He had h?morrhage from the throat. He was often spitting blood, but it happened two or three times a month that there was a considerable loss of blood, and then he grew extremely weak and sank into a drowsy4 condition. This illness did not particularly frighten him, as he knew that his mother had lived for ten years or longer suffering from the same disease, and the doctors assured him that there was no danger, and had only advised him to avoid excitement, to lead a regular life, and to speak as little as possible.
In January again his lecture did not take place owing to the same reason, and in February it was too late to begin the course. It had to be postponed5 to the following year.
By now he was living not with Tanya, but with another woman, who was two years older than he was, and who looked after him as though he were a baby. He was in a calm and tranquil6 state of mind; he readily gave in to her, and when Varvara Nikolaevna—that was the name of his friend—decided to take him to the Crimea, he agreed, though he had a presentiment7 that no good would come of the trip.
They reached Sevastopol in the evening and stopped at an hotel to rest and go on the next day to Yalta. They were both exhausted8 by the journey. Varvara Nikolaevna had some tea, went to bed and was soon asleep. But Kovrin did not go to bed. An hour before starting for the station, he had received a letter from Tanya, and had not brought himself to open it, and now it was lying in his coat pocket, and the thought of it excited him disagreeably. At the bottom of his heart he genuinely considered now that his marriage to Tanya had been a mistake. He was glad that their separation was final, and the thought of that woman who in the end had turned into a living relic9, still walking about though everything seemed dead in her except her big, staring, intelligent eyes—the thought of her roused in him nothing but pity and disgust with himself. The handwriting on the envelope reminded him how cruel and unjust he had been two years before, how he had worked off his anger at his spiritual emptiness, his boredom10, his loneliness, and his dissatisfaction with life by revenging himself on people in no way to blame. He remembered, also, how he had torn up his dissertation11 and all the articles he had written during his illness, and how he had thrown them out of window, and the bits of paper had fluttered in the wind and caught on the trees and flowers. In every line of them he saw strange, utterly12 groundless pretension13, shallow defiance14, arrogance15, megalomania; and they made him feel as though he were reading a description of his vices16. But when the last manuscript had been torn up and sent flying out of window, he felt, for some reason, suddenly bitter and angry; he went to his wife and said a great many unpleasant things to her. My God, how he had tormented17 her! One day, wanting to cause her pain, he told her that her father had played a very unattractive part in their romance, that he had asked him to marry her. Yegor Semyonitch accidentally overheard this, ran into the room, and, in his despair, could not utter a word, could only stamp and make a strange, bellowing18 sound as though he had lost the power of speech, and Tanya, looking at her father, had uttered a heart-rending shriek19 and had fallen into a swoon. It was hideous20.
All this came back into his memory as he looked at the familiar writing. Kovrin went out on to the balcony; it was still warm weather and there was a smell of the sea. The wonderful bay reflected the moonshine and the lights, and was of a colour for which it was difficult to find a name. It was a soft and tender blending of dark blue and green; in places the water was like blue vitriol, and in places it seemed as though the moonlight were liquefied and filling the bay instead of water. And what harmony of colours, what an atmosphere of peace, calm, and sublimity21!
In the lower storey under the balcony the windows were probably open, for women's voices and laughter could be heard distinctly. Apparently22 there was an evening party.
Kovrin made an effort, tore open the envelope, and, going back into his room, read:
"My father is just dead. I owe that to you, for you have killed him. Our garden is being ruined; strangers are managing it already—that is, the very thing is happening that poor father dreaded23. That, too, I owe to you. I hate you with my whole soul, and I hope you may soon perish. Oh, how wretched I am! Insufferable anguish24 is burning my soul.... My curses on you. I took you for an extraordinary man, a genius; I loved you, and you have turned out a madman...."
Kovrin could read no more, he tore up the letter and threw it away. He was overcome by an uneasiness that was akin25 to terror. Varvara Nikolaevna was asleep behind the screen, and he could hear her breathing. From the lower storey came the sounds of laughter and women's voices, but he felt as though in the whole hotel there were no living soul but him. Because Tanya, unhappy, broken by sorrow, had cursed him in her letter and hoped for his perdition, he felt eerie26 and kept glancing hurriedly at the door, as though he were afraid that the uncomprehended force which two years before had wrought27 such havoc28 in his life and in the life of those near him might come into the room and master him once more.
