When he reached his hotel room, Shtchiptsov spent a long time pacing up and down, then sat down on the bed, propped6 his head on his fists, and sank into thought. He sat like that without stirring or uttering a sound till two o’clock the next afternoon, when Sigaev, the comic man, walked into his room.
“Why is it you did not come to the rehearsal7, Booby Ivanitch?” the comic man began, panting and filling the room with fumes8 of vodka. “Where have you been?”
Shtchiptsov made no answer, but simply stared at the comic man with lustreless9 eyes, under which there were smudges of paint.
“You might at least have washed your phiz!” Sigaev went on. “You are a disgraceful sight! Have you been boozing, or . . . are you ill, or what? But why don’t you speak? I am asking you: are you ill?”
Shtchiptsov did not speak. In spite of the paint on his face, the comic man could not help noticing his striking pallor, the drops of sweat on his forehead, and the twitching11 of his lips. His hands and feet were trembling too, and the whole huge figure of the “good-natured simpleton” looked somehow crushed and flattened12. The comic man took a rapid glance round the room, but saw neither bottle nor flask13 nor any other suspicious vessel14.
“I say, Mishutka, you know you are ill!” he said in a flutter. “Strike me dead, you are ill! You don’t look yourself!”
Shtchiptsov remained silent and stared disconsolately15 at the floor.
“You must have caught cold,” said Sigaev, taking him by the hand. “Oh, dear, how hot your hands are! What’s the trouble?”
“I wa-ant to go home,” muttered Shtchiptsov.
“But you are at home now, aren’t you?”
“No. . . . To Vyazma. . . .”
“Oh, my, anywhere else! It would take you three years to get to your Vyazma. . . . What? do you want to go and see your daddy and mummy? I’ll be bound, they’ve kicked the bucket years ago, and you won’t find their graves. . . .”
“My ho-ome’s there.”
“Come, it’s no good giving way to the dismal16 dumps. These neurotic17 feelings are the limit, old man. You must get well, for you have to play Mitka in ‘The Terrible Tsar’ to-morrow. There is nobody else to do it. Drink something hot and take some castor-oil? Have you got the money for some castor-oil? Or, stay, I’ll run and buy some.”
The comic man fumbled18 in his pockets, found a fifteen-kopeck piece, and ran to the chemist’s. A quarter of an hour later he came back.
“Come, drink it,” he said, holding the bottle to the “heavy father’s” mouth. “Drink it straight out of the bottle. . . . All at a go! That’s the way. . . . Now nibble19 at a clove20 that your very soul mayn’t stink21 of the filthy22 stuff.”
The comic man sat a little longer with his sick friend, then kissed him tenderly, and went away. Towards evening the jeune premier23, Brama-Glinsky, ran in to see Shtchiptsov. The gifted actor was wearing a pair of prunella boots, had a glove on his left hand, was smoking a cigar, and even smelt24 of heliotrope25, yet nevertheless he strongly suggested a traveller cast away in some land in which there were neither baths nor laundresses nor tailors. . . .
“I hear you are ill?” he said to Shtchiptsov, twirling round on his heel. “What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you, really? . . .”
Shtchiptsov did not speak nor stir.
“Why don’t you speak? Do you feel giddy? Oh well, don’t talk, I won’t pester26 you . . . don’t talk. . . .”
Brama-Glinsky (that was his stage name, in his passport he was called Guskov) walked away to the window, put his hands in his pockets, and fell to gazing into the street. Before his eyes stretched an immense waste, bounded by a grey fence beside which ran a perfect forest of last year’s burdocks. Beyond the waste ground was a dark, deserted27 factory, with windows boarded up. A belated jackdaw was flying round the chimney. This dreary28, lifeless scene was beginning to be veiled in the dusk of evening.
“I must go home!” the jeune premier heard.
“Where is home?”
“To Vyazma . . . to my home. . . .”
“It is a thousand miles to Vyazma . . . my boy,” sighed Brama-Glinsky, drumming on the window-pane. “And what do you want to go to Vyazma for?”
“I want to die there.”
