【英語(yǔ)名著】安娜卡列寧娜74-聽(tīng)名著學(xué)英語(yǔ)

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Chapter 31

 

 

 

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THE newly-elected Marshal of the Province and many of the victorious new party dined that evening at Vronsky’s.

 

Vronsky had come to the elections because he felt dull in the country, in order to proclaim to Anna his right to freedom, to repay Sviyazhsky by supporting him at these elections for all the trouble he had taken for Vronsky at the Zemstvo elections, and most of all to perform strictly all the duties of the position he had taken up as a nobleman and landowner. But he had not at all expected that the election business would interest him so much and so touch him to the quick, or that he could do it so well. He was quite a new man in this circle of noble landowners, but he evidently was a success; and he was not mistaken in thinking that he had already gained influence among them. This influence was promoted by his wealth, by his title, by the splendid house in the town which had been lent him by his old acquaintance Shirkov, a financier who had founded a flourishing bank in Kashin; by the excellent chef whom he had brought from his estate; by his friendship with the Governor, who had been a former comrade and one whom Vronsky had even protected; but above all by his simple behaviour in treating every one alike, which had quickly induced most of the noblemen to change their opinion as to his supposed pride. He himself felt that, except that crazy fellow married to Kitty Shcherbatsky, who, à propos de bottes [quite irrelevantly], had with rabid virulence told him a lot of pointless nonsense, every nobleman whose acquaintance he had made had become his partisan. He saw clearly, and others acknowledged, that he had contributed very much to Nevedovsky’s success. Now, at his own table, celebrating Nevedovsky’s election, Vronsky experienced a pleasant feeling of triumph. The elections themselves interested him so much that he began to think that if he were married by the next triennial election he would himself put up, just as, when a jockey had won him a prize, he had wished to ride a race himself.

 

They were now celebrating the jockey’s victory. Vronsky sat at the head of the table; on his right was the young Governor, a General of the Emperor’s suite. For everybody else the General was the master of the Province, who had solemnly opened the sessions and made a speech, and, as Vronsky saw, aroused both respect and servility in many present, but for Vronsky he was ‘Maslov Katka’ — the nickname he had had in the Corps des Pages — who felt embarrassed in his presence and whom Vronsky tried to mettre à son aise [put at his ease]. On Vronsky’s left sat Nevedovsky with his youthful, dogged, and venomous look. Toward him Vronsky was simple and courteous.

 

Sviyazhsky bore his failure cheerfully. It was not even a failure for him; as he himself said to Nevedovsky, champagne glass in hand, no better representative of the new course which the Nobility ought to follow could have been found. And therefore all that was honest, as he remarked, was on the side of to-day’s success and triumphed in it.

 

Oblonsky too was pleased that he had spent his time merrily and that every one was satisfied. At the excellent dinner the episodes of the elections were discussed. Sviyazhsky comically mimicked the old Marshal’s tearful speech and, turning to Nevedovsky, remarked that His Excellency would have to adopt a different and more complex method of auditing the funds than tears! Another witty nobleman narrated how footmen with knee-breeches and stockings had been imported to wait at the ball which the Marshal of the Province had intended to give and that they would now have to be sent back, unless the new Marshal would give a ball with stockinged footmen.

 

During the dinner they continually spoke of Nevedovsky as ‘Our Provincial Marshal’ and addressed him as ‘Your Excellency’.

 

This was uttered with the same pleasure with which a newly-married woman is addressed as Madame and called by her husband’s name. Nevedovsky pretended not merely to be indifferent to but to despise this title; but it was evident that he felt happy and exercised self-control to avoid betraying a delight ill-suited to the new Liberal circle in which they found themselves.

 

During the dinner several telegrams were sent to persons interested in the elections. Oblonsky, who was feeling very jolly, sent one to Dolly which ran as follows: ‘Nevedovsky elected by majority of twenty. Congratulations. Tell news.’ He dictated it aloud, saying, ‘I must cheer them up!’ But Dolly, on receiving the telegram, only sighed over the rouble it had cost, and understood that it had been sent toward the end of a dinner. She knew that Stiva had a weakness at the end of a dinner-party faire jouer le télégraphe [to set the telegraph going].

 

Everything, including the splendid dinner and the wines — which did not come from Russian merchants, but were imported ready-bottled from abroad — was very distinguished, simple, and gay. The company of twenty men had been selected by Sviyazhsky from adherents of the new movement and from Liberals, men who were also witty and respectable. Healths were drunk, also half in jest, to the new Provincial Marshal, to the Governor, to the Bank Director, and to ‘our amiable host’.

 

Vronsky was satisfied. He had not at all expected to find such a pleasant tone in the provinces.

