At night I was cold, ill, and dreary1, but by day I revelled2 in life—I can find no better expression for it. The brilliant warm sunshine beating in at the open windows and at the door upon the balcony, the shouts below, the splash of oars3, the tinkle4 of bells, the prolonged boom of the cannon5 at midday, and the feeling of perfect, perfect freedom, did wonders with me; I felt as though I were growing strong, broad wings which were bearing me God knows whither. And what charm, what joy at times at the thought that another life was so close to mine! that I was the servant, the guardian6, the friend, the indispensable fellow-traveller of a creature, young, beautiful, wealthy, but weak, lonely, and insulted! It is pleasant even to be ill when you know that there are people who are looking forward to your convalescence7 as to a holiday. One day I heard her whispering behind the door with my doctor, and then she came in to me with tear-stained eyes. It was a bad sign, but I was touched, and there was a wonderful lightness in my heart.
But at last they allowed me to go out on the balcony. The sunshine and the breeze from the sea caressed8 and fondled my sick body. I looked down at the familiar gondolas10, which glide11 with feminine grace smoothly12 and majestically13 as though they were alive, and felt all the luxury of this original, fascinating civilisation14. There was a smell of the sea. Some one was playing a stringed instrument and two voices were singing. How delightful15 it was! How unlike it was to that Petersburg night when the wet snow was falling and beating so rudely on our faces. If one looks straight across the canal, one sees the sea, and on the wide expanse towards the horizon the sun glittered on the water so dazzlingly that it hurt one's eyes to look at it. My soul yearned16 towards that lovely sea, which was so akin17 to me and to which I had given up my youth. I longed to live—to live—and nothing more.
A fortnight later I began walking freely. I loved to sit in the sun, and to listen to the gondoliers without understanding them, and for hours together to gaze at the little house where, they said, Desdemona lived—a na?ve, mournful little house with a demure18 expression, as light as lace, so light that it looked as though one could lift it from its place with one hand. I stood for a long time by the tomb of Canova, and could not take my eyes off the melancholy19 lion. And in the Palace of the Doges I was always drawn20 to the corner where the portrait of the unhappy Marino Faliero was painted over with black. "It is fine to be an artist, a poet, a dramatist," I thought, "but since that is not vouchsafed21 to me, if only I could go in for mysticism! If only I had a grain of some faith to add to the unruffled peace and serenity22 that fills the soul!"
In the evening we ate oysters23, drank wine, and went out in a gondola9. I remember our black gondola swayed softly in the same place while the water faintly gurgled under it. Here and there the reflection of the stars and the lights on the bank quivered and trembled. Not far from us in a gondola, hung with coloured lanterns which were reflected in the water, there were people singing. The sounds of guitars, of violins, of mandolins, of men's and women's voices, were audible in the dark. Zinaida Fyodorovna, pale, with a grave, almost stern face, was sitting beside me, compressing her lips and clenching24 her hands. She was thinking about something; she did not stir an eyelash, nor hear me. Her face, her attitude, and her fixed25, expressionless gaze, and her incredibly miserable26, dreadful, and icy-cold memories, and around her the gondolas, the lights, the music, the song with its vigorous passionate27 cry of "Jam-mo! Jam-mo!"—what contrasts in life! When she sat like that, with tightly clasped hands, stony28, mournful, I used to feel as though we were both characters in some novel in the old-fashioned style called "The Ill-fated," "The Abandoned," or something of the sort. Both of us: she—the ill-fated, the abandoned; and I—the faithful, devoted29 friend, the dreamer, and, if you like it, a superfluous30 man, a failure capable of nothing but coughing and dreaming, and perhaps sacrificing myself.
But who and what needed my sacrifices now? And what had I to sacrifice, indeed?
When we came in in the evening we always drank tea in her room and talked. We did not shrink from touching31 on old, unhealed wounds—on the contrary, for some reason I felt a positive pleasure in telling her about my life at Orlov's, or referring openly to relations which I knew and which could not have been concealed32 from me.
"At moments I hated you," I said to her. "When he was capricious, condescending33, told you lies, I marvelled34 how it was you did not see, did not understand, when it was all so clear! You kissed his hands, you knelt to him, you flattered him ..."
"Can it have been so difficult to see through him? A fine sphinx! A sphinx indeed—a kammer-junker! I reproach you for nothing, God forbid," I went on, feeling I was coarse, that I had not the tact36, the delicacy37 which are so essential when you have to do with a fellow-creature's soul; in early days before I knew her I had not noticed this defect in myself. "But how could you fail to see what he was," I went on, speaking more softly and more diffidently, however.
"You mean to say you despise my past, and you are right," she said, deeply stirred. "You belong to a special class of men who cannot be judged by ordinary standards; your moral requirements are exceptionally rigorous, and I understand you can't forgive things. I understand you, and if sometimes I say the opposite, it doesn't mean that I look at things differently from you; I speak the same old nonsense simply because I haven't had time yet to wear out my old clothes and prejudices. I, too, hate and despise my past, and Orlov and my love.... What was that love? It's positively38 absurd now," she said, going to the window and looking down at the canal. "All this love only clouds the conscience and confuses the mind. The meaning of life is to be found only in one thing—fighting. To get one's heel on the vile39 head of the serpent and to crush it! That's the meaning of life. In that alone or in nothing."
I told her long stories of my past, and described my really astounding40 adventures. But of the change that had taken place in me I did not say one word. She always listened to me with great attention, and at interesting places she rubbed her hands as though vexed41 that it had not yet been her lot to experience such adventures, such joys and terrors. Then she would suddenly fall to musing42 and retreat into herself, and I could see from her face that she was not attending to me.
I closed the windows that looked out on the canal and asked whether we should not have the fire lighted.
"No, never mind. I am not cold," she said, smiling listlessly. "I only feel weak. Do you know, I fancy I have grown much wiser lately. I have extraordinary, original ideas now. When I think of my past, of my life then ... people in general, in fact, it is all summed up for me in the image of my stepmother. Coarse, insolent43, soulless, false, depraved, and a morphia maniac44 too. My father, who was feeble and weak-willed, married my mother for her money and drove her into consumption; but his second wife, my stepmother, he loved passionately45, insanely.... What I had to put up with! But what is the use of talking! And so, as I say, it is all summed up in her image.... And it vexes46 me that my stepmother is dead. I should like to meet her now!"
"Why?"
"I don't know," she answered with a laugh and a graceful47 movement of her head. "Good-night. You must get well. As soon as you are well, we'll take up our work ... It's time to begin."
After I had said good-night and had my hand on the door-handle, she said:
"What do you think? Is Polya still living there?"
"Probably."
And I went off to my room. So we spent a whole month. One grey morning when we both stood at my window, looking at the clouds which were moving up from the sea, and at the darkening canal, expecting every minute that it would pour with rain, and when a thick, narrow streak48 of rain covered the sea as though with a muslin veil, we both felt suddenly dreary. The same day we both set off for Florence.
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1
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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24
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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34
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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41
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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42
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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43
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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44
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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45
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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46
vexes
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| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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47
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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48
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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