【有声英语文学名著】安娜卡列宁娜（47）

 FORTY-SEVEN

 

 

Chapter 18

 

 

—>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<—

 

 

AFTER his conversation with Karenin Vronsky went out on to the Karenins’ porch and then stopped, recalling with difficulty where he was and where he ought to go. He felt ashamed, humiliated, guilty, and deprived of the possibility of cleansing himself from his degradation. He felt himself knocked quite out of the rut along which he had hitherto trodden so proudly and so lightly. All the apparently solid habits and rules of his life suddenly seemed false and inapplicable. The deceived husband — who up till now had appeared a pitiful creature, an accidental and rather ridiculous obstacle to his happiness — suddenly recalled by her and raised to a pedestal that inspired the utmost respect, that husband in his lofty elevation turned out to be, not only not cruel, false, or absurd, but kind, simple, and dignified. Vronsky could not help being conscious of this. They had suddenly exchanged roles. Vronsky felt Karenin’s greatness and his own humiliation, Karenin’s rightness and his own wrongdoing. He felt that the husband in his sorrow was magnanimous, while he himself was mean and trivial in his deceptions. But the consciousness of his degradation toward the man whom he had unjustly despised accounted for but a small portion of his grief. He was unspeakably miserable because his passion for Anna, which he imagined had of late begun to cool, had become even stronger now that he knew her to be lost to him for ever. During her illness he had learnt to know her thoroughly, had seen into her very soul; and it seemed to him that he had never loved her before. And just now, when he knew her and loved her in the right way, he had been humiliated before her and had lost her for ever, leaving her nothing but a shameful memory of himself. But most terrible of all was the ridiculous, shameful figure he had cut when Karenin was pulling his hands from before his shame-suffused face. He stood in the porch of the Karenins’ house as one in a maze, and did not know what to do next.

 

‘Shall I call an izvoshchik?’ inquired the hall-porter.

 

‘Yes, an izvoshchik.’

 

Returning home after the three sleepless nights, Vronsky did not undress but lay down prone on a sofa, with his head on his folded arms. His head was heavy. Fancies, memories, and most strange thoughts followed one another with extreme rapidity and clearness: now he saw himself pouring out medicine for the patient and overfilling the spoon, then he saw the midwife’s white hands, or Karenin’s curious pose as he knelt on the floor by her bedside.

 

‘To sleep, to forget!’ he said to himself with the calm certainty of a healthy man that being tired and in want of sleep he would at once fall asleep. And in fact in a moment his thoughts grew confused and he began to fall into the abyss of forgetfulness. The waves of the sea of unconscious life were beginning to close over his head when all at once he felt as if he had received a violent electric shock. He started so violently that his whole body was thrown upwards on the springs of the sofa, and leaning on his hands he rose to his knees in fear. His eyes were wide open as if he had not slept at all. The heaviness of his head and the languor of his limbs, of which he had been aware a moment previously, had suddenly vanished.

 

‘You may trample me in the mud,’ he seemed to hear Karenin saying; and he saw Anna’s feverishly flushed face and brilliant eyes gazing, not at him but at Karenin; he saw his own, as it seemed to him, stupid and ridiculous figure when Karenin was drawing his hands away from his face. He stretched out his legs and again threw himself upon the sofa, in the same position as before, and shut his eyes.

 

‘Sleep, sleep,’ he kept repeating to himself. But with his eyes closed he could see yet more distinctly Anna’s face, as he had seen it on that memorable evening before the race. ‘All that is ended and never will be again, and she wishes to efface it from her memory. I can’t live without it. Then how can we be reconciled — how can we be reconciled?’ said he aloud, and went on unconsciously repeating those words. This reiteration prevented other images and memories which were thronging his brain from arising. But the repetition of those words did not long hinder his imagination from working. Again, following each other with great rapidity, his happiest moments rose in his fancy; and with them his recent humiliation. ‘Take away his hands,’ Anna’s voice is saying. Karenin pulls away his hands and he is conscious of the shame-suffused and stupid expression of his own face.

 

He still lay trying to fall asleep, though he had lost all hope of succeeding, and kept repeating in a whisper random words connected with disjointed thoughts, in order to prevent other images from rising. He listened and heard repeated in a strange mad whisper the words, ‘Unable to value, unable to enjoy; unable to value, unable to enjoy.’

