Chapter 6 Antony Chekhov's 1888 works, Volume II "Named Day"-1

"Name Day" one After the eight-course meal and countless conversations at the name-day feast, Olga Mikhailovna, the wife of the name-day party, got up and went out into the garden.The obligation to smile and talk incessantly, the clanging of cutlery, the fuss of the servants, the long pauses between courses, the corset she puts on to conceal her pregnancy from guests, had worn her out.She decided to go away, stay away from the house, sit in a cool place for a while, and settle down to think about the child who was about to be born in two months.She had grown into the habit of having those thoughts come to her whenever she turned left from the broad avenue and entered the narrow lane.Here, in the deep shade of the plum and cherry trees, where dry branches used to scratch her shoulders and neck, and cobwebs clung to her face, the image of a baby of undetermined sex and face would come to her mind. and she began to feel that it was not the spider's web but the baby that was scratching her face and neck affectionately; The low, wide beehive, the stagnant air began to smell of hay and honey, and one could hear the soft humming of the bees, the little baby completely occupied Olga Mikhailov Anna's heart.Often she went to the hut made of twigs, sat down on a small bench, and began to think.

This time she too went to the little bench, sat down, and began to think.But it wasn't babies that sprang up in her imagination, but the grown-ups she had just left.She was distraught at the thought of being the hostess, leaving her guests behind; her husband argued, as usual, to show off his conservative ideas in front of the guests, but mainly because he disliked her uncle and wanted to quarrel with him.And her uncle contradicted him, found fault with everything he said, in order to show to those present at the banquet that Nikolai Nikolaitch, although fifty-nine years old, still With youthful vigor and free thought.

As for herself, Olga Mikhailovna, at last she could bear it no longer at the end of the party, and began bumblingly to defend the question of women's higher education, not because women's higher education needed to be defended, but because Because in her opinion her husband was unfair, she just wanted to annoy him.The guests were weary of this argument, but they all thought it necessary to intervene and talk a lot, when none of them cared at all about jury system or women's education. ... Olga Mikhailovna was sitting on this side of the fence, near the hut.The sun was hidden behind the clouds, and the trees and the air took on the same gloomy look they had before the rain, but it was still hot and stuffy.The hay that had been cut under the trees here and there on St. Peter's Eve, still uncollected, looked forlorn, dotted with withered flowers, and smelt strongly of sweetness.It was very quiet all around.On the other side of the fence some bees were humming monotonously. ...Suddenly, there were footsteps and voices.Someone came down the path to the apiary.

"What a sweltering day!" said a woman's voice. "What do you think, will it rain?" "It will rain, my beauty, but not until night," replied a man's voice very familiar lazily. "It's going to rain a lot." Olga Mikhailovna thought that if she hadtened to hide in the hut, she would not be seen, and would go straight on, and she would not have to speak or force a smile.She lifted the dress, bent down, and got into the shack.But immediately there was a gust of hot, stuffy, steamy air hitting her face, neck, and arms.If it hadn't been stuffy here, and the heavy smell of rye, fennel, and twigs hadn't been suffocating, here, under the grass roof, in the dark, it would be possible to hide from the guests, thinking of her little one. Baby.It's comfortable and quiet here.

"What a place this is!" said a woman's voice. "Let's just sit here for a while, Pyotr Dmitritch." Olga Mikhailovna began to look out through a gap between two dry branches. She saw her husband, Pyotr Dmitritch, and her guest, Lyubochka Serer, a girl of seventeen who had not long ago graduated from a noble girls' school.Pyotr Dmitritch, with his hat pushed back on his head, was languid and listless, for he had drunk a great deal at the dinner.He wobbled along the fence, pushing the hay into piles with his feet.And Lyubochka, flushed with heat and handsome as ever, stood with her hands behind her back, watching the sluggish movements of his tall, handsome body.

Olga Mihailovna knew that women liked her husband, and she did not like to see him with them.There was nothing strange about the fact that Pyotr Dmitritch was pushing the hay together with his feet so that he and Lyubochka could sit down and chat for a while, but the pretty Lyubochka looked at it tenderly. It was not surprising that she looked at him, but Olga Mikhailovna still hated her husband.She was mixed with dread and delight at the thought that she would soon be able to overhear what they were saying. "Sit down, charming girl," said Pyotr Dmitritch, sitting down on the hay and stretching himself. "That's all right. Well, tell me something."

