Chapter 7 Neighbor

Neighbor Pyotr Mikhailovich Ivakhin was in a very bad mood.His sister was a girl who had moved in with a married man named Vlasitch.In trying to get rid of that gloomy mood which refused to leave him, whether at home or in the field, he turned to his sense of justice, to his pure and beautiful conviction: he had always been a champion of free love!However, this is of no avail.Against his will, he always came to the same conclusion as the stupid nurse, namely, that his sister had behaved badly and that Vlasitch had kidnapped his sister.This is really sad. His mother didn't come out of her room all day.The nurse whispered and sighed; his aunt prepared to leave every day, carrying her trunk now to the hall and back to her room.The house, the yard, and the garden were all silent, as if someone had died in the house.His aunts, servants, and even the peasants, it seemed to Pyotr Mihalitch, looked at him with unfathomable perplexity, as if to say: "Someone seduced your sister, why didn't you?" What about the movement?" He blamed himself for his inaction, but he didn't know what kind of action he should take.

About six days passed like this.On the seventh day, which was after lunch on Sunday, a letter came from a man on horseback.The lettering on the envelope was written in the handwriting of a woman he was familiar with: "To Mrs. Anna Nikolaevna Ivashina." For some reason Pyotr Mihalitch felt provocative, aggressive, liberal in this envelope, in this handwriting, in the word "Madame."And women's liberalism is always tenacious, unrelenting, and ruthless. . . . "She would rather die than give in to her unhappy mother and make amends to her," thought Pyotr Mihalitch, going with the letter to his mother's room.

His mother was lying on the bed with all her clothes on.When she saw her son, she sat up abruptly, smoothed the white hair that had slipped from the cap, and quickly asked, "What's the matter? What's the matter?" "Here comes the letter..." said the son, handing the letter to her. In this house the name "Zina" and even the word "she" were not mentioned.When talking about Zina, she always doesn't mention her surname, but just says "I'm writing a letter" or "I'm leaving". ... The mother recognized her daughter's handwriting, her face became ugly and unhappy, and her white hair slipped out of the cap again.

"No!" she said, waving her hands as if the letter had burned her fingers. "No, no, take it away! I won't read anything!" The mother burst into tears, sad and ashamed.She evidently wanted to read the letter, but her pride would not allow her to do so.Pyotr Mihalitch realized that he must open the letter and read it aloud; but suddenly, with a fury he had never known before, he ran out into the yard and shouted to the rider: "You Go back and say no reply! No reply! Just say that, you beast!" He tore up the letter, and tears welled up in his eyes.He felt cruel, guilty, and unfortunate, and went out into the wild.

He was only twenty-seven years old, but he was already fat, with an old man's dress, his clothes were baggy, and he was asthmatic.He already had all the airs of an old bachelor landowner.He doesn't fall in love, doesn't want to get married, but only loves his mother, sister, nurse, and gardener Vasilich.He likes to eat good food, take naps, talk politics, and talk about noble issues. ... He had already graduated from college, but now he regarded it as if he had fulfilled the military service that young people between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five had to serve; at least, it was going on in his head every day His thoughts have nothing to do with the university and the sciences he has studied.

It was hot and quiet in the moor, as it always is before it rains.There was heat in the woods, and there was a strong smell of pine and rotting leaves.From time to time Pyotr Mihalitch stopped and wiped his wet brow.He inspected his autumn and spring crops, skirted the clover fields, and twice drove off a partridge and its chicks at the edge of the woods.He kept thinking that this unbearable situation could not be dragged on forever, it had to be brought to an end somehow.It doesn't matter whether it's stupid or absurd, it must be done anyway. "But what to do? How to start?" he asked himself, looking imploringly at the sky, then at the trees, as if begging them to help.

But the sky and the trees were silent.Sound faith could not help him; and common sense told him that there could be no other solution to this nagging problem than stupidity, and today's scene with the rider was by no means the last of its kind.It's scary to think about what will happen in the future! When he got home, the sun was almost setting.Only then did he feel that this problem could not be solved no matter what.Compromise with the fait accompli is not an option, nor is there no compromise, and there is no middle way.He took off his hat, fanned his face with his handkerchief, and walked along the road, about two versts from home, when a bell rang behind him.It was a string of bells, large and small, which were coordinated very delicately and successfully, making a glass-like tinkling sound.The only person with such bells on the carriage was Medovsky, the county police chief.He had been an officer in the hussars, wasted his fortune, was weak, and was a distant relation of Pyotr Mihalitch.The Ivashin family regarded him as one of their own, and he loved Zina very much with the tender feelings of his father.

