FOR A LONG WHILE Princess Marya sat at the open window of her room listening to the sound of the peasants' voices floating across from the village, but she was not thinking of them. She felt that she could not understand them however long she thought of them. She thought all the while of one thing—of her sorrow, which now, after the break made by anxiety about the present, already seemed to belong to the past. Now she could remember, could weep, and could pray. With the setting of the sun the wind sank. The night was still and fresh. At midnight the voices in the village began to die down; a cock crowed; the full moon rose from behind a lime-tree; there rose a fresh, white, dewy mist, and stillness reigned over the village and the house.

One after another pictures of the immediate past—her father's illness and last moments—rose before her imagination. And with mournful gladness she let her mind now rest on those images, only shunning with horror the one last scene which she felt she had not the strength to contemplate even in fancy at that still and mysterious hour of the night. And those images rose with such clearness and in such detail before her, that they seemed to her now in the actual present, now in the past, and now in the future.

She had a vivid picture of the moment when he was first stricken down and was being dragged in from the garden at Bleak Hills, and he had muttered something, twitching his grey eyebrows, and looking timidly and uneasily at her. “Even then he wanted to tell me what he told me on the day of his death,” she thought. “He always thought what he told me then.”

And then she recalled with every detail the night at Bleak Hills before his stroke, when, with a presentiment of trouble, she had remained with him against his will. She had not slept; and at night she had stolen down on tip-toe, and going to the door of the conservatory room where her father was spending that night, she had listened to his voice. He was talking in a weary, harassed voice to Tihon. He was saying something about the Crimea, about the warm nights, about the Empress. Evidently he wanted to talk to some one. “And why didn't he send for me? Why didn't he let me be there in Tihon's place?” Princess Marya had thought then and thought again now. “Now he will never tell any one all that was in his heart. Now the moment will never return when he might have told me all he longed to express, and I and not Tihon might have heard and understood. Why didn't I go into his room then?” she thought. “Perhaps he would have said to me then what he said on the day of his death. Even then talking to Tihon he asked about me twice. He was longing to see me while I was standing there behind the door. He was sad and weary talking to Tihon, who did not understand him. I remember how he spoke to him of Liza as though she were living—he forgot that she was dead, and Tihon reminded him that she was no more, and he cried, ‘Fool!' He was miserable. I heard from the door how he lay down groaning on the bed and cried out aloud, ‘My God!' Why didn't I go in then? What could he have done to me? What could I have lost? And, perhaps, then he would have been comforted, he would have said that word to me.” And Princess Marya uttered aloud that caressing word he had said to her on the day of his death. “Da-ar-ling!” Princess Marya repeated the word and broke into sobs that relieved her heart. She could see his face before her now. And not the face she had known ever since she could remember and had always seen at a distance; but the weak and timid face she had seen on the last day when, bending to his lips to catch what he said, she had, for the first time, looked at it quite close with all its wrinkles.

“Darling,” she repeated.

“What was he thinking when he uttered that word? What is he thinking now?” was the question that rose suddenly to her mind; and in answer to it she saw him with the expression she had seen on the face bound up with a white handkerchief in the coffin. And the horror that had overcome her at the moment when she had touched him, and felt that it was not he but something mysterious and horrible, came over her now. She tried to think of something else, tried to pray, and could do nothing. With wide eyes she gazed at the moonlight and the shadows, every instant expecting to see his dead face, and feeling as though she were held spellbound in the stillness that reigned without and within the house.

“Dunyasha!” she whispered. “Dunyasha!” she shrieked wildly, and tearing herself out of the stillness, she ran towards the maids' room, meeting the old nurse and the maids running out to meet her.
 
