I did not go out of the house, but went on sitting at her table beside her bookshelf with the books on land work, those old favourites no longer wanted and looking at me now so shamefacedly. For whole hours together, while it struck seven, eight, nine, while the autumn night, black as soot3, came on outside, I kept examining her old glove, or the pen with which she always wrote, or her little scissors. I did nothing, and realized clearly that all I had done before, ploughing, mowing4, chopping, had only been because she wished it. And if she had sent me to clean a deep well, where I had to stand up to my waist in deep water, I should have crawled into the well without considering whether it was necessary or not. And now when she was not near, Dubetchnya, with its ruins, its untidiness, its banging shutters5, with its thieves by day and by night, seemed to me a chaos6 in which any work would be useless. Besides, what had I to work for here, why anxiety and thought about the future, if I felt that the earth was giving way under my feet, that I had played my part in Dubetchnya, and that the fate of the books on farming was awaiting me too? Oh, what misery7 it was at night, in hours of solitude8, when I was listening every minute in alarm, as though I were expecting someone to shout that it was time for me to go away! I did not grieve for Dubetchnya. I grieved for my love which, too, was threatened with its autumn. What an immense happiness it is to love and be loved, and how awful to feel that one is slipping down from that high pinnacle9!
Masha returned from the town towards the evening of the next day. She was displeased10 with something, but she concealed11 it, and only said, why was it all the window frames had been put in for the winter it was enough to suffocate13 one. I took out two frames. We were not hungry, but we sat down to supper.
“Go and wash your hands,” said my wife; “you smell of putty.”
She had brought some new illustrated14 papers from the town, and we looked at them together after supper. There were supplements with fashion plates and patterns. Masha looked through them casually15, and was putting them aside to examine them properly later on; but one dress, with a flat skirt as full as a bell and large sleeves, interested her, and she looked at it for a minute gravely and attentively16.
“That’s not bad,” she said.
“Yes, that dress would suit you beautifully,” I said, “beautifully.”
And looking with emotion at the dress, admiring that patch of grey simply because she liked it, I went on tenderly:
“A charming, exquisite17 dress! Splendid, glorious, Masha! My precious Masha!”
And tears dropped on the fashion plate.
“Splendid Masha . . .” I muttered; “sweet, precious Masha . . . .”
She went to bed, while I sat another hour looking at the illustrations.
“It’s a pity you took out the window frames,” she said from the bedroom, “I am afraid it may be cold. Oh, dear, what a draught18 there is!”
I read something out of the column of odds19 and ends, a receipt for making cheap ink, and an account of the biggest diamond in the world. I came again upon the fashion plate of the dress she liked, and I imagined her at a ball, with a fan, bare shoulders, brilliant, splendid, with a full understanding of painting, music, literature, and how small and how brief my part seemed!
Our meeting, our marriage, had been only one of the episodes of which there would be many more in the life of this vital, richly gifted woman. All the best in the world, as I have said already, was at her service, and she received it absolutely for nothing, and even ideas and the intellectual movement in vogue20 served simply for her recreation, giving variety to her life, and I was only the sledge-driver who drove her from one entertainment to another. Now she did not need me. She would take flight, and I should be alone.
And as though in response to my thought, there came a despairing scream from the garden.
“He-e-elp!”
It was a shrill21, womanish voice, and as though to mimic22 it the wind whistled in the chimney on the same shrill note. Half a minute passed, and again through the noise of the wind, but coming, it seemed, from the other end of the yard:
“He-e-elp!”
“Misail, do you hear?” my wife asked me softly. “Do you hear?”
She came out from the bedroom in her nightgown, with her hair down, and listened, looking at the dark window.
“Someone is being murdered,” she said. “That is the last straw.”
I took my gun and went out. It was very dark outside, the wind was high, and it was difficult to stand. I went to the gate and listened, the trees roared, the wind whistled and, probably at the feeble-minded peasant’s, a dog howled lazily. Outside the gates the darkness was absolute, not a light on the railway-line. And near the lodge23, which a year before had been the office, suddenly sounded a smothered24 scream:
“He-e-elp!”
“Who’s there?” I called.
There were two people struggling. One was thrusting the other out, while the other was resisting, and both were breathing heavily.
“Leave go,” said one, and I recognized Ivan Tcheprakov; it was he who was shrieking25 in a shrill, womanish voice: “Let go, you damned brute26, or I’ll bite your hand off.”
The other I recognized as Moisey. I separated them, and as I did so I could not resist hitting Moisey two blows in the face. He fell down, then got up again, and I hit him once more.
“He tried to kill me,” he muttered. “He was trying to get at his mamma’s chest. . . . I want to lock him up in the lodge for security.”
Tcheprakov was drunk and did not recognize me; he kept drawing deep breaths, as though he were just going to shout “help” again.
I left them and went back to the house; my wife was lying on her bed; she had dressed. I told her what had happened in the yard, and did not conceal12 the fact that I had hit Moisey.
“It’s terrible to live in the country,” she said.
“And what a long night it is. Oh dear, if only it were over!”
