Ours was one of those old country homes, where generation after generation of ancestors had lived, loved each other, and peacefully passed away. The very walls seemed to breathe out happy household memories, and no sooner had I set my foot upon the threshold, than these all appeared to become memories of my own. The arrangement and order of the dwelling8 were old-fashioned, carefully kept so by Tatiania Semenovna. No one could have said that anything was handsome or elegant, but everything, from the attendance to the furniture and the food, was proper, solid, regular, and seemed to inspire respect. In the drawing-room, tables, chairs, and divans10 were symmetrically ranged, the walls were hidden by family portraits, and the floor was covered with ancient rugs and immense landscapes in linen11. In the small parlor12 there was an old grand piano, two chiffoniers of different shapes, a divan9, and one or two tables decorated with wrought13 copper14. My private room, adorned15 by Tatiana Semenovna, was honored with all the finest pieces of furniture, irrespective of varying styles and dates, and, among the rest, with an old mirror with doors, which at first I hardly dared to raise my eyes to, but which afterwards became like a dear old friend to me. Tatiana’s voice was never heard, but the household went on with the regularity16 of a well-wound clock, although there were many more servants than were necessary. But all these servants, wearing their soft heelless slippers17 (for Tatiana Semenovna insisted that creaking soles and pounding heels were, of all things in the world, the most disagreeable), all these servants appeared proud of their condition, trembling before the old lady, showing to my husband and me a protecting good-will, and seeming to take special satisfaction in the discharge of their respective duties. Every Saturday, regularly, the floors were scoured18, and the carpets shaken; on the first day of every month, a Te Deum was chanted, and holy water sprinkled; while upon every recurring19 fête-day of Tatiana Semenovna and her son, and now also upon mine (which took place this autumn, for the first time), a feast was given to all the neighborhood. And all this was performed precisely as in the oldest times that Tatiana Semenovna could remember.
My husband interfered20 in nothing concerning the management of the house, confining himself to the control of the estate, and the affairs of the peasants, which fully7 occupied him.
He rose very early, even during the winter, so that he was always gone when I woke. He generally returned for tea, which we took alone together; and at these times, having finished the troubles and annoyances22 of his agricultural matters, he would often fall into that particularly joyous23 light-hearted state of mind, which we used to call le transport sauvage. Often, when I asked him to tell me what he had been doing all the morning, he would relate such perfectly24 absurd adventures, that we would almost die of laughing; sometimes when I demanded a sober account, he would give it to me, making an effort to restrain even a smile. As for me, I watched his eyes, or the motion of his lips, and did not understand a word he said, being entirely25 taken up with the pleasure of looking at him and hearing his voice.
“Come, now, what was I saying?” he would ask; “repeat it to me!”
But I never could repeat any of it.
Tatiana Semenovna never made her appearance until dinner time, taking her tea alone, and only sending an ambassador to wish us good-morning. I always found it hard not to burst out laughing, when the maid entered, took her stand before us with her hands crossed one upon the other, and, in her measured tones informed us that Tatiana Semenovna desired to know whether we had slept well, and whether we liked the little cakes we had for tea. Until dinner time we seldom remained together. I played, or read, alone; he wrote, or sometimes went out again; but at four o’clock we went down to the drawing-room for dinner. Mamma came out of her chamber26, and then the poor gentle-folk and pilgrims who happened to be lodging27 in the house, usually two or three in number made their appearance. Regularly every day my husband, following the ancient custom, offered his arm to his mother, to conduct her to the dining-room, and she requested him to take me upon his other arm. Mamma presided at dinner, and the conversation was of a serious, thoughtful turn, not altogether without a shade of solemnity. The simple every-day talk between my husband and myself was the only agreeable diversion in the grave aspect of these table sessions. After dinner, Mamma took her seat in a large arm-chair in the salon28, and cut open the leaves of any newly-arrived books; we read aloud, or went to the piano in the small drawing-room. We read a great deal together during those two months, but music continued to be our supreme29 enjoyment30, for every day it seemed to strike some new chord in our hearts, whose vibrations31 revealed us to each other more and more wholly. When I was playing his favorite airs he retired32 to a divan at some distance, where I could scarcely see him, and with a kind of modesty33 of sentiment tried to conceal34 from me the emotion my music produced; but, often, when he least expected it, I rose from the piano and ran to him, to try to surprise upon his countenance35 the traces of this deep feeling and to catch the almost supernatural light in the humid eyes which he vainly strove to conceal from me. I presided over our late tea in the large drawing-room, again all the family were gathered round the table, and for a long time this formal assembling near the samovar, as in a tribunal, with the distribution of the cups and glasses, discomposed me very much. It always seemed to me that I was not yet worthy36 of these honors, that I was too young, too giddy, to turn the faucet37 of that stately samovar, set the cups on Nikita’s tray and say: “For Peter Ivanovitch; for Maria Minichna,” and ask: “Is it sweet enough?” And afterwards give out the lumps of sugar for the white-haired nurse and the other old servants. “Perfect, perfect,” my husband would often tell me; “quite a grown-up person!” and then I would feel more intimidated38 than ever.
