The Diary of a Superfluous Man and Other Stories | Page 7

acquaintance. I did not know at all how to
behave with women, and in their presence I either scowled and put on a
morose air, or grinned in the most idiotic way, and in my
embarrassment turned my tongue round and round in my mouth. With
Elizaveta Kirillovna, on the contrary, I felt at home from the first

moment. It happened in this way.
I called one day at Ozhogin's before dinner, asked, 'At home?' was told,
'The master's at home, dressing; please to walk into the drawing-room.'
I went into the drawing-room; I beheld standing at the window, with
her back to me, a girl in a white gown, with a cage in her hands. I was,
as my way was, somewhat taken aback; however, I showed no sign of it,
but merely coughed, for good manners. The girl turned round quickly,
so quickly that her curls gave her a slap in the face, saw me, bowed,
and with a smile showed me a little box half full of seeds. 'You don't
mind?' I, of course, as is the usual practice in such cases, first bowed
my head, and at the same time rapidly crooked my knees, and
straightened them out again (as though some one had given me a blow
from behind in the legs, a sure sign of good breeding and pleasant, easy
manners), and then smiled, raised my hand, and softly and carefully
brandished it twice in the air. The girl at once turned away from me,
took a little piece of board out of the cage, began vigorously scraping it
with a knife, and suddenly, without changing her attitude, uttered the
following words: 'This is papa's parrot.... Are you fond of parrots?' 'I
prefer siskins,' I answered, not without some effort. 'I like siskins, too;
but look at him, isn't he pretty? Look, he's not afraid.' (What surprised
me was that I was not afraid.) 'Come closer. His name's Popka.' I went
up, and bent down. 'Isn't he really sweet?' She turned her face to me;
but we were standing so close together, that she had to throw her head
back to get a look at me with her clear eyes. I gazed at her; her rosy
young face was smiling all over in such a friendly way that I smiled too,
and almost laughed aloud with delight. The door opened; Mr. Ozhogin
came in. I promptly went up to him, and began talking to him very
unconstrainedly. I don't know how it was, but I stayed to dinner, and
spent the whole evening with them; and next day the Ozhogins'
footman, an elongated, dull-eyed person, smiled upon me as a friend of
the family when he helped me off with my overcoat.
To find a haven of refuge, to build oneself even a temporary nest, to
feel the comfort of daily intercourse and habits, was a happiness I, a
superfluous man, with no family associations, had never before
experienced. If anything about me had had any resemblance to a flower,

and if the comparison were not so hackneyed, I would venture to say
that my soul blossomed from that day. Everything within me and about
me was suddenly transformed! My whole life was lighted up by love,
the whole of it, down to the paltriest details, like a dark, deserted room
when a light has been brought into it. I went to bed, and got up, dressed,
ate my breakfast, and smoked my pipe--differently from before. I
positively skipped along as I walked, as though wings were suddenly
sprouting from my shoulders. I was not for an instant, I remember, in
uncertainty with regard to the feeling Elizaveta Kirillovna inspired in
me. I fell passionately in love with her from the first day, and from the
first day I knew I was in love. During the course of three weeks I saw
her every day. Those three weeks were the happiest time in my life; but
the recollection of them is painful to me. I can't think of them alone; I
cannot help dwelling on what followed after them, and the intensest
bitterness slowly takes possession of my softened heart.
When a man is very happy, his brain, as is well known, is not very
active. A calm and delicious sensation, the sensation of satisfaction,
pervades his whole being; he is swallowed up by it; the consciousness
of personal life vanishes in him--he is in beatitude, as badly educated
poets say. But when, at last, this 'enchantment' is over, a man is
sometimes vexed and sorry that, in the midst of his bliss, he observed
himself so little; that he did not, by reflection, by recollection, redouble
and prolong his feelings ... as though the 'beatific' man had time, and it
were worth his while to