This was enough for me. I snatched up my fur coat and, throwing it on as I went, rushed off with the thought: “She bade me go to him, but where shall I find him?”
But together with everything else I was struck by the question, “Why does she suppose that something has happened, and that now HE will leave her in peace? Of course, because he will marry mother, but what is she feeling? Is she glad that he will marry mother, or is she unhappy about it? And was that why she was hysterical1? Why is it I can’t get to the bottom of it?
I note this second thought that flashed upon me, literally2 in order to record it: it is important. That evening was a momentous3 one. And really one is forced to believe in predestination: I had not gone a hundred steps in the direction of mother’s lodging4 when I came across the man I was looking for. He clutched me by the shoulder and stopped me.
“It’s you!” he cried joyfully6, and at the same time with the greatest astonishment7. “Only fancy, I’ve been at your lodgings,” he began quickly, “I have been looking for you, I’ve been asking for you, you are the one person I want in the whole universe! Your landlord told me some extraordinary tale; but you weren’t there, and I came away and even forgot to tell him to ask you to run round to me at once, and, would you believe it, I set off, nevertheless, with the positive conviction that fate could not fail to send you to me now when most I need you, and here you are the first person to meet me! Come home with me: you’ve never been to my rooms.”
In fact we had been looking for each other, and something of the same sort had happened to each of us. We walked very rapidly.
On the way he uttered only a few brief phrases, telling me he had left mother with Tatyana Pavlovna and so on. He walked holding my arm. His lodging was not far off and we soon arrived. I had, in fact, never been in these rooms of his. It was a small flat of three rooms, which he had taken or rather Tatyana Pavlovna had taken simply for that “tiny baby.” The flat had always been under Tatyana Pavlovna’s supervision8, and in it had been installed a nurse with the baby (and now Darya Onisimovna, too), but there had always been a room there for Versilov, the outermost9 of the three, a fairly good and spacious10 room, snugly11 furnished, like a study for literary pursuits. On the table, on the shelves, and on a whatnot there were numbers of books (while at mother’s there were none at all); there were manuscripts and bundles of letters — in fact, it all looked snug12 and as though it had been long inhabited, and I know that in the past Versilov had sometimes, though not very often, moved into this flat altogether, and had stayed there even for weeks at a time. The first thing that caught my attention was a portrait of mother that hung over the writing table; a photograph in a magnificent carved frame of rare wood, obviously taken abroad and judging from its size a very expensive one. I had never heard of this portrait and knew nothing of it before, and what struck me most of all was the likeness13 which was remarkable14 in a photograph, the spiritual truth of it, so to say; in fact it looked more like a real portrait by the hand of an artist than a mere15 mechanical print. When I went in I could not help stopping before it at once.
“Isn’t it, isn’t it?” Versilov repeated behind me, meaning, “Isn’t it like?” I glanced at him and was struck by the expression of his face. He was rather pale, but there was a glowing and intense look in his eyes which seemed shining with happiness and strength. I had never seen such an expression on his face.
“I did not know that you loved mother so much!” I blurted16 out, suddenly delighted.
He smiled blissfully, though in his smile there was a suggestion of something like a martyr’s anguish17, or rather something humane18 and lofty . . . I don’t know how to express it; but highly developed people, I fancy, can never have triumphantly19 and complacently20 happy faces. He did not answer, but taking the portrait from the rings with both hands brought it close to him, kissed it, and gently hung it back on the wall.
“Observe,” he said; “photographs very rarely turn out good likenesses, and that one can easily understand: the originals, that is all of us, are very rarely like ourselves. Only on rare occasions does a man’s face express his leading quality, his most characteristic thought. The artist studies the face and divines its characteristic meaning, though at the actual moment when he’s painting, it may not be in the face at all. Photography takes a man as he is, and it is extremely possible that at moments Napoleon would have turned out stupid, and Bismarck tender. Here, in this portrait, by good luck the sun caught Sonia in her characteristic moment of modest gentle love and rather wild shrinking chastity. And how happy she was when at last she was convinced that I was so eager to have her portrait. Though that photograph was taken not so long ago, still she was younger then and handsomer; yet even then she had those hollow cheeks, those lines on her forehead, that shrinking timidity in her eyes, which seems to gain upon her with the years, and increase as time goes on. Would you believe it, dear boy? I can scarcely picture her now with a different face, and yet you know she was once young and charming. Russian women go off quickly, their beauty is only a passing gleam, and this is not only due to racial peculiarity21, but is because they are capable of unlimited22 love. The Russian woman gives everything at once when she loves — the moment and her whole destiny and the present and the future: she does not know how to be thrifty23, she keeps nothing hidden in reserve; and their beauty is quickly consumed upon him whom they love. Those hollow cheeks, they too were once a beauty that has been consumed on me, on my brief amusement. You are glad that I love your mother, and perhaps you didn’t believe that I did love her? Yes, my dear, I did love her very much, but I’ve done her nothing but harm. . . . Here is another portrait — look at that, too.”