"I'm just going to your house," he said, after Pyotr Mihalitch. "Come on in the car, I'll take you for a ride." He smiled slightly, looking very happy.Evidently he did not know that Zina had gone to the Vlassitch's.It is probable that he has heard the news, but does not believe it.Pyotr Mihalitch felt himself in an awkward position. "You are welcome," he stammered, blushing almost to the point of tears, not knowing what to lie or how to say it. "I'm glad," he went on, trying to put on a smile, "but . . . Zina's gone, and my mother's sick."

"What a pity!" said the police chief, staring blankly at Pyotr Mihalitch. "I was going to spend the evening at your house. But where is Zinaida Mihailovna?" "To Sinitsky's, and from there it seems to go to the monastery. I don't know very well." The chief of police talked for a while, then turned the horse's head and went back.Pyotr Mihalitch walked home, wondering with horror how the chief of police would feel when he knew the truth.Pyotr Mihalitch imagined this feeling, felt it, and at the same time went into the main room. "Help us, Lord, help us..." he thought.

When it came time for evening tea, his aunt was the only one sitting in the dining room, and her face always showed such an expression: Although she was weak and helpless, she would never allow anyone to insult her.Pyotr Mihalitch sat down at the other end of the table (he did not like his aunt) and began to drink tea in silence. "Your mother didn't have lunch again today," said his aunt. "You, Petrushka, should ask. Starvation is only hurting yourself. It's not a solution." Pyotr Mihalitch found it absurd that his aunt should intervene in other people's affairs, and seeing Zina go, she wanted to go too.He wanted to say a few words to contradict her, but he held back.As he restrained himself, he felt that the time had come for action, and that he had no strength left to endure.Either take immediate action or throw yourself on the ground, yelling and hitting your head on the floor.He pictured Vlassich and Zina, two contented freethinkers, currently kissing under a maple tree somewhere, and all the resentment and malice that had been smoldering in him during the past seven days fell on Vlassie Qi body.

"One man will come to seduce my sister and carry her away," he thought, "and another man will come to kill my mother, and another man will come to set fire to the house, or plunder it.  … All these All done in the name of personal friendship, noble thoughts, and willingness to suffer!" "No, it won't work!" Pyotr Mihalitch suddenly yelled, hitting the table with his fist. He jumped up and ran out of the dining room.In the stable stood one of the steward's horses, saddled.He got on and galloped to Vlasitch's house. There was a complete storm in his soul.He felt compelled to do something drastic and important, even if he regretted it afterwards for the rest of his life.Shall we just call Vlasich a villain, slap him, and challenge him to a duel?But Vlasich was by no means the kind of man who dared to stand up to a duel, and as for calling him a villain and slapping him, he would only become more pitiful and shrink back.These wretches who won't resist are the most annoying and difficult people.No matter what they do, they can get away with it.Even justice itself could not bear to stand up at the spectacle of this poor wretch, who, whenever he is reproached for what he deserves, raises his deeply guilty eyes, smiles wryly, and bows his head meekly in reply. to punish him. "That's all right. I'll whip him in front of her and give him a good deal of abuse," decided Pyotr Mihalitch. He rode through his woods and heath, imagining Zina speaking in defense of her actions about women's rights, about individual liberties, about the difference between formal marriage and free union in church. It doesn't make a difference.She would argue about things she didn't understand, like women do.At the end, she will probably ask: "What does this matter have to do with you? What right do you have to control this matter?" "No, I have no right," muttered Pyotr Mihalitch. "But that's better. . . . The rougher