'And a man like that,' I cried, as I finished my story—'has left us, unnoticed, almost unappreciated! But that's no great loss. What is the use of man's appreciation? What pains me, what wounds me, is that such a man, with such a loving and devoted heart, is dead without having once known the bliss of love returned, without having awakened interest in one woman's heart worthy of him!… Such as I may well know nothing of such happiness; we don't deserve it; but Pasinkov!… And yet haven't I met thousands of men in my life, who could not compare with him in any respect, who were loved? Must one believe that some faults in a man—conceit, for instance, or frivolity—are essential to gain a woman's devotion? Or does love fear perfection, the perfection possible on earth, as something strange and terrible?'
Sophia Nikolaevna heard me to the end, without taking her stern, searching eyes off me, without moving her lips; only her eyebrows contracted from time to time.
'What makes you suppose,' she observed after a brief silence, 'that no woman ever loved your friend?'
'Because I know it, know it for a fact.'
Sophia Nikolaevna seemed about to say something, but she stopped. She seemed to be struggling with herself.
'You are mistaken,' she began at last; 'I know a woman who loved your dead friend passionately; she loves him and remembers him to this day … and the news of his death will be a fearful blow for her.'
'Who is this woman? may I know?'
'My sister, Varia.'
'Varvara Nikolaevna!' I cried in amazement.
'Yes.'
'What? Varvara Nikolaevna?' I repeated, 'that…'
'I will finish your sentence,' Sophia Nikolaevna took me up; 'that girl you thought so cold, so listless and indifferent, loved your friend; that is why she has never married and never will marry. Till this day no one has known of this but me; Varia would die before she would betray her secret. In our family we know how to suffer in silence.'
I looked long and intently at Sophia Nikolaevna, involuntarily pondering on the bitter significance of her last words.
'You have surprised me,' I observed at last. 'But do you know, Sophia Nikolaevna, if I were not afraid of recalling disagreeable memories, I might surprise you too….'
'I don't understand you,' she rejoined slowly, and with some embarrassment.
'You certainly don't understand me,' I said, hastily getting up; 'and so allow me, instead of verbal explanation, to send you something …'
'But what is it?' she inquired.
'Don't be alarmed, Sophia Nikolaevna, it's nothing to do with me.'
I bowed, and went back to my room, took out the little silken bag I had taken off Pasinkov, and sent it to Sophia Nikolaevna with the following note—
'This my friend wore always on his breast and died with it on him. In it is the only note you ever wrote him, quite insignificant in its contents; you can read it. He wore it because he loved you passionately; he confessed it to me only the day before his death. Now, when he is dead, why should you not know that his heart too was yours?'
Elisei returned quickly and brought me back the relic.
'Well?' I queried; 'didn't she send any message?'
'No.'
I was silent for a little.
'Did she read my note?'
'No doubt she did; the maid took it to her.'
'Unapproachable,' I thought, remembering Pasinkov's last words. 'All right, you can go,' I said aloud.
Elisei smiled somewhat queerly and did not go.
'There's a girl …' he began, 'here to see you.'
'What girl?'
Elisei hesitated.
'Didn't my master say anything to you?'
'No…. What is it?'
'When my master was in Novgorod,' he went on, fingering the door-post, 'he made acquaintance, so to say, with a girl. So here is this girl, wants to see you. I met her the other day in the street. I said to her, "Come along; if the master allows it, I'll let you see him."
'Ask her in, ask her in, of course. But … what is she like?'
'An ordinary girl… working class… Russian.'
'Did Yakov Ivanitch care for her?'
'Well, yes … he was fond of her. And she…when she heard my master was dead, she was terribly upset. She's a good sort of girl.'
'Ask her in, ask her in.'
Elisei went out and at once came back. He was followed by a girl in a striped cotton gown, with a dark kerchief on her head, that half hid her face. On seeing me, she was much taken aback and turned away.
'What's the matter?' Elisei said to her; 'go on, don't be afraid.'
I went up to her and took her by the hand.
'What is your name?' I asked her.
