‘Wer?’ inquired Zoya in German. When she was taken unawares she always used her native language. Elena drew herself up. Shubin looked at her with a playful smile on his lips. She felt annoyed, but said nothing.
‘You heard,’ he repeated, ‘Mr. Insarov is coming here.’
‘I heard,’ she replied; ‘and I heard how you spoke2 of him. I am surprised at you, indeed. Mr. Insarov has not yet set foot in the house, and you already think fit to turn him into ridicule3.’
Shubin was crestfallen4 at once.
‘You are right, you are always right, Elena Nikolaevna,’ he muttered; ‘but I meant nothing, on my honour. We have been walking together with him the whole day, and he’s a capital fellow, I assure you.’
‘I didn’t ask your opinion about that,’ commented Elena, getting up.
‘Is Mr. Insarov a young man?’ asked Zoya.
‘He is a hundred and forty-four,’ replied Shubin with an air of vexation.
The page announced the arrival of the two friends. They came in. Bersenyev introduced Insarov. Elena asked them to sit down, and sat down herself, while Zoya went off upstairs; she had to inform Anna Vassilyevna of their arrival. A conversation was begun of a rather insignificant5 kind, like all first conversations. Shubin was silently watching from a corner, but there was nothing to watch. In Elena he detected signs of repressed annoyance6 against him — Shubin — and that was all. He looked at Bersenyev and at Insarov, and compared their faces from a sculptor’s point of view. ‘They are neither of them good-looking,’ he thought, ‘the Bulgarian has a characteristic face — there now it’s in a good light; the Great-Russian is better adapted for painting; there are no lines, there’s expression. But, I dare say, one might fall in love with either of them. She is not in love yet, but she will fall in love with Bersenyev,’ he decided7 to himself. Anna Vassilyevna made her appearance in the drawing-room, and the conversation took the tone peculiar8 to summer villas9 — not the country-house tone but the peculiar summer visitor tone. It was a conversation diversified10 by plenty of subjects; but broken by short rather wearisome pauses every three minutes. In one of these pauses Anna Vassilyevna turned to Zoya. Shubin understood her silent hint, and drew a long face, while Zoya sat down to the piano, and played and sang all her pieces through. Uvar Ivanovitch showed himself for an instant in the doorway11, but he beat a retreat, convulsively twitching12 his fingers. Then tea was served; and then the whole party went out into the garden. . . . It began to grow dark outside, and the guests took leave.
Insarov had really made less impression on Elena than she had expected, or, speaking more exactly, he had not made the impression she had expected. She liked his directness and unconstraint, and she liked his face; but the whole character of Insarov — with his calm firmness and everyday simplicity13 — did not somehow accord with the image formed in her brain by Bersenyev’s account of him. Elena, though she did not herself suspect it, had anticipated something more fateful. ‘But,’ she reflected, ‘he spoke very little to-day, and I am myself to blame for it; I did not question him, we must have patience till next time . . . and his eyes are expressive14, honest eyes.’ She felt that she had no disposition15 to humble16 herself before him, but rather to hold out her hand to him in friendly equality, and she was puzzled; this was not how she had fancied men, like Insarov, ‘heroes.’ This last word reminded her of Shubin, and she grew hot and angry, as she lay in her bed.
‘How did you like your new acquaintances?’ Bersenyev inquired of Insarov on their way home.
‘I liked them very much,’ answered Insarov, ‘especially the daughter. She must be a nice girl. She is excitable, but in her it’s a fine kind of excitability.’
‘You must go and see them a little oftener,’ observed Bersenyev.
‘Yes, I must,’ said Insarov; and he said nothing more all the way home. He at once shut himself up in his room, but his candle was burning long after midnight.
Bersenyev had had time to read a page of Raumer, when a handful of fine gravel17 came rattling18 on his window-pane. He could not help starting; opening the window he saw Shubin as white as a sheet.
‘What an irrepressible fellow you are, you night moth19 ——’ Bersenyev was beginning.
