And we no longer had conversations in the evening. I don't know why it was like this. Ever since the day when I had found her in tears she had treated me somehow lightly, at times casually1, even ironically, and for some reason called me "My good sir." What had before seemed to her terrible, heroic, marvellous, and had stirred her envy and enthusiasm, did not touch her now at all, and usually after listening to me, she stretched and said:
"Yes, 'great things were done in days of yore,' my good sir."
It sometimes happened even that I did not see her for days together. I would knock timidly and guiltily at her door and get no answer; I would knock again—still silence.... I would stand near the door and listen; then the chambermaid would pass and say coldly, "Madame est partie." Then I would walk about the passages of the hotel, walk and walk.... English people, full-bosomed ladies, waiters in swallow-tails.... And as I keep gazing at the long striped rug that stretches the whole length of the corridor, the idea occurs to me that I am playing in the life of this woman a strange, probably false part, and that it is beyond my power to alter that part. I run to my room and fall on my bed, and think and think, and can come to no conclusion; and all that is clear to me is that I want to live, and that the plainer and the colder and the harder her face grows, the nearer she is to me, and the more intensely and painfully I feel our kinship. Never mind "My good sir," never mind her light careless tone, never mind anything you like, only don't leave me, my treasure. I am afraid to be alone.
Then I go out into the corridor again, listen in a tremor2.... I have no dinner; I don't notice the approach of evening. At last about eleven I hear the familiar footstep, and at the turn near the stairs Zinaida Fyodorovna comes into sight.
"Are you taking a walk?" she would ask as she passes me. "You had better go out into the air.... Good-night!"
"But shall we not meet again to-day?"
"I think it's late. But as you like."
"Tell me, where have you been?" I would ask, following her into the room.
"Where? To Monte Carlo." She took ten gold coins out of her pocket and said: "Look, my good sir; I have won. That's at roulette."
"Nonsense! As though you would gamble."
"Why not? I am going again to-morrow."
I imagined her with a sick and morbid4 face, in her condition, tightly laced, standing5 near the gaming-table in a crowd of cocottes, of old women in their dotage6 who swarm7 round the gold like flies round the honey. I remembered she had gone off to Monte Carlo for some reason in secret from me.
"I don't believe you," I said one day. "You wouldn't go there."
"It's not the question of what you lose," I said with annoyance9. "Has it never occurred to you while you were playing there that the glitter of gold, all these women, young and old, the croupiers, all the surroundings—that it is all a vile10, loathsome11 mockery at the toiler's labour, at his bloody12 sweat?"
"If one doesn't play, what is one to do here?" she asked. "The toiler's labour and his bloody sweat—all that eloquence13 you can put off till another time; but now, since you have begun, let me go on. Let me ask you bluntly, what is there for me to do here, and what am I to do?"
"What are you to do?" I said, shrugging my shoulders. "That's a question that can't be answered straight off."
"I beg you to answer me honestly, Vladimir Ivanitch," she said, and her face looked angry. "Once I have brought myself to ask you this question, I am not going to listen to stock phrases. I am asking you," she went on, beating her hand on the table, as though marking time, "what ought I to do here? And not only here at Nice, but in general?"
I did not speak, but looked out of window to the sea. My heart was beating terribly.
"Vladimir Ivanitch," she said softly and breathlessly; it was hard for her to speak—"Vladimir Ivanitch, if you do not believe in the cause yourself, if you no longer think of going back to it, why ... why did you drag me out of Petersburg? Why did you make me promises, why did you rouse mad hopes? Your convictions have changed; you have become a different man, and nobody blames you for it—our convictions are not always in our power. But ... but, Vladimir Ivanitch, for God's sake, why are you not sincere?" she went on softly, coming up to me. "All these months when I have been dreaming aloud, raving15, going into raptures16 over my plans, remodelling17 my life on a new pattern, why didn't you tell me the truth? Why were you silent or encouraged me by your stories, and behaved as though you were in complete sympathy with me? Why was it? Why was it necessary?"
"It's difficult to acknowledge one's bankruptcy," I said, turning round, but not looking at her. "Yes, I have no faith; I am worn out. I have lost heart.... It is difficult to be truthful—very difficult, and I held my tongue. God forbid that any one should have to go through what I have been through."
I felt that I was on the point of tears, and ceased speaking.
"Vladimir Ivanitch," she said, and took me by both hands, "you have been through so much and seen so much of life, you know more than I do; think seriously, and tell me, what am I to do? Teach me! If you haven't the strength to go forward yourself and take others with you, at least show me where to go. After all, I am a living, feeling, thinking being. To sink into a false position ... to play an absurd part ... is painful to me. I don't reproach you, I don't blame you; I only ask you."
Tea was brought in.
"Well?" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, giving me a glass. "What do you say to me?"
"There is more light in the world than you see through your window," I answered. "And there are other people besides me, Zinaida Fyodorovna."
"Then tell me who they are," she said eagerly. "That's all I ask of you."
"And I want to say, too," I went on, "one can serve an idea in more than one calling. If one has made a mistake and lost faith in one, one may find another. The world of ideas is large and cannot be exhausted18."
"The world of ideas!" she said, and she looked into my face sarcastically19. "Then we had better leave off talking. What's the use?..."
She flushed.