'Masha,' she replied in a soft voice, stealing a glance at me.
She looked about two- or three-and-twenty; she had a round, rather simple-looking, but pleasant face, soft cheeks, mild blue eyes, and very pretty and clean little hands. She was tidily dressed.
'You knew Yakov Ivanitch?' I pursued.
'I used to know him,' she said, tugging at the ends of her kerchief, and the tears stood in her eyes.
I asked her to sit down.
She sat down at once on the edge of a chair, without any affectation of ceremony. Elisei went out.
'You became acquainted with him in Novgorod?'
'Yes, in Novgorod,' she answered, clasping her hands under her kerchief. 'I only heard the day before yesterday, from Elisei Timofeitch, of his death. Yakov Ivanitch, when he went away to Siberia, promised to write to me, and twice he did write, and then he wrote no more. I would have followed him out to Siberia, but he didn't wish it.'
'Have you relations in Novgorod?'
'Yes.'
'Did you live with them?'
'I used to live with mother and my married sister; but afterwards mother was cross with me, and my sister was crowded up, too; she has a lot of children: and so I moved. I always rested my hopes on Yakov Ivanitch, and longed for nothing but to see him, and he was always good to me—you can ask Elisei Timofeitch.'
Masha paused.
'I have his letters,' she went on. 'Here, look.' She took several letters out of her pocket, and handed them to me. 'Read them,' she added.
I opened one letter and recognised Pasinkov's hand.
'Dear Masha!' (he wrote in large, distinct letters) 'you leaned your little head against my head yesterday, and when I asked why you do so, you told me—"I want to hear what you are thinking." I'll tell you what I was thinking; I was thinking how nice it would be for Masha to learn to read and write! She could make out this letter …'
Masha glanced at the letter.
'That he wrote me in Novgorod,' she observed, 'when he was just going to teach me to read. Look at the others. There's one from Siberia. Here, read this.'
I read the letters. They were very affectionate, even tender. In one of them, the first one from Siberia, Pasinkov called Masha his best friend, promised to send her the money for the journey to Siberia, and ended with the following words—'I kiss your pretty little hands; the girls here have not hands like yours; and their heads are no match for yours, nor their hearts either…. Read the books I gave you, and think of me, and I'll not forget you. You are the only, only girl that ever cared for me; and so I want to belong only to you….'
'I see he was very much attached to you,' I said, giving the letters back to her.
'He was very fond of me,' replied Masha, putting the letters carefully into her pocket, and the tears flowed slowly down her cheeks. 'I always trusted in him; if the Lord had vouchsafed him long life, he would not have abandoned me. God grant him His heavenly peace!'…
She wiped her eyes with a corner of her kerchief.
'Where are you living now?' I inquired.
'I'm here now, in Moscow; I came here with my mistress, but now I'm out of a place. I did go to Yakov Ivanitch's aunt, but she is very poor herself. Yakov Ivanitch used often to talk of you,' she added, getting up and bowing; 'he always loved you and thought of
you. I met Elisei Timofeitch the day before yesterday, and wondered whether you wouldn't be willing to assist me, as I'm out of a place just now….'
'With the greatest pleasure, Maria … let me ask, what's your name from your father?'
'Petrovna,' answered Masha, and she cast down her eyes.
'I will do anything for you I can, Maria Petrovna,' I continued; 'I am only sorry that I am a visitor here, and know few good families.'
Masha sighed.
'If I could get a situation of some sort … I can't cut out, but I can sew, so I'm always doing sewing … and I can look after children too.'
'Give her money,' I thought; 'but how's one to do it?'
'Listen, Maria Petrovna,' I began, not without faltering; 'you must, please, excuse me, but you know from Pasinkov's own words what a friend of his I was … won't you allow me to offer you—for the immediate present—a small sum?' …
Masha glanced at me.
'What?' she asked.
'Aren't you in want of money?' I said.
Masha flushed all over and hung her head.
'What do I want with money?' she murmured; 'better get me a situation.'
