Now for something quite different.
I keep declaring: “something different, something different,” yet I keep on scribbling1 of nothing but myself. Yet I have announced a thousand times already that I don’t want to describe myself at all, and I firmly meant not to do so when I began my story: I quite understand that I’m not of the slightest interest to the reader. I am describing and want to describe other people, not myself, and if I keep coming in it’s only a lamentable2 mistake, because I can’t avoid it, however much I should like to. What I regret most is that I describe my own adventures with such heat; by doing so I give ground for supposing that I am still the same as I was. The reader will remember, however, that I have exclaimed more than once, “Oh, if one could only change the past and begin all over again!” I could not have uttered that exclamation3 if I were not radically4 changed and had not become an entirely5 different man now; that is quite evident. And no one can imagine how sick I am of these apologies and prefaces, which I am continually forced to squeeze into the very middle of my narrative6!
To return.
After nine days’ unconsciousness I came to myself, regenerated7 but not reformed; my regeneration was a stupid one, however, of course, if the word is taken in the wide sense, and perhaps if it had happened now it would have been different. The idea, or rather the feeling, that possessed8 me was, as it had been a thousand times before, the desire to get away altogether, but this time I meant to go away, not as in the past, when I had so often considered the project and been incapable9 of carrying it out. I didn’t want to revenge myself on anyone, and I give my word of honour that I did not, though I had been insulted by all of them. I meant to go away without loathing10, without cursing, and never to return, but I wanted to do this by my own effort, and by real effort unassisted by any one of them, or by anyone in the whole world; yet I was almost on the point of being reconciled with every one! I record this absorbing dream not as a thought, but as an overwhelming sensation. I did not care to formulate11 it as long as I was in bed. Sick and helpless I lay in Versilov’s room, which they had given up to me; I recognized, with a pang12, how abjectly13 helpless I was.
What was tossing on the bed was not a man but a feeble straw, and this impotence was not only through illness — and how degrading I felt it! And so from the very depth of my being, from all the forces in me, a protest began to rise, and I was choking with a feeling of infinitely15 exaggerated pride and defiance16. Indeed, I can’t remember any time in my whole life when I was so full of arrogant17 feeling as I was during the early days of my convalescence18, that is, while I was tossing like a weak straw on my bed.
But for the time I held my peace, and even made up my mind not to think of anything! I kept peeping at their faces, trying to guess from them all I wanted to know. It was evident that they too did not want to ask questions or be inquisitive19, but talked of something irrelevant20. This pleased me and at the same time mortified21 me; I won’t attempt to explain the contradiction. I did not see Liza so often as my mother, though she came in to see me every day, and indeed twice a day. From fragments of their talk and from their whole air I gathered that Liza had a great deal on her hands and that she was indeed often absent from home on business of her own: the very fact that she could have “business of her own” was something like a grievance22 to me; but all these were morbid23, purely24 physical, sensations, which are not worth describing. Tatyana Pavlovna came, too, almost daily to see me, and though she was by no means tender with me, she did not abuse me as usual, which annoyed me extremely — so much so that I said to her openly: “You know, Tatyana Pavlovna, when you’re not scolding you are very tedious.” “Well, then, I won’t come and see you,” she blurted25 out, and went away. And I was pleased that I had got rid of one of them, at least.
Most of all I worried my mother; I was irritable26 with her. I developed a terrific appetite and grumbled27 very much that the meals were late (and they never were late). Mother did not know how to satisfy me. Once she brought some soup, and began, as usual, feeding me with it herself, and I kept grumbling28 as I ate it. And suddenly I felt vexed29 that I was grumbling: “She is perhaps the only one I love, and I am tormenting30 her.” But I was none the less ill-humoured, and I suddenly began to cry from ill-humour; and she, poor darling, thought I was crying from tenderness, stooped down and began kissing me. I restrained myself and endured it, but at that instant I positively31 hated her. But I always loved my mother, and at that very time I loved her and did not hate her at all, but it happened as it always does — that the one you love best you treat worst.
