“My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling. I can’t analyse it just now—I haven’t the time, I’m too lazy, and there—hang analysis! Why, is a man likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred thousand? Is he in a state to do it?”
This was more or less how I began my love-letter to Sasha, a girl of nineteen with whom I had fallen in love. I began it five times, and as often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole pages, and copied it all over again. I spent as long over the letter as if it had been a novel I had to write to order. And it was not because I tried to make it longer, more elaborate, and more fervent3, but because I wanted endlessly to prolong the process of this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one’s study and communes with one’s own day-dreams while the spring night looks in at one’s window. Between the lines I saw a beloved image, and it seemed to me that there were, sitting at the same table writing with me, spirits as na?vely happy, as foolish, and as blissfully smiling as I. I wrote continually, looking at my hand, which still ached deliciously where hers had lately pressed it, and if I turned my eyes away I had a vision of the green trellis of the little gate. Through that trellis Sasha gazed at me after I had said goodbye to her. When I was saying good-bye to Sasha I was thinking of nothing and was simply admiring her figure as every decent man admires a pretty woman; when I saw through the trellis two big eyes, I suddenly, as though by inspiration, knew that I was in love, that it was all settled between us, and fully4 decided5 already, that I had nothing left to do but to carry out certain formalities.
It is a great delight also to seal up a love-letter, and, slowly putting on one’s hat and coat, to go softly out of the house and to carry the treasure to the post. There are no stars in the sky now: in their place there is a long whitish streak6 in the east, broken here and there by clouds above the roofs of the dingy7 houses; from that streak the whole sky is flooded with pale light. The town is asleep, but already the water-carts have come out, and somewhere in a far-away factory a whistle sounds to wake up the workpeople. Beside the postbox, slightly moist with dew, you are sure to see the clumsy figure of a house porter, wearing a bell-shaped sheepskin and carrying a stick. He is in a condition akin8 to catalepsy: he is not asleep or awake, but something between.
If the boxes knew how often people resort to them for the decision of their fate, they would not have such a humble9 air. I, anyway, almost kissed my postbox, and as I gazed at it I reflected that the post is the greatest of blessings10.
I beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries home after dropping the letter in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls up the quilt in the full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the morning one will be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look with rapture11 at the window, where the daylight will be eagerly making its way through the folds of the curtain.
Well, to facts. . . . Next morning at midday, Sasha’s maid brought me the following answer: “I am delited be sure to come to us to day please I shall expect you. Your S.”
Not a single comma. This lack of punctuation12, and the misspelling of the word “delighted,” the whole letter, and even the long, narrow envelope in which it was put filled my heart with tenderness. In the sprawling13 but diffident handwriting I recognised Sasha’s walk, her way of raising her eyebrows14 when she laughed, the movement of her lips. . . . But the contents of the letter did not satisfy me. In the first place, poetical15 letters are not answered in that way, and in the second, why should I go to Sasha’s house to wait till it should occur to her stout16 mamma, her brothers, and poor relations to leave us alone together? It would never enter their heads, and nothing is more hateful than to have to restrain one’s raptures17 simply because of the intrusion of some animate18 trumpery19 in the shape of a half-deaf old woman or little girl pestering20 one with questions. I sent an answer by the maid asking Sasha to select some park or boulevard for a rendezvous21. My suggestion was readily accepted. I had struck the right chord, as the saying is.
Between four and five o’clock in the afternoon I made my way to the furthest and most overgrown part of the park. There was not a soul in the park, and the tryst22 might have taken place somewhere nearer in one of the avenues or arbours, but women don’t like doing it by halves in romantic affairs; in for a penny, in for a pound—if you are in for a tryst, let it be in the furthest and most impenetrable thicket23, where one runs the risk of stumbling upon some rough or drunken man. When I went up to Sasha she was standing24 with her back to me, and in that back I could read a devilish lot of mystery. It seemed as though that back and the nape of her neck, and the black spots on her dress were saying: Hush25! . . . The girl was wearing a simple cotton dress over which she had thrown a light cape26. To add to the air of mysterious secrecy27, her face was covered with a white veil. Not to spoil the effect, I had to approach on tiptoe and speak in a half whisper.
From what I remember now, I was not so much the essential point of the rendezvous as a detail of it. Sasha was not so much absorbed in the interview itself as in its romantic mysteriousness, my kisses, the silence of the gloomy trees, my vows28. . . . There was not a minute in which she forgot herself, was overcome, or let the mysterious expression drop from her face, and really if there had been any Ivan Sidoritch or Sidor Ivanitch in my place she would have felt just as happy. How is one to make out in such circumstances whether one is loved or not? Whether the love is “the real thing” or not?
From the park I took Sasha home with me. The presence of the beloved woman in one’s bachelor quarters affects one like wine and music. Usually one begins to speak of the future, and the confidence and self-reliance with which one does so is beyond bounds. You make plans and projects, talk fervently29 of the rank of general though you have not yet reached the rank of a lieutenant30, and altogether you fire off such high-flown nonsense that your listener must have a great deal of love and ignorance of life to assent31 to it. Fortunately for men, women in love are always blinded by their feelings and never know anything of life. Far from not assenting32, they actually turn pale with holy awe33, are full of reverence34 and hang greedily on the maniac’s words. Sasha listened to me with attention, but I soon detected an absent-minded expression on her face, she did not understand me. The future of which I talked interested her only in its external aspect and I was wasting time in displaying my plans and projects before her. She was keenly interested in knowing which would be her room, what paper she would have in the room, why I had an upright piano instead of a grand piano, and so on. She examined carefully all the little things on my table, looked at the photographs, sniffed35 at the bottles, peeled the old stamps off the envelopes, saying she wanted them for something.
