Chapter 13 artist's wife

artist's wife Chekhov Translated from...Portuguese Alfonso Zinzaga, the freest citizen in Lisbon, the capital city, is a young novelist, but in terms of fame...but he alone knows it, and in terms of great future...he is the only one who counts on it.On one occasion he came home, exhausted and as hungry as the hungriest dog, after a whole day of running about on the sidewalks here and there, in and out of the editorial offices.He lived in room one hundred and forty-seven in a hotel which, in one of his novels, he aliased "The Poisoned Swan."He walked into Room 147, took a look at his small, low-rise residence, wrinkled his nose, lit a candle, and a gripping picture unfolded before his eyes.Among the piles of papers, books, last year's newspapers, worn chairs, boots, pajamas, knives and hats lay his beautiful wife, Amaranda, lying on a small chaise longue with a gray-blue cover. , fast asleep.The tender Zinzaga walked up to her, pondered for a while, and took her hand.She didn't wake up.He took her other hand again.

She sighed deeply, but did not wake up.He just patted her on the shoulder, tapped her marble forehead with his fingers, touched her leather shoes, pulled her dress, sneezed audibly throughout the hotel, and she... didn't even move one time. "Sleep soundly!" Zinzaga thought to himself. "What's the matter? Was she poisoned? The failure of my latest novel may have had a strong effect on her. ..." Zinzaga stared wide-eyed and rocked the recliner.A book slid slowly from Amaranta, its pages rustling and clattering to the floor.The novelist picked up the book, opened it, and immediately turned pale.This is no other book, and it is by no means a random book, but a novel he had recently written and published at the expense of Count Don Balabanda Alimonda. Fourteen Men Who Married Twenty Wives were Sentenced in Carriage".This novel, readers, understands that it describes life in Russia, and therefore the most interesting life, when all of a sudden... "She fell asleep reading my novel!?!" Zinzaga muttered road.

"How disrespectful she was to Count Balabanda Alimonda's publishing work, to the fruits of Alfonso Zinzaga's labors! And he gave her the honorable name of Zinzaga!" "Woman!" Zinzaga let go of his Portuguese throat and yelled, beating the edge of the couch with his fist. Amaranda sighed deeply, opened her dark eyes, and smiled. "Is that you, Alfonso?" she said, holding out her hand to him. "Yes, it's me!... Are you asleep? Are you... asleep?..." Alfonso muttered, sitting down on a rickety chair. "What did you do before you fell asleep?"

"I went to my mother's house to borrow money." "and after?" "Read your novel." "Then you fell asleep? Tell me! Then you fell asleep?" "And then fell asleep. . . . Why, why are you angry, Alfonso?" "I'm not angry, but sad: You treat my work so carelessly, and this kind of work will definitely give me fame, if it hasn't given me yet! You fell asleep reading my novels! I am That's how I understand why you fell asleep!" "Stop it, Alfonso! I have read your novels with gusto. . . . I have been fascinated by this novel of yours. I... I... I was particularly moved by one scene, that of the young writer Alfonso. So Stenja shot himself.

..." "That scene is not in this novel, but in "A Thousand Fires"!" "Really? So which scene in this novel touched my heart? Oh, right. ... I cried when I read that the Russian Marquis Ivan Ivanovich jumped out of the window and fell into the river...in the river...in the Volga. " "Ah... hey!" "He blessed Viscountess Ksenia Petrovna when he drowned. . . . I was very moved. . . . " "If you were really moved, how could you fall asleep?" "I'm very sleepy! You know I didn't sleep last night. You are so cute. You read your excellent new novel to me all night. I can't just sleep and not listen to your reading, and give up this kind of happiness..." "Ahhhhh! I see. Bring me something to eat!"

"Have you not eaten yet?" "No." "But you told me this morning before you left that you dined with the editor-in-chief of the Lisbon Provincial News today, didn't you?" "Yeah, I thought my poem was going to be in the News, damn it!" "Could it be that they didn't publish it?" "No.……" "That's bad luck! I've hated editors with all my heart since I was your wife! Are you hungry?" "hungry." "Poor Alfonso! Then you have no money?" "Hmph... there's no need to ask?! Don't you have any food at all?"