After tea Mamma played patience, or she and Maria Minichna had a game of cards together; then she embraced us both and gave us her blessing39, and we withdrew to our own apartment. There, however, our evening tête-à-tête was usually prolonged until midnight, for these were our pleasantest hours in the twenty-four. He told me about his past life, we made plans, occasionally we philosophized, all the time talking in a low tone lest we might be overheard. We lived, he and I, almost upon the footing of strangers in this huge old house, where everything seemed to be weighed upon by the severe spirit of ancient times and of Tatiana Semenovna. Not only she herself, but also the servants, all these old men and women, the furniture, the pictures, all inspired me with respect and a kind of fear, and at the same time with the consciousness that my husband and I were not exactly in our own place there and that our conduct must be extremely circumspect40. As well as I remember, now, this severe order and the prodigious41 number of idle, inquisitive42 men and women about our house were very hard to bear: but even this sense of oppression only served to vivify our mutual43 love. Not only I, but he also, made an effort not to let it be seen that anything in our home was displeasing44 to us. Sometimes this calmness, this indulgence, this seeming indifference45 to everything, irritated me, and I could not help looking upon such conduct as weakness, and telling him so.
“Ah, dear Katia,” he replied, once, when I was expressing my annoyance21, “how can a man show that anything, no matter what, is displeasing to him, when he is as happy as I am? It is a great deal easier to yield, than to make them yield, I have long been convinced of that,—and, moreover, of the fact there is no situation where one cannot be happy. Everything goes so well with us! I do not even know, any longer, how to get angry; for me, just now, there is nothing at all that is bad, there are only things that are either dull or droll46. But, above all, ‘let well enough alone.’ You may hardly believe me, but whenever I hear a ring at the door-bell, whenever I receive a letter, actually whenever I wake in the morning, a fear takes hold of me, fear of the obligations of life, fear that something may be going to change; for nothing could be better than this present moment!”
I believed him, but I could not understand him. I was happy, but it seemed to me that all was as it ought to be, and could not be otherwise; that it was the same with every one else, and that somewhere there were other joys still, not greater ones, but quite different.
Thus two months passed by, bringing us to the cold, stormy winter, and although he was with me, I began to feel somewhat alone; I began to feel that life was doing nothing but repeating itself, as it were; that it offered nothing new either for me or for him; that, on the contrary, we seemed to be forever treading over and over again in our own footsteps. He was more frequently occupied with business matters away from me, than he had been at first, and once more I had the old feeling that far down in his soul lay a world, hidden and reserved, to which he would not admit me. His unalterable serenity47 irritated me. I loved him no less than formerly48, was no less happy in his love; but my love remained stationary49 and did not seem to grow any more, and besides this love a new sentiment, full of anxiety, came creeping into my heart. Continuing to love seemed to me so small a thing after that great transport of first loving him; I felt as if my sentiments ought to include agitation50, danger, sacrifice of myself. There were in me exuberant51 forces finding no employment in our tranquil52 existence, fits of depression which I sought to conceal from him as something wicked, fits of impetuous tenderness and gaiety which only alarmed him. He still had his old habit of watching me and studying my moods, and one day he came to me with a proposal to move to the city for a time; but I begged him not to go, not to alter anything whatever in our mode of life, not to touch our happiness. And, really and truly, I was happy; but I was tormenting53 myself because this happiness brought me no labor54, no sacrifice, while, I felt all the powers of sacrifice and labor dying away within me. I loved him, I knew that I was entirely his; but I wished every one to see our love, wished that some one would try to prevent my loving him,—and then to love him all the same! My mind, and even my sentiments, found their field of action, but yet there was something—the sense of youth, with its need of movement—which had no sufficient satisfaction in our placid55 life. Why did he tell me that we could go to the city whenever the fancy seized me to do so? If he had not said this, perhaps I might have understood that the feeling which oppressed me was a pernicious chimera56, a fault of which I was guilty.... But the thought kept coming into my head that simply by going to the city, I could escape from my ennui57; but then, on the other hand, this would be withdrawing him from a life that he loved; I was ashamed to do this, but it cost me something not to do it.
