章节正文
bright. At first the sight of him, in his clean Russian peasant
costume, engaged on that disgusting task embarrassed Ivan Ilych.
Once when he got up from the commode to weak to draw up his
trousers, he dropped into a soft armchair and looked with horror at
his bare, enfeebled thighs with the muscles so sharply marked on
them.
Gerasim with a firm light tread, his heavy boots emitting a
pleasant smell of tar and fresh winter air, came in wearing a clean
Hessian apron, the sleeves of his print shirt tucked up over his
strong bare young arms; and refraining from looking at his sick
master out of consideration for his feelings, and restraining the
joy of life that beamed from his face, he went up to the commode.
"Gerasim!" said Ivan Ilych in a weak voice.
"Gerasim started, evidently afraid he might have committed
some blunder, and with a rapid movement turned his fresh, kind,
simple young face which just showed the first downy signs of a
beard.
"Yes, sir?"
"That must be very unpleasant for you. You must forgive me.
I am helpless."
"Oh, why, sir," and Gerasim's eyes beamed and he showed his
glistening white teeth, "what's a little trouble? It's a case of
illness with you, sir."
And his deft strong hands did their accustomed task, and he
went out of the room stepping lightly. five minutes later he as
lightly returned.
Ivan Ilych was still sitting in the same position in the
armchair.
"Gerasim," he said when the latter had replaced the freshly-
washed utensil. "Please come here and help me." Gerasim went up
to him. "Lift me up. It is hard for me to get up, and I have sent
Dmitri away."
Gerasim went up to him, grasped his master with his strong
arms deftly but gently, in the same way that he stepped -- lifted
him, supported him with one hand, and with the other drew up his
trousers and would have set him down again, but Ivan Ilych asked to
be led to the sofa. Gerasim, without an effort and without
apparent pressure, led him, almost lifting him, to the sofa and
placed him on it.
"That you. How easily and well you do it all!"
Gerasim smiled again and turned to leave the room. But Ivan
Ilych felt his presence such a comfort that he did not want to let
him go.
"One thing more, please move up that chair. No, the other one
-- under my feet. It is easier for me when my feet are raised."
Gerasim brought the chair, set it down gently in place, and
raised Ivan Ilych's legs on it. It seemed to Ivan Ilych that he
felt better while Gerasim was holding up his legs.
"It's better when my legs are higher," he said. "Place that
cushion under them."
Gerasim did so. He again lifted the legs and placed them, and
again Ivan Ilych felt better while Gerasim held his legs. When he
set them down Ivan Ilych fancied he felt worse.
"Gerasim," he said. "Are you busy now?"
"Not at all, sir," said Gerasim, who had learnt from the
townsfolk how to speak to gentlefolk.
"What have you still to do?"
"What have I to do? I've done everything except chopping the
logs for tomorrow."
"Then hold my legs up a bit higher, can you?"
"Of course I can. Why not?" and Gerasim raised his master's
legs higher and Ivan Ilych thought that in that position he did not
feel any pain at all.
"And how about the logs?"
"Don't trouble about that, sir. There's plenty of time."
Ivan Ilych told Gerasim to sit down and hold his legs, and
began to talk to him. And strange to say it seemed to him that he
felt better while Gerasim held his legs up.
After that Ivan Ilych would sometimes call Gerasim and get him
to hold his legs on his shoulders, and he liked talking to him.
Gerasim did it all easily, willingly, simply, and with a good
nature that touched Ivan Ilych. Health, strength, and vitality in
other people were offensive to him, but Gerasim's strength and
vitality did not mortify but soothed him.
What tormented Ivan Ilych most was the deception, the lie,
which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but
was simply ill, and the only need keep quiet and undergo a
treatment and then something very good would result. He however
knew that do what they would nothing would come of it, only still
more agonizing suffering and death. This deception tortured him --
their not wishing to admit what they all knew and what he knew, but
wanting to lie to him concerning his terrible condition, and
wishing and forcing him to participate in that lie. Those lies --
lies enacted over him on the eve of his death and destined to
degrade this awful, solemn act to the level of their visitings,
their curtains, their sturgeon for dinner -- were a terrible agony
for Ivan Ilych. And strangely enough, many times when they were
going through their antics over him he had been within a
hairbreadth of calling out to them: "Stop lying! You know and I
know that I am dying. Then at least stop lying about it!" But he
had never had the spirit to do it. The awful, terrible act of his
dying was, he could see, reduced by those about him to the level of
a casual, unpleasant, and almost indecorous incident (as if someone
entered a drawing room defusing an unpleasant odour) and this was
done by that very decorum which he had served all his life long.