"No, my friend! My mother gave me a meal and gave me no money." "Ok……" The chair clicked.Zinzaga stood up and began to walk up and down. ...He walked for a while, thought for a while, and had an extremely strong desire, intending to convince himself that hunger is a sign of cowardice, and that life is to fight against nature, not just to fill the stomach with bread, who would not suffer? Anyone who is hungry is not an artist, and so on.He might have really convinced himself, but it happened that in his thinking he thought of his neighbor next door, the Italian genre painter Francesco Butronza in Room 148 of "Poisoned Swan". A talented and somewhat famous person, remembering that he has the ability to get food every day, this ability can never be said to be unimportant in the world, but Zinzaga has never learned it.

"Then I'll go to him!" Zinzaga decided, and went out to find the neighbor. Zinzaga walked into Room 148, and saw a scene that he admired as a novelist, and at the same time made him nervous as a hungry man.The novelist sees his friend Francesco Butronza among the many picture frames, canvas frames, mannequins with missing arms, easels, and chairs covered with faded garments of different kinds and eras, when he Hopes of having dinner with friends were dashed. ... So Francesco Boutronza, wearing his hat on one side like Van Dick, and wearing a Peter Arminschi costume, was standing on a stool, shaking his painting Wrist support, wow wow.He looked terrible.He had one foot on the stool and the other on the table.His face was flushed, his eyes were shining, his beard was trembling, his hair stood on end, and he seemed to throw his hat into the air at any moment.In the corner stood a statue of Apollo, missing an arm, a nose, and a large triangular slit in his chest.Francesco Butronza was having a fit of temper, and his wife was standing next to the statue.Her name was Carolina, she was a German woman, and she looked at the lamp with trepidation.She was pale and trembling.

"Barbarians!" bellowed Butronca. "You don't love art, kill art, hell! How could I marry you, a cold-blooded Germanic woman?! How could I, a fool who was as free as the wind, an eagle, an antelope, an artist in short, be united with such a small piece of ice made of prejudice and superficiality. ... diabolo ④! ! !You are ice!You are like a piece of beef!You...you idiot!Cry, you wretched, overcooked bratwurst!Your husband is an artist, not a small businessman!cry *********** ① Wan Dike (1599-1641), a Dutch painter.In his portrait, he wears a large black hat with a wide brim askew.

② An ascetic monk in medieval France who participated in the Crusades. ——Russian text editor's note ③The god of the sun and light in ancient Greek mythology, the protector of art. ④Italian: Devil. You beer bottle!Zinzaga, is that you?you don't go!wait a minute!I'm glad you're here. ...Look at this woman! " Boutronza stretched his left foot towards the woman.Carolina was crying. "Forget it!" Zinzaga said. "What are you arguing about, Mr. Butronza? What can Mrs. Butronza do to you? Why do you make her cry? Remember your great country, Mr. Butronza, your country is A country that unites the worship of beauty with the worship of women! Remember!"

