"Notice those Germans sitting near the shelter? Whenever Germans or Englishmen get together, they talk about the crops, the price of wool, or their personal affairs. But for some reason or other when we Russians get together we never discuss anything but women and abstract subjects--but especially women."
This gentleman's face was familiar to me already. We had returned from abroad the evening before in the same train, and at Volotchisk when the luggage was being examined by the Customs, I saw him standing1 with a lady, his travelling companion, before a perfect mountain of trunks and baskets filled with ladies' clothes, and I noticed how embarrassed and downcast he was when he had to pay duty on some piece of silk frippery, and his companion protested and threatened to make a complaint. Afterwards, on the way to Odessa, I saw him carrying little pies and oranges to the ladies' compartment2.
It was rather damp; the vessel3 swayed a little, and the ladies had retired4 to their cabins.
The gentleman with the little round beard sat down beside me and continued:
"Yes, when Russians come together they discuss nothing but abstract subjects and women. We are so intellectual, so solemn, that we utter nothing but truths and can discuss only questions of a lofty order. The Russian actor does not know how to be funny; he acts with profundity5 even in a farce6. We're just the same: when we have got to talk of trifles we treat them only from an exalted7 point of view. It comes from a lack of boldness, sincerity8, and simplicity9. We talk so often about women, I fancy, because we are dissatisfied. We take too ideal a view of women, and make demands out of all proportion with what reality can give us; we get something utterly10 different from what we want, and the result is dissatisfaction, shattered hopes, and inward suffering, and if any one is suffering, he's bound to talk of it. It does not bore you to go on with this conversation?
"No, not in the least."
"In that case, allow me to introduce myself," said my companion, rising from his seat a little:
"Ivan Ilyitch Shamohin, a Moscow landowner of a sort. . . . You I know very well."
He sat down and went on, looking at me with a genuine and friendly expression:
"A mediocre11 philosopher, like Max Nordau, would explain these incessant12 conversations about women as a form of erotic madness, or would put it down to our having been slave-owners and so on; I take quite a different view of it. I repeat, we are dissatisfied because we are idealists. We want the creatures who bear us and our children to be superior to us and to everything in the world. When we are young we adore and poeticize those with whom we are in love: love and happiness with us are synonyms14. Among us in Russia marriage without love is despised, sensuality is ridiculed15 and inspires repulsion, and the greatest success is enjoyed by those tales and novels in which women are beautiful, poetical16, and exalted; and if the Russian has been for years in ecstasies17 over Raphael's Madonna, or is eager for the emancipation18 of women, I assure you there is no affectation about it. But the trouble is that when we have been married or been intimate with a woman for some two or three years, we begin to feel deceived and disillusioned19: we pair off with others, and again--disappointment, again--repulsion, and in the long run we become convinced that women are lying, trivial, fussy20, unfair, undeveloped, cruel--in fact, far from being superior, are immeasurably inferior to us men. And in our dissatisfaction and disappointment there is nothing left for us but to grumble21 and talk about what we've been so cruelly deceived in."
While Shamohin was talking I noticed that the Russian language and our Russian surroundings gave him great pleasure. This was probably because he had been very homesick abroad. Though he praised the Russians and ascribed to them a rare idealism, he did not disparage22 foreigners, and that I put down to his credit. It could be seen, too, that there was some uneasiness in his soul, that he wanted to talk more of himself than of women, and that I was in for a long story in the nature of a confession23. And when we had asked for a bottle of wine and had each of us drunk a glass, this was how he did in fact begin:
"I remember in a novel of Weltmann's some one says, 'So that's the story!' and some one else answers, 'No, that's not the story-- that's only the introduction to the story.' In the same way what I've said so far is only the introduction; what I really want to tell you is my own love story. Excuse me, I must ask you again; it won't bore you to listen?"
I told him it would not, and he went on:
The scene of my story is laid in the Moscow province in one of its northern districts. The scenery there, I must tell you, is exquisite24. Our homestead is on the high bank of a rapid stream, where the water chatters25 noisily day and night: imagine a big old garden, neat flower-beds, beehives, a kitchen-garden, and below it a river with leafy willows26, which, when there is a heavy dew on them, have a lustreless27 look as though they had turned grey; and on the other side a meadow, and beyond the meadow on the upland a terrible, dark pine forest. In that forest delicious, reddish agarics grow in endless profusion28, and elks29 still live in its deepest recesses30. When I am nailed up in my coffin31 I believe I shall still dream of those early mornings, you know, when the sun hurts your eyes: or the wonderful spring evenings when the nightingales and the landrails call in the garden and beyond the garden, and sounds of the harmonica float across from the village, while they play the piano indoors and the stream babbles33 . . . when there is such music, in fact, that one wants at the same time to cry and to sing aloud.
We have not much arable34 land, but our pasture makes up for it, and with the forest yields about two thousand roubles a year. I am the only son of my father; we are both modest persons, and with my father's pension that sum was amply sufficient for us.
The first three years after finishing at the university I spent in the country, looking after the estate and constantly expecting to be elected on some local assembly; but what was most important, I was violently in love with an extraordinarily35 beautiful and fascinating girl. She was the sister of our neighbour, Kotlovitch, a ruined landowner who had on his estate pine-apples, marvellous peaches, lightning conductors, a fountain in the courtyard, and at the same time not a farthing in his pocket. He did nothing and knew how to do nothing. He was as flabby as though he had been made of boiled turnip36; he used to doctor the peasants by homeopathy and was interested in spiritualism. He was, however, a man of great delicacy37 and mildness, and by no means a fool, but I have no fondness for these gentlemen who converse38 with spirits and cure peasant women by magnetism39. In the first place, the ideas of people who are not intellectually free are always in a muddle40, and it's extremely difficult to talk to them; and, secondly41, they usually love no one, and have nothing to do with women, and their mysticism has an unpleasant effect on sensitive people. I did not care for his appearance either. He was tall, stout42, white-skinned, with a little head, little shining eyes, and chubby43 white fingers. He did not shake hands, but kneaded one's hands in his. And he was always apologising. If he asked for anything it was "Excuse me"; if he gave you anything it was "Excuse me" too.