He took it from the table and handed it me. It, too, was a photograph, a great deal smaller, in a thin oval wooden frame — it was the face of a young girl, thin and consumptive, and at the same time very good-looking; dreamy and yet strangely lacking in thought. The features were regular, of the type suggesting the pampering24 of generations, but it left a painful impression: it looked as though some fixed25 idea had taken possession of this creature and was torturing her, just because it was too much for her strength.
“That . . . that is the girl you meant to marry and who died of consumption . . . HER step-daughter?” I said rather timidly.
“Yes, I meant to marry her, she died of consumption, HER step-daughter. I knew that you knew . . . all that gossip. Though you could have known nothing about it but the gossip. Put the portrait down, my boy, that was a poor, mad girl and nothing more.”
“Really mad?”
“Or imbecile; I think she was mad though. She had a child by Prince Sergay. It came about through madness not through love; it was one of Prince Sergay’s most scoundrelly actions. The child is here now in the next room, and I’ve long wanted to show it to you. Prince Sergay has never dared come here to look at the child; that was the compact I made with him abroad. I took the child to bring up with your mother’s permission. With your mother’s permission I meant at the time to marry that unhappy creature . . .”
“Could such permission have been possible?” I protested warmly.
“Oh yes, she allowed it: jealousy26 could only have been felt of a woman, and that was not a woman.”
“Not a woman to anyone but mother! I shall never in my life believe that mother was not jealous!” I cried.
“And you’re right. I guessed it was so when everything was over, that is when she had given her permission. But enough of that. It all came to nothing through Lidya’s death, and perhaps it wouldn’t have come off if she had lived, and even now I don’t let mother come to see the child. It was only an episode. My dear boy, I’ve been looking forward to having you here for ever so long. I’ve been dreaming of how we should get to know each other here. Do you know how long? — for the last two years.”
He looked at me sincerely and truthfully, and with a warmth of heart in which there was no reserve. I gripped his hand:
“Why have you put it off, why did you not invite me long ago? If only you knew all that has been . . . which would not have been if only you had sent for me earlier! . . .”
At that instant the samovar was brought in, and Darya Onisimovna suddenly brought in the baby asleep.
“Look at it,” said Versilov; “I am fond of it, and I told them to bring it in now that you might look at it. Well, take it away again, Darya Onisimovna. Sit down to the samovar. I shall imagine that we have always lived together like this, and that we’ve been meeting every evening with no parting before us. Let me look at you: there, sit like this, that I can see your face. How I love your face. How I used to imagine your face when I was expecting you from Moscow. You ask why I did not send for you long ago? Wait a little, perhaps you will understand that now.”
“Can it be that it’s only that old man’s death that has set your tongue free? That’s strange . . .”
But though I said that, I looked at him with love. We talked like two friends in the highest and fullest sense of the word. He had asked me to come here to make something clear to me, to tell me something, to justify27 himself; and yet everything was explained and justified28 before a word was said. Whatever I might hear from him now, the result was already attained29, and we both knew that and were happy, and looked at each other knowing it.
“It’s not the death of that old man,” he answered: “it’s not his death alone, there is something else too, which has happened at the same time. . . . God bless this moment and our future for a long time to come! Let us talk, my dear boy. I keep wandering from the point and letting myself be drawn31 off. I want to speak about one thing, but I launch into a thousand side issues. It’s always like that when the heart is full. . . . But let us talk; the time has come and I’ve been in love with you, boy, for ever so long . . .”
He sank back in the armchair and looked at me once more.