The only person I hated in those days was the doctor. He was a young man with a conceited32 air, who talked abruptly33 and even rudely, as though all these scientific people had only yesterday discovered something special, when in reality nothing special had happened; but the “mediocrity,” the man in the street, is always like that. I restrained myself for a long time, but at last I suddenly broke out and informed him before every one that he was hanging about unnecessarily, that I should get better just as well without him; that, though he looked like a scientific man, he was filled with nothing but conventional ideas and did not even understand that medicine had never cured anyone; that, in fact, he was in all probability grossly ill-educated, “like all the specialists who had become so high and mighty34 among us of late years.” The doctor was very much offended (showing by that very fact that he was that sort of person); however, he still came as before. I told Versilov at last that if the doctor did not give up coming, that I should say something to him ten times as disagreeable. Versilov only observed that it was impossible to say anything even twice as disagreeable as I had said, let alone ten times. I was pleased at his saying that.
He was a man, though! I am speaking of Versilov. He, he was the sole cause of it all, and, strange to say, he was the only one towards whom I did not feel resentful. It was not only his manner to me that won me over. I imagine that we felt at that time that we owed each other many explanations . . . and for that very reason it would be our best course never to explain. It’s extremely pleasant in such situations to have to do with a man of intelligence: I have mentioned already, in the second part of my story, that he told me briefly35 and clearly of Prince Sergay’s letter to me about Zerstchikov, about what he, Prince Sergay, had said to the latter, and so on. As I had made up my mind to keep quiet, I only asked him two or three brief questions; he answered them clearly and exactly but entirely without superfluous36 words and, what was best of all, without feeling. I was afraid of superfluous feeling at that time.
I said nothing about Lambert, but the reader will readily understand that I thought a great deal about him. In my delirium37 I spoke38 more than once about Lambert; but, recovering from my delirium and looking about me, I quickly reflected that everything about Lambert remained a secret, and that every one, even Versilov, knew nothing about him. Then I was relieved and my fears passed away; but I was mistaken, as I found out later to my astonishment39. He had come to the house during my illness, but Versilov said nothing to me about it, and I concluded that Lambert had lost all trace of me for ever. Nevertheless, I often thought of him; what is more, I thought of him not only without repulsion, not only with curiosity, but even with sympathy, as though foreseeing from him something new, some means of escape in harmony with my new feelings and plans. In short, I made up my mind to think over Lambert as soon as I should be ready to think over anything. I will note one strange fact: I had entirely forgotten where he lived and in what street it had all happened. The room, Alphonsine, the lap-dog, the corridor, all I remembered, so that I could have sketched40 them at once; but where it had all happened — that is, in what street and in what house — I had utterly41 forgotten. And, what is strangest of all, I only realized this three or four days after I had regained42 complete consciousness, when I had been occupied with the thought of Lambert for a long time.
These, then, were my first sensations on my resurrection. I have noted43 only what was most on the surface, and most probably I was not able to detect what was most important. In reality, perhaps, what was really most important was even then taking shape and becoming defined in my heart; I was not, of course, always vexed and resentful simply at my broth’s not being brought me. Oh, I remember how sad I was then and how depressed44, especially at moments when I had remained a long while alone. As ill-luck would have it, they soon saw that I was dreary45 with them and that their sympathy irritated me, and they began more and more often to leave me alone — a superfluous delicacy46 of perception on their part.
2
On the fourth day of consciousness I was lying in my bed at three o’clock in the afternoon, and there was no one with me. It was a bright day, and I knew that at four o’clock, when the sun would set, its slanting47 red rays would fall on the corner of my wall, and throw a patch of glaring light upon it. I knew that from the days before, and that that would certainly happen in an hour’s time, and above all, that I knew of this beforehand, as certainly as twice two make four, exasperated48 me to fury. I turned round impulsively49 and suddenly, in the midst of the profound stillness, I clearly distinguished50 the words: “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon us.” The words were pronounced in a half-whisper, and were followed by a deep-drawn51 sigh, and then everything was still again. I raised my head quickly.