Time went on, the snow piled higher and higher against the walls of the house, and we were always alone, still alone, always with each other, while away yonder,—I knew not where, but yonder somewhere,—in stir and motion, in splendor58 and excitement, was the crowd, feeling, suffering, rejoicing, amusing itself, without one thought of us and our vanished existence. Worst of all to me was the consciousness that day by day the chain of habit was binding59 and pressing our life closer into its narrow mould, that our love itself would enter into bondage60 and become subject to the monotonous61 and dispassionate law of time. To be cheerful in the morning, respectful at dinner, affectionate in the evening! “To do good!” I said to myself, it is all very well and admirable to do good, and to live a worthy life, as he says; but we have yet time enough for that; there are other things for which, to-day, I feel powers within me. This is not what I wanted; what I wanted was combat, struggle; was to feel that love is our guide in life, not that life guides our love. I could have wished to draw near to the abyss with him, to say to him: “One more step, and I dash myself down, one more movement and I perish;” he, while paling on the brink62 of this abyss, he would have seized me with his powerful hand, held me there suspended above the gulf63, my heart faint with fear,—and then he might have borne me whithersoever he would!
This mood of my soul began to tell upon my health, my nerves began to be out of order. One morning I felt even more upset than usual, and Sergius returned home in rather a bad temper, which was an extremely rare occurrence with him; I noticed it at once, and asked him what was the matter, but he would not tell me, only remarking that it was not worth while. As I afterwards learned, the ispravnik,[G] from ill-will to my husband, had summoned several peasants, made some illegal exaction64 of them, and had even uttered menaces against him. My husband had not yet been able to look into the matter and, moreover, as it was but a piece of absurd impertinence he had not cared to tell me of it; but I imagined that his not telling me was because he considered me a child, and that in his eyes I was incapable65 of understanding what interested him. I turned from him in silence, without saying a word; he went into his study, gravely, and shut his door after him. When I could no longer hear him, I sat down on a divan, almost crying. “Why,” said I to myself, “does he persist in humiliating me by his solemn calmness, by being always in the right? Am I not in the right also, when I am wearied, when everywhere I feel emptiness, when I long to live, to move, not to stay forever in one place and feel time walk over me? I wish to go onward67, each day, each hour; I wish for something new, while he,—he wants to stand still in one spot, and keep me standing66 there with him! And yet how easy it would be for him to satisfy me! He need not take me to the city, it would only be necessary for him to be a little like me, for him to stop trying to constrain68 and crush himself with his own hands, for him to live naturally. That is what he is always advising me, and it is he who is not natural, that is all.”
I felt my tears getting the mastery of me, and my irritation69 against him increasing. I was afraid of this irritation, and I went to find him. He was sitting in his study, writing. Hearing my steps, he turned for an instant, looked at me with a calm and indifferent air, and continued writing; this look did not please me, and instead of going up to him, I stopped near the table where he was writing and, opening a book, began to run my eyes over the page. He turned then, a second time, and looked at me again:
“Katia, you are not as bright as usual!”
I only responded by a cold glance, meant to convey: “And why? And why so much amiability70?” He shook his head at me, and smiled timidly and tenderly; but, for the first time, my smile would not answer his.
“What was the matter with you this morning?” I asked, “why would you tell me nothing?”
“It was a trifle! a slight worry,” he replied. “I can tell you all about it, now. Two peasants had been summoned to the city....”
But I would not let him finish.
“Why did you not tell me when I asked you?”
“I might have said something foolish, I was angry then.”
“That was just the time to tell me.”
“And why so?”
“What you think, then, is that I never can help you in anything?”
“What I think?” said he, throwing down his pen. “I think that without you I could not live. In all things, in all, not only are you a help to me, but it is by you that everything is done. You are literally71 to me ‘well-fallen,’” he went on smiling. “It is in you alone that I live; it seems to me nothing is good but because you are there, because you must....”