“He-e-elp!” we heard again, a little later.
“I’ll go and stop them,” I said.
“No, let them bite each other’s throats,” she said with an expression of disgust.
She was looking up at the ceiling, listening, while I sat beside her, not daring to speak to her, feeling as though I were to blame for their shouting “help” in the yard and for the night’s seeming so long.
We were silent, and I waited impatiently for a gleam of light at the window, and Masha looked all the time as though she had awakened27 from a trance and now was marvelling28 how she, so clever, and well-educated, so elegant, had come into this pitiful, provincial29, empty hole among a crew of petty, insignificant30 people, and how she could have so far forgotten herself as ever to be attracted by one of these people, and for more than six months to have been his wife. It seemed to me that at that moment it did not matter to her whether it was I, or Moisey, or Tcheprakov; everything for her was merged31 in that savage32 drunken “help”—I and our marriage, and our work together, and the mud and slush of autumn, and when she sighed or moved into a more comfortable position I read in her face: “Oh, that morning would come quickly!”
In the morning she went away. I spent another three days at Dubetchnya expecting her, then I packed all our things in one room, locked it, and walked to the town. It was already evening when I rang at the engineer’s, and the street lamps were burning in Great Dvoryansky Street. Pavel told me there was no one at home; Viktor Ivanitch had gone to Petersburg, and Mariya Viktorovna was probably at the rehearsal33 at the Azhogins’. I remember with what emotion I went on to the Azhogins’, how my heart throbbed34 and fluttered as I mounted the stairs, and stood waiting a long while on the landing at the top, not daring to enter that temple of the muses35! In the big room there were lighted candles everywhere, on a little table, on the piano, and on the stage, everywhere in threes; and the first performance was fixed36 for the thirteenth, and now the first rehearsal was on a Monday, an unlucky day. All part of the war against superstition37! All the devotees of the scenic38 art were gathered together; the eldest39, the middle, and the youngest sisters were walking about the stage, reading their parts in exercise books. Apart from all the rest stood Radish, motionless, with the side of his head pressed to the wall as he gazed with adoration40 at the stage, waiting for the rehearsal to begin. Everything as it used to be.
I was making my way to my hostess; I had to pay my respects to her, but suddenly everyone said “Hush!” and waved me to step quietly. There was a silence. The lid of the piano was raised; a lady sat down at it screwing up her short-sighted eyes at the music, and my Masha walked up to the piano, in a low-necked dress, looking beautiful, but with a special, new sort of beauty not in the least like the Masha who used to come and meet me in the spring at the mill. She sang: “Why do I love the radiant night?”
It was the first time during our whole acquaintance that I had heard her sing. She had a fine, mellow41, powerful voice, and while she sang I felt as though I were eating a ripe, sweet, fragrant42 melon. She ended, the audience applauded, and she smiled, very much pleased, making play with her eyes, turning over the music, smoothing her skirts, like a bird that has at last broken out of its cage and preens43 its wings in freedom. Her hair was arranged over her ears, and she had an unpleasant, defiant44 expression in her face, as though she wanted to throw down a challenge to us all, or to shout to us as she did to her horses: “Hey, there, my beauties!”
And she must at that moment have been very much like her grandfather the sledge-driver.
“You here too?” she said, giving me her hand. “Did you hear me sing? Well, what did you think of it?” and without waiting for my answer she went on: “It’s a very good thing you are here. I am going to-night to Petersburg for a short time. You’ll let me go, won’t you?”
At midnight I went with her to the station. She embraced me affectionately, probably feeling grateful to me for not asking unnecessary questions, and she promised to write to me, and I held her hands a long time, and kissed them, hardly able to restrain my tears and not uttering a word.
And when she had gone I stood watching the retreating lights, caressing45 her in imagination and softly murmuring:
“My darling Masha, glorious Masha . . . .”
I spent the night at Karpovna’s, and next morning I was at work with Radish, recovering the furniture of a rich merchant who was marrying his daughter to a doctor.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
repulsive
|
|
| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
soot
|
|
| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
mowing
|
|
| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
shutters
|
|
| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
chaos
|
|
| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
pinnacle
|
|
| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
displeased
|
|
| a.不快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
suffocate
|
|
| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
illustrated
|
|
| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
casually
|
|
| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
attentively
|
|
| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
draught
|
|
| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
odds
|
|
| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
Vogue
|
|
| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
shrill
|
|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
mimic
|
|
| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
lodge
|
|
| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
smothered
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
shrieking
|
|
| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
brute
|
|
| n.野兽，兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
awakened
|
|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
marvelling
|
|
| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
provincial
|
|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
insignificant
|
|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
merged
|
|
| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
savage
|
|
| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
rehearsal
|
|
| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
throbbed
|
|
| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
muses
|
|
| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
superstition
|
|
| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
scenic
|
|
| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
eldest
|
|
| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
adoration
|
|
| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
mellow
|
|
| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
fragrant
|
|
| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
preens
|
|
| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
defiant
|
|
| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
caressing
|
|
| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |