I REMEMBER, when I was a high school boy in the fifth or sixth class, I was driving with my grandfather from the village of Bolshoe Kryepkoe in the Don region to Rostov-on-the-Don. It was a sultry, languidly dreary1 day of August. Our eyes were glued together, and our mouths were parched3 from the heat and the dry burning wind which drove clouds of dust to meet us; one did not want to look or speak or think, and when our drowsy4 driver, a Little Russian called Karpo, swung his whip at the horses and lashed5 me on my cap, I did not protest or utter a sound, but only, rousing myself from half-slumber, gazed mildly and dejectedly into the distance to see whether there was a village visible through the dust. We stopped to feed the horses in a big Armenian village at a rich Armenian’s whom my grandfather knew. Never in my life have I seen a greater caricature than that Armenian. Imagine a little shaven head with thick overhanging eyebrows6, a beak7 of a nose, long gray mustaches, and a wide mouth with a long cherry-wood chibouk sticking out of it. This little head was clumsily attached to a lean hunch-back carcass attired8 in a fantastic garb9, a short red jacket, and full bright blue trousers. This figure walked straddling its legs and shuffling10 with its slippers11, spoke12 without taking the chibouk out of its mouth, and behaved with truly Armenian dignity, not smiling, but staring with wide-open eyes and trying to take as little notice as possible of its guests.
There was neither wind nor dust in the Armenian’s rooms, but it was just as unpleasant, stifling13, and dreary as in the steppe and on the road. I remember, dusty and exhausted14 by the heat, I sat in the corner on a green box. The unpainted wooden walls, the furniture, and the floors colored with yellow ocher smelt15 of dry wood baked by the sun. Wherever I looked there were flies and flies and flies.... Grandfather and the Armenian were talking about grazing, about manure16, and about oats.... I knew that they would be a good hour getting the samovar; that grandfather would be not less than an hour drinking his tea, and then would lie down to sleep for two or three hours; that I should waste a quarter of the day waiting, after which there would be again the heat, the dust, the jolting17 cart. I heard the muttering of the two voices, and it began to seem to me that I had been seeing the Armenian, the cupboard with the crockery, the flies, the windows with the burning sun beating on them, for ages and ages, and should only cease to see them in the far-off future, and I was seized with hatred18 for the steppe, the sun, the flies....
A Little Russian peasant woman in a kerchief brought in a tray of tea-things, then the samovar. The Armenian went slowly out into the passage and shouted: “Mashya, come and pour out tea! Where are you, Mashya?”
Hurried footsteps were heard, and there came into the room a girl of sixteen in a simple cotton dress and a white kerchief. As she washed the crockery and poured out the tea, she was standing19 with her back to me, and all I could see was that she was of a slender figure, barefooted, and that her little bare heels were covered by long trousers.
The Armenian invited me to have tea. Sitting down to the table, I glanced at the girl, who was handing me a glass of tea, and felt all at once as though a wind were blowing over my soul and blowing away all the impressions of the day with their dust and dreariness20. I saw the bewitching features of the most beautiful face I have ever met in real life or in my dreams. Before me stood a beauty, and I recognized that at the first glance as I should have recognized lightning.
I am ready to swear that Masha—or, as her father called her, Mashya—was a real beauty, but I don’t know how to prove it. It sometimes happens that clouds are huddled21 together in disorder22 on the horizon, and the sun hiding behind them colors them and the sky with tints24 of every possible shade—crimson, orange, gold, lilac, muddy pink; one cloud is like a monk25, another like a fish, a third like a Turk in a turban. The glow of sunset enveloping26 a third of the sky gleams on the cross on the church, flashes on the windows of the manor28 house, is reflected in the river and the puddles29, quivers on the trees; far, far away against the background of the sunset, a flock of wild ducks is flying homewards.... And the boy herding30 the cows, and the surveyor driving in his chaise over the dam, and the gentleman out for a walk, all gaze at the sunset, and every one of them thinks it terribly beautiful, but no one knows or can say in what its beauty lies.
