The shutters2 of the little house are always closed; its occupants do not care for sunlight--the light is no use to them. The windows are never opened, for they are not fond of fresh air. People who spend their lives in the midst of acacias, mulberries, and nettles3 have no passion for nature. It is only to the summer visitor that God has vouchsafed4 an eye for the beauties of nature. The rest of mankind remain steeped in profound ignorance of the existence of such beauties. People never prize what they have always had in abundance. "What we have, we do not treasure," and what's more we do not even love it.
The little house stands in an earthly paradise of green trees with happy birds nesting in them. But inside . . . alas5 . . . ! In summer, it is close and stifling6 within; in winter, hot as a Turkish bath, not one breath of air, and the dreariness7! . . .
The first time I visited the little house was many years ago on business. I brought a message from the Colonel who was the owner of the house to his wife and daughter. That first visit I remember very distinctly. It would be impossible, indeed, to forget it.
Imagine a limp little woman of forty, gazing at you with alarm and astonishment8 while you walk from the passage into the parlour. You are a stranger, a visitor, "a young man"; that's enough to reduce her to a state of terror and bewilderment. Though you have no dagger9, axe10, or revolver in your hand, and though you smile affably, you are met with alarm.
"Whom have I the honour and pleasure of addressing?" the little lady asks in a trembling voice.
I introduced myself and explained why I had come. The alarm and amazement11 were at once succeeded by a shrill12, joyful13 "Ach!" and she turned her eyes upwards14 to the ceiling. This "Ach!" was caught up like an echo and repeated from the hall to the parlour, from the parlour to the kitchen, and so on down to the cellar. Soon the whole house was resounding15 with "Ach!" in various voices.
Five minutes later I was sitting on a big, soft, warm lounge in the drawing-room listening to the "Ach!" echoing all down the street. There was a smell of moth16 powder, and of goatskin shoes, a pair of which lay on a chair beside me wrapped in a handkerchief. In the windows were geraniums, and muslin curtains, and on the curtains were torpid17 flies. On the wall hung the portrait of some bishop18, painted in oils, with the glass broken at one corner, and next to the bishop a row of ancestors with lemon-coloured faces of a gipsy type. On the table lay a thimble, a reel of cotton, and a half-knitted stocking, and paper patterns and a black blouse, tacked19 together, were lying on the floor. In the next room two alarmed and fluttered old women were hurriedly picking up similar patterns and pieces of tailor's chalk from the floor.
"You must, please, excuse us; we are dreadfully untidy," said the little lady.
While she talked to me, she stole embarrassed glances towards the other room where the patterns were still being picked up. The door, too, seemed embarrassed, opening an inch or two and then shutting again.
"What's the matter?" said the little lady, addressing the door.
_"Où est mon cravatte lequel mon père m'avait envoyé de Koursk?"_ asked a female voice at the door.
_"Ah, est-ce que, Marie . . . que_. . . Really, it's impossible . . . . _Nous avons donc chez nous un homme peu connu de nous._ Ask Lukerya."
"How well we speak French, though!" I read in the eyes of the little lady, who was flushing with pleasure.
Soon afterwards the door opened and I saw a tall, thin girl of nineteen, in a long muslin dress with a gilt20 belt from which, I remember, hung a mother-of-pearl fan. She came in, dropped a curtsy, and flushed crimson21. Her long nose, which was slightly pitted with smallpox22, turned red first, and then the flush passed up to her eyes and her forehead.
"My daughter," chanted the little lady, "and, Manetchka, this is a young gentleman who has come," etc.
I was introduced, and expressed my surprise at the number of paper patterns. Mother and daughter dropped their eyes.
"We had a fair here at Ascension," said the mother; "we always buy materials at the fair, and then it keeps us busy with sewing till the next year's fair comes around again. We never put things out to be made. My husband's pay is not very ample, and we are not able to permit ourselves luxuries. So we have to make up everything ourselves."
"But who will ever wear such a number of things? There are only two of you?"
"Oh . . . as though we were thinking of wearing them! They are not to be worn; they are for the trousseau!"
"Ah, _mamam_, what are you saying?" said the daughter, and she crimsoned23 again. "Our visitor might suppose it was true. I don't intend to be married. Never!"
She said this, but at the very word "married" her eyes glowed.
Tea, biscuits, butter, and jam were brought in, followed by raspberries and cream. At seven o'clock, we had supper, consisting of six courses, and while we were at supper I heard a loud yawn from the next room. I looked with surprise towards the door: it was a yawn that could only come from a man.
