【英語名著】安娜卡列寧娜24-聽名著學(xué)英語
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TWENTY-FOUR
Chapter 28
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WHEN Karenin appeared at the racecourse Anna was already sitting beside Betsy in the Grand Stand: the stand where all the highest Society was assembled. She saw her husband from afar. Two men — her husband and her lover — were the two centres of her life, and without the aid of her senses she was aware of the presence of either. From afar she already felt the approach of her husband, and involuntarily watched him amid the surging crowd through which he was moving. She saw how he approached the Grand Stand, now condescendingly replying to obsequious bows, now amiably and absent-mindedly greeting his equals, now watchfully waiting to catch the eye of the great ones of this world and raising his large round hat, which pressed on the tips of his ears. She knew all these ways of his and they were all repulsive to her. ‘Nothing but ambition, nothing but a wish to get on — that is all he has in his soul,’ she thought; ‘and lofty views, love of enlightenment, and religion, are all only means toward getting on.’
She knew by the way he looked at the Ladies’ Stand that he was trying to find her (he looked straight at her, without recognizing her amid the sea of muslin, ribbons, feathers, sunshades, and flowers), but she purposely disregarded him.
‘Alexis Alexandrovich!’ the Princess Betsy called to him, ‘I am sure you don’t see your wife; here she is!’
He smiled his usual cold smile.
‘There is so much splendour here that my eyes are dazzled,’ he replied, and approached the stand. He smiled at Anna as a husband should smile when meeting his wife whom he has seen shortly before, and greeted the Princess and other acquaintances, giving to each what was due — that is to say, joking with ladies and exchanging greetings with the men. At the foot of the stand stood a General Aide-de-Camp respected by Karenin, and noted for his intelligence and education. With him Karenin entered into conversation.
There was an interval between two races, so that nothing hindered the conversation. The General A.-de-C. disapproved of the races. Karenin replied, defending them. Anna heard his high measured voice and did not miss a single word. Each word seemed to her false and grated painfully on her ear.
When the four-verst steeplechase was beginning she leaned forward, and did not take her eyes off Vronsky while he went up to his horse and mounted it, and at the same time she heard her husband’s repulsive, unceasing voice. She was tormented by anxiety for Vronsky, but suffered even more from what seemed to her the incessant flow of her husband’s shrill voice with its familiar intonations.
‘I am a bad woman, a ruined woman,’ she thought, ‘but I dislike lies. I cannot stand falsehood, but his food is falsehood. He knows everything, sees everything — what then does he feel, if he can talk so calmly? If he were to kill me, and if he were to kill Vronsky, I should respect him. But no, lies and propriety is all he cares about,’ said Anna to herself without considering what she really wanted of her husband or what she would have liked him to be. Nor did she understand that Karenin’s peculiar volubility, which so irritated her, was only an expression of the anxiety and unrest within him. As a child that has been hurt skips about, making its muscles move in order to dull its pain, so Karenin needed mental activity to smother those thoughts about his wife which in her presence and in the presence of Vronsky, and amid the continual mention of his name, forced themselves upon him. And as it is natural for the child to skip about, so it was natural for him to speak cleverly and well. He said: ‘The danger in military, that is, cavalry, steeplechases is an unavoidable element of the racing. If England can point to the most brilliant cavalry charges in military history, it is entirely due to the fact that she has historically developed this capacity in her men and horses. Sport in my opinion has great value, but we, as usual, see only what is most external.’
‘Not external at all,’ said the Princess Tverskaya. ‘They say one of the officers has broken two ribs.’
Karenin smiled his usual smile, which showed his teeth but expressed nothing.
‘Granted, Princess,’ said he, ‘that that is not external, but internal. But that is not the point,’ and he again turned to the General with whom he was talking seriously; ‘Do not forget that it is military men who are racing, men who have chosen that career, and one must admit that every calling has a reverse side to its medal. It is directly involved in their military duty. The monstrous sports of prize-fighting, or the Spanish bull-fights, are indications of barbarism, but specialized sport is a sign of progress.’