'I will try to get you a situation, but I can't answer for it for certain; but you ought not to make any scruple, really … I'm not like a stranger to you, you know…. Accept this from me, in memory of our friend….'
I turned away, hurriedly pulled a few notes out of my pocket-book, and handed them to her.
Masha was standing motionless, her head still more downcast.
'Take it,' I persisted.
She slowly raised her eyes to me, looked me in the face mournfully, slowly drew her pale hand from under her kerchief and held it out to me.
I laid the notes in her cold fingers. Without a word, she hid the hand again under her kerchief, and dropped her eyes.
'In future, Maria Petrovna,' I resumed, 'if you should be in want of anything, please apply directly to me. I will give you my address.'
'I humbly thank you,' she said, and after a short pause she added: 'He did not speak to you of me?'
'I only met him the day before his death, Maria Petrovna. But I'm not sure … I believe he did say something.'
Masha passed her hand over her hair, pressed her cheek lightly, thought a moment, and saying 'Good-bye,' walked out of the room.
I sat at the table and fell into bitter musings. This Masha, her relations with Pasinkov, his letters, the hidden love of Sophia Nikolaevna's sister for him…. 'Poor fellow! poor fellow!' I whispered, with a catching in my breath. I thought of all Pasinkov's life, his childhood, his youth, Fräulein Frederike…. 'Well,' I thought, 'much fate gave to thee! much cause for joy!'
Next day I went again to see Sophia Nikolaevna. I was kept waiting in the ante-room, and when I entered, Lidia was already seated by her mother. I understood that Sophia Nikolaevna did not wish to renew the conversation of the previous day.
We began to talk—I really don't remember what about—about the news of the town, public affairs…. Lidia often put in her little word, and looked slily at me. An amusing air of importance had suddenly become apparent on her mobile little visage…. The clever little girl must have guessed that her mother had intentionally stationed her at her side.
I got up and began taking leave. Sophia Nikolaevna conducted me to the door.
'I made you no answer yesterday,' she said, standing still in the doorway; 'and, indeed, what answer was there to make? Our life is not in our own hands; but we all have one anchor, from which one can never, without one's own will, be torn—a sense of duty.'
Without a word I bowed my head in sign of assent, and parted from the youthful Puritan.
All that evening I stayed at home, but I did not think of her; I kept thinking and thinking of my dear, never-to-be-forgotten Pasinkov—the last of the idealists; and emotions, mournful and tender, pierced with sweet anguish into my soul, rousing echoes on the strings of a heart not yet quite grown old…. Peace to your ashes, unpractical man, simple-hearted idealist! and God grant to all practical men—to whom you were always incomprehensible, and who, perhaps, will laugh even now over you in the grave—God grant to them to experience even a hundredth part of those pure delights in which, in spite of fate and men, your poor and unambitious life was so rich!
ANDREI KOLOSOV
In a small, decently furnished room several young men were sitting before the fire. The winter evening was only just beginning; the samovar was boiling on the table, the conversation had hardly taken a definite turn, but passed lightly from one subject to another. They began discussing exceptional people, and in what way they differed from ordinary people. Every one expounded his views to the best of his abilities; they raised their voices and began to be noisy. A small, pale man, after listening long to the disquisitions of his companions, sipping tea and smoking a cigar the while, suddenly got up and addressed us all (I was one of the disputants) in the following words:—
'Gentlemen! all your profound remarks are excellent in their own way, but unprofitable.
Every one, as usual, hears his opponent's views, and every one retains his own convictions. But it's not the first time we have met, nor the first time we have argued, and so we have probably by now had ample opportunity for expressing our own views and learning those of others. Why, then, do you take so much trouble?'
Uttering these words, the small man carelessly flicked the ash off his cigar into the fireplace, dropped his eyelids, and smiled serenely. We all ceased speaking.
'Well, what are we to do then, according to you?' said one of us; 'play cards, or what? go to sleep? break up and go home?'