He saw that no one felt for him, because no one even wished to
grasp his position. Only Gerasim recognized it and pitied him.
And so Ivan Ilych felt at ease only with him. He felt comforted
when Gerasim supported his legs (sometimes all night long) and
refused to go to bed, saying: "Don't you worry, Ivan Ilych. I'll
get sleep enough later on," or when he suddenly became familiar and
exclaimed: "If you weren't sick it would be another matter, but as
it is, why should I grudge a little trouble?" Gerasim alone did
not lie; everything showed that he alone understood the facts of
the case and did not consider it necessary to disguise them, but
simply felt sorry for his emaciated and enfeebled master. Once
when Ivan Ilych was sending him away he even said straight out:
"We shall all of us die, so why should I grudge a little trouble?"
-- expressing the fact that he did not think his work burdensome,
because he was doing it for a dying man and hoped someone would do
the same for him when his time came.
Apart from this lying, or because of it, what most tormented
Ivan Ilych was that no one pitied him as he wished to be pitied.
At certain moments after prolonged suffering he wished most of all
(though he would have been ashamed to confess it) for someone to
pity him as a sick child is pitied. He longed to be petted and
comforted. he knew he was an important functionary, that he had a
beard turning grey, and that therefore what he long for was
impossible, but still he longed for it. and in Gerasim's attitude
towards him there was something akin to what he wished for, and so
that attitude comforted him. Ivan Ilych wanted to weep, wanted to
be petted and cried over, and then his colleague Shebek would come,
and instead of weeping and being petted, Ivan Ilych would assume a
serious, severe, and profound air, and by force of habit would
express his opinion on a decision of the Court of Cassation and
would stubbornly insist on that view. This falsity around him and
within him did more than anything else to poison his last days.
VIII
It was morning. He knew it was morning because Gerasim had
gone, and Peter the footman had come and put out the candles, drawn
back one of the curtains, and begun quietly to tidy up. Whether it
was morning or evening, Friday or Sunday, made no difference, it
was all just the same: the gnawing, unmitigated, agonizing pain,
never ceasing for an instant, the consciousness of life inexorably
waning but not yet extinguished, the approach of that ever dreaded
and hateful Death which was the only reality, and always the same
falsity. What were days, weeks, hours, in such a case?
"Will you have some tea, sir?"
"He wants things to be regular, and wishes the gentlefolk to
drink tea in the morning," thought ivan Ilych, and only said "No."
"Wouldn't you like to move onto the sofa, sir?"
"He wants to tidy up the room, and I'm in the way. I am
uncleanliness and disorder," he thought, and said only:
"No, leave me alone."
The man went on bustling about. Ivan Ilych stretched out his
hand. Peter came up, ready to help.
"What is it, sir?"
"My watch."
Peter took the watch which was close at hand and gave it to
his master.
"Half-past eight. Are they up?"
"No sir, except Vladimir Ivanovich" (the son) "who has gone to
school. Praskovya Fedorovna ordered me to wake her if you asked
for her. Shall I do so?"
"No, there's no need to." "Perhaps I's better have some tea,"
he thought, and added aloud: "Yes, bring me some tea."
Peter went to the door, but Ivan Ilych dreaded being left
alone. "How can I keep him here? Oh yes, my medicine." "Peter,
give me my medicine." "Why not? Perhaps it may still do some
good." He took a spoonful and swallowed it. "No, it won't help.
It's all tomfoolery, all deception," he decided as soon as he
became aware of the familiar, sickly, hopeless taste. "No, I can't
believe in it any longer. But the pain, why this pain? If it
would only cease just for a moment!" And he moaned. Peter turned
towards him. "It's all right. Go and fetch me some tea."
Peter went out. Left alone Ivan Ilych groaned not so much
with pain, terrible thought that was, as from mental anguish.
Always and for ever the same, always these endless days and nights.
