The Diary of a Superfluous Man and Other Stories | Page 2

was
conscious of his degradation, and not having the strength of will to give

up his darling passion, he tried at least, by his invariably amiable and
humble demeanour and his unswerving submissiveness, to win the
condescending consideration of his exemplary wife. My mother
certainly did bear her trial with the superb and majestic long-suffering
of virtue, in which there is so much of egoistic pride. She never
reproached my father for anything, gave him her last penny, and paid
his debts without a word. He exalted her as a paragon to her face and
behind her back, but did not like to be at home, and caressed me by
stealth, as though he were afraid of contaminating me by his presence.
But at such times his distorted features were full of such kindness, the
nervous grin on his lips was replaced by such a touching smile, and his
brown eyes, encircled by fine wrinkles, shone with such love, that I
could not help pressing my cheek to his, which was wet and warm with
tears. I wiped away those tears with my handkerchief, and they flowed
again without effort, like water from a brimming glass. I fell to crying,
too, and he comforted me, stroking my back and kissing me all over my
face with his quivering lips. Even now, more than twenty years after his
death, when I think of my poor father, dumb sobs rise into my throat,
and my heart beats as hotly and bitterly and aches with as poignant a
pity as if it had long to go on beating, as if there were anything to be
sorry for!
My mother's behaviour to me, on the contrary, was always the same,
kind, but cold. In children's books one often comes across such mothers,
sermonising and just. She loved me, but I did not love her. Yes! I
fought shy of my virtuous mother, and passionately loved my vicious
father.
But enough for to-day. It's a beginning, and as for the end, whatever it
may be, I needn't trouble my head about it. That's for my illness to see
to.
March 21.
To-day it is marvellous weather. Warm, bright; the sunshine frolicking
gaily on the melting snow; everything shining, steaming, dripping; the
sparrows chattering like mad things about the drenched, dark hedges.
Sweetly and terribly, too, the moist air frets my sick chest. Spring,
spring is coming! I sit at the window and look across the river into the

open country. O nature! nature! I love thee so, but I came forth from
thy womb good for nothing--not fit even for life. There goes a
cock-sparrow, hopping along with outspread wings; he chirrups, and
every note, every ruffled feather on his little body, is breathing with
health and strength....
What follows from that? Nothing. He is well and has a right to chirrup
and ruffle his wings; but I am ill and must die--that's all. It's not worth
while to say more about it. And tearful invocations to nature are
mortally absurd. Let us get back to my story.
I was brought up, as I have said, very badly and not happily. 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 to a
boarding-school or a government college? That's what children are
for--that their parents may not be bored. We lived for the most part in
the country, and sometimes went to Moscow. I had tutors and teachers,
as a matter of course; one, in particular, has remained in my memory, a
dried-up, tearful German, Rickmann, an exceptionally mournful
creature, cruelly maltreated by destiny, and fruitlessly consumed by an
intense pining for his far-off fatherland. Sometimes, near the stove, in
the fearful stuffiness of the close ante-room, full of the sour smell of
stale kvas, my unshaved man-nurse, Vassily, nicknamed Goose, would
sit, playing cards with the coachman, Potap, in a new sheepskin, white
as foam, and superb tarred boots, while in the next room Rickmann
would sing, behind the partition--
Herz, mein Herz, warum so traurig? Was bekümmert dich so sehr? 'Sist
ja schön im fremden Lande-- Herz, mein Herz--was willst du mehr?'
After my father's death we moved to Moscow for good. I was twelve
years old. My father died in the night from a stroke. I shall never forget
that night. I was sleeping soundly, as children generally do; but I
remember, even in my sleep, I was aware of a heavy gasping noise at
regular intervals. Suddenly I felt some one taking hold of my shoulder
and poking me. I opened my eyes and saw my nurse. 'What is it?'
'Come along, come along, Alexey Mihalitch is dying.' ... I was out of
bed and away