He knew by experience that when his nerves were out of hand the best thing for him to do was to work. He must sit down to the table and force himself, at all costs, to concentrate his mind on some one thought. He took from his red portfolio29 a manuscript containing a sketch30 of a small work of the nature of a compilation31, which he had planned in case he should find it dull in the Crimea without work. He sat down to the table and began working at this plan, and it seemed to him that his calm, peaceful, indifferent mood was coming back. The manuscript with the sketch even led him to meditation32 on the vanity of the world. He thought how much life exacts for the worthless or very commonplace blessings33 it can give a man. For instance, to gain, before forty, a university chair, to be an ordinary professor, to expound34 ordinary and second-hand35 thoughts in dull, heavy, insipid36 language—in fact, to gain the position of a mediocre37 learned man, he, Kovrin, had had to study for fifteen years, to work day and night, to endure a terrible mental illness, to experience an unhappy marriage, and to do a great number of stupid and unjust things which it would have been pleasant not to remember. Kovrin recognised clearly, now, that he was a mediocrity, and readily resigned himself to it, as he considered that every man ought to be satisfied with what he is.
The plan of the volume would have soothed38 him completely, but the torn letter showed white on the floor and prevented him from concentrating his attention. He got up from the table, picked up the pieces of the letter and threw them out of window, but there was a light wind blowing from the sea, and the bits of paper were scattered39 on the windowsill. Again he was overcome by uneasiness akin to terror, and he felt as though in the whole hotel there were no living soul but himself.... He went out on the balcony. The bay, like a living thing, looked at him with its multitude of light blue, dark blue, turquoise40 and fiery41 eyes, and seemed beckoning42 to him. And it really was hot and oppressive, and it would not have been amiss to have a bathe.
Suddenly in the lower storey under the balcony a violin began playing, and two soft feminine voices began singing. It was something familiar. The song was about a maiden43, full of sick fancies, who heard one night in her garden mysterious sounds, so strange and lovely that she was obliged to recognise them as a holy harmony which is unintelligible44 to us mortals, and so flies back to heaven.... Kovrin caught his breath and there was a pang45 of sadness at his heart, and a thrill of the sweet, exquisite46 delight he had so long forgotten began to stir in his breast.
A tall black column, like a whirlwind or a waterspout, appeared on the further side of the bay. It moved with fearful rapidity across the bay, towards the hotel, growing smaller and darker as it came, and Kovrin only just had time to get out of the way to let it pass.... The monk47 with bare grey head, black eyebrows48, barefoot, his arms crossed over his breast, floated by him, and stood still in the middle of the room.
"Why did you not believe me?" he asked reproachfully, looking affectionately at Kovrin. "If you had believed me then, that you were a genius, you would not have spent these two years so gloomily and so wretchedly."
Kovrin already believed that he was one of God's chosen and a genius; he vividly49 recalled his conversations with the monk in the past and tried to speak, but the blood flowed from his throat on to his breast, and not knowing what he was doing, he passed his hands over his breast, and his cuffs50 were soaked with blood. He tried to call Varvara Nikolaevna, who was asleep behind the screen; he made an effort and said:
"Tanya!"
"Tanya!"
He called Tanya, called to the great garden with the gorgeous flowers sprinkled with dew, called to the park, the pines with their shaggy roots, the rye-field, his marvellous learning, his youth, courage, joy—called to life, which was so lovely. He saw on the floor near his face a great pool of blood, and was too weak to utter a word, but an unspeakable, infinite happiness flooded his whole being. Below, under the balcony, they were playing the serenade, and the black monk whispered to him that he was a genius, and that he was dying only because his frail52 human body had lost its balance and could no longer serve as the mortal garb53 of genius.
When Varvara Nikolaevna woke up and came out from behind the screen, Kovrin was dead, and a blissful smile was set upon his face.
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1
inaugural
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| adj.就职的；n.就职典礼 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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3
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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12
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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17
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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18
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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24
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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32
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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33
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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34
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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36
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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39
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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40
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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41
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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42
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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43
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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44
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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45
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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46
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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47
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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48
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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49
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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50
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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52
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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53
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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