the wife and other stories-第13节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


ent　and　guilt　upon　her　face；　was　sitting　beside　her　on　a　box；　mending　Arhipka's　trousers。　Yevgraf　Ivanovitch　was　pacing　from　one　window　to　another；　scowling　at　the　weather。　From　his　walk；　from　the　way　he　cleared　his　throat；　and　even　from　the　back　of　his　head；　it　was　evident　he　felt　himself　to　blame。

〃I　suppose　you　have　changed　your　mind　about　going　today？〃　he　asked。

The　student　felt　sorry　for　him；　but　immediately　suppressing　that　feeling；　he　said：

〃Listen　。　。　。　I　must　speak　to　you　seriously。　。　。　yes；　seriously。　I　have　always　respected　you；　and　。　。　。　and　have　never　brought　myself　to　speak　to　you　in　such　a　tone；　but　your　behaviour　。　。　。　your　last　action　。　。　。〃

The　father　looked　out　of　the　window　and　did　not　speak。　The　student；　as　though　considering　his　words；　rubbed　his　forehead　and　went　on　in　great　excitement：

〃Not　a　dinner　or　tea　passes　without　your　making　an　uproar。　Your　bread　sticks　in　our　throat。　。　。　nothing　is　more　bitter；　more　humiliating；　than　bread　that　sticks　in　one's　throat。　。　。　。　Though　you　are　my　father；　no　one；　neither　God　nor　nature；　has　given　you　the　right　to　insult　and　humiliate　us　so　horribly；　to　vent　your　ill…humour　on　the　weak。　You　have　worn　my　mother　out　and　made　a　slave　of　her；　my　sister　is　hopelessly　crushed；　while　I　。　。　。〃

〃It's　not　your　business　to　teach　me；〃　said　his　father。

〃Yes；　it　is　my　business！　You　can　quarrel　with　me　as　much　as　you　like；　but　leave　my　mother　in　peace！　I　will　not　allow　you　to　torment　my　mother！〃　the　student　went　on；　with　flashing　eyes。　〃You　are　spoilt　because　no　one　has　yet　dared　to　oppose　you。　They　tremble　and　are　mute　towards　you；　but　now　that　is　over！　Coarse；　ill…bred　man！　You　are　coarse　。　。　。　do　you　understand？　You　are　coarse；　ill…humoured；　unfeeling。　And　the　peasants　can't　endure　you！〃

The　student　had　by　now　lost　his　thread；　and　was　not　so　much　speaking　as　firing　off　detached　words。　Yevgraf　Ivanovitch　listened　in　silence；　as　though　stunned；　but　suddenly　his　neck　turned　crimson；　the　colour　crept　up　his　face；　and　he　made　a　movement。

〃Hold　your　tongue！〃　he　shouted。

〃That's　right！〃　the　son　persisted；　〃you　don't　like　to　hear　the　truth！　Excellent！　Very　good！　begin　shouting！　Excellent！〃

〃Hold　your　tongue；　I　tell　you！〃　roared　Yevgraf　Ivanovitch。

Fedosya　Semyonovna　appeared　in　the　doorway；　very　pale；　with　an　astonished　face；　she　tried　to　say　something；　but　she　could　not；　and　could　only　move　her　fingers。

〃It's　all　your　fault！〃　Shiryaev　shouted　at　her。　〃You　have　brought　him　up　like　this！〃

〃I　don't　want　to　go　on　living　in　this　house！〃　shouted　the　student；　crying；　and　looking　angrily　at　his　mother。　〃I　don't　want　to　live　with　you！〃

Varvara　uttered　a　shriek　behind　the　screen　and　broke　into　loud　sobs。　With　a　wave　of　his　hand；　Shiryaev　ran　out　of　the　house。

The　student　went　to　his　own　room　and　quietly　lay　down。　He　lay　till　midnight　without　moving　or　opening　his　eyes。　He　felt　neither　anger　nor　shame；　but　a　vague　ache　in　his　soul。　He　neither　blamed　his　father　nor　pitied　his　mother；　nor　was　he　tormented　by　stings　of　conscience；　he　realized　that　every　one　in　the　house　was　feeling　the　same　ache；　and　God　only　knew　which　was　most　to　blame；　which　was　suffering　most。　。　。　。