and the less entitled, the better." The weather is muggy.Down below, close to the ground, swarms of mosquitoes flew low like clouds, and crested wheat hens wailed mournfully in the wasteland.Everything predicted rain, but there was not a cloud in the sky.Pyotr Mihalitch crossed his field and galloped across the smooth and level field.He had ridden this road often, and knew every bush and every hollow on it.Before me, in the twilight, what looked like a black cliff from a distance was actually a red church.He could picture it all, down to the last detail, even the stucco on the gate, and the calves that kept grazing inside the enclosure.A verst to the right of the church there was a dark grove which belonged to Count Kortovich.Behind the woods is Vlasic's land. Behind the church and the count's woods came a great black cloud, in which now and then there were pale lightning flashes. "It's going to rain!" thought Pyotr Mihalitch. "Bless me, Lord, bless me." The horse ran so fast that it soon got tired, and Pyotr Mihalitch himself got tired. The dark cloud that brought the storm looked at him angrily, as if to persuade him to go home.He was a little scared. "I'm going to prove to them they're wrong!" he encouraged himself. "They will say that this is free love, this is personal freedom. But freedom is restraint, not at the mercy of lust. What they do is debauchery, not freedom!" At this time, he came to the edge of the count's great pond.Because of the dark clouds in the sky, the water in the pool turned dark blue and gloomy, and there was a smell of dampness and green moss in the pool.Beside the path are two willow trees, an old one and a young one, clinging to each other tenderly.It was in this very place about two weeks ago that Pyotr Mihalich and Vlasitch walked together and sang in a low voice a student song: "Youth is wasted without love, and youth is ruined." life. ... "Boring song! By the time Pyotr Mihalitch came out of the grove there was already a rumble of thunder in the sky, and the rustling of the trees was blowing their backs to the wind.You should go quickly.From this little grove to Vlasitch's estate one had only to cross a meadow, at most a verst.Here, old birch trees lined the road.They, like their master Vlasic, looked sad and pitiful, and like him, thin and slender.The big raindrops rustled the birches and grass.The wind died down suddenly, and the air smelled of damp earth and poplars.Ahead appeared Vlasic's fence and a yellow acacia, also tall and thin.A barren orchard can be seen where the fence has collapsed. Pyotr Mihalitch no longer thought of a slap or a whip, he wondered what he would do when he got to the Vlasitch's.He is guilty.He was afraid for himself and for his sister, and couldn't help trembling at the thought that he would meet her soon.How would she treat her brother?What would the two of them say?Do you want to hurry back before it's too late?While thinking this way, he spurred his horses up the avenue lined with linden trees, and ran towards the main house.He walked around a large lilac bush, and suddenly saw Vlasitch. Vlasitch, hatless, in a calico shirt and high boots, was walking, bowed under the heavy rain, from the corner of the house to the porch.Behind him is a workman with a hammer and a box of nails.They must have just finished repairing a windshield shutter. Vlasitch stopped short when he saw Pyotr Mihalitch. "Is that you?" he said, smiling slightly. "Ah, that's great." "Yes, you see, here I come..." whispered Pyotr Mihalitch, brushing the rain off himself with both hands. "Oh, that's very nice. I'm glad," said Vlasic, but he didn't hold out his hand, evidently he didn't dare to do so and waited for the other to do so. "This rain is good for the oats!" he said, looking at the sky. "yes." They walked into the house in silence.From the vestibule to the right, through a door, into another vestibule, then into the hall, and to the left is a small room where the steward lives in winter.Pyotr Mihalitch and Vlasitch entered the room. "Where did you catch the rain?" asked Vlasitch. "Not far. Near the house." Pyotr Mihalitch sat down on the