"I'm furious!" exclaimed Butronca. "Put yourself in my shoes and think about it! You know, I have set out to paint a large picture on the advice of Count Balabanda Alimonda. ... The count asked me to paint Susanna from the Old Testament. ... I begged her, here, this fat German woman, undressed, to be my model, I've been begging her since early in the morning, sometimes kneeling before her, sometimes losing her temper, but she won't!Put yourself in my shoes and think about it!Can I draw without a model? " "I can't do it!" Carolina cried. "You know it's ugly!" "Did you see it? Did you see it? This is also a reason, to hell with her!" "I can't do it! Honestly, I can't do it! He told me to take off my clothes and stand in front of the window..." "I need this! The woman I'm going to paint is in the moonlight! The moonlight On her breasts. . . . The Philistines ran together, holding torches, and the light of the torches shone on her back. . . . It was so colorful! I couldn't help painting it like this!" "For the sake of art, ma'am," said Zinzaga, "you must forget not only shame, but all . Look!" "Let's see. . . . Yes, let us think, Mrs. Boutronza, that you are afraid of the eyes of crowds. In fact, the so-called crowds, if you look at them . . . Art and reason, ma'am, . Yes, that's..." Zinzaga said things that a wise man could not say and could not write, that is, very decent things that were extremely difficult to understand. Carolina shook her hands and ran up and down the room, as if afraid that she would be forced to strip her naked. "I wash his paintbrushes, wash his palette, wash his rags, my clothes are stained by his paintings, I go to the tutor's house to feed him, I sew his clothes, I suffer the smell of hemp seed oil , how many days in a row I stood as a model for him, I did everything, but... now I am called naked? Naked? Then I can’t do it!!!” "I'm going to divorce you, red-haired shrew!" cried Boutronza. "Where am I going then?" Carolina exclaimed. "You give me money first, let me go back to Berlin where you brought me out, and then divorce me!" "Okay! I'm done painting Susanna, and I'll send you to your Prussia, to that country full of cockroaches, rotten sausages, and trichinella!" cried Boutronza, bumping his elbow inadvertently. her breasts. "If you can't sacrifice yourself to art, you're not worthy to be my wife! Savage... savage.... devil!" Carolina burst into tears, put her head in her arms, and sat down in a chair. "What are you doing?!" Butronca yelled. "You're sitting on my palette!!" Carolina stood up.Sure enough, there was a palette of freshly mixed paints under her body. ... Ah, God!Why am I not a painter?If I were a painter, I would dedicate a great painting to Portugal!Zinzaga shook his hand and slipped out of Room 148, thankful that he was not a painter, but also saddened that although he was a novelist, he had not been able to eat with painters. At the door of Room 147, he met a woman with pale face, flustered expression, and trembling all over.She was the tenant of Room 113, the wife of the future Royal Theater actor Pyotr Petručica Petrulio. "What's wrong with you?" Zinzaga asked her. "Oh, Mr. Zinzaga! We've got into trouble! What's the matter? My Peter's hurt!" "How did you get hurt?" "He was practicing jumping from the top and bumped his head on the box." "Unlucky man!" "He's dying! What's the matter?" "Go to the doctor, madam!" "But he doesn't want a doctor! He doesn't believe in medicine, and besides...he's in debt to all the doctors." "If that's the case, go to the pharmacy and buy a salt solution. This medicine is very effective for wounds." "How much is a bottle of this potion?" "Cheap, very cheap, ma'am." "Thank you. You will always be a good friend to my Peter! We have a little money left, which he earned by performing at Count Balabanda Alimonda's. ... I don't know if this money is enough.You... can you lend me some money to buy that sauce? " "Salt salt, madam." "We will return it to you shortly." "I can't do it, ma'am. I bought three reams and spent all my money." "Then goodbye!" "I wish you well!" Zinzaga said, bowing. Before the wife of the future actress of the Royal Theater could leave him, he saw approaching him the tenant of room No. 101. Finbach ①, cello and flute player Ferginanda Rai. "What do you want?" he asked her. "Mr. Zinzaga," said the opera singer-musician's wife, wringing her hands. "Please take care of that rambunctious fellow of mine! You're his friend. . . . Maybe you can stop him. The shameless man sings so loudly in the morning that I can't live The kid couldn't sleep, and I was torn apart by his baritone voice! For God's sake, Mr. Zinzaru! I'm even ashamed to see my neighbors because of him. ...Do you believe it or not? Even the neighbor's children can't sleep because of him. Excuse me, come with me! Maybe