We decided1 we could not go on living in this town, and that when I had earned a little money we would move to some other place. In some houses everyone was asleep, in others they were playing cards; we hated these houses; we were afraid of them. We talked of the fanaticism2, the coarseness of feeling, the insignificance3 of these respectable families, these amateurs of dramatic art whom we had so alarmed, and I kept asking in what way these stupid, cruel, lazy, and dishonest people were superior to the drunken and superstitious4 peasants of Kurilovka, or in what way they were better than animals, who in the same way are thrown into a panic when some incident disturbs the monotony of their life limited by their instincts. What would have happened to my sister now if she had been left to live at home?
What moral agonies would she have experienced, talking with my father, meeting every day with acquaintances? I imagined this to myself, and at once there came into my mind people, all people I knew, who had been slowly done to death by their nearest relations. I remembered the tortured dogs, driven mad, the live sparrows plucked naked by boys and flung into the water, and a long, long series of obscure lingering miseries5 which I had looked on continually from early childhood in that town; and I could not understand what these sixty thousand people lived for, what they read the gospel for, why they prayed, why they read books and magazines. What good had they gained from all that had been said and written hitherto if they were still possessed6 by the same spiritual darkness and hatred7 of liberty, as they were a hundred and three hundred years ago? A master carpenter spends his whole life building houses in the town, and always, to the day of his death, calls a “gallery” a “galdery.” So these sixty thousand people have been reading and hearing of truth, of justice, of mercy, of freedom for generations, and yet from morning till night, till the day of their death, they are lying, and tormenting8 each other, and they fear liberty and hate it as a deadly foe9.
“And so my fate is decided,” said my sister, as we arrived home. “After what has happened I cannot go back there. Heavens, how good that is! My heart feels lighter10.”
She went to bed at once. Tears were glittering on her eyelashes, but her expression was happy; she fell into a sound sweet sleep, and one could see that her heart was lighter and that she was resting. It was a long, long time since she had slept like that.
And so we began our life together. She was always singing and saying that her life was very happy, and the books I brought her from the public library I took back unread, as now she could not read; she wanted to do nothing but dream and talk of the future, mending my linen11, or helping12 Karpovna near the stove; she was always singing, or talking of her Vladimir, of his cleverness, of his charming manners, of his kindness, of his extraordinary learning, and I assented13 to all she said, though by now I disliked her doctor. She wanted to work, to lead an independent life on her own account, and she used to say that she would become a school-teacher or a doctor’ s assistant as soon as her health would permit her, and would herself do the scrubbing and the washing. Already she was passionately14 devoted15 to her child; he was not yet born, but she knew already the colour of his eyes, what his hands would be like, and how he would laugh. She was fond of talking about education, and as her Vladimir was the best man in the world, all her discussion of education could be summed up in the question how to make the boy as fascinating as his father. There was no end to her talk, and everything she said made her intensely joyful16. Sometimes I was delighted, too, though I could not have said why.
I suppose her dreaminess infected me. I, too, gave up reading, and did nothing but dream. In the evenings, in spite of my fatigue17, I walked up and down the room, with my hands in my pockets, talking of Masha.
“What do you think?” I would ask of my sister. “When will she come back? I think she’ll come back at Christmas, not later; what has she to do there?”
“As she doesn’t write to you, it’s evident she will come back very soon.
“That’s true,” I assented, though I knew perfectly18 well that Masha would not return to our town.
I missed her fearfully, and could no longer deceive myself, and tried to get other people to deceive me. My sister was expecting her doctor, and I—Masha; and both of us talked incessantly19, laughed, and did not notice that we were preventing Karpovna from sleeping. She lay on the stove and kept muttering:
“The samovar hummed this morning, it did hum! Oh, it bodes20 no good, my dears, it bodes no good!”
No one ever came to see us but the postman, who brought my sister letters from the doctor, and Prokofy, who sometimes came in to see us in the evening, and after looking at my sister without speaking went away, and when he was in the kitchen said:
“Every class ought to remember its rules, and anyone, who is so proud that he won’t understand that, will find it a vale of tears.”
He was very fond of the phrase “a vale of tears.” One day—it was in Christmas week, when I was walking by the bazaar—he called me into the butcher’s shop, and not shaking hands with me, announced that he had to speak to me about something very important. His face was red from the frost and vodka; near him, behind the counter, stood Nikolka, with the expression of a brigand21, holding a bloodstained knife in his hand.
“I desire to express my word to you,” Prokofy began. “This incident cannot continue, because, as you understand yourself that for such a vale, people will say nothing good of you or of us. Mamma, through pity, cannot say something unpleasant to you, that your sister should move into another lodging22 on account of her condition, but I won’t have it any more, because I can’t approve of her behaviour.”
I understood him, and I went out of the shop. The same day my sister and I moved to Radish’s. We had no money for a cab, and we walked on foot; I carried a parcel of our belongings23 on my back; my sister had nothing in her hands, but she gasped24 for breath and coughed, and kept asking whether we should get there soon.
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1
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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2
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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3
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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4
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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5
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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6
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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7
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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8
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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10
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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11
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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12
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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13
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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15
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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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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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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bodes
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的第三人称单数 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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21
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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22
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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