“How strange it is to hear that, how strange it is,” I repeated in an ecstasy32 of delight. And then I remember there suddenly came into his face that habitual33 line, as it were, of sadness and mockery together, which I knew so well. He controlled himself and with a certain stiffness began.
2
“You see, Arkady, if I had asked you to come earlier what should I have said to you? That question is my whole answer.”
“You mean that now you are mother’s husband, and my father, while then. . . . You did not know what to say to me before about the social position? Is that it?”
“Not only about that, dear boy. I should not have known what to say to you: there was so much I should have had to be silent about. Much that was absurd, indeed, and humiliating, because it was like a mountebank34 performance — yes, a regular show at a fair. Come, how could we have understood each other before, when I’ve only understood myself to-day at five o’clock this afternoon, just two hours before Makar Ivanovitch’s death? You look at me with unpleasant perplexity. Don’t be uneasy: I will explain the facts, but what I have just said is absolutely true; my whole life has been lost in mazes35 and perplexity, and suddenly they are all solved on such a day, at five o’clock this afternoon! It’s quite mortifying36, isn’t it? A little while ago I should really have felt mortified37.”
I was listening indeed with painful wonder; that old expression of Versilov’s, which I should have liked not to meet that evening after what had been said, was strongly marked. Suddenly I exclaimed:
“My God! You’ve received something from her . . . at five o’clock this afternoon?”
He looked at me intently, and was evidently struck at my exclamation38: and, perhaps, at my expression: “from her.”
“You shall know all about it,” he said, with a dreamy smile, “and, of course, I shall not conceal39 from you anything you ought to know; for that’s what I brought you here for; but let us put that off for a time. You see, my dear boy, I knew long ago that there are children who brood from their earliest years over their family through being humiliated40 by the unseemliness of their surroundings and of their parents’ lives. I noticed these brooding natures while I was still at school, and I concluded then that it all came from their being prematurely42 envious43. Though I was myself a brooding child, yet . . . excuse me, my dear, I’m wonderfully absent-minded. I only meant to say that almost all this time I have been continually uneasy about you. I always imagined you one of those little creatures doomed44 to solitude45, though conscious of being gifted. Like you, I was never fond of my schoolfellows. It is sad for those natures who are flung back on their own resources and dreams, especially when they have a passionate46, premature41 and almost vindictive47 longing48 for ‘seemliness’— yes, ‘vindictive.’ But enough, dear boy, I’m wandering from the point. Before I had begun to love you, I was picturing you and your solitary49 wild dreams. . . . But enough; I’ve actually forgotten what I had begun to speak about. But all this had to be said, however. But what could I have said to you before? Now I see your eyes looking at me, and I feel it’s my SON looking at me. Why, even yesterday I could not have believed that I should ever be sitting and talking to my boy as I am to-day.”
He certainly did seem unable to concentrate his mind, and at the same time he seemed, as it were, softened50.
“I have no need to dream and brood now; it’s enough for me, now, that I have you! I will follow you!” I said, dedicating myself to him with my whole heart.
“Follow me? But my wanderings are just over, they have ended to-day: you are too late, my dear boy. To-day is the end of the last act, and the curtain has gone down. This last act has dragged on long. It began very long ago — the last time I rushed off abroad. I threw up everything then, and you must know, my dear, I broke off all relations for good with your mother, and told her I was doing so myself. That you ought to know. I told her then I was going away for ever; that she would never see me again. What was worst of all, I even forgot to leave her any money. I did not think of you either, not for one minute. I went away meaning to remain in Europe and never to return home, my dear. I emigrated.”
“To Herzen? To take part in the revolutionary propaganda abroad? Probably all your life you have been taking part in political conspiracies51?” I cried, unable to restrain myself.
“No, my dear, I’ve never taken part in any conspiracy52. But how your eyes sparkle; I like your exclamations53, my dear. No, I simply went away then from a sudden attack of melancholy54. It was the typical melancholy of the Russian nobleman, I really don’t know how to describe it better. The melancholy of our upper class, and nothing else.”
“Of the serf-owner . . . the emancipation55 of the serfs,” I was beginning to mutter, breathless.
