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与前一篇契诃夫的小说“牵狗女士”改编版类同，这篇也是以自己独特方式改编的契诃夫另一部小说“姚内奇医生”的压缩版。此版本在一些细节描述方面做了自我发挥，与原著不尽相同，希望大家能够接受。另外，我尽量把篇幅压缩到最小限度，来节约网友们的宝贵时间，并期待能更有效地介绍名作家的作品，以飨读者。
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年轻有为的姚内奇成为了一名地区医生，在离S镇6英里的地方开业。他结识了镇上以家庭演出而闻名的图耳金一家。图耳金家庭演出通常由丈夫伊万唱主角，以幽默的方式讲述一些轶事、谚语、和笑话。他的妻子维拉则大声地给客人朗读她自己写的小说。这对热情好客的夫妇对姚内奇尤为关照，并且特地向他介绍起家中18岁的女儿。
“叶卡捷琳娜，给客人演奏一曲，” 伊万呼唤着女儿。
一位富于朝气的妙龄少女跃然而出，她熟练地打开钢琴，坐下后立即弹奏起一段颇具难度的曲子。她的肩膀不停摇晃，胸脯上下起伏，双手强劲有力，琴声回响在天花板上，连地板和家具都随之共振。平心而论，女孩的演技并不专业，甚至有点笨拙，但是，当她曲终起身的时候，姚内奇的目光却被那健美活泼的身姿所吸引。他不禁再次打量起女孩，那种纯真优雅，青春艳丽的形象，不知不觉地在自己心口掀起了层层波澜，一切是多么地愉悦，多么地新颖。。。
“太棒了，超赞！” 姚内奇击掌喝彩。
年轻的医生成了图耳金家的常客。在一个节假日，当叶卡捷琳娜弹奏完一出冗长而枯燥的练习曲后，客人们缓缓步入餐厅，开始品茶。趁着大家不注意的时候，姚内奇偷偷地凑近女孩的耳边，低声恳求道，“看在上帝的面上，让我们一起去花园散步吧？”
她耸了耸性感的肩膀，姚内奇紧接着说道，“小姐弹了3小时的钢琴，一直没有机会跟你说话，给我15分钟吧，请求了。”
叶卡捷琳娜脸上露出了困惑的神色，似乎并不知道姚内奇的用意。犹豫片刻后，她还是碍于情面地答应如约，两人来到了旧花园。
时值秋季，石板路上铺满了厚厚的落叶，一种恬静而幽郁的氛围笼罩着整个花园。但已近傍晚，天色很快昏暗了下来。
“我已经一星期未见小姐，你知道这是一种什么折磨！”
园中有一棵古老的枫树，树下是一张典雅的长凳，这里是人们流连忘返的地方。
“来吧，一起坐下，听我慢慢倾述。。。” 姚内奇急切地恳求道。
“你想干嘛？” 回应他的，是叶卡捷琳娜冷冷的声调和不以为然的口吻。
“我已经一星期未见小姐，你知道我多么想念，多么想听到你的声音！”
多么尴尬的场面！叶卡捷琳娜机智地转移开话题，“哦，我一直在读皮塞姆斯基的书。”
“什么书？”
“一千个灵魂，” 叶卡捷琳娜回答道，“多么有趣的书名！” 说完后，她立即起身往屋内跑去。
姚内奇楞了一下，连忙追了上去。她嘎然停下脚步，掏出笔和一张小纸条，沙沙地写下一行字，猛地把纸条塞入他的手心。
“今晚11点 郊外墓地” ，他低头念着纸条，当再次抬起头来的时候，叶卡捷琳娜早已不见踪影。
姚内奇奉守信用，晚上11点准时来到了墓地。这里空无一人，万籁俱寂。苍穹中明月高照，空气里依然带着暖暖的秋意，远处传来的是野狗的嚎叫。
“真是风水宝地！” 忽然，他心情大好，甚至哼起了小曲，“你知道我在等你吗？你如果真的在乎我。。。”
他像一只幽灵一般，无声无息地穿梭在墓碑之间，并趁着月色饶有兴趣地研究起碑文。他在墓地里来回走了将近一里路，一个多小时过去了，四周仍然静悄悄，除了闪烁的星星，皎洁的月光，和远处的狗叫。可叶卡捷琳娜的影子都没有出现。
他一屁股坐下，仰望深邃的天空，大笑道，“我的心上人，她好古怪，谁知道呢，我以为她不是开玩笑，我以为她会来的。。。” 姚内奇再次陶醉在无尽的空虚中，带着无穷的困惑和失望。
时间一点一点地过去了，可一切还是那么地安静，静得像地狱一般，那一块块竖立的墓碑，萦绕着多少鬼魂，笼罩着越来越恐怖的气氛，令人不寒而栗。整个身子已经精疲力尽，姚内奇最终决定放弃这次约会。当他想大声哭喊来发泄心中压抑的时候，却发现脚下青白大理石板上返照出的葱郁树影，正向身后慢慢蠕动。一种极度的恐惧感油然而生，他疾步快跑，向远处奔去，终于跑出了墓园的大铁门！
他在大街上飞奔了一个半小时，终于回到了家。这时，他瘫倒在床上，累得再也动弹不了。姚内奇这下明白，自己的心上人无情地放了一个大大的鸽子！
次日，他再次见到叶卡捷琳娜。“我，我昨晚在墓地。。。没想到你这么地冷酷！”
“什么，你真的去了墓地？！”
“是的，我在那儿一直等到凌晨2点。。。” 姚内奇顿时哽咽起来。
“好吧，你不知道这是一个玩笑？”
突然，姚内奇单膝跪下，泪水依然在他的眼中打转。“我对你的爱无以伦比，恳求你，做我的妻子吧！” 话音未落，他唬地一下跳将起来，紧紧抱住她，并在她的嘴唇和脸颊上亲吻。
叶卡捷琳娜大惊失色，虽然面对这个狂热的求婚者心中有点暗喜，但此时此刻还是无法接受这个突如其来的爱。“够了！” 她厉声喝道，一把推开了这个男人。
“姚内奇！你是好人，我衷心地感谢你！但我无法答应你。我要去上音乐学院，那是我的理想，我想成为一名钢琴家，我不想有任何干扰。。。你是世上最好的人，你会理解的。。。”
说完后，她强忍着哭泣，转身回到了自己的房间。
随后的三天中，姚内奇一直萎靡不振，无法提起精神，他经受了人生中第一次重大的挫折。
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一晃四年过去了，姚内奇的事业蒸蒸日上，身体也变得肥胖起来。他的病人越来越多，每天早晨在诊所忙碌完毕后，便匆匆赶到镇上，为那里的病人看诊。他有了自己的交通工具：一辆三匹马牵驶的马车，和一个强壮的车夫。他完全被金钱所驱动，赚得钵满盆盈，每次钞票积攒到一定的数目（数百卢布），就把这些钱统统存入银行。他进而购置地产，拥有了两套房子。可是，对图耳金一家，自从叶卡捷琳娜离家远赴莫斯科音乐学院后，姚内奇医生在这四年中只造访了两次。
一个温暖的早晨，正在医院救治病人的姚内奇突然收到了图耳金家女主人维拉的一封急信。信中维拉恳切地邀请他上门，并坦承自己为病痛困扰，需要他的帮助来减轻症状。这是一封很寻常的信，维拉曾多次发出这样的求医函。但他吃惊地发现，在信的结尾，有一行笔迹完全不同的小字：“奉母亲之命，我在家恭候您的到来。” 多么熟悉的字体！姚内奇医生一下子想起了四年前那张令他刻骨铭心，墓地之约的小纸条。傍晚之时，他匆匆赶到了图耳金家。
一见姚内奇，风韵尚存的维拉便半开玩笑地说道，“姚大夫，您早把我给忘了，四年来您从不委身下访敝舍；我对您来说太老了，正巧女儿回家，能跟您再次会面，她将不胜荣幸。”
维拉身后站立着一位年轻女子。她依然美丽、优雅，但脸色却显得苍白，身子也变得羸弱；她看上去完全是一个俗世的女人，以往那个天真活泼的少女已经不复存在。 叶卡捷琳娜？
“多少个春秋，时间过得真快！” 叶卡捷琳娜感叹道。
她掩饰不住激动，向姚内奇伸出了手，好奇的目光却不住地打量着他，“你变得这么肥胖，皮肤也晒得黝黑，但更像个男人。。。除此之外，其它没有什么变化。”
他不得不承认，她的容貌魅力并未衰减，而这种魅力已经从一名少女转化到了一个成熟女子的身上。但是，说不出什么原因，她已经失去了年少时那种吸引力，表情、笑容、声音、连身上穿的衣服，似乎都带着做作和虚假。没有了以往健美活泼的身姿，她看上去甚至有点弱不禁风的样子。他想起了当年自己对她那种狂热的爱慕，想起了多少个孤枕难眠的夜晚，自己做的那些纯真的梦，苦苦地期盼她的出现。如今，她就在眼前，而他却感到一丝尴尬。
他俩在餐桌边坐下，慢慢地享用着茶点。这时，维拉悄悄地走到屋内的另一端，大声朗读起她的小说。
“你的钢琴家梦想怎么样了？” 姚内奇呷了一口茶，眼睛看着盘里的蛋糕，有口无心地问道。
她仿佛没有听见似的，抬起头看着他，显然在期待着什么，过了一会儿，终于按捺不住地开口道，“让我们出去花园里谈话，好么？”
两人于是进入花园，又来到了那棵老枫树下面，那条长凳依在，天色已经黯淡下来。
“让我们好好聊聊吧，” 她转过脸，急切地看着他，“这些年来 ，你还好吗？”
“还好吧，忙忙碌碌，” 姚内奇回答道，接下来是片刻沉默。
“我太激动了！” 叶卡捷琳娜突然用双手捂住脸，“我很高兴回到了家，很高兴看到了每一个人。太多的回忆！我可以一口气聊到天亮。”
“你的学业如何？”
叶卡捷琳娜抬起脸，注视着他，眼里充满了深情。他仔细地端详起她的脸，那双明亮的眼睛，仿佛又看到了她脸上那股孩子般的稚气。
“哦，” 她如梦初醒，“你现在有一个令人羡慕的好职业，过着一份体面的生活，记得你以前很喜欢谈论医院里的事。而我是一个古怪的女孩，梦想着自己能成为一名钢琴家。如今所有的女孩都在练钢琴，我只是她们其中一员，跟所有人一样，没有任何独到之处，没有任何天赋，唉，这个梦破灭了。但在莫斯科音乐学院的时候，我常常想起你，你是我唯一挂念的人。”
叶卡捷琳娜此时充满激情，“我为你感到骄傲，你穿梭于乡间行医，救治那些病人，给穷人义诊，多么快乐、多么有意义的一件事！你是我最理想的。。。”
在热情似火的叶卡捷琳娜面前，姚内奇却感到有点疲倦了。他的脑海里还在回味着白天，自己捧着一叠票子存银行的场面，这世上没有什么比金钱更能提起精神的。
他抬头望了望天空，自言自语道，“天色太晚了，” 说罢，起身便要回屋。
她一把拉住了他的手臂，“你是我生活中遇见的最好的男人，我们今后互相见面，一起聊天，好么？答应我吧。我不会成为钢琴家，也不再弹钢琴，更不在你面前谈论音乐，好么？”
姚内奇不声不响地回到了屋内，再次自言自语道，“太晚了，” 说完，便匆匆告辞而别。
回家的路上，他浑身不自在，心中有一句话在不断地翻腾。唉，他叹了一口气，自言自语道，“我多么明智，还好没有娶她。”
三天后，他收到了叶卡捷琳娜的一封信。
“你不再来看我们，为什么？” 她在信中写道，“我担心你已经变心，每当想到这点，我会觉得很恐怖。答应我，来跟我聊聊，好么？我们可以天南地北尽情地聊，聊天下所有的事。。。我必须要跟你说话，你的叶。”
他匆匆读完了信，随手扔到一边，摇摇头，又自言自语道，“我多么明智，还好没有娶她。”
从此之后，他再也没有踏入图耳金家。
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故事完了。值得注意的是，契诃夫在这篇小说中多次提及一个细节：叶卡捷琳娜与母亲维拉每个秋季都要去克里米亚游玩。我猜想，是契诃夫自己对克里米亚独有情钟，每年要去那儿观景吧。
每逢到这个省城来的人抱怨这儿的生活枯燥而单调，当地的居民仿佛要替自己辩护似的，就说正好相反，这个城好得很，说这儿有图书馆、剧院、俱乐部，常举行舞会，最后还说这儿有些有头脑的、有趣味的、使人感到愉快的人家，尽可以跟他们来往。他们还提出图尔金家来，说那一家人要算是顶有教养，顶有才气的了。
那一家人住在本城大街上自己的房子里，跟省长的官邸相离不远。伊万·彼得罗维奇·图尔金本人是一个胖胖的、漂亮的黑发男子，留着络腮胡子，常常为了慈善性的募捐举办业余公演，自己扮演老年的将军，咳嗽的样儿挺可笑。他知道许多趣闻、谜语、谚语，喜欢开玩笑，说俏皮话，他脸上老是露出这么一种表情：谁也弄不清他是在开玩笑呢，还是说正经话。他的妻子薇拉·约瑟福芙娜是一个身材瘦弱、模样俊俏的夫人，戴着夹鼻眼镜，常写长篇和中篇小说，喜欢拿那些小说当着客人朗诵。女儿叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜是一个年轻的姑娘，会弹钢琴。
