‘I have been unwell, Anna Vassilyevna,’ answered Insarov; ‘and even now I am not quite strong yet: but I hope my native air will make me perfectly4 well again.’
‘Ah — Bulgaria!’ murmured Anna Vassilyevna, and she thought: ‘Good God, a Bulgarian, and dying; a voice as hollow as a drum; and eyes like saucers, a perfect skeleton; his coat hanging loose on his shoulders, his face as yellow as a guinea, and she’s his wife — she loves him — it must be a bad dream. But ——’ she checked herself at once: ‘Dmitri Nikanorovitch,’ she said, ‘are you absolutely, absolutely bound to go away?’
‘Absolutely, Anna Vassilyevna.’
Anna Vassilyevna looked at him.
‘Ah, Dmitri Nikanorovitch, God grant you never have to go through what I am going through now. But you will promise me to take care of her — to love her. You will not have to face poverty while I an, living!’
Tears choked her voice. She opened her arms, and Elena and Insarov flung themselves into her embrace.
The fatal day had come at last. It had been arranged that Elena should say good-bye to her parents at home, and should start on the journey from Insarov’s lodgings5. The departure was fixed6 for twelve o’clock. About a quarter of an hour before the appointed time Bersenyev arrived. He had expected to find Insarov’s compatriots at his lodgings, anxious to see him off; but they had already gone before; and with them the two mysterious persons known to the reader (they had been witnesses at Insarov’s wedding). The tailor met the ‘kind gentlemen’ with a bow; he, presumably, to drown his grief, but possibly to celebrate his delight at getting the furniture, had been drinking heavily; his wife soon led him away. In the room everything was by this time ready; a trunk, tied up with cord, stood on the floor. Bersenyev sank into thought: many memories came rushing upon him.
Twelve o’clock had long ago struck; and the driver had already brought round the horses, but the ‘young people’ still did not appear. At last hurrying steps were heard on the stairs, and Elena came out escorted by Insarov and Shubin. Elena’s eyes were red; she had left her mother lying unconscious; the parting had been terrible. Elena had not seen Bersenyev for more than a week: he had been seldom of late at the Stahovs’. She had not expected to meet him; and crying, ‘You! thank you!’ she threw herself on his neck; Insarov, too, embraced him. A painful silence followed. What could these three say to one another? what were they feeling in their hearts? Shubin realised the necessity of cutting short everything painful with light words.
‘Our trio has come together again,’ he began, ‘for the last time. Let us submit to the decrees of fate; speak of the past with kindness; and in God’s name go forward to the new life! In God’s name, on our distant way,’ he began to hum, and stopped short. He felt suddenly ashamed and awkward. It is a sin to sing where the dead are lying: and at that instant, in that room, the past of which he had spoken was dying, the past of the people met together in it. It was dying to be born again in a new life — doubtless — still it was death.
‘Come, Elena,’ began Insarov, turning to his wife, ‘I think everything is done? Everything paid, and everything packed. There’s nothing more except to take the box down.’ He called his landlord.
The tailor came into the room, together with his wife and daughter. He listened, slightly reeling, to Insarov’s instructions, dragged the box up on to his shoulders, and ran quickly down the staircases, tramping heavily with his boots.
‘Now, after the Russian custom, we must sit down,’ observed Insarov.
They all sat down; Bersenyev seated himself on the old sofa, Elena sat next him; the landlady7 and her daughter squatted8 in the doorway9. All were silent; all smiled constrainedly10, though no one knew why he was smiling; each of them wanted to say something at parting, and each (except, of course, the landlady and her daughter, they were simply rolling their eyes) felt that at such moments it is only permissible11 to utter common-places, that any word of importance, of sense, or even of deep feeling, would be somehow out of place, almost insincere. Insarov was the first to get up, and he began crossing himself. ‘Farewell, our little room!’ he cried.
Then came kisses, the sounding but cold kisses of leave-taking, good wishes — half expressed — for the journey, promises to write, the last, half-smothered words of farewell.
Elena, all in tears, had already taken her seat in the sledge12; Insarov had carefully wrapped her feet up in a rug; Shubin, Bersenyev, the landlord, his wife, the little daughter, with the inevitable13 kerchief on her head, the doorkeeper, a workman in a striped bedgown, were all standing14 on the steps, when suddenly a splendid sledge, harnessed with spirited horses, flew into the courtyard, and from the sledge, shaking the snow off the collar of his cloak, leapt Nikolai Artemyevitch.
‘I am not too late, thank God,’ he cried, running up to their sledge. ‘Here, Elena, is our last parental15 benediction,’ he said, bending down under the hood16, and taking from his pocket a little holy image, sewn in a velvet17 bag, he put it round her neck. She began to sob18, and kiss his hands; and the coachman meantime pulled out of the forepart of the sledge a half bottle of champagne19, and three glasses.
‘Come!’ said Nikolai Artemyevitch — and his own tears were trickling20 on to the beaver21 collar of his cloak —‘we must drink to — good journey — good wishes ——’ He began pouring out the champagne: his hands were shaking, the foam22 rose over the edge and fell on to the snow. He took one glass, and gave the other two to Elena and Insarov, who by now was seated beside hen ‘God give you ——’ began Nikolai Artemyevitch, and he could not go on: he drank off the wine; they, too, drank off their glasses. ‘Now you should drink, gentlemen,’ he added, turning to Shubin and Bersenyev, but at that instant the driver started the horses. Nikolai Artemyevitch ran beside the sledge. ‘Mind and write to us,’ he said in a broken voice. Elena put out her head, saying: ‘Good-bye, papa, Andrei Petrovitch, Pavel Yakovlitch, good-bye all, good-bye, Russia!’ and dropped back in her place. The driver flourished his whip, and gave a whistle; the sledge, its runners crunching23 on the snow, turned out of the gates to the right and disappeared.
点击收听单词发音
1 fretting | |
n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
2 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
3 emaciation | |
n.消瘦,憔悴,衰弱 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
4 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
5 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
6 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
7 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
8 squatted | |
v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 );非法擅自占用(土地或房屋);为获得其所有权;而占用某片公共用地。 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
9 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
10 constrainedly | |
不自然地,勉强地,强制地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
11 permissible | |
adj.可允许的,许可的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
12 sledge | |
n.雪橇,大锤;v.用雪橇搬运,坐雪橇往 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
13 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
14 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
15 parental | |
adj.父母的;父的;母的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
16 hood | |
n.头巾,兜帽,覆盖;v.罩上,以头巾覆盖 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
17 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
18 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
19 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
20 trickling | |
n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 );淌;使)慢慢走;缓慢移动 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
21 beaver | |
n.海狸,河狸 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
22 foam | |
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
23 crunching | |
v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 );嘎吱作响;(快速大量地)处理信息;数字捣弄 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
欢迎访问英文小说网 |