The reader knows how Lavretsky grew up and developed. Let us say a few words about Lisa’s education. She was in her tenth year when her father died; but he had not troubled himself much about her. Weighed down with business cares, for ever anxious for the increase of his property, bilious1, sharp and impatient, he gave money unsparingly for the teachers, tutors, dress and other necessities of his children; but he could not endure, as he expressed it, “to be dandling his squallers,” and indeed had no time to dandle them. He worked, took no rest from business, slept little, rarely played cards, and worked again. He compared himself to a horse harnessed to a threshing-machine. “My life has soon come to an end,” was his comment on his deathbed, with a bitter smile on his parched2 lips. Marya Dmitrievna did not in reality trouble herself about Lisa any more than her husband, though she had boasted to Lavretsky that she alone had educated her children. She dressed her up like a doll, stroked her on the head before visitors and called her a clever child and a darling to her face, and that was all. Any kind of continuous care was too exhausting for the indolent lady. During her father’s lifetime, Lisa was in the hands of a governess, Mademoiselle Moreau from Paris, after his death she passed into the charge of Marfa Timofyevna. Marfa Timofyevna the reader knows already; Mademoiselle Moreau was a tiny wrinkled creature with little bird-like ways and a bird’s intellect. In her youth she had led a very dissipated life, but in old age she had only two passions left — gluttony and cards. When she had eaten her fill, and was neither playing cards nor chattering3, her face assumed an expression almost death-like. She was sitting, looking, breathing — yet it was clear that there was not an idea in her head. One could not even call her good-natured. Birds are not good-natured. Either as a result of her frivolous4 youth or of the air of Paris, which she had breathed from childhood, a kind of cheap universal scepticism had found its way into her, usually expressed by the words: tout5 ca c’est des betises. She spoke6 ungrammatically, but in a pure Parisian jargon7, did not talk scandal and had no caprices — what more can one desire in a governess? Over Lisa she had little influence; all the stronger was the influence on her of her nurse, Agafya Vlasyevna.
This woman’s story was remarkable8. She came of a peasant family. She was married at sixteen to a peasant; but she was strikingly different from her peasant sisters. Her father had been twenty years starosta, and had made a good deal of money, and he spoiled her. She was exceptionally beautiful, the best-dressed girl in the whole district, clever, ready with her tongue, and daring. Her master Dmitri Pestov, Marya Dmitrievna’s father, a man of modest and gentle character, saw her one day at the threshing-floor, talked to her and fell passionately9 in love with her. She was soon left a widow; Pestov, though he was a married man, took her into his house and dressed her like a lady. Agafya at once adapted herself to her new position, just as if she had never lived differently all her life. She grew fairer and plumper; her arms grew as “floury white” under her muslin-sleeves as a merchant’s lady’s; the samovar never left her table; she would wear nothing except silk or velvet10, and slept on well-stuffed feather-beds. This blissful existence lasted for five years, but Dmitri Pestov died; his widow, a kind-hearted woman, out of regard for the memory of the deceased, did not wish to treat her rival unfairly, all the more because Agafya had never forgotten herself in her presence. She married her, however, to a shepherd, and sent her a long way off. Three years passed. It happened one hot summer day that her mistress in driving past stopped at the cattle-yard. Agafya regaled her with such delicious cool cream, behaved so modestly, and was so neat, so bright, and so contented11 with everything that her mistress signified her forgiveness to her and allowed her to return to the house. Within six months she had become so much attached to her that she raised her to be housekeeper12, and intrusted the whole household management to her. Agafya again returned to power, and again grew plump and fair; her mistress put the most complete confidence in her. So passed five years more. Misfortune again overtook Agafya. Her husband, whom she had promoted to be a footman, began to drink, took to vanishing from the house, and ended by stealing six of the mistress’ silver spoons and hiding them till a favourable13 moment in his wife’s box. It was opened. He was sent to be a shepherd again, and Agafya fell into disgrace. She was not turned out of the house, but was degraded from housekeeper to being a sewing-woman and was ordered to wear a kerchief on her head instead of a cap. To the astonishment14 of every one, Agafya accepted with humble15 resignation the blow that had fallen upon her. She was at that time about thirty, all her children were dead and her husband did not live much longer. The time had come for her to reflect. And she did reflect. She became very silent and devout16, never missed a single matin’s service nor a single mass, and gave away all her fine clothes. She spent fifteen years quietly, peacefully, and soberly, never quarrelling with any one and giving way to every one. If any! one scolded her, she only bowed to them and thanked them for the admonition. Her mistress had long ago forgiven her, raised her out of disgrace, and made her a present of a cap of her own. But she was herself unwilling17 to give up the kerchief and always wore a dark dress. After her mistress’ death she became still more quiet and humble. A Russian readily feels fear, and affection; but it is hard to gain his respect: it is not soon given, nor to every one. For Agafya every one in the home had great respect; no one even remembered her previous sins, as though they had been buried with the old master.
When Kalitin became Marya Dmitrievna’s husband, he wanted to intrust the care of the house to Agafya. But she refused “on account of temptation;” he scolded her, but she bowed humbly18 and left the room. Kalitin was clever in understanding men; he understood Agafya and did not forget her. When he moved to the town, he gave her, with her consent, the place of nurse to Lisa, who was only just five years old.