“Serf-owner? You think I was grieving for the loss of it? That I could not endure the emancipation of the serfs. Oh no, my boy; why, we were all for the emancipation. I emigrated with no resentful feeling. I had only just been a mediator56, and exerted myself to the utmost, I exerted myself disinterestedly57, and I did not even go away because I got very little for my liberalism. We none of us got anything in those days, that is to say again, not those that were like me. I went away more in pride than in penitence58, and, believe me, I was far from imagining that the time had come for me to end my life as a modest shoemaker. Je suis gentilhomme avant tout59 et je mourrai gentilhomme! Yet all the same I was sad. There are, perhaps, a thousand of my sort in Russia, no more perhaps really, but you know that is quite enough to keep the idea alive. We are the bearers of the idea, my dear boy! . . . I am talking, my darling, in the strange hope that you may understand this rigmarole. I’ve brought you here acting60 on a caprice of the heart: I’ve long been dreaming of how I might tell you something . . . you, and no one else. However . . . however . . .”
“No, tell me,” I cried: “I see the look of sincerity61 in your face again. . . . Tell me, did Europe bring you back to life again? And what do you mean by the ‘melancholy of the nobleman!’ Forgive me, darling, I don’t understand yet.”
“Europe bring me back to life? Why, I went to bury Europe!”
“To bury?” I repeated in surprise.
He smiled.
“Arkady dear, my soul was weary then, and I was troubled in spirit. I shall never forget my first moments in Europe that time. I had stayed in Europe before, but this was a special time, and I had never gone there before with such desperate sadness, and . . . with such love, as on that occasion. I will tell you about one of my first impressions, one of the dreams I had in those days, a real dream. It was when I was in Germany, I had only just left Dresden, and in absence of mind I passed the station at which I ought to have got out, and went off on to another line. I had to get out at once to change, it was between two and three in the afternoon, a fine day. It was a little German town: I was directed to an hotel. I had to wait; the next train was at eleven o’clock at night. I was quite glad of the adventure, for I was in no particular haste to get anywhere, and was simply wandering from place to place, my dear. The hotel turned out to be small and poor, but all surrounded by green trees and flower-beds, as is always the case in Germany. They gave me a tiny room, and as I had been travelling all night I fell asleep, after dinner, at four o’clock in the afternoon.
“I dreamed a dream that was a complete surprise to me, for I had never had any dreams of the sort before. In the gallery at Dresden there is a picture by Claude Lorraine, called in the catalogue ‘Acis and Galatea,’ but I used to call it ‘The Golden Age,’ I don’t know why. I had seen it before, but I had noticed it again in passing three days earlier. I dreamed of this picture, but not as a picture, but, as it were, a reality. I don’t know exactly what I did dream though: it was just as in the picture, a corner of the Grecian Archipelago, and time seemed to have gone back three thousand years; blue smiling waves, isles62 and rocks, a flowery shore, a view like fairyland in the distance, a setting sun that seemed calling to me — there’s no putting it into words. It seemed a memory of the cradle of Europe, and that thought seemed to fill my soul, too, with a love as of kinship. Here was the earthly paradise of man: the gods came down from the skies, and were of one kin5 with men. . . . Oh, here lived a splendid race! they rose up and lay down to sleep happy and innocent; the woods and meadows were filled with their songs and merry voices. Their wealth of untouched strength was spent on simple-hearted joy and love. The sun bathed them in warmth and light, rejoicing in her splendid children . . . Marvellous dream, lofty error of mankind! The Golden Age is the most unlikely of all the dreams that have been, but for it men have given up their life and all their strength, for the sake of it prophets have died and been slain63, without it the peoples will not live and cannot die, and the feeling of all this I lived through, as it were, in that dream; rocks and sea, and the slanting64 rays of the setting sun — all this I seemed still to see when I woke up and opened my eyes, literally wet with tears. I remembered that I was glad, a sensation of happiness I had never known before thrilled my heart till it ached; it was the love of all humanity. It was by then quite evening; through the green of the flowers that stood in the windows of my little room, broke slanting rays that flooded me with light. And then, my dear — that setting sun of the first day of European civilization which I had seen in my dream was transformed for me at once on waking, into the setting sun of the last day of civilization! One seemed to hear the death-knell ringing over Europe in those days. I am not speaking of the war and the Tuileries; apart from that, I knew that all would pass away, the whole face of the old world of Europe — sooner or later, but I, as a Russian European, could not accept it. Yes, they had only just burnt the Tuileries . . . .