“What next! Now he’s dying! He has fallen ill for the first time in his life, and already he fancies that his last hour is come. . . . No, my boy, no cholera29 will carry off a buffalo30 like you. You’ll live to be a hundred. . . . Where’s the pain?”
“There’s no pain, but I . . . feel . . .”
“You don’t feel anything, it all comes from being too healthy. Your surplus energy upsets you. You ought to get jolly tight—drink, you know, till your whole inside is topsy-turvy. Getting drunk is wonderfully restoring. . . . Do you remember how screwed you were at Rostov on the Don? Good Lord, the very thought of it is alarming! Sashka and I together could only just carry in the barrel, and you emptied it alone, and even sent for rum afterwards. . . . You got so drunk you were catching31 devils in a sack and pulled a lamp-post up by the roots. Do you remember? Then you went off to beat the Greeks. . . .”
Under the influence of these agreeable reminiscences Shtchiptsov’s face brightened a little and his eyes began to shine.
“And do you remember how I beat Savoikin the manager?” he muttered, raising his head. “But there! I’ve beaten thirty-three managers in my time, and I can’t remember how many smaller fry. And what managers they were! Men who would not permit the very winds to touch them! I’ve beaten two celebrated32 authors and one painter!”
“What are you crying for?”
“At Kherson I killed a horse with my fists. And at Taganrog some roughs fell upon me at night, fifteen of them. I took off their caps and they followed me, begging: ‘Uncle, give us back our caps.’ That’s how I used to go on.”
“What are you crying for, then, you silly?”
“But now it’s all over . . . I feel it. If only I could go to Vyazma!”
A pause followed. After a silence Shtchiptsov suddenly jumped up and seized his cap. He looked distraught.
“Good-bye! I am going to Vyazma!” he articulated, staggering.
“And the money for the journey?”
“H’m! . . . I shall go on foot!”
“You are crazy. . . .”
The two men looked at each other, probably because the same thought—of the boundless33 plains, the unending forests and swamps—struck both of them at once.
“Well, I see you have gone off your head,” the jeune premier commented. “I’ll tell you what, old man. . . . First thing, go to bed, then drink some brandy and tea to put you into a sweat. And some castor-oil, of course. Stay, where am I to get some brandy?”
Brama-Glinsky thought a minute, then made up his mind to go to a shopkeeper called Madame Tsitrinnikov to try and get it from her on tick: who knows? perhaps the woman would feel for them and let them have it. The jeune premier went off, and half an hour later returned with a bottle of brandy and some castor-oil. Shtchiptsov was sitting motionless, as before, on the bed, gazing dumbly at the floor. He drank the castor-oil offered him by his friend like an automaton34, with no consciousness of what he was doing. Like an automaton he sat afterwards at the table, and drank tea and brandy; mechanically he emptied the whole bottle and let the jeune premier put him to bed. The latter covered him up with a quilt and an overcoat, advised him to get into a perspiration35, and went away.
The night came on; Shtchiptsov had drunk a great deal of brandy, but he did not sleep. He lay motionless under the quilt and stared at the dark ceiling; then, seeing the moon looking in at the window, he turned his eyes from the ceiling towards the companion of the earth, and lay so with open eyes till the morning. At nine o’clock in the morning Zhukov, the manager, ran in.
“What has put it into your head to be ill, my angel?” he cackled, wrinkling up his nose. “Aie, aie! A man with your physique has no business to be ill! For shame, for shame! Do you know, I was quite frightened. ‘Can our conversation have had such an effect on him?’ I wondered. My dear soul, I hope it’s not through me you’ve fallen ill! You know you gave me as good . . . er . . . And, besides, comrades can never get on without words. You called me all sorts of names . . . and have gone at me with your fists too, and yet I am fond of you! Upon my soul, I am. I respect you and am fond of you! Explain, my angel, why I am so fond of you. You are neither kith nor kin10 nor wife, but as soon as I heard you had fallen ill it cut me to the heart.”
Zhukov spent a long time declaring his affection, then fell to kissing the invalid36, and finally was so overcome by his feelings that he began laughing hysterically, and was even meaning to fall into a swoon, but, probably remembering that he was not at home nor at the theatre, put off the swoon to a more convenient opportunity and went away.