If only it would come quicker! If only *what* would come quicker?
Death, darkness?...No, no! anything rather than death!
when Peter returned with the tea on a tray, Ivan Ilych stared
at him for a time in perplexity, not realizing who and what he was.
Peter was disconcerted by that look and his embarrassment brought
Ivan Ilych to himself.
"Oh, tea! All right, put it down. Only help me to wash and
put on a clean shirt."
And Ivan Ilych began to wash. With pauses for rest, he washed
his hands and then his face, cleaned his teeth, brushed his hair,
looked in the glass. He was terrified by what he saw, especially
by the limp way in which his hair clung to his pallid forehead.
While his shirt was being changed he knew that he would be
still more frightened at the sight of his body, so he avoided
looking at it. Finally he was ready. He drew on a dressing-gown,
wrapped himself in a plaid, and sat down in the armchair to take
his tea. For a moment he felt refreshed, but as soon as he began
to drink the tea he was again aware of the same taste, and the pain
also returned. He finished it with an effort, and then lay down
stretching out his legs, and dismissed Peter.
Always the same. Now a spark of hope flashes up, then a sea
of despair rages, and always pain; always pain, always despair, and
always the same. When alone he had a dreadful and distressing
desire to call someone, but he knew beforehand that with others
present it would be still worse. "Another dose of morphine--to
lose consciousness. I will tell him, the doctor, that he must
think of something else. It's impossible, impossible, to go on
like this."
An hour and another pass like that. But now there is a ring
at the door bell. Perhaps it's the doctor? It is. He comes in
fresh, hearty, plump, and cheerful, with that look on his face that
seems to say: "There now, you're in a panic about something, but
we'll arrange it all for you directly!" The doctor knows this
costume, engaged on that disgusting task embarrassed Ivan Ilych.
Once when he got up from the commode to weak to draw up his
trousers, he dropped into a soft armchair and looked with horror at
his bare, enfeebled thighs with the muscles so sharply marked on
them.
Gerasim with a firm light tread, his heavy boots emitting a
pleasant smell of tar and fresh winter air, came in wearing a clean
Hessian apron, the sleeves of his print shirt tucked up over his
strong bare young arms; and refraining from looking at his sick
master out of consideration for his feelings, and restraining the
joy of life that beamed from his face, he went up to the commode.
"Gerasim!" said Ivan Ilych in a weak voice.
"Gerasim started, evidently afraid he might have committed
some blunder, and with a rapid movement turned his fresh, kind,
simple young face which just showed the first downy signs of a
beard.
"Yes, sir?"
"That must be very unpleasant for you. You must forgive me.
I am helpless."
"Oh, why, sir," and Gerasim's eyes beamed and he showed his
glistening white teeth, "what's a little trouble? It's a case of
illness with you, sir."
And his deft strong hands did their accustomed task, and he
went out of the room stepping lightly. five minutes later he as
lightly returned.
Ivan Ilych was still sitting in the same position in the
armchair.
"Gerasim," he said when the latter had replaced the freshly-
washed utensil. "Please come here and help me." Gerasim went up
to him. "Lift me up. It is hard for me to get up, and I have sent
Dmitri away."
Gerasim went up to him, grasped his master with his strong
arms deftly but gently, in the same way that he stepped -- lifted
him, supported him with one hand, and with the other drew up his
trousers and would have set him down again, but Ivan Ilych asked to
be led to the sofa. Gerasim, without an effort and without
apparent pressure, led him, almost lifting him, to the sofa and
placed him on it.
"That you. How easily and well you do it all!"
Gerasim smiled again and turned to leave the room. But Ivan
Ilych felt his presence such a comfort that he did not want to let
him go.
"One thing more, please move up that chair. No, the other one
-- under my feet. It is easier for me when my feet are raised."
Gerasim brought the chair, set it down gently in place, and
raised Ivan Ilych's legs on it. It seemed to Ivan Ilych that he
felt better while Gerasim was holding up his legs.
"It's better when my legs are higher," he said. "Place that
cushion under them."
Gerasim did so. He again lifted the legs and placed them, and
again Ivan Ilych felt better while Gerasim held his legs. When he
set them down Ivan Ilych fancied he felt worse.
"Gerasim," he said. "Are you busy now?"
