Pavel Vassilitch gets up, makes the sign of the cross over his mouth as he yawns, and says softly: “In a minute, my love!”
The cat who has been asleep beside him gets up too, straightens out its tail, arches its spine1, and half-shuts its eyes. There is stillness. . . . Mice can be heard scurrying2 behind the wall-paper. Putting on his boots and his dressing-gown, Pavel Vassilitch, crumpled3 and frowning from sleepiness, comes out of his bedroom into the dining-room; on his entrance another cat, engaged in sniffing5 a marinade of fish in the window, jumps down to the floor, and hides behind the cupboard.
“Who asked you to sniff4 that!” he says angrily, covering the fish with a sheet of newspaper. “You are a pig to do that, not a cat. . . .”
From the dining-room there is a door leading into the nursery. There, at a table covered with stains and deep scratches, sits Styopa, a high-school boy in the second class, with a peevish6 expression of face and tear-stained eyes. With his knees raised almost to his chin, and his hands clasped round them, he is swaying to and fro like a Chinese idol7 and looking crossly at a sum book.
“Are you working?” asks Pavel Vassilitch, sitting down to the table and yawning. “Yes, my boy. . . . We have enjoyed ourselves, slept, and eaten pancakes, and to-morrow comes Lenten fare, repentance8, and going to work. Every period of time has its limits. Why are your eyes so red? Are you sick of learning your lessons? To be sure, after pancakes, lessons are nasty to swallow. That’s about it.”
“What are you laughing at the child for?” Pelageya Ivanovna calls from the next room. “You had better show him instead of laughing at him. He’ll get a one again to-morrow, and make me miserable9.”
“What is it you don’t understand?” Pavel Vassilitch asks Styopa.
“Why this . . . division of fractions,” the boy answers crossly. “The division of fractions by fractions. . . .”
“H’m . . . queer boy! What is there in it? There’s nothing to understand in it. Learn the rules, and that’s all. . . . To divide a fraction by a fraction you must multiply the numerator of the first fraction by the denominator of the second, and that will be the numerator of the quotient. . . . In this case, the numerator of the first fraction. . . .”
“I know that without your telling me,” Styopa interrupts him, flicking10 a walnut11 shell off the table. “Show me the proof.”
“The proof? Very well, give me a pencil. Listen. . . . Suppose we want to divide seven eighths by two fifths. Well, the point of it is, my boy, that it’s required to divide these fractions by each other. . . . Have they set the samovar?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s time for tea. . . . It’s past seven. Well, now listen. We will look at it like this. . . . Suppose we want to divide seven eighths not by two fifths but by two, that is, by the numerator only. We divide it, what do we get?
“Seven sixteenths.”
“Right. Bravo! Well, the trick of it is, my boy, that if we . . . so if we have divided it by two then. . . . Wait a bit, I am getting muddled13. I remember when I was at school, the teacher of arithmetic was called Sigismund Urbanitch, a Pole. He used to get into a muddle12 over every lesson. He would begin explaining some theory, get in a tangle14, and turn crimson15 all over and race up and down the class-room as though someone were sticking an awl16 in his back, then he would blow his nose half a dozen times and begin to cry. But you know we were magnanimous to him, we pretended not to see it. ‘What is it, Sigismund Urbanitch?’ we used to ask him. ‘Have you got toothache?’ And what a set of young ruffians, regular cut-throats, we were, but yet we were magnanimous, you know! There weren’t any boys like you in my day, they were all great hulking fellows, great strapping18 louts, one taller than another. For instance, in our third class, there was Mamahin. My goodness, he was a solid chap! You know, a regular maypole, seven feet high. When he moved, the floor shook; when he brought his great fist down on your back, he would knock the breath out of your body! Not only we boys, but even the teachers were afraid of him. So this Mamahin used to . . .”
Pelageya Ivanovna’s footsteps are heard through the door. Pavel Vassilitch winks19 towards the door and says:
“There’s mother coming. Let’s get to work. Well, so you see, my boy,” he says, raising his voice. “This fraction has to be multiplied by that one. Well, and to do that you have to take the numerator of the first fraction. . .”
“Come to tea!” cries Pelageya Ivanovna. Pavel Vassilitch and his son abandon arithmetic and go in to tea. Pelageya Ivanovna is already sitting at the table with an aunt who never speaks, another aunt who is deaf and dumb, and Granny Markovna, a midwife who had helped Styopa into the world. The samovar is hissing20 and puffing21 out steam which throws flickering22 shadows on the ceiling. The cats come in from the entry sleepy and melancholy23 with their tails in the air. . . .
“Have some jam with your tea, Markovna,” says Pelageya Ivanovna, addressing the midwife. “To-morrow the great fast begins. Eat well to-day.”
Markovna takes a heaped spoonful of jam hesitatingly as though it were a powder, raises it to her lips, and with a sidelong look at Pavel Vassilitch, eats it; at once her face is overspread with a sweet smile, as sweet as the jam itself.
“The jam is particularly good,” she says. “Did you make it yourself, Pelageya Ivanovna, ma’am?”
“Yes. Who else is there to do it? I do everything myself. Styopotchka, have I given you your tea too weak? Ah, you have drunk it already. Pass your cup, my angel; let me give you some more.”
