Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (149 page)

I am too weak, I have too little time left, I am not capable of describing in the same detail the new range of torturing reflections, firm resolutions, and all the other fruits of what is called inward conflict, that arose within 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 as one reconciled to the inevitable, and anxious myself to conciliate, I did not even dream of her love. I desired only her affection, I desired to gain her confidence, her respect, which, we are assured by persons of experience, forms the surest basis for happiness in marriage, . . . Unluckily, I lost sight of one rather important circumstance, which was that Liza had hated me ever since the day of the duel. I found this out too late. I began, as before, to be a frequent visitor at the house of the Ozhogins. Kirilla Matveitch received me with more effusiveness and affability than he had ever done. I have even ground for believing that he would at that time have cheerfully given me his daughter, though I was certainly not a match to be coveted. Public opinion was very severe upon him and Liza, while, on the other hand, it extolled me to the skies. Liza’s attitude to me was unchanged. She was, for the most part, silent; obeyed, when they begged her to eat, showed no outward signs of sorrow, but, for all that, was wasting away like a candle. I must do Kirilla Matveitch the justice to say that he spared her in every way. Old Madame Ozhogin only ruffled up her feathers like a hen, as she looked at her poor nestling. There was only one person Liza did not shun, though she did not talk much even to him, and that was Bizmyonkov. The old people were rather short, not to say rude, in their behaviour to him. They could not forgive him for having been second in the duel. But he went on going to see them, as though he did not notice their unamiability. With me he was very chilly, and -
 
- strange to say -
 
- I felt, as it were, afraid of him. This state of things went on for a fortnight. At last, after a sleepless night, I resolved to have it out with Liza, to open my heart to her, to tell her that, in spite of the past, in spite of all possible gossip and scandal, I should consider myself only too happy if she would give me her hand, and restore me her confidence. I really did seriously imagine that I was showing what they call in the school reading - books an unparalleled example of magnanimity, and that, from sheer amazement alone, she would consent. In any case, I resolved to have an explanation and to escape, at last, from suspense.

Behind the Ozhogins’ house was a rather large garden, which ended in a little grove of lime - trees, neglected and overgrown. In the middle of this thicket stood an old summerhouse in the Chinese style: a wooden paling separated the garden from a blind alley. Liza would sometimes walk, for hours together, alone in this garden. Kirilla Matveitch was aware of this, and forbade her being disturbed or followed; let her grief wear itself out, he said. When she could not be found indoors, they had only to ring a bell on the steps at dinner - time and she made her appearance at once, with the same stubborn silence on her lips and in her eyes, and some little leaf crushed up in her hand. So, noticing one day that she was not in the house, I made a show of going away, took leave of Kirilla Matveitch, put on my hat, and went out from the hall into the courtyard, and from the courtyard into the street, but promptly darted in at the gate again with extraordinary rapidity and hurried past the kitchen into the garden. Luckily no one noticed me. Without losing time in deliberation, I went with rapid steps into the grove. In a little path before me was standing Liza. My heart beat violently. I stood still, drew a deep sigh, and was just on the point of going up to her, when suddenly she lifted her hand without turning round, and began listening, . . From behind the trees, in the direction of the blind alley, came a distinct sound of two knocks, as though some one were tapping at the paling. Liza clapped her hands together, there was heard the faint creak of the gate, and out of the thicket stepped Bizmyonkov. I hastily hid behind a tree. Liza turned towards him without speaking. . . . Without speaking, he drew her arm in his, and the two walked slowly along the path together. I looked after them in amazement. They stopped, looked round, disappeared behind the bushes, reappeared again, and finally went into the summer - house. This summer - house was a diminutive round edifice, with a door and one little window. In the middle stood an old one - legged table, overgrown with fine green moss; two discoloured deal benches stood along the sides, some distance from the damp and darkened walls. Here, on exceptionally hot days, in bygone times, perhaps once a year or so, they had drunk tea. The door did not quite shut, the window - frame had long ago come out of the window, and hung disconsolately, only attached at one corner, like a bird’s broken wing. I stole up to the summerhouse, and peeped cautiously through the chink in the window. Liza was sitting on one of the benches, with her head drooping. Her right hand lay on her knees, the left Bizmyonkov was holding in both his hands. He was looking sympathetically at her.

‘How do you feel to - day?’ he asked her in a low voice.

‘Just the same,’ she answered, ‘not better, nor worse. -
 
- The emptiness, the fearful emptiness!’ she added, raising her eyes dejectedly.

Bizmyonkov made her no answer.

‘What do you think,’ she went on: ‘will he write to me once more?’

‘I don’t think so, Lizaveta Kirillovna!’

She was silent.

‘And after all, why should he write? He told me everything in his first letter. I could not be his wife; but I have been happy . . . not for long . . . I have been happy . . .’

Bizmyonkov looked down.

‘Ah,’ she went on quickly, ‘if you knew how I loathe that Tchulkaturin . . . I always fancy I see on that man’s hands . . . his blood.’ (I shuddered behind my chink.) ‘Though indeed,’ she added, dreamily, ‘who knows, perhaps, if it had not been for that duel. . . . Ah, when I saw him wounded I felt at once that I was altogether his.’

‘Tchulkaturin loves you,’ observed Bizmyonkov.

‘What is that tome? I don’t want anyone’s love.’ . . . She stopped and added slowly, ‘Except yours. Yes, my friend, your love is necessary to me; except for you, I should be lost. You have helped me to bear terrible moments . . .’

She broke off . . . Bizmyonkov began with fatherly tenderness stroking her hand.

‘There’s no help for it! What is one to do! what is one to do, Lizaveta Kirillovna!’ he repeated several times.

