Poor little creature. I cannot go on with my story in the same consecutive1 way. Now that I am describing all this it is long past, but to this very minute I recall with an oppressive heart. rending2 anguish3 that pale, thin little face, the searching, intent gaze of her black eyes when we were sometimes left alone together and she fixed4 upon me from her bed a prolonged gaze as though challenging me to guess what was in her mind; but seeing that I did not guess and was still puzzled she would smile gently, as it were, to herself, and would suddenly hold out to me her hot little hand, with its thin, wasted little fingers. Now it is all over, and everything is understood, but to this day I do not know the secrets of that sick, tortured and outraged5 little heart.
I feel that I am digressing, but at this moment I want to think only of Nellie. Strange to say, now that I am lying alone on a hospital bed, abandoned by all whom I loved so fondly and intensely, some trivial incident of that past, often unnoticed at the time and soon forgotten, comes back all at once to my mind and suddenly takes quite a new significance, completing and explaining to me what I had failed to understand till now.
For the first four days of her illness, we, the doctor and I, were in great alarm about her, but on the fifth day the doctor took me aside and told me that there was no reason for anxiety and she would certainly recover. This doctor was the one I had known so long, a good-natured and eccentric old bachelor whom I had called in in Nellie’s first illness, and who had so impressed her by the huge Stanislav Cross on his breast.
“So there’s no reason for anxiety,” I said, greatly relieved.
“No, she’ll get well this time, but afterwards she will soon die.”
“Die! But why?” I cried, overwhelmed at this death sentence.
“Yes, she is certain to die very soon. The patient has an organic defect of the heart, and at the slightest unfavourable circumstance she’ll be laid up again. She will perhaps get better, but then she’ll be ill again and at last she’ll die.”
“Do you mean nothing can be done to save her? Surely that’s impossible. ”
“But it’s inevitable7. However, with the removal of unfavourable circumstances, with a quiet and easy life with more pleasure in it, the patient might yet be kept from death and there even are cases . . . unexpected . . . strange and exceptional . . . in fact the patient may be saved by a concatenation of favourable6 conditions, but radically8 cured — never.”
“But, good heavens, what’s to be done now?”
“Follow my advice, lead a quiet life, and take the powders regularly. I have noticed this girl’s capricious, of a nervous temperament9, and fond of laughing. She much dislikes taking her powders regularly and she has just refused them absolutely.”
“Yes, doctor. She certainly is strange, but I put it all down to her invalid10 state. Yesterday she was very obedient; today, when I gave her her medicine she pushed the spoon as though by accident and it was all spilt over. When I wanted to mix another powder she snatched the box away from me, threw it on the ground and then burst into tears. Only I don’t think it was because I was making her take the powders,” I added, after a moment’s thought.
“Hm! Irritation11! Her past great misfortunes.” (I had told the doctor fully12 and frankly13 much of Nellie’s history and my story had struck him very much.) “All that in conjunction, and from it this illness. For the time the only remedy is to take the powders, and she must take the powders. I will go and try once more to impress on her the duty to obey medical instructions, and . . . that is, speaking generally . . . take the powders.”
We both came out of the kitchen (in which our interview had taken place) and the doctor went up to the sick child’s bedside again. But I think Nellie must have overheard. Anyway she had raised her head from the pillow and turned her ear in our direction, listening keenly all the time. I noticed this through the crack of the half-opened door. When we went up to her the rogue14 ducked under the quilt, and peeped out at us with a mocking smile. The poor child had grown much thinner during the four days of her illness. Her eyes were sunken and she was still feverish15, so that the mischievous16 expression and glittering, defiant17 glances so surprising to the doctor, who was one of the most good-natured Germans in Petersburg, looked all the more incongruous on her face.
Gravely, though trying to soften18 his voice as far as he could, he began in a kind and caressing19 voice to explain how essential and efficacious the powders were, and consequently how incumbent20 it was on every invalid to take them. Nellie was raising her head, but suddenly, with an apparently21 quite accidental movement of her arm, she jerked the spoon, and all the medicine was spilt on the floor again. No doubt she did it on purpose.
“That’s very unpleasant carelessness,” said the old man quietly, “and I suspect that you did it on purpose; that’s very reprehensible22. But . . . we can set that right and prepare another powder.”