I was not the only one to think the Armenian girl beautiful. My grandfather, an old man of seventy, gruff and indifferent to women and the beauties of nature, looked caressingly31 at Masha for a full minute, and asked:
“Is that your daughter, Avert32 Nazaritch?”
“Yes, she is my daughter,” answered the Armenian.
“A fine young lady,” said my grandfather approvingly.
An artist would have called the Armenian girl’s beauty classical and severe, it was just that beauty, the contemplation of which—God knows why!—inspires in one the conviction that one is seeing correct features; that hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck, bosom33, and every movement of the young body all go together in one complete harmonious34 accord in which nature has not blundered over the smallest line. You fancy for some reason that the ideally beautiful woman must have such a nose as Masha’s, straight and slightly aquiline35, just such great dark eyes, such long lashes27, such a languid glance; you fancy that her black curly hair and eyebrows go with the soft white tint23 of her brow and cheeks as the green reeds go with the quiet stream. Masha’s white neck and her youthful bosom were not fully36 developed, but you fancy the sculptor37 would need a great creative genius to mold them. You gaze, and little by little the desire comes over you to say to Masha something extraordinarily38 pleasant, sincere, beautiful, as beautiful as she herself was.
At first I felt hurt and abashed39 that Masha took no notice of me, but was all the time looking down; it seemed to me as though a peculiar40 atmosphere, proud and happy, separated her from me and jealously screened her from my eyes.
“That’s because I am covered with dust,” I thought, “am sunburnt, and am still a boy.”
But little by little I forgot myself, and gave myself up entirely41 to the consciousness of beauty. I thought no more now of the dreary steppe, of the dust, no longer heard the buzzing of the flies, no longer tasted the tea, and felt nothing except that a beautiful girl was standing only the other side of the table.
I felt this beauty rather strangely. It was not desire, nor ecstacy, nor enjoyment42 that Masha excited in me, but a painful though pleasant sadness. It was a sadness vague and undefined as a dream. For some reason I felt sorry for myself, for my grandfather and for the Armenian, even for the girl herself, and I had a feeling as though we all four had lost something important and essential to life which we should never find again. My grandfather, too, grew melancholy43; he talked no more about manure or about oats, but sat silent, looking pensively44 at Masha.
After tea my grandfather lay down for a nap while I went out of the house into the porch. The house, like all the houses in the Armenian village stood in the full sun; there was not a tree, not an awning45, no shade. The Armenian’s great courtyard, overgrown with goosefoot and wild mallows, was lively and full of gaiety in spite of the great heat. Threshing was going on behind one of the low hurdles47 which intersected the big yard here and there. Round a post stuck into the middle of the threshing-floor ran a dozen horses harnessed side by side, so that they formed one long radius48. A Little Russian in a long waistcoat and full trousers was walking beside them, cracking a whip and shouting in a tone that sounded as though he were jeering49 at the horses and showing off his power over them.
“A—a—a, you damned brutes50!... A—a—a, plague take you! Are you frightened?”
The horses, sorrel, white, and piebald, not understanding why they were made to run round in one place and to crush the wheat straw, ran unwillingly51 as though with effort, swinging their tails with an offended air. The wind raised up perfect clouds of golden chaff52 from under their hoofs53 and carried it away far beyond the hurdle46. Near the tall fresh stacks peasant women were swarming54 with rakes, and carts were moving, and beyond the stacks in another yard another dozen similar horses were running round a post, and a similar Little Russian was cracking his whip and jeering at the horses.
