Scenes and altercations15 between us were quite unheard-of. I endeavored to satisfy him, he carried out all my wishes, any one would have said that we still loved each other.
When we were alone together, which was of rare occurrence, I felt neither joy, agitation16, nor embarrassment, in his presence, any more than if I had been alone. I knew well that here was no new-comer, no stranger, but on the contrary, a very excellent man, in short my husband, whom I knew just as well as I knew myself. I was persuaded that I could tell beforehand all that he would do, all that he would think, precisely17 what view he would take of any matter, and if he did or thought otherwise I only considered that he made a mistake; I never expected anything at all from him. In one word, it was my husband, that was all. It seemed to me that things were so, and had to be so; that no other relations between us could exist, or indeed ever had existed. When he went away, especially at first, I still felt terribly lonely, and while he was absent I felt the full value of his support; when he came home, I would even throw myself in his arms with joy; but scarcely had two hours elapsed ere I had forgotten this joy, and would find that I had nothing to say to him. In these brief moments, when calm, temperate18 tenderness seemed to revive between us, it seemed to me that there never had been anything but this; that this alone was what had once so powerfully stirred my heart, and I thought I read in his eyes the same impression. I felt that to this tenderness there was a limit, which he did not wish to pass, and neither did I. Sometimes this caused me a little regret, but I had no time to think about it seriously, and I tried to put it out of my mind, by giving myself up to a variety of amusements of which I did not even render a clear account to myself, but which perpetually offered themselves to me. The life in the world, which, at first, had bewildered me with its splendor19 and the gratification it afforded to my self-love, had soon established entire dominion20 over my inclinations21, and become at once a habit and a bondage22, occupying in my soul that place which I had fancied would be the home of sentiment. Therefore I avoided being alone, dreading23 lest it might force me to look into and realize my condition. My whole time, from the earliest hour in the morning till the latest at night, was appropriated to something; even if I did not go out, there was no time that I left free. I found in this life neither pleasure, nor weariness, and it seemed to me it had always been thus.
In this manner three years passed away, and our relations with each other remained the same, benumbed, congealed24, motionless, as if no alteration25 could come to them, either for better or worse. During the course of these three years there were two important events in the family, but neither brought any change to my own life. These events were the birth of my first child, and the death of Tatiana Semenovna. At first the maternal26 sentiment took possession of me with such power, so great and unexpected a rapture27 seized upon me, that I imagined a new existence was beginning; but at the end of two months, when I commenced to go into society once more, this sentiment, which had been gradually subsiding28, had become nothing more than the habitual29 and cold performance of a duty. My husband, on the contrary, from the day of this son’s birth, had become his old self, gentle, calm, and home-loving, recalling for his child, all his former tenderness and gaiety. Often when I went in my ball-dress into the child’s nursery, to give him the evening benediction30 before starting and found my husband there, I would catch a glance of reproach, or a severe and watchful31 look fixed32 upon me, and I would all at once feel ashamed. I was myself terrified at my indifference towards my own child, and I asked myself: “Can I be so much worse than other women?—But what is to be done?” I questioned. “Of course I love my son, but, for all that, I cannot sit down beside him for whole days at a time, that would bore me to death; and as for making a pretence33, nothing in the world would induce me to do such a thing!”
The death of my husband’s mother was a great grief to him; it was very painful to him, he said, to live after her at Nikolski, but though I also regretted her and really sympathized with his sorrow, it would have been at that time more agreeable, more restful to me, to return and make our residence there. We had passed the greater part of these three years in the city; once only had I been at Nikolski, for a visit of two months; and during the third year we had been abroad.
We passed this summer at the baths.
I was then twenty-one years of age. We were, I thought, prosperous; from my home life I expected no more than it had already given me; all the people whom I knew, it seemed to me, loved me; my health was excellent, I knew that I was pretty, my toilettes were the freshest at the baths, the weather was superb, an indefinable atmosphere of beauty and elegance34 surrounded me, and everything appeared to me in the highest degree delightful35 and joyous36. Yet I was not, as light-hearted as I had been in the old days at Nikolski, when I had felt that my happiness was within myself, when I was happy because I deserved to be so, when my happiness was great but might be greater still. Now all was different; nevertheless the summer was charming. I had nothing to desire, nothing to hope, nothing to fear; my life, as it seemed to me, was at its full, and my conscience, it also seemed to me, was entirely clear.
