There were no reasons for putting off our wedding, and neither he nor I wished for delay. Katya, it is true, thought we ought to go to Moscow, to buy and order wedding clothes; and his mother tried to insist that, before the wedding, he must set up a new carriage, but new furniture, and repaper the whole house. But we two together carried our point, that all these things, if they were really indispensable, should be done afterwards, and that we should be married within a fortnight after my birthday, quietly, without wedding clothes, with a party, without best men and supper and champagne1, and all the other conventional features of a wedding. He told me how dissatisfied his mother was that there should be no band, no mountain of luggage, no renovation2 of the whole house — so unlike her own marriage which had cost thirty thousand rubles; and he told of the solemn and secret confabulations which she held in her store room with her housekeeper3, Maryushka, rummaging4 the chests and discussing carpets, curtains, and salvers as indispensable conditions of our happiness. At our house Katya did just the same with my old nurse, Kuzminichna. It was impossible to treat the matter lightly with Katya. She was firmly convinced that he and I, when discussing our future, were merely talking the sentimental5 nonsense natural to people in our position; and that our real future happiness depended on the hemming6 of table cloths and napkins and the proper cutting out and stitching of underclothing. Several times a day secret information passed between the two houses, to communicate what was going forward in each; and though the external relations between Katya and his mother were most affectionate, yet a slightly hostile though very subtle diplomacy7 was already perceptible in their dealings. I now became more intimate with Tatyana Semyonovna, the mother of Sergey Mikhaylych, an old-fashioned lady, strict and formal in the management of her household. Her son loved her, and not merely because she was his mother: he thought her the best, cleverest, kindest, and most affectionate woman in the world. She was always kind to us and to me especially, and was glad that her son should be getting married; but when I was with her after our engagement, I always felt that she wished me to understand that, in her opinion, her son might have looked higher, and that it would be as well for me to keep that in mind. I understood her meaning perfectly8 and thought her quite right.
During that fortnight he and I met every day. He came to dinner regularly and stayed on till midnight. But though he said — and I knew he was speaking the truth — that he had no life apart from me, yet he never spent the whole day with me, and tried to go on with his ordinary occupations. Our outward relations remained unchanged to the very day of our marriage: we went on saying “you” and not “thou” to each other; he did not even kiss my hand; he did not seek, but even avoided, opportunities of being alone with me. It was as if he feared to yield to the harmful excess of tenderness he felt. I don’t know which of us had changed; but I now felt myself entirely9 his equal; I no longer found in him the pretence10 of simplicity11 which had displeased12 me earlier; and I often delighted to see in him, not a grown man inspiring respect and awe13 but a loving and wildly happy child. “How mistaken I was about him!” I often thought; “he is just such another human being as myself!” It seemed to me now, that his whole character was before me and that I thoroughly14 understood it. And how simple was every feature of his character, and how congenial to my own! Even his plans for our future life together were just my plans, only more clearly and better expressed in his words.
The weather was bad just then, and we spent most of our time indoors. The corner between the piano and the window was the scene of our best intimate talks. The candle light was reflected on the blackness of the window near us; from time to time drops struck the glistening15 pane16 and rolled down. The rain pattered on the roof; the water splashed in a puddle17 under the spout18; it felt damp near the window; but our corner seemed all the brighter and warmer and happier for that.
“Do you know, there is something I have long wished to say to you,” he began one night when we were sitting up late in our corner; “I was thinking of it all the time you were playing.”
“Don’t say it, I know all about it,” I replied.
“All right! mum’s the word!”
“No! what is it?” I asked.
“Well, it is this. You remember the story I told you about A and B?”
“I should just think I did! What a stupid story! Lucky that it ended as it did!”
“Yes. I was very near destroying my happiness by my own act. You saved me. But the main thing is that I was always telling lies then, and I’m ashamed of it, and I want to have my say out now.”
“Please don’t! you really mustn’t!”
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, smiling. “I only want to justify19 myself. When I began then, I meant to argue.”
“It is always a mistake to argue,” I said.
“Yes, I argued wrong. After all my disappointments and mistakes in life, I told myself firmly when I came to the country this year, that love was no more for me, and that all I had to do was to grow old decently. So for a long time, I was unable to clear up my feeling towards you, or to make out where it might lead me. I hoped, and I didn’t hope: at one time I thought you were trifling20 with me; at another I felt sure of you but could not decide what to do. But after that evening, you remember when we walked in the garden at night, I got alarmed: the present happiness seemed too great to be real. What if I allowed myself to hope and then failed? But of course I was thinking only of myself, for I am disgustingly selfish.”
He stopped and looked at me.