bed.He was secretly happy because the rain was loud and the room was dark.It's better, it's not so scary, and you don't have to look at each other's faces.His resentment was over, leaving only fear and anger at himself. He felt that he had done something wrong from the beginning, and that he would not get any results by running this time. The two were silent for a while, pretending to be listening to the rain. "Thank you, Petrusha," Vlasitch began, clearing his throat. "I am very grateful that you are here. It shows your generosity and your character. I understand it. Please believe me, I take this very seriously. Please believe me." He glanced out of the window, stood still in the room, and continued: "It happened in a little secret, as if we were trying to keep it from you. These days, we thought that you might feel insulted by us and give birth to us." If you are angry, our happiness will appear incomplete. But please allow me to explain. We are not keeping secrets because we cannot trust you. First, it happened suddenly, as if inspired, and there was no room for careful consideration. Secondly, this is a private matter, and it is not good to speak of it to outsiders, ... It is not convenient for a third party, not even someone as close as you to intervene. But the main thing is that we have always strongly relied on you in this matter You will be magnanimous. You are a very magnanimous, very noble man. I can't thank you enough. If you need my life later on, you can just take it." Vlassich spoke in a calm, deep bass, always in the same key, as if humming.He was obviously very excited.Pyotr Mihalich felt that it was time for him to speak now, and to be silent while listening to others would be to him really trying to play the most magnanimous and noblest honest man, and yet he came here Not for that purpose.He got up quickly, gasped, and said in a low voice: "Listen, Grigory, you know, I like you, and I cannot wish my sister to find a better husband than you. But what happened now It's a scary thing! It's scary even to think about it!" "What's so terrible about it?" asked Vlasitch in a trembling voice. "It would be terrible if we did something bad, but it's not a bad thing!" "Listen, Grigory, you know I'm not prejudiced. But forgive me for telling the truth, in my opinion, you two are behaving too selfishly. Of course, I won't say that to Zina. , that would break her heart, but you must know that my mother is beyond description." "Yes, it's a painful thing," said Vlasitch, with a sigh. "We had foreseen that, Petrusha, but what can we do? If your conduct hurts someone, it's not bad. What can we do! Every action you take A serious step always hurts other people's hearts. If you go to fight for freedom, it will upset your mother too. What can be done! Whoever puts the safety of their loved ones above all else must give up all thought life." A bright flash of lightning flashed outside the window, and this flash seemed to change Vlasic's thinking.He sat down next to Pyotr Mihalitch and said something quite unnecessary. "I, Petrusha, adore your sister," he said. "Usually when I go to your house, every time I feel like I'm going on a pilgrimage, and I really admire her. Now my admiration is still growing day by day. In my mind She's much taller than my wife! Much taller!" said Vlasitch, waving his hands. "She is my god. From the day she lived with me, I have entered this house as if I had entered a temple. She is a rare, extraordinary, most noble woman!" "Hey, he's talking nonsense!" thought Pyotr Mihalitch.He doesn't like the word "woman". "Why aren't you officially married?" he asked. "How much does your wife want to divorce?" "Seventy-five thousand." "It's not a small amount. But what if you bargain with her?" "She won't give up a penny. What a wretched woman she is, man!" said Vlasitch, with a sigh. "I never told you about her before, and I hate her when I think of her, but now I have the chance, I will. I married her under the influence of a beautiful and pure thought. If If you want to know the details, you have to start from the beginning. There was a battalion commander in our