Among the men most conspicuous37 at the baths during this season, there was not one whom, for any reason whatever, I preferred above the others, not even old Prince K. our ambassador, who paid me distinguished38 attention. One was too young, another was too old, this one was an Englishman with light curly hair, that one, a bearded Frenchman; I was perfectly39 indifferent to all, but, at the same time, all were indispensable to me. Insignificant40 as they might be, they yet belonged to, and formed a part of, this life of elegance surrounding me, this atmosphere in which I breathed. However, there was one among them, an Italian, Marquis D. who, by the bold fashion in which he showed the admiration41 he felt for me, had attracted my attention more than the others. He allowed no occasion to escape him of meeting me, dancing with me, appearing on horseback beside me, accompanying me to the casino, and he was constantly telling me how beautiful I was. From my window I sometimes saw him wandering around our house, and more than once the annoying persistence42 of the glances shot towards me from his flashing eyes had made me blush and turn away.
He was young, handsome, elegant; and one remarkable43 thing about him was his extraordinary resemblance to my husband, especially in his smile and something about the upper part of the face, though he was the handsomer man of the two. I was struck by the likeness44, in spite of decided45 differences in some particulars, in the mouth for instance, the look, the longer shape of the chin; and instead of the charm given to my husband’s face by his expression of kindness and ideal calmness, there was in the other something gross and almost bestial46. After a while I could not help seeing that he was passionately47 in love with me; I sometimes found myself thinking of him with lofty pity. I undertook to tranquillize him, and bring him down to terms of cordial confidence and friendship, but he repelled49 these attempts with trenchant50 disdain51, and, to my great discomfiture52, continued to show indications of a passion, silent, indeed, as yet, but momentarily threatening to break forth53. Although I would not acknowledge it to myself, I was afraid of this man, and seemed, against my own will, as it were, forced to think of him. My husband had made his acquaintance, and was even more intimate with him than with most of our circle, with whom he confined himself to being simply the husband of his wife, and to whom his bearing was haughty54 and cold.
Towards the end of the season I had a slight illness, which confined me to the house for two weeks. The first time I went out, after my recovery, was to listen to the music in the evening, and I was at once told of the arrival of Lady C. a noted55 beauty, who had been expected for some time. A circle of friends quickly gathered around me, eagerly welcoming me once more among them, but a yet larger circle was forming about the new belle56, and everybody near me was telling me about her and her beauty. She was pointed57 out to me; a beautiful and bewitching woman, truly, but with an expression of confidence and self-sufficiency which impressed me unpleasantly, and I said so. That evening, everything that usually seemed so bright and delightful was tiresome58 to me. The following day Lady C. organized an expedition to the castle, which I declined. Hardly any one remained behind with me, and the aspect of affairs was decidedly changed to my eyes. All, men and things, seemed stupid and dull; I felt like crying, and resolved to complete my cure as soon as possible and go home to Russia. At the bottom of my heart lurked59 bad, malevolent60 feelings, but I would not confess it to myself. I said that I was not well, making that a pretext61 for giving up society. I very seldom went out, and then only in the morning, alone, to drink the waters, or for a quiet walk or drive about the environs with L. M., one of my Russian acquaintances. My husband was absent at this time, having gone, some days before, to Heidelberg, to wait there until the end of my prescribed stay should allow our return to Russia, and he came to see me only now and then.
One day Lady C. had carried off most of the company on some party of pleasure, and after dinner L. M. and I made a little excursion to the castle by ourselves. While our carriage was slowly following the winding62 road between the double rows of chestnuts63, centuries old, between whose gray trunks we saw in the distance the exquisite64 environs of Baden, lying in the purple light of the setting sun, we unconsciously fell into a serious strain of conversation, which had never before been the case with us. L. M., whom I had known so long, now for the first time appeared to me as a lovely intelligent woman, with whom one could discuss any topic whatever, and whose society was full of charm and interest. We talked about family duties and pleasures, children, the vacuous65 life led in such places as we were now in, our desire to return to Russia, to the country, and we both fell into a grave, gentle mood, which was still upon us when we reached the castle. Within its broken walls all was in deep shadow, cool and still, the summits of the towers were yet in the sunlight, and the least sound of voice or footstep re-echoed among the arches. Through the doorway66 we saw the beautiful stretch of country surrounding Baden,—beautiful, yet to our Russian eyes, cold and stern.
