-wife again. — " Well, and what was 
 she doing, my mother? Was she standing with 
 him?" 
 
 " She was standing, right enougli. He was 
 standing and she was standing. She cauglit 
 sight of me, and says she: ' ^Vllitller art tliou 
 running to? Take thyself off home.' So I went." 
 
 " Thou wentest."— The peasant-wife was si- 
 lent for a space. — " Well, good-bye, Fetiniu- 
 shka," — she said, and went her way. 
 
 This conversation had produced an un})leasant 
 effect on Akim. His love for Avdotya had al- 
 ready grown cold, but, nevertheless, the maid- 
 servant's words dis])leased him. And she had 
 told the truth : as a matter of fact, Avdotya had 
 gone out that evening to meet Naiim, who had 
 \vaited for her in the dense shadow which fell 
 
 287
 
 THE IXX 
 
 upon the road from the tall and motionless liemp- 
 patch. The dew had drenched its every stalk 
 from top to bottom; the scent, powerful to 
 the point of oppressiveness, lay all around. The 
 moon had only just risen, huge and crimson, in 
 the dim and the blackish mist. Naiim liad heard 
 Avdotya's hasty footsteps from afar, and had ad- 
 vanced to meet her. She reached him all pale 
 with running ; the moon shone directly in her face. 
 
 " Well, how now; hast thou brought it? "—he 
 asked her. 
 
 " Yes, I have," — she replied in an irresolute 
 tone: — "but, Naiim Ivanovitch, what . . . ." 
 
 " Give it here, if thou hast brought it," — he 
 interrupted her, stretching out his hand. 
 
 She drew from beneath her kerchief on her 
 neck some sort of packet. Xaum instantly 
 grasped it and thrust it into his breast. 
 
 " Naum Ivanitch," — enunciated Avdotya, 
 slowly, and without taking her eyes from him. 
 ..." Okh, Xaum Ivanitch, I am ruining my 
 soul for thee. . . ." 
 
 At that moment the maid-servant had come 
 upon them. 
 
 So, then, Akim was sitting on the wall-bench 
 and stroking his beard with his dissatisfaction. 
 Avdotya kept entering the house and leaving it. 
 He merely followed her with his ej^es. At last 
 she entered yet again, and taking a warm wadded 
 jacket from the little room, she was already cross- 
 
 288
 
 THE INN 
 
 ing tlie threshold; hut he could endure it no 
 longer, and hegan to talk, as though to himself: 
 
 " I wonder," — he began, — " what makes these 
 women-folks always so fidgety J* That they 
 should sit still in one spot is something that can't 
 be demanded of them. That 's no affair of theirs. 
 But what they do love is to be running off some- 
 where or other, morning or evening. — Yes." 
 
 Avdotya heard her husband's speech out to the 
 end without changing her attitude; only, at the 
 word " evening," she moved her head a mere tri- 
 fle, and seemed to become thoughtful. 
 
 " Well, Semyonitch," — she said at last, with 
 irritation, — " 't is well known that when thou be- 
 ginnest to talk, why. . . ." 
 
 She waved her hand and departed, slamming 
 the door behind her. Avdotya did not, in fact, 
 hold Akim's eloquence in high esteem, and it 
 sometimes happened, when he undertook of an 
 evening to argue with the travellers, or began to 
 tell stories, she would yawn quietly or walk out 
 of the room. Akim stared at the closed door. . . . 
 " When thou beginnest to talk," he re])eated in 
 an undertone . . . . " that 's exactly it, that I 
 have talked very little with thee. . . . And who 
 art thou? ]My equal, and, moreover . . . ." And 
 he rose, meditated, and dealt himself a blow on 
 the nape of his neck with his clenched fist. . . . 
 
 A few days passed after this day in a de- 
 cidedly queer manner. Akim kept on staring at 
 
 280
 
 THE INX 
 
 his wife, as though he were preparing to say 
 something to her; and she, on her side, darted 
 suspicious glances at him ; moreover, both of them 
 maintained a constrained silence; this silence, 
 however, was generally broken by some sna]^pish 
 remark from Akim about some neglect in the 
 housekeeping, or on the subject of women in 
 general; Avdotya, for the most part, did not an- 
 swer him with a single word. But, despite all 
 Akim's good-natured weakness, matters would 
 infallibly have come to a decisive explanation be- 
 tween him and Avdotya had it not been for the 
 fact that, at last, an incident occurred, after which 
 all explanations would have been superfluous. 
 
 Namely, one morning, Akim and his wife were 
 just preparing to take a light meal after the 
 noon hour (there was not a single traveller in the 
 inn, after the summer labours), when suddenly 
 a small cart rumbled energetically along the 
 road, and drew up at the porch. Akim glanced 
 through the small window, frowned, and dropped 
 his eyes; from the cart, without haste, Naum 
 alighted. Avdotya did not see him, but when 
 his voice resounded in the anteroom, the spoon 
 trembled weakly in her hand. He ordered 
 the hired man to put his horse in the yard. At 
 last the door flew wide open, and he entered 
 the room. 
 
 " ^lorning," — he said, and dofl'ed his cap. 
 
 " ^lorning," — repeated Akim through his 
 teeth. — " \Vhence has God brought thee? " 
 
 200
 
 THE INN 
 
 *' From the neighbourhood," — returned the 
 other, seating himself on tlie wall-beneh. — " I 
 come from the hidy-mistress." 
 
 " From the mistress," — said Akim, still not 
 rising from his seat. — " On business, pray? " 
 
 " Yes, on business. Avdotya Arefyevna, our 
 respects to you." 
 
 " Good morning, Naum," — she replied. 
 
 All remained silent for a space. 
 
 " What have you there— some sort of porridge, 
 I suppose?" — began Naum. . . . 
 
 " Yes, porridge," — retorted Akim, and sud- 
 denly paled: — " but it is n't for thee." 
 
 Naum darted a glance of astonishment at 
 Akim. 
 
 "Why is n't it forme?" 
 
 "Why, just because it is n't for thee." — 
 Akim's eyes began to flash, and he smote the 
 table M-ith his fist. — " There is nothing in my 
 house for thee, dost hear me? " 
 
 " What ails thee, Semyonitch, what ails thee? 
 What 's the matter with thee? " 
 
 " There 's nothing the matter with me, but I 'm 
 tired of thee, Naum Ivanitch, that 's what." — The 
 old man rose to his feet, trembling all over. — 
 " Thou hast taken to haunting my house alto- 
 gether too much, that 's what." 
 
 Naum also rose to his feet. 
 
 " Thou hast gone crazy, brother, I do believe," 
 — he said with a smile. — " Avdotya Arefyevna, 
 what 's the matter with him? "... 
 
 291
 
 THE INN 
 
 " I tell thee," — yelled Akim, in a quivering 
 voice, — " get out. Dost hear me? .... What hast 
 thou to do with Avdotya Arefyevna? .... Be- 
 gone, I tell thee! Dost hear me? " 
 
 "What 's that thou art saying to me?" — in- 
 quired Naum, significantly. 
 
 " Take thyself away from here ; that 's what 
 I 'm saying to thee. There is God, and there is 
 the threshold .... dost understand? or 't will 
 be the worse for thee! " 
 
 Naum strode forward. 
 
 " Good heavens, don't fight, m}" dear little 
 doves," — stammered Avdotya, who until then 
 had remained sitting motionless at the table. . . . 
 
 Naum cast a glance at her. 
 
 " Don't worry, iVvdotya Arefyevna, ^hy 
 should we fight! Ek-sta, brother,"— he con- 
 tinued, addressing Akim: — "thou hast deafened 
 me with thy yells. Really. What an inso- 
 lent fellow thou art! Did any one ever hear of 
 such a thing as expelling a man from another 
 man's house,"— added Naiim, with deliberate 
 enunciation: — " and the master of the house, into 
 the bargain? " 
 
 " What dost thou mean by another man's 
 house? "—muttered Akim.—" What master of 
 the house? " 
 
 " Why, me, for example." 
 
 And Naiim screwed up his eyes, and displayed 
 his white teeth m a grin. 
 
 292
 
 
 THE INN 
 
 " Thee, forsootli? Ain't I the master of the 
 house? " 
 
 " What a stupid fellow thou art, my good 
 fellow. — I am the master of the house, I tell 
 thee." 
 
 Akim opened his eyes to their widest. 
 What nonsense is that thou art pratin<^, as 
 though thou hadst eaten mad-wort? " — he said 
 at last. — " How the devil dost thou come to be 
 the master? " 
 
 " Well, what 's the use of talking to thee," — 
 shouted Xaum, im])atiently. — " Dost see this 
 document," — he added, jerking out of his pocket 
 a sheet of stamped paper folded in four: — " dost 
 see it? This is a deed of sale, understand, a deed 
 of sale for thy land, and for the inn; I have 
 bought tliem from the landed ])roprietress, Liza- 
 veta Prokhorovna. We signed the deed of sale 
 yesterday, in B*** — consequently, I am the mas- 
 ter here, not thou, (xather up thy duds this very 
 day," — he added, putting the paper back in his 
 pocket ; — "and let there be not a sign of thee here 
 by to-morrow ; hearest thou ? " 
 
 Akim stood as though he had been struck by 
 lightning. 
 
 " Brigand! " — he moaned at last; — " the brig- 
 and. . . ITcy, Fedka, Mitka, wife, wife, seize 
 him, seize him— hold him!" 
 
 He had completely lost his wits. 
 
 *' Look out, look out." — ejaculated Nai'ini, 
 
 •J 0.3
 
 THE INN 
 
 menacingly:—" look out, old man, don't play the 
 fool. . . ." 
 
 " But beat him, beat him, wife! " — Akim kept 
 repeating in a tearful voice, vainly and impo- 
 tently trying to leave his place. — " The soul- 
 ruiner, the brigand. . . She was n't enough for 
 thee . . . thou wantest to take my house awaj" 
 from me also, and everything. . . . But no, sta^'' 
 .... that cannot be. ... I will go myself. I 
 will tell her myself . . . how .... but why 
 sell? . . . Stop .... stop. . . ." 
 
 And he rushed hatless into the street. 
 
 " Whither art thou running, Akim Ivanitch, 
 whither art thou iiinning, dear little father? " — 
 cried the maid-servant Fetinya, who colHded with 
 him in the doorway. 
 