总之，这个家庭的成员各有各的才能。图尔金一家人殷勤好客，而且带着真诚的纯朴，兴致勃勃地在客人面前显露各自的才能。他们那所高大的砖砌的房子宽敞，夏天凉快，一半的窗子朝着一个树木苍郁的老花园，到春天就有夜莺在那儿歌唱。每逢家里来了客人，厨房里就响起叮叮当当的菜刀声，院子里散布一股煎洋葱的气味，这总是预告着一顿丰盛可口的晚餐要开出来了。
当德米特里· 约内奇·斯达尔采夫医师刚刚奉派来做地方自治局医师，在离城九俄里以外的嘉里日住下来的时候，也有人告诉他，说他既是有知识的人，那就非跟图尔金家结交不可。
冬天，有一天在大街上他经人介绍跟伊万·彼得罗维奇相识了。他们谈到天气、戏剧、霍乱，随后伊万·彼得罗维奇就邀他有空上自己家里来玩。到春天，有一天正逢节期，那是耶稣升天节，斯达尔采夫看过病人以后，动身到城里去散散心，顺便买点东西。他不慌不忙地走着去（他还没置备马车），一路上哼着歌：“在我还没喝下生命之杯里的泪珠的时候……”
在城里，他吃过午饭，在公园里逛一阵，后来忽然想起伊万·彼得罗维奇的邀请，仿佛这个念头自动来到他心头似的，他就决定到图尔金家去看看他们是些什么样的人。
“您老好哇？”伊万·彼得罗维奇说，走到门外台阶上来接他，“看见这么一位气味相投的客人驾到，真是高兴得很，高兴得很。请进。我要把您介绍给我的贤妻。薇罗琪卡，我跟他说过，”他接着说，同时把医师介绍给他妻子，“我跟他说过，按照法律他可没有任何理由老是坐在医院的家里，他应该把公余的时间用在社交上才对。对不对，亲爱的？”
“请您坐在这儿吧，”薇拉·约瑟福芙娜说，叫她的客人坐在她身旁，“您满可以向我献献殷勤。我丈夫固然爱吃醋，他是奥赛罗，不过我们可以做得很小心，叫他一点也看不出来。”
“哎，小母鸡，你这宠坏了的女人，……”伊万·彼得罗维奇温柔地喃喃道，吻了吻她的额头，“您来得正是时候，”他又转过身来对客人说，“我的贤妻写了一部伟乎其大的著作，今天她正打算高声朗诵一遍呢。”
“好让，”薇拉·约瑟福芙娜对丈夫说，“dites que l’on nous donne du thé．”
斯达尔采夫由他们介绍，跟叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜，一个十八岁的姑娘，见了面。她长得很像母亲，也瘦弱，俊俏。她的表情仍旧孩子气，腰身柔软而苗条。她那已经发育起来的处女胸脯，健康而美丽，叫人联想到春天，真正的春天。然后他们喝茶，外加果酱、蜂蜜，还有糖果和很好吃的饼干，那饼干一送进嘴里就立时溶掉。等到黄昏来临，别的客人就渐渐来了，伊万·彼得罗维奇用含着笑意的眼睛瞧着每一个客人，说：“您老好哇？”
然后，大家都到客厅里坐下来，现出很严肃的脸色。薇拉·约瑟福芙娜就朗诵她的长篇小说。她这样开头念：“寒气重了……”窗子大开着，从厨房飘来菜刀的叮当声和煎洋葱的气味……人们坐在柔软的、深深的圈椅里，心平气和。在客厅的昏暗里灯光那么亲切地着眼。眼前，在这种夏日的黄昏，谈笑声从街头阵阵传来，紫丁香的香气从院子里阵阵飘来，于是寒气浓重的情景和夕阳的冷光照着积雪的平原和独自赶路的行人的情景，就不容易捉摸出来了。薇拉·约瑟福芙娜念到一个年轻美丽的伯爵小姐怎样在自己的村子里办学校，开医院，设立图书馆，怎样爱上一个流浪的画家。她念着实生活里绝不会有的故事，不过听起来还是很受用，很舒服，使人心里生出美好宁静的思想，简直不想站起来……
“真不赖……”伊万·彼得罗维奇柔声说。
有一位客人听啊听的，心思飞到很远很远的什么地方去了，用低到刚刚能听见的声音说：“对了……真的……”
一个钟头过去了，又一个钟头过去了。附近，在本城的公园里，有一个乐队在奏乐，歌咏队在唱歌。薇拉·约瑟福芙娜合上她的稿本，大家沉默五分钟，听着歌咏队合唱的《卢契努希卡》，那支歌道出了小说里所没有的，实生活里所有的情趣。
“您把您的作品送到杂志上发表吗？”斯达尔采夫问薇拉·约瑟福芙娜。
“不，”她回答，“我从来不拿出去发表。我写完，就藏在柜子里头。何必发表呢？”她解释道，“要知道，我们已经足可以维持生活了。”
不知因为什么缘故，人人叹一口气。
“现在，科契克，你来弹个什么曲子吧。”伊万·彼得罗维奇对女儿说。
钢琴的盖子掀开，乐谱放好，翻开。叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜坐下来，两只手按琴键，然后使足了气力按，按了又按，她的肩膀和胸脯颤抖着。她一个劲儿地按同一个地方，仿佛她不把那几个琴键按进琴里面去就决不罢休似的。客厅里满是铿锵声，仿佛样样东西，地板啦，天花板啦，家具啦……都发出轰隆轰隆的响声。叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜正在弹一段很难的曲子，那曲子所以有趣味就因为它难，它又长又单调。斯达尔采夫听着，幻想许多石块从高山上落下来，一个劲儿地往下落，他巴望着那些石块快点停住，别再落了才好。同时，叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜紧张地弹着，脸儿绯红，劲头很大，精力饱满，一绺卷发披下来盖在她的额头，很招他喜欢。他在嘉里日跟病人和农民一块儿过了一冬，现在坐在这客厅里，看着这年轻的、文雅的，而且多半很纯洁的人，听着这热闹的、冗长的、可又高雅的乐声，这是多么愉快，多么新奇啊……
“嗯，科契克，你以前从没弹得像今天这么好，”当女儿弹完，站起来的时候，伊万·彼得罗维奇说，眼里含着一泡眼泪，“死吧，丹尼司，你再也写不出更好的东西来了。”
大家围拢她，向她道贺，表示惊奇，说他们有很久没听到过这么好的音乐了。她默默地听着，微微地笑，周身显出得意的神态。
“妙极了！好极了！”
“好极了！”斯达尔采夫受到大家的热情的感染，说，“您是在哪儿学的音乐？”他问叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜，“是在音乐学院吗？”
“不，我刚在准备进音乐学院，眼下我在家里跟扎夫洛芙斯卡娅太太学琴。”
“您在这儿的中学毕业了？”
“哦，没有！”薇拉·约瑟福芙娜替她回答，“我们在家里请了老师。您会同意，在普通中学或者贵族女子中学里念书说不定会受到坏影响。年轻的女孩子正当发育的时候是只应该受到母亲的影响的。”
“可是，我还是要进音乐学院。”叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜说。
“不，科契克爱她的妈妈。科契克不会干伤爸爸妈妈心的事。”
“不嘛，我要去！我要去！”叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜逗趣地说，耍脾气，还跺了一下脚。
吃晚饭的时候，轮到伊万·彼得罗维奇来显才能了。他眼笑脸不笑地谈趣闻，说俏皮话，提出一些荒谬可笑的问题，自己又解答出来。他始终用一种他独有的奇特语言高谈阔论，那种语言经长期的卖弄俏皮培养成功，明明早已成了他的习惯：什么“伟乎其大”啦，“真不赖”啦，“一百二十万分的感谢您”啦，等等。
可是这还没完。等到客人们酒足饭饱，心满意足，聚集在前厅，拿各人的大衣和手杖，他们身旁就来了个听差帕夫卢沙，或者，按照这家人对他的称呼，就是巴瓦，一个十四岁的男孩，头发剪得短短的，脸蛋儿胖胖的。
“喂，巴瓦，表演一下！”伊万·彼得罗维奇对他说。
巴瓦就拉开架势，向上举起一只手，用悲惨惨的声调说：“苦命的女人，死吧！”
大家就哈哈大笑。
“真有意思。”斯达尔采夫走到街上，想道。
他又走进一个酒店，喝点啤酒，然后动身回家，往嘉里日走去。一路上，他边走边唱：“在我听来，你的声音那么亲切，那么懒散……”
走完九俄里路，上了床，他却一丁点倦意也没有，刚好相反，他觉得自己仿佛能够高高兴兴地再走二十俄里似的。
“真不赖……”他想，笑着昏昏睡去。
斯达尔采夫老是打算到图尔金家去玩，不过医院里的工作很繁重，他无论如何也抽不出空闲工夫来。就这样，有一年多的时间在辛劳和孤独中过去了。可是有一天，他接到城里来的一封信，装在淡蓝色信封里……
薇拉·约瑟福芙娜害偏头痛，可是最近科契克天天吓唬她，说是她要进音乐学院，那病就越发常犯了。全城的医师都给请到图尔金家去过，最后就轮到了地方自治局医师。薇拉·约瑟福芙娜写给他一封动人的信，信上求他来一趟，解除她的痛苦。斯达尔采夫去了，而且从此以后常常，常常上图尔金家去……他果然给薇拉·约瑟福芙娜略微帮了点忙，她已经在对所有的客人说他是个不同凡响的、医道惊人的医师了。不过，现在他上图尔金家去，却不再是为了医治她的偏头痛了……
那天正逢节日。叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜坐在钢琴前弹完了她那冗长乏味的练习曲。随后他们在饭厅里坐了很久，喝茶，伊万·彼得罗维奇讲了个逗笑的故事。后来，门铃响了，伊万·彼得罗维奇得上前厅去迎接客人。趁这一时的杂乱，斯达尔采夫十分激动地低声对叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜说：
“我求求您，看在上帝面上，别折磨我，到花园里去吧！”她耸耸肩头，仿佛觉得莫名其妙，不明白他要拿她怎么样似的。不过她还是站起来，去了。
“您一弹钢琴就要弹上三四个钟头，”他跟在她的后面走着，说，“然后您陪您母亲坐着，简直没法跟您讲话。我求求您，至少给我一刻钟的工夫也好。”
秋天来了，古老的花园里宁静而忧郁，黑色的树叶盖在人行道上。天已经提早黑下来了。“我有整整一个星期没看见您，”斯达尔采夫接着说，“但愿您知道那是多么苦就好了！请坐。请您听我说。”
在花园里，他们两个人有一个喜欢流连的地方：一棵枝叶繁茂的老枫树底下的一个长凳。这时候他们就在长凳上坐下来。
“您有什么事？”叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜用办公事一样的口吻干巴巴地问。
“我有整整一个星期没看见您了，我有这么久没听见您的声音。我想念得好苦，我一心巴望着听听您说话的声音。那您就说吧。”
她那份娇嫩，她那眼睛和脸颊的天真神情，迷住了他。就是在她的装束上，他也看出一种与众不同的妩媚，由于朴素和天真烂漫的风韵而动人。同时，尽管她天真烂漫，在他看来，她却显得很聪明，很开展，超过她目前的年龄了。他能够跟她谈文学，谈艺术，想到什么就跟她
谈什么，还能够对她发牢骚，抱怨生活，抱怨人们，不过，在这种严肃的谈话的半中央，有时候她会忽然没来由地笑起来，或者跑回房里去。她跟这城里的差不多所有的女孩子一样，看过很多书（一般说来本城的人是不大看书的，本地图书馆里的人说，要不是因为有这些女孩子和年轻的犹太人，图书馆尽可以关掉）。这使得斯达尔采夫无限的满意，每回见面，他总要兴奋地问她最近几天看了什么书，等到她开口讲起来，他就听着，心里发迷。
“自从我上回跟您分别以后，这个星期您看过什么书？”他现在问，“说一说吧，我求求您
了。”
“我一直在看皮谢姆斯基写的书。”
“究竟是什么书呢？”
“《一千个农奴》，”科契克回答，“皮谢姆斯基的名字真可笑，叫什么阿列克谢·菲奥菲拉克特奇！”
“您这是上哪儿去啊？”斯达尔采夫大吃一惊，因为她忽然站起来，朝房子那边走去，“我得跟您好好谈一谈才行，我有话要说……哪怕再陪我坐上五分钟也行，我央求您了！”
她站住，好像要说句话，后来却忸怩地把一张字条塞在他手里，跑回正房，又坐到钢琴那儿去了。
“请于今晚十一时，”斯达尔采夫念道，“赴墓园，于杰梅季墓碑附近相会。”
