And yet, although I know her to be dead, although I repeat to myself a hundred times a day, “She is dead, dead, dead,” and although, God help me, I think I realize too well that she is dead, yet to this day I can scarcely bring myself to believe it. Truth as it is, it seems to be in utter contradiction to the rest of truth. Even those who have abandoned faith in Religion, still profess2 faith in Nature, saying, “Nature is provident3, beneficent, and wise; Nature is alive with beauty.” And at most times, it seems as if these assertions were not to be contested. Yet, how can they be true when Nature contained the possibility of Veronika’s death? How can Nature be wise, and yet have permitted that maiden4 life to be destroyed?—provident, and yet have flung away her finest product?—beneficent, and yet have torn bleeding from my life all that made my life worth living?—beautiful, and yet have quenched5 the beautifying light of Veronika’s presence, and hushed the voice that made the world musical? The mere6 fact that Veronika could die gives the lie to the Nature-worshipers. In the light of that fact, or rather in the darkness of it, it is mockery to sing songs of praise to Nature.—That is why it is so hard for me to believe—to believe a thing which annihilates7 the harmony of the universe, and proclaims the optimism of the philosophers to be a delusion8, a superstition9. How could I believe my senses if I should hear Christine Nilsson utter a hideous10 false note? So is it hard for me to believe that Nature has allowed Veronika to die. And yet it is the truth, the unmistakable, irrevocable, relentless11 truth.
I suppose all lovers are happy: but it does not seem possible that other lovers can ever have had such unmitigated happiness as ours was—happiness so keen as almost to be a pain. The light of love that burst suddenly into our lives, and filled each cranny full to overflowing12, was so pure and bright as almost to blind us. The happiness was all the keener, the light all the brighter, because of the hardship and the monotony of our daily tasks. If we had been rich, if we had had leisure and friends and many resources for diversion, then most likely our delight in each other would not have been so great. But as we were—poor, hard worked, and alone in the world—we found all the happiness we had, in ourselves, in communing together; and happiness concentrated, was proportionately more intense. The few hours in the week which we were permitted to spend side by side glittered like diamonds against the dull background of the rest. And we improved them to the full. We called upon each fleeting13 moment to stay and perpetuate14 itself; and we could not understand how Faust had had to wait so many years before he could do the same. The season was divine, clear skies and balmy weather day after day, and the Park being easily accessible, we could imagine ourselves among the green fields of the country whenever the fancy seized us. I believe that as a matter of fact the turf of the common was sadly parched15 and brown; but we were not critical so long as we could wander over it hand in hand. Then, our characters were perfectly16 accorded; their unison17 was faultless. Each called for the other, needed the other, as the dominant18 chord calls for and needs its tonic19. We had not a hope, a fear, an ambition, an aspiration20, but it was shared equally between us. Our art was a mutual21 passion which we pursued together. When Veronika was seated at the piano and I stood at her side with my violin at my shoulder, our cup of contentment was full to the brim. Nothing more was wanting. I remember, one evening, in the middle of a phrase, her fingers faltered22 and she wheeled around and lifted her eyes upon my face.—“What is the matter, darling?” I asked.—“I only want to look at you to realize that it isn’t a dream,” she answered.—And yet she is dead.
June and half July had wound away; in little more than a fortnight our wedding would be celebrated23. The night was sultry, and she and I sat together by an open window. Her uncle was absent: an idea had come to him just before dinner, she explained, and according to his custom he had gone out to walk the streets until he had mastered it. We were by no means sorry to be alone. We had plenty to talk about; but even without talking it was marvelously pleasant to sit together and think the happy thoughts that filled our minds and listen to the subdued24 sounds of human life that came in by the window.
Veronika had shown me some of her bridal outfit25, telling how she had worked at it in her short snatches of leisure. We took as much pleasure in the contemplation of this modest little trousseau as though it had boasted all the rubies26 and silken fabrics27 of the Indies. This set us to talking of the future and making plans. And afterward28 we talked of the past. We spoke29 of how strange it was that we should have come together in the way we had—by the merest accident, as it seemed; and we doubted if it was indeed an accident, if destiny had not purposely guided our footsteps that memorable30 night.—“Why,” she exclaimed, “if uncle and I had been but a few moments earlier or later, we never should have seen each other at all. Think of the terrible risk we ran! Think if we had never known each other!” and her fingers tightened31 around mine.
“And then,” I went on, “that I should have spoken to you, a strange lady, and that you should have answered!”
“It seemed perfectly natural for me to answer; I had done so before I stopped to think. But afterward I was ashamed; I was afraid you might think it indelicate. But, somehow, the words spoke themselves. I am glad of it now.”
“I do believe God’s hand was in it! I do believe it was all pre-ordained in heaven. I believe that our Guardian32 Angel prompted me to speak and you to answer. It can’t be that we, who were made for each other, were left to find it out by a mere perilous33 chance—it isn’t credible34.”