 "To the mistress! let me go! To the mis- 
 tress. ..." roared Akim, and catching sight of 
 Naiim's cart, which the servants had not yet had 
 time to put in the stable-yard, he sprang into it, 
 seized the reins, and lashing the horse with all 
 his might, he set off at a gallop to the lady's 
 manor-house. 
 
 " Dear little mother, Lizaveta Prokhorovna," 
 — he kept repeating to himself all the way, — 
 " why such unkindness? I have shown zeal, me- 
 thinks! " 
 
 And, in the meantime, he kept on beating the 
 horse. Those who met him drew aside and gazed 
 long after him. 
 
 294.
 
 THE INN 
 
 In a quarter of an hour Akini had reached 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna's manor, had dashed u]> 
 to the poreli, had leaped from the cart, and hurst 
 straiglit into tlie anteroom. 
 
 " W'liat dost thou want? " — nmttered the star- 
 tled footman, who was sweetly dozing on the 
 locker. 
 
 " The mistress— I must see the mistress," vocif- 
 erated Akim loudly. 
 
 The lackey was astounded. 
 
 " Has anything happened? "—he hegan. 
 
 " Nothing has happened, but I must see the 
 mistress." 
 
 "What, what?"— said the lackey, more and 
 more astounded, straightening himself up. 
 
 Akim recovered himself. . . It was as though 
 he had been drenched with cold water. 
 
 " Announce to the mistress, Piotr Evgrafitch," 
 — he said, with a low obeisance, — " that Akim 
 wishes to see her. . . ." 
 
 " Good, ... I will go .... I will an- 
 nounce thee .... but evidently thou art 
 drunk. Wait," — grmnbled the lackey, and with- 
 drew. 
 
 Akim dropped his eyes and became confused, 
 as it were. . . . His boldness had swiftly aban- 
 doned him from the very moment he had entered 
 the anteroom. 
 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna was also disconcerted 
 when Akim's arrival was announced to her. She 
 
 295
 
 THE INN 
 
 immediately gave orders that Kirillovna should 
 be called to her in her boudoir. 
 
 " I cannot receive him," — she said hurriedl\% 
 as soon as the latter made her appearance; — " I 
 cannot possibly do it. What can I say to him? 
 Did n't I tell thee that he would be sure to come 
 and would complain? " — she added, with vexa- 
 tion and agitation; — " I said so. . . ." 
 
 "Why should vou receive him, ma'am?" — 
 calmly replied Kirillovna; — "that is not neces- 
 sary, ma'am. Why should you disturb yourself, 
 pray f 
 
 "But what am I to do?" 
 
 " If you will permit me, I will talk with him." 
 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna raised her head. 
 
 " Pray, do me the favour, Kirillovna. Do talk 
 with him. Do thou tell him .... there — well, 
 that I found it necessary . . . and, moreover, 
 that I will make it up to him .... well, there 
 now, thou knowest what to say. Pray, do, Kiril- 
 lovna." 
 
 " Please do not fret, madam," — returned Ki- 
 rillovna, and withdrew, with squeaking shoes. 
 
 A quarter of an hour had not elapsed when 
 their squeaking became audible again, and Ki- 
 rillovna entered the boudoir with the same com- 
 posed expression on her face, with the same 
 crafty intelligence in her eyes. 
 
 " Well," — inquired her mistress, — " how about 
 Akim? " 
 
 296
 
 THE TXN 
 
 " 'T is all right, nui'ani. lie says, ma'am, that 
 everytliin*^' is in your ])()wer, he suhmits himself 
 wholly to the will of your (xraciousness, and if 
 only you keep well and ])r()sj)erous, he will for- 
 ever be satisfied with his lot." 
 
 " And he made no complaint? " 
 
 " None whatever, ma'am. What was there 
 for him to com])lain about? " 
 
 " But why (lid he come, then? " — said Lizaveta 
 Prokhorovna, not without some sur])rise. 
 
 " Why, he came to ask, ma'am, until lie receives 
 compensation, whether you will not be so gracious 
 as to remit his quit-rent for the coming 3"ear, that 
 is to saj^ . . . ." 
 
 " Of course I will! I will remit it," — put 
 in Lizaveta Prokhorovna, with vivacity; — "of 
 course. And, tell him, in general terms, that I 
 will reward him. AVell, 1 thank thee, Kirillovna. 
 And he is a good peasant, I see. Stay," — she 
 added:— " here, give him this from me." — And 
 she took out of her work-table a three-ruble bill. — 
 " Here, take this and give it to him." 
 
 " I obey, ma'am," — replied Kirillovna, and 
 coolly returning to her own room, she coolly 
 locked up the bank-bill in an iron-bound casket 
 which stood by the head of her bed; she kept in 
 it all her ready money, and the amount was not 
 small 
 
 Kirillovna by her rej)ort had soothed her lady, 
 but the conversation between her and Akim had, 
 
 207
 
 THE INN 
 
 in reality, not been precisely as she represented 
 it, but to wit: she had ordered him to be sum- 
 moned to her in the maids' hall. At first he re- 
 fused to go to her, declaring that he did not wish 
 to see Kirillovna, but Lizaveta Prokhorovna her- 
 self; nevertheless, at last, he submitted, and 
 wended his way through the back door to Kiril- 
 lovna. He found her alone. On entering the 
 room he came to a halt at once, leaned against the 
 wall near the door, and made an effort to speak 
 .... and could not. 
 
 Kirillovna stared intently at him. 
 
 " Do you wish to see the mistress, Akim Se- 
 myonitch? " — she began. 
 
 He merely nodded his head. 
 
 " That is impossible, Akim Semyonitch. And 
 what is the use? What is done can't be undone, 
 and you will only worry her. She cannot receive 
 you now, Akim Semyonitch." 
 
 " She cannot," — he repeated, and paused for 
 a space. — " Then how is it to be," — he said at 
 last; — " that means that I must lose my house? " 
 
 " Hearken, Akim Semyonitch. I know that 
 vou have always been a reasonable man. This is 
 the mistress's will. And it cannot be changed. 
 You cannot alter it. There is nothing for j^ou 
 and me to discuss, for it will lead to no result. 
 Is n't that so?" 
 
 Akim put his hands behind his back. 
 But you had better consider," — went on Ki- 
 
 298 
 
 ((
 
 THE INN 
 
 riUovna, — " whetlier you ou^ht not to ask the 
 mistress to remit your quit-rent, luui n't you? . . ." 
 
 " That means that I must lose the house," — 
 repeated Akim, in the same tone as before. 
 
 " Akim Semyonitch, I 've told you already 
 't is imjjossible to ehange that. You know that 
 yourself even better than I do." 
 
 " Yes. But tell me, at any rate, how much 
 my inn sold for? " 
 
 " I don't know that, Akim Semyonitch ; I can't 
 tell you. . . . But why do you stand there? " — 
 she added. — " Sit down. . . ." 
 
 " I '11 stand as I am, ma'am. I 'm a peasant. 
 I thank you humbly." 
 
 " Why do you say that you are a peasant, 
 Akim Semyonitch? You are the same as a mer- 
 cliant; you cannot be compared even with the 
 house-serfs; why do you say that? Don't decry 
 3'ourself without cause. Won't you have some 
 tea?" 
 
 " No, thanks; I don't require it. And so my 
 dear little house has become your property," — 
 he added, quitting the wall. — " Thanks for that, 
 also. I ^vi\\ bid you good day, my little madam." 
 
 Thereupon he wheeled round, and left the 
 room. Kirillovna smoothed down her aj)ron, and 
 betook herself to her mistress. 
 
 " So it appears that I actually have become a 
 merchant," — said Akim to himself, as he paused 
 in thought before the gate. — " A fine merchant! " 
 
 299
 
 THE IXX 
 
 He waved his hand and laughed a bitter laugh. 
 — " Well, I might as well go home! " 
 
 And utterly oblivious of Naum's horse, which 
 he had driven tliither, he trudged along the road 
 to the inn. Before he had covered the first verst, 
 he heard the rattle of a cart alongside of him. 
 
 " Akim, Akim Semvonitch! " — some one called 
 to him. 
 
 He raised his eyes and beheld his acquaintance, 
 the chanter of the parish church, Efrem, nick- 
 named " The ^lole," a small, round-shouldered 
 man, with a sharp-pointed little nose, and pur- 
 blind eves. He w^as sitting in a rickety little cart 
 on a whisp of straw, with his breast leaning on 
 the driver's seat. 
 
 " Art thou on thy way home, pray? " — he asked 
 Akim. 
 
 Akim halted. 
 1 es. 
 
 "I '11 drive you there, — shall I? " 
 
 " All right, do." 
 
 Efrem moved aside, and Akim clambered into 
 the cart. Efrem, who was jolly with drink, it 
 appeared, set to lashing his miserable little nag 
 with the ends of his rope reins ; the horse advanced 
 at a weary trot, incessantly twitching her un- 
 bridled muzzle. 
 
 They drove about a verst, without saying one 
 word to each other. Akim sat with bowed head, 
 
 300
 
 THE INN 
 
 and Kfrcm merely niuniblcd sonietliin^ to him- 
 self, now stimulaling llie horse to greater speed, 
 now reining it in. 
 
 "Whitlier hast thon been without a hat, Semyo- 
 niteh?" — he suddenly asked Akim, and, witliout 
 waiting for a reply, he went on in an undertone: 
 — " thou hast left it in a niee little dram-shop, 
 that 's what. Thou 'rt a ti])pler; I know thee, 
 and I love thee because thou art a tippler — 't was 
 high time, long ago, to place thee under ecclesi- 
 astical censure, God is my witness; because t is 
 a bad business. . . . Hurrah!" — he shouted sud- 
 denly, at the top of his lungs,— " hurrah! hur- 
 rah! " 
 
 "Halt! halt!" — rang out a woman's voice 
 close at hand. — " Halt! " 
 
 Akim glanced round. Across the fields, in the 
 direction of the cart, a woman was running, so 
 pale and dishevelled that he did not recognise her 
 at first. 
 
 "Halt, halt!" — she moaned again, panting 
 and waving her arms. 
 
 Akim shuddered: it was his wife. 
 
 He seized the reins. 
 
 "And why should we halt? " — muttered 
 Efrem; — "why should we halt for a female? 
 Get u-uup! " 
 
 But Akim jerked the horse abruptly on its 
 haunches. 
 
 301
 
 THE IXX 
 
 At that moment Avdot^^a reached the road, 
 and fairly tumbled headlong, face downward, in 
 the dust. 
 
