第162章 第5节
第5节
“瓦尔瓦拉·安德烈耶夫娜，我很年轻的时候就为自己立下了理想中爱人的形象——我应当幸福地称她为妻子。我经历了漫长的人生，如今第一次遇到了我寻觅的那个人——就是你。我爱你，向你求婚。”
谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇一面自言自语，一面从瓦尔瓦拉身边走开十步。她跪在地上，双手护着蘑菇不让格里沙抢走，嘴里正招呼着小玛莎。
“来这儿，小家伙们！这儿多着呢！”她用甜美的低音说。
看到谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇走近，她没有起身，也没有改变姿势，但一切都表明她感觉到了他的存在，并且为此感到高兴。
“怎么样，找到了吗？”她从头巾下面抬起美丽而温柔含笑的脸转向他。
“一个也没找到，”谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇说，“你呢？”
她没有回答，正忙着照料围在她身边的孩子们。
“那个也是，树枝旁边那个。”她指点给小玛莎一只小蘑菇，那蘑菇粉红色的伞盖被下面顶着的干草劈成了两半。当玛莎摘下蘑菇，掰成两半白色的菌肉时，瓦莲卡站起身来。“这让我想起了我的童年。”她补充道，离开孩子们，走到谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇身旁。
他们默默走了几步。瓦莲卡看出他有话要说；她猜到了是什么，又欢喜又恐慌，简直站不稳了。他们现在走得很远，谁也听不见他们了，但他仍然没有开口。对瓦莲卡来说，最好保持沉默。沉默之后，他们要说的话会比谈过蘑菇之后更容易说出口。但瓦莲卡不由自主地，仿佛是偶然地说道：
“那么你什么也没找到吗？林子中间总是少一些的。”谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇叹了口气，没有回答。他恼火她谈起了蘑菇。他想把她拉回到她刚才提到童年的话题上；但沉默了一会儿之后，仿佛不由自主地，他针对她最后的话作出了回应。
“我听说白蘑菇主要长在林子边上，不过我不会分辨。”
又过了几分钟，他们离孩子们更远了，只剩下他们两个人。瓦莲卡的心怦怦直跳，她听得见自己的心跳，觉得自己脸红了又变白，白了又变红。
在施塔尔夫人那里待过之后，能成为像科兹内舍夫这样人的妻子，在她想象中是幸福之巅。此外，她几乎确信自己爱上了他。而此刻，一切就要决定了。她感到害怕。她既怕他开口，又怕他不开口。
现在不说就永远错过了——谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇也这么觉得。瓦莲卡的表情、泛红的脸颊和低垂的眼睛，一切都透露出痛苦的期待。谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇看出来了，为她感到难过。他甚至觉得，现在什么都不说就是侮辱她。他在心里迅速过了一遍支持自己决定的所有论据。他甚至在心里默念了准备求婚的措辞，但没说出口，脑子里忽然闪过一个完全意想不到的念头，他问道：
“桦树蘑菇和白蘑菇有什么区别？”
瓦莲卡激动得嘴唇发抖，回答道：
“菌盖上没什么区别，在菌柄上。”
这话一出口，两人都感到一切都完了，该说的话不会说了；他们先前越来越强烈的激动情绪开始平息下来。
“桦树蘑菇的菌柄像是两天没刮胡子的黑脸膛男人的下巴。”谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇说，语气已经十分平静。
“是的，是这样。”瓦莲卡微笑着回答，无意中他们改变了行走的方向。他们开始转身向孩子们走去。瓦莲卡既痛苦又羞愧，同时也感到一阵轻松。
回到家后，谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇重新考虑整个问题，认为先前的决定是错误的。他不能背叛对玛丽的回忆。
“慢点，孩子们，慢点！”列文对孩子们生气地喊道，站在妻子面前保护她，因为一群孩子欢叫着朝他们飞奔过来。
孩子们后面，谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇和瓦莲卡走出了树林。基蒂不必问瓦莲卡；她从两人平静而略显沮丧的脸上看出，她的计划没能实现。
“怎么样？”他们回家时丈夫问她。
“没咬住。”基蒂说，她的笑容和说话方式让列文想起了她的父亲——列文常常愉快地注意到这种相似。
“怎么没咬住？”
“我给你演示一下，”她说着，拉住丈夫的手，举到嘴边，用闭着的嘴唇轻轻碰了一下。“就像吻神父的手一样。”
“是哪个没咬住？”他笑着问。
“两个都没咬住。但应该是这样……”
“有农民过来了……”
“哦，他们没看见。”
“Varvara Andreevna, when I was very young, I set before myself the
ideal of the woman I loved and should be happy to call my wife. I have
lived through a long life, and now for the first time I have met what I
sought—in you. I love you, and offer you my hand.”