I had before, that is the previous day, and even the day before that, noticed something special in our three rooms downstairs. In the little room beyond the dining-room where mother and Liza were accustomed to sleep, there was evidently now some one else. I had more than once heard sounds, both by day and by night, but only for brief moments, and complete stillness followed immediately and lasted for several hours, so that I took no notice of the sounds. The thought had occurred to me the evening before that Versilov was in there, especially as he soon afterwards came in to me, though I knew for a fact from their conversation that during my illness Versilov had been sleeping out in another lodging52. I had known for some time past that mother and Liza had moved into my former “coffin” upstairs (to make it quieter for me, I imagined) and I had even once wondered how the two of them could have possibly fitted themselves into it. And now it suddenly appeared that there was some person living in their old room, and that that person was not Versilov. With an ease which I had not the least expected (for I had till then imagined I was quite helpless) I dropped my feet over the bed, slipped them into slippers53, threw on a grey astrachan dressing-gown which lay close at hand (Versilov had sacrificed it for my benefit), and made my way through the parlour to what had been mother’s bedroom. What I saw there completely astounded54 me; I had never expected anything of the kind, and I stood still in the doorway55 petrified56. There was sitting there a very grey-headed old man, with a big and very white beard, and it was clear that he had been sitting there for a long time. He was not sitting on the bed but on mother’s little bench, resting his back against the bed. He held himself so upright, however, that he hardly seemed to need a support for his back, though he was evidently ill. He had over his shirt a short jacket lined with fur. His knees were covered with mother’s plaid, and on his feet were slippers. He was, it could be discerned, tall, broad-shouldered, and of a hale appearance, in spite of his invalid57 state, though he was somewhat thin and looked ill. He had rather a long face and thick but not very long hair; he looked about seventy. On a little table, within reach, lay three or four books and a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. Though I had not the slightest idea of meeting him, I guessed instantly who he was, though I was still unable to imagine how he could have been sitting all those days, almost beside me, so quietly that till that time I had heard nothing of him.
He did not stir on seeing me, he looked intently at me in silence, just as I did at him, the only difference being that I stared at him with the greatest astonishment, and he looked at me without the slightest. Scrutinizing58 me, on the contrary, from head to foot during those five or ten seconds of silence, he suddenly smiled and even laughed a gentle noiseless laugh, and though the laugh was soon over, traces of its serene59 gaiety remained upon his face and above all in his eyes, which were very blue, luminous60 and large, though they were surrounded by innumerable wrinkles, and the eyelids61 were swollen62 and drooping63. This laugh of his was what had most effect on me.
I consider that in the majority of cases people are revolting to look at when they are laughing. As a rule something vulgar, something as it were degrading, comes to the surface when a man laughs, though he is almost unconscious of the impression he is making in his mirth, as little in fact as anyone knows what he looks like when he is asleep. One person’s face will look intelligent asleep, while another man, intelligent in waking life, will look stupid and ridiculous when he is sleeping. I don’t know what this is due to: I only mean to say that people laughing, like people asleep, have no idea what they look like. The vast majority of people don’t know how to laugh at all. It is not a matter of knowing how, though: it’s a gift and it cannot be cultivated. One can only cultivate it, perhaps, by training oneself to be different, by developing and improving and by struggling against the evil instincts of one’s character: then a man’s laugh might very likely change for the better. A man will sometimes give himself away completely by his laugh, and you suddenly know him through and through. Even an unmistakably intelligent laugh will sometimes be repulsive64. What is most essential in laughter is sincerity65, and where is one to find sincerity? A good laugh must be free from malice66, and people are constantly laughing maliciously67. A sincere laugh free from malice is gaiety, and where does one find gaiety nowadays? People don’t know how to be gay (Versilov made this observation about gaiety and I remember it). A man’s gaiety is what most betrays the whole man from head to foot. Sometimes one will be for a long time unable to read a character, but if the man begins to laugh his whole character will suddenly lie open before you. It is only the loftiest and happiest natures whose gaiety is infectious, that is, good-hearted and irresistible68. I am not talking of intellectual development, but of character, of the whole man. And so if you want to see into a man and to understand his soul, don’t concentrate your attention on the way he talks or is silent, on his tears, or the emotion he displays over exalted69 ideas; you will see through him better when he laughs. If a man has a good laugh, it means that he is a good man. Take note of every shade; a man’s laugh must never, for instance, strike you as stupid, however gay and good-humoured be may be. If you notice the slightest trace of stupidity in his laughter, you may be sure that that man is of limited intelligence, though he is continually dropping ideas wherever he goes. Even if his laugh is not stupid, but the man himself strikes you as being ever so little ridiculous when he laughs, you may be sure that the man is deficient70 in personal dignity, to some extent anyway. Or if the laughter though infectious, strikes you for some reason as vulgar, you may be sure that that man’s nature is vulgar, and all the generous and lofty qualities you have observed in him before are either intentionally71 assumed or unconsciously borrowed and that the man is certain to deteriorate72, to go in for the profitable, and to cast off his noble ideas without regret as the errors and enthusiasm of youth.