"Not at all, sir," said Gerasim, who had learnt from the
townsfolk how to speak to gentlefolk.
"What have you still to do?"
"What have I to do? I've done everything except chopping the
logs for tomorrow."
"Then hold my legs up a bit higher, can you?"
"Of course I can. Why not?" and Gerasim raised his master's
legs higher and Ivan Ilych thought that in that position he did not
feel any pain at all.
"And how about the logs?"
"Don't trouble about that, sir. There's plenty of time."
Ivan Ilych told Gerasim to sit down and hold his legs, and
began to talk to him. And strange to say it seemed to him that he
felt better while Gerasim held his legs up.
After that Ivan Ilych would sometimes call Gerasim and get him
to hold his legs on his shoulders, and he liked talking to him.
Gerasim did it all easily, willingly, simply, and with a good
nature that touched Ivan Ilych. Health, strength, and vitality in
other people were offensive to him, but Gerasim's strength and
vitality did not mortify but soothed him.
What tormented Ivan Ilych most was the deception, the lie,
which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but
was simply ill, and the only need keep quiet and undergo a
treatment and then something very good would result. He however
knew that do what they would nothing would come of it, only still
more agonizing suffering and death. This deception tortured him --
their not wishing to admit what they all knew and what he knew, but
wanting to lie to him concerning his terrible condition, and
wishing and forcing him to participate in that lie. Those lies --
lies enacted over him on the eve of his death and destined to
degrade this awful, solemn act to the level of their visitings,
their curtains, their sturgeon for dinner -- were a terrible agony
for Ivan Ilych. And strangely enough, many times when they were
going through their antics over him he had been within a
hairbreadth of calling out to them: "Stop lying! You know and I
know that I am dying. Then at least stop lying about it!" But he
had never had the spirit to do it. The awful, terrible act of his
dying was, he could see, reduced by those about him to the level of
a casual, unpleasant, and almost indecorous incident (as if someone
entered a drawing room defusing an unpleasant odour) and this was
done by that very decorum which he had served all his life long.
He saw that no one felt for him, because no one even wished to
grasp his position. Only Gerasim recognized it and pitied him.
And so Ivan Ilych felt at ease only with him. He felt comforted
when Gerasim supported his legs (sometimes all night long) and
refused to go to bed, saying: "Don't you worry, Ivan Ilych. I'll
get sleep enough later on," or when he suddenly became familiar and
exclaimed: "If you weren't sick it would be another matter, but as
it is, why should I grudge a little trouble?" Gerasim alone did
not lie; everything showed that he alone understood the facts of
the case and did not consider it necessary to disguise them, but
simply felt sorry for his emaciated and enfeebled master. Once
when Ivan Ilych was sending him away he even said straight out:
"We shall all of us die, so why should I grudge a little trouble?"
-- expressing the fact that he did not think his work burdensome,
because he was doing it for a dying man and hoped someone would do
the same for him when his time came.
Apart from this lying, or because of it, what most tormented
Ivan Ilych was that no one pitied him as he wished to be pitied.
At certain moments after prolonged suffering he wished most of all
(though he would have been ashamed to confess it) for someone to
pity him as a sick child is pitied. He longed to be petted and
comforted. he knew he was an important functionary, that he had a
beard turning grey, and that therefore what he long for was
impossible, but still he longed for it. and in Gerasim's attitude
towards him there was something akin to what he wished for, and so
that attitude comforted him. Ivan Ilych wanted to weep, wanted to
be petted and cried over, and then his colleague Shebek would come,
and instead of weeping and being petted, Ivan Ilych would assume a
serious, severe, and profound air, and by force of habit would
express his opinion on a decision of the Court of Cassation and
would stubbornly insist on that view. This falsity around him and
within him did more than anything else to poison his last days.
VIII
It was morning. He knew it was morning because Gerasim had
gone, and Peter the footman had come and put out the candles, drawn
back one of the curtains, and begun quietly to tidy up. Whether it
was morning or evening, Friday or Sunday, made no difference, it
was all just the same: the gnawing, unmitigated, agonizing pain,
never ceasing for an instant, the consciousness of life inexorably
waning but not yet extinguished, the approach of that ever dreaded
and hateful Death which was the only reality, and always the same
falsity. What were days, weeks, hours, in such a case?