 

‘What is this? Am I going mad?’ he asked himself. ‘Perhaps! What else makes people go mad? What makes them shoot themselves?’ he replied to his own thought; and opening his eyes he was surprised to see, close to his head, an embroidered cushion worked by Varya, his brother’s wife. Fingering a tassel of the cushion, he tried to think of Varya as he had last seen her. But to think of anything extraneous was painful. ‘No, I must sleep!’ He moved the cushion and pressed his head against it, but his eyes would not remain closed without effort. He jumped up and sat down. ‘That’s at an end for me,’ he thought, ‘I must think over what I must do, what is left me.’ His thoughts glided quickly over his life unconnected with his passion for Anna.

 

‘Ambition? Serpukhovsky? Society? The Court?’ he could not dwell on any of these things. He rose from the sofa, took off his coat, loosened the strap, and, baring his shaggy chest to breathe more freely, walked across the room. ‘That’s how one goes mad,’ he said again, ‘and how one shoots oneself so as not to be ashamed,’ he concluded slowly. Going up to a door he closed it, then with fixed gaze and tightly clenched teeth, approached the table, took up his revolver, examined it, turned it to a loaded chamber, and pondered. For a minute or two he stood motionless with bowed head, a strained expression of effort on his face, holding the revolver in his hand. ‘Of course!’ he said to himself, as if led to a definite conclusion by a logical, continued, and clear line of reasoning. In reality that convinced ‘Of course!’ was merely the outcome of the repetition of a round of fancies and recollections similar to those he had already gone over dozens of times in the last hour. They were the same memories of happiness lost for ever, the same thoughts of the senselessness of all that life had in store for him, and the same consciousness of his humiliation. And they followed in the same rotation. ‘Of course!’ he said again when thought returned a third time to that point in the enchanted circle of memories and ideas; and placing the revolver against the left side of his chest, with a strong movement of his whole hand as if to clench the fist, he pulled the trigger. He did not hear the sound of a shot, but a powerful blow on the chest knocked him off his feet. He wished to steady himself by the table, dropped the revolver, reeled, and sat down on the floor, looking about him in astonishment. He did not recognize his room as he looked up at the curved legs of the table, and at the waste-paper basket and the tiger-skin rug. The quick step of his servant, coming through the drawing-room, brought him to his senses. He made an effort and understood that he was on the floor, and, seeing blood on the tiger-skin and on his hand, realized that he had tried to shoot himself.

 

‘Stupid! . . . Missed,’ he muttered, feeling with his hand for the revolver. It was close to him but he sought it further away. Continuing his search he leaned over to the other side, and unable to keep his balance, fell down bleeding.

 

The elegant servant with the whiskers, who often complained to his friends about the weakness of his nerves, was so upset when he saw his master lying on the floor, that he left him to bleed to death and ran away to get help. In an hour’s time Varya arrived, and with the assistance of three doctors whom she had summoned from every quarter, and who all arrived at the same time, she got the wounded man to bed, and then stayed in the house to nurse him.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 19

 

 

 

—>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<—

 

 

 

THE mistake Karenin had made when, preparing to see his wife, he had not considered the possibility either of her repentance being real or of her recovery, faced him in all its significance two months after his return from Moscow. But this mistake was not entirely caused by his omitting to consider that contingency, but also by the fact that, up to the day when he was face to face with his dying wife, he had not known his own heart. By his sick wife’s bedside he had for the first time in his life given rein to that feeling of tender sympathy which the suffering of others evoked in him and which he had till then been ashamed of, as of a weakness; and his pity for her, remorse at having wished for her death, and above all the joy of forgiving, in itself gave him not only relief from suffering but inward peace such as he had never before experienced. Suddenly he felt that the very thing that had been a source of suffering to him had become a spiritual joy, and that what had seemed insoluble as long as he indulged in censure, recriminations, and hatred, had become simple and clear when he forgave and loved.

 

He forgave his wife and pitied her for her sufferings and remorse. He forgave Vronsky and pitied him, especially when reports of Vronsky’s desperate action reached him. He pitied his son too, more than he had done before, and reproached himself for not having paid more attention to him. But for the newborn little girl he had a peculiar sentiment, not of pity alone but even of tenderness. At first commiseration alone drew his attention to the delicate infant, not his daughter, who had been neglected during her mother’s illness and would certainly have died then had it not been for his solicitude; and he himself hardly knew how he grew fond of her. Several times a day he went to the nursery, and remained there so long that the nurses, who had been shy in his presence, became quite used to him. Sometimes he would sit for half an hour gazing at the saffron and red downy, wrinkled little face of the sleeping infant, watching the movements of the frowning little forehead and the plump little hands with the bent fingers and palms that rubbed the tiny eyes and nose. At such moments especially Karenin felt quite calm and at peace with himself, seeing nothing exceptional in his position and nothing that ought to be altered.