I am intentionally introducing here this long tirade73 on the subject of laughter and am sacrificing the continuity of my story for the sake of it, for I consider it one of the most valuable deductions74 I have drawn from life, and I particularly recommend it to the attention of girls who are ready to accept the man of their choice, but are still hesitating and watching him mistrustfully, unable to make their final decision: and don’t let them jeer75 at a wretched raw youth for obtruding76 his moral reflections on marriage, a subject which he knows nothing about. But I only understand that laughter is the surest test of the heart. Look at a baby — some children know how to laugh to perfection; a crying baby is disgusting to me, but a laughing, merry one is a sunbeam from paradise, it is a revelation from the future, when man will become at last as pure and simple-hearted as a child. And, indeed, there was something childlike and incredibly attractive in the momentary77 laughter of this old man. I went up to him at once.
3
“Sit down, sit down a bit, you can scarcely stand on your legs, I dare say,” he urged me, motioning me to a seat beside him, and still gazing into my face with the same luminous gaze. I sat down beside him and said:
“I know you, you are Makar Ivanovitch.”
“Yes, darling. It’s very good that you are up. You are young, it is good for you. The old monk78 looks towards the grave, but the young must live.”
“But are you ill?”
“Yes, dear, chiefly in my legs; my feet brought me as far as the door, and here I’ve sat down and they are swollen. I’ve had it since last Friday when there were degrees” (i.e. when there was a frost) “I used to rub them with ointment79 you see; the year before last the doctor, Edmond Karlovitch, prescribed it me in Moscow, and the ointment did good, aye, it did good; but now it’s no use. And my chest, too, is choked up. And since yesterday my spine80 has been bad, as though dogs were gnawing81 it. . . . I don’t sleep at nights.”
“How is it I haven’t heard you here at all?” I broke in. He looked at me as though considering something.
“Only don’t wake your mother,” he added as though suddenly remembering something. “She has been busy close at hand all night, and as quiet as a mouse; and now I know she is lying down. Ach, it’s bad for a sick monk,” he sighed; “the soul hangs by a thread it seems, yet it still holds on, and still is glad of the light; and it seems, if all life were to begin over again the soul would not shrink even from that; though maybe such a thought is sinful.”
“Why sinful?”
“Such a thought is a dream, and the old monk should take leave with blissful resignation. Again, if one goes to meet death with murmur82 or repining that is a great sin, but if from the gladness of the spirit one has grown to love life, I fancy God will forgive, even a monk. It’s hard for a man to tell of every sin what is sinful and what is not; therein is mystery passing the mind of man. A monk must be content at all times, and ought to die in the full light of his understanding, in holy peace and blessedness, filled full with days, yearning84 for his last hour, and rejoicing when he is gathered as the ear of wheat to the sheaf, and has fulfilled his mystery.”
“You keep talking of ‘mystery’; what does it mean ‘having fulfilled his mystery’?” I asked, and looked round towards the door. I was glad that we were alone, and that all around the stillness was unbroken. The setting sun cast a dazzling light on the window. His talk was rather highflown and rambling85, but very sincere; there was a sort of intense exaltation in it, as though he really were delighted at my coming. But I noticed unmistakable signs that he was feverish86, extremely so in fact. I, too, was ill; I, too, had been in a fever, from the moment I went in to him.
“What is the mystery? Everything is a mystery, dear; in all is God’s mystery. In every tree, in every blade of grass that same mystery lies hid. Whether the tiny bird of the air is singing, or the stars in all their multitudes shine at night in heaven, the mystery is one, ever the same. And the greatest mystery of all is what awaiteth the soul of man in the world beyond. So it is, dear!”