"Will you have some tea, sir?"
"He wants things to be regular, and wishes the gentlefolk to
drink tea in the morning," thought ivan Ilych, and only said "No."
"Wouldn't you like to move onto the sofa, sir?"
"He wants to tidy up the room, and I'm in the way. I am
uncleanliness and disorder," he thought, and said only:
"No, leave me alone."
The man went on bustling about. Ivan Ilych stretched out his
hand. Peter came up, ready to help.
"What is it, sir?"
"My watch."
Peter took the watch which was close at hand and gave it to
his master.
"Half-past eight. Are they up?"
"No sir, except Vladimir Ivanovich" (the son) "who has gone to
school. Praskovya Fedorovna ordered me to wake her if you asked
for her. Shall I do so?"
"No, there's no need to." "Perhaps I's better have some tea,"
he thought, and added aloud: "Yes, bring me some tea."
Peter went to the door, but Ivan Ilych dreaded being left
alone. "How can I keep him here? Oh yes, my medicine." "Peter,
give me my medicine." "Why not? Perhaps it may still do some
good." He took a spoonful and swallowed it. "No, it won't help.
It's all tomfoolery, all deception," he decided as soon as he
became aware of the familiar, sickly, hopeless taste. "No, I can't
believe in it any longer. But the pain, why this pain? If it
would only cease just for a moment!" And he moaned. Peter turned
towards him. "It's all right. Go and fetch me some tea."
Peter went out. Left alone Ivan Ilych groaned not so much
with pain, terrible thought that was, as from mental anguish.
Always and for ever the same, always these endless days and nights.
If only it would come quicker! If only *what* would come quicker?
Death, darkness?...No, no! anything rather than death!
when Peter returned with the tea on a tray, Ivan Ilych stared
at him for a time in perplexity, not realizing who and what he was.
Peter was disconcerted by that look and his embarrassment brought
Ivan Ilych to himself.
"Oh, tea! All right, put it down. Only help me to wash and
put on a clean shirt."
And Ivan Ilych began to wash. With pauses for rest, he washed
his hands and then his face, cleaned his teeth, brushed his hair,
looked in the glass. He was terrified by what he saw, especially
by the limp way in which his hair clung to his pallid forehead.
While his shirt was being changed he knew that he would be
still more frightened at the sight of his body, so he avoided
looking at it. Finally he was ready. He drew on a dressing-gown,
wrapped himself in a plaid, and sat down in the armchair to take
his tea. For a moment he felt refreshed, but as soon as he began
to drink the tea he was again aware of the same taste, and the pain
also returned. He finished it with an effort, and then lay down
stretching out his legs, and dismissed Peter.
Always the same. Now a spark of hope flashes up, then a sea
of despair rages, and always pain; always pain, always despair, and
always the same. When alone he had a dreadful and distressing
desire to call someone, but he knew beforehand that with others
present it would be still worse. "Another dose of morphine--to
lose consciousness. I will tell him, the doctor, that he must
think of something else. It's impossible, impossible, to go on
like this."