Nellie laughed straight in his face. The doctor shook his head methodically.
“That’s very wrong,” he said, opening another powder, “very, very reprehensible.”
“Don’t be angry with me,” answered Nellie, and vainly tried not to laugh again. “I’ll certainly take it. . . . But do you like me?”
“If you will behave yourself becomingly I shall like you very much.”
“Very much?”
“Very much.”
“But now, don’t you like me?”
“Yes, I like you even now.”
“And will you kiss me if I want to kiss you?”
“Yes, if you desire it.”
At this Nellie could not control herself and laughed again.
“The patient has a merry disposition23, but now this is nerves and caprice,” the doctor whispered to me with a most serious air.
“All right, I’ll take the powder,” Nellie cried suddenly, in her weak little voice. “But when I am big and grown up will you marry me?”
Apparently the invention of this new fancy greatly delighted her; her eyes positively25 shone and her lips twitched26 with laughter as she waited for a reply from the somewhat astonished doctor,
“Very well,” he answered, smiling in spite of himself at this new whim27, “very well, if you turn out a good, well-brought-up young lady, and will be obedient and will . . . ”
“Take my powders?” put in Nellie.
“0-ho! To he sure, take your powders. A good girl,” he whispered to me again; “there’s a great deal, a great deal in her . . . that’s good and clever but . . . to get married . . . what a strange caprice . . .”
And he took her the medicine again. But this time she made no pretence28 about it but simply jerked the spoon up from below with her hand and all the medicine was splashed on the poor doctor’s shirt-front and in his face. Nellie laughed aloud, but not with the same merry, good-humoured laugh as before. There was a look of something cruel and malicious29 in her face. All this time she seemed to avoid my eyes, only looked at the doctor, and with mockery, through which some uneasiness was discernible, waited to see what the “funny” old man would do next.
“Oh! You’ve done it again! . . . What a misfortune! But . . . I can mix you another powder! “ said the old man, wiping his face and his shirt-front with his handkerchief.
This made a tremendous impression on Nellie. She had been prepared for our anger, thought that we should begin to scold and reprove her, and perhaps she was unconsciously longing30 at that moment for some excuse to cry, to sob31 hysterically33, to upset some more powders as she had just now and even to break something in her vexation, and with all this to relieve her capricious and aching little heart. Such capricious humours are to be found not only in the sick and not only in Nellie. How often I have walked up and down the room with the unconscious desire for someone to insult me or to utter some word that I could interpret as an insult in order to vent24 my anger upon someone. Women, venting34 their anger in that way, begin to cry, shedding the most genuine tears, and the more emotional of them even go into hysterics. It’s a very simple and everyday experience, and happens most often when there is some other, often a secret, grief in the heart, to which one longs to give utterance35 but cannot.
But, struck by the angelic kindness of the old doctor and the patience with which he set to work to mix her another powder without uttering one word of reproach, Nellie suddenly subsided36. The look of mockery vanished from her lips, the colour rushed to her face, her eyes grew moist. She stole a look at me and turned away at once. The doctor brought her the medicine. She took it meekly37 and shyly, seized the old man’s plump red hand, and looked slowly into his face.
“You . . . are angry that I’m horrid,” she tried to say, but could not finish; she ducked under the quilt, hid her head and burst into loud, hysterical32 sobs38.
“Oh, my child, don’t weep! . . . It is nothing . . . It’s nerves, drink some water.”
But Nellie did not hear.
“Be comforted . . . don’t upset yourself,” he went on, almost whimpering over her, for he was a very sensitive man. “I’ll forgive you and be married to you if, like a good, well-brought-up girl, you’ll . . .”
“Take my powders,” came from under the quilt with a little nervous laugh that tinkled39 like a bell, and was broken by sobs — a laugh I knew very well.
“A good-hearted, grateful child!” said the doctor triumphantly40, almost with tears in his eyes. “Poor girl!”
