Turgénieff has touched on the theme to which Dostoiévsky was so fond of reverting. That theme is--the accidental sin of a good and honest man, the crime of a pure mind atoned for by voluntary renunciation, and the reconciling power of repentance, humility and prayer. Evil remains unpunished in Turgénieff's story..... And yet the story produces a shattering moral effect, thanks to the humble grandeur of Akím's figure, and its combination of meekness and criminality. Mean as Naúm is in his triumph, repulsive as is landed-proprietress Elizavéta Prókhorovna with her cowardly and hypocritical greed, the story leaves on the reader a soothing impression." I. F. H. FOOTNOTES: [1] The word used is, literally, "self-fool." It was invented by Ostróvsky, in one of his most famous comedies.--TRANSLATOR. [2] Some authorities assert positively that the incident narrated occurred in the Turgénieff household, and that Gerásim's mistress was the author's own mother.--TRANSLATOR. CONTENTS PAGE THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 1 THREE PORTRAITS 93 THREE MEETINGS 147 MUMÚ 201 THE INN 255 THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN (1850) HAMLET OF OVÉTCHI-VÓDY,[3] March 20, 18 . The doctor has just left me. At last I have obtained a categorical answer! Dodge as he might, he could not help saying what he thought, at last. Yes, I shall die soon, very soon. The streams are opening, and I shall float away, probably with the last snows .... whither? God knows! To the sea also. Well, all right! If I must die, then 't is better to die in the spring. But is it not ridiculous to begin one's diary perhaps a fortnight before one's death? Where 's the harm? And in what way are fourteen days less than fourteen years, fourteen centuries? In the presence of eternity, they say, everything is of no account--yes; but, in that case, eternity also is of no account. I am falling into speculation, I think: that is a bad sign--am not I beginning to turn coward?--It will be better if I narrate something. It is raw and windy out of doors,--I am forbidden to go out. But what shall I narrate? A well-bred man does not talk about his maladies; composing a novel, or something of that sort, is not in my line; reflections about exalted themes are beyond my powers; descriptions of life round about me do not even interest me; and to do nothing is tiresome; to read--is idleness. Eh! I will narrate to myself the story of my own life. A capital idea! When death is approaching it is proper, and can offend no one. I begin.