‘No, I shan’t come again; it excites me too much,’ said the Princess Betsy, ‘Don’t you think so, Anna?’
‘It is exciting, but one cannot tear oneself away,’ said another lady. ‘If I had been a Roman, I should never have missed a gladiatorial show.’
Anna said nothing, but without putting down her glasses looked steadily at one point.
At that moment a highly-placed General made his way through the stand. Interrupting his speech, Karenin rose hurriedly, but with dignity, and bowed low to this general.
‘You are not racing,’ said the latter to him jokingly.
‘My race is a harder one,’ replied Karenin respectfully.
And though the answer did not mean anything, the General made as though he had heard a clever reply from a clever man, and quite appreciated la pointe de la sauce [the flavour of the sauce].
‘There are two sides to it,’ continued Karenin, ‘that of the performers and that of the spectators. The love of such spectacles is the surest proof of low development in the onlookers, I admit, but . . .’
‘Princess, a bet!’ came the voice of Oblonsky from below, addressing Betsy. ‘Whom are you backing?’
‘Anna and I are betting on Kuzovlev,’ replied Betsy.
‘And I on Vronsky. A pair of gloves?’
‘All right.’
‘What a fine scene, is it not?’
Karenin was silent while others were speaking near him, but began again immediately.
‘I agree that unmanly sports . . .’ he was continuing. But at that moment the race began and all conversation ceased, Karenin was silent too, as everybody rose and turned their eyes toward the stream. Karenin was not interested in races and therefore did not watch the riders, but began absent-mindedly looking at the spectators with his weary eyes. His gaze rested on Anna.
Her face was pale and stern. She evidently saw nothing and nobody, with one exception. Her hand convulsively grasped her fan, and she did not breathe. He looked at her and hurriedly turned away, scrutinizing other faces.
‘Yes, that lady — and those others — are very excited too; it is quite natural,’ he said to himself. He did not wish to look at her, but his eyes were involuntarily drawn toward her. He again watched her face, trying not to read what was so plainly written on it, but against his will he read in it with horror that which he did not want to know.
The first fall — Kuzovlev’s at the stream — excited every one, but Karenin saw clearly by Anna’s pale, triumphant face that he whom she was watching had not fallen. When after Makhotin and Vronsky had jumped the big barrier the officer following them fell on his head and swooned, a murmur of horror passed through the whole crowd; but Karenin saw that Anna did not even notice the fall and with difficulty understood what those around her were talking about. He looked at her more and more often, and more intently. Anna, though fully engrossed by the sight of the galloping Vronsky, became aware of the cold eyes of her husband bent upon her from one side.
She glanced for an instant at him with a look of inquiry, and, slightly frowning, turned away again.
‘Oh, I don’t care,’ she seemed to say to him, and then did not once look at him again.
The steeplechase was unlucky: more than half of the seventeen officers were thrown and hurt. By the end of the race every one was disturbed, and this disturbance was increased by the fact that the Emperor was displeased.
Chapter 29
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EVERY one was loudly expressing disapproval and repeating the words some one had uttered: ‘They will have gladiators and lions next,’ and every one was feeling the horror of it, so that when Vronsky fell and Anna gave a loud exclamation, there was nothing remarkable about it. But afterwards a change came over Anna’s face which was positively improper. She quite lost self-control. She began to flutter like a captive bird, now rising to go, now addressing Betsy.
‘Let us go!’ she said.
But Betsy did not hear her. She was leaning over to speak to a General who was below.
Karenin approached Anna and politely offered her his arm.
‘Come, if you like,’ he said in French; but Anna listened to what the General was saying and did not notice her husband.
‘He too has broken his leg, they say. It’s too bad,’ the General said.
Anna, without replying to her husband, raised her glasses and looked toward the spot where Vronsky had fallen; but it was so far off and so many people had crowded there, that it was impossible to distinguish anything. She put down her glasses and was about to go; but at that moment an officer galloped up and reported something to the Emperor. Anna bent forward to listen.
‘Stiva! Stiva!’ she called to her brother.