'Playing cards is agreeable, and sleep's always salutary,' retorted the small man; 'but it's early yet to break up and go home. You didn't understand me, though. Listen: I propose, if it comes to that, that each of you should describe some exceptional personality, tell us of any meeting you may have had with any remarkable man. I can assure you even the feeblest description has far more sense in it than the finest argument.'
We pondered.
'It's a strange thing,' observed one of us, an inveterate jester; 'except myself I don't know a single exceptional person, and with my life you are all, I fancy, familiar already. However, if you insist—'
'No!' cried another, 'we don't! But, I tell you what,' he added, addressing the small man, 'you begin. You have put a stopper on all of us, you're the person to fill the gap. Only mind, if we don't care for your story, we shall hiss you.'
'If you like,' answered the small man. He stood close to the fire; we sat round him and kept quiet. The small man looked at all of us, glanced at the ceiling, and began as follows:—
'Ten years ago, my dear friends, I was a student at Moscow. My father, a virtuous landowner of the steppes, had handed me over to a retired German professor, who, for a hundred roubles a month, undertook to lodge and board me, and to watch over my morals. This German was the fortunate possessor of an exceedingly solemn and decorous manner; at first I went in considerable awe of him. But on returning home one evening, I saw, with indescribable emotion, my preceptor sitting with three or four companions at a round table, on which there stood a fair-sized collection of empty bottles and half-full glasses. On seeing me, my revered preceptor got up, and, waving his arms and stammering, presented me to the honourable company, who all promptly offered me a glass of punch. This agreeable spectacle had a most illuminating effect on my intelligence; my future rose before me in the most seductive images. And, as a fact, from that memorable day I enjoyed unbounded freedom, and all but worried my preceptor to death. He had a wife who always smelt of smoke and pickled cucumbers; she was still youngish, but had not a single front tooth in her head. All German women, as we know, very quickly lose those indispensable ornaments of the human frame. I mention her, solely because she fell passionately in love with me and fed me almost into my grave.'
'To the point, to the point,' we shouted. 'Surely it's not your own adventures you're going to tell us?
'
'No, gentlemen!' the small man replied composedly. 'I am an ordinary mortal. And so I lived at my German's, as the saying is, in clover. I did not attend lectures with too much assiduity, while at home I did positively nothing. In a very short time, I had got to know all my comrades and was on intimate terms with all of them. Among my new friends was one rather decent and good-natured fellow, the son of a town provost on the retired list. His name was Bobov. This Bobov got in the habit of coming to see me, and seemed to like me. I, too … do you know, I didn't like him, nor dislike him; I was more or less indifferent…. I must tell I hadn't in all Moscow a single relation, except an old uncle, who used sometimes to ask me for money. I never went anywhere, and was particularly afraid of women; I also avoided all acquaintance with the parents of my college friends, ever after one such parent (in my presence) pulled his son's hair—because a button was off his uniform, while at the very time I hadn't more than six buttons on my whole coat. In comparison with many of my comrades, I passed for being a person of wealth; my father used to send me every now and then small packets of faded blue notes, and consequently I not only enjoyed a position of independence, but I was continually surrounded by toadies and flatterers…. What am I saying?—why, for that matter, so was my bobtail dog Armishka, who, in spite of his setter pedigree, was so frightened of a shot, that the very sight of a gun reduced him to indescribable misery. Like every young man, however, I was not without that vague inward fermentation which usually, after bringing forth a dozen more or less shapeless poems, passes off in a peaceful and propitious manner. I wanted something, strove towards something, and dreamed of something; I'll own I didn't know precisely what it was I dreamed of. Now I understand what was lacking:—I felt my loneliness, thirsted for the society of so-called live people; the word Life waked echoes in my heart, and with a vague ache I listened to the sound of it…. Valerian Nikitich, pass me a cigarette.'
Lighting the cigarette, the small man continued:
'One fine morning Bobov came running to me, out of breath: "Do you know, old man, the great news? Kolosov has arrived." "Kolosov? and who on earth is Mr. Kolosov?"
The Diary of a Superfluous Man and Other Stories Page 13