"That's my husband's brother, Yegor Semyonitch," the little lady explained, noticing my surprise. "He's been living with us for the last year. Please excuse him; he cannot come in to see you. He is such an unsociable person, he is shy with strangers. He is going into a monastery24. He was unfairly treated in the service, and the disappointment has preyed25 on his mind."
After supper the little lady showed the vestment which Yegor Semyonitch was embroidering26 with his own hands as an offering for the Church. Manetchka threw off her shyness for a moment and showed me the tobacco-pouch she was embroidering for her father. When I pretended to be greatly struck by her work, she flushed crimson and whispered something in her mother's ear. The latter beamed all over, and invited me to go with her to the store-room. There I was shown five large trunks, and a number of smaller trunks and boxes.
"This is her trousseau," her mother whispered; "we made it all ourselves."
After looking at these forbidding trunks I took leave of my hospitable27 hostesses. They made me promise to come and see them again some day.
It happened that I was able to keep this promise. Seven years after my first visit, I was sent down to the little town to give expert evidence in a case that was being tried there.
As I entered the little house I heard the same "Ach!" echo through it. They recognised me at once. . . . Well they might! My first visit had been an event in their lives, and when events are few they are long remembered.
I walked into the drawing-room: the mother, who had grown stouter28 and was already getting grey, was creeping about on the floor, cutting out some blue material. The daughter was sitting on the sofa, embroidering.
There was the same smell of moth powder; there were the same patterns, the same portrait with the broken glass. But yet there was a change. Beside the portrait of the bishop hung a portrait of the Colonel, and the ladies were in mourning. The Colonel's death had occurred a week after his promotion29 to be a general.
Reminiscences began. . . . The widow shed tears.
"We have had a terrible loss," she said. "My husband, you know, is dead. We are alone in the world now, and have no one but ourselves to look to. Yegor Semyonitch is alive, but I have no good news to tell of him. They would not have him in the monastery on account of--of intoxicating30 beverages31. And now in his disappointment he drinks more than ever. I am thinking of going to the Marshal of Nobility to lodge32 a complaint. Would you believe it, he has more than once broken open the trunks and . . . taken Manetchka's trousseau and given it to beggars. He has taken everything out of two of the trunks! If he goes on like this, my Manetchka will be left without a trousseau at all."
"What are you saying, _mamam_?" said Manetchka, embarrassed. "Our visitor might suppose . . . there's no knowing what he might suppose . . . . I shall never--never marry."
Manetchka cast her eyes up to the ceiling with a look of hope and aspiration33, evidently not for a moment believing what she said.
A little bald-headed masculine figure in a brown coat and goloshes instead of boots darted34 like a mouse across the passage and disappeared. "Yegor Semyonitch, I suppose," I thought.
I looked at the mother and daughter together. They both looked much older and terribly changed. The mother's hair was silvered, but the daughter was so faded and withered35 that her mother might have been taken for her elder sister, not more than five years her senior.
"I have made up my mind to go to the Marshal," the mother said to me, forgetting she had told me this already. "I mean to make a complaint. Yegor Semyonitch lays his hands on everything we make, and offers it up for the sake of his soul. My Manetchka is left without a trousseau."
Manetchka flushed again, but this time she said nothing.
"We have to make them all over again. And God knows we are not so well off. We are all alone in the world now."
"We are alone in the world," repeated Manetchka.
A year ago fate brought me once more to the little house.
Walking into the drawing-room, I saw the old lady. Dressed all in black with heavy crape _pleureuses_, she was sitting on the sofa sewing. Beside her sat the little old man in the brown coat and the goloshes instead of boots. On seeing me, he jumped up and ran out of the room.
In response to my greeting, the old lady smiled and said:
_"Je suis charmée de vous revoir, monsieur."_
"What are you making?" I asked, a little later.
"It's a blouse. When it's finished I shall take it to the priest's to be put away, or else Yegor Semyonitch would carry it off. I store everything at the priest's now," she added in a whisper.
And looking at the portrait of her daughter which stood before her on the table, she sighed and said:
"We are all alone in the world."
And where was the daughter? Where was Manetchka? I did not ask. I did not dare to ask the old mother dressed in her new deep mourning. And while I was in the room, and when I got up to go, no Manetchka came out to greet me. I did not hear her voice, nor her soft, timid footstep. . . .
I understood, and my heart was heavy.
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1
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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2
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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3
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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4
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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5
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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6
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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7
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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8
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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9
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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10
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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11
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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12
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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13
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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14
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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15
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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16
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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17
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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18
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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19
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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20
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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21
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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22
smallpox
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| n.天花 | |
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23
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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24
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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25
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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26
embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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27
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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28
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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29
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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30
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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31
beverages
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| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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32
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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33
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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34
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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35
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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