“Oh, rest assured, I know it was logical; I quite understand the irresistible66 force of the idea, but as the bearer of the idea of the highest Russian culture, I could not accept it, for the highest Russian thought is the reconciliation67 of ideas, and who in the whole world could understand such a thought at that time; I was a solitary wanderer. I am not speaking of myself personally — it’s the Russian idea I’m speaking of. There all was strife68 and logic65; there the Frenchman was nothing but a Frenchman, the German was nothing but a German, and this more intensely so than at any time in their whole history; consequently never had the Frenchman done so much harm to France, or the German to Germany, as just at that time! In those days in all Europe there was not one European: I alone among all the vitriol-throwers could have told them to their face that their Tuileries was a mistake. And I alone among the avenging69 reactionists could have told them that the Tuileries, although a crime, was none the less logical. And that, my boy, was because I, as a Russian, was the ONLY EUROPEAN in Russia. I am not talking of myself, I am talking of the whole Russian idea. I have been a wanderer, my boy. I was a wanderer, and I knew well that I must wander and be silent. But yet I was sad. I cannot help respecting my position as a Russian nobleman. My boy, I believe you are laughing?”
“No, I’m not laughing,” I said in a voice full of feeling, “I’m not laughing at all; you thrilled my heart by your vision of ‘The Golden Age,’ and, I assure you, I’m beginning to understand you. But, above all, I’m glad that you have such a respect for yourself. I hasten to tell you so. I never expected that of you!”
“I’ve told you already that I love your exclamations, dear boy,” he smiled again at my na?ve exclamation, and getting up from his chair, began unconsciously walking up and down the room. I, too, got up. He went on talking in his strange language which was yet so deeply pregnant with thought.
3
“Yes, boy, I tell you again, I cannot help respecting my position as a Russian nobleman. Among us has been created by the ages, a type of the highest culture never seen before, and existing nowhere else in the world — the type of world-wide compassion70 for all. It is a Russian type, but since it is taken from the most highly cultured stratum71 of the Russian people, I have the honour of being a representative of it. That type is the custodian72 of the future of Russia. There are, perhaps, only a thousand of us in Russia, possibly more, possibly less — but all Russia has existed, so far, only to produce that thousand. I shall be told with indignation that the result is poor, if so many ages and so many millions of people have been spent to produce only this thousand. I don’t think it little.”
I listened with strained attention. A conviction, the guiding principle of a whole life, was emerging. That “thousand men” made his personality stand out in such strong relief!
I felt that his expansiveness with me was due to some external shock. He talked so warmly to me because he loved me; but the reason he had suddenly begun to talk, and the reason he so wanted to talk to me especially, I could not guess.
“I emigrated,” he went on; “and I regretted nothing I had left behind. I had served Russia to the utmost of my abilities as long as I was there; when I went away I went on serving her, too, but in a wider sense. But serving her in that way I served her far more than if I had remained only a Russian, just as the Frenchman at that time was a Frenchman, and a German only a German. In Europe they don’t understand that yet. Europe has created a noble type of Frenchman, of Englishman, and of German, but of the man of the future she scarcely knows at present. And, I fancy, so far she does not want to know. And that one can well imagine; they are not free and we are free. I, with my Russian melancholy, was the only one free in Europe . . . .
