This family lived in their own house in the principal street, near the Governor's. Ivan Petrovitch Turkin himself—a stout4, handsome, dark man with whiskers—used to get up amateur performances for benevolent5 objects, and used to take the part of an elderly general and cough very amusingly. He knew a number of anecdotes6, charades7, proverbs, and was fond of being humorous and witty8, and he always wore an expression from which it was impossible to tell whether he were joking or in earnest. His wife, Vera Iosifovna—a thin, nice-looking lady who wore a pince-nez—used to write novels and stories, and was very fond of reading them aloud to her visitors. The daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, used to play on the piano. In short, every member of the family had a special talent. The Turkins welcomed visitors, and good-humouredly displayed their talents with genuine simplicity9. Their stone house was roomy and cool in summer; half of the windows looked into a shady old garden, where nightingales used to sing in the spring. When there were visitors in the house, there was a clatter10 of knives in the kitchen and a smell of fried onions in the yard—and that was always a sure sign of a plentiful11 and savoury supper to follow.
And as soon as Dmitri Ionitch Startsev was appointed the district doctor, and took up his abode12 at Dyalizh, six miles from S——, he, too, was told that as a cultivated man it was essential for him to make the acquaintance of the Turkins. In the winter he was introduced to Ivan Petrovitch in the street; they talked about the weather, about the theatre, about the cholera13; an invitation followed. On a holiday in the spring—it was Ascension Day—after seeing his patients, Startsev set off for town in search of a little recreation and to make some purchases. He walked in a leisurely14 way (he had not yet set up his carriage), humming all the time:
In town he dined, went for a walk in the gardens, then Ivan Petrovitch's invitation came into his mind, as it were of itself, and he decided16 to call on the Turkins and see what sort of people they were.
"How do you do, if you please?" said Ivan Petrovitch, meeting him on the steps. "Delighted, delighted to see such an agreeable visitor. Come along; I will introduce you to my better half. I tell him, Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife—"I tell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital; he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?"
"Sit here," said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her. "You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous—he is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will notice nothing."
"Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day."
"Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du thé."
Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlish bosom17, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring.
Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with very nice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, other visitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed18 his laughing eyes on each of them and said:
"How do you do, if you please?"
Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began like this: "The frost was intense...." The windows were wide open; from the kitchen came the clatter of knives and the smell of fried onions.... It was comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such a friendly twinkle in the twilight19 of the drawing-room, and at the moment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floated in from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficult to grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun was lighting20 with its chilly21 rays a solitary22 wayfarer23 on the snowy plain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young countess founded a school, a hospital, a library, in her village, and fell in love with a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in real life, and yet it was pleasant to listen—it was comfortable, and such agreeable, serene24 thoughts kept coming into the mind, one had no desire to get up.
"Not badsome ..." Ivan Petrovitch said softly.
And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly:
"Yes ... truly...."
One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to "Lutchina" being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life.
"Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna.
"No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to live on."
And for some reason every one sighed.
"And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his daughter.
The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands, and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again; her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately25 banged on the same notes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she had hammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled with the din3; everything was resounding26; the floor, the ceiling, the furniture.... Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage, interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous27, and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping; and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy28 from the violent exercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizh among patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watch this young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, and to listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, was so pleasant, so novel....
"Well, Kitten, you have played as never before," said Ivan Petrovitch, with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better."
All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment29, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive30 of triumph.
"Splendid, superb!"
"Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?"
"No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky."
"Have you finished at the high school here?"
"Oh, no," Vera Iosifovna answered for her, "We have teachers for her at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or a boarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, she ought to be under no influence but her mother's."
"All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said Ekaterina Ivanovna.
"No. Kitten loves her mamma. Kitten won't grieve papa and mamma."
"No, I'm going, I'm going," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with playful caprice and stamping her foot.
And at supper it was Ivan Petrovitch who displayed his talents. Laughing only with his eyes, he told anecdotes, made epigrams, asked ridiculous riddles31 and answered them himself, talking the whole time in his extraordinary language, evolved in the course of prolonged practice in witticism32 and evidently now become a habit: "Badsome," "Hugeous," "Thank you most dumbly," and so on.
But that was not all. When the guests, replete33 and satisfied, trooped into the hall, looking for their coats and sticks, there bustled34 about them the footman Pavlusha, or, as he was called in the family, Pava—a lad of fourteen with shaven head and chubby35 cheeks.
"Come, Pava, perform!" Ivan Petrovitch said to him.
And every one roared with laughter.
"It's entertaining," thought Startsev, as he went out into the street.
He went to a restaurant and drank some beer, then set off to walk home to Dyalizh; he walked all the way singing:
On going to bed, he felt not the slightest fatigue38 after the six miles' walk. On the contrary, he felt as though he could with pleasure have walked another twenty.
"Not badsome," he thought, and laughed as he fell asleep.
点击收听单词发音
1 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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2 dreariness | |
沉寂,可怕,凄凉 | |
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3 din | |
n.喧闹声,嘈杂声 | |
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5 benevolent | |
adj.仁慈的,乐善好施的 | |
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6 anecdotes | |
n.掌故,趣闻,轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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7 charades | |
n.伪装( charade的名词复数 );猜字游戏 | |
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8 witty | |
adj.机智的,风趣的 | |
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9 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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10 clatter | |
v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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11 plentiful | |
adj.富裕的,丰富的 | |
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12 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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13 cholera | |
n.霍乱 | |
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14 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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15 goblet | |
n.高脚酒杯 | |
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16 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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17 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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18 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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19 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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20 lighting | |
n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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21 chilly | |
adj.凉快的,寒冷的 | |
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22 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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23 wayfarer | |
n.旅人 | |
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24 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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25 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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26 resounding | |
adj. 响亮的 | |
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27 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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28 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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29 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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30 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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31 riddles | |
n.谜(语)( riddle的名词复数 );猜不透的难题,难解之谜 | |
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32 witticism | |
n.谐语,妙语 | |
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33 replete | |
adj.饱满的,塞满的;n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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34 bustled | |
闹哄哄地忙乱,奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 ); 催促 | |
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35 chubby | |
adj.丰满的,圆胖的 | |
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36 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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37 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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38 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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