As for his sister, she was a character out of a different opera. I must explain that I had not been acquainted with the Kotlovitches in my childhood and early youth, for my father had been a professor at N., and we had for many years lived away. When I did make their acquaintance the girl was twenty-two, had left school long before, and had spent two or three years in Moscow with a wealthy aunt who brought her out into society. When I was introduced and first had to talk to her, what struck me most of all was her rare and beautiful name--Ariadne. It suited her so wonderfully! She was a brunette, very thin, very slender, supple44, elegant, and extremely graceful45, with refined and exceedingly noble features. Her eyes were shining, too, but her brother's shone with a cold sweetness, mawkish46 as sugar-candy, while hers had the glow of youth, proud and beautiful. She conquered me on the first day of our acquaintance, and indeed it was inevitable47. My first impression was so overwhelming that to this day I cannot get rid of my illusions; I am still tempted48 to imagine that nature had some grand, marvellous design when she created that girl.
Ariadne's voice, her walk, her hat, even her footprints on the sandy bank where she used to angle for gudgeon, filled me with delight and a passionate49 hunger for life. I judged of her spiritual being from her lovely face and lovely figure, and every word, every smile of Ariadne's bewitched me, conquered me and forced me to believe in the loftiness of her soul. She was friendly, ready to talk, gay and simple in her manners. She had a poetic13 belief in God, made poetic reflections about death, and there was such a wealth of varying shades in her spiritual organisation50 that even her faults seemed in her to carry with them peculiar51, charming qualities. Suppose she wanted a new horse and had no money--what did that matter? Something might be sold or pawned52, or if the steward53 swore that nothing could possibly be sold or pawned, the iron roofs might be torn off the lodges54 and taken to the factory, or at the very busiest time the farm-horses might be driven to the market and sold there for next to nothing. These unbridled desires reduced the whole household to despair at times, but she expressed them with such refinement55 that everything was forgiven her; all things were permitted her as to a goddess or to C?sar's wife. My love was pathetic and was soon noticed by every one--my father, the neighbours, and the peasants--and they all sympathised with me. When I stood the workmen vodka, they would bow and say: "May the Kotlovitch young lady be your bride, please God!"
And Ariadne herself knew that I loved her. She would often ride over on horseback or drive in the char-à-banc to see us, and would spend whole days with me and my father. She made great friends with the old man, and he even taught her to bicycle, which was his favourite amusement.
I remember helping56 her to get on the bicycle one evening, and she looked so lovely that I felt as though I were burning my hands when I touched her. I shuddered57 with rapture59, and when the two of them, my old father and she, both looking so handsome and elegant, bicycled side by side along the main road, a black horse ridden by the steward dashed aside on meeting them, and it seemed to me that it dashed aside because it too was overcome by her beauty. My love, my worship, touched Ariadne and softened60 her; she had a passionate longing61 to be captivated like me and to respond with the same love. It was so poetical!
But she was incapable62 of really loving as I did, for she was cold and already somewhat corrupted63. There was a demon64 in her, whispering to her day and night that she was enchanting65, adorable; and, having no definite idea for what object she was created, or for what purpose life had been given her, she never pictured herself in the future except as very wealthy and distinguished67, she had visions of balls, races, liveries, of sumptuous68 drawing-rooms, of a salon69 of her own, and of a perfect swarm70 of counts, princes, ambassadors, celebrated71 painters and artists, all of them adoring her and in ecstasies over her beauty and her dresses. . . .
This thirst for personal success, and this continual concentration of the mind in one direction, makes people cold, and Ariadne was cold--to me, to nature, and to music. Meanwhile time was passing, and still there were no ambassadors on the scene. Ariadne went on living with her brother, the spiritualist: things went from bad to worse, so that she had nothing to buy hats and dresses with, and had to resort to all sorts of tricks and dodges72 to conceal73 her poverty.
As luck would have it, a certain Prince Maktuev, a wealthy man but an utterly insignificant74 person, had paid his addresses to her when she was living at her aunt's in Moscow. She had refused him, point-blank. But now she was fretted75 by the worm of repentance76 that she had refused him; just as a peasant pouts77 with repulsion at a mug of kvass with cockroaches79 in it but yet drinks it, so she frowned disdainfully at the recollection of the prince, and yet she would say to me: "Say what you like, there is something inexplicable80, fascinating, in a title. . . ."
She dreamed of a title, of a brilliant position, and at the same time she did not want to let me go. However one may dream of ambassadors one's heart is not a stone, and one has wistful feelings for one's youth. Ariadne tried to fall in love, made a show of being in love, and even swore that she loved me. But I am a highly strung and sensitive man; when I am loved I feel it even at a distance, without vows81 and assurances; at once I felt as it were a coldness in the air, and when she talked to me of love, it seemed to me as though I were listening to the singing of a metal nightingale. Ariadne was herself aware that she was lacking in something. She was vexed82 and more than once I saw her cry. Another time--can you imagine it?--all of a sudden she embraced me and kissed me. It happened in the evening on the river-bank, and I saw by her eyes that she did not love me, but was embracing me from curiosity, to test herself and to see what came of it. And I felt dreadful. I took her hands and said to her in despair: "These caresses84 without love cause me suffering!"
"What a queer fellow you are!" she said with annoyance85, and walked away.
Another year or two might have passed, and in all probability I should have married her, and so my story would have ended, but fate was pleased to arrange our romance differently. It happened that a new personage appeared on our horizon. Ariadne's brother had a visit from an old university friend called Mihail Ivanitch Lubkov, a charming man of whom coachmen and footmen used to say: "An entertaining gentleman." He was a man of medium height, lean and bald, with a face like a good-natured bourgeois86, not interesting, but pale and presentable, with a stiff, well-kept moustache, with a neck like gooseskin, and a big Adam's apple. He used to wear pince-nez on a wide black ribbon, lisped, and could not pronounce either _r_ or _l_. He was always in good spirits, everything amused him.