"Who wants to talk! It doesn't matter if I tell you, you'll fall asleep." "I fell asleep? By God! With such a pair of pretty eyes looking at me, can I still sleep?" There was nothing strange in her husband's words, nor in the way he half-lyed, half-sat before his guests, with his hat pushed back.He had been spoiled by women and knew they liked him, so when he got around to them he had a peculiar tone of speech which, by all accounts, suited him well. He treated Liubachka as he treated other women.Still Olga Mikhailovna was jealous. "Excuse me, tell me," said Liubachka after a moment's silence, "that you are accused and are about to stand trial. Is that true?"

"Me? Yes, I'm about to stand trial. . . . My beauty, I've already joined the ranks of the bad guys." "Then what is it for?" "No reason, it's just...it's mostly a political issue," Peter Dmitlich said with a yawn. "The struggle between the Left and the Right. I, an obscurantist and conformist, dared to use a word in a document that our district mediator Kuzma Grigorevich Vostry Holy Gladstones like Yakov and Vladimir Pavlovich Vladimirov seem insulting." Pyotr Dmitritch yawned again, and went on: "We have a rule here: you can criticize the sun, the moon, whatever you like, but God bless you Don't touch the Liberals! God bless you, don't do it! Liberals are like those nasty dried fungi, if you accidentally touch them with your fingers, they will send a cloud of dust on you smoke."

"What's the matter with you?" "It's nothing serious. The incident was all caused by a trifle that couldn't be more trivial. One of the teachers, a nasty fellow from a monk's family, handed Vostryakov a A petition against the owner of the restaurant, alleging that the owner insulted him with words and actions in public. From all indications, it can be seen that the teacher and the owner of the restaurant were in a mess at the time, and both of them behaved equally badly. If there was any insult In any case, they are both involved. Vostryakov should have convicted them of breach of the peace, ordered them both to pay a fine, and kicked them out of court. But what happened here? What about the clerk? What counts here is not the person, nor the fact, but the sign and the title. A teacher, no matter what kind of villain he is, is right because he is a teacher. Eternally guilty, because he is an innkeeper and a profiteer. Vostryakov sentenced the innkeeper to prison, and the innkeeper appealed to the tribunal. The tribunal solemnly sanctioned Vostryakov I, for my part, stand by my own opinion. . . . I'm a little pissed. . . . That's what it is."

Pyotr Dmitritch spoke calmly and sarcastically.In fact, the imminent imminence of his trial made him feel agitated.Olga Mikhailovna remembered the time when he had returned from the unfortunate tribunal, and he had been trying to hide from his family that he was sad and dissatisfied with himself.He was a wise man, and it was impossible not to feel that he went too far in expressing his opinions.How many lies he had to tell in order to conceal this feeling from himself and from others!How many needless conversations, how many complaints, how much insincere laughter at something that wasn't funny!Later, when he knew that he was going to be tried, he was suddenly discouraged, discouraged, couldn't sleep well, stood in front of the window more than usual, and tapped his fingers on the glass on the window.He was ashamed to admit to his wife that his heart was heavy, and it made her unhappy. ... "I hear you have been to Poltava province?" asked Lyubochka.

