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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
IVAN YEGORITCH KRASNYHIN, a fourth-rate journalist, returns home late at night, grave and careworn1, with a peculiar2 air of concentration. He looks like a man expecting a police-raid or contemplating3 suicide. Pacing about his rooms he halts abruptly4, ruffles5 up his hair, and says in the tone in which Laertes announces his intention of avenging6 his sister:
“Shattered, soul-weary, a sick load of misery7 on the heart . . . and then to sit down and write. And this is called life! How is it nobody has described the agonizing8 discord9 in the soul of a writer who has to amuse the crowd when his heart is heavy or to shed tears at the word of command when his heart is light? I must be playful, coldly unconcerned, witty10, but what if I am weighed down with misery, what if I am ill, or my child is dying or my wife in anguish11!”
He says this, brandishing12 his fists and rolling his eyes. . . . Then he goes into the bedroom and wakes his wife.
“Nadya,” he says, “I am sitting down to write. . . . Please don’t let anyone interrupt me. I can’t write with children crying or cooks snoring. . . . See, too, that there’s tea and . . . steak or something. . . . You know that I can’t write without tea. . . . Tea is the one thing that gives me the energy for my work.”
Returning to his room he takes off his coat, waistcoat, and boots. He does this very slowly; then, assuming an expression of injured innocence13, he sits down to his table.
There is nothing casual, nothing ordinary on his writing-table, down to the veriest trifle everything bears the stamp of a stern, deliberately14 planned programme. Little busts15 and photographs of distinguished16 writers, heaps of rough manuscripts, a volume of Byelinsky with a page turned down, part of a skull17 by way of an ash-tray, a sheet of newspaper folded carelessly, but so that a passage is uppermost, boldly marked in blue pencil with the word “disgraceful.” There are a dozen sharply-pointed pencils and several penholders fitted with new nibs18, put in readiness that no accidental breaking of a pen may for a single second interrupt the flight of his creative fancy.
Ivan Yegoritch throws himself back in his chair, and closing his eyes concentrates himself on his subject. He hears his wife shuffling19 about in her slippers20 and splitting shavings to heat the samovar. She is hardly awake, that is apparent from the way the knife and the lid of the samovar keep dropping from her hands. Soon the hissing21 of the samovar and the spluttering of the frying meat reaches him. His wife is still splitting shavings and rattling22 with the doors and blowers of the stove.
“Heavens! the stove is smoking!” he groans24, grimacing25 with a face of agony. “Smoking! That insufferable woman makes a point of trying to poison me! How, in God’s Name, am I to write in such surroundings, kindly26 tell me that?”
He rushes into the kitchen and breaks into a theatrical27 wail28. When a little later, his wife, stepping cautiously on tiptoe, brings him in a glass of tea, he is sitting in an easy chair as before with his eyes closed, absorbed in his article. He does not stir, drums lightly on his forehead with two fingers, and pretends he is not aware of his wife’s presence. . . . His face wears an expression of injured innocence.
Like a girl who has been presented with a costly29 fan, he spends a long time coquetting, grimacing, and posing to himself before he writes the title. . . . He presses his temples, he wriggles30, and draws his legs up under his chair as though he were in pain, or half closes his eyes languidly like a cat on the sofa. At last, not without hesitation31, he stretches out his hand towards the inkstand, and with an expression as though he were signing a death-warrant, writes the title. . . .
“Mammy, give me some water!” he hears his son’s voice.
Daddy writes very, very quickly, without corrections or pauses, he has scarcely time to turn over the pages. The busts and portraits of celebrated33 authors look at his swiftly racing34 pen and, keeping stock still, seem to be thinking: “Oh my, how you are going it!”
All at once Krasnyhin draws himself up, lays down his pen and listens. . . . He hears an even monotonous37 whispering. . . . It is Foma Nikolaevitch, the lodger38 in the next room, saying his prayers.
“I say!” cries Krasnyhin. “Couldn’t you, please, say your prayers more quietly? You prevent me from writing!”
“Very sorry. . . . ” Foma Nikolaevitch answers timidly.
After covering five pages, Krasnyhin stretches and looks at his watch.
“Goodness, three o’clock already,” he moans. “Other people are asleep while I . . . I alone must work!”
Shattered and exhausted39 he goes, with his head on one side, to the bedroom to wake his wife, and says in a languid voice:
“Nadya, get me some more tea! I . . . feel weak.”
He writes till four o’clock and would readily have written till six if his subject had not been exhausted. Coquetting and posing to himself and the inanimate objects about him, far from any indiscreet, critical eye, tyrannizing and domineering over the little anthill that fate has put in his power are the honey and the salt of his existence. And how different is this despot here at home from the humble40, meek41, dull-witted little man we are accustomed to see in the editor’s offices!
“I am so exhausted that I am afraid I shan’t sleep . . . ” he says as he gets into bed. “Our work, this cursed, ungrateful hard labour, exhausts the soul even more than the body. . . . I had better take some bromide. . . . God knows, if it were not for my family I’d throw up the work. . . . To write to order! It is awful.”
He sleeps till twelve or one o’clock in the day, sleeps a sound, healthy sleep. . . . Ah! how he would sleep, what dreams he would have, how he would spread himself if he were to become a well-known writer, an editor, or even a sub-editor!
“He has been writing all night,” whispers his wife with a scared expression on her face. “Sh!”
No one dares to speak or move or make a sound. His sleep is something sacred, and the culprit who offends against it will pay dearly for his fault.
“Hush!” floats over the flat. “Hush!”
点击收听单词发音
1 careworn | |
adj.疲倦的,饱经忧患的 | |
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2 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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3 contemplating | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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4 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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5 ruffles | |
褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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6 avenging | |
adj.报仇的,复仇的v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 );为…报复 | |
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7 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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8 agonizing | |
adj.痛苦难忍的;使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦;折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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9 discord | |
n.不和,意见不合,争论,(音乐)不和谐 | |
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10 witty | |
adj.机智的,风趣的 | |
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11 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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12 brandishing | |
v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 );炫耀 | |
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13 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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14 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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15 busts | |
半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 ); 妇女的胸部; 胸围; 突击搜捕 | |
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16 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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17 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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18 nibs | |
上司,大人物; 钢笔尖,鹅毛管笔笔尖( nib的名词复数 ); 可可豆的碎粒; 小瑕疵 | |
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19 shuffling | |
adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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20 slippers | |
n. 拖鞋 | |
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21 hissing | |
n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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22 rattling | |
adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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23 sniff | |
vi.嗅…味道;抽鼻涕;对嗤之以鼻,蔑视 | |
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24 groans | |
n.呻吟,叹息( groan的名词复数 );呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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25 grimacing | |
v.扮鬼相,做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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26 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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27 theatrical | |
adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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28 wail | |
vt./vi.大声哀号,恸哭;呼啸,尖啸 | |
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29 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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30 wriggles | |
n.蠕动,扭动( wriggle的名词复数 )v.扭动,蠕动,蜿蜒行进( wriggle的第三人称单数 );(使身体某一部位)扭动;耍滑不做,逃避(应做的事等) | |
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31 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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32 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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33 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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34 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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35 squeaks | |
n.短促的尖叫声,吱吱声( squeak的名词复数 )v.短促地尖叫( squeak的第三人称单数 );吱吱叫;告密;充当告密者 | |
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36 jolts | |
(使)摇动, (使)震惊( jolt的名词复数 ) | |
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37 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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38 lodger | |
n.寄宿人,房客 | |
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39 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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40 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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41 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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