He had made an exceedingly foolish marriage at twenty, and had acquired two houses in Moscow as part of his wife's dowry. He began doing them up and building a bath-house, and was completely ruined. Now his wife and four children lodged88 in Oriental Buildings in great poverty, and he had to support them--and this amused him. He was thirty-six and his wife was by now forty-two, and that, too, amused him. His mother, a conceited89, sulky personage, with aristocratic pretensions91, despised his wife and lived apart with a perfect menagerie of cats and dogs, and he had to allow her seventy-five roubles a month also; he was, too, a man of taste, liked lunching at the Slavyansky Bazaar92 and dining at the Hermitage; he needed a great deal of money, but his uncle only allowed him two thousand roubles a year, which was not enough, and for days together he would run about Moscow with his tongue out, as the saying is, looking for some one to borrow from--and this, too, amused him. He had come to Kotlovitch to find in the lap of nature, as he said, a rest from family life. At dinner, at supper, and on our walks, he talked about his wife, about his mother, about his creditors93, about the bailiffs, and laughed at them; he laughed at himself and assured us that, thanks to his talent for borrowing, he had made a great number of agreeable acquaintances. He laughed without ceasing and we laughed too. Moreover, in his company we spent our time differently. I was more inclined to quiet, so to say idyllic95 pleasures; I liked fishing, evening walks, gathering96 mushrooms; Lubkov preferred picnics, fireworks, hunting. He used to get up picnics three times a week, and Ariadne, with an earnest and inspired face, used to write a list of oysters97, champagne98, sweets, and used to send me into Moscow to get them, without inquiring, of course, whether I had money. And at the picnics there were toasts and laughter, and again mirthful descriptions of how old his wife was, what fat lap-dogs his mother had, and what charming people his creditors were.
Lubkov was fond of nature, but he regarded it as something long familiar and at the same time, in reality, infinitely99 beneath himself and created for his pleasure. He would sometimes stand still before some magnificent landscape and say: "It would be nice to have tea here."
One day, seeing Ariadne walking in the distance with a parasol, he nodded towards her and said:
"She's thin, and that's what I like; I don't like fat women."
This made me wince100. I asked him not to speak like that about women before me. He looked at me in surprise and said:
"What is there amiss in my liking101 thin women and not caring for fat ones?"
I made no answer. Afterwards, being in very good spirits and a trifle elevated, he said:
"I've noticed Ariadne Grigoryevna likes you. I can't understand why you don't go in and win."
His words made me feel uncomfortable, and with some embarrassment102 I told him how I looked at love and women.
"I don't know," he sighed; "to my thinking, a woman's a woman and a man's a man. Ariadne Grigoryevna may be poetical and exalted, as you say, but it doesn't follow that she must be superior to the laws of nature. You see for yourself that she has reached the age when she must have a husband or a lover. I respect women as much as you do, but I don't think certain relations exclude poetry. Poetry's one thing and love is another. It's just the same as it is in farming. The beauty of nature is one thing and the income from your forests or fields is quite another."
When Ariadne and I were fishing, Lubkov would lie on the sand close by and make fun of me, or lecture me on the conduct of life.
"I wonder, my dear sir, how you can live without a love affair," he would say. "You are young, handsome, interesting--in fact, you're a man not to be sniffed103 at, yet you live like a monk104. Och! I can't stand these fellows who are old at twenty-eight! I'm nearly ten years older than you are, and yet which of us is the younger? Ariadne Grigoryevna, which?"
"You, of course," Ariadne answered him.
And when he was bored with our silence and the attention with which we stared at our floats he went home, and she said, looking at me angrily:
"You're really not a man, but a mush, God forgive me! A man ought to be able to be carried away by his feelings, he ought to be able to be mad, to make mistakes, to suffer! A woman will forgive you audacity105 and insolence106, but she will never forgive your reasonableness!"
She was angry in earnest, and went on:
"To succeed, a man must be resolute107 and bold. Lubkov is not so handsome as you are, but he is more interesting. He will always succeed with women because he's not like you; he's a man. . . ."
And there was actually a note of exasperation108 in her voice.
One day at supper she began saying, not addressing me, that if she were a man she would not stagnate109 in the country, but would travel, would spend the winter somewhere aboard--in Italy, for instance. Oh, Italy! At this point my father unconsciously poured oil on the flames; he began telling us at length about Italy, how splendid it was there, the exquisite scenery, the museums. Ariadne suddenly conceived a burning desire to go to Italy. She positively110 brought her fist down on the table and her eyes flashed as she said: "I must go!"
After that came conversations every day about Italy: how splendid it would be in Italy--ah, Italy!--oh, Italy! And when Ariadne looked at me over her shoulder, from her cold and obstinate111 expression I saw that in her dreams she had already conquered Italy with all its salons112, celebrated foreigners and tourists, and there was no holding her back now. I advised her to wait a little, to put off her tour for a year or two, but she frowned disdainfully and said:
"You're as prudent113 as an old woman!"
Lubkov was in favour of the tour. He said it could be done very cheaply, and he, too, would go to Italy and have a rest there from family life.
I behaved, I confess, as na?vely as a schoolboy.
Not from jealousy114, but from a foreboding of something terrible and extraordinary, I tried as far as possible not to leave them alone together, and they made fun of me. For instance, when I went in they would pretend they had just been kissing one another, and so on. But lo and behold115, one fine morning, her plump, white-skinned brother, the spiritualist, made his appearance and expressed his desire to speak to me alone.
He was a man without will; in spite of his education and his delicacy he could never resist reading another person's letter, if it lay before him on the table. And now he admitted that he had by chance read a letter of Lubkov's to Ariadne.
"From that letter I learned that she is very shortly going abroad. My dear fellow, I am very much upset! Explain it to me for goodness' sake. I can make nothing of it!"
As he said this he breathed hard, breathing straight in my face and smelling of boiled beef.
"Excuse me for revealing the secret of this letter to you, but you are Ariadne's friend, she respects you. Perhaps you know something of it. She wants to go away, but with whom? Mr. Lubkov is proposing to go with her. Excuse me, but this is very strange of Mr. Lubkov; he is a married man, he has children, and yet he is making a declaration of love; he is writing to Ariadne 'darling.' Excuse me, but it is so strange!"
I turned cold all over; my hands and feet went numb94 and I felt an ache in my chest, as if a three-cornered stone had been driven into it. Kotlovitch sank helplessly into an easy-chair, and his hands fell limply at his sides.
"What can I do?" I inquired.
"Persuade her. . . . Impress her mind. . . . Just consider, what is Lubkov to her? Is he a match for her? Oh, good God! How awful it is, how awful it is!" he went on, clutching his head. "She has had such splendid offers--Prince Maktuev and . . . and others. The prince adores her, and only last Wednesday week his late grandfather, Ilarion, declared positively that Ariadne would be his wife--positively! His grandfather Ilarion is dead, but he is a wonderfully intelligent person; we call up his spirit every day."