"The world of ideas!" she repeated. She threw her dinner-napkin aside, and an expression of indignation and contempt came into her face. "All your fine ideas, I see, lead up to one inevitable20, essential step: I ought to become your mistress. That's what's wanted. To be taken up with ideas without being the mistress of an honourable21, progressive man, is as good as not understanding the ideas. One has to begin with that ... that is, with being your mistress, and the rest will come of itself."
"You are irritated, Zinaida Fyodorovna," I said.
"No, I am sincere!" she cried, breathing hard. "I am sincere!"
"You are sincere, perhaps, but you are in error, and it hurts me to hear you."
"I am in error?" she laughed. "Any one else might say that, but not you, my dear sir! I may seem to you indelicate, cruel, but I don't care: you love me? You love me, don't you?"
"Yes, shrug14 your shoulders!" she went on sarcastically. "When you were ill I heard you in your delirium23, and ever since these adoring eyes, these sighs, and edifying24 conversations about friendship, about spiritual kinship.... But the point is, why haven't you been sincere? Why have you concealed25 what is and talked about what isn't? Had you said from the beginning what ideas exactly led you to drag me from Petersburg, I should have known. I should have poisoned myself then as I meant to, and there would have been none of this tedious farce26.... But what's the use of talking!"
With a wave of the hand she sat down.
"You speak to me as though you suspected me of dishonourable intentions," I said, offended.
"Oh, very well. What's the use of talking! I don't suspect you of intentions, but of having no intentions. If you had any, I should have known them by now. You had nothing but ideas and love. For the present—ideas and love, and in prospect—me as your mistress. That's in the order of things both in life and in novels.... Here you abused him," she said, and she slapped the table with her hand, "but one can't help agreeing with him. He has good reasons for despising these ideas."
"Oh, very well. He is a coward and a liar, and deceived me. And you? Excuse my frankness; what are you? He deceived me and left me to take my chance in Petersburg, and you have deceived me and abandoned me here. But he did not mix up ideas with his deceit, and you ..."
"For goodness' sake, why are you saying this?" I cried in horror, wringing27 my hands and going up to her quickly. "No, Zinaida Fyodorovna, this is cynicism. You must not be so despairing; listen to me," I went on, catching28 at a thought which flashed dimly upon me, and which seemed to me might still save us both. "Listen. I have passed through so many experiences in my time that my head goes round at the thought of them, and I have realised with my mind, with my racked soul, that man finds his true destiny in nothing if not in self-sacrificing love for his neighbour. It is towards that we must strive, and that is our destination! That is my faith!"
I wanted to go on to speak of mercy, of forgiveness, but there was an insincere note in my voice, and I was embarrassed.
"I want to live!" I said genuinely. "To live, to live! I want peace, tranquillity29; I want warmth—this sea here—to have you near. Oh, how I wish I could rouse in you the same thirst for life! You spoke30 just now of love, but it would be enough for me to have you near, to hear your voice, to watch the look in your face ...!"
"You love life, and I hate it. So our ways lie apart."
She poured herself out some tea, but did not touch it, went into the bedroom, and lay down.
"I imagine it is better to cut short this conversation," she said to me from within. "Everything is over for me, and I want nothing.... What more is there to say?"
"No, it's not all over!"
"Oh, very well!... I know! I am sick of it.... That's enough."
I got up, took a turn from one end of the room to the other, and went out into the corridor. When late at night I went to her door and listened, I distinctly heard her crying.
Next morning the waiter, handing me my clothes, informed me, with a smile, that the lady in number thirteen was confined. I dressed somehow, and almost fainting with terror ran to Zinaida Fyodorovna. In her room I found a doctor, a midwife, and an elderly Russian lady from Harkov, called Darya Milhailovna. There was a smell of ether. I had scarcely crossed the threshold when from the room where she was lying I heard a low, plaintive32 moan, and, as though it had been wafted33 me by the wind from Russia, I thought of Orlov, his irony34, Polya, the Neva, the drifting snow, then the cab without an apron35, the prediction I had read in the cold morning sky, and the despairing cry "Nina! Nina!"
"Go in to her," said the lady.
I went in to see Zinaida Fyodorovna, feeling as though I were the father of the child. She was lying with her eyes closed, looking thin and pale, wearing a white cap edged with lace. I remember there were two expressions on her face: one—cold, indifferent, apathetic36; the other—a look of childish helplessness given her by the white cap. She did not hear me come in, or heard, perhaps, but did not pay attention. I stood, looked at her, and waited.
But her face was contorted with pain; she opened her eyes and gazed at the ceiling, as though wondering what was happening to her.... There was a look of loathing37 on her face.
"It's horrible ..." she whispered.
"Zinaida Fyodorovna." I spoke her name softly. She looked at me indifferently, listlessly, and closed her eyes. I stood there a little while, then went away.
At night, Darya Mihailovna informed me that the child, a girl, was born, but that the mother was in a dangerous condition. Then I heard noise and bustle38 in the passage. Darya Mihailovna came to me again and with a face of despair, wringing her hands, said:
"Oh, this is awful! The doctor suspects that she has taken poison! Oh, how badly Russians do behave here!"
And at twelve o'clock the next day Zinaida Fyodorovna died.
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1
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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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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dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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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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agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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10
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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12
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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13
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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15
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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remodelling
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的现在分词 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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24
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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28
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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30
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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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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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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37
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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