“哼，这可一点也不高明，”他暗想，清醒过来，“为什么挑中了墓场？这是什么意思呢？”这是明明白白的：科契克在开玩笑。说真的，既然城里有大街和本城的公园可以安排做相会的地方，那么谁会正正经经地想起来约人三更半夜跑到离城那么远的墓园去相会？他身为地方自治局医师，又是明情达理的稳重人，却唉声叹气，接下字条，到墓园去徘徊，做出现在连中学生都会觉得可笑的傻事，岂不丢脸？这番恋爱会弄到什么下场呢？万一他的同事听到这种事，会怎么说呢？这些，是斯达尔采夫在俱乐部里那些桌子旁边走来走去，心中暗暗想着的，可是到十点半钟，他却忽然动身上墓园去了。
他已经买了一对马，还雇了一个车夫，名叫潘捷列伊蒙，穿一件丝绒的坎肩。月光照耀着。空中没有一丝风，天气暖和，然而是秋天的那种暖和。城郊屠宰场旁边，有狗在叫。斯达尔采夫叫自己的车子停在城边一条巷子里，自己步行到墓园去。“各人有各人的怪脾气，”他想，“科契克也古怪，谁知道呢？说不定她不是在开玩笑，也许倒真会来呢。”他沉湎于这种微弱空虚的希望，这使得他陶醉了。
他在田野上走了半俄里路。远处，墓园现出了轮廓，漆黑的一长条，跟树林或大花园一样。白石头的围墙显露出来，大门也看得见了……借了月光可以看出大门上的字：“大限临头……”
斯达尔采夫从一个小门走进去，头一眼看见的是宽阔的林荫路两边的白十字架、墓碑以及它们和白杨的阴影。四外远远的地方，可以看见一团团黑东西和白东西，沉睡的树木垂下枝子来凑近白石头。仿佛这儿比田野上亮一点似的，枫树的树叶印在林荫路的黄沙土上，印在墓前的石板上，轮廓分明，跟野兽的爪子一样，墓碑上刻的字清清楚楚。初一进来，斯达尔采夫看着这情景惊呆了，这地方，他还是生平第一次来，这以后大概也不会再看见：这是跟人世不一样的另一个天地，月光柔和美妙，就跟躺在摇篮里睡熟了似的，在这个世界里没有生命，无论什么样的生命都没有，不过每棵漆黑的白杨、每个坟堆，都使人感到其中有一种神秘，它应许了一种宁静、美丽、永恒的生活。石板、残花、连同秋叶的清香都在倾吐着宽恕、悲伤、安宁。
四周一片肃静。星星从天空俯视这深奥的温顺。斯达尔采夫的脚步声很响，这跟四周的气氛不相称。直到教堂的钟声响起来，而且他想象自己死了，永远埋在这儿了，他这才感到仿佛有人在瞧他。一刹那间他想到这不是什么安宁和恬静，只不过是由空无所有而产生的不出声的愁闷和断了出路的绝望罢了……
杰梅季墓碑的形状像一个小礼拜堂，顶上立着一个天使。从前有一个意大利歌剧团路过这个城，团里有一个女歌手死了，就葬在这儿，造了这墓碑。本城的人谁也不记得她了，可是墓门上边的油灯反映着月光，仿佛着了火似的。
这儿一个人也没有。当然，谁会半夜上这儿来呢？可是斯达尔采夫等着。仿佛月光点燃他的热情似的，他热情地等着，暗自想象亲吻和拥抱的情景。他在墓碑旁边坐了半个钟头，然后在侧面的林荫路上走来走去，手里拿着帽子，等着，想着这些坟堆里不知埋葬了多少妇人和姑娘，她们原先美丽妩媚，满腔热爱，每到深夜便给热情燃烧着，浸沉在温存抚爱里。说真的，大自然母亲多么歹毒地耍弄人！想到这里觉得多么委屈啊！斯达尔采夫这样暗想着，同时打算呐喊一声，说他需要爱情，说他不惜任何代价一定要等着爱情。由他看来，在月光里发白的不再是一方方大理石，却是美丽的肉体。他看见树荫里有些人影怕难为情地躲躲闪闪，感到她们身上的温暖。这种折磨叫人好难受啊……
仿佛一块幕落下来似的，月亮走到云后面去，忽然间四周全黑了。斯达尔采夫好容易才找到门口（这时候天色漆黑，而秋夜总是这么黑的）。后来他又走了一个半钟头光景才找到停车的巷子。
“我累了。我的脚都站不稳了。”他对潘捷列伊蒙说。他舒舒服服地在马车上坐下，暗想：“唉，我这身子真不该发胖！”
第二天黄昏，他到图尔金家里去求婚。不料时机不凑巧，叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜正在自己的房间里由一个理发匠为她理发。她正准备到俱乐部去参加跳舞晚会。
他只好又在饭厅里坐着，喝了很久的茶。伊万·彼得罗维奇看出客人有心事，烦闷，就从坎肩的口袋里掏出一封可笑的信来，那是由管理田庄的一个日耳曼人写来的，说是“在庄园里所有的铁器已经毁灭，粘性自墙上掉下。”
“他们大概会给一笔丰厚的嫁资。”斯达尔采夫想，心不在焉地听着。一夜没睡好，他发觉自己老是发呆，仿佛有人给他喝了很多催眠的甜东西似的。他心里昏昏沉沉，可是高兴、热烈，同时脑子里有一块冰冷而沉重的什么东西在争辩：“趁现在时机不迟，赶快罢手！难道她可以做你的对象吗？她娇生惯养，撒娇使性，天天睡到下午两点钟才起床，你呢，是教堂执事的儿子，地方自治局医师……”“哎，那有什么关系？”他想，“我不在乎。”“况且，要是你娶了她，”那块东西接着说，“那么她家的人会叫你丢掉地方自治局的工作，住到城里来。”
“哎，那有什么关系？”他想，“要住在城里就住在城里好了。他们会给一笔嫁资，我们可以挺好地成个家……”
最后，叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜走进来，穿着参加舞会的袒胸露背的礼服，看上去又漂亮又利落。斯达尔采夫看得满心爱慕，出了神，一句话也说不出来，光是瞧着她傻笑。她告辞。他呢，现在没有理由再在这儿待下去了，就站起来，说是他也该回家去了，病人在等着他。
“那也没法留您了，”伊万·彼得罗维奇说，“去吧，请您顺便送科契克到俱乐部去。”外面下起了小雨，天色很黑，他们只有凭着潘捷列伊蒙的嘶哑的咳嗽声才猜得出马车在哪儿。车篷已经支起来了。
“我在地毯上走，你在说假话的时候走……”伊万·彼得罗维奇一面搀他女儿坐上马车，一面说，“他在说假话的时候走……走吧！再见！”他们坐车走了。
“昨天我到墓园去了，”斯达尔采夫开口说，“您啊，好狠心，好刻薄……”
“您真到墓园去了？”
“对了，我去了，等到差不多两点钟才走。我好苦哟……”
“您既不懂开玩笑，那就活该吃苦。”
叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜想到这么巧妙地捉弄了一个爱上她的男子，想到人家这么强烈地爱她，心里很满意，就笑起来，可是忽然惊恐地大叫一声，因为这当儿马车猛的转弯走进俱乐部的大门，车身歪了一下。斯达尔采夫伸出胳膊去搂住叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜的腰。她吓慌了，就依偎着他，他呢，情不自禁，热烈地吻她的嘴唇和下巴，把她抱得更紧了。“别再闹了。”她干巴巴地说。
过了一会儿，她不在马车里了。俱乐部的灯光辉煌的大门附近站着一个警察，用一种难听的口气对潘捷列伊蒙嚷道：“你停在这儿干什么，你这呆鸟？快把车赶走！”
斯达尔采夫坐车回家去，可是不久就又回来了。他穿一件别人的晚礼服，戴一个白色硬领结，那领结不知怎的老是翘起来，一味要从领口上滑开。午夜时分，他坐在俱乐部的休息室里，迷恋地对叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜说：“噢，凡是从没爱过的人，哪儿会懂得什么叫做爱！依我看来，至今还没有人真实地描写过爱情，那种温柔的、欢乐的、痛苦的感情恐怕根本就没法描写出来；凡是领略过那种感情的人，哪怕只领略过一回，也绝不会打算用语言把它表白出来。不过，何必讲许多开场白，何必渲染呢？何必讲许多好听的废话呢？我的爱是无边无际的……我请求，我恳求您，”斯达尔采夫终于说出口，“做我的妻子吧！”
“德米特里· 约内奇，”叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜想了一想，现出很严肃的表情说，“德米特里·约内奇，承蒙不弃，我感激得很。我尊敬您，不过……”她站起来，立在那儿接着说，“不过，原谅我，我不能做您的妻子。我们来严肃地谈一谈。德米特里·约内奇，您知道，我爱艺术胜过爱生活里的任什么东西，我爱音乐爱得发疯，我崇拜音乐，我已经把我的一生献给它了。我要做一个艺术家，我要名望，成功，自由。您呢，却要我在这城里住下去，继续过这种空洞无益的生活，这种生活我受不了。做太太，啊，不行，原谅我！人得朝一个崇高光辉的目标奋斗才成，家庭生活会从此缚住我的手脚。德米特里·约内奇，”（她念到他的名字就微微一笑，这个名字使她想起了“阿列克谢·菲奥菲拉克特奇”。）“德米特里· 约内奇，您是聪明高尚的好人，您比谁都好……”眼泪涌上她的眼眶，“我满心感激您，不过……不过您得明白……”
她掉转身去，走出休息室，免得自己哭出来。
斯达尔采夫的心停止了不安的悸跳。他走出俱乐部，来到街上，首先扯掉那硬领结，长吁一口气。他有点难为情，他的自尊心受了委屈（他没料到会受到拒绝），他不能相信他的一切梦想、希望、渴念，竟会弄到这么一个荒唐的结局，简直跟业余演出的什么小戏里的结局一样。他为自己的感情难过，为自己的爱情难过，真是难过极了，好像马上就会痛哭一场，或者拿起伞来使劲敲一顿潘捷列伊蒙的宽阔的背脊似的。
接连三天，他什么事也没法做，吃不下，睡不着。可是等到消息传来，说是叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜已经到莫斯科去进音乐学院了，他倒定下心来，照以前那样生活下去了。后来，他有时候回想以前怎样在墓园里漫步，怎样坐着马车跑遍全城找一套晚礼服，他就懒洋洋地伸个懒腰，说：“唉，惹出过多少麻烦！”
四年过去了。斯达尔采夫在城里的医疗业务已经很繁忙。每天早晨他匆匆忙忙地在嘉里日给病人看病，然后坐车到城里给病人看病。这时候他的马车已经不是由两匹马而是由三匹系着小铃铛的马拉着了。他要到夜深才回家去。他已经发胖，不大愿意走路，因为他害气喘病了。潘捷列伊蒙也发胖。他的腰身越宽，他就越发悲凉地叹气，抱怨自己命苦：赶马车！
斯达尔采夫常到各处人家去走动，会见很多的人，可是跟谁也不接近。城里人那种谈话，那种对生活的看法，甚至那种外表，都惹得他不痛快。经验渐渐教会他：每逢他跟一个城里人打牌或者吃饭，那个人多半还算得上是一个温顺的、好心肠的，甚至并不愚蠢的人，可是只要话题不是吃食，比方转到政治或者科学方面来，那人一定会茫然不懂，或者讲出一套愚蠢恶毒的大道理来，弄得他只好摆一摆手，走掉了事。斯达尔采夫哪怕跟思想开通的城里人谈起天来，比方谈到人类，说是谢天谢地，人类总算在进步，往后总有一天可以取消公民证和死刑了，那位城里人就会斜起眼来狐疑地看他，问道：“那么到那时候人就可以在大街上随意杀人？”斯达尔采夫在交际场合中，遇着喝茶或者吃晚饭的时候，说到人必须工作，说到生活缺了劳动就不行，大家就会把那些话当做训斥，生起气来，反复争辩。虽然这样，可是那些城里人还是什么也不干，一点事也不做，对什么都不发生兴趣，因此简直想不出能跟他们谈什么事。斯达尔采夫就避免谈话，只限于吃点东西或者玩“文特”。遇上谁家有喜庆的事请客，他被请去吃饭，他就一声不响地坐着吃，眼睛瞧着自己的碟子。筵席上大家讲的话，全都没意思、不公道、无聊。他觉得气愤，激动，可是一句话也不说。因为他老是保持阴郁的沉默，瞧着菜碟，城里人就给他起了个绰号叫“架子大的波兰人”，其实他根本不是波兰人。
像戏剧或者音乐会一类的娱乐，他是全不参加的，不过他天天傍晚一定玩三个钟头的“文特”，倒也玩得津津有味。他还有一种娱乐，那是他不知不觉渐渐养成习惯的：每到傍晚，他总要从衣袋里拿出看病赚来的钞票细细地清点，那都是些黄的和绿的票子，有的带香水味，有的带香醋味，有的带熏香味，有的带鱼油味，有时候所有的衣袋里都塞得满满的，约莫有七十个卢布，等到凑满好几百，他就拿到互相信用公司去存活期存款。
叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜走后，四年中间他只到图尔金家里去过两次，都是经薇拉·约瑟福芙娜请去的，她仍旧在请人医治偏头痛。每年夏天叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜回来跟爹娘同住在一块儿，可是他没跟她见过一回面，不知怎的，两回都错过了。