“I don’t know in what sense you . . . I am not speaking, of course, to tease you, and I assure you I believe in God; but all these mysteries have long been discovered by human intelligence, or if they have not yet been discovered they will be, for certain, and probably in a very short time. The botanist87 knows perfectly88 well how the tree grows. The psychologist and the anatomist know why the bird sings, or soon will know, and as for the stars, they are not only all counted, but all their motions have been calculated with the greatest exactitude, so that they can predict even a thousand years beforehand the very minute of the appearance of some comet . . . and now even the composition of the most remote star is known. You take a microscope, that is a sort of magnifying glass that magnifies a thousand times, and look through it at a drop of water, and you will see in it a whole new world, a whole world of living creatures, yet this, too, was once a mystery, but it has been revealed by science.”
“I’ve heard about that, darling, I have heard folk tell of it more than once. To be sure, it’s a great and glorious thing; all has been vouchsafed89 to man by God’s will; not for naught90 did the Lord breathe into him the breath of life; ‘live and learn.’”
“That’s a commonplace. You’re not antagonistic91 to science though, not a clerical? though I don’t know whether you’ll understand?”
“No, darling, I did not study science in my youth, and though I am not learned I do not repine at that; if it’s not for me it will be for another. Maybe better so, for every man has his allotted92 part, for science, dear, is not of use for all. All men are unbridled, each wants to astonish all the world, and I should have perhaps more than all if I had been learned. But now being very unlearned, how can I be puffed93 up when I know nothing? You, now, are young and clever, you must study — such is the lot ordained94 you. Understand all things, that when you meet an infidel or an evil-doer you may be able to answer him, and he may not lead you astray with his frantic95 words, or confound your unripe96 thoughts. That glass I saw not so long ago.”
He took breath and heaved a sigh. There was no doubt that my coming in was a source of great satisfaction to him. His desire to be communicative was almost morbid. What is more, I am certainly not mistaken in declaring that at moments he looked at me with extraordinary affection; he laid his hand on mine caressingly97, stroked me on the shoulder . . . though there were minutes when I must confess he seemed to forget all about me, as though he had been sitting alone, and though he went on talking warmly, it seemed at times as though he were talking to the air.
“In the Gennadiev desert, dear, there lives a man of great understanding. He is of noble birth, and by rank a major, and he has great possessions. When he lived in the world he would not be bound by marriage; he has been withdrawn98 from the world for nearly ten years, loving still and silent resting-places, and keeping his heart free from worldly vanities. He follows all the monastic rules, but will not become a monk, and he has so many books, dear, as I have never seen in any other man’s possession; he told me himself that his books were worth eight thousand roubles. His name is Pyotr Valerianitch. He has taught me a great deal at different times, and I loved listening to him exceedingly. I said to him once: ‘How is it, sir, that with your great understanding, after living here ten years in monastic obedience99, and in complete renunciation of your will, how is it you don’t take honourable100 vows101, so as to be still more perfect,’ and he said to me thereupon, “You talk of my understanding, old man, but perhaps my understanding has held me in bondage102 and I have not kept it in submission103. And you speak of my obedience; maybe I’ve long since lost the right measure for myself. And you talk of the renunciation of my will; I am ready to be deprived of my money on the spot and to give up my rank and to lay all my medals and ribbons on the table, but my pipe of tobacco, though I’ve been struggling for ten years, I can’t do without. What sort of a monk should I be, and how could you glorify104 the renunciation of my will?’ And I marvelled106 then at this humility107. Well, last year, about St. Peter’s day, I went again to that desert — the Lord led me there — and I saw standing83 in his cell that very thing, a microscope; he had ordered it for a great sum of money from abroad. ‘Stay,’ said he, ‘old man, I’ll show you a marvellous thing you have never hitherto looked upon; you see a drop of water as pure as a tear; well, look what is in it and you will see that the mechanicians will soon seek out all the mysteries of God and not leave one for either you or me!’ That is what he said, I remember. But I had looked through such a microscope thirty-five years before that, at Alexandr Vladimirovitch Malgasov’s, who was our old master, Andrey Petrovitch’s maternal108 uncle. It was from him the property came on his death to Andrey Petrovitch. He was a grand gentleman, a great general, and he used to keep a pack of hounds, and I lived many years with him as huntsman; so he, too, set up this microscope; he brought it with him, and he told all the servants to come up one after another, male and female, and look through; he showed them a flea109 and a louse and the end of a needle, and a hair and a drop of water. And it was diverting, they were afraid to go up and afraid of the master — he was hasty. Some did not know how to look properly, and the elder saw nothing; others were frightened and cried out; the elder Savin Makarov covered his eyes with both hands and cried, ‘Do what you will with me, I won’t go near!’ There was much foolish laughter. I didn’t confess to Pyotr Valerianitch, though, that I had seen this marvel105 before more than thirty-five years ago, because I saw it was a great pleasure to him showing it; I began, on the contrary, admiring it and marvelling110. He waited a bit and asked, ‘Well, old man, what do you say now?’ And I lifted myself up and said to him, ‘The Lord said, Let there be light and there was light,’ and thereupon he said to me all at once, ‘And was there not darkness?’ And he said that so strangely, he did not even laugh. I wondered at him then, and he seemed to be angered and said no more.”