you can control him anyway." "Yes, ma'am!" Zinzaga offered an arm to the opera singer-musician's wife, and she ①A beautiful, chaste woman accused of infidelity in the Old Testament. ② Offenbach (1819-1880), French composer, master of classical operetta. Hold on, and walk to Room 101.Room No. 101 had a queen-size bed that took up half the place, a cradle that took up a quarter, and a music stand between the bed and the cradle.On the music stand is a yellow sheet of music, and Portugal's future Offenbach is looking at it and singing.It was hard to understand what he was singing for a while.Only by his perspiring red face, by the effect he had on his own and other people's ears, could one infer that he sang poorly, laboriously, like mad.It seems that he is living a life of suffering by singing.He beat time with his right foot and fist, and at the same time he held his arms and legs high, knocking off the music on the music stand.He stretched his neck, narrowed his eyes, tilted his mouth, and beat his stomach with his fist. ... In the cradle lay a little living being, shouting and howling, screaming and screaming, to accompany his hoarse father. "Mr. Rai, should you rest now?" Zinzaga came in and asked Rai. Rai didn't hear it. "Mr. Ray, should you rest now?" Zinzaga asked again. "Take him away!" sang Ray, jerking her chin toward the cradle. "What song are you practicing?" Zinzaga asked aloud, trying to drown out Rai's voice. "What song are you practicing?" Ray couldn't catch his breath, so he stopped talking and stared blankly at Zinzaga. "What's your business?" he asked. "Me? Oh... I... That is to say... It's time for you to rest now?" "But what does it matter to you?" "But you are tired, Mr. Ray! What song are you practicing?" "A hymn to my lord Count Balabanda Alimonda. But what does it matter to you?" "It's night time, though. . . . Now, in a sense, it's time for sleep. . . . " "I'll sing till ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Sleep won't do us any good. Who likes to sleep , let someone sleep, and I, for the good of Portugal, and perhaps for the good of the whole world, should not sleep." "But, my friend," put in his wife, "me and our child are going to bed! You're shouting so loudly that no one else can go to sleep, not even sitting in this room!" "If you want to sleep, you can sleep well!" After saying this, Ray beat the time with his feet and began to sing. Zinzaga plugged his ears and escaped from Room 101 like a madman.When he returned to his room, he saw an exciting scene.His Amaranda was sitting at the table, copying out his novella.Big tears fell from her big eyes and dripped on the draft pad. "Amaranda!" he cried, grabbing his wife's hand. "Has the poor hero of my poor novella moved you to tears? Is that so, Amaranda?" "No, I'm not crying for your hero..." "Then why are you crying?" asked a disappointed Zinzaga. "My girlfriend Sofia Feldrabanjero Neracruz Rozga, wife of your friend the sculptor, has her husband already in shape to dedicate to Balabanda The statue of Earl Alimonda was smashed,...she saw her husband sad, couldn't bear it,...so she swallowed a match and killed herself!" "Poor . What about the subject matter!!! However, this subject matter is not very interesting!... In this world, everyone is going to die. ... Either today or tomorrow, or tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, your girlfriend will die anyway. ... Wipe away your tears, instead of crying, you might as well listen to what I have to say. ...""A new outline for a novel? "Amaranta asked in a low voice. "correct.……" "Wouldn't it be better for me to listen to you tomorrow morning, my friend? To be more or less clear-headed in the morning. . . . " "No, listen today. Tomorrow I don't have time. To-morrow morning I must call on him. With him, and your favourite. . . sorry to say, . . . and your favourite, Victor Hugo." "yes?" "Yes. . . . Then listen to me!" Zinzaga sat down across from Amaranda, threw back his head, and began to speak: "The plot takes place all over the world. . . . Portugal, Spain, France, Russia, Brazil, etc. The hero is in a newspaper in Lisbon. Read about the heroine's misfortune in New York. He went. He was caught by pirates who were bought by Bismarck's spies. The heroine is a French spy. Hints in the newspapers. ……British.Polish pies in Austria and gypsies in India.conspiracy.The hero goes to prison.They planned to buy him off.have you understood?Next..." Zinzaga spoke movingly and passionately, shaking his hands, his eyes sparkling, ... he talked for a long time, ... he was so damn long! Twice Amaranda fell asleep and woke up twice, the street lights went out and the sun came up, but he was still talking.The clock struck six and Amaranta felt sick to her stomach and wanted to drink her morning tea, but he kept on talking. "Bismarck