 

When dinner was over things became still merrier. The Governor asked Vronsky to accompany him to a concert in aid of a ‘Brotherhood’, which was being arranged by his wife, who wished to make Vronsky’s acquaintance.

 

‘There will be a ball afterwards and you will see our Society beauty! Really, she is quite remarkable.’

 

‘Not in my line,’ answered Vronsky, who was fond of that English expression, but he smiled and promised to come.

 

When they had already quitted the table and had all begun smoking, Vronsky’s valet came up to him with a letter on a salver.

 

‘From Vozdvizhensk, by express messenger,’ he said with a significant glance.

 

‘It is extraordinary how much he resembles the Public Prosecutor Sventitsky,’ remarked one of the guests in French of the valet, while Vronsky, frowning, read his letter.

 

The letter was from Anna. Even before he read it he knew its contents. Expecting the elections to end in five days, he had promised to return on the Friday. It was now Saturday, and he knew that the letter contained reproaches for his not having returned punctually. The letter he had sent off the evening before had probably not yet reached her.

 

The contents of the letter were just what he expected, but its form was unexpected and particularly unpleasant to him. ‘Annie is very ill. The doctor says it may be inflammation. I lose my head when alone. The Princess Barbara is not a help but a hindrance. I expected you the day before yesterday, and yesterday, and am now sending to find out where you are and what the matter is. I wished to come myself, but changed my mind knowing that you would not like it. Give me some reply that I may know what to do.’

 

Baby was ill, and she wished to come herself! Their child ill, and this hostile tone!

 

The innocent mirth of the elections and this dismal burdensome love to which he must return struck Vronsky by their contrast. But he had to go, and he took the first train that night for his home.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 32

 

 

 

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BEFORE Vronsky went to the elections Anna, having considered that the scenes which took place between them every time he went away could only tend to estrange them instead of binding them closer, resolved to make every possible effort to bear the separation calmly. But the cold, stern look on his face when he came to tell her he was going offended her, and even before he had gone her composure was upset.

 

Later on, meditating in solitude on that look — which expressed his right to freedom — she, as usual, came only to a consciousness of her own humiliation. ‘He has the right to go when and where he pleases. Not only to go away, but to leave me. He has every right and I have none at all. But, knowing this, he ought not to do it! But really what has he done? . . . He has looked at me coldly and severely. Of course it is indefinable, intangible, but it was not so formerly, and that look means much,’ she thought. ‘That look shows that he is beginning to grow cold.’

 

Though she was convinced that this was the case, she could not do anything, could not in any way change her relation to him. Just as heretofore, she could hold him only by means of her love and attractiveness; and just as heretofore, only by occupations by day and morphia by night could she stifle the terrible thought of what would happen if he ceased to love her. True, there was one means, not of holding him — for that purpose she wished for nothing except his love — but of putting herself in such a position that he could not abandon her. That means was divorce and marriage. She began to wish for this, and decided to agree the first time he or Stiva should mention it to her.

 

With these thoughts in her mind she spent five days, the days she expected him to be away.

 

Walks, talks with the Princess Barbara, visits to the hospital, and above all reading, reading one book after another, filled her time. But on the sixth day, when the coachman returned from the station without him, she felt that she was no longer able to stifle the thought of him and of what he was doing. Just then her little girl fell ill. Anna nursed her, but this did not divert her thoughts, especially as the illness was not dangerous. Try as she might she could not love that child and she could not make a pretence of love. Toward the evening of that day, being alone, Anna felt such terror on Vronsky’s account that she decided to go to town, but after careful consideration she wrote that contradictory letter which Vronsky received, and without reading it over she sent it by express messenger. Next morning she received his letter and regretted her own. She anticipated with horror a repetition of that stern look he had thrown at her when leaving, especially when he should learn that the little girl was not dangerously ill. But still she was glad she had written. Anna now acknowledged to herself that he was weary of her and would regret giving up his freedom to return to her; yet in spite of this she was glad that he would come. Let him feel weary, but let him be here with her so that she might see him and know his every movement.

 

She was sitting in the drawing-room, reading by lamplight a new book by Taine, listening to the wind outside, and expecting every moment the arrival of the carriage. Several times she had thought she heard the sound of wheels but had been mistaken; at last she heard not only the wheels but also the coachman’s voice and a dull rumbling in the portico. Even the Princess Barbara, who was playing patience, confirmed this, and Anna, flushing, rose, but instead of going downstairs, as she had already done twice, she stood still. She suddenly felt ashamed of having deceived him and still more afraid of how he might treat her. The feeling of injury had already passed, and she only feared the expression of his displeasure. She remembered that the child had been quite well since yesterday. She was even vexed with her for having recovered so soon as the letter had been sent. Then she recollected that he was here, all of him, his hands, his eyes. She heard his voice, and forgetting everything else ran joyfully to meet him.