regiment who lived with an eighteen-year-old girl, that is, took her casually, and lived with her for two months. Dumped her. She's in a dire situation, man. She's too embarrassed to go back to her parents, and they won't take her. Her lover dumped her, and she's pretty much down to the barracks. The officers in the regiment were outraged. They weren't saints themselves, but the despicable behavior was too glaring. Besides, the officers in the regiment couldn't stand the battalion commander. You know, to mess with him , the enraged warrant officers and second lieutenants all began to collect donations for the unfortunate girl. Well, we junior lieutenants sat down for a meeting, and this one took out five rubles, that one took ten, and all of a sudden, my My head was hot. I felt that this situation was a great opportunity to do a heroic work. I hastened to the girl and expressed my sympathy to her with warm words. When I went to her and afterwards I was very happy with her. I have always seen her as an insulted and damaged woman when I said I loved her passionately. Yes. . . . As a result, a week later, I proposed to her. My officers and colleagues Thinking that my marriage was incompatible with the dignity of an officer. This only fueled my fire. I, you know, wrote a long letter in which I testified that my deeds should be written in gold in the history of the regiment, and so on.This letter was sent to the head of the regiment, and I copied many copies and distributed it to my colleagues.Well, of course, I was emotional and inevitably wrote some scathing words.The regiment asked me to retire.I don't know where I have kept a draft of this letter, but I will try to show it to you in the future.The letter was written very emotionally.You will see what righteous and bright impulses I have experienced.After I retired, I brought my wife here.After my father died, there were only some debts, and I had no money of my own, but from the first day my wife entertained friends, liked to dress up, and played cards, so I had to mortgage the property.You know, she led a very bad life, and you were the only one of all my neighbors who didn't become her lover.After about two years, I gave her all the money I had at that time as compensation, and she went to live in the city.yes. ... Even now I give her twelve hundred rubles a year. Terrible woman!Dude, some flies lay their eggs on a spider's back so that the spider can't shake it off anyway.The eggs grow on the spider and suck the blood from its heart.This is how this woman grows on me and sucks the blood from my heart.She hates me and despises me because I've done something stupid, which is marrying a woman like her.She took no notice of my magnanimity at all.She said, "Smart people dropped me, and fools picked me up." In her opinion, only a poor idiot would do something like me. Man, I'm so sorry. Anyway, man, by the way Said, Fate has always tormented me. How it has tormented me." Listening to Vlasitch, Pyotr Mihalitch asked himself in bewilderment: what was it about this man that Zina fell in love with so much?He was old, forty-one, thin and gaunt, with a narrow chest, a long nose, and a gray beard.He seemed to be humming, had a sickly smile on his face, and waved his hands ugly as he spoke.He had neither health, nor handsome, manly manners, much less genteel manners, not even an air of joy, and always looked dishonorable in appearance, I don't know what. His attire was not elegant, and his surroundings were drab.He disapproved of poetry and painting because they "did not answer contemporary questions", that is to say he did not understand them.Music could not touch his heart.He is very poor at farming.His property has been managed in a mess by him. It has been mortgaged, and later mortgaged for the second time. According to the second mortgage contract, he has to pay 1/2 of the interest.In addition, there was a debt of ten thousand rubles due to unpaid promissory notes.When it came time to pay interest or send money to his wife, he would go about begging for money, looking as if his house was on fire; All the dry wood he used was sold for