 

But as time went on he saw more and more clearly that, however natural his position might appear to him at the time, he would not be allowed to remain in it. He was conscious that, beside the good spiritual force which governed his soul, there existed a coarse power, as potent if not more so; and that this power would not grant him the humble peace he desired. He felt that everybody looked at him with questioning surprise without understanding him, expecting something from him; and especially he was aware of the insecurity and artificiality of his relation to his wife.

 

When the softened mood caused by the nearness of death had passed, Karenin began to notice that Anna feared him, was oppressed by his presence, and avoided looking him straight in the eyes. It was as if she wished, yet could not make up her mind, to say something, and foreseeing that their present relation could not continue, expected something from him too.

 

At the end of February Anna’s newborn daughter, also named Anna, happened to fall ill. Karenin had been in the nursery that morning, and having given orders to send for the doctor, had gone to the Department. Toward four o’clock, having finished his work, he returned home. On entering the ante-room he saw there a handsome footman in gold-braided livery with a bearskin cape, holding a cloak lined with white fur.

 

‘Who is here?’ asked Karenin.

 

‘Princess Elisabeth Federovna Tverskaya,’ answered the footman with a smile, — as it seemed to Karenin. All through that difficult time Karenin noticed that all his worldly acquaintances, especially the women, displayed a particularly lively interest in him and his wife. He noticed in all these acquaintances a kind of joy, which they suppressed with difficulty, like the joy he had noticed in the lawyer’s eyes and again just now in the footman’s. Everybody seemed elated, as if they were giving some one in marriage. When they met him they inquired with scarcely hidden pleasure about Anna’s health.

 

The presence of Princess Tverskaya and the memories associated with her, coupled with the fact that he had never liked her, was unpleasant to Karenin, and he went straight to the nursery. In the front nursery Serezha, lying with his chest on the table and his legs on a chair, was drawing something and chattering merrily. An English nursery governess, who since Anna’s illness had replaced the French governess with the boy, sat doing some crochet-work. She hurriedly rose, curtseyed, and nudged Serezha.

 

Karenin passed his hand over his son’s hair, answered the governess’s inquiry about Anna’s health, and asked what the doctor had said about the baby.

 

‘The doctor says there is no danger and has ordered baths, sir.’

 

‘But she is still suffering,’ remarked Karenin, listening to the crying child in the next room.

 

‘I think the nurse is unsuitable, sir,’ said the Englishwoman with decision.

 

‘Why do you think so?’ he asked, stopping short.

 

‘The same thing happened in Countess Paul’s case. The baby was medically treated and then it turned out to be merely hungry and nothing more. The nurse has no milk, sir.’

 

Karenin reflected a moment and then entered the other room. The little girl lay with her head thrown back, wriggling in the wet-nurse’s arms, and would neither take the breast nor cease screaming, despite the hushing of two nurses who were bending over her.

 

‘Still no better?’ asked Karenin.

 

‘Very restless,’ said the head-nurse in a whisper.

 

‘Miss Edwards says that perhaps the nurse has no milk,’ he said.

 

‘I think so too, Alexis Alexandrovich.’

 

‘Then why did you not say so?’

 

‘Whom could I speak to? Anna Arkadyevna is still ill . . .’ said the old nurse in a dissatisfied tone.

 

The nurse was an old family servant, and in her simple words Karenin thought he noticed a hint at his position.

 

The baby screamed louder, catching her breath and growing hoarse. The old nurse with a gesture of vexation came up and took her from the wet-nurse, and began pacing up and down, rocking the baby in her arms.

 

‘The doctor must be asked to examine the nurse,’ said Karenin.

 

The healthy-looking wet-nurse in her finery, evidently afraid of being dismissed, muttered something to herself as she covered her well-developed breast, and smiled contemptuously at the idea of her not having sufficient milk. In that smile also Karenin thought he saw himself and his position ridiculed.

 

‘Unfortunate child!’ said the nurse, hushing the baby and continuing to walk up and down with it. Karenin sat down on a chair and with a look full of suffering and weariness watched the nurse as she paced the room. When the child was pacified and laid in her deep cot, and the nurse after smoothing the little pillow went away, Karenin rose, and stepping with difficulty on tiptoe approached the infant. For a moment he stood silent, regarding the child with the same weary expression; but suddenly a smile, wrinkling the skin on his forehead and making his hair move, lit up his face, and he quietly left the room.

