Dawn filtered through the window. “Thursday!” I muttered. “Seven days still to be dragged through—but then!”—Imagination faltered9 at the prospect10. I went about my usual business in a sort of intoxication11. My footstep had acquired an unwonted briskness12. Every five minutes my heart jumped into my throat and lost a beat. But my pupils suffered.
I was more inclined to absent-mindedness than ever. At dusk I revisited the terrace despite the rain that fell in torrents13, and walked by her house and lived through the whole happy episode again.
Be assured I was punctual when at last Wednesday came. I remember, as I mounted the staircase that led to their abode14, an absurd fear beset15 me. What if they had moved away?
What if I should not find her after this interminable week of waiting? My hand shook as I pulled the bell-knob. I was nerving myself for the worst in the interval16 that elapsed before the door was opened.—The door was opened by Veronika herself!
“Ah, good-evening. We were expecting you,” she said.
I stammered17 a response. My temples were throbbing19 madly.
Veronika led me into the dining-room. They were still at table. I began to apologize. Tikulski stopped me.
“You have come just at the proper moment,” he cried. “You shall now have occasion to confess that my niece is as good a cook as she is a player.”
“But I have dined,” I protested.
“But you can make room for one morsel20 more—for a mere18 taste of pudding.”
Veronika, with infinite grace, was moving about the room, getting a plate and napkin. Then with her own hands she helped me to the pudding.
“Doesn’t that flavor do her credit?” cried Tikulski. “It is a melody materialized, is it not?”
We all laughed; and I ate my pudding at perfect ease.
“I hope Mr. Neuman has brought his violin,” said Veronika, “for then we can have a first and second.”
“Yes, I took that liberty,” I answered.
And afterward21, adjourning22 to the parlor23, I played second to the old man’s first for an hour or more—reading at sight from his own manuscript music, which was not the lightest of tasks. Then Veronika sang to us. And then, as it was extremely hot, Mr. Tikulski proposed that we betake ourselves to a concert garden in the neighborhood and spend the rest of the evening in the open air. We sat at a round table under an ailanthus tree, and watched the people come and go, and listened to light tunes24 discoursed25 by a tolerable band, and by and by had a delicious little supper; and while Mr. Tikulski puffed26 a huge cigar, Veronika and I enjoyed a long, delightful27 confidential28 talk in which our minds got wonderfully close together, and during which one scrap29 of information dropped from her lips that afforded me infinite relief. Speaking of her nocturnal pilgrimages to Hoboken, she said, “I go over by myself in the summer because it is still light; but coming home, the organist takes me to the ferry, where uncle meets me.”
“So,” I concluded, “there is no one ahead of me; for if there were, of course he would be her escort.” And I lost no time about putting in a word for myself. “I am very anxious to hear you sing in church,” I said. “Your voice can not attain8 its full effect between the narrow walls of a parlor.”
And it was agreed that I should call upon them Sunday afternoon and that we should all three take a walk in Central Park, Veronika and I afterward going to Hoboken together. Music had, indeed, proved a freemasonry, so far as we were concerned. This was only our second interview; and already we treated each other like old and intimate friends.
A thunder shower broke above our heads on the way back to Fifty-first street, and in default of an umbrella, I lent Veronika my handkerchief to protect her hat. She returned it to me at the door of her house, and lo! it was freighted with a faint, sweet perfume that it had caught from contact with her. I stowed the handkerchief religiously in my pocket, and for a week afterward it still retained a trace of the same dainty odor. It was a touchstone, by means of which I could call her up bodily before me whenever I desired.
As I sat alone in my bed-chamber that night, I acknowledged that I was more deeply in love than ever. The reader would not wonder at this if he could form a true conception of Veronika’s presence. I wish I could describe her—that is, render in words the impression wrought30 upon me by her face, and her voice, and her manner, and the things she said. I am not accustomed to expressing such matters in words, but with my violin I should have no sort of difficulty. If I wanted to give utterance31 to my idea of Veronika, all I should have to do would be to take my violin and play this heavenly melody from Chopin’s Impromptu32 in C-sharp minor:—Sotto voce.