“Take note, my dear, of a strange fact: every Frenchman can serve not only his France, but humanity, only on condition that he remains73 French to the utmost possible degree, and it’s the same for the Englishman and the German. Only to the Russian, even in our day, has been vouchsafed74 the capacity to become most of all Russian only when he is most European, and this is true even in our day, that is, long before the millennium75 has been reached. That is the most essential difference between us Russians and all the rest, and in that respect the position in Russia is as nowhere else. I am in France a Frenchman, with a German I am a German, with the ancient Greeks I am a Greek, and by that very fact I am most typically a Russian. By that very fact I am a true Russian, and am most truly serving Russia, for I am bringing out her leading idea. I am a pioneer of that idea. I was an emigrant76 then, but had I forsaken77 Russia? No, I was still serving her. What though I did nothing in Europe, what if I only went there as a wanderer (indeed, I know that was so) it was enough that I went there with my thought and my consciousness. I carried thither78 my Russian melancholy. Oh, it was not only the bloodshed in those days that appalled79 me, and it was not the Tuileries, but all that was bound to follow it. They are doomed to strife for a long time yet, because they are still too German and too French, and have not yet finished struggling in those national characters. And I regret the destruction that must come before they have finished. To the Russian, Europe is as precious as Russia: every stone in her is cherished and dear. Europe is as much our fatherland as Russia. Oh, even more so. No one could love Russia more than I do, but I never reproached myself that Venice, Rome, Paris, the treasures of their arts and sciences, their whole history, are dearer to me than Russia. Oh, those old stones of foreign lands, those wonders of God’s ancient world, those fragments of holy marvels80 are dear to the Russian, and are even dearer to us than to the inhabitants of those lands themselves! They now have other thoughts and other feelings, and they have ceased to treasure the old stones. . . . There the conservative struggles only for existence; and the vitriol-thrower is only fighting for a crust of bread. Only Russia lives not for herself, but for an idea, and, you must admit, my dear, the remarkable fact that for almost the last hundred years Russia has lived absolutely not for herself, but only for the other States of Europe! And, what of them! Oh, they are doomed to pass though fearful agonies before they attain30 the Kingdom of God.”
I must confess I listened in great perplexity; the very tone of his talk alarmed me, though I could not help being impressed by his ideas. I was morbidly81 afraid of falsity. I suddenly observed in a stern voice:
“You spoke82 just now of the ‘Kingdom of God.’ I’ve heard that you used to preach, used to wear chains?”
“Let my chains alone,” he said with a smile: “that’s quite a different matter. I did not preach anything in those days, but that I grieved for their God, that is true. Atheism83 was proclaimed . . . only by one group of them, but that made no difference; it was only the hot-heads, but it was the first active step — that’s what mattered. In that, too, you have their logic; but there’s always melancholy in logic. I was the outcome of a different culture, and my heart could not accept it. The ingratitude84 with which they parted from the idea, the hisses85 and pelting86 with mud were intolerable to me. The brutality87 of the process shocked me. Reality always has a smack89 of the brutal88 about it, even when there’s an unmistakable striving towards the ideal, and, of course, I ought to have known that; but yet I was a man of another type; I was free to choose, and they were not, and I wept, I wept for them, I wept for the old idea. And I wept, perhaps, with real tears, with no figure of speech.”
“Did you believe so much in God?” I asked incredulously.
“My dear boy, that question, perhaps, is unnecessary. Supposing I did not believe very much, yet I could not help grieving for the idea. I could not help wondering, at times, how man could live without God, and whether that will ever be possible. My heart always decided90 that it was impossible; but at a certain period perhaps it is possible . . . I have no doubt that it is coming; but I always imagined a different picture . . . .”
“What picture?”
It was true that he had told me before that he was happy; there was, of course, a great deal of enthusiasm in his words; that is how I take a great deal that he said. Respecting him as I do, I can’t bring myself to record here, on paper, all our conversation; but some points in the strange picture I succeeded in getting out of him I will quote. What had always worried me most was the thought of those “chains,” and I wanted to clear up the matter now, and so I persisted. Some fantastic and extremely strange ideas, to which he gave utterance91 then, have remained in my heart for ever.
“I picture to myself, my boy,” he said with a dreamy smile, “that war is at an end and strife has ceased. After curses, pelting with mud, and hisses, has come a lull92, and men are left alone, according to their desire: the great idea of old has left them; the great source of strength that till then had nourished and fostered them was vanishing like the majestic93 sun setting in Claude Lorraine’s picture, but it was somehow the last day of humanity, and men suddenly understood that they were left quite alone, and at once felt terribly forlorn. I have never, my dear boy, been able to picture men ungrateful and grown stupid. Men left forlorn would begin to draw together more closely and more lovingly; they would clutch one another’s hands, realizing that they were all that was left for one another! The great idea of immortality94 would have vanished, and they would have to fill its place; and all the wealth of love lavished96 of old upon Him, who was immortal95, would be turned upon the whole of nature, on the world, on men, on every blade of grass. They would inevitably97 grow to love the earth and life as they gradually became aware of their own transitory and finite nature, and with a special love, not as of old, they would begin to observe and would discover in nature phenomena98 and secrets which they had not suspected before, for they would look on nature with new eyes, as a lover looking on his beloved. On awakening99 they would hasten to kiss one another, eager to love, knowing that the days are short, and that is all that is left them. They would work for one another, and each would give up all that he had to all, and by that only would be happy. Every child would know and feel that every one on earth was for him like a father or mother. ‘To-morrow may be my last day,’ each one would think, looking at the setting sun; ‘but no matter, I shall die, but all they will remain and after them their children,’ and that thought that they will remain, always as loving and as anxious over each other, would replace the thought of meeting beyond the tomb. Oh, they would be in haste to love, to stifle100 the great sorrow in their hearts. They would be proud and brave for themselves, but would grow timid for one another; every one would tremble for the life and happiness of each; they would grow tender to one another, and would not be ashamed of it as now, and would be caressing101 as children. Meeting, they would look at one another with deep and thoughtful eyes, and in their eyes would be love and sorrow . . . .