 " Dear little father, Akim Semyonitch," — she 
 shrieked; — "he has actually turned me out of 
 doors! " 
 
 Akim gazed at her, and did not move, but 
 merely drew the reins still more taut. 
 
 " Hurrah! " — cried Efrem again. 
 
 "And so he has turned thee out?" — said 
 A^kim. 
 
 " He has, dear little father, my dear little 
 dove," replied Avdotya, sobbing. — " He has 
 turned me out, dear little father. ' The house is 
 mine now,' says he; ' so get out,' says he." 
 
 " Capital, that 's just fine . . . capital! "—re- 
 marked Efrem. 
 
 " And thou wert counting on remaining, I 
 suppose? "—said Akim, bitterly, as he continued 
 to sit in the cart. 
 
 "Remain, indeed! Yes, dear little father," — 
 put in Avdotya, who had raised herself on her 
 knees, and again beat her brow against the 
 ground; — " for thou dost not know, seest thou, 
 I. . . . Kill me, Akim Semyonitch, kill me here, 
 on the spot. . . ." 
 
 "Why should I beat thee, Arefyevna! " — re- 
 plied Akim, dejectedly: — " thou hast vanquished 
 thyself! what more is there to say? " 
 
 " But what wilt thou think. Akim Semyo- 
 
 302
 
 THE INN 
 
 nitcli. . . . Why, the money .... was thy 
 money. ... It is gone, thy money. . . For I took 
 it, accursed that I am, I got it from tlie celhir. 
 .... I gave it all to that man, that villain, that 
 Naum, accursed creature that I am! . . . And 
 why didst thou tell me where thou hadst hidden 
 thy money, wretched being that I am! .... For 
 he bought the inn with tJiy money .... the vil- 
 lain. . . ." 
 
 Sobs drowned her voice. 
 
 Akim clutched his head with both hands. 
 
 " What! " — he screamed at last; — " and so all 
 the money too . . . the money, and the inn, thou 
 hast. . . . Ah! thou hast got it from the cellar 
 .... from the cellar. . . . Yes, I will kill thee, 
 thou brood of vipers! . . ." 
 
 And he leaped from the cart. . . . 
 
 " Semyonitch, Semyonitch, don't beat her, 
 don't fight," — stammered Efrem, whose intoxi- 
 cation began to dissipate at such an unexpected 
 event. 
 
 *' Yes, dear little father, kill me, kill me, dear 
 little father, kill me, the vile creature: beat away, 
 don't heed him! "—shrieked Avdotya, as she 
 writhed convulsively at Akim's feet. 
 
 He stood awhile and stared at her, then re- 
 treated a few paces, and sat down on the grass, 
 by the roadside. 
 
 A brief silence ensued. Avdotya turned her 
 head in his direction. 
 
 303
 
 THE IXX 
 
 " Semyonitch, hey, Semyonitch! "—began 
 Efrem, half -rising in the cart; — " have done with 
 that — that will do . . . for thou canst not re- 
 pair the calamity. Phew, what an affair! " — he 
 continued, as though to himself; — " what a 
 damned bad woman. . . Do thou go to him,"— 
 he added, bending over the cart -rail toward Av- 
 dotya; — "canst not see that he has gone crazy? " 
 
 Avdotya rose, approached Akim and again fell 
 at his feet. 
 
 " Dear little father," — she began in a faint 
 voice. 
 
 Akim rose and went back to the cart. She 
 clutched the skirt of his kaftan. 
 
 " G^t away!"— he shouted fiercely, repulsing 
 her. 
 
 " Whither art thou going? " — Efrem asked 
 him, perceiving that he was taking his seat again 
 beside him. 
 
 " Whv, thou didst offer to drive me to the inn," 
 — said Akim: — " so drive me to thy house. . . . 
 I have none any more, seest thou. They have 
 bought it from me, you know." 
 
 " Well, all right, let 's go to my house. And 
 how about her? " 
 
 Akim made no answer. 
 
 "And me, me," — chimed in Avdotya, weeping; 
 — " to whose care dost thou leave me .... 
 whither am I to go? " 
 
 " Go to him," — returned Akim, without turn- 
 
 304
 
 THE INN 
 
 ing round: — "to the man to whom thou d-idst 
 carry my money. . . Drive on, Efrem! " 
 
 Efrem whipped up the horse, tlie cart rolled 
 off, and xVvdotya set up a shrill scream. . . . 
 
 Efrem lived a verst from Akim's inn, in a tiny 
 cot in the priest's glebe, disposed around the soli- 
 tary five-domed church, which had recently been 
 erected by the heirs of a wealthy merchant, in 
 conformity with his testamentary dis]K)sitions. 
 Efrem did not s})eak to Akim all the way, and 
 only shook his head from time to time, uttering 
 words of the following nature: " Akh, thou!" 
 and, " Ekh, thou! " Akim sat motionless, slightly 
 turned away from Efrem. At last they arrived. 
 Efrem sprang out first from the cart. A little 
 girl of six years in a little chemise girt low ran 
 out to meet him, and screamed: 
 
 "Daddy! daddy!" 
 
 "And where is thy mother? " — Efrem asked 
 her. 
 
 " She 's asleep in the kennel." 
 
 " Well, let her sleep. Akim Semyonitch, won't 
 you please come into the house? " 
 
 (It must be observed that Efrem addressed 
 him as " thou " only when he was intoxicated. 
 Far more important persons than he addressed 
 Akim as " you.") 
 
 Akim entered the chanter's cottage. 
 
 " Pray, come hither to the bench," — said 
 Efrem. — " Run along, you little rogues,"— he 
 
 305
 
 THE IXX 
 
 sliouted at three other brats who, along with two 
 emaciated cats bespattered with ashes, suddenly 
 made their ajjpearance from various corners of 
 the room. — " Run awav! Scat! Here, Akim 
 Semyonitch, come here," — he went on, as he 
 seated his guest: — " and would n't you like some- 
 thing? " 
 
 " What shall I sav to thee, Efrem? " — articu- 
 lated Akim at last. — " Could n't I have some 
 liquor? " 
 
 Efrem gave a start. 
 
 " Liquor? Certainly. I have none in the house, 
 —'liquor, that is to say, — but here, I '11 run at once 
 to Father Feodor. He always has some on hand. 
 .... I '11 be back in a jiiFy. • . ." 
 
 And he snatched up his large-eared cap. 
 
 " And bring as much as possible ; I '11 pay for 
 it," — shouted Akim after him. — " I still have 
 money enough for that." 
 
 " In a jifFy," . . . repeated Efrem once 
 more, as he disappeared through the door. He 
 really did return very speedily with two quart 
 bottles under his arm, one of which was already 
 uncorked, placed them on the table, got out two 
 small green glasses, the heel of a loaf, and salt. 
 
 " That 's what I love," — he kept repeating, as 
 he seated himself opposite Akim. — " What 's the 
 use of grieving? " — he filled the glasses for both 
 .... and set to babbling. . . . Avdotya's beha- 
 viour had stunned him. — " 'T is an astonishing 
 
 306
 
 THE INN 
 
 affair, truly," — sai<l he: — " how did it come 
 about:' He must luive bewitclicd her to himself 
 by nia<4ie .... hey? That 's what it means, 
 that a woman sliould be strictly watched! She 
 ought to have had a tight baud ke])t over her. 
 And yet, it would n't be a bad thing for you to 
 go home; for you must have a lot of property left 
 there, I think." — And to many more speeches of 
 the same sort did Kfrem give utterance; when he 
 was drinking he did not like to hold his tongue. 
 An hour later, this is wluit took place in 
 Efrem's house. Akim, who had not replied by a 
 single word, during the entire course of tlie drink- 
 ing-bout, to the interrogations and comments of 
 his loquacious host, and had mereh'- drained glass 
 after glass, was fast asleep on the oven, all red 
 in the face — in a heavy, anguished slumber; tlie 
 youngsters were wondering at him, while Efrem 
 . . . . Alas! Efrem was asleep also, but only in 
 a very cramped and cold lumber-room, in which 
 he had been locked up by his wife, a woman of 
 extremely masculine and robusi: build. He 
 had gone to her in the stable, and had begun to 
 threaten her, if she repeated something or other, 
 but so incoherently and unintelligibly did he ex- 
 press himself that she instantly divined what the 
 trouble was, grasped him by the collar, and led 
 him to the proper place. However, he slept very 
 well and even comfortably in the lumber-room. 
 Habit! 
 
 307
 
 THE IXX 
 
 Kirillo\Tia had not reported her conversation 
 with Aki'm very accurately to Lizaveta Prokho- 
 rovna .... and the same maj- be said concern- 
 ing Avdotya. Naiim had not turned her out of 
 the house, although she had told Akini that he 
 had done so; he had not the right to expel her. 
 . . . He was bound to give the former proprie- 
 tors time to move out. Explanations of quite 
 another sort had taken place between him and 
 Avdotya. When Akim had rushed into the street, 
 shouting that he would go to the mistress, Avdo- 
 tya had turned to Naum, had stared at him with 
 all her eyes, and clasped her hands. 
 
 *' O Lord!" — she began; — " Naiim Ivanitch, 
 what is the meaning of this? Have you bought 
 our inn? " 
 
 " What if I have, ma'am? " — he retorted. — 
 " I have bought it, ma'am." 
 
 Avdotya said nothing for a while, then sud- 
 denly took fright. 
 
 " So that is what you wanted the money for? " 
 
 " Precisely as you are pleased to put it, ma'am. 
 Ehe, I do believe that measly little husband of 
 yours has driven off with my horse," — he added, 
 as the rumble of wheels reached his ear. — " What 
 a fine dashing fellow he is! " 
 
 "Why, but this is robbery, nothing else!" — 
 shrieked Avdotya.—" For the money is ours, my 
 husband's, and the inn is ours . . . ." 
 
 " No, ma'am, Avdotya Arefyevna," — Naiim 
 
 308
 
 THE IXX 
 
 interrupted her: — " the inn was n't yours, and 
 wluit 's the use of saying so; the inn stood on the 
 lady -mistress's land, so it belonged to her also; 
 and the money really was yours, only you were 
 so kind, 1 may j)ul it, as to contribute it to me, 
 ma'am; and I shall remain grateful to you, and 
 shall eyen, if the occasion arises, return it to 
 you, — if I should see my way to it; only, it is n't 
 right that I should strip myself bare. Just judge 
 for yourself if that is n't so." 
 