At　midnight　he　woke　the　labourer；　and　told　him　to　have　the　horse　ready　at　five　o'clock　in　the　morning　for　him　to　drive　to　the　station；　he　undressed　and　got　into　bed；　but　could　not　get　to　sleep。　He　heard　how　his　father；　still　awake；　paced　slowly　from　window　to　window；　sighing；　till　early　morning。　No　one　was　asleep；　they　spoke　rarely；　and　only　in　whispers。　Twice　his　mother　came　to　him　behind　the　screen。　Always　with　the　same　look　of　vacant　wonder；　she　slowly　made　the　cross　over　him；　shaking　nervously。

At　five　o'clock　in　the　morning　he　said　good…bye　to　them　all　affectionately；　and　even　shed　tears。　As　he　passed　his　father's　room；　he　glanced　in　at　the　door。　Yevgraf　Ivanovitch；　who　had　not　taken　off　his　clothes　or　gone　to　bed；　was　standing　by　the　window；　drumming　on　the　panes。

〃Good…bye；　I　am　going；〃　said　his　son。

〃Good…bye　。　。　。　the　money　is　on　the　round　table　。　。　。〃　his　father　answered；　without　turning　round。

A　cold；　hateful　rain　was　falling　as　the　labourer　drove　him　to　the　station。　The　sunflowers　were　drooping　their　heads　still　lower；　and　the　grass　seemed　darker　than　ever。


THE　GRASSHOPPER

I

ALL　Olga　Ivanovna's　friends　and　acquaintances　were　at　her　wedding。

〃Look　at　him；　isn't　it　true　that　there　is　something　in　him？〃　she　said　to　her　friends；　with　a　nod　towards　her　husband；　as　though　she　wanted　to　explain　why　she　was　marrying　a　simple；　very　ordinary；　and　in　no　way　remarkable　man。

Her　husband；　Osip　Stepanitch　Dymov；　was　a　doctor；　and　only　of　the　rank　　of　a　titular　councillor。　He　was　on　the　staff　of　two　hospitals：　in　one　a　ward…surgeon　and　in　the　other　a　dissecting　demonstrator。　Every　day　from　nine　to　twelve　he　saw　patients　and　was　busy　in　his　ward；　and　after　twelve　o'clock　he　went　by　tram　to　the　other　hospital；　where　he　dissected。　His　private　practice　was　a　small　one；　not　worth　more　than　five　hundred　roubles　a　year。　That　was　all。　What　more　could　one　say　about　him？　Meanwhile；　Olga　Ivanovna　and　her　friends　and　acquaintances　were　not　quite　ordinary　people。　Every　one　of　them　was　remarkable　in　some　way；　and　more　or　less　famous；　already　had　made　a　reputation　and　was　looked　upon　as　a　celebrity；　or　if　not　yet　a　celebrity；　gave　brilliant　promise　of　becoming　one。　There　was　an　actor　from　the　Dramatic　Theatre；　who　was　a　great　talent　of　established　reputation；　as　well　as　an　elegant；　intelligent；　and　modest　man；　and　a　capital　elocutionist；　and　who　taught　Olga　Ivanovna　to　recite；　there　was　a　singer　from　the　opera；　a　good…natured；　fat　man　who　assured　Olga　Ivanovna；　with　a　sigh；　that　she　was　ruining　herself；　that　if　she　would　take　herself　in　hand　and　not　be　lazy　she　might　make　a　remarkable　singer；　then　there　were　several　artists；　and　chief　among　them　Ryabovsky；　a　very　handsome；　fair　young　man　of　five…and…twenty　who　painted　genre　pieces；　animal　studies；　and　landscapes；　was　successful　at　exhibitions；　and　had　sold　his　last　picture　for　five　hundred　roubles。　He　touched　up　Olga　Ivanovna's　sketches；　and　used　to　say　she　might　do　something。　Then　a　violoncellist；　whose　instrument　used　to　sob；　and　who　openly　declared　that　of　all　the　ladies　of　his　acquaintance　the　only　one　who　could　accompany　him　was　Olga　Ivanovna；　then　there　was　a　literary　man；　young　but　already　well　known；　who　had　written　stories；　novels；　and　plays。　Who　else？　Why；　Vassily　Vassilyitch；　a　landowner　and　amateur　illustrator　and　vignettist；　with　a　great　feeling　for　the　old　Russian　style；　the　old　ballad　and　epic。　On　paper；　on　china；　and　on　smoked　plates；　he　produced　literally　marvels。　In　the　midst　of　this　free　artistic　company；　spoiled　by　fortune；　though　refined　and　modest；　who　recalled　the　existence　of　doctors　only　in　times　of　illness；　and　to　whom　the　name　of　Dymov　sounded　in　no　way　different　from　Sidorov　or　Tarasov　　in　the　midst　of　this　company　Dymov　seemed　strange；　not　wanted；　and　small；　though　he　was　tall　and　broad…shouldered。　He　looked　as　though　he　had　on　somebody　else's　coat；　and　his　beard　was　like　a　shopman's。　Though　if　he　had　been　a　writer　or　an　artist；　they　would　have　said　that　his　beard　reminded　them　of　Zola。