After this conversation I lay awake all night and thought of shooting myself. In the morning I wrote five letters and tore them all up. Then I sobbed116 in the barn. Then I took a sum of money from my father and set off for the Caucasus without saying good-bye.
Of course, a woman's a woman and a man's a man, but can all that be as simple in our day as it was before the Flood, and can it be that I, a cultivated man endowed with a complex spiritual organisation, ought to explain the intense attraction I feel towards a woman simply by the fact that her bodily formation is different from mine? Oh, how awful that would be! I want to believe that in his struggle with nature the genius of man has struggled with physical love too, as with an enemy, and that, if he has not conquered it, he has at least succeeded in tangling118 it in a net-work of illusions of brotherhood119 and love; and for me, at any rate, it is no longer a simple instinct of my animal nature as with a dog or a toad120, but is real love, and every embrace is spiritualised by a pure impulse of the heart and respect for the woman. In reality, a disgust for the animal instinct has been trained for ages in hundreds of generations; it is inherited by me in my blood and forms part of my nature, and if I poetize love, is not that as natural and inevitable in our day as my ears' not being able to move and my not being covered with fur? I fancy that's how the majority of civilised people look at it, so that the absence of the moral, poetical element in love is treated in these days as a phenomenon, as a sign of atavism; they say it is a symptom of degeneracy, of many forms of insanity121. It is true that, in poetizing love, we assume in those we love qualities that are lacking in them, and that is a source of continual mistakes and continual miseries123 for us. But to my thinking it is better, even so; that is, it is better to suffer than to find complacency on the basis of woman being woman and man being man.
In Tiflis I received a letter from my father. He wrote that Ariadne Grigoryevna had on such a day gone abroad, intending to spend the whole winter away. A month later I returned home. It was by now autumn. Every week Ariadne sent my father extremely interesting letters on scented125 paper, written in an excellent literary style. It is my opinion that every woman can be a writer. Ariadne described in great detail how it had not been easy for her to make it up with her aunt and induce the latter to give her a thousand roubles for the journey, and what a long time she had spent in Moscow trying to find an old lady, a distant relation, in order to persuade her to go with her. Such a profusion of detail suggested fiction, and I realised, of course, that she had no chaperon with her.
Soon afterwards I, too, had a letter from her, also scented and literary. She wrote that she had missed me, missed my beautiful, intelligent, loving eyes. She reproached me affectionately for wasting my youth, for stagnating126 in the country when I might, like her, be living in paradise under the palms, breathing the fragrance127 of the orange-trees. And she signed herself "Your forsaken128 Ariadne." Two days later came another letter in the same style, signed "Your forgotten Ariadne." My mind was confused. I loved her passionately129, I dreamed of her every night, and then this "your forsaken," "your forgotten"--what did it mean? What was it for? And then the dreariness130 of the country, the long evenings, the disquieting131 thoughts of Lubkov. . . . The uncertainty132 tortured me, and poisoned my days and nights; it became unendurable. I could not bear it and went abroad.
Ariadne summoned me to Abbazzia. I arrived there on a bright warm day after rain; the rain-drops were still hanging on the trees and glistening133 on the huge, barrack-like dépendance where Ariadne and Lubkov were living.
They were not at home. I went into the park; wandered about the avenues, then sat down. An Austrian General, with his hands behind him, walked past me, with red stripes on his trousers such as our generals wear. A baby was wheeled by in a perambulator and the wheels squeaked134 on the damp sand. A decrepit135 old man with jaundice passed, then a crowd of Englishwomen, a Catholic priest, then the Austrian General again. A military band, only just arrived from Fiume, with glittering brass136 instruments, sauntered by to the bandstand--they began playing.
Have you ever been at Abbazzia? It's a filthy137 little Slav town with only one street, which stinks138, and in which one can't walk after rain without goloshes. I had read so much and always with such intense feeling about this earthly paradise that when afterwards, holding up my trousers, I cautiously crossed the narrow street, and in my ennui139 bought some hard pears from an old peasant woman who, recognising me as a Russian, said: "Tcheeteery" for "tchetyry" (four)--"davadtsat" for "dvadtsat" (twenty), and when I wondered in perplexity where to go and what to do here, and when I inevitably140 met Russians as disappointed as I was, I began to feel vexed and ashamed. There is a calm bay there full of steamers and boats with coloured sails. From there I could see Fiume and the distant islands covered with lilac mist, and it would have been picturesque141 if the view over the bay had not been hemmed142 in by the hotels and their dépendances--buildings in an absurd, trivial style of architecture, with which the whole of that green shore has been covered by greedy money grubbers, so that for the most part you see nothing in this little paradise but windows, terraces, and little squares with tables and waiters' black coats. There is a park such as you find now in every watering-place abroad. And the dark, motionless, silent foliage143 of the palms, and the bright yellow sand in the avenue, and the bright green seats, and the glitter of the braying144 military horns--all this sickened me in ten minutes! And yet one is obliged for some reason to spend ten days, ten weeks, there!
Having been dragged reluctantly from one of these watering-places to another, I have been more and more struck by the inconvenient145 and niggardly146 life led by the wealthy and well-fed, the dulness and feebleness of their imagination, the lack of boldness in their tastes and desires. And how much happier are those tourists, old and young, who, not having the money to stay in hotels, live where they can, admire the view of the sea from the tops of the mountains, lying on the green grass, walk instead of riding, see the forests and villages at close quarters, observe the customs of the country, listen to its songs, fall in love with its women. . . .
While I was sitting in the park, it began to get dark, and in the twilight147 my Ariadne appeared, elegant and dressed like a princess; after her walked Lubkov, wearing a new loose-fitting suit, bought probably in Vienna.
"Why are you cross with me?" he was saying. "What have I done to you?"
Seeing me, she uttered a cry of joy, and probably, if we had not been in the park, would have thrown herself on my neck. She pressed my hands warmly and laughed; and I laughed too and almost cried with emotion. Questions followed, of the village, of my father, whether I had seen her brother, and so on. She insisted on my looking her straight in the face, and asked if I remembered the gudgeon, our little quarrels, the picnics. . . .