But he did not hear her. She was again on the point of going.
‘I again offer you my arm if you wish to go,’ said her husband touching her arm. With a look of repulsion she drew back, and without looking at him replied:
‘No, no, leave me alone, I shall stay here.’
She now saw an officer running to the Grand Stand from the place where Vronsky had fallen. Betsy waved her handkerchief to him. The officer brought the news that the rider was unhurt but that the horse had broken its back.
On hearing this Anna quickly sat down and hid her face behind her fan. Karenin saw that she was crying, and that she was unable to keep back either her tears or the sobs that made her bosom heave. He stepped forward so as to screen her, giving her time to recover.
‘For the third time I offer you my arm,’ he said after a while, turning toward her. Anna looked at him and did not know what to say. The Princess Betsy came to her aid.
‘No, Alexis Alexandrovich,’ she put in, ‘I brought Anna here and I have promised to take her back again.’
‘Excuse me, Princess,’ he said, smiling politely but looking her firmly in the eyes, ‘but I see that Anna is not very well, and I wish her to come with me.’
Anna looked round with alarm, rose obediently and put her hand on her husband’s arm.
‘I will send to him and find out, and will let you know,’ Betsy whispered to her.
On leaving the stand Karenin as usual spoke to people he met, and Anna as usual had to reply and make conversation: but she was beside herself and walked as in a dream, holding her husband’s arm.
‘Is he hurt or not? Is it true? Will he come or not? Shall I see him to-night?’ she thought.
In silence she took her place in her husband’s carriage, and in silence they drove out of the crowd of vehicles. In spite of all he had seen, Karenin would still not allow himself to think of his wife’s real position. He only saw the external sights. He saw that she had behaved with impropriety and he considered it his duty to tell her so. But it was very difficult for him to say that and nothing more. He opened his mouth to say that she had behaved improperly, but involuntarily said something quite different.
‘After all, how inclined we all are to these cruel spectacles,’ he said. ‘I notice . . .’
‘What? I do not understand,’ said Anna contemptuously.
He was offended and at once began to tell her what he wanted to.
‘I must tell you . . .’ he said.
‘It’s coming — the explanation!’ she thought and felt frightened.
‘I must tell you that you behaved improperly to-day,’ he said in French.
‘How did I behave improperly?’ she said aloud, quickly turning her head and looking him straight in the eyes, now without any of the former deceptive gaiety but with a determined air beneath which she had difficulty in hiding the fright she felt.
‘Don’t forget,’ said he to her, pointing at the open window behind the coachman’s box; and, slightly rising, he lifted the window.
‘What did you consider improper?’ she asked again.
‘The despair you were unable to conceal when one of the riders fell.’
He expected a rejoinder from her; but she remained silent, looking straight before her.
‘I asked you once before to conduct yourself in Society so that evil tongues might be unable to say anything against you. There was a time when I spoke about inner relations; now I do not speak of them. I speak now of external relations. Your conduct was improper and I do not wish it to occur again.’
She did not hear half that he said, but felt afraid of him and wondered whether it was true that Vronsky was not hurt. Was it of him they were speaking when they said that he was not hurt but the horse had broken its back? She only smiled with simulated irony when he had finished; and she did not reply because she had not heard what he said. Karenin had begun to speak boldly, but when he realized clearly what he was talking about, the fear she was experiencing communicated itself to him. He saw her smile and a strange delusion possessed him. ‘She smiles at my suspicions. In a moment she will tell me what she told them: that these suspicions are groundless and ridiculous.’
Now that a complete disclosure was impending, he expected nothing so much as that she would, as before, answer him mockingly that his suspicions were ridiculous and groundless. What he knew was so terrible that he was now prepared to believe anything. But the expression of her frightened and gloomy face did not now even promise deception.
‘Perhaps I am mistaken,’ said he. ‘In that case I beg your pardon.’
‘No, you were not mistaken,’ she said slowly, looking despairingly into his cold face. ‘You were not mistaken. I was, and cannot help being, in despair. I listen to you but I am thinking of him. I love him, I am his mistress, I cannot endure you. I am afraid of you, and I hate you. . . . Do what you like to me.’