 

He rang the bell in the dining-room and told the servant to send for the doctor once more. He was vexed with his wife for not troubling about the charming baby, felt disinclined to go in and see her while in that frame of mind, and also disinclined to meet the Princess Betsy; but his wife might think it strange if he did not come in as usual, and so he mastered himself and went to her bedroom. Stepping on the soft carpet, as he approached the door he involuntarily overheard a conversation which he had no wish to hear.

 

‘If he had not been going away I should understand your refusal and his too. But your husband must be above that,’ Betsy was saying.

 

‘It is not for my husband’s sake but for my own that I don’t wish it. Don’t talk about it,’ answered Anna in an excited voice.

 

‘Yes, but you can’t but wish to say good-bye to a man who tried to shoot himself for your sake. . . .’

 

‘It’s just for that reason that I don’t wish it.’

 

Karenin, with a frightened and guilty face, stopped short and thought of returning unnoticed; but coming to the conclusion that this would be undignified he turned, coughed, and went toward the bedroom door. The voices were silent and he entered.

 

Anna, in a grey dressing-gown, with her black hair cropped short but already growing again like a thick brush over her round head, sat on a couch. As usual when she saw her husband all her animation vanished from her face; she bowed her head and glanced uneasily at Betsy. Betsy, dressed in the very latest fashion, her hat soaring high above her head like a little chimney coronet over a lamp, in a dove-coloured dress with very pronounced diagonal stripes going one way on the bodice and the other way on the skirt, was sitting beside Anna, her flat tall figure very erect and her head bent. She met Karenin with an ironical smile.

 

‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, as if in surprise, ‘I am so glad you are at home. I have not seen you since Anna’s illness. I have heard everything . . . all about your attentiveness. Yes, you are a wonderful husband!’ she said with a significant and affable expression, as if she were conferring on him an Order of Highmindedness for his conduct toward his wife.

 

Karenin bowed coldly, and kissing his wife’s hand asked about her health.

 

‘I think I am better,’ she said, avoiding his eyes.

 

‘But your face looks feverish,’ said he, emphasizing the word feverish.

 

‘We have been talking too much,’ said Betsy. ‘I know it was selfish of me and I am going.’

 

She rose, but Anna, suddenly blushing, quickly seized her hand.

 

‘No, please stay! I must tell you . . . you, I mean,’ and she turned toward her husband, the colour spreading over her neck and forehead. ‘I don’t wish to hide anything from you.’

 

Karenin cracked his fingers and bowed his head.

 

‘Betsy says Count Vronsky wanted to come and say goodbye before leaving for Tashkend.’ She was not looking at her husband, and evidently was in a hurry to get through what she meant to say at any cost. ‘I said I could not receive him.’

 

‘You said, my love, that it would depend on Alexis Alexandrovich,’ Betsy corrected her.

 

‘Oh no! I can’t receive him, and it would lead . . .’ She stopped suddenly and glanced inquiringly at her husband, who was not looking at her. ‘In a word, I don’t wish . . .’

 

Karenin drew nearer and was going to take her hand.

 

Her first impulse was to draw away her hand from his moist one with the thick swelling veins, that was seeking hers; but with evident effort she pressed it.

 

‘I am very grateful for your confidence, but . . .’ he began in confusion, feeling with vexation that what he could so clearly decide within himself he was unable to discuss in the presence of the Princess Tverskaya, who appeared to him the personification of that coarse power which would rule his life in the eye of the world, and which prevented him from yielding to his feelings of love and forgiveness. He stopped and looked at the Princess.

 

‘Well, good-bye, my precious!’ said Betsy, rising again. She kissed Anna and went out. Karenin followed her.

 

‘Alexis Alexandrovich! I know you to be a really high-minded man,’ said Betsy, stopping short in the little sitting-room and once again pressing his hand with peculiar warmth. ‘I am only an outsider, but am so fond of her and respect you so much that I will take the liberty of advising you. Receive him! Alexis Vronsky is honour personified, and besides he is leaving for Tashkend.’

 

‘Thanks for your sympathy and advice, Princess! But the question whom my wife will and whom she will not receive she will decide for herself.’

 

He said this from force of habit, with a dignified raising of his eyebrows, but immediately remembered that whatever he might say there could be no question of dignity in his position, and saw the confirmation of this in the suppressed cruel and ironical smile with which Betsy glanced at him when he had spoken.