不过现在，四年过去了。一个晴朗温暖的早晨，一封信送到医院里来。薇拉·约瑟福芙娜写信给德米特里· 约内奇说，她很惦记他，请他一定去看她，解除她的痛苦，顺便提到今天是她的生日。信后还附着一笔：“我附和我母亲的邀请。”斯达尔采夫想了一想，傍晚就到图尔金家里去了。
“啊，您老好哇？”伊万·彼得罗维奇迎接他，眼笑脸不笑，“彭茹尔杰。”
薇拉·约瑟福芙娜老得多了，头发白了许多，跟斯达尔采夫握手，装模作样地叹气，说：“您不愿意向我献殷勤了，大夫。我们这儿您也不来了。我太老，配不上您了。不过现在有个年轻的来了，也许她运气会好一点也说不定。”
科契克呢？她瘦了，白了，可也更漂亮更苗条了。不过现在她是叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜，不是科契克了，她失去旧日的朝气和那种稚气的天真烂漫神情。她的目光和神态有了点新的东西，一种惭愧的、拘谨的味儿，仿佛她在图尔金家里是做客似的。
“过了多少夏天，多少冬天啊！”她说，向斯达尔采夫伸出手。他看得出她兴奋得心跳，她带着好奇心凝神瞧着他的脸，接着说，“您长得好胖！您晒黑了，男人气概更足了，不过大体看来，您还没怎么大变。”
这时候，他也觉得她动人，动人得很，不过她缺了点什么，再不然就是多了点什么，他自己也说不清究竟怎么回事了，可是有一种什么东西作梗，使他生不出从前那种感觉来了。他不喜欢她那种苍白的脸色、新有的神情、淡淡的笑容、说话的声音，过不久就连她的衣服，她坐的那张安乐椅，他也不喜欢了。他回想过去几乎要娶她的时候所发生的一些事，他也不喜欢。他想起四年以前使得他激动的那种热爱、梦想、希望，他觉得不自在了。
他们喝茶，吃甜馅饼。然后薇拉·约瑟福芙娜朗诵一部小说。她念着生活里绝不会有的事，斯达尔采夫听着，瞧着她的美丽的白发，等她念完。
“不会写小说，”他想，“不能算是蠢。写了小说而不藏起来，那才是蠢。”
“真不赖。”伊万·彼得罗维奇说。
然后叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜在钢琴那儿弹了很久，声音嘈杂。等到她弹完，大家费了不少工夫向她道谢，称赞她。
“幸好我没娶她。”斯达尔采夫想。
她瞧着他，明明希望他请她到花园里去，可是他却一声不响。
“我们来谈谈心，”她走到他面前说，“您过得怎么样？您在做些什么事？境况怎么样？这些日子我一直在想您，”她神经质地说下去，“我原本想写信给您，原来想亲自上嘉里日去看您。我已经下决心要动身了，可是后来变了卦，上帝才知道现在您对我是什么看法。我今天多么兴奋地等着您来。看在上帝面上，我们到花园里去走走吧。”
他们走进花园，在那棵老枫树底下的长凳上坐下来，跟四年前一样。天黑了。
“您过得怎么样？”叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜问。
“没什么，马马虎虎。”斯达尔采夫回答。
他再也想不出别的话来。他们沉默了。
“我兴奋得很，”叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜说，用双手蒙住脸，“不过您也别在意。我回到家来，那么快活。看见每一个人，我那么高兴，我还没有能够习惯。这么多的回忆！我觉得我们说不定会一口气谈到天明呢。”
现在他挨近了看着她的脸、她那放光的眼睛。在这儿，在黑暗里，她比在房间里显得年轻，就连她旧有那种孩子气的神情好像也回到她脸上来了。实在，她也的确带着天真的好奇神气瞧他，仿佛要凑近一点，仔细看一看而且了解一下这个原先那么热烈那么温柔地爱她、却又那么不幸的男子似的。为了那种热爱，她的眼睛在向他道谢。于是他想起以前那些事情，想起最小的细节：他怎样在墓园里走来走去，后来快到早晨怎样筋疲力尽地回到家。他忽然感到悲凉，为往事惆怅了。他的心里开始点起一团火。
“您还记得那天傍晚我怎样送您上俱乐部去吗？”他说，“那时候下着雨，天挺黑……”他心头的热火不断地烧起来，他要诉说，要抱怨生活……
“唉！”他叹道，“刚才您问我过得怎么样。我们在这儿过的是什么生活哟？哼，简直算不得生活。我们老了，发胖了，泄气了。白昼和夜晚，一天天地过去，生活悄悄地溜掉，没一点光彩，没一点印象，没一点思想……白天，赚钱，傍晚呢，去俱乐部。那伙人全是牌迷，酒鬼，嗓
音嘶哑的家伙，我简直受不了。这生活有什么好呢？”
“可是您有工作，有生活的崇高目标啊。往常您总是那么喜欢谈您的医院。那时候我却是个怪女孩子，自以为是伟大的钢琴家。其实，现在凡是年轻的小姐都弹钢琴，我也跟别人一样地弹，我没有什么与众不同的地方，我那种弹钢琴的本事就如同我母亲写小说的本事一样。当然，我那时候不了解您，不过后来在莫斯科，我却常常想到您。我只想念您一个人。做一个地方自治局医师，帮助受苦的人，为民众服务，那是多么幸福。多么幸福啊！”叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜热烈地反复说着，“我在莫斯科想到您的时候，您在我心目中显得那么完美，那么崇高……”
斯达尔采夫想起每天晚上从衣袋里拿出钞票来，津津有味地清点，他心里那团火就熄灭了。他站起来，要走回正房去。她挽住他的胳膊。
“您是我生平所认识的人当中最好的人，”她接着说，“我们该常常见面，谈谈心，对不对？答应我。我不是什么钢琴家，我已经不夸大我自己。我不会再在您面前弹琴，或者谈音乐了。”
他们回到正房，斯达尔采夫就着傍晚的灯光瞧见她的脸，瞧见她那对凝神细看的、悲哀的、感激的眼睛看着他，他觉得不安起来，又暗自想道：“幸亏那时候我没娶她。”他告辞。
“按照罗马法，您可没有任何理由不吃晚饭就走，”伊万·彼得罗维奇一面送他出门，一面说，“您这态度完全是垂直线。喂，现在，表演一下吧！”他在前厅对巴瓦说。巴瓦不再是小孩子，而是留了上髭的青年了。他拉开架势，扬起胳膊，用悲惨惨的声调说：“苦命的女人，死吧！”
这一切都惹得斯达尔采夫不痛快。他坐上马车，瞧着从前为他所珍爱宝贵的乌黑的房子和花园，一下子想到了那一切情景，薇拉·约瑟福芙娜的小说、科契克的热闹的琴声、伊万·彼得罗维奇的俏皮话、巴瓦的悲剧姿势，他心想：这些全城顶有才能的人尚且这样浅薄无聊，那么这座城还会有什么道理呢？
三天以后，巴瓦送来一封叶卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜写的信。她写道：
您不来看我们。为什么？我担心您别是对我们变了心吧。我担心，我一想到这个就害怕。
您要叫我安心才好，来吧，告诉我说并没出什么变化。
我得跟您谈一谈。——您的叶·图。
他看完信，想一想，对巴瓦说：“伙计，你回去告诉她们，说今天我不能去，我很忙。就说过三天我再去。”
可是三天过去了，一个星期过去了，他始终没有去。有一回他坐着车子凑巧路过图尔金家，想起来他该进去坐一坐才对，可是想了一想……还是没有进去。从此，他再也没到图尔金家里去过。
又过了好几年。斯达尔采夫长得越发肥胖，满身脂肪，呼吸困难，喘不过气来，走路脑袋往后仰了。每逢他肥肥胖胖、满面红光地坐上铃声叮当、由三匹马拉着的马车出门，同时那个也是肥肥胖胖、满面红光的潘捷列伊蒙挺直长满了肉的后脑壳，坐上车夫座位，两条胳膊向前
平伸，仿佛是木头做的一样，而且向过路的行人嚷着：“靠右，右边走！”那真是一幅动人的图画，别人会觉得这坐车的不是人，却是一个异教的神。在城里，他的生意忙得很，连歇气的工夫也没有。他已经有一个田庄、两所城里的房子，正看中第三所合算的房子。每逢他在互相信用公司里听说有一所房子正在出卖，他就不客气地走进那所房子，走遍各个房间，也不管那些没穿好衣服的妇女和孩子惊愕张皇地瞧着他，用手杖戳遍各处的房门，说：“这是书房？这是寝室？那么这是什么房间？”他一面走着说着，一面喘吁吁，擦掉额头上的汗珠。
他有许多事要办，可是仍旧不放弃地方自治局的职务。他贪钱，恨不得这儿那儿都跑到才好。在嘉里日也好，在城里也好，人家已经简单地称呼他“约内奇”：“这个 约内奇要上哪儿去？”或者，“要不要请约内奇来会诊？”
大概因为他的喉咙那儿叠着好几层肥油吧，他的声调变了，他的语声又细又尖。他的性情也变了，他变得又凶又暴。他给病人看病，总是发脾气。他急躁地用手杖敲地板，用他那种不入耳的声音嚷道：“请您光是回答我问的话！别说废话！”他单身一个人。他过着枯燥无味的生活，他对什么事也不发生兴趣。
他在嘉里日前后所住的那些年间，只有对科契克的爱情算是他唯一的快活事，恐怕也要算是最后一回的快活事。到傍晚，他总上俱乐部去玩“文特”，然后独自坐在一张大桌子旁边，吃晚饭。伊万，服务员当中年纪顶大也顶有规矩的一个，伺候他，给他送去“第十七号拉菲特”酒。俱乐部里每一个人，主任也好，厨师也好，服务员也好，都知道他喜欢什么，不喜欢什么，就想尽方法极力迎合他，要不然，说不定他就会忽然大发脾气，拿起手杖来敲地板。他吃晚饭的时候，偶尔回转身去，在别人的谈话当中插嘴：“你们在说什么？啊？说谁？”
遇到邻桌有人提到图尔金家，他就问：“你们说的是哪个图尔金家？你们是说有个女儿会弹钢琴的那一家吗？”
关于他，可以述说的，都在这儿了。
图尔金家呢？伊万·彼得罗维奇没有变老，一丁点儿都没变，仍旧爱说俏皮话，讲掌故。薇拉·约瑟福芙娜也仍旧兴致勃勃地朗诵她的小说给客人听，念得动人而朴实。科契克呢，天天弹钢琴，一连弹四个钟头。她明显地见老了，常生病，年年秋天跟母亲一块儿上克里米亚去。
伊万·彼得罗维奇送她们上车站，车一开，他就擦眼泪，嚷道：
“再会啰！”
他挥动他的手绢。
: 
WHEN visitors to the provincial town S---- complained of the dreariness and monotony of life, the inhabitants of the town, as though defending themselves, declared that it was very nice in S----, that there was a library, a theatre, a club; that they had balls; and, finally, that there were clever, agreeable, and interesting families with whom one could make acquaintance. And they used to point to the family of the Turkins as the most highly cultivated and talented.
