第6章 The Trousseau 嫁妆

I have seen a great many houses in my time, little and big, new and old, built of stone and of wood, but of one house I have kept a very vivid memory. It was, properly speaking, rather a cottage than a house—a tiny cottage of one story, with three windows, looking extraordinarily like a little old hunchback woman with a cap on. Its white stucco walls, its tiled roof, and dilapidated chimney, were all drowned in a perfect sea of green. The cottage was lost to sight among the mulberry-trees, acacias, and poplars planted by the grandfathers and great-grandfathers of its present occupants. And yet it is a town house. Its wide courtyard stands in a row with other similar green courtyards, and forms part of a street. Nothing ever drives down that street, and very few persons are ever seen walking through it.

The shutters of the little house are always closed; its occupants do not care for sunlight—the light is no use to them. The windows are never opened, for they are not fond of fresh air. People who spend their lives in the midst of acacias, mulberries, and nettles have no passion for nature. It is only to the summer visitor that God has vouchsafed an eye for the beauties of nature. The rest of mankind remain steeped in profound ignorance of the existence of such beauties. People never prize what they have always had in abundance. “What we have, we do not treasure,” and what's more we do not even love it.

The little house stands in an earthly paradise of green trees with happy birds nesting in them. But inside...alas...! In summer, it is close and stifling within; in winter, hot as a Turkish bath, not one breath of air, and the dreariness! ...

The first time I visited the little house was many years ago on business. I brought a message from the Colonel who was the owner of the house to his wife and daughter. That first visit I remember very distinctly. It would be impossible, indeed, to forget it.

Imagine a limp little woman of forty, gazing at you with alarm and astonishment while you walk from the passage into the parlour. You are a stranger, a visitor, “a young man”;that's enough to reduce her to a state of terror and bewilderment. Though you have no dagger, axe, or revolver in your hand, and though you smile affably, you are met with alarm.

“Whom have I the honour and pleasure of addressing?” the little lady asks in a trembling voice.

I introduced myself and explained why I had come. The alarm and amazement were at once succeeded by a shrill, joyful “Ach!” and she turned her eyes upwards to the ceiling. This “Ach!” was caught up like an echo and repeated from the hall to the parlour, from the parlour to the kitchen, and so on down to the cellar. Soon the whole house was resounding with “Ach!” in various voices.

Five minutes later I was sitting on a big, soft, warm lounge in the drawing-room listening to the “Ach!” echoing all down the street.

There was a smell of moth powder, and of goatskin shoes, a pair of which lay on a chair beside me wrapped in a handkerchief. In the windows were geraniums, and muslin curtains,and on the curtains were torpid flies. On the wall hung the portrait of some bishop, painted in oils, with the glass broken at one corner, and next to the bishop a row of ancestors with lemon-coloured faces of a gipsy type. On the table lay a thimble, a reel of cotton, and a half-knitted stocking, and paper patterns and a black blouse, tacked together, were lying on the floor. In the next room two alarmed and fluttered old women were hurriedly picking up similar patterns and pieces of tailor's chalk from the floor.

“You must, please, excuse us; we are dreadfully untidy,” said the little lady.

While she talked to me, she stole embarrassed glances towards the other room where the patterns were still being picked up. The door, too, seemed embarrassed, opening an inch or two and then shutting again.

“What's the matter?” said the little lady, addressing the door.

“Où est mon cravatte lequel mon père m'avait envoyé de Koursk?” asked a female voice at the door.

“Ah, est-ce que, Marie...que...Really, it's impossible...Nous avons donc chez nous un homme peu connu de nous. Ask Lukerya.”

“How well we speak French, though!” I read in the eyes of the little lady, who was flushing with pleasure.

Soon afterwards the door opened and I saw a tall, thin girl of nineteen, in a long muslin dress with a gilt belt from which, I remember, hung a mother-of-pearl fan. She came in, dropped a curtsy, and flushed crimson. Her long nose, which was slightly pitted with smallpox, turned red first, and then the flush passed up to her eyes and her forehead.