Soon after him Adabashev, the tragic37 actor, a dingy38, short-sighted individual who talked through his nose, made his appearance. . . . For a long while he looked at Shtchiptsov, for a long while he pondered, and at last he made a discovery.
“Do you know what, Mifa?” he said, pronouncing through his nose “f” instead of “sh,” and assuming a mysterious expression. “Do you know what? You ought to have a dose of castor-oil!”
Shtchiptsov was silent. He remained silent, too, a little later as the tragic actor poured the loathsome39 oil into his mouth. Two hours later Yevlampy, or, as the actors for some reason called him, Rigoletto, the hairdresser of the company, came into the room. He too, like the tragic man, stared at Shtchiptsov for a long time, then sighed like a steam-engine, and slowly and deliberately40 began untying41 a parcel he had brought with him. In it there were twenty cups and several little flasks42.
“You should have sent for me and I would have cupped you long ago,” he said, tenderly baring Shtchiptsov’s chest. “It is easy to neglect illness.”
Thereupon Rigoletto stroked the broad chest of the “heavy father” and covered it all over with suction cups.
“Yes . . .” he said, as after this operation he packed up his paraphernalia43, crimson44 with Shtchiptsov’s blood. “You should have sent for me, and I would have come. . . . You needn’t trouble about payment. . . . I do it from sympathy. Where are you to get the money if that idol45 won’t pay you? Now, please take these drops. They are nice drops! And now you must have a dose of this castor-oil. It’s the real thing. That’s right! I hope it will do you good. Well, now, good-bye. . . .”
Rigoletto took his parcel and withdrew, pleased that he had been of assistance to a fellow-creature.
The next morning Sigaev, the comic man, going in to see Shtchiptsov, found him in a terrible condition. He was lying under his coat, breathing in gasps46, while his eyes strayed over the ceiling. In his hands he was crushing convulsively the crumpled47 quilt.
“To Vyazma!” he whispered, when he saw the comic man. “To Vyazma.”
“Come, I don’t like that, old man!” said the comic man, flinging up his hands. “You see . . . you see . . . you see, old man, that’s not the thing! Excuse me, but . . . it’s positively48 stupid. . . .”
“To go to Vyazma! My God, to Vyazma!”
“I . . . I did not expect it of you,” the comic man muttered, utterly49 distracted. “What the deuce do you want to collapse50 like this for? Aie . . . aie . . . aie! . . . that’s not the thing. A giant as tall as a watch-tower, and crying. Is it the thing for actors to cry?”
“No wife nor children,” muttered Shtchiptsov. “I ought not to have gone for an actor, but have stayed at Vyazma. My life has been wasted, Semyon! Oh, to be in Vyazma!”
“Aie . . . aie . . . aie! . . . that’s not the thing! You see, it’s stupid . . . contemptible51 indeed!”
Recovering his composure and setting his feelings in order, Sigaev began comforting Shtchiptsov, telling him untruly that his comrades had decided52 to send him to the Crimea at their expense, and so on, but the sick man did not listen and kept muttering about Vyazma . . . . At last, with a wave of his hand, the comic man began talking about Vyazma himself to comfort the invalid.
“It’s a fine town,” he said soothingly53, “a capital town, old man! It’s famous for its cakes. The cakes are classical, but—between ourselves—h’m!—they are a bit groggy54. For a whole week after eating them I was . . . h’m! . . . But what is fine there is the merchants! They are something like merchants. When they treat you they do treat you!”
The comic man talked while Shtchiptsov listened in silence and nodded his head approvingly.
Towards evening he died.
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收听单词发音
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1
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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ruptured
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| v.（使）破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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5
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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8
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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10
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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11
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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12
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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13
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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14
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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15
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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16
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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18
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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30
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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32
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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34
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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35
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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38
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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39
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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40
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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41
untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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42
flasks
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| n.瓶，长颈瓶， 烧瓶( flask的名词复数 ) | |
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43
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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44
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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45
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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46
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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47
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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48
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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49
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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50
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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51
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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52
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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53
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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54
groggy
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| adj.体弱的；不稳的 | |
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