“Yes, I know it, I am a nice little child who has to be petted and kept quiet,” said I, in such a tone that he looked at me in amazement72. “But I do not want this quieting; I have had enough of it!”
“Come, let me tell you about this morning’s trouble,” he said hastily, as if he was afraid to give me time to say more: “let us see what you think of it!”
“I do not wish to hear it now,” I replied.
I really did want to hear it, but it was more agreeable to me, at this moment, to disturb his tranquillity73.
“I do not wish to play with the things of life; I wish to live,” I added; “like you.”
His face, which always so clearly and so readily reflected every impression, wore a look of suffering and intense attention.
“I wish to live with you in perfect equality....”
But I could not finish, such profound pain was on his face. He was silent an instant.
“And in what do you not live with me on a footing of equality?” he said: “it is I, not you, that is concerned in this affair of the ispravnik and some drunken peasants.”
“Yes, but it is not only this case,” said I.
“For the love of God, do understand me, my darling,” he continued; “I know how painful a thing care is for us all; I have lived, and I know it. I love you, therefore I would spare you every care. My life is centred in my love for you; so do not prevent my living!”
“You are always right,” said I, without looking at him.
I could not bear to see him once more serene74 and tranquil, while I was so full of anger and a feeling somewhat resembling repentance75.
“Katia! What is the matter with you?” said he. “The question is not in the least which of us two is in the right, what we were talking about is something entirely different! What have you against me? Do not tell me at once; reflect, and then tell me all that is in your thoughts. You are displeased76 with me, you have, no doubt, a reason, but explain to me in what I am to blame.”
But how could I tell him all that I had in the bottom of my heart? The thought that he had seen through me at once, that again I found myself as a child before him, that I could do nothing that he did not comprehend and foresee, excited me more than ever.
“I have nothing against you,” said I, “but I am tired, and I do not like ennui. You say that this must be so, and, of course, once more you are right!”
As I spoke77, I looked in his face. My object was attained78; his serenity had disappeared; alarm and pain were stamped upon his face.
“Katia!” he began, in a low, agitated79 voice, “this is no jesting we are engaged in, at this moment. Our fate is being decided80. I ask you to say nothing, only to hear me. Why are you torturing me thus?”
But I broke in.
“Say no more, you are right,” said I, coldly, as if it were not I, but some evil spirit speaking with my lips.
“If you knew what you are doing!” he exclaimed in a trembling voice.
I began to cry, and I felt my heart somewhat relieved. He was sitting near me, silent. I was sorry for him, ashamed of myself, troubled by what I had done. I did not look at him. I felt sure that he was looking at me, and that his eyes were perplexed81 or severe. I turned; his eyes were indeed fixed82 upon me, but they were kind and gentle and seemed entreating83 forgiveness. I took his hand, and said:
“Pardon me! I do not know, myself, what I said.”
“Yes, but I know what you said, and I know that you spoke the truth.”
“What truth?” I asked.
“That we must go to St. Petersburg. This is no longer the place for us.”
“As you wish.”
He took me in his arms and kissed me.
“You forgive me?” he said, “I have been to blame concerning you....”
In the evening I was at the piano a long time playing for him, while he walked up and down the room, repeating something in a low tone to himself. This was a habit with him, and I often asked him what he was murmuring thus, and he, still thoughtful, would repeat it again to me; generally it was poetry, sometimes some really absurd thing, but even the very absurdity84 would show me what frame of mind he was in.
“What are you murmuring there, now?” I asked after a time.
He stood still, thought a little, then, smiling, repeated the two lines from Lermontoff:
“Yes, he is more than a man; he sees everything!” thought I; “how can I help loving him!”
I left the piano, took hold of his hand, and began to walk up and down with him, measuring my steps by his.
“Well!” he said, looking down at me with a smile.
“Well!” I echoed; and our two hearts seemed to spring to each other once more.
At the end of a fortnight, before the fêtes, we were in St. Petersburg.
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1
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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divans
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| n.（可作床用的）矮沙发( divan的名词复数 )；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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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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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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faucet
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| n.水龙头 | |
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intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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43
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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44
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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45
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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47
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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48
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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49
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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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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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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exaction
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| n.强求，强征；杂税 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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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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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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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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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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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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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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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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