“My daughter,” chanted the little lady, “and, Manetchka, this is a young gentleman who has come.”

I was introduced, and expressed my surprise at the number of paper patterns. Mother and daughter dropped their eyes.

“We had a fair here at Ascension,” said the mother; “we always buy materials at the fair, and then it keeps us busy with sewing till the next year's fair comes around again. We never put things out to be made. My husband's pay is not very ample, and we are not able to permit ourselves luxuries. So we have to make up everything ourselves.”

“But who will ever wear such a number of things? There are only two of you?”

“Oh...as though we were thinking of wearing them! They are not to be worn; they are for the trousseau!”

“Ah, mamam, what are you saying?” said the daughter, and she crimsoned again. “Our visitor might suppose it was true. I don't intend to be married. Never!”

She said this, but at the very word “married”her eyes glowed.

Tea, biscuits, butter, and jam were brought in, followed by raspberries and cream. At seven o'clock, we had supper, consisting of six courses, and while we were at supper I heard a loud yawn from the next room. I looked with surprise towards the door: it was a yawn that could only come from a man.

“That's my husband's brother, Yegor Semyonitch,” the little lady explained, noticing my surprise. “He's been living with us for the last year. Please excuse him; he cannot come in to see you. He is such an unsociable person, he is shy with strangers. He is going into a monastery. He was unfairly treated in the service, and the disappointment has preyed on his mind.”

After supper the little lady showed the vestment which Yegor Semyonitch was embroidering with his own hands as an offering for the Church. Manetchka threw off her shyness for a moment and showed me the tobacco-pouch she was embroidering for her father. When I pretended to be greatly struck by her work, she flushed crimson and whispered something in her mother's ear. The latter beamed all over, and invited me to go with her to the store-room. There I was shown five large trunks, and a number of smaller trunks and boxes.

“This is her trousseau,” her mother whispered; “we made it all ourselves.”

After looking at these forbidding trunks I took leave of my hospitable hostesses. They made me promise to come and see them again some day.

It happened that I was able to keep this promise. Seven years after my first visit, I was sent down to the little town to give expert evidence in a case that was being tried there.

As I entered the little house I heard the same “Ach!” echo through it. They recognised me at once... Well they might! My first visit had been an event in their lives, and when events are few they are long remembered.

I walked into the drawing-room: the mother, who had grown stouter and was already getting grey, was creeping about on the floor, cutting out some blue material. The daughter was sitting on the sofa, embroidering.

There was the same smell of moth powder; there were the same patterns, the same portrait with the broken glass. But yet there was a change. Beside the portrait of the bishop hung a portrait of the Colonel, and the ladies were in mourning. The Colonel's death had occurred a week after his promotion to be a general.

Reminiscences began...The widow shed tears.

“We have had a terrible loss,” she said. “My husband, you know, is dead. We are alone in the world now, and have no one but ourselves to look to. Yegor Semyonitch is alive, but I have no good news to tell of him. They would not have him in the monastery on account of—of intoxicating beverages. And now in his disappointment he drinks more than ever. I am thinking of going to the Marshal of Nobility to lodge a complaint. Would you believe it, he has more than once broken open the trunks and...taken Manetchka's trousseau and given it to beggars. He has taken everything out of two of the trunks! If he goes on like this, my Manetchka will be left without a trousseau at all.”

“What are you saying, mamam?” said Manetchka, embarrassed. “Our visitor might suppose...there's no knowing what he might suppose... I shall never—never marry.”

Manetchka cast her eyes up to the ceiling with a look of hope and aspiration, evidently not for a moment believing what she said.

A little bald-headed masculine figure in a brown coat and goloshes instead of boots darted like a mouse across the passage and disappeared.

“Yegor Semyonitch, I suppose,” I thought.