And throwing herself back into the corner of the carriage she burst into sobs, hiding her face in her hands. Karenin did not move, and did not change the direction in which he was looking, but his face suddenly assumed the solemn immobility of the dead, and that expression did not alter till they reached the house. As they were driving up to it, he turned his face to her still with the same expression and said:
‘Yes! But I demand that the external conditions of propriety shall be observed till’ — his voice trembled — ‘till I take measures to safeguard my honour and inform you of them.’
He alighted first and helped her out. In the presence of the servants he pressed her hand, re-entered the carriage, and drove off toward Petersburg.
After he had gone the Princess Betsy’s footman brought Anna a note.
‘I sent to Alexis to inquire about his health. He writes that he is safe and sound, but in despair.’
‘Then he will come,’ thought she. ‘What a good thing it is that I spoke out.’
She looked at the clock. She had three hours still to wait, and the memory of the incidents of their last meeting fired her blood.
‘Dear me, how light it is! It is dreadful, but I love to see his face, and I love this fantastic light. . . . My husband! Ah, yes. . . . Well, thank heaven that all is over with him!’
Chapter 30
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AS always happens where people congregate, the usual crystallization, if we may so call it, of Society took place in the little German watering-place to which the Shcherbatskys had come, assigning to each person a definite and fixed position. As definitely and inevitably as a particle of water exposed to the cold assumes the well-known form of a snow crystal, did each new-comer on his arrival at the watering-place immediately settle into his natural position.
‘Fürst Shcherbatsky sammt Gemahlin und Tochter’ [‘Prince Shcherbatsky with his wife and daughter’], by the premises they occupied, by their name, and by the people they were acquainted with, at once crystallized into their definite and preordained place.
There was a real German Fürstin [Princess] at the watering-place that season, and consequently the crystallizing process was accomplished with special energy.
Princess Shcherbatskaya particularly wished to introduce her daughter to the German Royal Princess, and on the second day after their arrival performed that rite.
Kitty made a low and graceful curtsy in her very simple dress — that is to say, very stylish summer gown ordered from Paris. The Royal Princess said: ‘I hope the roses will soon return to this pretty little face,’ and at once a definite path was firmly established for the Shcherbatskys from which it was impossible to deviate.
They made acquaintance with the family of an English ‘Lady’, with a German Countess and her son who had been wounded in the last war, with a Swedish savant, and with a Mr. Canut and his sister. But the people with whom they necessarily associated most were a Moscow lady, Mary Evgenyevna Rtishcheva, and her daughter, whom Kitty found unpleasant because her illness was due to the same cause as Kitty’s — a love affair; and a Moscow Colonel, whom Kitty from childhood had seen and known in uniform with epaulettes, and who here — with his small eyes, low collar and coloured necktie — looked indescribably comical, and was also wearisome because it was impossible to get rid of him. When all this had become firmly established, Kitty began to feel very dull, especially as her father had gone to Carlsbad and she was left alone with her mother. She was not interested in the people she knew, for she felt that nothing new would come from them. Her chief private interest at the watering-place consisted in observing those whom she did not know and making conjectures about them. It was a characteristic of Kitty’s always to expect to find the most excellent qualities in people, especially in those she did not know. And now, when guessing who and what kind of people the strangers were, and in what relation they stood to one another, Kitty attributed to them extraordinary and splendid characters, and found confirmation in her observations.
Among these people she was specially interested in a young Russian girl who had come to the watering-place with an invalid Russian lady, Madame Stahl, as every one called her. Madame Stahl belonged to the highest Society, but she was so ill that she could not walk, and only on fine days occasionally appeared on the promenade in a bath-chair. But — not so much from illness as from pride, as the Princess Shcherbatskaya explained — Madame Stahl was not acquainted with any of the Russians there. The Russian girl looked after Madame Stahl, and also, as Kitty noticed, became intimate with all those who were seriously ill (of whom there were many in the place) and waited on them in the most natural way.