“But it was not all nonsense that I said then. It was possible and right for me to have fears. I take so much from you and can give so little. You are still a child, a bud that has yet to open; you have never been in love before, and I . . .”
“Yes, do tell me the truth . . . .” I began, and then stopped, afraid of his answer. “No, never mind,” I added.
“Have I been in love before? is that it?” he said, guessing my thoughts at once. “That I can tell you. No, never before — nothing a t all like what I feel now.” But a sudden painful recollection seemed to flash across his mind. “No,” he said sadly; “in this too I need your compassion21, in order to have the right to love you. Well, was I not bound to think twice before saying that I loved you? What do I give you? love, no doubt.”
“And is that little?” I asked, looking him in the face.
“Yes, my dear, it is little to give you,” he continued; “you have youth and beauty. I often lie awake at night from happiness, and all the time I think of our future life together. I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet secluded22 life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one’s neighbor — such is my idea of happiness. And then, on the top of all that, you for a mate, and children perhaps — what more can the hear of man desire?”
“It should be enough,” I said.
“Enough for me whose youth is over,” he went on, “but not for you. Life is still before you, and you will perhaps seek happiness, and perhaps find it, in something different. You think now that this is happiness, because you love me.”
“You are wrong,” I said; “I have always desired just that quiet domestic life and prized it. And you only say just what I have thought.”
He smiled.
“So you think, my dear; but that is not enough for you. You have youth and beauty,” he repeated thoughtfully.
But I was angry because he disbelieved me and seemed to cast my youth and beauty in my teeth.
“Why do you love me then?” I asked angrily; “for my youth or for myself?”
“I don’t know, but I love you,” he answered, looking at me with his attentive23 and attractive gaze.
I did not reply and involuntarily looked into his eyes. Suddenly a strange thing happened to me: first I ceased to see what was around me; then his face seemed to vanish till only the eyes were left, shining over against mine; next the eyes seemed to be in my own head, and then all became confused — I could see nothing and was forced to shut my eyes, in order to break loose from the feeling of pleasure and fear which his gaze was producing in me . . .
The day before our wedding day, the weather cleared up towards evening. The rains which had begun in summer gave place to clear weather, and we had our first autumn evening, bright and cold. It was a wet, cold, shining world, and the garden showed for the first time the spaciousness24 and color and bareness of autumn. the sky was clear, cold, and pale. I went to bed happy in the thought that tomorrow, our wedding day, would be fine. I awoke with the sun, and the thought that this very day . . . seemed alarming and surprising. I went out into the garden. the sun had just risen and shone fitfully through the meager25 yellow leaves of the lime avenue. The path was strewn with rustling26 leaves, clusters of mountain ash berries hung red and wrinkled on the boughs27, with a sprinkling of frost-bitten crumpled28 leaves; the dahlias were black and wrinkled. the first rime29 lay like silver on the pale green of the grass and on the broken burdock plants round the house. In the clear cold sky there was not, and could not be, a single cloud.
“Can it possibly be today?” I asked myself, incredulous of my own happiness. “Is it possible that I shall wake tomorrow, not here but in that strange house with the pillars? Is it possible that I shall never again wait for his coming and meet him, and sit up late with Katya to talk about him? Shall I never sit with him beside the piano in our drawing room? never see him off and feel uneasy about him on dark nights?” But I remembered that he promised yesterday to pay a last visit, and that Katya had insisted on my trying on my wedding dress, and had said “For tomorrow”. I believed for a moment that it was all real, and then doubted again. “Can it be that after today I shall be living there with a mother-inlaw, without Nadezhda or Grigori or Katya? Shall I go to bed without kissing my old nurse good night and hearing her say, while she signs me with the cross from old custom, “Good night, Miss”? Shall I never again teach Sonya and play with her and knock through the wall to her in the morning and hear her hearty30 laugh? Shall I become from today someone that I myself do not know? and is a new world, that will realize my hopes and desires, opening before me? and will that new world last for ever?” alone with these thoughts I was depressed31 and impatient for his arrival. He cam early, and it required his presence to convince me that I should really be his wife that very day, and the prospect32 ceased to frighten me.
Before dinner we walked to our church, to attend a memorial service for my father.
“If only he were living now!” I thought as we were returning and I leant silently on the arm of him who had been the dearest friend of the object of my thoughts. During the service, while I pressed my forehead against the cold stone of the chapel33 floor, I called up my father so vividly34; I was so convinced that he understood me and approved my choice, that I felt as if his spirit were still hovering35 over us and blessing36 me. And my recollections and hopes, my joy and sadness, made up one solemn and satisfied feeling which was in harmony with the fresh still air, the silence, the bare fields and pale sky, from which the bright but powerless rays, trying in vain to burn my cheek, fell over all the landscape. My companion seemed to understand and share my feeling. He walked slowly and silently; and his face, at which I glanced from time to time, expressed the same serious mood between joy and sorrow which I shared with nature.