“The fact of the matter is your Pyotr Valerianitch is eating rice and raisins111 in the monastery112, and bowing to the ground, while he does not believe in God, and you hit on the wrong moment, that’s all,” I said. “And what’s more, he is rather an absurd person: I suppose he must have seen that microscope a dozen times before, why should he go off his head when he saw it for the thirteenth? What nervous susceptibility . . . he must have got that from living in a monastery.”
“He was a man of pure life and lofty mind,” the old man pronounced impressively, “and he was not an infidel. There was a cloud over his mind and his heart was not at peace. Very many such men have come nowadays from the ranks of the gentry113 and learned. And something more I will tell you, a man punishes himself. But you watch them and do not worry them, and before you lie down to sleep at night remember them in your prayers, for such are seeking God. Do you pray at night?”
“No, I regard it as an empty ceremony. I must own, though, that I like your Pyotr Valerianitch. He’s not a man of straw, anyway, but a real person, rather like a man very near and well-known to us both.”
The old man only paid attention to the first part of my answer.
“You’re wrong, my dear, not to pray; it is a good thing, it cheers the heart before sleep, and rising up from sleep and awakening114 in the night. Let me tell you this. In the summer in July we were hastening to the monastery of Our Lady for the holy festival. The nearer we got to the place the greater the crowd of people, and at last there were almost two hundred of us gathered together, all hastening to kiss the holy and miraculous115 relics116 of the two great saints, Aniky and Grigory. We spent the night, brother, in the open country, and I waked up early in the morning when all was still sleeping and the dear sun had not yet peeped out from behind the forest. I lifted up my head, dear, I gazed about me and sighed. Everywhere beauty passing all utterance117! All was still, the air was light; the grass grows — Grow, grass of God, the bird sings — Sing, bird of God, the babe cries in the woman’s arms — God be with you, little man; grow and be happy, little babe! And it seemed that only then for the first time in my life I took it all in. . . . I lay down again, I slept so sweetly. Life is sweet, dear! If I were better, I should like to go out again in the spring. And that it’s a mystery makes it only the better; it fills the heart with awe118 and wonder and that awe maketh glad the heart: ‘All is in Thee my Lord, and I, too, am in Thee; have me in Thy keeping.’ Do not repine, young man; it is even more beautiful because it is a mystery,” he added fervently119.
“It’s the more beautiful for being a mystery. . . . I will remember those words. You express yourself very inaccurately120, but I understand you. . . . It strikes me that you understand and know a great deal more than you can express; only you seem to be in delirium.” . . . I added abruptly, looking at his feverish eyes and pale face. But he did not seem to hear my words.
“Do you know, dear young man,” he began again, as though going on with what he had been saying before: “Do you know there is a limit to the memory of a man on this earth? The memory of a man is limited to a hundred years. For a hundred years after his death his children or his grandchildren who have seen his face can still remember him, but after that though his memory may still remain, it is only by hearsay121, in thought, for all who have seen his living face have gone before. And his grave in the churchyard is overgrown with grass, the stones upon it crumble122 away, and all men, and even his children’s children, forget him; afterwards they forget even his name, for only a few are kept in the memory of men — and so be it! You may forget me, dear ones, but I love you from the tomb. I hear, my children, your gay voices; I hear your steps on the graves of your kin14; live for a while in the sunshine, rejoice and I will pray to God for you, I will come to you in your dreams . . . it is all the same — even in death is love! . . . .”
