At first I had intended to fit up an abode2 for us two, Masha and me, in the lodge3 at the side opposite Madame Tcheprakov’s lodge, but it appeared that the doves and the ducks had been living there for a long time, and it was impossible to clean it without destroying a great number of nests. There was nothing for it but to live in the comfortless rooms of the big house with the sunblinds. The peasants called the house the palace; there were more than twenty rooms in it, and the only furniture was a piano and a child’s arm-chair lying in the attic4. And if Masha had brought all her furniture from the town we should even then have been unable to get rid of the impression of immense emptiness and cold. I picked out three small rooms with windows looking into the garden, and worked from early morning till night, setting them to rights, putting in new panes5, papering the walls, filling up the holes and chinks in the floors. It was easy, pleasant work. I was continually running to the river to see whether the ice were not going; I kept fancying that starlings were flying. And at night, thinking of Masha, I listened with an unutterably sweet feeling, with clutching delight to the noise of the rats and the wind droning and knocking above the ceiling. It seemed as though some old house spirit were coughing in the attic.
The snow was deep; a great deal had fallen even at the end of March, but it melted quickly, as though by magic, and the spring floods passed in a tumultuous rush, so that by the beginning of April the starlings were already noisy, and yellow butterflies were flying in the garden. It was exquisite7 weather. Every day, towards evening, I used to walk to the town to meet Masha, and what a delight it was to walk with bare feet along the gradually drying, still soft road. Half-way I used to sit down and look towards the town, not venturing to go near it. The sight of it troubled me. I kept wondering how the people I knew would behave to me when they heard of my love. What would my father say? What troubled me particularly was the thought that my life was more complicated, and that I had completely lost all power to set it right, and that, like a balloon, it was bearing me away, God knows whither. I no longer considered the problem how to earn my daily bread, how to live, but thought about —I really don’t know what.
Masha used to come in a carriage; I used to get in with her, and we drove to Dubetchnya, feeling light-hearted and free. Or, after waiting till the sun had set, I would go back dissatisfied and dreary8, wondering why Masha had not come; at the gate or in the garden I would be met by a sweet, unexpected apparition—it was she! It would turn out that she had come by rail, and had walked from the station. What a festival it was! In a simple woollen dress with a kerchief on her head, with a modest sunshade, but laced in, slender, in expensive foreign boots—it was a talented actress playing the part of a little workgirl. We looked round our domain9 and decided10 which should be her room, and which mine, where we would have our avenue, our kitchen garden, our beehives.
We already had hens, ducks, and geese, which we loved because they were ours. We had, all ready for sowing, oats, clover, timothy grass, buckwheat, and vegetable seeds, and we always looked at all these stores and discussed at length the crop we might get; and everything Masha said to me seemed extraordinarily11 clever, and fine. This was the happiest time of my life.
Soon after St. Thomas’s week we were married at our parish church in the village of Kurilovka, two miles from Dubetchnya. Masha wanted everything to be done quietly; at her wish our “best men” were peasant lads, the sacristan sang alone, and we came back from the church in a small, jolting12 chaise which she drove herself. Our only guest from the town was my sister Kleopatra, to whom Masha sent a note three days before the wedding. My sister came in a white dress and wore gloves. During the wedding she cried quietly from joy and tenderness. Her expression was motherly and infinitely13 kind. She was intoxicated14 with our happiness, and smiled as though she were absorbing a sweet delirium15, and looking at her during our wedding, I realized that for her there was nothing in the world higher than love, earthly love, and that she was dreaming of it secretly, timidly, but continually and passionately16. She embraced and kissed Masha, and, not knowing how to express her rapture17, said to her of me: “He is good! He is very good!”
Before she went away she changed into her ordinary dress, and drew me into the garden to talk to me alone.
“Father is very much hurt,” she said, “that you have written nothing to him. You ought to have asked for his blessing18. But in reality he is very much pleased. He says that this marriage will raise you in the eyes of all society, and that under the influence of Mariya Viktorovna you will begin to take a more serious view of life. We talk of nothing but you in the evenings now, and yesterday he actually used the expression: ‘Our Misail.’ That pleased me. It seems as though he had some plan in his mind, and I fancy he wants to set you an example of magnanimity and be the first to speak of reconciliation19. It is very possible he may come here to see you in a day or two.”