 Naum said all this very calmly, and eyen with 
 a slight smile. 
 
 " Good heayensi " — screamed Aydotya;— 
 " but what 's the meaning of this? What is it? 
 But how am I to show myself in my husband's 
 sight after this? Thou yillain! " — she added, 
 gazing with hatred at Naiim's young, fresh face ; 
 — " haye n't I ruined my soul for thee, have n't 
 I become a thief for thy sake, hast not thou turned 
 us out of doors, thou abominable yillain ? ! After 
 this there is nothing left for me but to put a noose 
 about my neck, yillain, deceiyer, thou destroyer 
 of me. . . ." 
 
 And she wept in torrents. . . . 
 
 " Pray, don't worry, Aydotya xVrefyeyna," — 
 said Naiim; — " I '11 tell you one thing; a fellow 
 must look out for number one; moreover, that's 
 what the pike is in the sea for, Avdotya Are- 
 fyevna — to keep the carp from getting drowsy." 
 
 '* Where are we to go now, what is to be- 
 
 309
 
 THE IXM 
 
 come of us? " — stammered Avdotya through her 
 tears. 
 
 " That 's more than I can tell, ma'am." 
 
 " But I '11 cut thy throat, thou villain; I will, 
 I will! ..." 
 
 " Xo, you won't do that, Avdotya Arefyevna; 
 what 's the use of saying that? But I see that it 
 will be better for me to go away from here for 
 a while, or you will be much upset. ... I will 
 bid you good day, ma'am, and to-morrow I shall 
 return without fail. . . . And you will be so 
 good as to permit me to send my hired men to 
 you to-day," — he added, while Avdotya con- 
 tinued to repeat, through her tears, that she would 
 cut his *hroat and her own also. 
 
 " And 3'onaer they come, by the way," — he re- 
 marked, looking out of the window. " Otherwise, 
 some catastrophe might happen, which God for- 
 bid. . . . jNIatters >vill be more tranquil so. Do 
 me the favour to get your belongings together 
 to-day, ma'am, while they will stand guard over 
 you and help you, if you like. I bid you good 
 day, ma'am." 
 
 He bowed, left the room and called his men to 
 him. . . . 
 
 Avdotya sank down on the wall-bench, then 
 laid herself breast down on the table, and began 
 to wring her hands, then suddenly sprang to her 
 feet, and ran after her husband. . . . We have 
 described their meeting. 
 
 310
 
 TIIK IXX 
 
 When Aki'ni drove a\vay from lier in company 
 with Efrem, leaving her alone in tlie fields, slie 
 first wept for a lon<4' time, without stirrin«»- from 
 the spot. Having- wept her fill, she directed her 
 course to the mistress's manor. It was a hitter 
 thing for her to enter the house, and still more 
 bitter to show herself in the maids'-hall. All the 
 maids flew to greet her with sym])athy and ex- 
 pressions of regret. At the siglit of them, Av- 
 dotya could not restrain her tears; they fairly 
 gushed forth from her red and swollen ej'^es. 
 Completely unnerved, she dropped down on the 
 first chair she came to. They ran for Kirillovna. 
 Ivirillovna came, treated her very affectionately, 
 but would not admit her to see the mistress, any 
 more than she had admitted Akim. ^Vvdotya her- 
 self did not insist very strongly on seeing Liza- 
 veta Prokhorovna; she had come to the manor- 
 house solely because she positively did not know 
 where to lay her head. 
 
 Kirillovna ordered the samovar to be prei)ared. 
 For a long time Avdotya refused to drink tea, 
 but yielded, at last, to the entreaties and per- 
 suasions of all the maids, and after the first cup 
 drank four more. \Vhen Kirillovna ])erceived 
 that her visitor was somewhat pacified, and only 
 shuddered from time to time, sobbing faintly, she 
 asked her whither they intended to remove, and 
 what they wished to do with their things. This 
 question set Avdotya to crying again, and she be- 
 
 311
 
 THE IXN 
 
 gan to asseverate that she wanted nothing more, 
 except to die; but Kirillovna, being a woman of 
 brains, immediately stopped her and advised her 
 to set about transferring her things that very day, 
 without useless waste of time, to Akim's former 
 cottage in the village, where dwelt his uncle, that 
 same old man who had tried to dissuade him from 
 marrying ; she announced that, with the mistress's 
 permission, they would be furnished with trans- 
 portation, and the aid of people and horses ; " and 
 as for you, my dearest," — added Kirillovna, com- 
 pressing her cat-like lips in a sour smile, — " there 
 will alwaj'S be a place for you in our house, and it 
 will be very agreeable to us if you will be our 
 guest until you recover yourself and get settled in 
 your house. The principal thing is — you must 
 not get downcast. The Lord gave, the Lord has 
 taken awaj^ and He will give again: everything 
 depends on His will. Lizaveta Prokhorovna, of 
 course, was obliged to sell your house, according 
 to her calculations, but she will not forget you, 
 and will reward you ; she bade me say so to Akim 
 Semyonitch. . . Where is he now? " 
 
 Avdotya replied that, on meeting her, he had 
 grossly insulted her, and had driven off to Chan- 
 ter Efrem's. 
 
 "To that creature's! "—replied Kirillovna, 
 significantly. — " Well, I understand that it is 
 painful for him now, and I don't believe you can 
 
 312
 
 THE INN 
 
 hunt him up to-day. What is to be done? We 
 must tai<e measures, Mahislika," — she achled, 
 turning to one of the ehaml)ermai(ls. " Just ask 
 Nikanor Ihtch to step here; 1 will have a talk 
 with him." 
 
 Nikanor llitch, a man of very paltry a})pear- 
 ance, who served somewhat in the ea[)aeity of 
 overseer, immediately presented himself, obsequi- 
 ously listened to everything whieh Kirillovna said 
 to him, — remarked: " It shall be executed," left 
 the room and issued his orders. Avdotya was fur- 
 nished with three carts and three ])easants; these 
 were voluntarily joined by a fourth, \vho said of 
 himself that he would be " more intelligent than 
 they," and she set off in company with them for 
 the inn, where she found her former hired men 
 and her maid-servant, Fetinya, in great terror 
 and excitement. . . . 
 
 Naum's recruits, three extremely robust young 
 fellows, had arrived in the morning, and had gone 
 nowhere since, but had maintained a very zealous 
 guard over the inn, according to Xaum's ])romise 
 — so zealous, that one cart speedily proved to be 
 devoid of tires. . . 
 
 Bitter, very bitter was it for poor ^Vvdotya to 
 pack up her things. Desj)ite the assistance of the 
 " intelligent " man, who, by the way, knew how to 
 do nothing but stalk about with a staff in his 
 hand, and watch the others, and spit to one side, 
 
 313
 
 THE IXX 
 
 she did not succeed in moving out that day, and 
 remained to spend the night in the inn, having 
 first requested Fetinya not to leave her room; 
 but it was not until daybreak that she fell into a 
 feverish doze, and the tears streamed down her 
 cheeks even in her sleep. 
 
 In the meantime, Efrem awoke earlier than 
 was his wont in his lumber-room, and began to 
 thump and demand his release. At first his wife 
 would not let him out, declaring to him through 
 the door that he had not j^et had enough sleep; 
 but he excited her curiosity by promising to tell 
 her about the remarkable thing which had hap- 
 pened to Akim; she undid the latch. — Efrem im- 
 parted to her everything he knew, and wound up 
 with the question: " Was he awake or not? " 
 
 "Why, the Lord knows," — replied his wife; 
 — "go and see for thyself; he has not climbed 
 down from the oven yet. — You both got pretty 
 drunk last night; thou shouldst just see thyself 
 — thy face has no semblance of a face; 't is like 
 some sort of ladle ; and what a lot of hay has got 
 into thy hair! " 
 
 " Never mind if it has," — returned Efrem, — 
 and passing his hand over his head, he entered the 
 house. — Aki'm was no longer asleep; he was sit- 
 ting on the oven with his legs dangling; his face 
 also was very strange and discomposed. It ap- 
 peared all the more distorted because Akim was 
 not in the habit of drinking heavily. 
 
 314
 
 THE IXX 
 
 " Well, how now, Akim Scmyonitch, how have 
 you slept? " — began Efreni. . . . 
 
 Akim looked at him with a tiirhid o-aze. 
 
 " Come, brother Efrem,"— he said hoarsely,— 
 " can't we do it again — tliou knowest what? " 
 
 Efrem darted a swift glance at Akim .... at 
 that moment he felt a sort of thrill; that is the 
 kind of sensation a sportsman experiences when 
 standing on the skirt of the woods, at the sudden 
 yelping of his hound in the forest, from which, ap- 
 parently, all the wild beasts have already fled. 
 
 " What— more? "—he asked at last. 
 1 es ; more. 
 
 "My wife will see," — thought Efrem, — "and 
 I don't beheve she will allow it."—" All right, 
 it can be done,"— he said aloud;— "have pa- 
 tience."— He went out and, thanks to artfully 
 conceived measures, succeeded in smuggling in 
 a huge bottle unperceived beneath the skirt of his 
 coat. . . . 
 
 Akim seized the bottle ... But Efrem did not 
 start to drink with him as on the preceding even- 
 ing—he was afraid of his wife, and, — having told 
 Akim that he would go and see how things were 
 progressing at his house, and how his belongings 
 were being packed, and whether he were not being 
 robbed, — he immediately set off for the inn astride 
 of his unfed little nag, — not forgetting himself, 
 however, if we may take into consideration his 
 projecting bosom. 
 
 315
 
 THE INN 
 
 Soon after his departure, Akim fell asleep 
 again, and lay like one dead on the oven. . . . He 
 did not even wake up— at all events, he showed 
 no signs of being awake— when Efrem, returning 
 four hours later, began to shove him and try to 
 rouse him, and whisper over him some extremely 
 indistinct words to the effect that everything was 
 gone and transported and the holy pictures were 
 gone too, and everji;hing was already over— and 
 that everv one was hunting for him, but that he, 
 Efrem, had taken due measures, and had pro- 
 hibited . . . and so forth. But he did not whis- 
 per long. His wife led him off to the lumber- 
 room again, and herself lay down in the house, 
 on the platform over the oven, in great indigna- 
 tion at her husband and at the guest, thanks to 
 whom her husband had got drunk. . . . But 
 when, on awakening very early, according to her 
 wont, she cast a glance at the oven, Akim was 
 no longer on it. . . . The cocks had not yet 
 crowed for the second time, and the night was 
 still so dark that the sky was barely turning grey 
 directly overhead, and at the rim was still com- 
 pletely drowned in vapour, when Akim emerged 
 from the gate of the chanter's house. His face 
 was pale, but he darted a keen glance around 
 him, and his gait did not betray the drunkard. 
 ... He walked in the direction of his former 
 dwelhng— the inn, which had already definitively 
 become the property of its new owner, Naiim. 
 