An　artist　said　to　Olga　Ivanovna　that　with　her　flaxen　hair　and　in　her　wedding…dress　she　was　very　much　like　a　graceful　cherry…tree　when　it　is　covered　all　over　with　delicate　white　blossoms　in　spring。

〃Oh；　let　me　tell　you；〃　said　Olga　Ivanovna；　taking　his　arm；　〃how　it　was　it　all　came　to　pass　so　suddenly。　Listen；　listen！　。　。　。　I　must　tell　you　that　my　father　was　on　the　same　staff　at　the　hospital　as　Dymov。　When　my　poor　father　was　taken　ill；　Dymov　watched　for　days　and　nights　together　at　his　bedside。　Such　self…sacrifice！　Listen；　Ryabovsky！　You；　my　writer；　listen；　it　is　very　interesting！　Come　nearer。　Such　self…sacrifice；　such　genuine　sympathy！　I　sat　up　with　my　father；　and　did　not　sleep　for　nights；　either。　And　all　at　once　　the　princess　had　won　the　hero's　heart　　my　Dymov　fell　head　over　ears　in　love。　Really；　fate　is　so　strange　at　times！　Well；　after　my　father's　death　he　came　to　see　me　sometimes；　met　me　in　the　street；　and　one　fine　evening；　all　at　once　he　made　me　an　offer　。　。　。　like　snow　upon　my　head。　。　。　。　I　lay　awake　all　night；　crying；　and　fell　hellishly　in　love　myself。　And　here；　as　you　see；　I　am　his　wife。　There　really　is　something　strong；　powerful；　bearlike　about　him；　isn't　there？　Now　his　face　is　turned　three…quarters　towards　us　in　a　bad　light；　but　when　he　turns　round　look　at　his　forehead。　Ryabovsky；　what　do　you　say　to　that　forehead？　Dymov；　we　are　talking　about　you！〃　she　called　to　her　husband。　〃Come　here；　hold　out　your　honest　hand　to　Ryabovsky。　。　。　。　That's　right；　be　friends。〃

Dymov；　with　a　naive　and　good…natured　smile；　held　out　his　hand　to　Ryabovsky；　and　said：

〃Very　glad　to　meet　you。　There　was　a　Ryabovsky　in　my　year　at　the　medical　school。　Was　he　a　relation　of　yours？〃


II


Olga　Ivanovna　was　twenty…two；　Dymov　was　thirty…one。　They　got　on　splendidly　together　when　they　were　married。　Olga　Ivanovna　hung　all　her　drawing…room　walls　with　her　own　and　other　people's　sketches；　in　frames　and　without　frames；　and　near　the　piano　and　furniture　arranged　picturesque　corners　with　Japanese　parasols；　easels；　daggers；　busts；　photographs；　and