I was myself in the same feverish state as he was; instead of going away or persuading him to be quiet, or perhaps putting him to bed, for he seemed quite delirious123, I suddenly seized his arm and bending down to him and squeezing his hand, I said in an excited whisper, with inward tears:
“I am glad of you. I have been waiting a long time for you, perhaps. I don’t like any of them; there is no ‘seemliness’ in them . . . I won’t follow them, I don’t know where I’m going, I’ll go with you.” . . . But luckily mother suddenly came in, or I don’t know how it would have ended. She came in only just awake and looking agitated124; in her hand she had a tablespoon and a glass; seeing us she exclaimed:
“I knew it would be so! I am late with his quinine and he’s all in a fever! I overslept myself, Makar Ivanovitch, darling!”
I got up and went out. She gave him his quinine and put him to bed. I, too, lay down on mine in a state of great excitement. I tossed about pondering on this meeting with intense interest and curiosity. What I expected from it I don’t know. Of course, my reasoning was disconnected, and not thoughts but fragments of thoughts flitted through my brain. I lay with my face to the wall, and suddenly I saw in the corner the patch of glowing light which I had been looking forward to with such curses, and now I remember my whole soul seemed to be leaping for joy, and a new light seemed penetrating125 to my heart. I remember that sweet moment and I do not want to forget it. It was only an instant of new hope and new strength. . . . I was convalescent then, and therefore such transports may have been the inevitable126 result of the state of my nerves; but I have faith even now in that bright hope — that is what I wanted to record and to recall. Of course, even then I knew quite well that I should not go on a pilgrimage with Makar Ivanovitch, and that I did not know the nature of the new impulse that had taken hold of me, but I had pronounced one word, though in delirium, “There is no seemliness in their lives!” “Of course,” I thought in a frenzy127, “from this minute I am seeking ‘seemliness,’ and they have none of it, and that is why I am leaving them.”
There was a rustle128 behind me, I turned round: mother stood there bending down to me and looking with timid inquiry129 into my face. I took her hand.
“Why did you tell me nothing about our dear guest, mother?” I asked suddenly, not knowing I was going to say it. All the uneasiness vanished from her face at once, and there was a flush as it were of joy, but she made me no reply except the words:
“Liza, don’t forget Liza, either; you’ve forgotten Liza.”
She said this in a hurried murmur, flushing crimson130, and would have made haste to get away, for above all things she hated displaying her feelings, and in that she was like me, that is reverent131 and delicate; of course, too, she would not care to begin on the subject of Makar Ivanovitch with me; what we could say to each other with our eyes was quite enough. But though I hated demonstrativeness, I still kept her by her hand; I looked tenderly into her eyes, and laughed softly and tenderly, and with my other hand stroked her dear face, her hollow cheeks. She bent132 down and pressed her forehead to mine.
“Well, Christ be with you,” she said suddenly, standing up, beaming all over: “get well, I shall count on your doing so. He is ill, very ill. Life is in God’s hands. . . . Ach, what have I said, oh that could not be! . . .”
She went away. All her life, in fear and trembling and reverence133, she had honoured her legal husband, the monk, Makar Ivanovitch, who with large-hearted generosity134 had forgiven her once and for ever.
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1
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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regenerated
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| v.新生，再生( regenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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10
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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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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21
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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22
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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23
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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27
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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28
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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29
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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30
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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33
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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34
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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36
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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37
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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38
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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39
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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40
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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41
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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42
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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43
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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44
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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45
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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46
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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47
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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48
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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49
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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50
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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51
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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52
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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53
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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54
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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55
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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56
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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57
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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58
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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59
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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60
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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61
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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62
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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63
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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64
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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65
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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66
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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67
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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68
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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69
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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70
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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71
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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72
deteriorate
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| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
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73
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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74
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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75
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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76
obtruding
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的现在分词 ) | |
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77
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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78
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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79
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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80
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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81
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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82
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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83
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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84
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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85
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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86
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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87
botanist
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| n.植物学家 | |
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88
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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89
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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90
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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91
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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92
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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94
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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95
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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96
unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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97
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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98
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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99
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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100
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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101
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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102
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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103
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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104
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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105
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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106
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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108
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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109
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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110
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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111
raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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112
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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113
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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114
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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115
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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116
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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117
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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118
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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119
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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inaccurately
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| 不精密地，不准确地 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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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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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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