 316
 
 THK iXN 
 
 Naum was not sleeping eitlier, at the time when 
 Akini stealthily quitted Efrem's house. lie was 
 not asleep ; lie was lying eonij)letely dressed on tlie 
 wall-beneh, with his sheepskin eoat rolled up 
 under his head. It was not that his conscienee 
 was tormenting him — no! he had been present 
 with astounding cold-bloodedness, from the 
 morning on, at the packing and transportation of 
 Akim's household goods, and had more than once 
 spoken to Avdotya, who was downcast to such a 
 degree that she did not even upbraid him. . . . 
 His conscience was at ease, but divers surmises 
 and calculations occupied his mind. He did not 
 know whether he was going to make a success of 
 his new career; up to that time, he had never kept 
 an inn — and, generally speaking, had never even 
 had a nook of his own ; and so he could not get to 
 sleep. — " This little affair has been begun well," 
 — he thought; — " what will the future be? " . . . 
 When the last cart-load of Akim's effects had set 
 off just before night-fall (Avdotya had followed 
 it weeping), he had inspected the entire inn, all 
 the stables, cellars, and barns; he had crawled up 
 into the attic, had repeatedly ordered his labourers 
 to maintain a strict watch, and, when he was left 
 alone after supper, he had not been able to get 
 to sleep. It so happened that on that day none 
 of the travellers stopped to pass the night; and 
 ■ this pleased him greatly. " I must buy a dog 
 without fail to-morrow,— the worst-tempered 
 
 317
 
 THE IXX 
 
 dog I can get, from the miller; for they have 
 carried off theirs,"— he said to himself, as he 
 tossed from side to side, and, all of a sudden, he 
 raised his head hastih\ ... It seemed to him 
 as though some one had stolen past under the 
 window. . . He listened. . . Not a sound. Only 
 a grasshopper shrilled behind the oven, from 
 time to time, and a mouse was gnawing some- 
 where, and his own breath was audible. All was 
 still in the empty room, dimly illuminated by the 
 yellow rays of a tiny glass shrine-lamp, which he 
 had found time to suspend and light in front of a 
 small holy picture in the corner. . . He lowered 
 his head; and now again he seemed to hear the 
 gate squeaking .... then the wattled hedge 
 crackled faintlv. . . . He could not endure it, 
 leaped to his feet, opened the door into the next 
 room, and called in a low tone : " Feodor, hej% 
 Feodor!" — No one answered him. . . . He went 
 out into the anteroom and nearly fell prone, as 
 he stumbled over Feodor, who w^as sprawling on 
 the floor. The labourer stirred, growhng in his 
 sleep; he shook him. 
 
 " Who 's there? What 's wanted? "—Feodor 
 was beginning. . . . 
 
 " What art thou yelling for? Hold thy 
 tongue!" — articulated Naum in a whisper. — 
 *' The idea of your sleeping, you damned brutes! 
 Hast thou not heard anything? " 
 
 " No,"— replied the man. ..." Why? " 
 
 318
 
 THE INX 
 
 " And wliere are the others sleeping? " 
 
 " The others are sleej)intr vvliere they were 
 ordered to. . . . Eut has anytliiii«r happened? . . ." 
 
 " Silence!— Follow me." 
 
 Naiim softly opened the door leading from the 
 anteroom into the yard. . . . Out of doors every- 
 thing was very dark ; . . . it was possible to make 
 out the sheds with their pillars only because they 
 stood out still more densely black in tlie midst of 
 the black mist. . . . 
 
 " Sha'n't I light a lantern? "—said Feodor in 
 a low voice. 
 
 But Naiim waved his hand and held his breath. 
 ... At first he could hear nothing except those 
 nocturnal sounds which one can almost always 
 hear in inhabited places: a horse was munching 
 oats, a pig grunted once faintly in its sleep, a 
 man was snoring somewhere ; but suddenly there 
 reached his ear a suspicious sort of noise, proceed- 
 ing from the extreme end of the yard, close to the 
 fence. . . . 
 
 It seemed as though some one was moving 
 about, and breathing or blowing. . . . Xaum 
 looked over Feodor's shoulder, and, cautiously 
 descending the steps, walked in the direction of 
 the sound. ... A couple of times he halted, and 
 listened, then continued to creep stealthily on- 
 ward. . . . Suddenly he gave a start. . . . Ten 
 paces from him, in the dense gloom, a point of 
 light suddenl}' glimmered brightly: it was a red- 
 
 319
 
 THE INN 
 
 hot coal, and beside the coal there showed itself 
 for a brief instant the front part of some one's 
 face, with lips puffed out. . . . Swiftly and si- 
 lently Naum darted at the light, as a cat darts at 
 a mouse. . . . Hastily rising from the ground, 
 a long body rushed to meet him, and almost 
 knocked him from his feet, almost slipped through 
 his hands, but he clung to it with all his might. . . . 
 
 " Feodor! Andrei! Petriishka! "— he shouted, 
 at the top of his lungs ;—" come here quick, quick ! 
 I 've caught a thief, an incendiary! " 
 
 The man whom he had captured struggled 
 and resisted .... but Naum did not release 
 him. . . . Feodor immediately darted to his as- 
 sistance. 
 
 " A lantern, quick, a lantern! Run for a lan- 
 tern! wake the others, be quick! " — Naum shouted 
 to him,—" and I '11 manage him alone meanwhile 
 —I '11 sit on him. . . Be quick! and fetch a belt 
 to bind him with! " 
 
 Feodor flew to the cottage. . . . The man whom 
 Naiim was holding suddenly ceased his resist- 
 
 d^IiCc* • • • 
 
 " So, evidently, 't is nol enough for thee to 
 have taken my wife and my money, and my house, 
 but thou art bent on destroying me also,"— he 
 said in a dull tone. . . . 
 
 Naum recognised Akim's voice. 
 
 " So 't is thou, dear little dove,"— said he;— 
 " good, just wait a bit! " 
 
 320
 
 THE INN 
 
 " Let me go,"— said Akim.— " Art not thou 
 satisfied? " 
 
 " See here, to-morrow I '11 show you in the 
 presence of the judge how satisfied I am. . . ." 
 And Naiim tightened his hold on Akim. . . . 
 
 The labourers ran up with two lanterns and 
 some ropes. ..." Bind him! "—ordered Naum, 
 sharply. . . . The labourers seized Akim, lifted 
 him up, and bound his hands behind him. . . . 
 One of them was beginning to swear, but on 
 recognising the former landlord of the inn, he 
 held his peace, and merely exchanged glances 
 with the others. 
 
 " Just see there, see there, now," — Naum kept 
 repeating the while, as he passed the lantern along 
 the ground; — " yonder, there are coals in a pot; 
 just look, he has brought a whole firebrand in 
 the pot — we must find out where he got that 
 pot , . . and here, he has broken twigs. . . ." 
 And Naum assiduously stamped out the fire with 
 his foot. — " Search him, Feodor!"— he added, 
 " and see whether he has anything more about 
 him." 
 
 Feodor searched and felt Akim, who stood 
 motionless with his head drooping on his breast, 
 like a dead man. — " There is — here 's a knife," — 
 said Feodor, drawing an old kitchen-knife from 
 Akim's breast. 
 
 *' Ehe, my dear fellow, so that 's what thou 
 hadst in mind! " — exclaimed Naiim. — " You are 
 
 321
 
 THE INX 
 
 witnesses, my lads— see there, he intended to cut 
 my throat, to burn up my house. . . . Lock him 
 up in the cellar until morning; lie can't get out 
 of there. ... I will stand watch all night myself, 
 and to-morrow at dawn we will take him to the 
 chief of police .... and you are witnesses, do 
 you hear. ..." 
 
 They thrust Akim into the cellar, and slammed 
 the door behind him. . . . Xaum stationed two 
 of the labourers there, and did not lie down to 
 sleep himself. 
 
 In the meantime, Efrem's wife, having con- 
 vinced herself that her unbidden guest had taken 
 himself off, w^as on the point of beginning her 
 cooking, although it was hardly daylight out of 
 doors as yet. She squatted do^vn by the oven to 
 get some coals, and saw that some one had already 
 raked out the live embers thence; then she be- 
 thought herself of her knife— and did not find 
 it; in conclusion, one of her four pots was miss- 
 ing. Efrem's wife bore the reputation of being 
 anything but a stupid woman— and with good 
 reason. She stood for a while in thought, then 
 went to the lumber-room to her husband. It was 
 not easy to arouse him fully— and still more diffi- 
 cult was it to make him understand whj' he had 
 been awakened. . . To evervthino- which his wife 
 said. Chanter Efrem made one and the same 
 reply : 
 
 " He 's gone,— well, God be with him . . . 
 
 822
 
 THE INN 
 
 but what business is that of mine ? He has carried 
 off a knife and a pot — well, God be with hiin — 
 but what business is that of mine? " 
 
 But, at last, he rose, and after listening in- 
 tentl)^ to his wife, he decided that it was a bad 
 business, and that it could not be left as it now 
 stood. 
 
 " Yes,"— the chanter's wife insisted,—" 't is a 
 bad business; I do believe he '11 do mischief out 
 of desperation. ... I noticed last night tliat he 
 was not asleep as he lay there on the oven; it 
 would n't be a bad idea for thee, Efrem Alexan- 
 dritch, to find out whether . . . ." 
 
 " See here, Ulyana Feodorovna, I '11 tell tliee 
 what,"— began Efrem; — " I '11 go to the inn 
 myself immediately; and do thou be kind, dear 
 little mother; give me a little glass of liquor to 
 cure me of my drunkenness." 
 
 Ulyana reflected. 
 
 " Well,"— she decided at last,—" I '11 give thee 
 some liquor, Efrem Alexandritch ; only look out, 
 don't dally." 
 
 " Be at ease, Ulyana Feodorovna." 
 
 And, having fortified himself with a glass of 
 liquor, Efrem set out for the inn. 
 
