the wife and other stories-第20节
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e drawing…room with a candle and invariably drops the matchbox； or a warped cupboard creaks； or the burner of the lamp suddenly begins to hum and all these sounds； for some reason； excite me。
To lie awake at night means to be at every moment conscious of being abnormal； and so I look forward with impatience to the morning and the day when I have a right to be awake。 Many wearisome hours pass before the cock crows in the yard。 He is my first bringer of good tidings。 As soon as he crows I know that within an hour the porter will wake up below； and； coughing angrily； will go upstairs to fetch something。 And then a pale light will begin gradually glimmering at the windows； voices will sound in the street。 。 。 。
The day begins for me with the entrance of my wife。 She comes in to me in her petticoat； before she has done her hair； but after she has washed； smelling of flower…scented eau…de…Cologne； looking as though she had come in by chance。 Every time she says exactly the same thing： 〃Excuse me； I have just come in for a minute。 。 。 。 Have you had a bad night again？〃
Then she puts out the lamp； sits down near the table； and begins talking。 I am no prophet； but I know what she will talk about。 Every morning it is exactly the same thing。 Usually； after anxious inquiries concerning my health； she suddenly mentions our son who is an officer serving at Warsaw。 After the twentieth of each month we send him fifty roubles； and that serves as the chief topic of our conversation。
〃Of course it is difficult for us；〃 my wife would sigh； 〃but until he is completely on his own feet it is our duty to help him。 The boy is among strangers； his pay is small。 。 。 。 However； if you like； next month we won't send him fifty； but forty。 What do you think？〃
Daily experience might have taught my wife that constantly talking of our expenses does not reduce them； but my wife refuses to learn by experience； and regularly every morning discusses our officer son； and tells me that bread； thank God； is cheaper； while sugar is a halfpenny dearer with a tone and an air as though she were communicating interesting news。
I listen； mechanically assent； and probably because I have had a bad night； strange and inappropriate thoughts intrude themselves upon me。 I gaze at my wife and wonder like a child。 I ask myself in perplexity； is it possible that this old； very stout； ungainly woman； with her dull expression of petty anxiety and alarm about daily bread； with eyes dimmed by continual brooding over debts and money difficulties； who can talk of nothing but expenses and who smiles at nothing but things getting cheaper is it possible that this woman is no other than the slender Varya whom I fell in love with so passionately for her fine； clear intelligence； for her pure soul； her beauty； and； as Othello his Desdemona； for her 〃sympathy〃 for my studies？ Could that woman be no other than the Varya who had once borne me a son？
I look with strained attention into the face of this flabby； spiritless； clumsy old woman； seeking in her my Varya； but of her past self nothing is left but her anxiety over my health and her manner of calling my salary 〃our salary；〃 and my cap 〃our cap。〃 It is painful for me to look at her； and； to give her what little comfort I can； I let her say what she likes； and say nothing even when she passes unjust criticisms on other people or pitches into me for not having a private practice or not publishing text…books。
Our conversation always ends in the same way。 My wife suddenly remembers with dismay that I have not had my tea。
〃What am I thinking about； sitting here？〃 she says； getting up。 〃The samovar has been on the table ever so long； and here I stay gossiping。 My goodness！ how forgetful I am growing！〃
She goes out quickly； and stops in the doorway to say：
〃We owe Yegor five months' wages。 Did you know it？ You mustn't let the servants' wages run on； how many times I have said it！ It's much easier to pay ten roubles a month than fifty roubles every five months！〃
As she goes out； she stops to say：
〃The person I am sorriest for is our Liza。 The girl studies at the Conservatoire； always mixes with people of good position； and goodness knows how she is dressed。 Her fur coat is in such a state she is ashamed to show herself in the street。 If she were somebody else's daughter it wouldn't matter； but of course every one knows that her father is a distinguished professor； a privy councillor。〃
And having reproached me with my rank and reputation； she goes away at last。 That is how my day begins。 It does not improve as it goes on。