 
这天夜晚，玛丽亚公爵小姐在她卧室敞开的窗房坐了很久，留心地听从村里传来的农民的说话声，但她不去想他们。她觉得她无论怎样想他们，也不能理解他们。她总在思忖一件事——那就是自己的不幸，在经过那关心现实生活的一段时间之后，这种不幸，对于她已成往事。她现在能够回忆，能够哭泣，也能祈祷了。日落后，风停了，夜显得宁静而清新。十二点时人声渐渐消失，鸡叫头遍，从菩提树后面升起一轮满月，清凉的、乳白色的浓雾弥漫开来，寂静笼罩着村庄和宅院。

不久前过去的图景——父亲的病和临终的时刻，一幅接一幅在她的脑海里闪现。现在她带着快乐的忧郁细细回味这些画面的形象，只是恐惧地摒除最后父亲死亡时的景象。这景象，她觉得，在这寂静、神秘的夜晚，即便浮光掠影地想象一下，她也没有勇气。这些图景在她的脑海里是那么清晰，连微小的细节都历历在目，她觉得这些图景忽而是现实的，忽而是过去的，忽而又是未来的。

她时而生动地想起他中风的情景，人们搀扶着他从童山的花园里出来，他用无力的舌头咕噜着什么，扭动着白眉毛，不安地、胆怯地望着她。

“他当时就想说他临死那天对我说的话，”她想，“他经常在想他对我说的话。”于是她回忆起他在童山中风的前一天夜里一切详细的情景，当时玛丽亚公爵小姐就预感到有灾祸临头，也因此违反他的旨意留在他身边。她没有就寝，夜里蹑手蹑脚下楼梯，来到她父亲过夜的花房门前，侧耳倾听他的声音。他和吉洪在说什么，他的声音疲惫不堪而且痛楚。看来他很想和人谈谈话。“他为什么不叫我呢？为什么他不让我和吉洪换个位置呢？”玛丽亚公爵小姐当时和现在都是这样想的。“他永远对任何人也说不出他的心里话了。他本来可以说出他要说的话的，本来应该是我，而不是吉洪听到和懂得他的话的，但是这样的机会，无论是对他还是对我都一去不复返了。当时为什么我不走进屋里去呢？”她想，“也许他当时就会对我说出他在去世那天要说的话。而且当时他在和吉洪的谈话中就有两次问到我。他希望看见我，而我却站在门外。他和不了解他的吉洪谈话是很感伤、难受的，记得他们谈话时提到丽莎，仿佛她还活着似的，他忘记她已经死了，吉洪提醒他说，丽莎已经去世了，于是他大声喝斥：‘傻瓜！'‘他是很痛苦的。隔着门我听见他躺在床上的呻吟声并高声喊叫：‘上帝啊！'当时我为什么不进去呢？他能把我怎样？我能有什么损失呢？我进去了，也许当时他就能得到慰藉并对我说出那句话了。”于是玛丽亚公爵小姐大声地叫出了他临死那天对她说的那个亲切的字眼。“亲—爱—的！”她重复着这个字眼，放声大哭起来，流着眼泪，眼泪使她的心情变得轻松了些。现在他的面孔就在她的眼前。可那已不是她从记事时就认识的、经常从远处看见的面孔，而是一张胆怯、懦弱的面孔，是她在最后一天向他的嘴弯下身去细听他的话、第一次那么近地真切地看见的有着满脸皱纹和细微线条的面孔。

“亲爱的。”她重复着。

“他说这话时，在想什么呢？他现在在想什么呢？”她的脑海里忽然出现这个问题，紧接着，作为应答的是，她的眼前闪现了他在棺材里用白手巾包着头的面部表情。于是一阵恐惧向她袭来，这正是当天刚一接触他，就认为这不仅不是他，而且是一种神秘的、令人反感的东西的那种恐惧。她想思索点别的，想祈祷，但什么也做不成。她睁大眼睛望着月光和阴影，随时等待着看见他那死人的面孔。她觉得，笼罩着住宅内外的寂静气氛紧紧箝制着她。

“杜尼亚莎！”她喃喃地说，“杜尼亚莎！”她狂叫一声，挣脱出一片寂静，跑向女仆的住室，迎面碰上向她跑来的保姆和女仆们。