烟Smoke伊凡·屠格涅夫Ivan Turgenev
Smoke is an 1867 novel by the Russian writer Ivan Turgenev (1818–1883) that tells the story of a love affair between a young Russian man and a young married Russian woman while also delivering the author's criticism of Russia and Russians of the period. The story takes place largely in the German resort town of Baden-Baden.
Ivan Turgenev began work on what was to become Smoke in late 1865 and it's known that he carried a finished manuscript of the novel with him when he visited Russia in early 1867. In St. Petersburg, in February 1867, he gave several public charity readings from chapters of the book, all of which were met with approbation.
Smoke was first published in the March 1867 issue of The Russian Messenger , one of the premier literary magazine of nineteenth century Russia. The reception to Turgenev’s public readings was a bellwether, for upon publication in Russia the novel was met with almost immediate and universal condemnation in that country. Conservatives were enraged by his portrayal of the nobility, Slavophiles denounced Turgenev for denigrating his native Russia, while revolutionaries called the author a senile dodderer incapable or unwilling to appreciate young Russians’ strength and will. As for Alexander Herzen, the exiled revolutionary the likes of whom Turgenev satirized in the character of Gubaryov, he wrote a largely negative review of the work in his revolutionary publication The Bell.(wikipedia)
《烟》是俄国作家屠格涅夫创作的长篇小说。《烟》写于1865年11月至1867年1月，发表在《俄国导报》杂志1867年第2期，同年出单行本。
《烟》讲述一个姓列特维洛夫的俄国青年的爱情故事。《烟》这部作品充分暴露了作者的思想中复杂的矛盾：在小说中既批判妄想恢复农奴制的贵族赖米罗夫将军，又对侨居国外的谷柏廖夫等进步分子的形象作了歪曲和讽刺，而作者的理想人物列特维洛夫不过是贵族自由主义者。
列特维洛夫出国学习农业，在德国的游览胜巴登等待他的未婚妻塔吉亚娜。一个偶然的机会他遇见了十年前热恋过的伊莲娜。他们曾热烈相恋，但伊莲娜为追求豪华生活而抛弃了他。她现在是位将军的妻子，在社交界享有很高的声望。重新相遇，使她又燃爱火，列特维洛夫经不起诱惑，残酷地撕毁了与未婚妻的婚约，要偕伊莲娜出走。但十年的豪华生活使伊莲娜中毒太深，放弃了出走的机会，为了贵族式的虚荣豪华生活她再一次抛弃了他，而列特维洛夫只好只身回国。
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On the 10th of August 1862, at four o’clock in the afternoon, a great number of people were thronging before the well-known Konversation in Baden-Baden. The weather was lovely; everything around—the green trees, the bright houses of the gay city, and the undulating outline of the mountains—everything was in holiday mood, basking in the rays of the kindly sunshine; everything seemed smiling with a sort of blind, confiding delight; and the same glad, vague smile strayed over the human faces too, old and young, ugly and beautiful alike. Even the blackened and whitened visages of the Parisian demi-monde could not destroy the general impression of bright content and elation, while their many-coloured ribbons and feathers and the sparks of gold and steel on their hats and veils involuntarily recalled the intensified brilliance and light fluttering of birds in spring, with their rainbow-tinted wings. But the dry, guttural snapping-2- of the French jargon, heard on all sides could not equal the song of birds, nor be compared with it.
Everything, however, was going on in its accustomed way. The orchestra in the Pavilion played first a medley from the Traviata, then one of Strauss’s waltzes, then ‘Tell her,’ a Russian song, adapted for instruments by an obliging conductor. In the gambling saloons, round the green tables, crowded the same familiar figures, with the same dull, greedy, half-stupefied, half-exasperated, wholly rapacious expression, which the gambling fever lends to all, even the most aristocratic, features. The same well-fed and ultra-fashionably dressed Russian landowner from Tambov with wide staring eyes leaned over the table, and with uncomprehending haste, heedless of the cold smiles of the croupiers themselves, at the very instant of the cry ‘rien ne va plus,’ laid with perspiring hand golden rings of louis d’or on all the four corners of the roulette, depriving himself by so doing of every possibility of gaining anything, even in case of success. This did not in the least prevent him the same evening from affirming the contrary with disinterested indignation to Prince Kokó, one of the well-known leaders of the aristocratic opposition, the Prince Kokó, who in Paris at the salon-3- of the Princess Mathilde, so happily remarked in the presence of the Emperor: ‘Madame, le principe de la propriété est profondément ébranlé en Russie.’ At the Russian tree, à l’arbre Russe, our dear fellow-countrymen and countrywomen were assembled after their wont. They approached haughtily and carelessly in fashionable style, greeted each other with dignity and elegant ease, as befits beings who find themselves at the topmost pinnacle of contemporary culture. But when they had met and sat down together, they were absolutely at a loss for anything to say to one another, and had to be content with a pitiful interchange of inanities, or with the exceedingly indecent and exceedingly insipid old jokes of a hopelessly stale French wit, once a journalist, a chattering buffoon with Jewish shoes on his paltry little legs, and a contemptible little beard on his mean little visage.