图1
It seems almost as though Chopin must have had Veronika in mind when he composed it. Its color, its passion, its vague dreamy sadness, and withal its transparent33 simplicity34, make it for me a perfect musical portrait. Those were the traits which most constantly and conspicuously35 abode in my thought of her. Her simplicity, her child-like simplicity, and her naturalness, and the serene36 purity of her soul, made her as different from other women that I had seen—though, to be sure, I had seen but few women except as I passed them in the street or rode with them in the horse-car—made her as different from those I had seen, at any rate, as a lily plucked on the hillside is different from a hothouse flower, as daylight is different from gaslight, as Schubert’s music is different from Liszt’s. In every thing and from every point of view, she was simple and natural and serene. Her great pale face, and the dark eyes, and the smile that came and went like a melody across her lips, and the way she wore her hair, and the way she dressed, and the way she played, sang, spoke6, and her gestures, and the low, sad, musical laughter that I heard only once or twice from the beginning to the end—all were simple, and natural, and serene. And yet there was a mystery attaching to each of them, a something beyond my comprehension, a something that tinged37 my love for her with awe38. A mystery that would neither be defined nor penetrated39 nor ignored, brooded over her, as the perfume broods over a rose. I doubt whether an American woman can be like this unless she is older and has had certain experiences of her own. Veronika had not had sufficient experience of her own to account for what I have described: but she was a Jewess, and all the experience of the Jewish race, all the martyrdom of the scattered40 hosts, were hers by inheritance.
No matter how I was occupied, whether teaching, or practicing, or reading, or writing, or walking, or talking to other people, I was always conscious of the love of Veronika astir in my heart. Just as through all the vicissitudes41 of a fugue the subject melody will survive in one form or another and be at no minute altogether silenced, so through all the changes of my busy day the thought of Veronika lingered in my mind. I can not tell how completely the whole aspect of the world had been altered since the night I first saw her standing42 in the moonlight. It was as if my life up to that moment had been passed beneath gray skies, and suddenly the clouds had dispersed43 and the sunshine flooded the earth. A myriad44 things became plain and clear that had been invisible until now, and old things acquired a new significance. My heart welled with tenderness for all living creatures—the overflow45 of the tenderness it had for her. All my senses, all my capacities for pain and pleasure, were more acute than before. Suddenly music, which had been my art, became my religion: she had glorified46 it by her devotion. I looked forward to my next visit with her as a benighted47 traveler looks forward to the glowing window that promises rest and shelter: only in my case the light illuminated48 my whole pathway and made the progress toward its source a constant delight instead of a perfunctory labor49. But this is the common story of a man in love, and stands without telling. Suffice it that before our acquaintance was a month old I had got upon the most intimate terms with Mr. Tikulski and Veronika, spending not only every Wednesday evening at their house but also each Sunday afternoon, and accompanying her to Hoboken as regularly as she had to go. Never was there a prouder man than I at those junctures50 when, with her hand pressed tightly under my arm, I felt that she was trusting herself entirely51 to my charge and that I was answerable for her safety and well-being52. The Hoboken ferry-boats became to my thinking vastly more interesting than the most romantic of Venetian gondolas53; and to this day I can not sniff54 the peculiar55 stuffy56 odor that always pervades57 a ferry-boat cabin without being transported back across the years to that happy, happy time. I actually blessed the necessity that forced her to journey so far for her livelihood58; and it was with an emphatic59 pang60 that I listened to the plans which she and Tikulski were prone61 to discuss whereby she was shortly to get an engagement nearer home: though the sight of her pale, tired cheek reproached me the moment after. On her side she made no concealment62 of a most cordial regard for me. Her face always lighted up at my arrival; she was always eager to share her ideas with me and to call forth63 my opinion of her work, appearing pleased by my praise and impressed by my criticism. She set me an admirable example of frankness. She would say precisely64 what she thought of my renditions, sparing not their blemishes65 and indicating how an effective point might be improved.