 Day had but just dawned when he rode up to 
 the inn, and at the gate a cart was already stand- 
 ing harnessed, and one of Naum's labourers was 
 sitting on the driver's seat, holding the reins in his 
 hands. 
 
 328
 
 THE INN 
 
 "Whither art thou going? "—Ef rem asked 
 him. 
 
 " To town,"— replied the labourer. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 The labourer merely shrugged his shoulders 
 and made no reply. Efrem sprang from his 
 horse and entered the house. In the anteroom 
 he ran across Naum, fully dressed, and wearing 
 a cap. 
 
 " I congratulate the new landlord on his new 
 domicile," — said Efrem, who was personally ac- 
 quainted with him. — " Whither away so early? " 
 
 " Yes, there is cause for congratulation," — 
 rephed Naum, surlily. — " This is my first day, 
 and I have almost been burnt out." 
 
 Efrem started. — " How so? " 
 
 " Why, just that; a kind man turned up, who 
 tried to set the house on fire. Luckily, I caught 
 him in the act; now I 'm taking him to town." 
 
 "It can't be Akim, can it?" . . . . asked 
 Efrem, slowlv. 
 
 "And how dost thou know? It is Akim. 
 He came by night, with a firebrand in a pot, and 
 had already crept into the yard, and laid a fire 
 .... All my lads are witnesses.— Wouldst like 
 to take a look? But, by the way, 't is high time 
 we were carrying him off." 
 
 " Dear httle father, Naum Ivanitch,"— began 
 Efrem, — " release him; don't utterly ruin the old 
 man. Don't take that sin on your soul, Naum 
 
 324
 
 THE INN 
 
 Ivanitch. Just reflect, — the man is desperate,— 
 he has lost, you know . . . ." 
 
 "Stop that prating! " — Naum interrupted 
 him. — " The idea! As though I would let him 
 go! Why, he would set me on fire again to- 
 morrow. ..." 
 
 " He will not do it, Naum Ivanitch, helieve 
 me. Believe me, you yourself will be more at 
 ease so— for, you see, there will be inquiries— the 
 court — you surely know what I mean." 
 
 " Well, and what about the court? I have no- 
 thing to fear from the court. ..." 
 
 " Dear little father, Naiim Ivanitch, how can 
 you help fearing the court? . . ." 
 
 " Eh, stop that; I see that thou art drunk early, 
 and to-day is a feast-day, to boot." 
 
 Efrem suddenly, and quite unexj^ectedly, fell 
 to weeping. 
 
 " I am drunk, but I 'm speaking the truth," — 
 he blurted out. — " But do you release him, in 
 honour of Christ's festival." 
 
 " Come, let 's be starting, cry-baby." 
 
 And Naum went out on the porch. . . . 
 
 " Forgive him for Avdotya Arefyevna's sake," 
 —said Efrem, following him. 
 
 Naum approached the cellar, and threw the 
 door wide open. Efrem, with timorous curiosity, 
 craned his neck from behind Naum's back, and 
 with difficulty made out Akim in one corner of 
 the shallow cellar. The former wealthy house- 
 
 325
 
 THE IXX 
 
 holder, the man respected in all the countiyside, 
 was sitting with pinioned arms on the straw, hke 
 a criminal. . . On hearing the noise, he raised his 
 head. ... He seemed to have grown frightfully 
 thin in the last two days, es^Tecially during the 
 last night— his sunken eyes were hardly visihle he- 
 neath his lofty hrow, yellow as wax, his parched 
 lips had turned dark . . . his whole face had 
 undergone a change, and assumed a strange ex- 
 pression : both harsh and terrified. 
 
 " Get up and come out,"— said Xaum. 
 
 Akim rose, and stepped across the threshold. 
 
 " Akim Semyonitch," — roared Efrem, — " thou 
 hast ruined thyself, my dear man! " 
 
 Akim glanced at him in silence. 
 
 " If I had known why thou didst ask for liquor, 
 I would n't have given it to thee; indeed, I 
 would n't ! I do believe I would have drunk it all 
 myself! Ekh, Xaum Ivanitch," — added Efrem, 
 seizing X\aum by the hand;— "have mercy on 
 him, let him go! " 
 
 " Thou 'rt joking,"— retorted X^aum, with a 
 grin. — " Come out, there,"— he added, again ad- 
 dressing Akim. . . "What art thou waiting 
 
 for?" 
 
 " X^aum Ivanoff ," .... began Akim. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " X^aiim IvanofF,"— repeated Akim;—" listen; 
 I am guilty; I wanted to punish thee myself; but 
 God must judge between thou and me. Thou 
 
 326
 
 THE INN 
 
 Iiast taken everything from me, thou knowest that 
 thyself— everything, to the very last morsel.— 
 Now thou canst ruin me, and this is all I have to 
 say to thee: If thou wilt release me now — well! 
 let things stand! do thou possess every tiling! I 
 agree, and wish thee all success. And I say to 
 thee, as in the presence of God: If thou dost re- 
 lease me— thou shalt not regret it. God hless 
 thee! " 
 
 Akim shut his eyes, and ceased speaking. 
 
 " Certainlv, certainly," — retorted Naum; — "as 
 though one could trust thee! " 
 
 " But thou canst, bj^ God, thou canst! " — said 
 Efrem; "really, thou canst. I 'm ready to go 
 bail for Akim Semyonitch with my head — come 
 now, really! " 
 
 " Nonsense! " — exclaimed Naum. — " Let 's be 
 off!" 
 
 Akim looked at him. 
 
 " As thou wilt, Naum Ivanitch. Thou hast 
 the power. Only, thou art taking a great deal on 
 thy soul. All right, if thou art impatient, — let us 
 start. . . ." 
 
 Naum, in his turn, darted a keen glance at 
 Akim. "But it really would be better,"— he 
 thought to himself, " to let him go to the devil! 
 Otherwise, folks will devour me alive. There '11 
 be no living for Avdotya." .... While Naum 
 was reasoning with himself no one uttered a sin- 
 gle word. The labourer on the cart, who could see 
 
 327
 
 THE IXN 
 
 ererything throiigli the gate, merely shook his 
 liead and slap])e(l ihe reins on the horse's back. 
 The otlier two hibourers stood on tlie porch and 
 also maintained silence. 
 
 " Come, listen to me, old man," — began Naum; 
 — " if I let thee go, — and I forbid these fine fel- 
 lows " (he nodded his head in the direction of the 
 labourers) " to blab; shall we be quits, thou and I 
 — thou understandest me — quits .... hey? " 
 
 " Possess everything, I say." 
 
 " Thou wilt not consider me in thy debt? " 
 
 " Thou wilt not be in debt to me, neither shall I 
 be in debt to thee." Again Naum was silent for a 
 space. 
 
 " Well, take thy oath on that! " 
 
 " I do, as God is holy,"— replied Akim. 
 
 " Here goes then, although I know before- 
 hand that I shall repent of it," — remarked Naiim. 
 — " But so be it! Give me your hands." 
 
 Akim turned his back toward him; Naiim be- 
 gan to unbind him. 
 
 " Look out, old man,"— he added, as he slipped 
 the rope over his wrists: — "remember, I have 
 spared thee; be careful! " 
 
 " You 're a dear, Naum Ivanitch," — stam- 
 mered the deeply-moved Efrem. — " The Lord 
 will be merciful to you ! " 
 
 Akim stretched out his chilled and swollen 
 arms, and was starting for the gate. . . . 
 
 All of a sudden Naum " turned Jewish," as 
 
 328
 
 TllK INN 
 
 the expression is — evidently, he was sorry that he 
 had released Akim. . . . 
 
 " Thou hast taken an oath, look out,"— he 
 shouted after him. 
 
 Akim turned round, and surveyinpf the house 
 with an embracing glance, said sadly: — " Possess 
 thou everything, forever, undisturbed .... 
 farewell." 
 
 And he stepped quietly into the street, accom- 
 panied by Efrem. Naum waved his hand, or- 
 dered the cart to be unharnessed, and went back 
 into, the house. 
 
 "Whither away, Akim Semyonitch? Art not 
 thou coming to my house? " — exclaimed Efrem, 
 — perceiving that Akim turned to the right from 
 the highway. 
 
 " No, Efremushka, thanks,"— replied Akim. 
 ..." I will go and see what my wife is doing." 
 
 " Thou canst see later on. . . . But now thou 
 must for joy . . thou knowest . . . ." 
 
 " No, thanks, Efrem. ... I 've had enough 
 as it is. Farewell."— And Akim walked away 
 without looking behind him. 
 
 " Eka! He has had enough as it is! "—ejacu- 
 lated the astounded chanter; — " and I have taken 
 my oath on his behalf! Well, I did n't expect 
 this,"— he added with vexation, — " after I had 
 vouched for him. Phew ! " 
 
 He remembered that he had forgotten to take 
 his knife and pot, and returned to the inn. . . . 
 
 329
 
 THE INX 
 
 Naum gave orders that his things should be de- 
 livered to him, but it never entered his head to 
 entertain him. Thoroughl}'^ enraged and com- 
 pletely sober he presented himself at home. 
 
 " Well, what? " — his wife asked him; — " didst 
 thou find him? " 
 
 "Did I find him? "—retorted Efrem;-" cer- 
 tainly I found him; there are thy utensils for 
 thee." 
 
 " Akim? " — inquired his wife, with special em- 
 phasis. 
 
 Efrem nodded his head. 
 
 " Yes, Akim. But what a goose he is! I went 
 bail for him ; without me he would have been put 
 in prison, and he never even treated me to a 
 glass of liquor. Ulyana Feodorovna, do j^ou, at 
 least, show me consideration; give me just one 
 little glass." 
 
 But Ulyana Feodorovna showed him no con- 
 sideration and drove him out of her sight. 
 