The steps on which I was sitting were hot; on the thin rails and here and there on the window-frames sap was oozing55 out of the wood from the heat; red ladybirds were huddling56 together in the streaks57 of shadow under the steps and under the shutters58. The sun was baking me on my head, on my chest, and on my back, but I did not notice it, and was conscious only of the thud of bare feet on the uneven59 floor in the passage and in the rooms behind me. After clearing away the tea-things, Masha ran down the steps, fluttering the air as she passed, and like a bird flew into a little grimy outhouse—I suppose the kitchen—from which came the smell of roast mutton and the sound of angry talk in Armenian. She vanished into the dark doorway60, and in her place there appeared on the threshold an old bent61, red-faced Armenian woman wearing green trousers. The old woman was angry and was scolding someone. Soon afterwards Masha appeared in the doorway, flushed with the heat of the kitchen and carrying a big black loaf on her shoulder; swaying gracefully62 under the weight of the bread, she ran across the yard to the threshing-floor, darted63 over the hurdle, and, wrapt in a cloud of golden chaff, vanished behind the carts. The Little Russian who was driving the horses lowered his whip, sank into silence, and gazed for a minute in the direction of the carts. Then when the Armenian girl darted again by the horses and leaped over the hurdle, he followed her with his eyes, and shouted to the horses in a tone as though he were greatly disappointed:
“Plague take you, unclean devils!”
And all the while I was unceasingly hearing her bare feet, and seeing how she walked across the yard with a grave, preoccupied64 face. She ran now down the steps, swishing the air about me, now into the kitchen, now to the threshing-floor, now through the gate, and I could hardly turn my head quickly enough to watch her.
And the oftener she fluttered by me with her beauty, the more acute became my sadness. I felt sorry both for her and for myself and for the Little Russian, who mournfully watched her every time she ran through the cloud of chaff to the carts. Whether it was envy of her beauty, or that I was regretting that the girl was not mine, and never would be, or that I was a stranger to her; or whether I vaguely65 felt that her rare beauty was accidental, unnecessary, and, like everything on earth, of short duration; or whether, perhaps, my sadness was that peculiar feeling which is excited in man by the contemplation of real beauty, God only knows.
The three hours of waiting passed unnoticed. It seemed to me that I had not had time to look properly at Masha when Karpo drove up to the river, bathed the horse, and began to put it in the shafts66. The wet horse snorted with pleasure and kicked his hoofs against the shafts. Karpo shouted to it: “Ba—ack!” My grandfather woke up. Masha opened the creaking gates for us, we got into the chaise and drove out of the yard. We drove in silence as though we were angry with one another.
When, two or three hours later, Rostov and Nahitchevan appeared in the distance, Karpo, who had been silent the whole time, looked round quickly, and said:
“A fine wench, that at the Armenian’s.”
And he lashed his horses.
II
Another time, after I had become a student, I was traveling by rail to the south. It was May. At one of the stations, I believe it was between Byelgorod and Harkov, I got out of the tram to walk about the platform.
The shades of evening were already lying on the station garden, on the platform, and on the fields; the station screened off the sunset, but on the topmost clouds of smoke from the engine, which were tinged67 with rosy68 light, one could see the sun had not yet quite vanished.
As I walked up and down the platform I noticed that the greater number of the passengers were standing or walking near a second-class compartment69, and that they looked as though some celebrated70 person were in that compartment. Among the curious whom I met near this compartment I saw, however, an artillery71 officer who had been my fellow-traveler, an intelligent, cordial, and sympathetic fellow—as people mostly are whom we meet on our travels by chance and with whom we are not long acquainted.
“What are you looking at there?” I asked.
He made no answer, but only indicated with his eyes a feminine figure. It was a young girl of seventeen or eighteen, wearing a Russian dress, with her head bare and a little shawl flung carelessly on one shoulder; not a passenger, but I suppose a sister or daughter of the station-master. She was standing near the carriage window, talking to an elderly woman who was in the train. Before I had time to realize what I was seeing, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling I had once experienced in the Armenian village.
The girl was remarkably72 beautiful, and that was unmistakable to me and to those who were looking at her as I was.
If one is to describe her appearance feature by feature, as the practice is, the only really lovely thing was her thick wavy73 fair hair, which hung loose with a black ribbon tied round her head; all the other features were either irregular or very ordinary. Either from a peculiar form of coquettishness, or from short-sightedness, her eyes were screwed up, her nose had an undecided tilt74, her mouth was small, her profile was feebly and insipidly75 drawn76, her shoulders were narrow and undeveloped for her age—and yet the girl made the impression of being really beautiful, and looking at her, I was able to feel convinced that the Russian face does not need strict regularity77 in order to be lovely; what is more, that if instead of her turn-up nose the girl had been given a different one, correct and plastically irreproachable78 like the Armenian girl’s, I fancy her face would have lost all its charm from the change.
