The Diary of a Superfluous Man and Other Stories | Page 3

like a mad thing into his bedroom. I looked: my father

was lying with his head thrown back, all red, and gasping fearfully. The
servants were crowding round the door with terrified faces; in the hall
some one was asking in a thick voice: 'Have they sent for the doctor?'
In the yard outside, a horse was being led from the stable, the gates
were creaking, a tallow candle was burning in the room on the floor,
my mother was there, terribly upset, but not oblivious of the proprieties,
nor of her own dignity. I flung myself on my father's bosom, and
hugged him, faltering: 'Papa, papa...' He lay motionless, screwing up
his eyes in a strange way. I looked into his face--an unendurable horror
caught my breath; I shrieked with terror, like a roughly captured
bird--they picked me up and carried me away. Only the day before, as
though aware his death was at hand, he had caressed me so passionately
and despondently.
A sleepy, unkempt doctor, smelling strongly of spirits, was brought.
My father died under his lancet, and the next day, utterly stupefied by
grief, I stood with a candle in my hands before a table, on which lay the
dead man, and listened senselessly to the bass sing-song of the deacon,
interrupted from time to time by the weak voice of the priest. The tears
kept streaming over my cheeks, my lips, my collar, my shirt-front. I
was dissolved in tears; I watched persistently, I watched intently, my
father's rigid face, as though I expected something of him; while my
mother slowly bowed down to the ground, slowly rose again, and
pressed her fingers firmly to her forehead, her shoulders, and her chest,
as she crossed herself. I had not a single idea in my head; I was utterly
numb, but I felt something terrible was happening to me.... Death
looked me in the face that day and took note of me.
We moved to Moscow after my father's death for a very simple cause:
all our estate was sold up by auction for debts--that is, absolutely all,
except one little village, the one in which I am at this moment living
out my magnificent existence. I must admit that, in spite of my youth at
the time, I grieved over the sale of our home, or rather, in reality, I
grieved over our garden. Almost my only bright memories are
associated with our garden. It was there that one mild spring evening I
buried my best friend, an old bob-tailed, crook-pawed dog, Trix. It was
there that, hidden in the long grass, I used to eat stolen apples--sweet,

red, Novgorod apples they were. There, too, I saw for the first time,
among the ripe raspberry bushes, the housemaid Klavdia, who, in spite
of her turned-up nose and habit of giggling in her kerchief, aroused
such a tender passion in me that I could hardly breathe, and stood faint
and tongue-tied in her presence; and once at Easter, when it came to her
turn to kiss my seignorial hand, I almost flung myself at her feet to kiss
her down-trodden goat-skin slippers. My God! Can all that be twenty
years ago? It seems not long ago that I used to ride on my shaggy
chestnut pony along the old fence of our garden, and, standing up in the
stirrups, used to pick the two-coloured poplar leaves. While a man is
living he is not conscious of his own life; it becomes audible to him,
like a sound, after the lapse of time.
Oh, my garden, oh, the tangled paths by the tiny pond! Oh, the little
sandy spot below the tumbledown dike, where I used to catch gudgeons!
And you tall birch-trees, with long hanging branches, from beyond
which came floating a peasant's mournful song, broken by the uneven
jolting of the cart, I send you my last farewell!... On parting with life,
to you alone I stretch out my hands. Would I might once more inhale
the fresh, bitter fragrance of the wormwood, the sweet scent of the
mown buckwheat in the fields of my native place! Would I might once
more hear far away the modest tinkle of the cracked bell of our parish
church; once more lie in the cool shade under the oak sapling on the
slope of the familiar ravine; once more watch the moving track of the
wind, flitting, a dark wave over the golden grass of our meadow!... Ah,
what's the good of all this? But I can't go on to-day. Enough till
to-morrow.
March 22.
To-day it's cold and overcast again. Such weather is a great deal more
suitable. It's more in harmony with my task. Yesterday, quite
inappropriately, stirred up a multitude of useless emotions and
memories within me.