“Please collect old stamps for me!” she said, making a grave face. “Please do.”
Then she found a nut in the window, noisily cracked it and ate it.
“Why don’t you stick little labels on the backs of your books?” she asked, taking a look at the bookcase.
“What for?”
“Oh, so that each book should have its number. And where am I to put my books? I’ve got books too, you know.”
“What books have you got?” I asked.
Sasha raised her eyebrows, thought a moment and said:
“All sorts.”
And if it had entered my head to ask her what thoughts, what convictions, what aims she had, she would no doubt have raised her eyebrows, thought a minute, and have said in the same way: “All sorts.”
Later I saw Sasha home and left her house regularly, officially engaged, and was so reckoned till our wedding. If the reader will allow me to judge merely from my personal experience, I maintain that to be engaged is very dreary36, far more so than to be a husband or nothing at all. An engaged man is neither one thing nor the other, he has left one side of the river and not reached the other, he is not married and yet he can’t be said to be a bachelor, but is in something not unlike the condition of the porter whom I have mentioned above.
Every day as soon as I had a free moment I hastened to my fiancée. As I went I usually bore within me a multitude of hopes, desires, intentions, suggestions, phrases. I always fancied that as soon as the maid opened the door I should, from feeling oppressed and stifled37, plunge38 at once up to my neck into a sea of refreshing39 happiness. But it always turned out otherwise in fact. Every time I went to see my fiancée I found all her family and other members of the household busy over the silly trousseau. (And by the way, they were hard at work sewing for two months and then they had less than a hundred roubles’ worth of things). There was a smell of irons, candle grease and fumes40. Bugles41 scrunched42 under one’s feet. The two most important rooms were piled up with billows of linen43, calico, and muslin and from among the billows peeped out Sasha’s little head with a thread between her teeth. All the sewing party welcomed me with cries of delight but at once led me off into the dining-room where I could not hinder them nor see what only husbands are permitted to behold44. In spite of my feelings, I had to sit in the dining-room and converse45 with Pimenovna, one of the poor relations. Sasha, looking worried and excited, kept running by me with a thimble, a skein of wool or some other boring object.
“Wait, wait, I shan’t be a minute,” she would say when I raised imploring46 eyes to her. “Only fancy that wretch47 Stepanida has spoilt the bodice of the barège dress!”
And after waiting in vain for this grace, I lost my temper, went out of the house and walked about the streets in the company of the new cane48 I had bought. Or I would want to go for a walk or a drive with my fiancée, would go round and find her already standing in the hall with her mother, dressed to go out and playing with her parasol.
“Oh, we are going to the Arcade49,” she would say. “We have got to buy some more cashmere and change the hat.”
My outing is knocked on the head. I join the ladies and go with them to the Arcade. It is revoltingly dull to listen to women shopping, haggling50 and trying to outdo the sharp shopman. I felt ashamed when Sasha, after turning over masses of material and knocking down the prices to a minimum, walked out of the shop without buying anything, or else told the shopman to cut her some half rouble’s worth.
When they came out of the shop, Sasha and her mamma with scared and worried faces would discuss at length having made a mistake, having bought the wrong thing, the flowers in the chintz being too dark, and so on.
Yes, it is a bore to be engaged! I’m glad it’s over.
Now I am married. It is evening. I am sitting in my study reading. Behind me on the sofa Sasha is sitting munching51 something noisily. I want a glass of beer.
“Sasha, look for the corkscrew. . . .” I say. “It’s lying about somewhere.”
Sasha leaps up, rummages52 in a disorderly way among two or three heaps of papers, drops the matches, and without finding the corkscrew, sits down in silence. . . . Five minutes pass—ten. . . I begin to be fretted53 both by thirst and vexation.
“Sasha, do look for the corkscrew,” I say.
Sasha leaps up again and rummages among the papers near me. Her munching and rustling54 of the papers affects me like the sound of sharpening knives against each other. . . . I get up and begin looking for the corkscrew myself. At last it is found and the beer is uncorked. Sasha remains55 by the table and begins telling me something at great length.
“You’d better read something, Sasha,” I say.
She takes up a book, sits down facing me and begins moving her lips . . . . I look at her little forehead, moving lips, and sink into thought.
“She is getting on for twenty. . . .” I reflect. “If one takes a boy of the educated class and of that age and compares them, what a difference! The boy would have knowledge and convictions and some intelligence.”
But I forgive that difference just as the low forehead and moving lips are forgiven. I remember in my old Lovelace days I have cast off women for a stain on their stockings, or for one foolish word, or for not cleaning their teeth, and now I forgive everything: the munching, the muddling56 about after the corkscrew, the slovenliness57, the long talking about nothing that matters; I forgive it all almost unconsciously, with no effort of will, as though Sasha’s mistakes were my mistakes, and many things which would have made me wince58 in old days move me to tenderness and even rapture. The explanation of this forgiveness of everything lies in my love for Sasha, but what is the explanation of the love itself, I really don’t know.
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1
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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2
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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punctuation
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| n.标点符号，标点法 | |
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13
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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14
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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15
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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18
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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19
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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21
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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24
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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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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26
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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28
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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29
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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32
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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33
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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34
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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35
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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38
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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39
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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40
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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41
bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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42
scrunched
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| v.发出喀嚓声( scrunch的过去式和过去分词 )；蜷缩；压；挤压 | |
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43
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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44
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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45
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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46
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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47
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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48
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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49
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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50
haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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51
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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52
rummages
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的名词复数 ) | |
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53
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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54
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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55
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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56
muddling
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| v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的现在分词 )；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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57
slovenliness
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58
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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