Standing at the window talking, the girl, shrugging at the evening damp, continually looking round at us, at one moment put her arms akimbo, at the next raised her hands to her head to straighten her hair, talked, laughed, while her face at one moment wore an expression of wonder, the next of horror, and I don’t remember a moment when her face and body were at rest. The whole secret and magic of her beauty lay just in these tiny, infinitely79 elegant movements, in her smile, in the play of her face, in her rapid glances at us, in the combination of the subtle grace of her movements with her youth, her freshness, the purity of her soul that sounded in her laugh and voice, and with the weakness we love so much in children, in birds, in fawns80, and in young trees.
It was that butterfly’s beauty so in keeping with waltzing, darting81 about the garden, laughter and gaiety, and incongruous with serious thought, grief, and repose82; and it seemed as though a gust2 of wind blowing over the platform, or a fall of rain, would be enough to wither83 the fragile body and scatter84 the capricious beauty like the pollen85 of a flower.
“So—o!...” the officer muttered with a sigh when, after the second bell, we went back to our compartment.
And what that “So—o” meant I will not undertake to decide.
Perhaps he was sad, and did not want to go away from the beauty and the spring evening into the stuffy86 train; or perhaps he, like me, was unaccountably sorry for the beauty, for himself, and for me, and for all the passengers, who were listlessly and reluctantly sauntering back to their compartments87. As we passed the station window, at which a pale, red-haired telegraphist with upstanding curls and a faded, broad-cheeked face was sitting beside his apparatus88, the officer heaved a sigh and said:
“I bet that telegraphist is in love with that pretty girl. To live out in the wilds under one roof with that ethereal creature and not fall in love is beyond the power of man. And what a calamity89, my friend! what an ironical90 fate, to be stooping, unkempt, gray, a decent fellow and not a fool, and to be in love with that pretty, stupid little girl who would never take a scrap91 of notice of you! Or worse still: imagine that telegraphist is in love, and at the same time married, and that his wife is as stooping, as unkempt, and as decent a person as himself.”
On the platform between our carriage and the next the guard was standing with his elbows on the railing, looking in the direction of the beautiful girl, and his battered92, wrinkled, unpleasantly beefy face, exhausted by sleepless93 nights and the jolting of the train, wore a look of tenderness and of the deepest sadness, as though in that girl he saw happiness, his own youth, soberness, purity, wife, children; as though he were repenting94 and feeling in his whole being that that girl was not his, and that for him, with his premature95 old age, his uncouthness96, and his beefy face, the ordinary happiness of a man and a passenger was as far away as heaven....
The third bell rang, the whistles sounded, and the train slowly moved off. First the guard, the station-master, then the garden, the beautiful girl with her exquisitely97 sly smile, passed before our windows....
Putting my head out and looking back, I saw how, looking after the train, she walked along the platform by the window where the telegraph clerk was sitting, smoothed her hair, and ran into the garden. The station no longer screened off the sunset, the plain lay open before us, but the sun had already set and the smoke lay in black clouds over the green, velvety98 young corn. It was melancholy in the spring air, and in the darkening sky, and in the railway carriage.
The familiar figure of the guard came into the carriage, and he began lighting99 the candles.
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1
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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5
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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11
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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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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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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46
hurdle
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| n.跳栏，栏架；障碍，困难；vi.进行跨栏赛 | |
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hurdles
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| n.障碍( hurdle的名词复数 )；跳栏；（供人或马跳跃的）栏架；跨栏赛 | |
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radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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49
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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50
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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51
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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52
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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53
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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55
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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56
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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insipidly
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| adv.没有味道地，清淡地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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fawns
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| n.（未满一岁的）幼鹿( fawn的名词复数 )；浅黄褐色；乞怜者；奉承者v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的第三人称单数 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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uncouthness
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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