five rubles, and a bale of hay was sold for three rubles, and at last he ordered the removal of the orchard fence or the old frame of the hotbed to light the fire. .His pastures were trampled down by pigs, the young groves in the woods were trampled by the farmer's cattle, the old trees dwindled every winter, and beekeeping boxes and rusty buckets were left in the vegetable garden and orchard.He has neither talent nor talent, nor even ordinary living ability.In real life, he was a naive and weak person, easily deceived and offended, no wonder the peasants called him "foolish uncle". He was a freethinker, and in the county he was regarded as a Red, but even that seemed dull to him.His free thought lacks originality and enthusiasm.Whether indignant, furious, or happy, he was always the same, unattractive and tired.Even when he was passionate, he didn't raise his head, but still arched his back.But the most boring thing is that his beautiful and pure thoughts, after he talks about them, seem mediocre and outdated.Whenever he speaks, slowly and thoughtfully, of his pure and noble moments, of his best years, or of the young men who have always been, and are, ahead of society, or of rebuking The Russians, who say that at thirty they put on their homely robes and forget the principles of their almae matris, always remind one of old books that have been read long ago.When someone was staying overnight at his house, he would put a book by Pisarev or Darwin on that person's bedside table.If the man says they have been read, he goes out and fetches a book by Dobrolyubov. In this county, it's called free thought.Many people regard this kind of free thinking as a harmless and harmless eccentricity, but it made him deeply unhappy.To him this thought was no different from the fly's egg he had just said: it clung to him and sucked the blood from his heart.In the past, his eccentric Dostoevsky marriages, his long, illegible but emotional letters and copies, his endless misunderstandings, interpretations, disillusionments, and his debts , a second mortgage, a wife's allowance, a monthly loan, all of these are not good for anyone, or for anyone.Even now, he was just as busy as ever, pursuing heroic causes and meddling in other people's affairs.At the right opportunity, he continued to write long letters, copy copies, utter tiresome platitudes, talk about village communes, about strengthening cottage industries, about starting cheese manufactures, all in the same manner, as if he hadn't come up with his own brain. It is produced by mechanical means.Finally, there is this scandalous affair between him and Zina, no one knows how it will end! However, Zina was young, just twenty-two years old, good-looking, elegant, and cheerful.She liked to laugh, to talk, to argue, and to have a passion for music.She was good at dressing, reading, and setting up a good environment.She couldn't stand a room like this that smelled of leather boots and cheap liquor in her own home. She is also a free thinker, but in her free thought one can feel the full strength, the self-esteem of a young, strong, bold girl, and her eagerness to be better than others and better than others. Others are more original people. ... Then how did she fall in love with Vlasitch? "He is no different from Don Quixote, a stubborn dreamer, a madman," thought Pyotr Mihalitch, "but she is as weak-willed as I am, weak-hearted, easy-going. . . . Just give in without resistance. She loves him, but don't I like him myself, even though he..." Pyotr Mihalitch thought Vlasich was a good, honest, but narrow-minded and extreme person.In Vlasitch's agitation and suffering, and indeed in his whole life, he saw no lofty goals, immediate or distant, but only boredom and incapacity for life.His self-sacrifice and everything that Vlasich calls a heroic cause or a righteous passion seems to him to be a useless waste of energy, like a lot of ammunition wasted in vain, and empty guns were fired unnecessarily. .Vlassich fanatically believed that his thoughts were of the utmost integrity and infallibility, but he found this view naive and even morbid.As for Vlassich, who