But as yet I had not dared to hope that she loved, or was even in train to love me. So as yet I had not intended to speak of love at all.
But one day—one Sunday late in June—she proposed to sing me a song she had just been learning.
“What is it?” I asked.
“From Le D茅sert of Felicien David,” she said, handing me the music.
It was the “O, belle66 nuit, O, sois plus lente,” originally written for tenor67.
“I should hardly think it would suit your voice,” I said, running over the music.
“Neither did I, at first; but listen, anyway.” And she began.
Her voice had never been in better order, had never been more resonant68, never more electric. Contrary to my misgivings69, the song suited it perfectly70, afforded its ‘cello quality full scope. She sang with an enthusiasm, a precision, a delicacy71 of shading, that carried me away. As the last tender note melted on her lips, she swung around on the piano-stool and looked a question with her great, dark, serious eyes. I know not what possessed72 me. A blindness fell upon my sight. My heart gave a mighty73 bound. In another instant I was at her side and had caught her—my darling—in my arms. In another instant she was sobbing74 her life out upon my shoulder.
By and by, after the first stress of our emotion had subsided75, I mustered76 voice to say, “Then, Veronika, you love me?”
Her hand nestled in mine by way of answer.
I told her as well I could how I had loved her from the first.
“It is strange,” she said, “when you turned to me there on the terrace and spoke, it was as if a light broke into my life. And it has been the same ever since—my heart has been full of light. Oh, I have wanted you so much! I was afraid you did not care for me. Why have you waited so long?”
No need of putting down my answer nor the rest of our dialogue. When Mr. Tikulski came back I confessed every thing. He asked but a single question, imposed but a single condition.
I replied that I earned enough by my teaching to support him and her comfortably and to contribute toward the maintenance of the widow and her brood in Germany. Furthermore, I had solid grounds for expecting to earn more next winter. There would be an opening for me in the Symphony and Philharmonic Societies, and as I was gaining something of a reputation I might reasonably demand a higher price for my lessons. It was arranged that we should be married the first week in August.
Our journey to Hoboken was all too short that night. Never had horse-car or ferry-boat advanced with such velocity77 before. As we left the church she asked, “Did you notice how my voice trembled in my solo?
“It only added to its effect,” I answered. “Were you nervous?”
“Oh, no, I was happy, so happy that I could not control my voice.”
Ah, but I had a full heart as I walked home that night. The future was all radiant radiant beyond my wildest dream. It frightened me. Such perfect bliss78 seemed scarcely possible, seemed too great and glorious to last. And yet had not Veronika’s own lips promised it? and sealed the promise with a kiss that burned still where she had placed it? It was useless for me to go to bed; it was useless for me to stay in the house. I put on my hat and went out and spent the night pacing up and down before her door. And as soon as the morning was far enough advanced I rang the bell and invited myself to breakfast with her; and after breakfast I helped her to wash the dishes, to Mr. Tikulski’s unutterable disapproval—it was “unteeknified,” he said—and after that I accompanied her as far as the first house where she had to give a lesson.
While writing the above I had almost forgotten. Now I remember. I must stop for a space to get used to remembering again that she is dead.
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收听单词发音
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1
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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4
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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5
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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6
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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7
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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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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10
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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13
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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14
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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15
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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17
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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adjourning
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的现在分词 ) | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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24
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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25
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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26
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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27
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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37
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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40
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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41
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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42
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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43
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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44
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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45
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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46
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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47
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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48
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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49
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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50
junctures
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| n.时刻，关键时刻( juncture的名词复数 )；接合点 | |
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51
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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52
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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53
gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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54
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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55
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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56
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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57
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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59
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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63
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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66
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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67
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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68
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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69
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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70
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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71
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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72
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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73
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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74
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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75
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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76
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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