tendered his resignation. The hero, not wishing to remain anonymous, gave his name, Alfonso Zonzuga, and died in great pain. The quiet angel sent his quiet soul to the blue sky. . . . " Wait until the clock strikes seven Next, Zinzaga is finished. "How?" he asked Amaranda. "What do you think? Do you think the scene between Alfonso and Maria will pass the censors? Huh?" "No, that scene is very moving!" "On the whole, is the novel any good? You tell the truth. You're a woman, and most of my readers are women, so I must know your opinion." "How should I tell you? I feel as if I have met you, the hero, somewhere, but I can't remember exactly where...." "That's impossible!" "Really. I met your hero in a novel, and it must be said that it was a very boring novel! When I read the novel, I wondered that such absurd things How did it ever get published. I read it and concluded that the author must at least be as stupid as a piece of wood. . . . The absurd stuff is printed upside down, and so little of yours is printed. What a queer thing!" "You should at least remember the name of the novel?" "I can't remember the title of the book, but I do remember the name of the hero. ... I remember this name very well, because it has four characters 'er' in a row. ... What a ridiculous name, ...Karererer Lo!" "Could it be in the book "The Female Sleepwalker in the Sea"?" "Yes, yes, yes, in that book. How well you remember our literary works! It is in that book. . . . Your hero is very much like Karl Erlo, but, of course, your character Much smarter. What's the matter with you, Alfonso?" Alfonso jumped up. ""The Female Sleepwalker in the Sea" is my novel!!!" he cried. Amaranda blushed. "So my novel, my work, is boring?" he shouted so loudly that Amaranta's throat ached. "Hmph, you stupid duck! Is that how you see my work, Madame? Is that so, donkey? You have accidentally told the truth? You will never see me again! Good-bye." Humph... bah... idiot! My novels are boring?! Count Balabanda Alimonda knows what he publishes?" Zinzaga cast a contemptuous glance at his wife, pulled his hat low over his eyes, and walked out of Room 147, slamming the door behind him. Amaranda sighed, but she didn't cry, and she didn't pass out on the spot.She knew that no matter how angry Alfonso Zinzaga was, he would always return to Room 147. ... For the novelist, to leave Room 147 forever was to start living under the blue Portuguese skies, to write on the sidewalks of Lisbon, and to find an unpaid girl scribe.Amaranda knew this, and she was not much worried when her husband left.She just sighed and started to comfort herself.As a rule, after such frequent quarrels between husband and wife, she comforted herself with the reading of an old newspaper. The old newspapers were stored in the tin box where she used to hold candy, together with the small empty bottle of perfume.In addition to advertisements, telecommunications, politics, current affairs and other human affairs, the old newspaper also has a pearl, which is the so-called miscellaneous column in the newspaper.There were stories in the miscellaneous column about how one American managed to outmaneuver another American, and about how the famous singer, Miss Dubardora Swister, ate up a vat of oysters without getting wet. The boots just turned over the Andes, and there's another little story well suited to comfort Amaranda and the other artists' wives.Now I reproduce the story as follows: "Attention the Portuguese and their daughters. In a city in America discovered by Christopher Columbus, a man of great energy and courage, lived the Physician Tanner. The Tennier is not so much a scientist as an idiosyncratic artist, so he is known both on Earth and in Portugal not as a scientist but as an idiosyncratic artist. He is an American and at the same time an ordinary man, an ordinary man He was bound to fall in love sooner or later, and once he did. He fell in love with a beautiful American woman, and he fell in love with him as much as an artist, so much so that he once prescribed aquae distillatae3 instead of agentum nitricum4 Then he proposed and finally got married. At first he was very happy with the beautiful American woman, but in the end, contrary to the nature of the honeymoon, he extended the honeymoon ⑤ not for one month but for six months ⑥. ① Terzavin (1743-1816), Russian poet, representative of classicism. ②Mountains in Latin America are not rivers and lakes. ③ Latin: distilled water. ④ Latin: silver nitrate. ⑤ The honeymoon is shorter than usual.The honeymoon is only twenty days and five hours, fifteen minutes and sixteen seconds. ——Annotation by Chekhov ⑥ Impossible. ——Annotation by Chekhov There is no doubt that Tennell was a learned man, and therefore the easiest man to live with, and they would have lived happily ever after if he had not discovered a terrible vice in his wife.Mrs. Tennell's vice was that she ate like most people.This vice of his wife pained Tennell. 