‘And now indeed,’ she went on in a lifeless voice, ‘I should die, I think, if it were not for you. It’s you alone that keep me up; besides, you remind me of him. . . . You knew all about it, you see. Do you remember how fine he was that day. . . . But forgive me; it must be hard for you. . . .’

‘Go on, go on! Nonsense! Bless you!’ Bizmyonkov interrupted her.

She pressed his hand.

‘You are very good, Bizmyonkov,’ she went on; ‘you are good as an angel. What can I do! I feel I shall love him to the grave. I have forgiven him, I am grateful to him. God give 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 sometimes think of his Liza! -
 
- Let us go,’ she added, after a brief silence.

Bizmyonkov raised her hand to his lips.

‘I know,’ she began again hotly, ‘every one is blaming me now, every one is throwing stones at me. Let them! I wouldn’t, any way, change my misery for their happiness . . . no! no! . . . He did not love me for long, but he loved me! He never deceived me, he never told me I should be his wife; I never dreamed of it myself. It was only poor papa hoped for it.

‘And even now I am not altogether unhappy; the memory remains to me, and however fearful the results . . . I’m stifling here . . . it was here I saw him the last time, . . . Let’s go into the air.’

They got up. I had only just time to skip on one side and hide behind a thick lime - tree. They came out of the summer - house, and, as far as I could judge by the sound of their steps, went away into the thicket. I don’t know how long I went on standing there, without stirring from my place, plunged in a sort of senseless amazement, when suddenly I heard steps again. I started, and peeped cautiously out from my hiding - place. Bizmyonkov and Liza were coming back along the same path. Both were greatly agitated, especially Bizmyonkov. I fancied he was crying. Liza stopped, looked at him, and distinctly uttered the following words: ‘I do consent, Bizmyonkov. I would never have agreed if you were only trying to save me, to rescue me from a terrible position, but you love me, you know everything -
 
- and you love me. I shall never find a trustier, truer friend. I will be your wife.’

Bizmyonkov kissed her hand: she smiled at him mournfully and moved away towards the house. Bizmyonkov rushed into the thicket, and I went my way. Seeing that Bizmyonkov had apparently said to Liza precisely what I had intended to say to her, and she had given him precisely the reply I was longing to hear from her, there was no need for me to trouble myself further. Within a fortnight she was married to him. The old Ozhogins were thankful to get any husband for her.

Now, tell me, am I not a superfluous man? Didn’t I play throughout the whole story the part of a superfluous person? The prince’s part . . . of that it’s needless to speak; Bizmyonkov’s part, too, is comprehensible. . . . But I -
 
- with what object was I mixed up in it?

. . A senseless fifth wheel to the cart! . . . Ah, it’s bitter, bitter for me! . . . But there, as the barge - haulers say, ‘One more pull, and one more yet,’ -
 
- one day more, and one more yet, and there will be no more bitter nor sweet for me.

March 31.

I’m in a bad way. I am writing these lines in bed. Since yesterday evening there has been a sudden change in the weather. To - day is hot, almost a summer day. Everything is thawing, breaking up, flowing away. The air is full of the smell of the opened earth, a strong, heavy, stifling smell. Steam is rising on all sides. The sun seems beating, seems smiting everything to pieces. I am very ill, I feel that I am breaking up.

I meant to write my diary, and, instead of that, what have I done? I have related one incident of my life. I gossiped on, slumbering reminiscences were awakened and drew me away. I have written, without haste, in detail, as though I had years before me. And here now, there’s no time to go on. Death, death is coming. I can hear her menacing crescendo. The time is come . . . the time is come! . . .

And indeed, what does it matter? Isn’t it all the same whatever I write? In sight of death the last earthly cares vanish. I feel I have grown calm; I am becoming simpler, clearer. Too late I’ve gained sense! . . . It’s a strange thing! I have grown calm -
 
- certainly, and at the same time . . . I’m full of dread. Yes, I’m full of dread. Half hanging over the silent, yawning abyss, I shudder, turn away, with greedy intentness gaze at everything about me. Every object is doubly precious to me. I cannot gaze enough at my poor, cheerless room, saying farewell to each spot on my walls. Take your fill for the last time, my eyes. Life is retreating; slowly and smoothly she is flying away from me, as the shore flies from the eyes of one at sea. The old yellow face of my nurse, tied up in a dark kerchief, the hissing samovar on the table, the pot of geranium in the window, and you, my poor dog, Tresór, the pen I write these lines with, my own hand, I see you now . . . here you are, here. . . . Is it possible . . . can it be, to - day . . . I shall never see you again! It’s hard for a live creature to part with life! Why do you fawn on me, poor dog? why do you come putting your forepaws on the bed, with your stump of a tail wagging so violently, and your kind, mournful eyes fixed on me all the while? Are you sorry for me? or do you feel already that your master will soon be gone? Ah, if I could only keep my thoughts, too, resting on all the objects in my room! I know these reminiscences are dismal and of no importance, but I have no other. ‘The emptiness, the fearful emptiness!’ as Liza said.

O my God, my God! Here I am dying. . . . A heart capable of loving and ready to love will soon cease to beat, . . . And can it be it will be still for ever without having once known happiness, without having once expanded under the sweet burden of bliss? Alas! it’s impossible, impossible, I know, . . . If only now, at least, before death -
 
- for death after all is a sacred thing, after all it elevates any being -
 
- if any kind, sad, friendly voice would sing over me a farewell song of my own sorrow, I could, perhaps, be resigned to it. But to die stupidly, stupidly. . . .

I believe I’m beginning to rave.