"Yes, I have been," replied Pyotr Dmitritch. "I just got back from there the day before yesterday." "It's probably fine there, isn't it?" "Very well. Very well indeed. I should tell you that I went there just in time for the mowing season. In Ukraine, the mowing season is the most poetic time. Here we have A house with a big garden, a lot of people and things, so you don't notice the mowing. Here, everything passes by without knowing it. Over there, I have fifty dessias of pasture on my farm , as flat as the palm of my hand. Wherever you stand at the window, you can see mowers everywhere. They mow the lawn, they mow the garden, there is no visitor, no chore, so Whether you like it or not, all you see, hear, and feel is the grass mowing. The yard and the room smell of hay, and the scythe rattles from sunrise to sunset. .In short, Ukraine is a lovely place. Believe it or not, whenever I drink water by a boomed well, drink bland white wine in a Jewish tavern, and hear Ukrainian fiddles in the quiet evening and the tambourine, and a charming thought tempts me: just live on my farm as long as I like, far away from the tribunals, the wise talk, the love of hair. Talking women, long parties..." Peter Dmitritch was not lying.His heart was heavy, and he really intended to take a rest.He had gone to Poltava simply to avoid seeing his study, his servants, his acquaintances, and all the things that reminded him of his wounded pride and his mistakes. Liubachka jumped up suddenly, shaking her arms in fear. "Ouch, bee, bee!" she screamed. "It stings!" "Come, it won't sting you!" said Peter Dmitritch. "How cowardly you are!" "No, no, no!" cried Liubachka, looking over her shoulder at the bees, and hurried back. Pyotr Dmitritch followed her, looking after her with tenderness and melancholy.Probably, looking at her, he thought about his farm, about solitude, and, who knows?Perhaps he even thought: If his wife were this girl, young, pure, and fresh, uneducated, and unpregnant, how warm and comfortable it would be to live on the farm. ... When the voices and footsteps died away, Olga Mikhailovna came out of the hut and went to the main room.She wants to cry.She already hated her husband very much out of jealousy.She knew that Pyotr Dmitritch was tired, dissatisfied with himself, ashamed, and when ashamed one always hides from those closest to him and confides in others, she also knew that Lyubochka was not a dangerous person. Women, all those women who drink coffee in the main room are not in any danger either.On the whole, however, everything was incomprehensible and terrible, and it seemed to Olga Mikhailovna that half of Pyotr Dmitritch did not belong to her. ... "He has no right to do that!" she murmured, trying to understand her jealousy and resentment towards her husband. "He has no right to do that! I'm going to tell him all about it right away!" She resolved to go to her husband at once, and tell him all that other women liked him, and that he himself was trying to attract them, and that his devotion to them was a gift from heaven, and that was vile, vile as hell.It was unfair and injustice that he should give to strangers what by right belonged to his wife, that he should conceal his soul and conscience from her, and lay open his heart to any woman with a pretty face.What did his wife do to apologize to him? What was wrong with her?In the end, his falsehoods had long since bored her: he was always putting on airs, being clever, saying something different from what he thought, trying to be different from who he was, from what he ought to be.Why do you have to fake it?Could it be that a decent person might as well be a fake?If he fakes, he's insulting both himself and the other person, and has no respect for what he's saying.Doesn't he understand that if he's being smart in court, putting on airs, or just to annoy her uncle, and talking about the privileges of the government at a dinner party, he's doing the same to the court, to himself, to