I looked at the mother and daughter together. They both looked much older and terribly changed. The mother's hair was silvered, but the daughter was so faded and withered that her mother might have been taken for her elder sister, not more than five years her senior.

“I have made up my mind to go to the Marshal,” the mother said to me, forgetting she had told me this already. “I mean to make a complaint. Yegor Semyonitch lays his hands on everything we make, and offers it up for the sake of his soul. My Manetchka is left without a trousseau.”

Manetchka flushed again, but this time she said nothing.

“We have to make them all over again. And God knows we are not so well off. We are all alone in the world now.”

“We are alone in the world,” repeated Manetchka.

A year ago fate brought me once more to the little house.

Walking into the drawing-room, I saw the old lady. Dressed all in black, she was sitting on the sofa sewing. Beside her sat the little old man in the brown coat and the goloshes instead of boots. On seeing me, he jumped up and ran out of the room.

In response to my greeting, the old lady smiled and said: “Je suis charmée de vous revoir, monsieur.”

“What are you making?” I asked, a little later.

“It's a blouse. When it's finished I shall take it to the priest's to be put away, or else Yegor Semyonitch would carry it off. I store everything at the priest's now,” she added in a whisper.

And looking at the portrait of her daughter which stood before her on the table, she sighed and said: “We are all alone in the world.”

And where was the daughter? Where was Manetchka? I did not ask. I did not dare to ask the old mother dressed in her new deep mourning. And while I was in the room, and when I got up to go, no Manetchka came out to greet me. I did not hear her voice, nor her soft, timid footstep...

I understood, and my heart was heavy.

我有生以来见过许许多多的房子，大的小的、新的旧的、石砌的、木造的，但有一座房子我记忆犹新如在眼前。确切地说，这不是一座大房子，而是一座小房子——一座一层的小房子，有三个窗户，特别像一个戴着帽子的驼背小老太婆。小房子的白灰墙、瓦屋顶和要坍塌的烟囱，完全淹没在翠绿的林海之中，淹没在现有房主的祖父和曾祖父栽种的桑树、刺槐和白杨树中。然而，这是一座城内住宅，宽阔的院子与其他类似的绿色院子连成一排，形成了街道的一部分。街上从来没有马车路过，行人也寥寥无几。

小房子的百叶窗总是合着；房子里住的人不喜欢阳光——阳光对他们没有用处。窗户从来没有打开过，因为他们不喜欢新鲜空气。生活在桑树、刺槐和荨麻当中的人们并不热爱大自然。只有对消暑的游客，上帝才赐予欣赏自然美景的眼光。剩下的人根本就不知道这种美景的存在。人们从不珍视一向大量拥有的东西。“我们不珍惜我们所拥有的，”更有甚者，我们连爱都不爱。

小房子处在树木青翠、鸟儿欢快栖息其中的一个人间天堂里。但是，小房子的里面……唉……！夏天闷热，令人窒息；冬天像蒸汽浴一样热气腾腾，没有一丝空气，沉闷可怕……

我第一次访问小房子是在多年前出差的时候。我为当时身为房主的上校的妻子和女儿带去他的一封信。第一次访问的情景，我记得一清二楚。的确是不可能忘记。

想象一下你从走廊走进客厅时一个一瘸一拐的四十岁小女人恐慌、惊讶地盯着你的情景。你是生人、客人、“年轻人”，这足以让她落入惊恐和困惑的状态。尽管你手里没有匕首、斧头或左轮手枪，尽管你笑容可掬，但迎接你的却是惊慌。

“请问你尊姓大名？”小女人声音颤抖地问道。

我自报家门，说明了来意。惊慌和诧异随即便被一阵欣喜的尖叫声所取代，同时她目光朝上转向天花板。叫声像回声一样激荡起来，从门厅传到客厅，从客厅传到厨房，接连不断一直传到地下室。很快，整座房子都回荡着满是各种声音的这个叫喊声。