Suddenly he turned to me, and I saw that he intended to speak. “Suppose he starts some other subject than that which is in my mind?” I thought. But he began to speak of my father and did not even name him.
“He once said to me in just, “you should marry my Masha”,” he began.
“He would have been happy now,” I answered, pressing closer the arm which held mine.
“You were a child then,” he went on, looking into my eyes; “I loved those eyes and used to kiss them only because they were like his, never thinking they would be so dear to me for their own sake. I used to call you Masha then.”
“I want you to say thou’ to me,” I said.
“I was just going to,” he answered; “I feel for the first time that thou art entirely mine;” and his calm happy gaze that drew me to him rested on me.
We went on along the foot path over the beaten and trampled37 stubble; our voices and footsteps were the only sounds. On one side the brownish stubble stretched over a hollow to a distant leafless wood; across it at some distance a peasant was noiselessly ploughing a black strip which grew wider and wider. A drove of horses scattered38 under the hill seemed close to us. On the other side, as far as the garden and our house peeping through the trees, a field of winter corn, thawed39 by the sun, showed black with occasional patches of green. The winter sun shone over everything, and everything was covered with long gossamer40 spider’s webs, which floated in the air round us, lay on the frost-dried stubble, and got into our eyes and hair and clothes. When we spoke41, the sound of our voices hung in the motionless air above us, as if we two were alone in the whole world — alone under that azure42 vault43, in which the beams of the winter sun played and flashed without scorching44.
I too wished to say “thou” to him, but I felt ashamed.
“Why dost thou walk so fast?” I said quickly and almost in a whisper; I could not help blushing.
He slackened his pace, and the gaze he turned on me was even more affectionate, gay, and happy.
At home we found that his mother and the inevitable45 guests had arrived already, and I was never alone with him again till we came out of church to drive to Nikolskoe.
The church was nearly empty: I just caught a glimpse of his mother standing46 up straight on a mat by the choir47 and of Katya wearing a cap with purple ribbons and with tears on her cheeks, and of two or three of our servants looking curiously48 at me. I did not look at him, but felt his presence there beside me. I attended to the words of the prayers and repeated them, but they found no echo in my heart. Unable to pray, I looked listlessly at the icons49, the candles, the embroidered50 cross on the priest’s cope, the screen, and the window, and took nothing in. I only felt that something strange was being done to me. At last the priest turned to us with the cross in his hand, congratulated us, and said, “I christened you and by God’s mercy have lived to marry you.” Katya and his mother kissed us, and Grigori’s voice was heard, calling up the carriage. But I was only frightened and disappointed: all was over, but nothing extraordinary, nothing worthy51 of the Sacrament I had just received, had taken place in myself. He and I exchanged kisses, but the kiss seemed strange and not expressive52 of our feeling. “Is this all?” I thought. We went out of church, the sound of wheels reverberated53 under the vaulted54 roof, the fresh air blew on my face, he put on his hat and handed me into the carriage. Through the window I could see a frosty moon with a halo round it. He sat down beside me and shut the door after him. I felt a sudden pang55. The assurance of his proceedings56 seemed to me insulting. Katya called out that I should put something on my head; the wheels rumbled57 on the stone and then moved along the soft road, and we were off. Huddling58 in a corner, I looked out at the distant fields and the road flying past in the cold glitter of the moon. Without looking at him, I felt his presence beside me. “Is this all I have got from the moment, of which I expected so much?” I thought; and still it seemed humiliating and insulting to be sitting alone with him, and so close. I turned to him, intending to speak; but the words would not come, as if my love had vanished, giving place to a feeling of mortification59 and alarm.
“Till this moment I did not believe it was possible,” he said in a low voice in answer to my look.
“But I am afraid somehow,” I said.
“Afraid of me, my dear?” he said, taking my hand and bending over it.
My hand lay lifeless in his, and the cold at my heart was painful.
“Yes,” I whispered.
But at that moment my heart began to beat faster, my hand trembled and pressed his, I grew hot, my eyes sought his in the half darkness, and all at once I felt that I did not fear him, that this fear was love — a new love still more tender and stronger than the old. I felt that I was wholly his, and that I was happy in his power over me.
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1
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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9
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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rime
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| n.白霜；v.使蒙霜 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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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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42
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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47
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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49
icons
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| n.偶像( icon的名词复数 )；（计算机屏幕上表示命令、程序的）符号，图像 | |
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50
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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51
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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52
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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53
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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54
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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57
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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58
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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59
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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