those who listen to him and see Everyone who looks at him is worthless? Olga Mikhailovna went out to the broad avenue, trying to put on an air, as if she had just left the table to attend to housework.The gentlemen were drinking mead and eating strawberries on the terrace, and one of the court inspectors, a fat old man with a good sense of humor and witty remarks, was probably telling indecent stories because he Seeing the hostess, he suddenly closed his fat lips, widened his eyes, and sat down.Olga Mikhailovna did not like the county officials, nor did she like their clumsy, prim wives.They like to spread rumors and often come here as guests. Although they hate her husband in their hearts, they flatter him when they see him.Now that they were drinking, they were full and did not intend to leave, and she felt that their presence was uncomfortably wearisome.But in order not to appear impolite, she smiled courteously at the examining magistrate, and shook her finger at him.She walked through the hall and living room, making a smiling face, pretending that she was going to explain something, arrange something. "Please God, don't let anyone stop me!" she thought.Yet she had to stop in the living room, out of politeness, to listen to a young man sitting at the piano and playing.She stood for a while and exclaimed, "That's great, that's great, Mr. George!" She clapped her hands twice more, and walked on. She found her husband in the study.He was sitting at the table thinking about something.A stern, pensive, ashamed look came into his face.This man was no longer the Pyotr Dmitritch, who had been arguing at dinner parties and was well known to the guests, but another Pyotr Dmitritch, tired, ashamed, dissatisfied with himself, who looked nothing but Only his wife could see it.Most of the time he came to the study to fetch cigarettes. Before him lay an open cigarette case full of cigarettes.One of his hands was in the desk drawer.He froze as he took the cigarette. Olga Mihailovna could not help pity him.It was clear: the person was suffering, disturbed, perhaps struggling with himself.Olga Mikhailovna went up to the table in silence, and wanting to show that she had forgotten the argument at the banquet and was no longer angry, she closed his cigarette case and put it in the side pocket of her husband's coat . "What should I tell him?" she thought. "I would say to him that being fake is like walking into the woods, and the further you go the harder it is to get out. I would say, 'You've gone too far in playing your fake part; you've insulted those People who love you and haven't done anything bad to you. You go and apologize to them and laugh at yourself, so you can feel better. If you want to be quiet and want to live alone, then we'll go away together Here it is.'" As soon as Pyotr Dmitritch caught his wife's eye, his face suddenly took on the same expression it had just had at the party and in the garden: nonchalant and slightly ironic.He yawned and stood up. "It's past five o'clock," he said, glancing at the clock. "If the guests are so merciful as to leave at eleven o'clock, we'll have six hours to wait. Needless to say, it's a jolly thing!" He whistled, walked slowly out of the room with his usual solemn steps.She heard him walking solemnly, across the hall, then across the living room, laughing solemnly for some reason, and saying to the young man at the piano, "Excellent! Excellent!" Soon his footsteps sounded. There was silence, probably he went into the garden. Olga Mikhailovna felt no envy or chagrin at that moment, but genuine hatred for his footsteps, his insincere laughter, and his voice.She went to the window and looked into the garden.Pyotr Dmitritch was walking along the avenue.With one hand in his pocket, he was beating the torreya with the other, his head slightly tilted back, and he walked forward solemnly, swaggering, looking at him as if he was satisfied with himself, the banquet, and his digestion Ability, satisfied