This family lived in their own house in the principal street, near the Governor's. Ivan Petrovitch Turkin himself--a stout, handsome, dark man with whiskers--used to get up amateur performances for benevolent objects, and used to take the part of an elderly general and cough very amusingly. He knew a number of anecdotes, charades, proverbs, and was fond of being humorous and witty, and he always wore an expression from which it was impossible to tell whether he were joking or in earnest. His wife, Vera Iosifovna--a thin, nice-looking lady who wore a pince-nez--used to write novels and stories, and was very fond of reading them aloud to her visitors. The daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, used to play on the piano. In short, every member of the family had a special talent. The Turkins welcomed visitors, and good-humouredly displayed their talents with genuine simplicity. Their stone house was roomy and cool in summer; half of the windows looked into a shady old garden, where nightingales used to sing in the spring. When there were visitors in the house, there was a clatter of knives in the kitchen and a smell of fried onions in the yard--and that was always a sure sign of a plentiful and savoury supper to follow.
And as soon as Dmitri Ionitch Startsev was appointed the district doctor, and took up his abode at Dyalizh, six miles from S----, he, too, was told that as a cultivated man it was essential for him to make the acquaintance of the Turkins. In the winter he was introduced to Ivan Petrovitch in the street; they talked about the weather, about the theatre, about the cholera; an invitation followed. On a holiday in the spring--it was Ascension Day--after seeing his patients, Startsev set off for town in search of a little recreation and to make some purchases. He walked in a leisurely way (he had not yet set up his carriage), humming all the time:
In town he dined, went for a walk in the gardens, then Ivan Petrovitch's invitation came into his mind, as it were of itself, and he decided to call on the Turkins and see what sort of people they were.
"How do you do, if you please?" said Ivan Petrovitch, meeting him on the steps. "Delighted, delighted to see such an agreeable visitor. Come along; I will introduce you to my better half. I tell him, Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife--"I tell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital; he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?"
"Sit here," said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her. "You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--he is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will notice nothing."
"Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day."
"Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du the."
Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlish bosom, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring.
Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with very nice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, other visitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed his laughing eyes on each of them and said:
"How do you do, if you please?"
Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began like this: "The frost was intense. . . ." The windows were wide open; from the kitchen came the clatter of knives and the smell of fried onions. . . . It was comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such a friendly twinkle in the twilight of the drawing-room, and at the moment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floated in from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficult to grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun was lighting with its chilly rays a solitary wayfarer on the snowy plain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young countess founded a school, a hospital, a library, in her village, and fell in love with a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in real life, and yet it was pleasant to listen--it was comfortable, and such agreeable, serene thoughts kept coming into the mind, one had no desire to get up.
"Not badsome . . ." Ivan Petrovitch said softly.
And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly:
"Yes . . . truly. . . ."
One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to "Lutchina" being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life.
"Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna.
"No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to live on."
And for some reason every one sighed.
"And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his daughter.
The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands, and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again; her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the same notes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she had hammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled with the din; everything was resounding; the floor, the ceiling, the furniture. . . . Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage, interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping; and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from the violent exercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizh among patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watch this young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, and to listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, was so pleasant, so novel. . . .