“My dear boy,” he broke off with a smile, “this is a fantasy and a most improbable one; but I have pictured it to myself so often, for all my life I could not have lived without it, and the thought of it. I am not speaking of my belief: my faith is great, I am a deist, a philosophic102 deist, like all the thousand of us I imagine, but . . . but it’s noteworthy that I always complete my picture with Heine’s vision of ‘Christ on the Baltic Sea.’ I could not get on without Him, I could not help imagining Him, in fact, in the midst of His bereaved103 people. He comes to them, holds out His hands, and asks them, ‘How could they forget Him? And then, as it were, the scales would fall from their eyes and there would break forth104 the great rapturous hymn105 of the new and the last resurrection . . .
“Enough of that, my dear; but my ‘chains ‘ are all nonsense; don’t trouble your mind about them. And another thing: you know that I am modest and sober of speech; if I’m talking too freely now, it’s . . . due to various feelings, and it’s with you; to no one else shall I ever speak like this. I add this to set your mind at rest.”
But I was really touched; there was none of the falsity I had dreaded106, and I was particularly delighted to see clearly that he really had been melancholy and suffering, and that he really, undoubtedly107, had loved much, and that was more precious to me than anything. I told him this with impulsive108 eagerness.
“But do you know,” I added suddenly, “it seems to me that in spite of all your melancholy in those days you must have been very happy?”
He laughed gaily109.
“You are particularly apt in your remarks to-day,” he said. “Well, yes, I was happy. How could I be unhappy with a melancholy like that? No one is freer and happier than a Russian wanderer in Europe, one of our thousand. I am not laughing when I say that, and there’s a great deal that’s serious in it. And I would not have given up my melancholy for any happiness. In that sense I’ve always been happy, my dear, all my life. And through being happy I began then, for the first time in my life, really to love your mother.”
“How do you mean for the first time in your life?”
“It was just that. Wandering and melancholy, I suddenly began to love her as I had never loved her before, and I sent for her at once.”
“Oh, tell me about that, too, tell me about mother.”
“Yes, that’s why I asked you here,” he smiled gaily. “And do you know I was afraid that you’d forgiven the way I treated your mother for the sake of Herzen, or some little conspiracy . . . .”
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1
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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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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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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8
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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outermost
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| adj.最外面的，远离中心的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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13
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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14
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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17
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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20
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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21
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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22
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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23
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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24
pampering
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| v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的现在分词 ) | |
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25
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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26
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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27
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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28
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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29
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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30
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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31
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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32
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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33
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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34
mountebank
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| n.江湖郎中；骗子 | |
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35
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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36
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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37
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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38
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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39
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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40
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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41
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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42
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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43
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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44
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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45
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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46
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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47
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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48
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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49
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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50
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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51
conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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52
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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53
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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54
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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55
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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56
mediator
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| n.调解人，中介人 | |
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57
disinterestedly
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58
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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59
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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60
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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61
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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62
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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63
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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64
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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65
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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66
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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67
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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68
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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69
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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70
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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71
stratum
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| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
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72
custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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73
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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74
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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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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76
emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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77
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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78
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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79
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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80
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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82
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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83
atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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84
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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85
hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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86
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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87
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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89
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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90
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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91
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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92
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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93
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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94
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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95
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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96
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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98
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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99
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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100
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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101
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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102
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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103
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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104
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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105
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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106
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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107
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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108
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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109
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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