with nature. . . . Two little schoolboys appeared on the boulevard. They were the children of the landlady Chizhevskaya, who had just arrived, and a student, their tutor, accompanied them.He was wearing a white top and very thin trousers.The two children and the student came up to Pyotr Dmitritch and stopped, presumably to congratulate him on his name-day.As for him, he shrugged his shoulders smartly, patted the faces of the two children, and casually extended a hand to the college student without looking at him.Most of the students were praising the weather and comparing it with the weather in Petersburg, for Pyotr Dmitritch spoke loudly, as if he were addressing not a guest, but a magistrate or a witness. "What? It's cold in your Petersburg? Here, my boy, we have clean air and fruitful soil. What? What?" Then, he put one hand in his pocket, tapped the torreya with the fingers of the other hand, and walked forward.Olga Mihailovna looked at the back of his head in great bewilderment until he entered the low hazel grove.Where did this thirty-four-year-old acquire his general's dignified gait?Where had he acquired such stern grace?Where did he learn to speak in this bossy trill?These "what", "um, it's ammonia", "brother", where did they all come from? Olga Mikhailovna remembered that during the first months of her marriage she had often driven into town to go to the tribunal, afraid of being bored at home alone.At the Tribunal, Pyotr Dmitritch sometimes acted as presiding judge instead of her godfather, Count Alexei Petrovich.As soon as he sat in the presiding armchair, in his uniform and chain across his breast, he was completely transformed.His dignified posture, his sonorous voice, his "what," "well, it's ammonia, his nonchalant tone... All the original human features that Olga Mikhailovna used to see in her house, It all turned into majesty. It was no longer Pyotr Dmitritch sitting in the armchair, but another man who everyone called Mr. Judge. The feeling of power did not allow him to sit calmly, He always finds an opportunity to ring the bell, look sternly at the bystanders, and yell loudly... Sometimes, he suddenly becomes unable to see or hear clearly, frowns majesticly, asks people to speak louder, and goes to the table Come closer here, let me ask what is the reason for his short-sightedness and deafness? He stood on a majestic height, and he could not see faces or hear voices, and he would probably have shouted at Olga Mikhailovna herself if she had come up to him. "What's your surname?" He addressed all peasant witnesses as "you" and yelled at the bystanders so loudly that they could be heard from the street. It's just outrageous.If a lawyer spoke, Pyotr Dmitritch sat sideways towards him, squinted his eyes at the ceiling, and thereby showed that the lawyer was superfluous, that he did not recognize the lawyer and did not want to listen to him. .If the speaker was a poorly dressed private lawyer, Pyotr Dmitritch listened to him attentively, looked at him ironically and menacingly, and said: Hey, there is such a lawyer now! "What do you mean by that?" he often interrupted the lawyer. If a lawyer who likes to lose words uses foreign words, for example, pronounce "fiction" as "higou", Peter Dmitlich will suddenly liven up and ask: "What? How? Higou? What is this? mean?" Then he said in a lecturing tone: "Don't say words that you don't understand." When the lawyer had finished speaking and left the table, flushed and sweaty, Peter Dmitritch leaned back in his armchair. Leaning up, smiling triumphantly, rejoicing in victory.In his attitude towards lawyers he imitated Count Alexey Petrovich a little, although, for example, when the count said, "Speak less, counsel," with an old-fashioned kindness, It seemed natural, but when it came out of Pyotr Dmitritch's mouth it was rough and blunt. "Notes" ① Gladstone (1809-1898), Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and leader of the Liberal Party, is used here as a