somehow managed to mix trivial and noble things all his life, he foolishly married and thought it was heroic, and later he lived with a woman and saw some kind of thought in it. victory, it is simply incomprehensible. But Pyotr Mihalitch still loved Vlasitch, felt a strength in him; for some reason he never had the courage to contradict him. Vlassich sat down very close to him so that he could speak in the dark amidst the patter of the rain.He had already cleared his throat and was about to tell some long story about his marriage, but Pyotr Mihalitch could not listen any longer.He was distressed at the thought of seeing his sister soon. "Yes, you're unlucky in life," he said softly, "but, sorry, we're getting off topic. We're not talking about business." "Yes, yes, that's true. So let's get back to business," Vlasic said, standing up. "I tell you, Petrusha, our consciences are clear. We did not marry, but our marriage was perfectly legal, and I do not need to prove it, and you do not need to listen to me. Thank God, you As liberated as I am, we can't disagree on that. Talking about our future shouldn't frighten you. I want Zina to be happy. I work so hard for it that I don't even sleep at night. Use all your strength. Her life will be fine.You have to ask: Can I do this?I can, man!If a person only thinks about one goal all the time, then his wish will not be difficult to achieve.But let's go to Zina.She should be cheered up. " Pyotr Mihalitch's heart began to beat violently.He got up and followed Vlasitch into the vestibule and from there into the hall.The only thing in this tall, gloomy room was a piano and a long row of ancient, brass-trimmed chairs, which had never been occupied.A candle was burning on the piano.From this hall they went silently into the dining room.It's also spacious and uncomfortable.In the middle of the room stood a large table, with a top of two boards and six thick legs, and there was only one candle burning.A clock was installed in a large red frame, like a shrine, and the hour hand pointed to half past two. Vlasitch opened a door leading to an adjoining room and said: "Zinochka, Petrusha has come to us!" Immediately there were hurried footsteps, and Zina came into the dining room.She was tall, plump, and very pale, just as Pyotr Mihalitch had seen her last at home.She wears a black skirt and red blouse with a large buckle on the belt.She put an arm around her brother and kissed his temple. "What a storm!" she said. "As soon as Grigory went out, I was the only one left guarding the whole house." She didn't panic, she looked at her brother sincerely and heartily, just like at home. Pyotr Mihalitch looked at her and was no longer disturbed. "But then again, you've never been afraid of storms," ​​he said, sitting down at the table. "Yes, but here are large rooms, and an old house, which vibrates when it thunders, like a chest of crockery. Generally speaking, it's a lovely house," she went on, in the Sit down opposite my brother. "Every room here has a vivid history. Come to think of it, Grigory's grandfather shot himself in my room." "We'll have money in August, and I'm going to fix up that little cottage in the orchard," Vlasic said. "For some reason, when it thunders, I can't help but think of his grandfather," Zina went on. "In this dining room, a man was once beaten to death." "It's true," Vlasitch affirmed, looking at Pyotr Mihalitch with his large eyes. "In the forties, a Frenchman named Olivier rented this estate. His daughter's portrait is still in our attic. She was very beautiful. According to my father, this Olivier looked down on the Russians, thought they were stupid, and played them cruelly. For example, he insisted that when the priest walked through the manor, he had to take off his hat when he was half a mile away. Or, every time Olivier The Er family drove through the village, and the church had to ring the bell. He treated the serfs, and those of low status, and of course he was even less polite. Once, the son of a Russian tramp passed by here. He was kind-hearted, much like Gogol. The seminary student Homa Brutt in the book of Lili. He asked to stay overnight, and the stewards liked him very much, so they left him to work in the counting house. There are various accounts of this incident. The farmer, and someone else said that Olivier's daughter seemed to be in love with him. I don't know which one is true, but one evening Olivier called him here, questioned him, and ordered to be shot. Him, you know, Olivier himself is sitting at this table, gulping down the Bordeaux, and looking at the seminarians who are raising horses. He is probably trying to extract a confession.