"Well, Kitten, you have played as never before," said Ivan Petrovitch, with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better."
All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive of triumph.
"Splendid, superb!"
"Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?"
"No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky."
"Have you finished at the high school here?"
"Oh, no," Vera Iosifovna answered for her, "We have teachers for her at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or a boarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, she ought to be under no influence but her mother's."
"All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said Ekaterina Ivanovna.
"No. Kitten loves her mamma. Kitten won't grieve papa and mamma."
"No, I'm going, I'm going," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with playful caprice and stamping her foot.
And at supper it was Ivan Petrovitch who displayed his talents. Laughing only with his eyes, he told anecdotes, made epigrams, asked ridiculous riddles and answered them himself, talking the whole time in his extraordinary language, evolved in the course of prolonged practice in witticism and evidently now become a habit: "Badsome," "Hugeous," "Thank you most dumbly," and so on.
But that was not all. When the guests, replete and satisfied, trooped into the hall, looking for their coats and sticks, there bustled about them the footman Pavlusha, or, as he was called in the family, Pava--a lad of fourteen with shaven head and chubby cheeks.
"Come, Pava, perform!" Ivan Petrovitch said to him.
Pava struck an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic tone: "Unhappy woman, die!"
And every one roared with laughter.
"It's entertaining," thought Startsev, as he went out into the street.
He went to a restaurant and drank some beer, then set off to walk home to Dyalizh; he walked all the way singing:
On going to bed, he felt not the slightest fatigue after the six miles' walk. On the contrary, he felt as though he could with pleasure have walked another twenty.
"Not badsome," he thought, and laughed as he fell asleep.
Startsev kept meaning to go to the Turkins' again, but there was a great deal of work in the hospital, and he was unable to find free time. In this way more than a year passed in work and solitude. But one day a letter in a light blue envelope was brought him from the town.
Vera Iosifovna had been suffering for some time from migraine, but now since Kitten frightened her every day by saying that she was going away to the Conservatoire, the attacks began to be more frequent. All the doctors of the town had been at the Turkins'; at last it was the district doctor's turn. Vera Iosifovna wrote him a touching letter in which she begged him to come and relieve her sufferings. Startsev went, and after that he began to be often, very often at the Turkins'. . . . He really did something for Vera Iosifovna, and she was already telling all her visitors that he was a wonderful and exceptional doctor. But it was not for the sake of her migraine that he visited the Turkins' now. . . .
It was a holiday. Ekaterina Ivanovna finished her long, wearisome exercises on the piano. Then they sat a long time in the dining-room, drinking tea, and Ivan Petrovitch told some amusing story. Then there was a ring and he had to go into the hall to welcome a guest; Startsev took advantage of the momentary commotion, and whispered to Ekaterina Ivanovna in great agitation:
"For God's sake, I entreat you, don't torment me; let us go into the garden!"
She shrugged her shoulders, as though perplexed and not knowing what he wanted of her, but she got up and went.
"You play the piano for three or four hours," he said, following her; "then you sit with your mother, and there is no possibility of speaking to you. Give me a quarter of an hour at least, I beseech you."
Autumn was approaching, and it was quiet and melancholy in the old garden; the dark leaves lay thick in the walks. It was already beginning to get dark early.
"I haven't seen you for a whole week," Startsev went on, "and if you only knew what suffering it is! Let us sit down. Listen to me."
They had a favourite place in the garden; a seat under an old spreading maple. And now they sat down on this seat.
"What do you want?" said Ekaterina Ivanovna drily, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"I have not seen you for a whole week; I have not heard you for so long. I long passionately, I thirst for your voice. Speak."