She hurriedly made the sign of the cross over me several times and said:
“Well, God be with you. Be happy. Anyuta Blagovo is a very clever girl; she says about your marriage that God is sending you a fresh ordeal20. To be sure—married life does not bring only joy but suffering too. That’s bound to be so.”
Masha and I walked a couple of miles to see her on her way; we walked back slowly and in silence, as though we were resting. Masha held my hand, my heart felt light, and I had no inclination21 to talk about love; we had become closer and more akin22 now that we were married, and we felt that nothing now could separate us.
“Your sister is a nice creature,” said Masha, “but it seems as though she had been tormented23 for years. Your father must be a terrible man.”
I began telling her how my sister and I had been brought up, and what a senseless torture our childhood had really been. When she heard how my father had so lately beaten me, she shuddered24 and drew closer to me.
“Don’t tell me any more,” she said. “It’s horrible!”
Now she never left me. We lived together in the three rooms in the big house, and in the evenings we bolted the door which led to the empty part of the house, as though someone were living there whom we did not know, and were afraid of. I got up early, at dawn, and immediately set to work of some sort. I mended the carts, made paths in the garden, dug the flower beds, painted the roof of the house. When the time came to sow the oats I tried to plough the ground over again, to harrow and to sow, and I did it all conscientiously25, keeping up with our labourer; I was worn out, the rain and the cold wind made my face and feet burn for hours afterwards. I dreamed of ploughed land at night. But field labour did not attract me. I did not understand farming, and I did not care for it; it was perhaps because my forefathers26 had not been tillers of the soil, and the very blood that flowed in my veins27 was purely28 of the city. I loved nature tenderly; I loved the fields and meadows and kitchen gardens, but the peasant who turned up the soil with his plough and urged on his pitiful horse, wet and tattered29, with his craning neck, was to me the expression of coarse, savage30, ugly force, and every time I looked at his uncouth31 movements I involuntarily began thinking of the legendary32 life of the remote past, before men knew the use of fire. The fierce bull that ran with the peasants’ herd33, and the horses, when they dashed about the village, stamping their hoofs34, moved me to fear, and everything rather big, strong, and angry, whether it was the ram35 with its horns, the gander, or the yard-dog, seemed to me the expression of the same coarse, savage force. This mood was particularly strong in me in bad weather, when heavy clouds were hanging over the black ploughed land. Above all, when I was ploughing or sowing, and two or three people stood looking how I was doing it, I had not the feeling that this work was inevitable36 and obligatory37, and it seemed to me that I was amusing myself. I preferred doing something in the yard, and there was nothing I liked so much as painting the roof.
I used to walk through the garden and the meadow to our mill. It was let to a peasant of Kurilovka called Stepan, a handsome, dark fellow with a thick black beard, who looked very strong. He did not like the miller’s work, and looked upon it as dreary and unprofitable, and only lived at the mill in order not to live at home. He was a leather-worker, and was always surrounded by a pleasant smell of tar6 and leather. He was not fond of talking, he was listless and sluggish38, and was always sitting in the doorway39 or on the river bank, humming “oo-loo-loo.” His wife and mother-in-law, both white-faced, languid, and meek40, used sometimes to come from Kurilovka to see him; they made low bows to him and addressed him formally, “Stepan Petrovitch,” while he went on sitting on the river bank, softly humming “oo-loo-loo,” without responding by word or movement to their bows. One hour and then a second would pass in silence. His mother-in-law and wife, after whispering together, would get up and gaze at him for some time, expecting him to look round; then they would make a low bow, and in sugary, chanting voices, say:
“Good-bye, Stepan Petrovitch!”
And they would go away. After that Stepan, picking up the parcel they had left, containing cracknels or a shirt, would heave a sigh and say, winking41 in their direction:
“The female sex!”
The mill with two sets of millstones worked day and night. I used to help Stepan; I liked the work, and when he went off I was glad to stay and take his place.
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1
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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2
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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7
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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9
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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10
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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11
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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12
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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13
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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14
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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15
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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16
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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17
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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18
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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19
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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20
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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21
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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22
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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23
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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24
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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25
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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26
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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27
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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28
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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29
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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30
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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32
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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33
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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34
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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35
ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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36
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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37
obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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38
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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39
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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40
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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41
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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