As I am drinking my tea； my Liza comes in wearing her fur coat and her cap； with her music in her hand； already quite ready to go to the Conservatoire。 She is two…and…twenty。 She looks younger； is pretty； and rather like my wife in her young days。 She kisses me tenderly on my forehead and on my hand； and says：
〃Good…morning； papa； are you quite well？〃
As a child she was very fond of ice…cream； and I used often to take her to a confectioner's。 Ice…cream was for her the type of everything delightful。 If she wanted to praise me she would say： 〃You are as nice as cream； papa。〃 We used to call one of her little fingers 〃pistachio ice；〃 the next； 〃cream ice；〃 the third 〃raspberry；〃 and so on。 Usually when she came in to say good…morning to me I used to sit her on my knee； kiss her little fingers； and say：
〃Creamy ice 。 。 。 pistachio 。 。 。 lemon。 。 。 。〃
And now； from old habit； I kiss Liza's fingers and mutter： 〃Pistachio 。 。 。 cream 。 。 。 lemon。 。 。〃 but the effect is utterly different。 I am cold as ice and I am ashamed。 When my daughter comes in to me and touches my forehead with her lips I start as though a bee had stung me on the head； give a forced smile； and turn my face away。 Ever since I have been suffering from sleeplessness； a question sticks in my brain like a nail。 My daughter often sees me； an old man and a distinguished man； blush painfully at being in debt to my footman； she sees how often anxiety over petty debts forces me to lay aside my work and to walk u p and down the room for hours together； thinking； but why is it she never comes to me in secret to whisper in my ear： 〃Father； here is my watch； here are my bracelets； my earrings； my dresses。 。 。 。 Pawn them all； you want money 。 。 。〃？ How is it that； seeing how her mother and I are placed in a false position and do our utmost to hide our poverty from people； she does not give up her expensive pleasure of music lessons？ I would not accept her watch nor her bracelets； nor the sacrifice of her lessons God forbid！ That isn't what I want。
I think at the same time of my son； the officer at Warsaw。 He is a clever； honest； and sober fellow。 But that is not enough for me。 I think if I had an old father； and if I knew there were moments when he was put to shame by his poverty； I should give up my officer's commission to somebody else； and should go out to earn my living as a workman。 Such thoughts about my children poison me。 What is the use of them？ It is only a narrow…minded or embittered man who can harbour evil thoughts about ordinary people because they are not heroes。 But enough of that！
At a quarter to ten I have to go and give a lecture to my dear boys。 I dress and walk along the road which I have known for thirty years； and which has its history for me。 Here is the big grey house with the chemist's shop； at this point there used to stand a little house； and in it was a beershop； in that beershop I thought out my thesis and wrote my first love…letter to Varya。 I wrote it in pencil； on a page headed 〃Historia morbi。〃 Here there is a grocer's shop； at one time it was kept by a little Jew； who sold me cigarettes on credit； then by a fat peasant woman； who liked the students because 〃every one of them has a mother〃； now there is a red…haired shopkeeper sitting in it； a very stolid man who drinks tea from a copper teapot。 And here are the gloomy gates of the University； which have long needed doing up； I see the bored porter in his sheep…skin； the broom； the drifts of snow。 。 。 。 On a boy coming fresh from the provinces and imagining that the temple of science must really be a temple； such gates cannot make a healthy impression。 Altogether the dilapidated condition of the University buildings； the gloominess of the corridors； the griminess of the walls； the lack of light； the dejected aspect of the steps； the hat…stands and the benches； take a prominent position among predisposing causes in the history of Russian pessimism。 。 。 。 Here is our garden 。 。 。 I fancy it has grown neither better nor worse since I was a student。 I don't like it。 It would be far more sensible if there were tall pines and fine oaks growing here instead of sickly…looking lime…trees； yellow acacias； and skimpy pollard lilacs。 The student whose state of mind is in the majority of cases created by his surroundings； ought in the place where he is studying to see facing him at every turn nothing but what is lofty； strong and elegant。 。 。 。 God preserve him from gaunt trees； broken windows； grey walls； and doors covered with torn American leather！
When I go to my own entrance the door is flung wide open； and I am met by my colleague； contemporary； and