And a strange and wonderful affection sprang up from that day between him and Nellie. With me, on the contrary, Nellie became more and more sullen41, nervous, and irritable42. I didn’t know what to ascribe this to, and wondered at her, especially as this change in her seemed to happen suddenly. During the first days of her illness she was particularly tender and caressing with me; it seemed as though she could not take her eyes off me; she would not let me leave her side, clutched my hand in her feverish little hand and made me sit beside her, and if she noticed that I was gloomy and anxious she tried to cheer me up, made jokes, played with me and smiled at me, evidently making an effort to overcome her own sufferings. She did not want me to work at night, or to sit up to look after her, and was grieved because I would not listen to her. Sometimes I noticed an anxious look in her face; she began to question me, and tried to find out why I was sad, what was in my mind. But strange to say, when Natasha’s name was mentioned she immediately dropped the conversation or began to speak of something else. She seemed to avoid speaking of Natasha, and that struck me. When I came home she was delighted. When I took up my hat she looked at me dejectedly and rather strangely, following me with her eyes, as it were reproachfully.
On the fourth day of her illness, I spent the whole evening with Natasha and stayed long after midnight. There was something we had to discuss. As I went out I said to my invalid that I should be back very soon, as indeed I reckoned on being. Being detained almost unexpectedly at Natasha’s, I felt quite easy in my mind about Nellie. Alexandra Semyonovna was sitting up with her, having heard from Masloboev, who came in to see me for a moment, that Nellie was ill and that I was in great difficulties and absolutely without help. Good heavens, what a fuss kind-hearted Alexandra Semyonovna was in!
“So of course he won’t come to dinner with us now! Ach, mercy on us! And he’s all alone, poor fellow, all alone! Well, now we can show how kindly43 we feel to him. Here’s the opportunity. We mustn’t let it slip.”
She immediately appeared at my flat, bringing with her in a cab a regular hamper44. Declaring at the first word that she was going to stay and had come to help me in my trouble, she undid45 her parcels. In them there were syrups46 and preserves for the invalid, chickens and a fowl47 in case the patient began to be convalescent, apples for baking, oranges, dry Kiev preserves (in case the doctor would allow them) and finally linen48, sheets, dinner napkins, nightgowns, bandages, compresses — an outfit49 for a whole hospital.
“We’ve got everything,” she said to me, articulating every word as though in haste, “and, you see, you live like a bachelor. You’ve not much of all this. So please allow me . . . and Filip Filippovitch told me to. Well, what now . . . make haste, make haste, what shall I do now? How is she? Conscious? Ah, how uncomfortably she is lying! I must put her pillow straight that she may lie with her head low, and, what do you think, wouldn’t a leather pillow be better? The leather is cooler. Ah, what a fool I am! It never occurred to me to bring one. I’ll go and get it. Oughtn’t we to light a fire? I’ll send my old woman to you. I know an old woman. You’ve no servant, have you? . . . Well, what shall I do now? What’s that? Herbs . . . did the doctor prescribe them? For some herb tea, I suppose? I’ll go at once and light the fire.”
But I reassured50 her, and she was much surprised and even rather chagrined51 that there turned out to be not so very much to do. But this did not discourage her altogether. She made friends with Nellie at once and was a great help to me all through her illness. She visited us almost every day and she always used to come in looking as though something had been lost or had gone astray and she must hasten to catch it up. She always added that Filip Filippovitch had told her to come. Nellie liked her very much. They took to each other like two sisters, and I fancy that in many things Alexandra Semyonovna was as much of a baby as Nellie. She used to tell the child stories and amuse her, and Nellie often missed her when she had gone home. Her first appearance surprised my invalid, but she quickly guessed why the uninvited visitor had come, and as usual frowned and became silent and ungracious.
“Why did she come to see us?” asked Nellie, with an air of displeasure after Alexandra Semyonovna had gone away.
“To help you Nellie, and to look after you.”
“Why? What for? I’ve never done anything like that for her.”
“Kind people don’t wait for that, Nellie. They like to help people who need it, without that. That’s enough, Nellie; there are lots of kind people in the world. It’s only your misfortune that you haven’t met them and didn’t meet them when you needed them.”
Nellie did not speak. I walked away from her. But a quarter of an hour later she called me to her in a weak voice, asked for something to drink, and all at once warmly embraced me and for a long while would not let go of me. Next day, when Alexandra Semyonovna appeared, she welcomed her with a joyful52 smile I though she still seemed for some reason shamefaced with her.
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1
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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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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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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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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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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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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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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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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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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34
venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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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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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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syrups
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| n.糖浆，糖汁( syrup的名词复数 )；糖浆类药品 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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48
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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49
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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50
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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51
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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