五分钟后，我坐在客厅里一张温暖柔软的大沙发上，听着那叫声在街上回荡开来。

房间里有一股除虫粉和山羊皮鞋的气味，一双皮鞋裹着手帕放在我身边的椅子上。窗口是天竺葵和薄纱窗帘，窗帘上是无精打采的苍蝇。墙上挂着某个主教的油画像，镜框玻璃一角破裂。主教像旁边是一排典型吉普赛人、柠檬色脸庞的祖先画像。桌子上放有一个顶针、一团棉线和一只织了一半的袜子，粗缝在一起的一些纸样和一件黑色女上衣躺在地板上。隔壁房间里，两个惊恐慌张的老太太正从地板上匆匆拾起类似的纸样和几块裁衣用的粉笔。

“请你一定原谅；我们这里凌乱不堪，”小女人说。

她一边对我说话，一边局促不安地偷眼看着另一个房间，只见那里还有人在收拾纸样。那个房间的门似乎也局促不安，开了一两英寸，随后又合上了。

“什么事？”小女人对着那个房间的门问。

“Où est mon cravatte lequel mon père m'avait envoyé de Koursk? [1]”那个房间的门口一个女声问道。

“啊，est-ce que[2]，玛丽，que[3]……真的，不可能……Nous avons donc chez nous un homme peu connu de nous[4]。问露凯丽亚吧。”

“可是，我们的法语说得多好啊！”这句话是我在小女人的眼睛里看到的，因为她高兴得满脸通红。

随后，那个房间的门开了，我看到了一个年方十九、身材高瘦的姑娘，身穿薄纱长连衣裙，我还记得她系着金黄色腰带，腰带上挂着一把珍珠母扇子。她走进来，行了个屈膝礼，满脸绯红。她那只略带麻点的长鼻子起先泛红，然后又红到了眼睛和额头。

“我的女儿，”小女人单调地说道。“玛涅琪卡，这就是光临过的年轻人。”

我被介绍之后，对那里的纸样数量表示诧异。母女俩都垂下了眼睛。

“耶稣升天节，我们这里有一个市集，”母亲说。“在市集上我们总是买些材料，这可以让我们忙些针线活，直到下个市集再次到来。我们从不把东西拿出去交给别人去做。我丈夫的薪水不是很丰厚，所以我们不能容许自己大手大脚。这样所有东西我们都不得不自己来做。”

“可是，谁会穿这么多衣服？这里只有你们两个人吧？”

“噢……我们压根就没想着要穿！它们不是穿的，是作嫁妆用的！”

“啊，妈妈，你在说什么呀？”女儿说着，脸上又飞起了红晕。“我们的客人可能以为那是真的。我不想结婚！绝不想！”

尽管她是这样说，但说到“结婚”时，她眼睛发亮。

她们端进来了茶、小点心和果酱，接着是山莓和奶酪。七点钟，我们开始吃晚饭，有六道菜；正吃晚饭的时候，我听到隔壁房间传来一串响亮的呵欠声。我吃惊地朝那个房间的房门望去：那只能是男人发出的呵欠声。

“那是我丈夫的弟弟叶果尔·谢敏尼奇，”小女人注意到我吃惊的表情，解释说。“从去年起，他就一直住在我们这里。请原谅他；他不能来见你。他是一个非常不爱交际的人，见着生人就怕羞。他要进修道院了。他原来任职时受到了不公平待遇，感到失望透顶。”

晚饭后，小女人把叶果尔·谢敏尼奇亲手刺绣、献给教会的法衣拿给我看。玛涅琪卡一时甩开了羞怯，把她为父亲刺绣的烟荷包拿给我看。当我假装对她的活计赞叹不已时，她满脸绯红，贴在母亲耳边低声说了几句。她的母亲顿时笑容满面，请我和她一块去储藏室。我在储藏室里看到了五只大箱子，还见到了许多小箱子、小盒子。

“这是她的嫁妆，”她的母亲低声说道。“这都是我们自己做的。”

