Ilya Ippolytovich strolled through the park and thought of his father. The old man had lived a full, rich, and magnificent life. It had possessed2 so much that was good, bright and necessary. Now— death! Nothing would remain. Nothing! And this nothing was terrible to Ilya Ippolytovitch.
Does not living man recognize life, the world, the sun, all that is around and within him, through himself? he reflected. A man dies, and the world dies for him. Thenceforward he feels and recognises nothing. Nothing! Then what is the use of living, developing, working, when in the end there will be—nothing?… Was there no great wisdom in his father's hundred years? Nor in his fatherhood?
A crane was crying somewhere overhead. The sound came from a scarcely visible dark arrow in the cloudless sky, which flew south. Red, frost-covered leaves were rustling3 underfoot. Ilya's face was pale, the wrinkles round his lips made him seem tired and feeble. He had spent his whole life alone, in the solitude4 of a cold studio, living arduously5 among pictures, for the sake of pictures. To what end?
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1 limpid | |
adj.清澈的,透明的 | |
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2 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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3 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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4 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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5 arduously | |
adv.费力地,严酷地 | |
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