She fascinated him by her freshness, the naive expression of her eyes and cheeks. Even in the way her dress hung on her, he saw something extraordinarily charming, touching in its simplicity and naive grace; and at the same time, in spite of this naivete, she seemed to him intelligent and developed beyond her years. He could talk with her about literature, about art, about anything he liked; could complain to her of life, of people, though it sometimes happened in the middle of serious conversation she would laugh inappropriately or run away into the house. Like almost all girls of her neighbourhood, she had read a great deal (as a rule, people read very little in S----, and at the lending library they said if it were not for the girls and the young Jews, they might as well shut up the library). This afforded Startsev infinite delight; he used to ask her eagerly every time what she had been reading the last few days, and listened enthralled while she told him.
"What have you been reading this week since I saw you last?" he asked now. "Do please tell me."
"I have been reading Pisemsky."
"What exactly?"
"'A Thousand Souls,'" answered Kitten. "And what a funny name Pisemsky had--Alexey Feofilaktitch!
"Where are you going?" cried Startsev in horror, as she suddenly got up and walked towards the house. "I must talk to you; I want to explain myself. . . . Stay with me just five minutes, I supplicate you!"
She stopped as though she wanted to say something, then awkwardly thrust a note into his hand, ran home and sat down to the piano again.
"Be in the cemetery," Startsev read, "at eleven o'clock to-night, near the tomb of Demetti."
"Well, that's not at all clever," he thought, coming to himself. "Why the cemetery? What for?"
It was clear: Kitten was playing a prank. Who would seriously dream of making an appointment at night in the cemetery far out of the town, when it might have been arranged in the street or in the town gardens? And was it in keeping with him--a district doctor, an intelligent, staid man--to be sighing, receiving notes, to hang about cemeteries, to do silly things that even schoolboys think ridiculous nowadays? What would this romance lead to? What would his colleagues say when they heard of it? Such were Startsev's reflections as he wandered round the tables at the club, and at half-past ten he suddenly set off for the cemetery.
By now he had his own pair of horses, and a coachman called Panteleimon, in a velvet waistcoat. The moon was shining. It was still warm, warm as it is in autumn. Dogs were howling in the suburb near the slaughter-house. Startsev left his horses in one of the side-streets at the end of the town, and walked on foot to the cemetery.
"We all have our oddities," he thought. "Kitten is odd, too; and --who knows?--perhaps she is not joking, perhaps she will come"; and he abandoned himself to this faint, vain hope, and it intoxicated him.
He walked for half a mile through the fields; the cemetery showed as a dark streak in the distance, like a forest or a big garden. The wall of white stone came into sight, the gate. . . . In the moonlight he could read on the gate: "The hour cometh." Startsev went in at the little gate, and before anything else he saw the white crosses and monuments on both sides of the broad avenue, and the black shadows of them and the poplars; and for a long way round it was all white and black, and the slumbering trees bowed their branches over the white stones. It seemed as though it were lighter here than in the fields; the maple-leaves stood out sharply like paws on the yellow sand of the avenue and on the stones, and the inscriptions on the tombs could be clearly read. For the first moments Startsev was struck now by what he saw for the first time in his life, and what he would probably never see again; a world not like anything else, a world in which the moonlight was as soft and beautiful, as though slumbering here in its cradle, where there was no life, none whatever; but in every dark poplar, in every tomb, there was felt the presence of a mystery that promised a life peaceful, beautiful, eternal. The stones and faded flowers, together with the autumn scent of the leaves, all told of forgiveness, melancholy, and peace.
All was silence around; the stars looked down from the sky in the profound stillness, and Startsev's footsteps sounded loud and out of place, and only when the church clock began striking and he imagined himself dead, buried there for ever, he felt as though some one were looking at him, and for a moment he thought that it was not peace and tranquillity, but stifled despair, the dumb dreariness of non-existence. . . .
Demetti's tomb was in the form of a shrine with an angel at the top. The Italian opera had once visited S---- and one of the singers had died; she had been buried here, and this monument put up to her. No one in the town remembered her, but the lamp at the entrance reflected the moonlight, and looked as though it were burning.
There was no one, and, indeed, who would come here at midnight? But Startsev waited, and as though the moonlight warmed his passion, he waited passionately, and, in imagination, pictured kisses and embraces. He sat near the monument for half an hour, then paced up and down the side avenues, with his hat in his hand, waiting and thinking of the many women and girls buried in these tombs who had been beautiful and fascinating, who had loved, at night burned with passion, yielding themselves to caresses. How wickedly Mother Nature jested at man's expense, after all! How humiliating it was to recognise it!
Startsev thought this, and at the same time he wanted to cry out that he wanted love, that he was eager for it at all costs. To his eyes they were not slabs of marble, but fair white bodies in the moonlight; he saw shapes hiding bashfully in the shadows of the trees, felt their warmth, and the languor was oppressive. . . .
And as though a curtain were lowered, the moon went behind a cloud, and suddenly all was darkness. Startsev could scarcely find the gate--by now it was as dark as it is on an autumn night. Then he wandered about for an hour and a half, looking for the side-street in which he had left his horses.
"I am tired; I can scarcely stand on my legs," he said to Panteleimon.
And settling himself with relief in his carriage, he thought: "Och! I ought not to get fat!"
The following evening he went to the Turkins' to make an offer. But it turned out to be an inconvenient moment, as Ekaterina Ivanovna was in her own room having her hair done by a hair-dresser. She was getting ready to go to a dance at the club.
He had to sit a long time again in the dining-room drinking tea. Ivan Petrovitch, seeing that his visitor was bored and preoccupied, drew some notes out of his waistcoat pocket, read a funny letter from a German steward, saying that all the ironmongery was ruined and the plasticity was peeling off the walls.
"I expect they will give a decent dowry," thought Startsev, listening absent-mindedly.
After a sleepless night, he found himself in a state of stupefaction, as though he had been given something sweet and soporific to drink; there was fog in his soul, but joy and warmth, and at the same time a sort of cold, heavy fragment of his brain was reflecting:
"Stop before it is too late! Is she the match for you? She is spoilt, whimsical, sleeps till two o'clock in the afternoon, while you are a deacon's son, a district doctor. . . ."
"What of it?" he thought. "I don't care."
"Besides, if you marry her," the fragment went on, "then her relations will make you give up the district work and live in the town."
"After all," he thought, "if it must be the town, the town it must be. They will give a dowry; we can establish ourselves suitably."
At last Ekaterina Ivanovna came in, dressed for the ball, with a low neck, looking fresh and pretty; and Startsev admired her so much, and went into such ecstasies, that he could say nothing, but simply stared at her and laughed.
She began saying good-bye, and he--he had no reason for staying now--got up, saying that it was time for him to go home; his patients were waiting for him.
"Well, there's no help for that," said Ivan Petrovitch. "Go, and you might take Kitten to the club on the way."
It was spotting with rain; it was very dark, and they could only tell where the horses were by Panteleimon's husky cough. The hood of the carriage was put up.
"I stand upright; you lie down right; he lies all right," said Ivan Petrovitch as he put his daughter into the carriage.
They drove off.
"I was at the cemetery yesterday," Startsev began. "How ungenerous and merciless it was on your part! . . ."
"You went to the cemetery?"
"Yes, I went there and waited almost till two o'clock. I suffered . . ."
"Well, suffer, if you cannot understand a joke."
Ekaterina Ivanovna, pleased at having so cleverly taken in a man who was in love with her, and at being the object of such intense love, burst out laughing and suddenly uttered a shriek of terror, for, at that very minute, the horses turned sharply in at the gate of the club, and the carriage almost tilted over. Startsev put his arm round Ekaterina Ivanovna's waist; in her fright she nestled up to him, and he could not restrain himself, and passionately kissed her on the lips and on the chin, and hugged her more tightly.
"That's enough," she said drily.
And a minute later she was not in the carriage, and a policeman near the lighted entrance of the club shouted in a detestable voice to Panteleimon:
"What are you stopping for, you crow? Drive on."
Startsev drove home, but soon afterwards returned. Attired in another man's dress suit and a stiff white tie which kept sawing at his neck and trying to slip away from the collar, he was sitting at midnight in the club drawing-room, and was saying with enthusiasm to Ekaterina Ivanovna.
"Ah, how little people know who have never loved! It seems to me that no one has ever yet written of love truly, and I doubt whether this tender, joyful, agonising feeling can be described, and any one who has once experienced it would not attempt to put it into words. What is the use of preliminaries and introductions? What is the use of unnecessary fine words? My love is immeasurable. I beg, I beseech you," Startsev brought out at last, "be my wife!"
"Dmitri Ionitch," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with a very grave face, after a moment's thought--"Dmitri Ionitch, I am very grateful to you for the honour. I respect you, but . . ." she got up and continued standing, "but, forgive me, I cannot be your wife. Let us talk seriously. Dmitri Ionitch, you know I love art beyond everything in life. I adore music; I love it frantically; I have dedicated my whole life to it. I want to be an artist; I want fame, success, freedom, and you want me to go on living in this town, to go on living this empty, useless life, which has become insufferable to me. To become a wife--oh, no, forgive me! One must strive towards a lofty, glorious goal, and married life would put me in bondage for ever. Dmitri Ionitch" (she faintly smiled as she pronounced his name; she thought of "Alexey Feofilaktitch")--"Dmitri Ionitch, you are a good, clever, honourable man; you are better than any one. . . ." Tears came into her eyes. "I feel for you with my whole heart, but . . . but you will understand. . . ."
And she turned away and went out of the drawing-room to prevent herself from crying.