"How nice it all was really!" she sighed. "But we're not having a slow time here either. We have a great many acquaintances, my dear, my best of friends! To-morrow I will introduce you to a Russian family here, but please buy yourself another hat." She scrutinised me and frowned. "Abbazzia is not the country," she said; "here one must be _comme il faut_."
Then we went to the restaurant. Ariadne was laughing and mischievous148 all the time; she kept calling me "dear," "good," "clever," and seemed as though she could not believe her eyes that I was with her. We sat on till eleven o'clock, and parted very well satisfied both with the supper and with each other.
Next day Ariadne presented me to the Russian family as: "The son of a distinguished professor whose estate is next to ours."
She talked to this family about nothing but estates and crops, and kept appealing to me. She wanted to appear to be a very wealthy landowner, and did, in fact, succeed in doing so. Her manner was superb like that of a real aristocrat90, which indeed she was by birth.
"But what a person my aunt is!" she said suddenly, looking at me with a smile. "We had a slight tiff87, and she has bolted off to Meran. What do you say to that?"
Afterwards when we were walking in the park I asked her:
"What aunt were you talking of just now? What aunt is that?"
"That was a saving lie," laughed Ariadne. "They must not know I'm without a chaperon."
After a moment's silence she came closer to me and said:
"My dear, my dear, do be friends with Lubkov. He is so unhappy! His wife and mother are simply awful."
She used the formal mode of address in speaking to Lubkov, and when she was going up to bed she said good-night to him exactly as she did to me, and their rooms were on different floors. All this made me hope that it was all nonsense, and that there was no sort of love affair between them, and I felt at ease when I met him. And when one day he asked me for the loan of three hundred roubles, I gave it to him with the greatest pleasure.
Every day we spent in enjoying ourselves and in nothing but enjoying ourselves; we strolled in the park, we ate, we drank. Every day there were conversations with the Russian family. By degrees I got used to the fact that if I went into the park I should be sure to meet the old man with jaundice, the Catholic priest, and the Austrian General, who always carried a pack of little cards, and wherever it was possible sat down and played patience, nervously149 twitching150 his shoulders. And the band played the same thing over and over again.
At home in the country I used to feel ashamed to meet the peasants when I was fishing or on a picnic party on a working day; here too I was ashamed at the sight of the footmen, the coachmen, and the workmen who met us. It always seemed to me they were looking at me and thinking: "Why are you doing nothing?" And I was conscious of this feeling of shame every day from morning to night. It was a strange, unpleasant, monotonous151 time; it was only varied152 by Lubkov's borrowing from me now a hundred, now fifty guldens, and being suddenly revived by the money as a morphia-maniac is by morphia, beginning to laugh loudly at his wife, at himself, at his creditors.
At last it began to be rainy and cold. We went to Italy, and I telegraphed to my father begging him for mercy's sake to send me eight hundred roubles to Rome. We stayed in Venice, in Bologna, in Florence, and in every town invariably put up at an expensive hotel, where we were charged separately for lights, and for service, and for heating, and for bread at lunch, and for the right of having dinner by ourselves. We ate enormously. In the morning they gave us _café complet_; at one o'clock lunch: meat, fish, some sort of omelette, cheese, fruits, and wine. At six o'clock dinner of eight courses with long intervals153, during which we drank beer and wine. At nine o'clock tea. At midnight Ariadne would declare she was hungry, and ask for ham and boiled eggs. We would eat to keep her company.
In the intervals between meals we used to rush about the museums and exhibitions in continual anxiety for fear we should be late for dinner or lunch. I was bored at the sight of the pictures; I longed to be at home to rest; I was exhausted154, looked about for a chair and hypocritically repeated after other people: "How exquisite, what atmosphere!" Like overfed boa constrictors, we noticed only the most glaring objects. The shop windows hypnotised us; we went into ecstasies over imitation brooches and bought a mass of useless trumpery155.
The same thing happened in Rome, where it rained and there was a cold wind. After a heavy lunch we went to look at St. Peter's, and thanks to our replete156 condition and perhaps the bad weather, it made no sort of impression on us, and detecting in each other an indifference157 to art, we almost quarrelled.
The money came from my father. I went to get it, I remember, in the morning. Lubkov went with me.
"The present cannot be full and happy when one has a past," said he. "I have heavy burdens left on me by the past. However, if only I get the money, it's no great matter, but if not, I'm in a fix. Would you believe it, I have only eight francs left, yet I must send my wife a hundred and my mother another. And we must live here too. Ariadne's like a child; she won't enter into the position, and flings away money like a duchess. Why did she buy a watch yesterday? And, tell me, what object is there in our going on playing at being good children? Why, our hiding our relations from the servants and our friends costs us from ten to fifteen francs a day, as I have to have a separate room. What's the object of it?"
I felt as though a sharp stone had been turned round in my chest. There was no uncertainty now; it was all clear to me. I turned cold all over, and at once made a resolution to give up seeing them, to run away from them, to go home at once. . . .
"To get on terms with a woman is easy enough," Lubkov went on. "You have only to undress her; but afterwards what a bore it is, what a silly business!"
When I counted over the money I received he said:
"If you don't lend me a thousand francs, I am faced with complete ruin. Your money is the only resource left to me."
I gave him the money, and he at once revived and began laughing about his uncle, a queer fish, who could never keep his address secret from his wife. When I reached the hotel I packed and paid my bill. I had still to say good-bye to Ariadne.
I knocked at the door.
"Entrez!"
In her room was the usual morning disorder158: tea-things on the table, an unfinished roll, an eggshell; a strong overpowering reek159 of scent124. The bed had not been made, and it was evident that two had slept in it.
Ariadne herself had only just got out of bed and was now with her hair down in a flannel160 dressing-jacket.
I said good-morning to her, and then sat in silence for a minute while she tried to put her hair tidy, and then I asked her, trembling all over:
"Why . . . why . . . did you send for me here?"
Evidently she guessed what I was thinking; she took me by the hand and said:
"I want you to be here, you are so pure."