TWENTY-FOUR
Chapter 28
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WHEN Karenin appeared at the racecourse Anna was already sitting beside Betsy in the Grand Stand: the stand where all the highest Society was assembled. She saw her husband from afar. Two men — her husband and her lover — were the two centres of her life, and without the aid of her senses she was aware of the presence of either. From afar she already felt the approach of her husband, and involuntarily watched him amid the surging crowd through which he was moving. She saw how he approached the Grand Stand, now condescendingly replying to obsequious bows, now amiably and absent-mindedly greeting his equals, now watchfully waiting to catch the eye of the great ones of this world and raising his large round hat, which pressed on the tips of his ears. She knew all these ways of his and they were all repulsive to her. ‘Nothing but ambition, nothing but a wish to get on — that is all he has in his soul,’ she thought; ‘and lofty views, love of enlightenment, and religion, are all only means toward getting on.’
She knew by the way he looked at the Ladies’ Stand that he was trying to find her (he looked straight at her, without recognizing her amid the sea of muslin, ribbons, feathers, sunshades, and flowers), but she purposely disregarded him.
‘Alexis Alexandrovich!’ the Princess Betsy called to him, ‘I am sure you don’t see your wife; here she is!’
He smiled his usual cold smile.
‘There is so much splendour here that my eyes are dazzled,’ he replied, and approached the stand. He smiled at Anna as a husband should smile when meeting his wife whom he has seen shortly before, and greeted the Princess and other acquaintances, giving to each what was due — that is to say, joking with ladies and exchanging greetings with the men. At the foot of the stand stood a General Aide-de-Camp respected by Karenin, and noted for his intelligence and education. With him Karenin entered into conversation.
There was an interval between two races, so that nothing hindered the conversation. The General A.-de-C. disapproved of the races. Karenin replied, defending them. Anna heard his high measured voice and did not miss a single word. Each word seemed to her false and grated painfully on her ear.
When the four-verst steeplechase was beginning she leaned forward, and did not take her eyes off Vronsky while he went up to his horse and mounted it, and at the same time she heard her husband’s repulsive, unceasing voice. She was tormented by anxiety for Vronsky, but suffered even more from what seemed to her the incessant flow of her husband’s shrill voice with its familiar intonations.
‘I am a bad woman, a ruined woman,’ she thought, ‘but I dislike lies. I cannot stand falsehood, but his food is falsehood. He knows everything, sees everything — what then does he feel, if he can talk so calmly? If he were to kill me, and if he were to kill Vronsky, I should respect him. But no, lies and propriety is all he cares about,’ said Anna to herself without considering what she really wanted of her husband or what she would have liked him to be. Nor did she understand that Karenin’s peculiar volubility, which so irritated her, was only an expression of the anxiety and unrest within him. As a child that has been hurt skips about, making its muscles move in order to dull its pain, so Karenin needed mental activity to smother those thoughts about his wife which in her presence and in the presence of Vronsky, and amid the continual mention of his name, forced themselves upon him. And as it is natural for the child to skip about, so it was natural for him to speak cleverly and well. He said: ‘The danger in military, that is, cavalry, steeplechases is an unavoidable element of the racing. If England can point to the most brilliant cavalry charges in military history, it is entirely due to the fact that she has historically developed this capacity in her men and horses. Sport in my opinion has great value, but we, as usual, see only what is most external.’
‘Not external at all,’ said the Princess Tverskaya. ‘They say one of the officers has broken two ribs.’
Karenin smiled his usual smile, which showed his teeth but expressed nothing.
‘Granted, Princess,’ said he, ‘that that is not external, but internal. But that is not the point,’ and he again turned to the General with whom he was talking seriously; ‘Do not forget that it is military men who are racing, men who have chosen that career, and one must admit that every calling has a reverse side to its medal. It is directly involved in their military duty. The monstrous sports of prize-fighting, or the Spanish bull-fights, are indications of barbarism, but specialized sport is a sign of progress.’