Lisa was at first frightened by the austere19 and serious face of her new nurse; but she soon grew used to her and began to love her. She was herself a serious child. Her features recalled Kalitin’s decided20 and regular profile, only her eyes were not her father’s; they were lighted up by a gentle attentiveness21 and goodness, rare in children. She did not care to play with dolls, never laughed loudly or for long, and behaved with great decorum. She was not often thoughtful, but when she was, it was almost always with some reason. After a short silence, she usually turned to some grown-up person with a question which showed that her brain had been at work upon some new impression. She very early got over childish lispings, and by the time she was four years old spoke perfectly22 plainly. She was afraid of her father; her feeling towards her mother was undefinable, she was not afraid of her, nor was she demonstrative to her; but she was not demonstrative even towards Agafya, though she was the only person she loved. Agafya never left her. It was curious to see them together. Agafya, all in black, with a dark handkerchief on her head, her face thin and transparent23 as wax, but still beautiful and expressive24, would be sitting upright, knitting a stocking; Lisa would sit at her feet in a little arm-chair, also busied over some kind of work, and seriously raising her clear eyes, listening to what Agafya was relating to her. And Agafya did not tell her stories; but in even measured accents she would narrate25 the life of the Holy Virgin26, the lives of hermits27, saints, and holy men. She would tell Lisa how the holy men lived in deserts, how they were saved, how they suffered hunger and want, and did not fear kings, but confessed Christ; how fowls28 of the air brought them food and wild beasts listened to them, and flowers sprang up on the spots where their blood had been spilt. “Wall-flowers?” asked Lisa one ay, she was very fond of flowers . . . . Agafya spoke to Lisa gravely and meekly29, as though she felt herself to be unworthy to utter such high and holy words. Lisa listened to her, and the image of the all-seeing, all-knowing God penetrated30 with a kind of sweet power into her very soul, filling it with pure and reverent31 awe32; but Christ became for her something near, well-known, almost familiar. Agafya taught her to pray also. Sometimes she wakened Lisa early at daybreak, dressed her hurriedly, and took her in secret to matins. Lisa followed her on tiptoe, almost holding her breath. The cold and twilight33 of the early morning, the freshness and emptiness of the church, the very secrecy34 of these unexpected expeditions, the cautious return home and to her little bed, all these mingled35 impressions of the forbidden, strange, and holy agitated36 the little girl and penetrated to the very innermost depths of her nature. Agafya never censured37 any one, and never scolded Lisa for being naughty. When she was displeased38 at anything, she only kept silence. And Lisa understood this silence; with a child’s quick-sightedness she knew very well, too, when Agafya was displeased with other people, Marya Dmitrievna, or Kalitin himself. For a little over three years, Agafya waited on Lisa, then Mademoiselle Moreau replaced her; but the frivolous Frenchwoman, with her cold ways and exclamation39, tout ca c’est des betises, could never dislodge her dear nurse from Lisa’s heart; the seeds that had been dropped into it had become too deeply rooted. Besides, though Agafya no longer waited on Lisa, she was still in the house and often saw her charge, who believed in her as before.
Agafya did not, however, get on well with Marfa Timofyevna, when she came to live in the Kalitins’ house. Such gravity and dignity on the part of one who had once worn the motley skirt of a peasant wench displeased the impatient and self-willed old lady. Agafya asked leave to go on a pilgrimage and she never came back. There were dark rumours40 that she had gone off to a retreat of sectaries. But the impression she had left in Lisa’s soul was never obliterated41. She went as before to the mass as to a festival, she prayed with rapture42, with a kind of restrained and shamefaced transport, at which Marya Dmitrievna secretly marvelled43 not a little, and even Marfa Timofyevna, though she did not restrain Lisa in any way, tried to temper her zeal44, and would not let her make too many prostrations to the earth in her prayers; it was not a lady-like habit, she would say. In her studies Lisa worked well, that is to say perseveringly45; she was not gifted with specially46 brilliant abilities, or great intellect; she could not succeed in anything without labour. She played the piano well, but only Lemm knew what it had cost her. She had read little; she had not “words of her own,” but she had her own ideas, and she went her own way. It was not only on the surface that she took after her father; he, too, had never asked other people what was to be done. So she had grown up tranquilly47 and restfully till she had reached the age of nineteen. She was very charming, without being aware of it herself. Her every movement was full of spontaneous, somewhat awkward gracefulness48; her voice had the silvery ring of untouched youth, the least feeling of pleasure called forth49 an enchanting50 smile on her lips, and added a deep light and a kind of mystic sweetness to her kindling51 eyes. Penetrated through and through by a sense of duty, by the dread52 of hurting any one whatever, with a kind and tender heart, she had loved all men, and no one in particular; God only she had! loved passionately, timidly, and tenderly. Lavretsky was the first to break in upon her peaceful inner life.
Such was Lisa.
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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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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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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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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attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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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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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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42
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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48
gracefulness
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49
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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50
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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51
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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52
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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