I felt ashamed of my emotion, of my trembling. And I was afraid I might begin sobbing161, too! I went out without saying another word, and within an hour I was sitting in the train. All the journey, for some reason, I imagined Ariadne with child, and she seemed disgusting to me, and all the women I saw in the trains and at the stations looked to me, for some reason, as if they too were with child, and they too seemed disgusting and pitiable. I was in the position of a greedy, passionate miser122 who should suddenly discover that all his gold coins were false. The pure, gracious images which my imagination, warmed by love, had cherished for so long, my plans, my hopes, my memories, my ideas of love and of woman--all now were jeering162 and putting out their tongues at me. "Ariadne," I kept asking with horror, "that young, intellectual, extraordinarily beautiful girl, the daughter of a senator, carrying on an intrigue163 with such an ordinary, uninteresting vulgarian? But why should she not love Lubkov?" I answered myself. "In what is he inferior to me? Oh, let her love any one she likes, but why lie to me? But why is she bound to be open with me?" And so I went on over and over again till I was stupefied.
It was cold in the train; I was travelling first class, but even so there were three on a side, there were no double windows, the outer door opened straight into the compartment, and I felt as though I were in the stocks, cramped164, abandoned, pitiful, and my legs were fearfully numb, and at the same time I kept recalling how fascinating she had been that morning in her dressing-jacket and with her hair down, and I was suddenly overcome by such acute jealousy that I leapt up in anguish165, so that my neighbours stared at me in wonder and positive alarm.
At home I found deep snow and twenty degrees of frost. I'm fond of the winter; I'm fond of it because at that time, even in the hardest frosts, it's particularly snug166 at home. It's pleasant to put on one's fur jacket and felt overboots on a clear frosty day, to do something in the garden or in the yard, or to read in a well warmed room, to sit in my father's study before the open fire, to wash in my country bath-house. . . . Only if there is no mother in the house, no sister and no children, it is somehow dreary167 on winter evenings, and they seem extraordinarily long and quiet. And the warmer and snugger168 it is, the more acutely is this lack felt. In the winter when I came back from abroad, the evenings were endlessly long, I was intensely depressed169, so depressed that I could not even read; in the daytime I was coming and going, clearing away the snow in the garden or feeding the chickens and the calves170, but in the evening it was all up with me.
I had never cared for visitors before, but now I was glad of them, for I knew there was sure to be talk of Ariadne. Kotlovitch, the spiritualist, used often to come to talk about his sister, and sometimes he brought with him his friend Prince Maktuev, who was as much in love with Ariadne as I was. To sit in Ariadne's room, to finger the keys of her piano, to look at her music was a necessity for the prince--he could not live without it; and the spirit of his grandfather Ilarion was still predicting that sooner or later she would be his wife. The prince usually stayed a long time with us, from lunch to midnight, saying nothing all the time; in silence he would drink two or three bottles of beer, and from time to time, to show that he too was taking part in the conversation, he would laugh an abrupt171, melancholy172, foolish laugh. Before going home he would always take me aside and ask me in an undertone: "When did you see Ariadne Grigoryevna last? Was she quite well? I suppose she's not tired of being out there?"
Spring came on. There was the harrowing to do and then the sowing of spring corn and clover. I was sad, but there was the feeling of spring. One longed to accept the inevitable. Working in the fields and listening to the larks173, I asked myself: "Couldn't I have done with this question of personal happiness once and for all? Couldn't I lay aside my fancy and marry a simple peasant girl?"
Suddenly when we were at our very busiest, I got a letter with the Italian stamp, and the clover and the beehives and the calves and the peasant girl all floated away like smoke. This time Ariadne wrote that she was profoundly, infinitely unhappy. She reproached me for not holding out a helping hand to her, for looking down upon her from the heights of my virtue174 and deserting her at the moment of danger. All this was written in a large, nervous handwriting with blots175 and smudges, and it was evident that she wrote in haste and distress176. In conclusion she besought177 me to come and save her. Again my anchor was hauled up and I was carried away. Ariadne was in Rome. I arrived late in the evening, and when she saw me, she sobbed and threw herself on my neck. She had not changed at all that winter, and was just as young and charming. We had supper together and afterwards drove about Rome until dawn, and all the time she kept telling me about her doings. I asked where Lubkov was.
"Don't remind me of that creature!" she cried. "He is loathsome178 and disgusting to me!"
"But I thought you loved him," I said.
"Never," she said. "At first he struck me as original and aroused my pity, that was all. He is insolent179 and takes a woman by storm. And that's attractive. But we won't talk about him. That is a melancholy page in my life. He has gone to Russia to get money. Serve him right! I told him not to dare to come back."
She was living then, not at an hotel, but in a private lodging180 of two rooms which she had decorated in her own taste, frigidly181 and luxuriously182.
After Lubkov had gone away she had borrowed from her acquaintances about five thousand francs, and my arrival certainly was the one salvation183 for her.
I had reckoned on taking her back to the country, but I did not succeed in that. She was homesick for her native place, but her recollections of the poverty she had been through there, of privations, of the rusty184 roof on her brother's house, roused a shudder58 of disgust, and when I suggested going home to her, she squeezed my hands convulsively and said:
"No, no, I shall die of boredom185 there!"
Then my love entered upon its final phase.
"Be the darling that you used to be; love me a little," said Ariadne, bending over to me. "You're sulky and prudent, you're afraid to yield to impulse, and keep thinking of consequences, and that's dull. Come, I beg you, I beseech186 you, be nice to me! . . . My pure one, my holy one, my dear one, I love you so!"
I became her lover. For a month anyway I was like a madman, conscious of nothing but rapture. To hold in one's arms a young and lovely body, with bliss187 to feel her warmth every time one waked up from sleep, and to remember that she was there--she, my Ariadne!-- oh, it was not easy to get used to that! But yet I did get used to it, and by degrees became capable of reflecting on my new position. First of all, I realised, as before, that Ariadne did not love me. But she wanted to be really in love, she was afraid of solitude188, and, above all, I was healthy, young, vigorous; she was sensual, like all cold people, as a rule--and we both made a show of being united by a passionate, mutual189 love. Afterwards I realised something else, too.
We stayed in Rome, in Naples, in Florence; we went to Paris, but there we thought it cold and went back to Italy. We introduced ourselves everywhere as husband and wife, wealthy landowners. People readily made our acquaintance and Ariadne had great social success everywhere. As she took lessons in painting, she was called an artist, and only imagine, that quite suited her, though she had not the slightest trace of talent.
She would sleep every day till two or three o'clock; she had her coffee and lunch in bed. At dinner she would eat soup, lobster190, fish, meat, asparagus, game, and after she had gone to bed I used to bring up something, for instance roast beef, and she would eat it with a melancholy, careworn191 expression, and if she waked in the night she would eat apples and oranges.