 

‘Well, how is Annie?’ he asked timidly, looking up at Anna as she ran down to him.

 

He was sitting on a chair, and the footman was pulling off his warm boots.

 

‘Oh, it’s nothing! She’s better.’

 

‘And you?’ he asked, giving himself a shake.

 

She took his hand in both hers and drew it to her waist, not taking her eyes off him.

 

‘Well, I’m very glad,’ he said, coldly surveying her coiffure and the dress which, he knew, she had put on for him.

 

All this pleased him, but it had already pleased him so often! And the stern and stony look, which she so dreaded, settled on his face.

 

‘Well, I am very glad. And you are well?’ said he, wiping his wet beard with his handkerchief, and kissing her hand.

 

‘No matter,’ she thought, ‘if only he is here. When he is here he can’t and daren’t fail to love me!’

 

The evening passed happily and cheerfully in the company of the Princess Barbara, who complained to him that in his absence Anna had been taking morphia.

 

‘What am I to do? I could not sleep. . . . My thoughts kept me awake. When he is here I never take it, or hardly ever.’

 

He told her about the elections, and Anna knew how by questions to lead him on to just what pleased him — his success. She told him about everything that interested him at home, and all her news was most cheerful.

 

But late at night, when they were alone, Anna, seeing that she had regained full mastery of him, wanted to efface the depressing impression of the look he gave her à propos of the letter, and said:

 

‘But confess that you were vexed to get my letter, and did not believe me?’

 

As soon as she had said this she knew that, however lovingly disposed he might be to her, he had not forgiven her for that letter.

 

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘It was such a strange letter. Annie was ill, yet you wished to come yourself!’

 

‘That was all true.’

 

‘I don’t doubt it.’

 

‘Yes, you do doubt it! I see you are displeased.’

 

‘Not for a moment. I am only displeased, really, that you seem not to wish to admit that there are duties . . .’

 

‘Duties to go to a concert . . .’

 

‘Don’t let us talk about it,’ he said.

 

‘Why should we not talk about it?’ she replied.

 

‘I only wished to say that one may have unavoidable business. Now, for instance, I shall have to go to Moscow about the house. . . . Oh, Anna, why are you so irritable? Don’t you know that I can’t live without you?’

 

‘If that is so,’ replied Anna in a suddenly changed voice, ‘it must be that you are weary of this life. . . . Yes, you will come for a day and go away again, as men do . . .’

 

‘Anna, that is cruel. I am ready to give my whole life . . .’

 

But she did not listen to him.

 

‘If you go to Moscow, I shall go too! I will not stop here. Either we must separate or live together.’

 

‘You know that that is my desire! But for that . . .’

 

‘A divorce is necessary? I will write to him! I see I cannot live like this. . . . But I will go to Moscow with you.’

 

‘You speak as if you were threatening me! Why, I don’t wish for anything so much as not to be separated from you,’ said Vronsky, smilingly.

 

But not a cold look only but the angry look of a hunted and exasperated man flashed in his eyes as he spoke those tender words.

 

She saw that look and rightly guessed its meaning.

 

The look said, ‘If so, this is a misfortune!’ It was a momentary impression, but she never forgot it.

 

Anna wrote to her husband asking him for a divorce; and at the end of November, having parted from the Princess Barbara, who had to go to Petersburg, she moved to Moscow with Vronsky. Daily expecting Karenin’s reply, to be followed by a divorce, they now established themselves like a married couple.

 

 

 

 

 

PART SEVEN

 

 

 

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Chapter 1

 

 

 

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THE Levins had been more than two months in Moscow. The date on which, according to the most exact calculations of persons experienced in such matters, Kitty should have been confined had long passed; but she had not yet been delivered, nor were there any signs that the time was nearer now than it had been two months previously. The doctor, the midwife, Dolly, her mother, and especially Levin (who could not think without horror of what was coming), began to experience impatience and anxiety; Kitty alone was perfectly calm and happy.

 

She now distinctly realized the awakening of a new sense of tenderness for the coming (and for her to some extent already existing) child, and she yielded with pleasure to that feeling. It was no longer entirely part of herself, but now and then lived its own independent life. Sometimes this occasioned her pain, but at the same time she wanted to laugh because of this strange new joy.

 

All whom she loved were with her, and all were so kind to her and so attentive, and everything was presented to her in so pleasant an aspect, that had she not known it must soon come to an end she could not have desired a better or pleasanter life. The only thing that marred the charm of this life was that her husband was not as she loved him best, not as he used to be in the country.