Sergey Ivanovitch was saying this to himself while he was ten paces
from Varvara. Kneeling down, with her hands over the mushrooms to guard
them from Grisha, she was calling little Masha.
“Come here, little ones! There are so many!” she was saying in her
sweet, deep voice.
Seeing Sergey Ivanovitch approaching, she did not get up and did not
change her position, but everything told him that she felt his presence
and was glad of it.
“Well, did you find some?” she asked from under the white kerchief,
turning her handsome, gently smiling face to him.
“Not one,” said Sergey Ivanovitch. “Did you?”
She did not answer, busy with the children who thronged about her.
“That one too, near the twig,” she pointed out to little Masha a little
fungus, split in half across its rosy cap by the dry grass from under
which it thrust itself. Varenka got up while Masha picked the fungus,
breaking it into two white halves. “This brings back my childhood,” she
added, moving apart from the children beside Sergey Ivanovitch.
They walked on for some steps in silence. Varenka saw that he wanted to
speak; she guessed of what, and felt faint with joy and panic. They had
walked so far away that no one could hear them now, but still he did
not begin to speak. It would have been better for Varenka to be silent.
After a silence it would have been easier for them to say what they
wanted to say than after talking about mushrooms. But against her own
will, as it were accidentally, Varenka said:
“So you found nothing? In the middle of the wood there are always
fewer, though.” Sergey Ivanovitch sighed and made no answer. He was
annoyed that she had spoken about the mushrooms. He wanted to bring her
back to the first words she had uttered about her childhood; but after
a pause of some length, as though against his own will, he made an
observation in response to her last words.
“I have heard that the white edible funguses are found principally at
the edge of the wood, though I can’t tell them apart.”
Some minutes more passed, they moved still further away from the
children, and were quite alone. Varenka’s heart throbbed so that she
heard it beating, and felt that she was turning red and pale and red
again.
To be the wife of a man like Koznishev, after her position with Madame
Stahl, was to her imagination the height of happiness. Besides, she was
almost certain that she was in love with him. And this moment it would
have to be decided. She felt frightened. She dreaded both his speaking
and his not speaking.
Now or never it must be said—that Sergey Ivanovitch felt too.
Everything in the expression, the flushed cheeks and the downcast eyes
of Varenka betrayed a painful suspense. Sergey Ivanovitch saw it and
felt sorry for her. He felt even that to say nothing now would be a
slight to her. Rapidly in his own mind he ran over all the arguments in
support of his decision. He even said over to himself the words in
which he meant to put his offer, but instead of those words, some
utterly unexpected reflection that occurred to him made him ask:
“What is the difference between the ‘birch’ mushroom and the ‘white’
mushroom?”
Varenka’s lips quivered with emotion as she answered:
“In the top part there is scarcely any difference, it’s in the stalk.”
And as soon as these words were uttered, both he and she felt that it
was over, that what was to have been said would not be said; and their
emotion, which had up to then been continually growing more intense,
began to subside.
“The birch mushroom’s stalk suggests a dark man’s chin after two days
without shaving,” said Sergey Ivanovitch, speaking quite calmly now.
“Yes, that’s true,” answered Varenka smiling, and unconsciously the
direction of their walk changed. They began to turn towards the
children. Varenka felt both sore and ashamed; at the same time she had
a sense of relief.
When he had got home again and went over the whole subject, Sergey
Ivanovitch thought his previous decision had been a mistaken one. He
could not be false to the memory of Marie.
“Gently, children, gently!” Levin shouted quite angrily to the
children, standing before his wife to protect her when the crowd of
children flew with shrieks of delight to meet them.
Behind the children Sergey Ivanovitch and Varenka walked out of the
wood. Kitty had no need to ask Varenka; she saw from the calm and
somewhat crestfallen faces of both that her plans had not come off.
“Well?” her husband questioned her as they were going home again.
“It doesn’t bite,” said Kitty, her smile and manner of speaking
recalling her father, a likeness Levin often noticed with pleasure.
“How doesn’t bite?”
“I’ll show you,” she said, taking her husband’s hand, lifting it to her
mouth, and just faintly brushing it with closed lips. “Like a kiss on a
priest’s hand.”
“Which didn’t it bite with?” he said, laughing.
“Both. But it should have been like this....”
“There are some peasants coming....”
“Oh, they didn’t see.”