‘No, I shan’t come again; it excites me too much,’ said the Princess Betsy, ‘Don’t you think so, Anna?’
‘It is exciting, but one cannot tear oneself away,’ said another lady. ‘If I had been a Roman, I should never have missed a gladiatorial show.’
Anna said nothing, but without putting down her glasses looked steadily at one point.
At that moment a highly-placed General made his way through the stand. Interrupting his speech, Karenin rose hurriedly, but with dignity, and bowed low to this general.
‘You are not racing,’ said the latter to him jokingly.
‘My race is a harder one,’ replied Karenin respectfully.
And though the answer did not mean anything, the General made as though he had heard a clever reply from a clever man, and quite appreciated la pointe de la sauce [the flavour of the sauce].
‘There are two sides to it,’ continued Karenin, ‘that of the performers and that of the spectators. The love of such spectacles is the surest proof of low development in the onlookers, I admit, but . . .’
‘Princess, a bet!’ came the voice of Oblonsky from below, addressing Betsy. ‘Whom are you backing?’
‘Anna and I are betting on Kuzovlev,’ replied Betsy.
‘And I on Vronsky. A pair of gloves?’
‘All right.’
‘What a fine scene, is it not?’
Karenin was silent while others were speaking near him, but began again immediately.
‘I agree that unmanly sports . . .’ he was continuing. But at that moment the race began and all conversation ceased, Karenin was silent too, as everybody rose and turned their eyes toward the stream. Karenin was not interested in races and therefore did not watch the riders, but began absent-mindedly looking at the spectators with his weary eyes. His gaze rested on Anna.
Her face was pale and stern. She evidently saw nothing and nobody, with one exception. Her hand convulsively grasped her fan, and she did not breathe. He looked at her and hurriedly turned away, scrutinizing other faces.
‘Yes, that lady — and those others — are very excited too; it is quite natural,’ he said to himself. He did not wish to look at her, but his eyes were involuntarily drawn toward her. He again watched her face, trying not to read what was so plainly written on it, but against his will he read in it with horror that which he did not want to know.
The first fall — Kuzovlev’s at the stream — excited every one, but Karenin saw clearly by Anna’s pale, triumphant face that he whom she was watching had not fallen. When after Makhotin and Vronsky had jumped the big barrier the officer following them fell on his head and swooned, a murmur of horror passed through the whole crowd; but Karenin saw that Anna did not even notice the fall and with difficulty understood what those around her were talking about. He looked at her more and more often, and more intently. Anna, though fully engrossed by the sight of the galloping Vronsky, became aware of the cold eyes of her husband bent upon her from one side.
She glanced for an instant at him with a look of inquiry, and, slightly frowning, turned away again.
‘Oh, I don’t care,’ she seemed to say to him, and then did not once look at him again.
The steeplechase was unlucky: more than half of the seventeen officers were thrown and hurt. By the end of the race every one was disturbed, and this disturbance was increased by the fact that the Emperor was displeased.
Chapter 29
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EVERY one was loudly expressing disapproval and repeating the words some one had uttered: ‘They will have gladiators and lions next,’ and every one was feeling the horror of it, so that when Vronsky fell and Anna gave a loud exclamation, there was nothing remarkable about it. But afterwards a change came over Anna’s face which was positively improper. She quite lost self-control. She began to flutter like a captive bird, now rising to go, now addressing Betsy.
‘Let us go!’ she said.
But Betsy did not hear her. She was leaning over to speak to a General who was below.
Karenin approached Anna and politely offered her his arm.
‘Come, if you like,’ he said in French; but Anna listened to what the General was saying and did not notice her husband.
‘He too has broken his leg, they say. It’s too bad,’ the General said.
Anna, without replying to her husband, raised her glasses and looked toward the spot where Vronsky had fallen; but it was so far off and so many people had crowded there, that it was impossible to distinguish anything. She put down her glasses and was about to go; but at that moment an officer galloped up and reported something to the Emperor. Anna bent forward to listen.
‘Stiva! Stiva!’ she called to her brother.
But he did not hear her. She was again on the point of going.