“But nobody except myself—not even you, can understand how like a miracle it all is to me, because nobody else can know how much I needed you. Nobody else can know how dreary35 and empty my life was before you came, or how completely you have filled it and gladdened it.”
Here we stopped talking for a while.
By and by she resumed, “I think that music differs from the other arts. I think the musician instinctively36 needs a companion worker. I know that in the old days when I would play or sing, my heart seemed to cry out continually for some one to come and share its feeling. Perhaps this was because music is the most emotional of the arts, the most sympathetic. Really, sometimes I could not bear to touch the piano, the pain of being alone was so acute. Of course I had my uncle, a most thorough musician; but I wanted somebody who would feel precisely37 as I did, and he did not. He always analyzed38 and criticised, never allowed himself to be carried away, never forgot the intellectual side of the things I would play. But now—now that you are with me, my music is a constant source of joy. And then, the thought that we are going to work together all our lives, the thought of the music we are going to make together—oh, it is too great, it takes my breath away! I don’t dare to believe it. I am afraid all the time that something will happen to prevent it coming true.”
Again for a while we did not speak.
Again by and by she resumed, “And then you can not know how lonely I was in other ways, how I longed for a little affection, a little tenderness. Of course uncle is very good, has always been very good to me; but do you think it was ungrateful for me to want a little more affection than he gave me? I mean a little more manifest affection; because I know that in the bottom of his heart he loves me very warmly. But I longed for somebody to show a little care for me, and uncle is very undemonstrative—he is so absorbed in his symphony, and then sometimes he is exceedingly severe. When I would get home at night it was so dreary not to have any one to speak to about the trials of the day—not to have any one who would sympathize and understand. You see, other girls have their mothers or their brothers and sisters and friends: but I had nobody except my uncle; and he was so much older, and regarded things so differently, that I do not think it was unnatural39 for me to wish for some one else. Besides, I had so much responsibility; I felt so weak and helpless. I thought, what if something should happen to my uncle! or what if I should get sick and be unable to teach! Oh, the rest and security that you brought to me!”
What I replied—a mass of broken sentences—was too incoherent to bear recording40.
“And then, the mere physical fatigue41—day after day, work, work, work, and never any respite42. Of course, every body has to work, but almost every body has a holiday now and then; and I never had a single day that I could call all my own. In winter it was hardest. No matter how tired I was, I had to be up and off giving lessons even if the snow was ankle deep. And the ice in the river made it such hard work getting to Hoboken, made the journey so very long. I had to do the housework too, you know. We couldn’t afford to keep a servant, on account of the money we had to send abroad. When I would come home all fagged out I had to clean the rooms and cook the dinner; though I am afraid that sometimes I did not more than half do my duty. Sometimes I would let the dust lie for a week on the mantle-piece. And every day was just the same as the day that had gone before. It was like traveling in a circle. When I would go to bed at night my weariness would be all the harder because of the thought, ‘To-morrow will be just the same, the same round of lessons, the same dead fatigue, the same monotonous43 drudgery44 from beginning to end.’ And as I saw no promise of change, as I thought it would be the same all my life, I could not help asking what the use was of having been born. Wasn’t I a dreadful grumbler45? Yet, what could I do? I think it is natural when one is young to long for something to look forward to, for just a little pleasure and just a little companionship. But then you came, and every thing was altered. Do you remember in the Creation the wonderful awakening46 one feels when they sing, ‘And the Lord said, Let there be light,’ very low, and then with a mighty47 burst of sound, ‘And there was LIGHT?’ Do you remember how one’s heart leaps and seems to grow big in one’s breast? It was like that when you came to me. I used to wonder why I had ever felt unhappy or discontented. The mere prospect48 of seeing you at the week’s end made my heart sing from morning to night. It gave a motive49, an object, to my life—made me feel that I was working to a purpose, that I should have my reward. I had been growing hard and indifferent, even indifferent to music. But now I began to love my music more than ever: and no matter how tired I might be, when I had a moment of leisure I would sit down and practice so as to be able to play well for you. Music seemed to express all the unutterable feeling that you inspired me with. One day I had sung the Ave Maria of Cherubini to you, and you said, ‘It is so religious—it expresses precisely the emotions one experiences in a church.’ But for me it expressed rather the emotions a woman has when she is in the presence of the man she loves. All the time I had no idea that you would ever feel in the same way toward me.”
My kisses silenced her. Afterward she sang from Pergolese’s Stabat Mater, and played a medley51 of bits from Chopin: until, looking at my watch, I saw it was nearing midnight. Time for me to go away. But her uncle had not yet come home. I did not like to leave her alone. I said so.
“Oh, that is nothing,” she explained. “It always happens when he has one of his ideas. Very likely he won’t come in till morning. I am quite accustomed to it, and not a bit afraid.”
“In that event,” I thought, “I certainly ought to go. It may embarrass her, my staying so late; and besides, she needs the sleep.”