“So this Mamahin, my boy, could not bear the French master,” Pavel Vassilitch goes on, addressing his son. “‘I am a nobleman,’ he used to shout, ‘and I won’t allow a Frenchman to lord it over me! We beat the French in 1812!’ Well, of course they used to thrash him for it . . . thrash him dre-ead-fully, and sometimes when he saw they were meaning to thrash him, he would jump out of window, and off he would go! Then for five or six days afterwards he would not show himself at the school. His mother would come to the head-master and beg him for God’s sake: ‘Be so kind, sir, as to find my Mishka, and flog him, the rascal24!’ And the head-master would say to her: ‘Upon my word, madam, our five porters aren’t a match for him!’”
“Good heavens, to think of such ruffians being born,” whispers Pelageya Ivanovna, looking at her husband in horror. “What a trial for the poor mother!”
A silence follows. Styopa yawns loudly, and scrutinises the Chinaman on the tea-caddy whom he has seen a thousand times already. Markovna and the two aunts sip25 tea carefully out of their saucers. The air is still and stifling26 from the stove. . . . Faces and gestures betray the sloth27 and repletion28 that comes when the stomach is full, and yet one must go on eating. The samovar, the cups, and the table-cloth are cleared away, but still the family sits on at the table. . . . Pelageya Ivanovna is continually jumping up and, with an expression of alarm on her face, running off into the kitchen, to talk to the cook about the supper. The two aunts go on sitting in the same position immovably, with their arms folded across their bosoms29 and doze17, staring with their pewtery little eyes at the lamp. Markovna hiccups30 every minute and asks:
“Why is it I have the hiccups? I don’t think I have eaten anything to account for it . . . nor drunk anything either. . . . Hic!”
Pavel Vassilitch and Styopa sit side by side, with their heads touching31, and, bending over the table, examine a volume of the “Neva” for 1878.
“‘The monument of Leonardo da Vinci, facing the gallery of Victor Emmanuel at Milan.’ I say! . . . After the style of a triumphal arch. . . . A cavalier with his lady. . . . And there are little men in the distance. . . .”
“That little man is like a schoolfellow of mine called Niskubin,” says Styopa.
“Turn over. . . . ‘The proboscis32 of the common house-fly seen under the microscope.’ So that’s a proboscis! I say—a fly. Whatever would a bug33 look like under a microscope, my boy? Wouldn’t it be horrid34!”
The old-fashioned clock in the drawing-room does not strike, but coughs ten times huskily as though it had a cold. The cook, Anna, comes into the dining-room, and plumps down at the master’s feet.
“Forgive me, for Christ’s sake, Pavel Vassilitch!” she says, getting up, flushed all over.
“You forgive me, too, for Christ’s sake,” Pavel Vassilitch responds unconcernedly.
In the same manner, Anna goes up to the other members of the family, plumps down at their feet, and begs forgiveness. She only misses out Markovna to whom, not being one of the gentry35, she does not feel it necessary to bow down.
Another half-hour passes in stillness and tranquillity36. The “Neva” is by now lying on the sofa, and Pavel Vassilitch, holding up his finger, repeats by heart some Latin verses he has learned in his childhood. Styopa stares at the finger with the wedding ring, listens to the unintelligible37 words, and dozes38; he rubs his eyelids39 with his fists, and they shut all the tighter.
“I am going to bed . . .” he says, stretching and yawning.
“What, to bed?” says Pelageya Ivanovna. “What about supper before the fast?”
“I don’t want any.”
“Are you crazy?” says his mother in alarm. “How can you go without your supper before the fast? You’ll have nothing but Lenten food all through the fast!”
Pavel Vassilitch is scared too.
“Yes, yes, my boy,” he says. “For seven weeks mother will give you nothing but Lenten food. You can’t miss the last supper before the fast.”
“Oh dear, I am sleepy,” says Styopa peevishly40.
“Since that is how it is, lay the supper quickly,” Pavel Vassilitch cries in a fluster41. “Anna, why are you sitting there, silly? Make haste and lay the table.”
Pelageya Ivanovna clasps her hands and runs into the kitchen with an expression as though the house were on fire.
“Make haste, make haste,” is heard all over the house. “Styopotchka is sleepy. Anna! Oh dear me, what is one to do? Make haste.”
Five minutes later the table is laid. Again the cats, arching their spines42, and stretching themselves with their tails in the air, come into the dining-room. . . . The family begin supper. . . . No one is hungry, everyone’s stomach is overfull, but yet they must eat.
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收听单词发音
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1
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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2
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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3
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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4
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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5
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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7
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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10
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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11
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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12
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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13
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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14
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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awl
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| n.尖钻 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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18
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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19
winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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20
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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21
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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22
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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23
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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24
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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25
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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26
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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repletion
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| n.充满，吃饱 | |
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29
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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30
hiccups
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| n.嗝( hiccup的名词复数 )；连续地打嗝；暂时性的小问题；短暂的停顿v.嗝( hiccup的第三人称单数 )；连续地打嗝；暂时性的小问题；短暂的停顿 | |
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31
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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32
proboscis
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| n.（象的）长鼻 | |
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33
bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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34
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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35
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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36
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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37
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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38
dozes
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| n.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的名词复数 )v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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40
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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41
fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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42
spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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