 

She loved his quiet, kindly and hospitable manner on his estate. In town he always seemed restless and on his guard, as if afraid lest some one should insult him or, worse still, her. There, on his estate, feeling that he was in his right place, he was never in a hurry to go anywhere and was always occupied. Here in town he was always in a hurry, as if fearing to miss something, and yet he had nothing to do. She was sorry for him. She knew that to others he did not appear to need pity. On the contrary, when Kitty watched him in company — as one sometimes watches a person one loves, trying to see him from a stranger’s point of view, so as to realize the impression he makes on others — she saw, even with some jealous fear, that far from needing pity he was very attractive, by his good breeding, his rather old-fashioned and timid politeness to women, his powerful figure, and, as she thought, his uncommonly expressive face. But she understood him not from without but from within, and saw that in town he was not himself; she could not otherwise define his condition. Sometimes in her heart she reproached him for not knowing how to live in town; at other times she confessed that it was really hard for him to arrange his life here satisfactorily.

 

Indeed, what could he do? He did not care for cards. He did not go to the club. She knew now what consorting with gay people of Oblonsky’s sort meant — it meant drinking and then driving somewhere. . . . She could not think without horror of where men drove to in such cases. Go into Society? But she knew that to do so he would have to find pleasure in being with young women, and she could not wish that. Stay at home with her and her mother and sisters? But, agreeable and amusing as the same oft-repeated conversations might be to her — talks about ‘Alines and Nadines’, as the old Prince called those talks between the sisters — she knew they must bore him. Then what was left for him to do? Continue to write his book? He did try to do it, and began by going to a public library to take notes and look up references he required; but, as he explained to her, the less he did the less time he seemed to have. And he also complained that he had talked too much about his book here, so that all his ideas had become confused and he had lost interest in them.

 

The one advantage of this town-life was that here they never quarrelled. Whether it was that the conditions of town-life were different, or that they had both grown more careful and reasonable in this respect — at any rate, in Moscow they never had quarrels resulting from jealousy such as they had feared when they moved to town.

 

An event even occurred of great importance to them both in this respect, namely Kitty’s meeting with Vronsky.

 

The old Princess, Mary Borisovna, Kitty’s godmother, who had always been very fond of her, particularly wished to see her. Though Kitty was not going out anywhere because of her condition, yet she went with her father to see the venerable old lady, and there met Vronsky.

 

The only thing Kitty could reproach herself with when that visit was over was that for an instant, on recognizing Vronsky’s once so familiar figure in his civilian clothes, she grew breathless, the blood rushed to her heart, and she felt a deep flush suffusing her face. But this lasted only a few seconds. Her father, purposely addressing Vronsky in a loud voice, had not finished what he was saying before she was quite ready to face Vronsky, and if need be to converse with him just as she conversed with the Princess Mary Borisovna; especially so that everything down to the lightest intonation and smile might be approved by her husband, whose unseen presence she seemed to feel above her at that moment.

 

She exchanged a few words with Vronsky, and even smiled at a joke he made about the elections, to which he alluded as ‘our parliament’. (She had to smile to show that she understood the joke.) But she at once turned to the Princess Mary Borisovna and did not once look round at Vronsky till he rose to go. Then she looked at him, but evidently only because it is impolite not to look at a man when he is bowing to you.

 

She was grateful to her father for not saying anything to her about this encounter with Vronsky; but, by his peculiar tenderness to her during their daily walk after the visit, she saw that he was pleased with her. She was pleased with herself. She had not at all expected to find strength to shut down somewhere deep in her heart all memories of her former feelings for this man, and not merely to appear but really to be quite tranquil and calm in his presence.

 

Levin blushed much more than she had done when she told him she had met Vronsky at the Princess Mary Borisovna’s. It was very difficult for her to tell him this, and still more difficult to go on giving him details of the meeting, as he did not ask anything, but only frowned and looked at her.

 

‘I am very sorry you were not there,’ she said; ‘I don’t mean present in the room. . . . I should not have behaved so naturally with you there. . . . I am now blushing much more — much, much more,’ she added, blushing to tears, ‘but I am sorry you could not look in through a crack.’

 

Her truthful eyes told Levin that she was satisfied with herself, and in spite of her blushes he grew calm at once, and began questioning her, which was just what she wanted. When he had heard all, down to the fact that just for the first second she could not help blushing, but that afterwards she had felt as natural and easy as with anyone she might happen to meet, he became quite happy, and said he was very glad it had happened and in future he would not behave as stupidly as he had done at the election, but would try to be as friendly as possible with Vronsky next time he met him.

 

‘It is so painful to think that there is a man who is almost my enemy, — whom I dislike to meet,’ said Levin. ‘I am very, very glad!’