 In the meantime, Akim was proceeding with 
 quiet strides along the road which led to Lizaveta 
 Prokhorovna's village. He had not yet been 
 able fully to recover himself; he was all quivering 
 inside, like a man who has but just escaped immi- 
 nent death. He seemed not to believe in his free- 
 dom. Witli dull amazement he stared at the fields, 
 at the sky, at the larks which were fluttering their 
 ^vings in the warm air. On the previous day, at 
 Efrem's house, he had not slept at all since 
 
 330
 
 THE INN 
 
 dinner, altliough he had lain motionless on the 
 oven; at first he had tried to drown with Hcjuor the 
 intolerable pain of injury within him, the an- 
 guish of wrathful, impotent indignation .... 
 hut the liquor could not entirely overcome him; 
 his heart waxed hot within him, and he began 
 to meditate how he might pay off liis malefactor. 
 . . . He thouglit of Naiim alone; Lizaveta Pro- 
 khorovna did not enter his head, and from Avdo- 
 tya he mentally turned away. Toward evening, 
 the thirst for revenge had blazed up in him to 
 the point of crime, and he, the good-natured, weak 
 man, with feverish impatience waited for the 
 night, and like a wolf pouncing on its prey, he 
 rushed forth with fire in his hand to annihilate 
 his former home. . . But he had been captured 
 .... locked up. . . . Night came. What Iiad 
 not he turned over in his mind during that atro- 
 cious night! It is difficult to convey in words 
 all the tortures which he had undergone; it is 
 all the more difficult, because these torments even 
 in the man himself were wordless and dumb. . . . 
 Toward morning, before the arrival of Naiim 
 and Efrem, Akim had felt somewhat easier in 
 mind. . . " Everything is lost! " .... he thought 
 . . . . " everything is scattered to the winds ! " — 
 and he waved his hand in despair over everything. 
 ... If he had been born with an evil soul, he 
 might have turned into a criminal at that mo- 
 ment; but evil was not a characteristic of Akim. 
 
 331
 
 THE INX 
 
 Beneath the shock of the unexpected and unde- 
 served calamity, in the reek of despair, he had 
 made up his mind to a felonious deed; it had 
 shaken him to the very foundations, and, having 
 miscarried, it had left behind in him a profound 
 weariness. . . . Conscious of his guilt, he 
 wrenched his heart free from all earthly things, 
 and began to pray bitterly but zealously. At 
 first he prayed in a whisper, at last, accidentally, 
 perhaps, he ejaculated almost aloud: " O Lord! " 
 — and the tears gushed from his eyes. . . . Long 
 did he weep, then calmed down at last. ... His 
 thoughts probably Mould have undergone a 
 change, had he been forced to smart for his at- 
 tempt of the day before . . . but now he had 
 suddenly recovered his liberty . . . and, half- 
 alive, all shattered, but calm, he was on his way 
 to an interview with his wife. 
 
 Lizaveta Prokhorovna's manor stood a verst 
 and a half distant from her village, on the left- 
 hand side of the countrv road alonff which Akim 
 was walking. At the turn which led to the manor, 
 he was on the point of pausing .... but he 
 marched past. He had decided first to go to his 
 former cottage, to his old uncle. 
 
 Akim's tiny and already rickety cottage was 
 situated almost at the extreme end of the village; 
 Akim traversed the entire length of the street 
 without encountering a single soul. The whole 
 jDopulation was in chiu'ch. Only one ailing old 
 
 332
 
 thp: inn 
 
 woman lifted her window to ^azc after him, and 
 a little girl, wlio had run out to the well with an 
 empty bucket, gaped in wonder at him and also 
 followed him with her eyes. The first person 
 whom he met was precisely tlie uncle wliom he 
 was seeking. The old man had been sitting since 
 early morning on the earthen bank outside the 
 cottage under the windows, taking snufF, and 
 warming himself in the sun; he was not quite 
 well, and for that reason had not gone to church ; 
 he was on his way to see another ailing old man, 
 a neighbour, when he suddenly espied Akim. . . . 
 He stopped short, let the latter come up to him, 
 and looking him in the face, he said: 
 
 " Morning, Akimushka! " 
 
 *' Morning,"— replied Akim, and stepping 
 past the old man, he entered the gate to his cot- 
 tage. ... In the yard stood his horses, his cow, 
 his cart; and his chickens were roaming about 
 there also. . . . He entered the cottage in si- 
 lence. The old man followed him. Akim seated 
 himself on the bench, and rested his clenched fists 
 on it. The old man gazed compassionately at 
 him, from his stand at the door. 
 
 "And where is my housewife?" — inquired 
 Akim. 
 
 " Why, at the manor-house," — replied the old 
 man, briskly. " She is there. They have placed 
 thy cattle here, and thy coffers, just as they were 
 — but she is yonder. Shall I go for her? " 
 
 333
 
 THE INX 
 
 Akini did not reply immediately. 
 
 " Yes, go," — he said at last. 
 
 " Ekh, uncle, uncle,"— he articulated with a 
 sigh, while tlie latter was taking his cap from its 
 nail: — " dost thou remember what thou saidst 
 to me on the eve of my wedding? " 
 
 " God's will rules all things, Akimushka." 
 
 " Dost thou remember how thou saidst to me 
 that I was no fit mate for you peasants — and 
 now see what a pass things have come to. ... I 
 myself have become as poor as a church mouse." 
 
 " A man can't make calculations against bad 
 people," — replied the old man; — "and as for 
 him, the dishonest scoundrel, if any one were to 
 teach him a good lesson, some gentleman, for 
 instance, or any other power, — what cause would 
 there be to fear him? The wolf recognised his 
 prey."— And the old man put on his cap and 
 departed. 
 
 Avdotya had but just returned from church 
 when she was informed that her husband's uncle 
 was inquiring for her. Up to that time she had 
 very rarely seen him ; he had not been in the habit 
 of coming to their inn, and in general he bore 
 the rej^utation of being a queer fellow; he was 
 passionately fond of snufF, and preserved silence 
 most of the time. 
 
 She went out to him. 
 
 " What dost thou want, Petrovitch? Has anv- 
 thing happened, pray? " 
 
 334
 
 THE INN 
 
 " Nothing has happened, Avdotya Arefyevna; 
 thy husband is asking for thee." 
 
 " Has he returned? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But where is he? " 
 
 " Why, in the vilhige; he 's sitting in his cot- 
 tage." 
 
 Avdotya quailed. 
 
 " Well, Petrovitch," — she asked, looking him 
 straight in the eye, — " is he angry? " 
 
 " 'T is not perceptible that he is." 
 
 Avdotya droj^ped her eyes. 
 
 *' Well, come along," — she said, throwing on a 
 large kerchief, and the two set out. They walked 
 in silence until they reached the village, lint 
 when they began to draw near to the cottage, Av- 
 dotya was seized with such alarm that her knees 
 trembled under her. 
 
 " Dear little father, Petrovitch," — she said, — 
 " do thou go in first. . . . Tell him that I have 
 come." 
 
 Petrovitch entered the cottage and found Akim 
 sitting buried in profound thought, on the self- 
 same spot where he had left him. 
 
 " Well,"— said Akim, raising his head;— 
 " has n't she come? " 
 
 " Yes, she has come," — replied the old man.— 
 " She 's standing at the gate. . . ." 
 
 " Send her hither." 
 
 The old man went out, waved his hand to 
 
 335
 
 THE INN 
 
 Avdotya, said to her: " Go along! " and sat down 
 again liimself on the earthen bank along the cot- 
 tage wall. With trepidation Avdotya opened 
 the door, crossed the threshold and paused. . . . 
 
 Akim looked at her. 
 
 " Well, Arefyevna,"— he began,—" what are 
 we — thou and I — to do now? " 
 
 " Forgive me," — she whispered. 
 
 " Ekh, Arefyevna, we are all sinful folks. 
 What 's the use of discussing it! " 
 
 " That villain has ruined both of us," — began 
 Avdotya in a voice which jingled and broke, and 
 the tears streamed down her face. — " Thou must 
 not let things stand as they are, Akim Semyo- 
 nitch; thou must get the money from him. Do 
 not spare me. I am ready to declare under oath 
 that I lent the money to him. Lizaveta Prokho- 
 rovna had a right to sell our house, but why 
 should he rob us? ... . Get the money from 
 him." 
 
 " I have no money to receive from him," — re- 
 plied Akim, gloomily. — " He and I have settled 
 our accounts." 
 
 Avdotya was astounded. — " How^ so? " 
 
 " Why, because we have. Knowest thou," — 
 pursued Akim, and his eyes began to blaze; — 
 " knowest thou where I spent the night? Thou 
 dost not know? In Naum's cellar, bound hand 
 and foot, like a ram, that 's where I spent last 
 night. I tried to burn down his house, and he 
 
 336
 
 THE INN 
 
 caught me, did Naum; he 's awfully clever! And 
 to-day he was preparing to carry me to the town, 
 but he pardoned me; consequently, there is no 
 money coming to me from him. . . . ' And when 
 did I ever borrow any money of thee ? ' he will 
 say. And am I to say : ' My wife took it out from 
 under my floor, and carried it to thee? '— ' Thy 
 wife is a liar,' he will say. And would n't it be 
 a big exposure for thee, Arefyevna? Hold thy 
 tongue, rather, I tell thee, hold thy tongue." 
 
 " Forgive me, Semyonitch, forgive me," — 
 whispered the thoroughly frightened Avdotya. 
 
 " That 's not the point," — replied Akim, after 
 remaining silent for a while: — " but what are we 
 — thou and I — to do? We no longer have a home 
 . . . nor money either. . . ." 
 
 " We '11 get along somehow, Akim Semyo- 
 nitch; — we will ask Lizaveta Prokhorovna and 
 she will help us; Kirillovna has promised me 
 that." 
 
 " No, Arefyevna, thou mayest ask her for thy- 
 self along w^ith thy Kirillovna; thou and she are 
 birds of a feather.^ But I '11 tell thee what: do 
 thou stay here, with God's blessing. I shall not 
 stay here. Luckily, we have no children, and 
 perhaps I shall not starve alone. One person 
 can worry along alone." 
 
 " What wilt thou do, Semyonitch— dost mean 
 to go as carrier again? " 
 
 ^In Russian: "Berries from the same field."— Trakslator. 
 
 337
 
 THE INN 
 
 Akim laughed bitterly. 
 
 " A pretty carrier I would make, there 's no 
 denying that ! A fine, dashing young fellow thou 
 hast picked out! No, Arefyevna, that is not the 
 same sort of business as marrying, for example; 
 an old man is not fit for it. Only I will not re- 
 main here, that 's what ; I won't have people point- 
 ing the finger at me .... understand? I shall 
 go to pray away my sins, Arefyevna, that 's where 
 I shall go." 
 
 " What sins hast thou, Semyonitch? " — articu- 
 lated Avdotya, timidly. 
 
 " Well, wife, I know what they are." 
 