We sat down to rest, silently watching the sinking sun. Presently we heard voices, they grew more distinct, and I thought I caught my own name. I listened involuntarily, and heard a few words. I recognized the voices; they were those of the Marquis D. and of a Frenchman, his friend, whom I also knew. They were talking about me and Lady C. The Frenchman was comparing one with the other, and analyzing67 our beauty. He said nothing objectionable, yet I felt the blood rush to my heart as he spoke68. He entered into detail as to what he found attractive in both Lady C. and myself. As for me, I was already a mother, while Lady C. was but nineteen years of age; my hair was more beautiful, but Lady C.’s was more gracefully69 arranged; Lady C. was more the high born dame70 “while yours,” he said, alluding71 to me, “is one of the little princesses so often sent us by Russia.” He concluded by saying that it was very discreet72 in me not to attempt to contest the field with Lady C., for, if I did, I most assuredly would find Baden my burial-place.
This cut me to the quick.
“Unless she chose to console herself with you!” added the Frenchman with a gay, cruel laugh.
“If she goes, I shall follow,” was the coarse reply of the voice with the Italian accent.
“Happy mortal! he can still love!” commented the other, mockingly.
“Love!” the Italian was silent a moment, then went on. “I cannot help loving! Without love there is no life. To make of one’s life a romance,—that is the only good. And my romances never break off in the middle; this one, like the others, I will carry out to the end.”
“Good luck, my friend!” said the Frenchman.
I heard no more for the speakers seemed to turn the angle of the wall, and their steps receded73 on the other side. They descended74 the broken stairs, and in a few moments emerged from a side-door near us, showing much surprise at the sight of us. I felt my cheeks flame when Marquis D. approached me, and was confused and frightened at his offering me his arm upon our leaving the castle. I could not refuse it, and following L. M. who led the way with his friend, we went down towards the carriage. I was indignant at what the Frenchman had said of me, though I could not help secretly admitting that he had done nothing but put into language what I myself had already felt, but the words of the marquis had confounded and revolted me by their grossness. I was tortured by the thought of having heard them, and at the same time I had suddenly lost all fear of him. I was disgusted at feeling him so near me; without looking at him, without answering him, trying, though I still had his arm, to keep so far from him that I could not hear his whispers, I walked on quickly, close behind L. M. and the Frenchman. The marquis was talking about the lovely view, the unexpected delight of meeting me, and I know not what besides, but I did not listen to him. The whole time I was thinking about my husband, my son, Russia; divided feelings of shame and pity took hold of me, and I was possessed by a desire to hurry home, to shut myself up in my solitary75 room in the Hôtel de Bade, where I might be free to reflect upon all that seemed so suddenly to have risen up within my soul. But L. M. was walking rather slowly, the carriage was still some distance away, and it seemed to me that my escort was obstinately76 slackening our pace, as if he meant to be left alone with me. “That shall not be!” I said to myself, quickening my steps. But he undisguisedly kept me back, holding my arm with a close pressure; at this moment L. M. turned a corner of the road, and we were left alone. I was seized with alarm.
“Excuse me,” said I coldly, drawing my arm out of his, but the lace caught on one of his buttons. He stooped towards me to disengage it, and his ungloved fingers rested on my arm. A new sensation—not fright, certainly not pleasure—sent a chill shiver through me. I looked up at him, meaning my glance to express all the cold contempt I felt for him; but instead of this, he seemed to read in it only agitation and alarm. His ardent77, humid eyes were fixed passionately upon me, his hands grasped my wrists, his half-open lips were murmuring to me, telling me that he loved me, that I was everything to him, his hold upon me growing stronger and closer with every word. I felt fire in my veins79, my vision was obscured, I trembled from head to foot, and the words I tried to utter died away in my throat. Suddenly I felt a kiss upon my cheek; I shivered, and looked into his face again, powerless to speak or stir, expecting and wishing I knew not what.
It was only an instant. But this instant was terrible! In it I saw him as he was, I analyzed80 his face at a glance: low brow, straight correct nose with swelling81 nostrils82, fine beard and mustache waxed and pointed, cheeks carefully shaven, brown neck. I hated him, I feared him, he was a stranger to me; nevertheless, at this moment, how powerfully the emotion and passion of this detestable man, this stranger, was re-echoing within me!