我看过这些令人反感的箱子后，就告别了两个殷勤好客的女主人。她们让我答应来日再来看她们。

我刚好能遵守诺言。第一次访问七年后，我奉命到这个小城来，要对那里正在审判的一个案子提供专门证据。

我一走进那个小房子，就听到了和上次一样的尖叫声回响在整个房子里。她们马上认出了我。……她们当然会认出来！我的第一次访问在她们的生活中曾经是一件大事；当大事寥寥无几时，人们对这些大事就会记得长久。

我走进客厅，只见那位母亲越发矮胖了，头发也已经变得花白，正在地板上爬来爬去，裁一块蓝色布料。女儿正坐在沙发上刺绣。

同样的除虫粉气味；同样的纸样，同样的带有破玻璃镜框的画像。但是，变化还是有的。主教画像旁边挂着上校的一幅肖像，两个女人都戴着孝。上校是提升为将军后一周去世的。

一边回忆……寡妇一边流泪。

“我们遭受到了一个巨大的损失，”她说。“你知道，上校去世了。我们现在成了孤女寡母，只有自己照顾自己。叶果尔·谢敏尼奇还活着，但我没有关于他的什么好消息要讲的。修道院不愿收他，因为——因为酗酒。如今因为失望，他喝得比以前更凶了。我想去贵族法警那里提起诉讼。你信不信，他不止一次打开过那些箱子……拿走玛涅琪卡的嫁妆，送给一些乞丐。有两只箱子他已经拿空了！要是他这样继续下去，我的玛涅琪卡就会连一件嫁妆也不剩了。”

“你在说什么呀，妈妈？”玛涅琪卡局促不安地说。“我们的客人也许想……谁也不知道他会怎么想……我绝不会——绝不会出嫁。”

玛涅琪卡带着希望和渴望的表情抬眼望着天花板，显然一时间不相信自己说的话。

一个秃顶、矮小的男人像老鼠一样飞快穿过走廊，不见了踪影。他身穿一件褐色外套，脚穿橡胶套鞋而不是靴子。

“是叶果尔·谢敏尼奇吧，”我想道。

我同时看着她们母女俩。她们俩都苍老很多，变化极大。母亲的头发已成银白色，女儿也没有了青春活力，满脸皱纹，有人说不定还以为她的母亲是比她大不过五岁的姐姐。

“我决定到法警那里去，”她的母亲对我说，她忘了她已经对我说过了这话。“我想控告。叶果尔·谢敏尼奇拿走我们做的所有衣服，为了他自己都送了人。没给我的玛涅琪卡留下一件嫁妆。”

玛涅琪卡又脸红了，但这次她什么也没说。

“我们只好重新再做。上帝知道，我们并不那么富裕。我们如今孤女寡母的。”

“我们确实是孤女寡母，”玛涅琪卡重复道。

一年前，命运让我又一次来到了那座小房子。

我走进客厅，看到了老太太。她全身黑衣，坐在沙发上做针线活。坐在她身边的是个小老头，穿着那件褐色外套，脚上穿的是那双橡胶套鞋而不是靴子。看见我，他跳起来，跑出了房间。

面对我的问候，老太太微笑着，说：“Je suis charmée de vous revoir, monsieur[5]。”

“你在缝什么？”过了一小会儿，我问道。

“这是一件女衬衫。做完后，我要送到牧师那里去，让他收拾好，否则叶果尔·谢敏尼奇就会把它拿走。我现在把所有东西都存在牧师那里，”她小声补充道。

她望着面前桌子上摆放的女儿的照片，叹了口气，说道：“我们成了孤女寡母。”

她的女儿在哪里？玛涅琪卡在哪里？我没有问。我不敢问穿着新重丧服的老母亲。无论是我坐在房间，还是我起身要走，玛涅琪卡都没有出来跟我打招呼，我既没有听到她的声音，也没有听到她温柔、羞怯的脚步声……

我明白了，心情顿时沉重起来。