 " But in whose care wilt thou leave me, Semyo- 
 nitch? How am I to live without a husband? " 
 
 " In whose care shall I leave thee? Ekh, Are- 
 fyevna, how thou sayest that, forsooth! IMuch 
 need hast thou of a husband like me, and an old 
 man and a ruined one to boot. The idea! Thou 
 has dispensed with me before, thou canst dispense 
 with me hereafter also. And what property we 
 have left thou mayest take for thj^self, curse 
 it! . . . . " 
 
 " As thou wilt, Semyonitch," — replied Avdo- 
 tya, sadly; — " thou knowest best about that." 
 
 " Exactly so. Only, don't think that I am 
 angry with thee, Arefyevna. 
 
 " No, what 's the use of being angry, when 
 .... I ought to have discovered how things 
 stood earlier in the day. I myself am to blame — 
 
 33«
 
 THE INN 
 
 and I am punished."— (Akim lieaved a sigh.) — 
 " As you have made your hed, so you must he 
 upon it.^ I am advanced in years, and 't is time 
 for me to be thinking of my soul. The Lord Him- 
 self has brought me to my senses. Here was I, 
 seest thou, an old fool, who wanted to live at 
 his ease with a young wife. . . . No, brother- 
 old man, first do thou pray, and beat thy brow 
 against the earth, and be patient, and fast. . . . 
 And now, go, my mother. I am very tired and 
 I will get a bit of sleep." 
 
 And Akim stretched himself out, grunting on 
 the bench. 
 
 Avdotj^a started to say something, stood for 
 a while gazing at him, then turned and went 
 away. . . . 
 
 "Well, did n't he thrash thee? " — Petrovitch 
 asked her, as he sat, all bent double, on the 
 earthen bank, when she came alongside of liim. 
 Avdotya passed him in silence. — " See there now, 
 he did n't beat her," — said the old man to himself, 
 as he grinned, ruffled up his hair, and took a pinch 
 of snufF. 
 
 Akim carried out his purpose. He speedily 
 put his petty affairs in order, and a few days 
 after the conversation which we have transcribed, 
 he went, already garbed for the journey, to bid 
 
 1 In Russian : " If you are fond of sleif?hing, then be fond also 
 of dragging the sledge."— Tiiansi^toh. 
 
 339
 
 THE IXN 
 
 farewell to his wife, who had settled for the time 
 being in a tiny wing of the mistress's manor- 
 house. Their leave-taking did not last long. . . . 
 Kirillovna, mIio chanced to be on hand, advised 
 Aki'm to present himself to the mistress; and he 
 did so. Lizaveta Prokhorovna received him with 
 a certain amount of confusion, but affably per- 
 mitted him to kiss her hand, and inquired where 
 he was intending to betake himself? He replied 
 that he was going first to KiefF, and thence where- 
 ever God should grant. She lauded his purpose, 
 and dismissed him. From that time forth he 
 rarely made his appearance at home, although 
 he never forgot to bring his mistress a blessed 
 bread with a particle taken out for her health. . . .^ 
 
 1 Tiny double loaves of leavened bread, like those used in preparing 
 the Holy Communion, are sold at the entrances to churches. Any 
 one who wishes to have the health of his living or the souls of his 
 dead friend prayed for, buys a loaf, and sends it to the sanctuary 
 before the beginning of the morning service, accompanied by a slip 
 of paper, whereon is written: "For the health" (or "For the soul") 
 "of Ivan "—or whatever the friend's baptismal name may be. The 
 priest removes from the loaf with his spear-shaped knife a triangular 
 particle, which hr; places on the chalice (it is not used in the Com- 
 munion), and at a certain point of the service, all these persons are 
 prayed for, by name— the Lord being aware which of the Ivans or 
 Maryas is intended. After the service the loaf is returned to the 
 owner, who carries it home, and (when possible) gives it to the person 
 who has been prayed for. It is the custom for pilgrims to the various 
 shrines to bring back loaves of this sort to their friends, and these are 
 highly prized. At some of the famous monasteries, instead of the cus- 
 tomary imprint of a cross and the Greek letters meaning "Jesus Christ 
 the Conqueror," which are used on the loaves for the Communion, 
 a special holy bread (prosfora) is prepared for this purpose, stamped 
 with the Saint or Saints for which the locality is renowned. In the 
 l)riniitive church, the worshippers were wont to bring offerings of 
 bread, wine, oil and wheat, for the requirements of the service. As 
 long as the congregations were not numerous, all such givers were 
 
 34fO
 
 THE IXX 
 
 But, on the other hand, everywhere where 
 devout Russians congregate, his gaunt and 
 aged but still comely and sedate face was to be 
 seen: at the shrine of St. Sergius, and on the 
 White Shores, and in the (iptin Hermitage, and 
 in distant Valaam.^ He went everywhere. . . . 
 This year he passed you in the ranks of the count- 
 less throng which marched in a procession of the 
 cross behind the holy picture of the Birth-giver 
 of God at the Korennaya Hermitage; " next year 
 you would find him sitting with his wallet on his 
 back, along with other pilgrims on the porch of 
 St. Nicholas the Wonder-Worker in JMtzensk. 
 . . . He made his appearance in Moscow nearly 
 every spring. 
 
 From place to place he trudged with his quiet, 
 unhurried but unceasing stride — 't is said that he 
 even went to Jerusalem. . . . He appeared to be 
 perfectly composed and happy, and many per- 
 sons talked about his piety and humility, espe- 
 
 prayed for by name. When members became so numerous that this 
 would have been burdensome, the custom was instituted of praying 
 for the Sovereign and his family, as representatives of all the rest: 
 and this last custom still prevails, mingled (as above described'! with 
 a remnant of the original custom.— Tuansi.atoh. 
 
 1 The shrine of St. Sergius at the Troitzky (Trinity) monastery, 
 forty miles from Moscow. The Optin Hermitage in Tamboff Govern- 
 ment. "The White Shores" — the famous monasteries of Solov<5tzk, 
 in the White Sea, and at Byelo-Ozero (White Lake), south of Lake 
 Onega. Val^m, an island in Lake Ladoga, with another famous 
 monastery. —Translator. 
 
 2 The Korennaya Hermitage lies about sixteen miles northwest of 
 Kursk, in southern Russia. Mtzensk, nearer the centre, is half-way 
 between Orel and Tula.— Tuansi.ator. 
 
 341
 
 THE I XX 
 
 cially those people who had chanced to converse 
 with him. 
 
 In tlie meanwhile, X'aum's affairs throve ex- 
 ceedingly. He took hold briskly and under- 
 standingly, and, as the saying is, went to the 
 head fast. Everybody in the neighbourhood 
 knew by what means he had acquired possession 
 of the inn, and they knew also that Avdotya had 
 given him her husband's money; no one liked 
 Xaiim because of his cold and harsh character. 
 .... They narrated with condemnation con- 
 cerning him that one day he had replied to Akim 
 himself, who had begged alms under his window, 
 " God will provide," and had brought out no- 
 thing to him; but all agreed that no more lucky 
 man than he existed; his grain throve better than 
 his neighbours' grain; his bees swarmed more 
 abundantly; even his hens laid more eggs; his 
 cattle never fell ill; his horses never went lame. 
 .... For a long time Avdotya could not en- 
 dure to hear his name ( she had accepted Lizaveta 
 Prokhorovna's offer, and had again entered her 
 service in the capacity of head-seamstress) ; but 
 eventually, her aversion diminished somewhat; 
 't was said that want forced her to have recourse 
 to him, and he gave her a hundred rubles. . . . 
 We shall not condemn her too severely; poverty 
 will break any one's spirit, and the sudden revolu- 
 tion in her life had aged and tamed her down 
 greatly; it is difficult to believe how quickly she 
 
 342
 
 THE INN 
 
 lost her good looks, Iiow slie grew dislieartencd 
 and low-spirited. . . . 
 
 "And how did it all end?"— the reader will 
 ask. 
 
 Thus: Naiim, after having conducted liis busi- 
 ness successfully for fifteen years, sold liis inn 
 on profitable terms to a i^etty burgher. . . . He 
 never would have parted with his house if the 
 following apparently insignificant incident had 
 not occurred: two mornings in succession his dog, 
 as it sat in front of the windows, howled in a pro- 
 longed and mournful manner; on the second oc- 
 casion he wxnt out into the street, gazed atten- 
 tively at the howling dog, shook his head, set 
 off for the town, and that very day agreed on the 
 price with a petty burgher, who had long been 
 trying to purchase his inn. ... A week later he 
 departed for some distant place — out of the 
 Government, — and what think you? that very 
 night the inn was burned to the ground ; not even 
 a kennel remained intact, and Naum's successor 
 was reduced to beggary. The reader can easily 
 imagine what rumours arose in the neighbour- 
 hood concerning this conflagration. . . . Evi- 
 dently he carried his " luck " away witli him, all 
 declared. ... It is reported that he engaged 
 in the grain business, and became very wealthy. 
 But was it for long? Other equally firm i)illars 
 have fallen prone, and sooner or later a bad deed 
 has a bad ending. 
 
 343
 
 THE IXX 
 
 It is not worth while to say much about Liza- 
 veta Prokhorovna: she is ahve to this day, and 
 as often happens with people of that sort, she has 
 not changed in the least; she has not even aged 
 much, but only seems to have grown more lean; 
 moreover, her penuriousness has increased to an 
 extreme degree, although it is difficult to under- 
 stand for whom she is always hoarding, since she 
 has no children, and is related to no one. In con- 
 versation, she frequently alludes to Akim, and 
 avers that ever since she discovered all his fine 
 qualities, she has come to cherish a great respect 
 for the Russian peasant. Kirillovna has pur- 
 chased her freedom from Lizaveta Prokliorovna 
 for a considerable sum and has married, for love, 
 some fair-haired young butler or other, at whose 
 hands she endures bitter torture; Avdotya is liv- 
 ing, as of yore, in the woman's wing of Lizaveta 
 Prokhorovna's house, but has descended several 
 rungs lower, dresses very poorly, almost filthily, 
 and retains not a trace of the cityfied affectations 
 of the fashionable maid, or the habits of a well- 
 to-do landlady. . . . Xo one takes any notice of 
 her, and she herself is glad that they do not ; old 
 Petrovitch is dead, but Akim is still roving on 
 pilgrimages — and God alone knows how much 
 longer he is destined to wander! 
 
 344
 
 FATHERS AND CHILDREN 
 
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