“I love you!” was the murmur78 of the voice so like my husband’s. My husband and my child,—hurriedly my mind flashed to them, as beings dearly loved, once existent, now gone, lost, done with. But suddenly from around the turn of the road I heard L. M.’s voice calling me. I recovered myself, snatched away my hands without looking at him, and almost flew to rejoin her. Not until we were in the caléche did I glance back at him. He took off his hat, and said something to me—I know not what—smiling. He little knew what inexpressible torture he made me endure at that moment.
Life appeared so miserable83, the future so desperate, the past so sombre! L. M. talked to me, but I did not understand one word she was saying. It seemed as though she was only talking to me from compassion84, and to hide the contempt she felt. I thought I read this contempt, this insulting compassion in every word, every glance. That kiss was burning into my cheek with cutting shame, and to think of my husband and child was insupportable to me. Once alone in my chamber85, I hoped to be able to meditate86 upon my situation, but I found it was frightful87 to remain alone. I could not drink the tea that was brought me, and without knowing why, hurriedly I decided to take the evening train for Heidelberg, to rejoin my husband. When I was seated with my maid in the empty compartment88, when the train was at last in motion, and I breathed the fresh air rushing in through the empty windows, I began to be myself again, and to think with some degree of clearness over my past and my future. All my married life, from the day of our departure for St. Petersburg, lay before me in a new light, that of awakened89 and accusing conscience.
For the first time, I vividly90 recalled the commencement of my life in the country, my plans; for the first time, the thought came to my mind: how happy he was then! And I suddenly felt guilty towards him. “But then, why not check me, why dissimulate91 before me, why avoid all explanation, why insult me?” I asked myself. “Why not use the power of his love? But perhaps he no longer loved me?”—Yet, whether he was to blame or not, here was this on my cheek, this kiss which I still felt. The nearer I came to Heidelberg, and the more clearly my husband’s image presented itself, the more terrible became the imminent92 meeting with him. “I will tell him all, all; my eyes will be blinded with tears of repentance93,” thought I, “and he will forgive me.” But I did not myself know what was this “all” that I was going to tell him, nor was I absolutely sure that he would forgive me. In fact, when I entered his room and saw his face, so tranquil48 despite its surprise, I felt no longer able to tell him anything, to confess anything, to entreat94 his forgiveness for anything. An unspeakable sorrow and deep repentance were weighing me down.
“What were you thinking of?” he said: “I intended joining you at Baden to-morrow.” But a second glance at me seemed to startle him. “Is anything wrong? What is the matter with you?” he exclaimed.
“Nothing,” I replied, keeping back my tears. “I have come away ... I am not going back ... Let us go—to-morrow if we can—home to Russia!”
He was silent for some time, watching me narrowly.
“Come, tell me what has occurred,” he said, at length.
I felt my face grow scarlet95, and my eyes sank. His were glittering with an indefinable foreboding, and hot anger. I dreaded the thoughts which might be assailing96 him, and, with a power of dissimulation97 of which I could not have believed myself capable, I made haste to answer:
“Nothing has occurred,—but I was overwhelmed by weariness and dejection; I was alone, I began to think of you, and of our life. How long I have been to blame towards you! After this, you may take me with you wherever you wish! Yes, I have long been to blame,” I repeated, and my tears began to fall fast. “Let us go back to the country,” I cried, “and forever!”
“Ah! my love, spare me these sentimental98 scenes,” said he, coldly; “for you to go to the country will be all very well, just now, for we are running a little short of money; but as for its being ‘forever,’ that is but a notion: I know you could not stay there long! Come, drink a cup of tea,—that is the best thing to do,” he concluded, rising to call a servant.
I could not help imagining what his thoughts of me doubtless were, and I felt indignant at the frightful ideas which I attributed to him as I met the look of shame and vigilant99 suspicion which he bent100 upon me. No, he will not, and he cannot comprehend me!... I told him that I was going to see the child, and left him. I longed to be alone, and free to weep, weep, weep....
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收听单词发音
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1
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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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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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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13
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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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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altercations
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| n.争辩，争吵( altercation的名词复数 ) | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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congealed
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；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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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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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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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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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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bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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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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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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analyzing
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| v.分析；分析( analyze的现在分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析n.分析 | |
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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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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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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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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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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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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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dissimulate
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| v.掩饰，隐藏 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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assailing
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| v.攻击( assail的现在分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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