‘I again offer you my arm if you wish to go,’ said her husband touching her arm. With a look of repulsion she drew back, and without looking at him replied:
‘No, no, leave me alone, I shall stay here.’
She now saw an officer running to the Grand Stand from the place where Vronsky had fallen. Betsy waved her handkerchief to him. The officer brought the news that the rider was unhurt but that the horse had broken its back.
On hearing this Anna quickly sat down and hid her face behind her fan. Karenin saw that she was crying, and that she was unable to keep back either her tears or the sobs that made her bosom heave. He stepped forward so as to screen her, giving her time to recover.
‘For the third time I offer you my arm,’ he said after a while, turning toward her. Anna looked at him and did not know what to say. The Princess Betsy came to her aid.
‘No, Alexis Alexandrovich,’ she put in, ‘I brought Anna here and I have promised to take her back again.’
‘Excuse me, Princess,’ he said, smiling politely but looking her firmly in the eyes, ‘but I see that Anna is not very well, and I wish her to come with me.’
Anna looked round with alarm, rose obediently and put her hand on her husband’s arm.
‘I will send to him and find out, and will let you know,’ Betsy whispered to her.
On leaving the stand Karenin as usual spoke to people he met, and Anna as usual had to reply and make conversation: but she was beside herself and walked as in a dream, holding her husband’s arm.
‘Is he hurt or not? Is it true? Will he come or not? Shall I see him to-night?’ she thought.
In silence she took her place in her husband’s carriage, and in silence they drove out of the crowd of vehicles. In spite of all he had seen, Karenin would still not allow himself to think of his wife’s real position. He only saw the external sights. He saw that she had behaved with impropriety and he considered it his duty to tell her so. But it was very difficult for him to say that and nothing more. He opened his mouth to say that she had behaved improperly, but involuntarily said something quite different.
‘After all, how inclined we all are to these cruel spectacles,’ he said. ‘I notice . . .’
‘What? I do not understand,’ said Anna contemptuously.
He was offended and at once began to tell her what he wanted to.
‘I must tell you . . .’ he said.
‘It’s coming — the explanation!’ she thought and felt frightened.
‘I must tell you that you behaved improperly to-day,’ he said in French.
‘How did I behave improperly?’ she said aloud, quickly turning her head and looking him straight in the eyes, now without any of the former deceptive gaiety but with a determined air beneath which she had difficulty in hiding the fright she felt.
‘Don’t forget,’ said he to her, pointing at the open window behind the coachman’s box; and, slightly rising, he lifted the window.
‘What did you consider improper?’ she asked again.
‘The despair you were unable to conceal when one of the riders fell.’
He expected a rejoinder from her; but she remained silent, looking straight before her.
‘I asked you once before to conduct yourself in Society so that evil tongues might be unable to say anything against you. There was a time when I spoke about inner relations; now I do not speak of them. I speak now of external relations. Your conduct was improper and I do not wish it to occur again.’
She did not hear half that he said, but felt afraid of him and wondered whether it was true that Vronsky was not hurt. Was it of him they were speaking when they said that he was not hurt but the horse had broken its back? She only smiled with simulated irony when he had finished; and she did not reply because she had not heard what he said. Karenin had begun to speak boldly, but when he realized clearly what he was talking about, the fear she was experiencing communicated itself to him. He saw her smile and a strange delusion possessed him. ‘She smiles at my suspicions. In a moment she will tell me what she told them: that these suspicions are groundless and ridiculous.’
Now that a complete disclosure was impending, he expected nothing so much as that she would, as before, answer him mockingly that his suspicions were ridiculous and groundless. What he knew was so terrible that he was now prepared to believe anything. But the expression of her frightened and gloomy face did not now even promise deception.
‘Perhaps I am mistaken,’ said he. ‘In that case I beg your pardon.’
‘No, you were not mistaken,’ she said slowly, looking despairingly into his cold face. ‘You were not mistaken. I was, and cannot help being, in despair. I listen to you but I am thinking of him. I love him, I am his mistress, I cannot endure you. I am afraid of you, and I hate you. . . . Do what you like to me.’