metaphor for a "politician". two There was a burst of applause.The young man finished playing the piano.Olga Mikhailovna thought of her guests, and hurried into the drawing-room. "You play so well that I can't hear you well," she said, going to the piano. "I can hear you all. You have amazing talent! But don't you think our piano is a little out of tune?" ?” At this time, two middle school students and a college student who accompanied them walked into the living room. "My God, are they Mitya and Kolya?" said Olga Mikhailovna, walking up to them, in a drawn-out voice. "You are so big! I just don't recognize you guys!Where is your mother? " "I congratulate you on your name-day," said the student casually, "and wish you all the best. Ekaterina Andreyevna congratulates you and apologizes to you. She is not well. " "How wrong she is! I've been waiting for her all day. So you've come back from Petersburg long ago?" Olga Mihailovna asked the student. "How's the weather over there now?" But she didn't wait for an answer, and looked at the two high school students affectionately again, and repeated: "They've grown so big! It didn't seem long before they came here with the nurse." What happened in the past, but now I am a middle school student! The old ones are getting older, and the young ones are growing up....Have you had lunch yet?" "Oh, don't worry about it, please!" said the student. "You must have never eaten lunch?" "For God's sake, don't bother!" "But you must be hungry?" asked Olga Mikhailovna in a rough, stiff voice, with the impatience and vexation in her tone which she had inadvertently expressed, and she immediately coughed, smiled, and Blushed. "They're so big!" she said softly. "Don't worry about it, please!" repeated the student. The college student asked her not to worry, but the two children remained silent.Apparently, all three wanted something to eat.Olga Mikhailovna led them into the dining-room and told Vasily to serve. "Your mother shouldn't!" she said, making them sit down. "He completely forgot about me. She's not good, not good, not good. . . . You just tell her that. So what department are you in?" she asked the student. "Department of Medicine." "Well, guess what, I happen to like doctors. I'm sorry my husband isn't a doctor. But what courage it takes, say, to perform an operation or to dissect a dead body! It's terrible! Don't you be afraid? If it were me, I would probably be scared to death. So you must drink white wine?" "Don't worry about it, please." "It's been a long journey, you should drink a little, that's right. I'm a woman, but sometimes I drink too. Mitya and Kolya can drink a little too. The wine is very weak, don't worry. Seriously, how grown they are What a beautiful young man! You can almost marry a wife." Olga Mikhailovna talked on and on.She knew from experience that when entertaining guests, it was much less laborious and more convenient to speak for herself than to listen to others. By speaking for yourself, you don't have to concentrate on how to answer questions and change the expression on your face.But she inadvertently asked a serious question, and the student began to answer at length, and she had to listen to him.The university student knew that she had a previous higher education, so he tried to look serious about her. "Which department do you study?" she asked, forgetting that she had already asked this question once. "Department of Medicine." Olga Mikhailovna remembered that she had not been with the ladies and ladies for a long time. "Really? So you're going to be a doctor?" she said, standing up. "That's very good. I regret that I didn't study medicine myself. Then, gentlemen, eat here, and then walk in the garden. I'll introduce you to some of the ladies." She went out and looked at the clock. It was just fifty-five past five.She was secretly surprised that time went so slowly.She thought it was six hours before midnight when the guests parted, and she was afraid.How to pass