'I'm going to re-educate her! ' He set himself the task, and began to enlighten Mrs. Tennell.First he taught her not to eat breakfast and supper, and secondly to drink tea.After a year of marriage, Mrs. Tennell's lunch was no longer four courses, but only one.After two years of marriage, she has been limited to a surprisingly small amount of food.The amounts of nutrients she ate and drank throughout the day and night are listed below: Salt 1 paste ① protein 5 gel fat 2 curry Water (distilled) 7 gram Hungarian wine 1 1/23 paste A total of 16 1/23 curry "We didn't count the gas because science hasn't yet dictated exactly how much we need. Tannell won, but not for long. In his fourth year of marriage, an idea began to torment him, that Tannell Mrs. Neil was on too much protein supplements. The more he worked on training her, and if he hadn't felt that he no longer loved his wife, he might have achieved his goal and reduced five curries to one or zero. He A lover of beauty, he could not but dislike his wife. Mrs. Tennell, instead of being an American beauty to her old age, turned into something like an American log for no reason, whimsical, and lost all her beauty and wit, This shows that although she is still suitable for further training, she is not suitable for married life at all. Dr. Tannell asked for a divorce. So learned experts came to his house to examine Mrs. Tannell from all aspects and persuade her Going to the spa, doing gymnastics, giving her recipes, thinking their esteemed colleague's request was perfectly legitimate. Dr. Tannell gave the colleague and expert a gold dollar each, and treated them to a good meal Breakfast, and then... Since then, the doctor lives in one place and his wife in another. Sad story! Women, you are often the source of disaster for great men.Women, is it not your fault that great men often lack offspring?Portuguese, you have a duty on your conscience to educate your daughters!Don't raise your daughters to be destroyers of happy families! !I'm done.Tomorrow is the editor-in-chief's birthday, so this newspaper will suspend publication for one day.Portuguese!Those of you who haven't paid the full subscription fee should pay it quickly! " "Poor Mrs. Tanner!" whispered Amaranta, after finishing the little story. "Poor woman! How unhappy she is! Oh, how happy I am in comparison with her! how happy i am! " Amaranta secretly rejoiced that there were people in the world less unfortunate than herself, so she carefully folded the newspaper and put it back in the box, and then, glad to know that she was not Mrs. Tennell, undressed and lay down to sleep up. She slept until Alfonso Zinzaga, who was very hungry, came to call her, and then woke up. "I want to eat!" Zinzaga said. "Put on your clothes, my dear, and ask your madre for money. But, propos: I apologize. I was wrong. I was just now visiting the Russian writer Terzavin with another Russian writer. Lermontov came with him. According to Terchavin, there are two novels with the same title, "The Sleepwalker in the Sea", but with completely different contents. go, my friend! " While Zinzaga was dressing Amaranta, he told her about a story he was going to write, noting in passing that he would require a sacrifice on her part to write this heart-wrenching story. "It's not a big sacrifice, my friend!" he said. "You have to write down my description by my dictation, which will cost you seven or eight hours at most, and then you will write it down. By the way, write down your thoughts on all my works on a piece of paper. ...you are a woman, and most of my readers are women. ..." Zinzaga lied a bit. It's not that most of his readers are women, it's that all of his readers are one woman, because Amaranda isn't "many women", just "one woman" . "Do you agree?" "Okay," whispered Amaranta, pale, and fell unconscious on top of a battered, dusty encyclopedia that was always neglected. ... "These women are queer!" exclaimed Zinzaga. "I'm right, I said in "A Thousand Fires": a creature like a woman will always be a mystery to human beings, and it will always surprise people! As long as there is a little happy event, she can be so happy that she fainted to the ground ! O woman's temper! " Happy Zinzaga knelt down before unhappy Amaranda and kissed her on the forehead. ... Ladies and gentlemen, that is the way it is! You must know, girls and widows, that these artists must never be married to you!The Ukrainian said it well: "God bless, tell those artists to go!" Better, girls and widows, to live in any little tobacco shop, or It is better to simply sell geese in the market. Really, it couldn't be better than this! ① One gelatin is equal to 0.062 grams. ②Spanish: Mother. ③French: By the way.