I started to say good-by. Our parting was hard. Again and again, as I reached the door, I turned back and began anew. But at last I found myself in the street. I looked up at the parlor52 window, and remained on the curbstone until I saw her close the sash and pull the shade, and the light being extinguished, knew that she had gone to her bedroom. Then I set my face toward home.
I had never loved her as I loved her now. Every lover will understand that what she had said during the evening had added fuel to the fire. My tenderness for her had increased a hundredfold. All my life should be dedicated53 to soothing54 her and protecting her and making her glad. The tired child should find rest and peace in my arms. To think of how she had been exposed to the noise and the heat and the glare of the fierce work-a-day world! Ah, Veronika, Veronika, I wanted, late as it was, to return and pour out the yearning55 of my spirit at your feet. Why had I left her at all? Each heart-beat seemed to speak her name. And when the knowledge that in a fortnight we were really going to be married, that I was really going to have the right to be to her what I wished—when that knowledge flashed in upon me, I had to turn away lest it should overwhelm me. I could not contemplate56 it any more than I could have gazed straight upon the sun.—Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that I was seated at her side, caressing57 her brow and emptying my life into her eyes.
I awoke next morning with a start. My first sensation was one of anxiety and unrest. As I dressed, this feeling intensified58. I had a presentiment59 that something had gone wrong. I tried to reason it away. The more I reasoned, the stronger it waxed. I wanted to see her and satisfy myself that every thing was right. It was eight o’clock. She would leave for her lessons in half an hour. Luckily to-day my own engagements did not begin till ten. If I hurried, I should be in time to catch her. I put on my hat and walked at top-speed toward Fifty-first street.
Arrived at the door of the apartment-house, my worry subsided60 as abruptly61 and with as little provocation62 as it had sprung up. Indeed, I laughed as I remembered it. “Of course,” I said, “nothing is the matter. Still I am not sorry to have come.”
“Has Miss Pathzuol gone out yet?” I asked the janitress who let me in.
“I have not seen her,” she answered. “But she may have done so without my noticing.”
I ran up the stairs and rang Veronika’s bell.—No response.—I rang again.—Again no response.—A third ring, with waning63 hope of success: and, “So,” I thought, “I am too late.”
Disappointed, I was retracing65 my steps down the staircase. I stood aside to let some one pass.
“Ah, how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Tikulski. “What brings you out so early?”
I explained.
“Never mind,” he said, “but come back with me and have a cup of coffee. I have been out all night, struggling with an obstinate66 little aria50. I will play it for you.”
He unlocked the door. The parlor was dark. The shades had not yet been drawn67. As he sent them flying up with a screech68, my heart sank. Every thing was just as we had left it last night; but it was cheerless and empty with her away. There lay the Chopin still open on the music rest. There were our two chairs still close together as we had placed them.
Tikulski went after the coffee apparatus69; presently returned, arranged it on the table, and applied70 a match to the lamp.
“While we wait for the water to boil,” he said, “I will give you the result of my night’s labor71. I composed it walking up and down under the trees in the park, so that they—the trees—might claim it for their fruit! Ha-ha! A heavenly night: the sky could scarcely hold the stars, there were so many; but terribly warm.”
Again he went away—to fetch his instrument.
He was gone a long while. The water began to boil—boiled loudly and more loudly. A dense72 stream of vapor73 gushed74 from the nozzle of the pot. Still he remained.
At last I lost patience. Stepping to the threshold, I called his name. At first he did not answer.
“Mr. Tikulski!” I repeated.
I seemed to hear—no, certainly did hear—his voice, low, inarticulate, down at the other end of the hallway. It alarmed me. Had he met with an accident? hurt himself? fainted after the night’s vigil? paralysis75? apoplexy? I hastened toward him, entered the room whence his voice had sounded. There he stood. He stood in the center of the floor, immobile as a statue, his face livid, his attitude that of a man who has seen a ghost.
“For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried.
He appeared not to hear. I repeated my question.
He roused himself. A tremor76 swept over him. A painful rattling77 was audible in his throat. He raised his arm heavily and pointed64. “L-look,” he gasped78.
I looked. How can I tell what I saw?
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1
goads
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| n.赶牲口的尖棒( goad的名词复数 )v.刺激( goad的第三人称单数 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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2
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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5
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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6
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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7
annihilates
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| n.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的名词复数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的第三人称单数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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9
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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10
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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11
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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12
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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13
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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15
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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17
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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18
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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19
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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21
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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22
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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23
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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24
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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25
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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26
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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27
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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28
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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29
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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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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31
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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35
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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36
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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37
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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38
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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41
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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42
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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43
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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44
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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45
grumbler
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| 爱抱怨的人，发牢骚的人 | |
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46
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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47
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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48
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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49
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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50
aria
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| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
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51
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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52
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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53
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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54
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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55
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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56
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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57
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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58
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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60
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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61
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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63
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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64
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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65
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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66
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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67
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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68
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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69
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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71
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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72
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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73
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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74
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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75
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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76
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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77
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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78
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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