An hour and another pass like that. But now there is a ring
at the door bell. Perhaps it's the doctor? It is. He comes in
fresh, hearty, plump, and cheerful, with that look on his face that
seems to say: "There now, you're in a panic about something, but
we'll arrange it all for you directly!" The doctor knows this
- horror [´hɔrə]
n.恐怖；战栗 (初中英语单词) - sharply [´ʃɑ:pli] ad.锋利地；剧烈地 (初中英语单词)
- consideration [kən,sidə´reiʃən] n.考虑；原因；体谅 (初中英语单词)
- evidently [´evidəntli] ad.明显地 (初中英语单词)
- movement [´mu:vmənt] n.活动；运动；动作 (初中英语单词)
- forgive [fə´giv] vt.原谅，谅解，宽恕 (初中英语单词)
- lightly [´laitli] ad.轻微地，稍微 (初中英语单词)
- gently [´dʒentli] ad.温和地；静静地 (初中英语单词)
- pressure [´preʃə] n.压榨 vt.对...施压力 (初中英语单词)
- learnt [lə:nt] learn 的过去式(分词) (初中英语单词)
- undergo [,ʌndə´gəu] vt.经历(受)；遭受 (初中英语单词)
- suffering [´sʌfəriŋ] n.痛苦；灾害 (初中英语单词)
- solemn [´sɔləm] a.严肃的；隆重的 (初中英语单词)
- strangely [´streindʒli] ad.奇怪地；陌生地 (初中英语单词)
- incident [´insidənt] n.小事件；事变 (初中英语单词)
- disguise [dis´gaiz] vt.假装；隐瞒 n.伪装 (初中英语单词)
- ashamed [ə´ʃeimd] a.惭愧；不好意思 (初中英语单词)
- confess [kən´fes] vt.供认；坦白；承认 (初中英语单词)
- therefore [´ðeəfɔ:] ad.&conj.因此；所以 (初中英语单词)
- severe [si´viə] a.严厉的；苛刻的 (初中英语单词)
- poison [´pɔizən] n.毒物 v.毒害 a.有毒的 (初中英语单词)
- instant [´instənt] a.立即的 n.紧迫；瞬间 (初中英语单词)
- reality [ri´æliti] n.现实(性)；真实；逼真 (初中英语单词)
- mental [´mentl] a.精神的；心理的 (初中英语单词)
- despair [di´speə] vi.&n.绝望 (初中英语单词)
- dreadful [´dredful] a.可怕的；讨厌的 (初中英语单词)
- cheerful [´tʃiəful] a.快乐的；高兴的 (初中英语单词)
- blunder [´blʌndə] n.&v.(犯)大错；疏忽 (高中英语单词)
- unpleasant [ʌn´plezənt] a.不愉快的；不合意的 (高中英语单词)
- offensive [ə´fensiv] a.冒犯的 n.进攻 (高中英语单词)
- concerning [kən´sə:niŋ] prep.关于 (高中英语单词)
- casual [´kæʒuəl] a.偶然的；临时的 (高中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- grudge [grʌdʒ] vt.&n.吝啬；怨恨 (高中英语单词)
- profound [prə´faund] a.深奥的；渊博的 (高中英语单词)
- consciousness [´kɔnʃəsnis] n.意识；觉悟；知觉 (高中英语单词)
- decided [di´saidid] a.明显的；决定的 (高中英语单词)
- hopeless [´həupləs] a.无望的，无可救药的 (高中英语单词)
- hearty [´hɑ:ti] a.热忱的；强健的 (高中英语单词)
- armchair [´ɑ:mtʃeə] n.扶手椅 (英语四级单词)
- utensil [ju:´tensəl] n.家用器皿，用具 (英语四级单词)
- willingly [´wiliŋli] ad.情愿地，乐意地 (英语四级单词)
- vitality [vai´tæliti] n.活力；生命力；效力 (英语四级单词)
- participate [pɑ:´tisipeit] v.参与；分享；带有 (英语四级单词)
- drawing [´drɔ:iŋ] n.画图；制图；图样 (英语四级单词)
- colleague [´kɔli:g] n.同事，同僚 (英语四级单词)
- hateful [´heitfəl] a.可恨的，可憎的 (英语四级单词)
- tomfoolery [tɔm´fu:ləri] n.愚蠢举动(言语) (英语四级单词)
- sickly [´sikli] a.多病的；病态的 (英语四级单词)
- perplexity [pə´pleksiti] n.困惑；为难；纷乱 (英语四级单词)
- embarrassment [im´bærəsmənt] n.窘迫；困惑；为难 (英语四级单词)
- beforehand [bi´fɔ:hænd] ad.事先；提前 (英语四级单词)
- deftly [´deftli] ad.灵巧地，敏捷地 (英语六级单词)
- holding [´həuldiŋ] n.保持，固定，存储 (英语六级单词)
- mortify [´mɔ:tifai] v.克制；禁欲；使受辱 (英语六级单词)
- deception [di´sepʃən] n.欺骗，诈骗；骗术 (英语六级单词)
- calling [´kɔ:liŋ] n.点名；职业；欲望 (英语六级单词)
- weeping [´wi:piŋ] a.&n.哭泣(的) (英语六级单词)
- stubbornly [´stʌbənli] ad.顽固地，倔强地 (英语六级单词)
- footman [´futmən] n.侍应员；男仆 (英语六级单词)
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