關於這本有聲書
ON THE SCREEN a scene at Kursk station in Moscow. A bright April day of 1902. A group of friends, who came to see Zinaida Krutitsky and her mother off to the Crimea, stand on the platform by the sleeping-car. Among them Ivan Osokin, a young man about twentysix.
Osokin is visibly agitated although he tries not to show it. Zinaida is talking to her brother, Michail, Osokin’s friend, a young officer in the uniform of one of the Moscow Grenadier regiments, and two girls. Then she turns to Osokin and walks aside with him.
“I am going to miss you very much,” she says. “It’s a pity you cannot come with us. Though it seems to me that you don’t particularly want to, otherwise you would come. You don’t want to do anything for me. Your staying behind now makes all our talks ridiculous and futile. But I am tired of arguing with you. You must do as you like.” Ivan Osokin becomes more and more troubled, but he tries to control himself and says with an effort: “I can’t come at present, but I shall come later, I promise you. You cannot imagine how hard it is for me to stay here.” “No, I cannot imagine it and I don’t believe it,” says Zinaida quickly. “When a man wants anything as strongly as you say you do, he acts. I am sure you are in love with one of your pupils here—some nice, poetical girl who studies fencing. Confess!” She laughs.
Zinaida’s words and tone hurt Osokin very deeply. He begins to speak but stops himself, then says: “You know that is not true; you know I am all yours.” “How am I to know?” says Zinaida with a surprised air. “You are always busy. You always refuse to come and see us. You never have any time for me, and now I should so much like you to come with us.
We should be together for two whole days. Just think how pleasant the journey would be!”
She throws a quick glance at Osokin.
“And afterwards, there in the Crimea, we would ride together and we would sail far out to sea. You would read me your poems—and now I shall be bored.” She frowns and turns away.
Osokin tries to reply, but finding nothing to say he stands biting his lips.
“I shall come later,” he repeats.
“Come when you like,” says Zinaida indifferently, “but this chance is lost already. I shall be bored travelling alone. Mother is a very pleasant travelling-companion, but that is not what I want. Thank God I have seen one man I know, evidently going by this train. He may amuse me on the way.” Osokin again begins to speak but Zinaida continues: “I’m only interested in the present. What do I care for what may happen in the future? You don’t realize this. You can live in the future, I cannot.” “I understand it all,” says Osokin, “and it’s very hard for me. Yet I cannot help it. But will you remember what I asked you?” “Yes, I shall remember and I’ll write to you. But I don’t like writing letters. Don’t expect many; come soon instead. I shall wait a month for you, two months—after that I will not wait any more.