打死了，他们就把他的尸首藏起来。据说那尸首被丢在柯尔托维奇的池塘里。这引起一场官司，可是那个法国人塞给当局几千卢布，他自己离开此地，到阿尔萨斯去了。正巧租期已满，事情就这么了结了。” “好一个坏蛋！”齐娜说，打了个哆嗦。 “不管奥里威尔也好，他女儿也好，我父亲都记得很清楚。 他说那个美人儿俊极了，同时又性情古怪。我猜想，神学校学生把两件事都做了，既煽动了农民，也打动了女儿的心。说不定这个人根本不是什么神学校学生，而是一个隐姓埋名的人呢。 " 齐娜沉思了。神学校学生和法国姑娘的故事显然把她的幻想引到远处去了。在彼得·米海雷奇看来，这个星期她的外貌一点也没改变，只是脸色显得更苍白了一点。她神态安详，平平稳稳，好象跟她哥哥一块儿到符拉西奇家来做客似的。可是彼得·米海雷奇却感到自己起了点变化。真的，以前她住在家里的时候，他什么话都敢跟她说，现在呢，他却连'你在这儿过得怎么样'这样简单的问题都问不出口了。这么问，似乎不妥当，也不必要。大概她自己也起了这样的变化。她并不急着把话题转到她母亲，转到她家里，转到她跟符拉西奇的爱情上去。她并不为自己辩白，也不说自由结合比合法婚姻好，更不激动，而是平静地思考奥里威尔的事情。 ……可是他们为什么忽然谈起奥里威尔的事情来了？ “你们两个人的肩膀都给雨淋湿了，”齐娜说，快活地笑了笑。她哥哥和符拉西奇这种小小的相似，使得她感动了。 彼得·米海雷奇却感到自己的处境十分可悲，十分可怕。 他想起他的空荡荡的家、那架关着的钢琴、齐娜那个如今再也没有人走进去的明亮的房间；他想起花园里林荫路上从此再也不会有那双小脚的足迹，喝晚茶以前再也不会有人大声笑着，跑出去游泳了。凡是他从小时候起就越来越留恋不舍的东西，凡是当初他坐在闷热的中学教室或者大学讲堂里喜欢想念的东西，例如明朗、纯洁、欢乐，一切使那所房子充满生命和亮光的东西，都已经悄然离去，一去不复返，跟一个什么营长、宽宏大量的准尉、淫荡的女人、开枪自杀的祖父等等粗鄙恶俗的故事混淆在一起了。……再要提起他的母亲，再要认为过去的事可以挽回，那就是不理解已经变得很清楚的事。 彼得·米海雷奇的眼睛里满含泪水，他那只放在桌上的手颤抖起来。齐娜猜出他在想什么，她的眼睛也发红，发亮了。 “格利果利，到这儿来！”她对符拉西奇说。 他们两人走到窗前，开始小声讲话。凭符拉西奇低下头凑近她的样子，凭她看着他的样子，彼得·米海雷奇再一次体会到事情已经无可挽回地定局，没有必要再谈什么了。齐娜走出去了。 “是啊，老兄，”符拉西奇沉默了一忽儿，开口说，搓着手，微微地笑。“我刚才说我们的生活幸福，那只是顺应所谓文学的要求罢了。实际上幸福的感觉还没有。齐娜始终在想你，想她母亲，心里难过。我瞧着她，心里也难过。她生性爱好自由，勇敢，然而你知道，不习惯这局面，却是件苦事，再说，她年轻。仆人称呼她太太，这似乎是小事，可是惹得她不痛快。就是这样的，老兄。” 齐娜端来满满的一盘草莓。她身后跟着一个矮小的使女，带着驯服、畏缩的神情。她把装着牛奶的高水罐放在桌子上，深深地一鞠躬。……她跟那些古老的家具倒有共同之处，也那么麻木而乏味。 雨声已经听不见了。彼得·米海雷奇吃着草莓，符拉西奇和齐娜默默地瞧着他。那种不必要而又无法回避的谈话就要开始了。三个人都感到它的沉重。彼得·米海雷奇的眼睛里又含满泪水，他推开面前的盘子，说他现在该回家，要不然就会太迟，说不定要下雨了。这就到了齐娜出于礼貌必须谈一谈家里人，谈一谈自己新生活的时候了。 “我们家里怎么样？”她很快地问，她那苍白的脸颤抖起来。“妈妈怎么样？” “你知道妈妈的脾气，……”彼得·米海雷奇说，眼睛没看她。 “彼得鲁沙，关于已经发生的事，你已经想得很多了，”她说，拉住她哥哥的衣袖，他明白，她讲话的时候心里是多么难受。“你想了很久，那么告诉我，是不是可以指望妈妈日后容得下格利果利，……一般地说容得下这种局面？” 她站得离她哥哥很近，脸对着脸，他暗暗惊讶她长得美极了，以前他似乎没有留意到这一点。他想到他妹妹长得象妈妈，娇柔，文雅，却住在符拉西奇家里，跟符拉西奇同居，身旁有一个神情麻木的使女，有一张六条腿的桌子，住在一所以前活活打死过人的房子里；想到她目前不会跟他一起回家，却留在这里过夜，他就觉得这简直荒唐极了。 “你知道妈妈的脾气，……”他说，没有回答她的问话。 “依我看来，应当遵守……应当做点什么事，请求她原谅什么的。……”“然而请求原谅就等于装出我们做了坏事的样子。为了叫妈妈得到安慰，我倒也准备说谎，可是要知道，这是不会有什么结果的。我知道妈妈的脾气。哎，听天由命吧！”齐娜说着，快活起来，因为最不愉快的话已经说出口了。“我们等它五年或者十年，我们要有耐心，到那时候再看上帝的意旨吧。” 她挽起哥哥的胳膊，当她穿过幽暗的前厅时，她的身子紧贴他的肩膀。 他们走到门廊上。彼得·米海雷奇告辞，骑上马，缓步走去。齐娜和符拉西奇步行送他一程。四下里安静而温暖，弥漫着干草的美妙的香气；天上那些浮云中间，有些星星在明亮地放光。符拉西奇那个历年来目睹过许多惨事的老花园，笼罩在昏暗中，睡熟了；不知什么缘故，人骑着马穿过这个花园，心里就会觉得忧伤。 “我和齐娜今天吃过午饭以后度过一段真正愉快的时光！”符拉西奇说。“我给她朗诵一篇关于移民问题的精采论文。你该看一遍，老兄！你务必要看一遍！这篇文章写得十分实在！我忍不住写了封信给编辑部，托他们转交作者。我只写了一行：”我感激您，紧紧地握您诚实的手！'“彼得·米海雷奇本来想说：”请你不要去管那种跟你不相干的事吧！“可是他没有说出口。 符拉西奇靠着他右边的马镫走，齐娜靠着他左边的马镫走，两人仿佛忘记应该回家去了。天气潮湿，他们离柯尔托维奇的小树林不远了。彼得·米海雷奇感到他们在等他说出一些话来，至于究竟是什么话，连他们自己也不知道，于是他可怜起他们来了，替他们难过得不行。现在他们带着温顺的神情，沉思不语，在马旁边走着，他这才深深地相信他们并不幸福，也不可能幸福。他们的爱情，依他看来，是一种可悲的、无可挽救的错误。他满腔怜悯，又感到自己没有办法帮助他们，于是生出一种无可奈何的心情；为了摆脱沉重的怜悯心情，他简直情愿作出任何牺牲。 “我将来要到你们家来住一夜，”他说。 不过，这象是他在作出让步似的，他心里感到不满意。可是，当他们在柯尔托维奇的小树林旁边停下来告别之际，他却向齐娜弯下腰去，碰到她的肩膀，说：“你，齐娜，是对的。你做得好！” 为了避免多说话，避免哭出来，他就用鞭子抽马，跑进小树林里去了。他钻进幽暗的小树林，回过头来，看见符拉西奇和齐娜正往回家的路上走去，他迈开大步，她挨近他，踩着急促的、一颠一纵的步子，两个人正在活跃地谈着什么。 “我简直成了老婆婆，”彼得·米海雷奇想。“我原是来解决问题的，可是反而把问题弄得更加复杂了。哎，随它去吧！” 他心头沉重。等到小树林走完，他就让马的脚步放慢，然后在池塘旁边勒住马。他想一动也不动地坐在马上，想一想。 月亮升上来，映在远处的水面上，象是一根红柱子。雷声在什么地方闷闷地响着。彼得·米海雷奇目不转睛地瞧着池水，想象他妹妹的绝望心情，她那痛苦、苍白的脸容，她那双为了把自己的委屈瞒住外人而不流泪的眼睛。他想象日后她会怀孕，想象他母亲会去世，想象葬礼，想象齐娜的凄惨。……那骄傲的、迷信的老太太临了一定会死掉。在他眼前，一幅幅未来的可怕画面在乌黑平滑的水面上升起来，他在那些脸色苍白的女人身影当中看见了他自己，战战兢兢，软弱无能，带着惭愧的脸色。……池塘右岸，百步开外，立着一个黑糊糊的东西，一动也不动：那是人呢，还是高树桩？彼得·米海雷奇想起那个神学校学生，他被人打死以后就是丢在这个池塘里的。 “奥里威尔做事惨无人道，可是话说回来，他好歹总算把问题解决了，我呢，却什么也没解决，反而把问题弄乱了，”他暗想，凝神看着那个幽灵般的黑影。“他按他自己的想法说话和办事，可是我所说和所做的都不是我自己所想的。再说，我所想的究竟是什么，我自己也不十分清楚。……”他往黑影那边走过去，原来那是从前某个建筑物残存下来的一根朽烂的旧柱子。 从小树林里和柯尔托维奇的庄园上飘来铃兰和带蜜的花草的浓香。彼得·米海雷奇在池塘边上走来走去，悲怆地瞧着池水，想起自己的生活，暗自相信到目前为止他所说的和所做的都不是他所想的，别人对他也是如此；因此，如今在他眼里，全部生活就象映着夜晚的天空、纠结着许多水草的池水那样黑。而且他觉得，这是无法补救的。 "Notes" ①上文的齐娜和下文的齐诺琪卡均为齐娜伊达的爱称。 ②彼得鲁希卡和下文的彼得鲁沙都是彼得的爱称。 ③拉丁语：养我育我的母亲（高等学校的古称）。 ④果戈理的小说《地精》的主人公。 ——Russian text editor's note ⑤一种红葡萄酒。