And throwing herself back into the corner of the carriage she burst into sobs, hiding her face in her hands. Karenin did not move, and did not change the direction in which he was looking, but his face suddenly assumed the solemn immobility of the dead, and that expression did not alter till they reached the house. As they were driving up to it, he turned his face to her still with the same expression and said:
‘Yes! But I demand that the external conditions of propriety shall be observed till’ — his voice trembled — ‘till I take measures to safeguard my honour and inform you of them.’
He alighted first and helped her out. In the presence of the servants he pressed her hand, re-entered the carriage, and drove off toward Petersburg.
After he had gone the Princess Betsy’s footman brought Anna a note.
‘I sent to Alexis to inquire about his health. He writes that he is safe and sound, but in despair.’
‘Then he will come,’ thought she. ‘What a good thing it is that I spoke out.’
She looked at the clock. She had three hours still to wait, and the memory of the incidents of their last meeting fired her blood.
‘Dear me, how light it is! It is dreadful, but I love to see his face, and I love this fantastic light. . . . My husband! Ah, yes. . . . Well, thank heaven that all is over with him!’
Chapter 30
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AS always happens where people congregate, the usual crystallization, if we may so call it, of Society took place in the little German watering-place to which the Shcherbatskys had come, assigning to each person a definite and fixed position. As definitely and inevitably as a particle of water exposed to the cold assumes the well-known form of a snow crystal, did each new-comer on his arrival at the watering-place immediately settle into his natural position.
‘Fürst Shcherbatsky sammt Gemahlin und Tochter’ [‘Prince Shcherbatsky with his wife and daughter’], by the premises they occupied, by their name, and by the people they were acquainted with, at once crystallized into their definite and preordained place.
There was a real German Fürstin [Princess] at the watering-place that season, and consequently the crystallizing process was accomplished with special energy.
Princess Shcherbatskaya particularly wished to introduce her daughter to the German Royal Princess, and on the second day after their arrival performed that rite.
Kitty made a low and graceful curtsy in her very simple dress — that is to say, very stylish summer gown ordered from Paris. The Royal Princess said: ‘I hope the roses will soon return to this pretty little face,’ and at once a definite path was firmly established for the Shcherbatskys from which it was impossible to deviate.
They made acquaintance with the family of an English ‘Lady’, with a German Countess and her son who had been wounded in the last war, with a Swedish savant, and with a Mr. Canut and his sister. But the people with whom they necessarily associated most were a Moscow lady, Mary Evgenyevna Rtishcheva, and her daughter, whom Kitty found unpleasant because her illness was due to the same cause as Kitty’s — a love affair; and a Moscow Colonel, whom Kitty from childhood had seen and known in uniform with epaulettes, and who here — with his small eyes, low collar and coloured necktie — looked indescribably comical, and was also wearisome because it was impossible to get rid of him. When all this had become firmly established, Kitty began to feel very dull, especially as her father had gone to Carlsbad and she was left alone with her mother. She was not interested in the people she knew, for she felt that nothing new would come from them. Her chief private interest at the watering-place consisted in observing those whom she did not know and making conjectures about them. It was a characteristic of Kitty’s always to expect to find the most excellent qualities in people, especially in those she did not know. And now, when guessing who and what kind of people the strangers were, and in what relation they stood to one another, Kitty attributed to them extraordinary and splendid characters, and found confirmation in her observations.
Among these people she was specially interested in a young Russian girl who had come to the watering-place with an invalid Russian lady, Madame Stahl, as every one called her. Madame Stahl belonged to the highest Society, but she was so ill that she could not walk, and only on fine days occasionally appeared on the promenade in a bath-chair. But — not so much from illness as from pride, as the Princess Shcherbatskaya explained — Madame Stahl was not acquainted with any of the Russians there. The Russian girl looked after Madame Stahl, and also, as Kitty noticed, became intimate with all those who were seriously ill (of whom there were many in the place) and waited on them in the most natural way.