these six hours? What to say?How to treat her husband? There was no one in the living room or on the terrace.All the guests were dispersed in the garden. "I'll invite them to go for a walk in the birch grove before tea, or row a boat," thought Olga Mihailovna, hurrying to the croquet-field, where a voice was being heard. sound and laughter. "I've got to invite the old folks to play Vent. . . . " The footman Grigory came up to her from the croquet-field with an empty bottle. "Where are the ladies?" she asked. "Over there over the marlin bush. The master's there too." "Oh, my God!" cried someone from the croquet-ground violently. "I've told you that a thousand times! To understand the Bulgarians, you have to see them! You can't judge by the newspapers!" Either from this shouting or from some other cause, Olga Mihailovna suddenly felt very weak all over, especially her legs and shoulders.She suddenly wanted to stop talking, stop listening, and stop moving. "Grigory," she said lazily and reluctantly, "while you're serving tea or doing other things, please don't come to me, and don't ask me anything.  … . . . everything is up to you, and . . . and not too loud. I beg you. . . . I can't stand it, because . Thinking of those wives on the way, he turned again and walked towards the marlin fruit bushes.The sky, the air, and the trees still showed a gloomy look, indicating that it would soon rain.It was hot and stuffy.A large flock of crows flew over the garden, croaking foreboding that the sky was about to change.The closer the boulevard got to the vegetable garden, the more desolate, dark, and narrow it became.Olga Mikhailovna was surrounded by a swarm of small black mosquitoes along a path buried in a dense thicket of pear trees, wood sorrel, young oaks, and kubs.She covered her face with her hands and tried to imagine her little baby. ... In her imagination, the faces of Grigory, Mitya, Kolya, the peasants who came here this morning to celebrate the name day passed. ... At this time, a person's footsteps sounded, and she opened her eyes.It turned out that her uncle, Nikolay Nikolaitch, was walking towards her quickly. "Is that you, darling? Glad, . . . " he began, panting. "I have a few words to say to you..." He wiped his shaven red chin with a handkerchief, then suddenly took a step back, clapped his hands together, and stared. "How long is this going to end, my dear?" he gasped, quickly. "I ask you: Is there a limit? Leaving aside the morally depraved effect his Jesse Molda-like views have on those around him, or the insults he has made to my heart and to every upright and worthy man. All the sacred and beautiful things in the thinking man's heart are not discussed here, but he must be polite! What's the matter? He shouted, snarled, put on airs, insisted on pretending to be Bonaparte, Let no one say a word, . . . the devil knows what he is! He looks so proud, laughs like a general, and speaks so proudly! But let me ask you: who is he? He is nothing more than a wife Husband, a ninth-rank civil servant with only a few acres of Susukida, is lucky to marry a wealthy lady! He is nothing more than an upstart, a Junker landlord, and there are many such people! It is a character written by Schedrin! God swear, it's either one of two things: either he's got a megalomaniac, or that old rat is right. Now they play coachmen, now generals, and so on until they are forty!" "It's real, it's real..." agreed Olga Mihailovna. "You let me go over there." "Now you think about it, what's going to happen to this?" her uncle continued, blocking her way. "How does this game of playing conservatives and playing generals end? He's already been sued! He's going to stand trial! I'm so glad! He's yelling and squabbling and he's in the dock And it's not the District Court or anything, but the High Court! Looks like it's impossible to even think about anything worse than that! Second, he's had a falling out with everyone! Today is his christening But you