The chief, so to say fundamental, characteristic of the woman was an amazing duplicity. She was continually deceitful every minute, apparently192 apart from any necessity, as it were by instinct, by an impulse such as makes the sparrow chirrup and the cockroach78 waggle its antenn?. She was deceitful with me, with the footman, with the porter, with the tradesmen in the shops, with her acquaintances; not one conversation, not one meeting, took place without affectation and pretence193. A man had only to come into our room--whoever it might be, a waiter, or a baron--for her eyes, her expression, her voice to change, even the contour of her figure was transformed. At the very first glance at her then, you would have said there were no more wealthy and fashionable people in Italy than we. She never met an artist or a musician without telling him all sorts of lies about his remarkable194 talent.
"You have such a talent!" she would say, in honeyed cadences195, "I'm really afraid of you. I think you must see right through people."
And all this simply in order to please, to be successful, to be fascinating! She waked up every morning with the one thought of "pleasing"! It was the aim and object of her life. If I had told her that in such a house, in such a street, there lived a man who was not attracted by her, it would have caused her real suffering. She wanted every day to enchant66, to captivate, to drive men crazy. The fact that I was in her power and reduced to a complete nonentity196 before her charms gave her the same sort of satisfaction that visitors used to feel in tournaments. My subjection was not enough, and at nights, stretched out like a tigress, uncovered--she was always too hot--she would read the letters sent her by Lubkov; he besought her to return to Russia, vowing197 if she did not he would rob or murder some one to get the money to come to her. She hated him, but his passionate, slavish letters excited her. She had an extraordinary opinion of her own charms; she imagined that if somewhere, in some great assembly, men could have seen how beautifully she was made and the colour of her skin, she would have vanquished198 all Italy, the whole world. Her talk of her figure, of her skin, offended me, and observing this, she would, when she was angry, to vex83 me, say all sorts of vulgar things, taunting200 me. One day when we were at the summer villa32 of a lady of our acquaintance, and she lost her temper, she even went so far as to say: "If you don't leave off boring me with your sermons, I'll undress this minute and lie naked here on these flowers."
Often looking at her asleep, or eating, or trying to assume a na?ve expression, I wondered why that extraordinary beauty, grace, and intelligence had been given her by God. Could it simply be for lolling in bed, eating and lying, lying endlessly? And was she intelligent really? She was afraid of three candles in a row, of the number thirteen, was terrified of spells and bad dreams. She argued about free love and freedom in general like a bigoted201 old woman, declared that Boleslav Markevitch was a better writer than Turgenev. But she was diabolically202 cunning and sharp, and knew how to seem a highly educated, advanced person in company.
Even at a good-humoured moment, she could always insult a servant or kill an insect without a pang203; she liked bull-fights, liked to read about murders, and was angry when prisoners were acquitted204.
For the life Ariadne and I were leading, we had to have a great deal of money. My poor father sent me his pension, all the little sums he received, borrowed for me wherever he could, and when one day he answered me: "Non habeo," I sent him a desperate telegram in which I besought him to mortgage the estate. A little later I begged him to get money somehow on a second mortgage. He did this too without a murmur205 and sent me every farthing. Ariadne despised the practical side of life; all this was no concern of hers, and when flinging away thousands of francs to satisfy her mad desires I groaned206 like an old tree, she would be singing "Addio bella Napoli" with a light heart.
Little by little I grew cold to her and began to be ashamed of our tie. I am not fond of pregnancy207 and confinements208, but now I sometimes dreamed of a child who would have been at least a formal justification210 of our life. That I might not be completely disgusted with myself, I began reading and visiting museums and galleries, gave up drinking and took to eating very little. If one keeps oneself well in hand from morning to night, one's heart seems lighter211. I began to bore Ariadne too. The people with whom she won her triumphs were, by the way, all of the middling sort; as before, there were no ambassadors, there was no salon, the money did not run to it, and this mortified212 her and made her sob117, and she announced to me at last that perhaps she would not be against our returning to Russia.
And here we are on our way. For the last few months she has been zealously213 corresponding with her brother; she evidently has some secret projects, but what they are--God knows! I am sick of trying to fathom214 her underhand schemes! But we're going, not to the country, but to Yalta and afterwards to the Caucasus. She can only exist now at watering-places, and if you knew how I hate all these watering-places, how suffocated215 and ashamed I am in them. If I could be in the country now! If I could only be working now, earning my bread by the sweat of my brow, atoning216 for my follies217. I am conscious of a superabundance of energy and I believe that if I were to put that energy to work I could redeem218 my estate in five years. But now, as you see, there is a complication. Here we're not abroad, but in mother Russia; we shall have to think of lawful219 wedlock220. Of course, all attraction is over; there is no trace left of my old love, but, however that may be, I am bound in honour to marry her.
----
Shamohin, excited by his story, went below with me and we continued talking about women. It was late. It appeared that he and I were in the same cabin.
"So far it is only in the village that woman has not fallen behind man," said Shamohin. "There she thinks and feels just as man does, and struggles with nature in the name of culture as zealously as he. In the towns the woman of the bourgeois or intellectual class has long since fallen behind, and is returning to her primitive221 condition. She is half a human beast already, and, thanks to her, a great deal of what had been won by human genius has been lost again; the woman gradually disappears and in her place is the primitive female. This dropping-back on the part of the educated woman is a real danger to culture; in her retrogressive movement she tries to drag man after her and prevents him from moving forward. That is incontestable."
I asked: "Why generalise? Why judge of all women from Ariadne alone? The very struggle of women for education and sexual equality, which I look upon as a struggle for justice, precludes222 any hypothesis of a retrograde movement."
But Shamohin scarcely listened to me and he smiled distrustfully. He was a passionate, convinced misogynist223, and it was impossible to alter his convictions.
"Oh, nonsense!" he interrupted. "When once a woman sees in me, not a man, not an equal, but a male, and her one anxiety all her life is to attract me--that is, to take possession of me--how can one talk of their rights? Oh, don't you believe them; they are very, very cunning! We men make a great stir about their emancipation, but they don't care about their emancipation at all, they only pretend to care about it; they are horribly cunning things, horribly cunning!"
I began to feel sleepy and weary of discussion. I turned over with my face to the wall.