‘Sh —’ Shubin cut him short; ‘I have come to you in secret, as Max went to Agatha I absolutely must say a few words to you alone.’
‘Come into the room then.’
‘No, that’s not necessary,’ replied Shubin, and he leaned his elbows on the window-sill, ‘it’s better fun like this, more as if we were in Spain. To begin with, I congratulate you, you’re at a premium20 now. Your belauded, exceptional man has quite missed fire. That I’ll guarantee. And to prove my impartiality21, listen — here’s the sum and substance of Mr. Insarov. No talents, none, no poetry, any amount of capacity for work, an immense memory, an intellect not deep nor varied22, but sound and quick, dry as dust, and force, and even the gift of the gab23 when the talk’s about his — between ourselves let it be said — tedious Bulgaria. What! do you say I am unjust? One remark more: you’ll never come to Christian24 names with him, and none ever has been on such terms with him. I, of course, as an artist, am hateful to him; and I am proud of it. Dry as dust, dry as dust, but he can crush all of us to powder. He’s devoted25 to his country — not like our empty patriots26 who fawn27 on the people; pour into us, they say, thou living water! But, of course, his problem is easier, more intelligible28: he has only to drive the Turks out, a mighty29 task. But all these qualities, thank God, don’t please women. There’s no fascination30, no charm about them, as there is about you and me.’
‘Why do you bring me in?’ muttered Bersenyev. ‘And you are wrong in all the rest; you are not in the least hateful to him, and with his own countrymen he is on Christian name terms — that I know.’
‘That’s a different matter! For them he’s a hero; but, to make a confession31, I have a very different idea of a hero; a hero ought not to be able to talk; a hero should roar like a bull, but when he butts33 with his horns, the walls shake. He ought not to know himself why he butts at things, but just to butt32 at them. But, perhaps, in our days heroes of a different stamp are needed.’
‘Why are you so taken up with Insarov?’ asked Bersenyev. ‘Can you have run here only to describe his character to me?’
‘I came here,’ began Shubin, ‘because I was very miserable34 at home.’
‘Oh, that’s it! Don’t you want to have a cry again?’
‘You may laugh! I came here because I’m at my wits’ end, because I am devoured35 by despair, anger, jealousy36.’
‘Jealousy? of whom?’
‘Of you and him and every one. I’m tortured by the thought that if I had understood her sooner, if I had set to work cleverly — But what’s the use of talking! It must end by my always laughing, playing the fool, turning things into ridicule as she says, and then setting to and strangling myself.’
‘Stuff, you won’t strangle yourself,’ observed Bersenyev.
‘On such a night, of course not; but only let me live on till the autumn. On such a night people do die too, but only of happiness. Ah, happiness! Every shadow that stretches across the road from every tree seems whispering now: “I know where there is happiness . . . shall I tell you?” I would ask you to come for a walk, only now you’re under the influence of prose. Go to sleep, and may your dreams be visited by mathematical figures! My heart is breaking. You, worthy37 gentlemen, see a man laughing, and that means to your notions he’s all right; you can prove to him that he’s humbugging himself, that’s to say, he is not suffering. . . . God bless you!’
Shubin abruptly38 left the window. ‘Annu-shka!’ Bersenyev felt an impulse to shout after him, but he restrained himself; Shubin had really been white with emotion. Two minutes later, Bersenyev even caught the sound of sobbing39; he got up and opened the window; everything was still, only somewhere in the distance some one — a passing peasant, probably — was humming ‘The Plain of Mozdok.’
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1
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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2
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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3
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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4
crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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5
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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6
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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7
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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8
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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9
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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10
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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11
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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12
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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13
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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14
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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15
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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16
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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17
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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18
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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19
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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20
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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21
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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22
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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gab
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| v.空谈，唠叨，瞎扯；n.饶舌，多嘴，爱说话 | |
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24
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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25
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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26
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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27
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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28
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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29
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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30
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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31
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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32
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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33
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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34
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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35
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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36
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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37
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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38
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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39
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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