see, Vostryakov is not here, Yakhontov is not here, Vladimirov is not here, Shevod is not here, the count is not here. . . . Conservatively, it seems that Alex Kesey Petrovitch is at the top of his game, but even he hasn't come! And he won't come again! You see, he won't come!" "Oh, my God, what has this to do with me?" asked Olga Mihailovna. "How can it be irrelevant? You're his wife! You're smart, you've been educated, and you could have made him an honest worker!" "I was not taught how to work with difficult people at the high school. It seems that I have to apologize to you all for having been to the high school!" said Olga Mihailovna bitterly. "Look here, Uncle, if someone keeps playing a tune in your ear all day long, you'll get stuck and run away. As for me, I have been listening to this old trick for a whole year.Lord, people should be merciful! " Her uncle made a very serious face, then looked at her inquisitively, with a mocking smile on his lips. "So it is!" he sang in an old woman's voice. "Excuse me, ma'am!" he said, bowing politely. "Since you yourself have been influenced by him and betrayed your beliefs, you should have said it sooner. Sorry, ma'am!" "Yes, I betrayed my convictions!" she cried. "You can take care of yourself!" "I'm sorry, ma'am!" Her uncle bowed politely for the last time, but this time he turned his body to one side, then retracted his neck, touched the heels of his shoes, saluted, and walked back. "Idiot," thought Olga Mikhailovna to herself. "He should go home." 她在菜园的马林果树丛里找到太太们和青年男女们。有的人在吃马林果，有的人吃腻了，在草莓的苗床那边徘徊，或者在甜豌豆地里挖土。离马林果树丛旁边不远，有一棵枝叶茂密的苹果树，四周用木棍支撑着，木棍是从一道旧栅栏上拔下来的。彼得·德米特利奇正在这棵树附近割草。他的头发披在额头上，领结松开，表链从纽扣眼里掉出来。他每走一步路，每挥舞一下镰刀，都显出他擅长干活，而且气力很大。他身旁站着柳包琪卡和邻居布克烈耶夫上校的女儿娜达丽雅和瓦连契娜，或者照大家对她们的称呼，娜达和瓦达，这两个姑娘都贫血，身子很胖，带着病态，生着淡黄色头发，年纪十六七岁，穿着白色连衣裙，彼此非常相象。彼得·德米特利奇在教她们割草。 “这很简单，……”他说。 “只要会拿镰刀，别着急就成，那就是说不要过分用力。瞧，照这样。……您现在要试一下吗？”他说着，把镰刀递给柳包琪卡。 "Do it!" 柳包琪卡笨拙地用手握住镰刀，忽然脸红了，笑起来。 “您不要胆怯，柳包芙③·亚历山德罗芙娜！”奥尔迦·米海洛芙娜喊得很响，好让所有的太太小姐们都知道她跟她们在一块儿。“别胆怯！这得学！万一您嫁给一个托尔斯泰主义者，那他就要硬逼您割草了。” 柳包琪卡举起镰刀，可是又笑起来，而且笑得没了力气，立刻把镰刀放下了。她又害臊又愉快，因为人家对她说话的口气把她当作大人了。娜达却没有笑意，也不胆怯，带着严肃而冷静的面容拿起镰刀一挥，却把镰刀抡进草丛里去了。瓦达也不露笑意，跟她姐姐一样严肃而冷静，默默地拿起镰刀来，一刀砍进了土里。两姐妹做完这件事，就挽起胳膊，默默地往马林果树丛那边走去。 彼得·德米特利奇笑啊玩的，象是个小孩子。这种孩子般的淘气心情对他说来是再合适不过了，他在这种时候往往变得非常和善。奥尔迦·米海洛芙娜喜欢他这样。不过他这种孩子气照例维持不久。这一次也一样，他拿镰刀玩了一阵，不知什么缘故，觉得有必要为他的游戏增添一点严肃的色彩了。 “您要知道，每逢我割草，我总是感到健康多了，也正常多了，”他说。“如果我只能过脑力劳动的生活，那我大概会发疯的。我总觉得我不是天生做文化人的！我应该割草，耕地，播种，赶马车才对。……”于是彼得·德米特利奇开始跟那些女人谈体力劳动的优点，谈文化，然后谈金钱的害处，谈财产。奥尔迦·米海洛芙娜听她丈夫发议论，不知什么缘故想起了自己的陪嫁。 “总有一天，”她暗想，“他会不原谅我，因为我比他阔。 他骄傲，爱面子。说不定他会恨我，因为他沾了我很多的光。 " 她站在布克烈耶夫上校身旁，上校在吃马林果，也在参加谈话。 “请到这边来，”他说着，给奥尔迦·米海洛芙娜和彼得·德米特利奇让出路来。“这儿的果子最熟。……那么，照蒲鲁东④的看法，”他提高声音接着说，“财产是盗窃。不过我，老实说，不赞同蒲鲁东的见解，也不认为他是哲学家。法国人在我心目中可算不得权威，去他们的吧！” “哎，关于蒲鲁东和各式各样的保克耳⑤，我是不懂行的，”彼得·德米特利奇说。“关于哲学您得找她谈，找我的妻子谈。她进过高等学校，对叔本华和蒲鲁东之流了解得很透彻。……”奥尔迦·米海洛芙娜又觉得乏味了。她又在花园小径上走来走去，两旁是苹果树和梨树。她脸上又现出仿佛要去办一件很要紧的事的神情。后来她走到花匠的小屋那儿。……小屋门口坐着花匠的妻子瓦尔瓦拉和她的四个小孩，那些孩子都生着大脑袋，剃了光头。瓦尔瓦拉也怀着孕，依她计算，大概在先知以利亚节⑥之前就要分娩。奥尔迦·米海洛芙娜跟她打过招呼后，默默地打量她和她的孩子们，问道：“哦，你觉得怎么样？” “没什么。……” Silence followed.两个女人似乎不用说话就已经互相了解了。 “头一回生孩子才可怕，”奥尔迦·米海洛芙娜想了想，说，“我老是觉得我好象会过不了这一关，会死掉。” “从前我也这么觉得，可是你瞧，我还是活下来了。……不要紧的！” 瓦尔瓦拉已经第五次怀孕，富有经验了，有点居高临下地看她的女主人，用教训的口气跟她说话，奥尔迦·米海洛芙娜也不由自主地感到她的权威。她想谈谈自己的恐惧，谈谈孩子，谈谈她的心情，然而她又担心这在瓦尔瓦拉看来会显得浅薄，幼稚。她就不开口，等着瓦尔瓦拉自己说话。 “奥丽雅⑦，我们回正房去吧！”彼得·德米特利奇在马林果树丛里叫道。 奥尔迦·米海洛芙娜很想保持沉默，等着，瞧着瓦尔瓦拉。她情愿照这样一句话也不说，毫无必要地在这儿站下去，一直站到深夜也行。可是她又不得不走。她刚刚离开小屋，柳包琪卡、瓦达、娜达就向她迎面跑来。两姐妹并没跑到她跟前，相距还有一俄丈远就一下子停住脚，仿佛生了根似的。可是柳包琪卡却一直跑到她面前，搂住她的脖子。 “亲爱的！好人！宝贝！”她吻她的脸和脖子，不住地说。 “我们一块儿到岛上去喝茶吧！” “到岛上去！到岛上去！”长得一模一样的两姐妹瓦达和娜达异口同声地说，脸上不带笑容。 “不过天要下雨了，我亲爱的。” “不会，不会！”柳包琪卡叫道，做出一脸的哭相。“大家都赞成去！亲爱的，好人！” “那边的人都打算到岛上去喝茶，”彼得·德米特利奇走过来说。“你先去布置一下。……我们大家坐小船去，茶炊和别的东西得叫仆人坐着马车送去。” 他跟他的妻子并排走着，挽住她的胳膊。奥尔迦·米海洛芙娜很想对她丈夫说几句不中听的挖苦话，甚至想提一提她的陪嫁，总之越刻薄越好。她想了想，就说：“为什么阿历克塞·彼得罗维奇伯爵没有来？多么可惜啊！” “他不来，我倒很高兴，”彼得·德米特利奇说谎道。“这个疯子惹得我厌烦了，比辣萝卜还讨厌。” “可是你吃饭前还一直着急地盼他来呢！” "Notes" ①果戈理的喜剧《钦差大臣》中一个粗暴的警察。 ——Russian text editor's note ②指拿破仑。 ③上文柳包琪卡是柳包芙的小名。 ④蒲鲁东（１８０９—１８６５），法国小资产阶级经济学家和社会学家，无政府主义奠基人之一.他在《什么是财产》一书中从小资产阶级立场来批评资本主义社会。 ⑤保克耳（１８２１—１８６２），英国历史学家，实证论社会学家。 ⑥以利亚节在旧俄历七月二十日。 ⑦奥尔迦的爱称。