“I read a great deal now,” she said, showing me the books which she had fetched from the public library on her way to me. “Thanks to your wife and to Vladimir, they have awakened1 me to self-realization. They have been my salvation2; they have made me feel myself a human being. In old days I used to lie awake at night with worries of all sorts, thinking what a lot of sugar we had used in the week, or hoping the cucumbers would not be too salt. And now, too, I lie awake at night, but I have different thoughts. I am distressed3 that half my life has been passed in such a foolish, cowardly way. I despise my past; I am ashamed of it. And I look upon our father now as my enemy. Oh, how grateful I am to your wife! And Vladimir! He is such a wonderful person! They have opened my eyes!”
“That’s bad that you don’t sleep at night,” I said.
“Do you think I am ill? Not at all. Vladimir sounded me, and said I was perfectly4 well. But health is not what matters, it is not so important. Tell me: am I right?”
She needed moral support, that was obvious. Masha had gone away. Dr. Blagovo was in Petersburg, and there was no one left in the town but me, to tell her she was right. She looked intently into my face, trying to read my secret thoughts, and if I were absorbed or silent in her presence she thought this was on her account, and was grieved. I always had to be on my guard, and when she asked me whether she was right I hastened to assure her that she was right, and that I had a deep respect for her.
“Do you know they have given me a part at the Azhogins’?” she went on. “I want to act on the stage, I want to live—in fact, I mean to drain the full cup. I have no talent, none, and the part is only ten lines, but still this is immeasurably finer and loftier than pouring out tea five times a day, and looking to see if the cook has eaten too much. Above all, let my father see I am capable of protest.”
After tea she lay down on my bed, and lay for a little while with her eyes closed, looking very pale.
“What weakness,” she said, getting up. “Vladimir says all city-bred women and girls are an?mic from doing nothing. What a clever man Vladimir is! He is right, absolutely right. We must work!”
Two days later she came to the Azhogins’ with her manuscript for the rehearsal5. She was wearing a black dress with a string of coral round her neck, and a brooch that in the distance was like a pastry6 puff7, and in her ears earrings8 sparkling with brilliants. When I looked at her I felt uncomfortable. I was struck by her lack of taste. That she had very inappropriately put on earrings and brilliants, and that she was strangely dressed, was remarked by other people too; I saw smiles on people’s faces, and heard someone say with a laugh: “Kleopatra of Egypt.”
She was trying to assume society manners, to be unconstrained and at her ease, and so seemed artificial and strange. She had lost simplicity9 and sweetness.
“I told father just now that I was going to the rehearsal,” she began, coming up to me, “and he shouted that he would not give me his blessing10, and actually almost struck me. Only fancy, I don’t know my part,” she said, looking at her manuscript. “I am sure to make a mess of it. So be it, the die is cast,” she went on in intense excitement. “The die is cast . . . .”
It seemed to her that everyone was looking at her, and that all were amazed at the momentous11 step she had taken, that everyone was expecting something special of her, and it would have been impossible to convince her that no one was paying attention to people so petty and insignificant12 as she and I were.
She had nothing to do till the third act, and her part, that of a visitor, a provincial13 crony, consisted only in standing14 at the door as though listening, and then delivering a brief monologue15. In the interval16 before her appearance, an hour and a half at least, while they were moving about on the stage reading their parts, drinking tea and arguing, she did not leave my side, and was all the time muttering her part and nervously17 crumpling18 up the manuscript. And imagining that everyone was looking at her and waiting for her appearance, with a trembling hand she smoothed back her hair and said to me:
“I shall certainly make a mess of it. . . . What a load on my heart, if only you knew! I feel frightened, as though I were just going to be led to execution.”
At last her turn came.
“Kleopatra Alexyevna, it’s your cue!” said the stage manager.
She came forward into the middle of the stage with an expression of horror on her face, looking ugly and angular, and for half a minute stood as though in a trance, perfectly motionless, and only her big earrings shook in her ears.
“The first time you can read it,” said someone.
It was clear to me that she was trembling, and trembling so much that she could not speak, and could not unfold her manuscript, and that she was incapable19 of acting20 her part; and I was already on the point of going to her and saying something, when she suddenly dropped on her knees in the middle of the stage and broke into loud sobs21.
All was commotion22 and hubbub23. I alone stood still, leaning against the side scene, overwhelmed by what had happened, not understanding and not knowing what to do. I saw them lift her up and lead her away. I saw Anyuta Blagovo come up to me; I had not seen her in the room before, and she seemed to have sprung out of the earth. She was wearing her hat and veil, and, as always, had an air of having come only for a moment.
“I told her not to take a part,” she said angrily, jerking out each word abruptly24 and turning crimson25. “It’s insanity26! You ought to have prevented her!”
Madame Azhogin, in a short jacket with short sleeves, with cigarette ash on her breast, looking thin and flat, came rapidly towards me.
“My dear, this is terrible,” she brought out, wringing27 her hands, and, as her habit was, looking intently into my face. “This is terrible! Your sister is in a condition. . . . She is with child. Take her away, I implore28 you . . . .”
She was breathless with agitation29, while on one side stood her three daughters, exactly like her, thin and flat, huddling30 together in a scared way. They were alarmed, overwhelmed, as though a convict had been caught in their house. What a disgrace, how dreadful! And yet this estimable family had spent its life waging war on superstition31; evidently they imagined that all the superstition and error of humanity was limited to the three candles, the thirteenth of the month, and to the unluckiness of Monday!
“I beg you . . . I beg,” repeated Madame Azhogin, pursing up her lips in the shape of a heart on the syllable32 “you.” “I beg you to take her home.”
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1
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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2
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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3
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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4
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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6
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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7
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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8
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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9
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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10
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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11
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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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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13
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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14
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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15
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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16
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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17
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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18
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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19
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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20
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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21
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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22
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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24
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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25
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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26
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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27
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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28
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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29
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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30
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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31
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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32
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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