Startsev's heart left off throbbing uneasily. Going out of the club into the street, he first of all tore off the stiff tie and drew a deep breath. He was a little ashamed and his vanity was wounded-- he had not expected a refusal--and could not believe that all his dreams, his hopes and yearnings, had led him up to such a stupid end, just as in some little play at an amateur performance, and he was sorry for his feeling, for that love of his, so sorry that he felt as though he could have burst into sobs or have violently belaboured Panteleimon's broad back with his umbrella.
For three days he could not get on with anything, he could not eat nor sleep; but when the news reached him that Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away to Moscow to enter the Conservatoire, he grew calmer and lived as before.
Afterwards, remembering sometimes how he had wandered about the cemetery or how he had driven all over the town to get a dress suit, he stretched lazily and said:
"What a lot of trouble, though!"
Four years had passed. Startsev already had a large practice in the town. Every morning he hurriedly saw his patients at Dyalizh, then he drove in to see his town patients. By now he drove, not with a pair, but with a team of three with bells on them, and he returned home late at night. He had grown broader and stouter, and was not very fond of walking, as he was somewhat asthmatic. And Panteleimon had grown stout, too, and the broader he grew, the more mournfully he sighed and complained of his hard luck: he was sick of driving! Startsev used to visit various households and met many people, but did not become intimate with any one. The inhabitants irritated him by their conversation, their views of life, and even their appearance. Experience taught him by degrees that while he played cards or lunched with one of these people, the man was a peaceable, friendly, and even intelligent human being; that as soon as one talked of anything not eatable, for instance, of politics or science, he would be completely at a loss, or would expound a philosophy so stupid and ill-natured that there was nothing else to do but wave one's hand in despair and go away. Even when Startsev tried to talk to liberal citizens, saying, for instance, that humanity, thank God, was progressing, and that one day it would be possible to dispense with passports and capital punishment, the liberal citizen would look at him askance and ask him mistrustfully: "Then any one could murder any one he chose in the open street?" And when, at tea or supper, Startsev observed in company that one should work, and that one ought not to live without working, every one took this as a reproach, and began to get angry and argue aggressively. With all that, the inhabitants did nothing, absolutely nothing, and took no interest in anything, and it was quite impossible to think of anything to say. And Startsev avoided conversation, and confined himself to eating and playing _vint_; and when there was a family festivity in some household and he was invited to a meal, then he sat and ate in silence, looking at his plate.
And everything that was said at the time was uninteresting, unjust, and stupid; he felt irritated and disturbed, but held his tongue, and, because he sat glumly silent and looked at his plate, he was nicknamed in the town "the haughty Pole," though he never had been a Pole.
All such entertainments as theatres and concerts he declined, but he played _vint_ every evening for three hours with enjoyment. He had another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little by little: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the notes he had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were stuffed in his pockets notes--yellow and green, and smelling of scent and vinegar and incense and fish oil--up to the value of seventy roubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he took them to the Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money there to his account.
He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four years after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatment for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to stay with her parents, but he did not once see her; it somehow never happened.
But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri Ionitch that she was missing him very much, and begged him to come and see them, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript: "I join in mother's request.-- K."
Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'.
"How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smiling with his eyes only. "Bongjour."
Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook Startsev's hand, sighed affectedly, and said:
"You don't care to pay attentions to me, doctor. You never come and see us; I am too old for you. But now some one young has come; perhaps she will be more fortunate."
And Kitten? She had grown thinner, paler, had grown handsomer and more graceful; but now she was Ekaterina Ivanovna, not Kitten; she had lost the freshness and look of childish naivete. And in her expression and manners there was something new--guilty and diffident, as though she did not feel herself at home here in the Turkins' house.
"How many summers, how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev her hand, and he could see that her heart was beating with excitement; and looking at him intently and curiously, she went on: "How much stouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly, but on the whole you have changed very little."
Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there was something lacking in her, or else something superfluous--he could not himself have said exactly what it was, but something prevented him from feeling as before. He did not like her pallor, her new expression, her faint smile, her voice, and soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which had troubled him four years before--and he felt awkward.
They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel; she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her to finish.
"People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought.
"Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch.
Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised.
"It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev.
She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent.
"Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden."
They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark.
"How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna.
"Oh, all right; I am jogging along," answered Startsev.
And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.
"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning."
Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naive curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his heart.
"Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked. "It was dark and rainy then. . ."
The warmth was glowing now in his heart, and he longed to talk, to rail at life. . . .
"Ech!" he said with a sigh. "You ask how I am living. How do we live here? Why, not at all. We grow old, we grow stout, we grow slack. Day after day passes; life slips by without colour, without expressions, without thoughts. . . . In the daytime working for gain, and in the evening the club, the company of card-players, alcoholic, raucous-voiced gentlemen whom I can't endure. What is there nice in it?"
"Well, you have work--a noble object in life. You used to be so fond of talking of your hospital. I was such a queer girl then; I imagined myself such a great pianist. Nowadays all young ladies play the piano, and I played, too, like everybody else, and there was nothing special about me. I am just such a pianist as my mother is an authoress. And of course I didn't understand you then, but afterwards in Moscow I often thought of you. I thought of no one but you. What happiness to be a district doctor; to help the suffering; to be serving the people! What happiness!" Ekaterina Ivanovna repeated with enthusiasm. "When I thought of you in Moscow, you seemed to me so ideal, so lofty. . . ."
Startsev thought of the notes he used to take out of his pockets in the evening with such pleasure, and the glow in his heart was quenched.
He got up to go into the house. She took his arm.
"You are the best man I've known in my life," she went on. "We will see each other and talk, won't we? Promise me. I am not a pianist; I am not in error about myself now, and I will not play before you or talk of music."
When they had gone into the house, and when Startsev saw in the lamplight her face, and her sad, grateful, searching eyes fixed upon him, he felt uneasy and thought again:
"It's a good thing I did not marry her then."
He began taking leave.
"You have no human right to go before supper," said Ivan Petrovitch as he saw him off. "It's extremely perpendicular on your part. Well, now, perform!" he added, addressing Pava in the hall.
Pava, no longer a boy, but a young man with moustaches, threw himself into an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic voice:
"Unhappy woman, die!"
All this irritated Startsev. Getting into his carriage, and looking at the dark house and garden which had once been so precious and so dear, he thought of everything at once--Vera Iosifovna's novels and Kitten's noisy playing, and Ivan Petrovitch's jokes and Pava's tragic posturing, and thought if the most talented people in the town were so futile, what must the town be?
Three days later Pava brought a letter from Ekaterina Ivanovna.
"You don't come and see us--why?" she wrote to him. "I am afraid that you have changed towards us. I am afraid, and I am terrified at the very thought of it. Reassure me; come and tell me that everything is well.
"I must talk to you.--Your E. I."
- - - -
He read this letter, thought a moment, and said to Pava:
"Tell them, my good fellow, that I can't come to-day; I am very busy. Say I will come in three days or so."
But three days passed, a week passed; he still did not go. Happening once to drive past the Turkins' house, he thought he must go in, if only for a moment, but on second thoughts . . . did not go in.
And he never went to the Turkins' again.
Several more years have passed. Startsev has grown stouter still, has grown corpulent, breathes heavily, and already walks with his head thrown back. When stout and red in the face, he drives with his bells and his team of three horses, and Panteleimon, also stout and red in the face with his thick beefy neck, sits on the box, holding his arms stiffly out before him as though they were made of wood, and shouts to those he meets: "Keep to the ri-i-ight!" it is an impressive picture; one might think it was not a mortal, but some heathen deity in his chariot. He has an immense practice in the town, no time to breathe, and already has an estate and two houses in the town, and he is looking out for a third more profitable; and when at the Mutual Credit Bank he is told of a house that is for sale, he goes to the house without ceremony, and, marching through all the rooms, regardless of half-dressed women and children who gaze at him in amazement and alarm, he prods at the doors with his stick, and says:
"Is that the study? Is that a bedroom? And what's here?"
And as he does so he breathes heavily and wipes the sweat from his brow.
He has a great deal to do, but still he does not give up his work as district doctor; he is greedy for gain, and he tries to be in all places at once. At Dyalizh and in the town he is called simply "Ionitch": "Where is Ionitch off to?" or "Should not we call in Ionitch to a consultation?"
Probably because his throat is covered with rolls of fat, his voice has changed; it has become thin and sharp. His temper has changed, too: he has grown ill-humoured and irritable. When he sees his patients he is usually out of temper; he impatiently taps the floor with his stick, and shouts in his disagreeable voice:
"Be so good as to confine yourself to answering my questions! Don't talk so much!"
He is solitary. He leads a dreary life; nothing interests him.
During all the years he had lived at Dyalizh his love for Kitten had been his one joy, and probably his last. In the evenings he plays _vint_ at the club, and then sits alone at a big table and has supper. Ivan, the oldest and most respectable of the waiters, serves him, hands him Lafitte No. 17, and every one at the club-- the members of the committee, the cook and waiters--know what he likes and what he doesn't like and do their very utmost to satisfy him, or else he is sure to fly into a rage and bang on the floor with his stick.
As he eats his supper, he turns round from time to time and puts in his spoke in some conversation:
"What are you talking about? Eh? Whom?"
And when at a neighbouring table there is talk of the Turkins, he asks:
"What Turkins are you speaking of? Do you mean the people whose daughter plays on the piano?"
That is all that can be said about him.
And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is not changed in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes as of old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitors with eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the piano for four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantly ailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. When Ivan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tears as the train starts, and shouts:
"Good-bye, if you please."
And he waves his handkerchief.