"Yes," I heard as I fell asleep--"yes, and it's our education that's at fault, sir. In our towns, the whole education and bringing up of women in its essence tends to develop her into the human beast --that is, to make her attractive to the male and able to vanquish199 him. Yes, indeed"--Shamohiri sighed--"little girls ought to be taught and brought up with boys, so that they might be always together. A woman ought to be trained so that she may be able, like a man, to recognise when she's wrong, or she always thinks she's in the right. Instil224 into a little girl from her cradle that a man is not first of all a cavalier or a possible lover, but her neighbour, her equal in everything. Train her to think logically, to generalise, and do not assure her that her brain weighs less than a man's and that therefore she can be indifferent to the sciences, to the arts, to the tasks of culture in general. The apprentice225 to the shoemaker or the house painter has a brain of smaller size than the grown-up man too, yet he works, suffers, takes his part in the general struggle for existence. We must give up our attitude to the physiological226 aspect, too--to pregnancy and childbirth, seeing that in the first place women don't have babies every month; secondly, not all women have babies; and, thirdly, a normal countrywoman works in the fields up to the day of her confinement209 and it does her no harm. Then there ought to be absolute equality in everyday life. If a man gives a lady his chair or picks up the handkerchief she has dropped, let her repay him in the same way. I have no objection if a girl of good family helps me to put on my coat or hands me a glass of water--"
I heard no more, for I fell asleep.
Next morning when we were approaching Sevastopol, it was damp, unpleasant weather; the ship rocked. Shamohin sat on deck with me, brooding and silent. When the bell rang for tea, men with their coat-collars turned up and ladies with pale, sleepy faces began going below; a young and very beautiful lady, the one who had been so angry with the Customs officers at Volotchisk, stopped before Shamohin and said with the expression of a naughty, fretful child:
"Jean, your birdie's been sea-sick."
Afterwards when I was at Yalta I saw the same beautiful lady dashing about on horseback with a couple of officers hardly able to keep up with her. And one morning I saw her in an overall and a Phrygian cap, sketching227 on the sea-front with a great crowd admiring her a little way off. I too was introduced to her. She pressed my hand with great warmth, and looking at me ecstatically, thanked me in honeyed cadences for the pleasure I had given her by my writings.
"Don't you believe her," Shamohin whispered to me, "she has never read a word of them."
When I was walking on the sea-front in the early evening Shamohin met me with his arms full of big parcels of fruits and dainties.
"Prince Maktuev is here!" he said joyfully228. "He came yesterday with her brother, the spiritualist! Now I understand what she was writing to him about! Oh, Lord!" he went on, gazing up to heaven, and pressing his parcels to his bosom229. "If she hits it off with the prince, it means freedom, then I can go back to the country with my father!"
And he ran on.
"I begin to believe in spirits," he called to me, looking back. "The spirit of grandfather Ilarion seems to have prophesied230 the truth! Oh, if only it is so!"
----
The day after this meeting I left Yalta and how Shamohin's story ended I don't know.
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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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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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7
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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synonyms
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| 同义词( synonym的名词复数 ) | |
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15
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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chatters
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的第三人称单数 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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willows
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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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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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elks
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| n.麋鹿( elk的名词复数 ) | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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babbles
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| n.胡言乱语( babble的名词复数 )；听不清的声音；乱哄哄的说话声v.喋喋不休( babble的第三人称单数 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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34
arable
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| adj.可耕的，适合种植的 | |
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35
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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36
turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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37
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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38
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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39
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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40
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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41
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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43
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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44
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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45
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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46
mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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47
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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48
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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49
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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50
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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51
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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52
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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53
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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54
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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55
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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56
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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57
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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58
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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59
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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60
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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61
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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62
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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63
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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64
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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65
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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66
enchant
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| vt.使陶醉，使入迷；使着魔，用妖术迷惑 | |
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67
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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68
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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69
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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70
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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71
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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72
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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73
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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74
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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75
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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76
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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77
pouts
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| n.撅嘴，生气( pout的名词复数 )v.撅（嘴）( pout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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78
cockroach
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| n.蟑螂 | |
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79
cockroaches
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| n.蟑螂( cockroach的名词复数 ) | |
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80
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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81
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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82
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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83
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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84
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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85
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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86
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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87
tiff
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| n.小争吵，生气 | |
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88
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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89
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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90
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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91
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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92
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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93
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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94
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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95
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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96
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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97
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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98
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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99
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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100
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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101
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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102
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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103
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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104
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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105
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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106
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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107
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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108
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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109
stagnate
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| v.停止 | |
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110
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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111
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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112
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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113
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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114
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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115
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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116
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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117
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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118
tangling
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的现在分词 ) | |
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119
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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120
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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121
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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122
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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123
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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124
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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125
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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126
stagnating
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| v.停滞，不流动，不发展( stagnate的现在分词 ) | |
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127
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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128
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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129
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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130
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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131
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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132
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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133
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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134
squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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135
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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136
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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137
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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138
stinks
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| v.散发出恶臭( stink的第三人称单数 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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139
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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140
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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141
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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142
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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143
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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144
braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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145
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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146
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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147
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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148
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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149
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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150
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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151
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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152
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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153
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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154
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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155
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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156
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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157
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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158
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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159
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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160
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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161
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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162
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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163
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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164
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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165
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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166
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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167
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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168
snugger
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| adj.整洁的( snug的比较级 )；温暖而舒适的；非常舒适的；紧身的 | |
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169
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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170
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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171
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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172
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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173
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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174
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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175
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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176
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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177
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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178
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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179
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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180
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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181
frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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182
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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183
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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184
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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185
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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186
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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187
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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188
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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189
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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190
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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191
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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192
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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193
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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194
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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195
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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196
nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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197
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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198
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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199
vanquish
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| v.征服，战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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200
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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201
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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202
diabolically
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203
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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204
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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205
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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206
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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207
pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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208
confinements
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| 限制，被监禁( confinement的名词复数 )； 分娩 | |
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209
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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210
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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211
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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212
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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213
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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214
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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215
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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216
atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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217
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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218
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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219
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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220
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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221
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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222
precludes
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| v.阻止( preclude的第三人称单数 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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223
misogynist
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| n.厌恶女人的人 | |
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224
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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225
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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226
physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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227
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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228
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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229
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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230
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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