中文版
译本序……………………………………………………………… 1
霍里和卡利内奇…………………………………………………… 1
叶尔莫莱和磨坊老板娘……………………………………………13
莓 泉………………………………………………………………25
县城的大夫…………………………………………………………35
我的邻里拉季洛夫…………………………………………………44
独院地主奥夫夏尼科夫……………………………………………52
利戈夫村……………………………………………………………70
别任草地……………………………………………………………82
美丽的梅恰河畔的卡西扬……………………………………… 103
总 管…………………………………………………………… 122
办事处…………………………………………………………… 136
孤 狼…………………………………………………………… 155
两地主…………………………………………………………… 164
列别江…………………………………………………………… 173
塔季雅娜·鲍里索夫娜和她的侄儿…………………………… 186
死………………………………………………………………… 199
歌 手…………………………………………………………… 212
彼得·彼得罗维奇·卡拉塔叶夫……………………………… 229
幽 会…………………………………………………………… 245
希格雷县的哈姆莱特…………………………………………… 254
切尔托普哈诺夫和涅多皮尤斯金……………………………… 278
切尔托普哈诺夫的末路………………………………………… 296
枯萎了的女人…………………………………………………… 331
车轱辘响………………………………………………………… 345
树林和草原……………………………………………………… 360
英文版
I Hor and Kalinitch… ……………………………………… 1
II Yermola and the Miller’s Wife… …………………………14
III Raspberry Spring… ………………………………………26
IV The District Doctor…………………………………………36
V My Neighbour Radilov… …………………………………46
VI The Peasant Proprietor Ovsyanikov… ……………………54
VII Lgov… ……………………………………………………73
VIII Byezhin Prairie… …………………………………………85
IX Kassyan of Fair Springs………………………………… 106
X The Agent… …………………………………………… 126
XI The Counting-House… ………………………………… 140
XII Biryuk…………………………………………………… 158
XIII Two Country Gentlemen………………………………… 167
XIV Lebedyan………………………………………………… 176
XV Tatyana Borissovna and Her Nephew…………………… 189
XVI Death… ………………………………………………… 201
XVII The Singers……………………………………………… 214
XVIII Piotr Petrovitch Karataev… …………………………… 232
XIX The Tryst………………………………………………… 247
XX The Hamlet of the Shtchigri District… ………………… 256
XXI Tchertop-Hanov and Nedopyuskin……………………… 281
XXII The End of Tchertop-Hanov… ………………………… 300
XXIII A Living Relic…………………………………………… 335
XXIV The Rattling of Wheels… ……………………………… 348
EPILOGUE The Forest and the Steppe… …………………………… 363
I have a
neighbour, a young landowner and a young sportsman.One fine July morning I rode
over to him with a proposition that we should go out grouse-shooting together.
He agreed. ‘Only let’s go,’he said, ‘to my underwoods at Zusha; I can seize the
opportunity to have a look at Tchapligino; you know my oakwood; they’re felling
timber there.’ ‘By all means.’ He ordered his horse to be saddled, put on a
green coat with bronze buttons, stamped with a boar’s head, a game-bag
embroidered in crewels, and a silver flask, slung a newfangled French gun over
his shoulder, turned himself about with some satisfaction before the
looking-glass, and called his dog, Hope, a gift from his cousin, an old maid
with an excellent heart, but no hair on her head. We started. My neighbour took
with him the village constable, Arhip, a stout, squat peasant with a square
face and jaws of antediluvian proportions, and an overseer he had recently
hired from the Baltic provinces, a youth of nineteen, thin, flaxen-haired, and
short-sighted,
with sloping shoulders and a long neck, Herr Gottlieb von
der Kock.My neighbour had himself only recently come into the property. It had
come to him by inheritance from an aunt, the widow of a councilor of state,
Madame Kardon-Kataev, an excessively stout woman, who did nothing but lie in
her bed, sighing and groaning. We reached the underwoods. ‘You wait for me here
at the clearing,’ said Ardalion Mihalitch my neighbour addressing his
companions. The German bowed, got off his horse, pulled a book out of his
pocket — a novel of Johanna Schopenhauer’s, I fancy — and sat down under a
bush; Arhip remained in the sun without stirring a muscle for an hour. We beat
about among the bushes, but did not come on a single covey. Ardalion Mihalitch announced
his intention of going on to the wood. I myself had no faith, somehow, in our
luck that day; I, too, sauntered after him. We got back to the clearing. The
German noted the page, got up, put the book in his pocket, and with some
difficulty mounted his bob-tailed, broken-winded mare, who neighed and kicked
at the slightest touch;Arhip shook himself, gave a tug at both reins at once,
swung his legs,and at last succeeded in starting his torpid and dejected nag.
We set off.
I had been
familiar with Ardalion Mihalitch’s wood from my childhood. I had often strolled
in Tchapligino with my French tutor,Monsieur Désiré Fleury, the kindest of men
who had, however, almost ruined my constitution for life by dosing me with
Leroux’s mixture every evening. The whole wood consisted of some two or three
hundred immense oaks and ash-trees. Their stately, powerful trunks were
magnificently black against the transparent golden green of the nut bushes and
mountain-ashes; higher up, their wide knotted branches stood out in graceful
lines against the clear blue sky, unfolding into a tent overhead; hawks,
honey-buzzards and kestrels flew whizzing under the motionless tree-tops;
variegated wood-peckers tapped loudly on the stout bark; the blackbird’s
bell-like trill was heard suddenly in the thick foliage, following on the
ever-changing note of the gold-hammer; in the bushes below was the chirp and
twitter of hedge-warblers, siskins, and peewits; finches ran swiftly along the
paths; a hare would steal along the edge of the wood, halting cautiously as he
ran; a squirrel would hop sporting from tree to tree, then suddenly sit still,
with its tail over its head. In the grass among the high ant-hills under the
delicate shade of the lovely, feathery, deep-indented bracken, were violets and
lilies of the valley, and funguses, russet, yellow, brown, red and crimson; in
the patches of grass among the spreading bushes red strawberries were to be
found....And oh, the shade in the wood! In the most stifling heat, at mid-day,
it was like night in the wood: such peace, such fragrance, such freshness....I
had spent happy times in Tchapligino, and so, I must own,it was with melancholy
feelings I entered the wood I knew so well. The ruinous, snowless winter of
1840 had not spared my old friends, the oaks and the ashes; withered, naked,
covered here and there with sickly foliage, they struggled mournfully up above
the young growth which‘took their place, but could never replace them.’
Some trees, still
covered with leaves below, fling their lifeless,ruined branches upwards, as it
were, in reproach and despair; in others,stout, dead, dry branches are thrust
out of the midst of foliage still thick,though with none of the luxuriant
abundance of old; others have fallen altogether, and lie rotting like corpses
on the ground. And — who could have dreamed of this in former days? — there was
no shade — no shade to be found anywhere in Tchapligino! ‘Ah,’ I thought,
looking at
the dying trees: ‘isn’t it shameful and bitter for
you?’...Koltsov’s lines recurred to me:
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