【有声英语文学名著】安娜卡列宁娜（48）

FORTY-EIGHT

 

 

Chapter 20

 

 

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KARENIN took leave of Betsy when they reached the dining-room and returned to his wife. She was lying down, but on hearing his step she quickly sat up in her former place and glanced at him with apprehension. He saw that she had been crying.

 

‘I am very grateful to you for your confidence,’ he repeated in Russian what he had said in French in Betsy’s presence. When speaking Russian to her he called her ‘thou’, and that always irritated her. [In Russian as in French and other languages the second person singular is used in conversation between intimates and also in speaking to inferiors.] ‘And I am very grateful for your decision. I too think that, as he is going away, there is no need whatever for Count Vronsky to come here. However . . .’

 

‘But I have already said so! Then why repeat it?’ Anna suddenly interrupted him, with an irritation she could not repress. ‘No need whatever,’ she thought, ‘for a man to come and take leave of a woman he loves, for whose sake he wanted to die and has ruined himself, a woman who cannot live without him! No need whatever!’ And she pressed her lips together and lowered her glistening eyes, looking at his hands with their swollen veins, which he was slowly rubbing together.

 

‘Let us say no more about it,’ she added more calmly.

 

‘I left it to you to decide the matter, and am very glad to see . . .’ began Karenin.

 

‘That my wish coincides with yours,’ she rapidly completed his sentence, exasperated by the slowness with which he spoke, and knowing beforehand what he would say.

 

He assented. ‘Yes, and Princess Tverskaya’s intrusion into this most difficult family matter is entirely out of place. . . . Especially as she . . .’

 

‘I don’t believe anything they say about her,’ Anna put in quickly. ‘I know that she is sincerely fond of me.’

 

Karenin sighed and paused. She was agitatedly toying with the tassels of her dressing-gown, glancing at him with that tormenting feeling of physical repulsion for which she blamed herself, but which she could not overcome. The one thing she was longing for was to get rid of his obnoxious presence.

 

‘I have just sent for the doctor,’ said he.

 

‘I am quite well — why should I need the doctor?’

 

‘Yes, but the little one keeps screaming, and they say the nurse has not enough milk.’

 

‘Then why would you not let me nurse her, when I entreated you to? She is a child anyhow’ (he understood what she meant by that anyhow) ‘and they will kill her.’ She rang, and ordered the baby to be brought. ‘I asked to be allowed to nurse her, and I wasn’t; and now I am blamed.’

 

‘I don’t blame . . .’

 

‘Yes, you are blaming me! Oh God, why did I not die?’ and she began to sob. ‘Forgive me, I am upset! I am unjust,’ she went on, controlling herself. ‘But go . . .’

 

‘No, it can’t go on like that,’ he told himself with conviction after leaving his wife.

 

Never before had his impossible situation (as the world thought it) — his wife’s hatred, and the strength of that coarse power which, in direct opposition to his inward mood, dominated his life and demanded fulfilment of its decrees and a change in his relation to his wife — never before had the impossibility of his position appeared so evident. He saw clearly that the world and also his wife were demanding something from him, but exactly what this something was he did not comprehend. All this was arousing a feeling of animosity in his soul, spoiling his peace of mind and depriving his achievement of all value. He considered it better for Anna to break off her relations with Vronsky; but if every one thought this impossible, he was even ready to allow these relations to be renewed, so long as no slur was thereby cast on the children, he was not deprived of them, and his position was not altered. Bad as this would be, it would be preferable to a complete rupture, which would place her in a hopeless and shameful position, and deprive him of all he loved. But he felt powerless; he was aware in advance that everybody would be against him and that he would not be allowed to do what now seemed so natural and good, that he would be obliged to do what was wrong but what seemed to them necessary.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 21

 

 

 

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BEFORE Betsy had passed out of the dining-room Oblonsky, who had just come from Eliseyev’s, where newly-arrived oysters were to be had, met her in the doorway.

 

‘Ah, Princess! What a pleasure to meet you,’ he began. ‘And I have been at your house.’

 

‘We meet only for a moment, as I am just going,’ said Betsy, smiling and putting on her glove.

 

‘Wait a little, Princess, before putting on your glove! Let me kiss your hand! There is nothing for which I am more thankful than for the revival of the old custom of hand-kissing,’ and he kissed Betsy’s hand. ‘When shall I see you again?’

 

‘You are not worth it,’ said Betsy, smiling.

 

‘Yes, I am well worth it, because I have become the most serious of men. I not only settle my own, but other people’s family affairs,’ said he with a significant glance.

 

‘Oh, I am very glad!’ said Betsy, at once understanding that he referred to Anna. She returned to the dining-room with him and they stood together in a corner. ‘He will kill her,’ said Betsy in a significant whisper. ‘This is impossible, impossible. . . .’

 

‘I am very glad you think so,’ returned Oblonsky, shaking his head with an expression of grave, woebegone commiseration. ‘That is why I have come to Petersburg.’

 

‘The whole town is talking of it,’ she said. ‘It is an impossible situation. She is fading away, fading away! He does not understand that she is one of those women who cannot play with their feelings. One of two things must happen: either he must take her away, acting energetically — or he must divorce her. But all this is stifling her.’

 

‘Yes, yes . . . exactly!’ said Oblonsky, sighing. ‘I have come because of that — I mean, not entirely because of it. . . . I have been made Chamberlain, and had to tender my thanks. But the chief thing is to get this affair settled.’

 

‘Well then, may God help you,’ said Betsy.

 

Having seen her down to the hall and again kissed her hand, a little above the glove just where the pulse beat, and having told her some rubbish so daring that she did not know whether to be angry or to laugh, Oblonsky went to his sister’s room. He found her in tears.

 

Though he was overflowing with high spirits Oblonsky immediately fell into a sympathetic and romantic mood suited to hers, inquired after her health and asked how she had spent the morning.

 

‘Very, very badly. This afternoon and morning and all other days, past and future,’ she replied.

 

‘I think you give way to melancholy. You should rouse yourself and look life straight in the face. I know it is hard, but . . .’

 

‘I have heard it said that women love men for their very faults,’ Anna began suddenly, ‘but I hate him for his virtues. I cannot live with him. Try and realize it: even his looks have a physical effect on me and drive me beside myself. I cannot live with him! What am I to do? I was unhappy and thought it impossible to be more so; but I could never have imagined such a terrible position as I am now in. Will you believe it? Knowing that he is a kind and generous man — that I am not worth his little finger — nevertheless I hate him! I hate him for his generosity. And there is nothing left for me but . . .’

 

She was going to say ‘death’, but he did not let her finish.

 

‘You are ill and excited,’ said he. ‘Believe me, you are greatly exaggerating the case. There is nothing so very terrible about it.’

 

Oblonsky smiled. No one else in his place, having to deal with such despair, would have permitted himself to smile, for a smile would have appeared callous. But in his smile there was so much kindness and almost feminine tenderness that it was not offensive, but soothing and pacifying. His soft comforting words and smiles had as soothing and calming an effect as almond oil, and Anna soon felt this.

 

‘No, Stiva,’ said she. ‘I am lost, quite lost! And even worse than lost. I am not lost yet; I cannot say “all is finished”: on the contrary, I feel that all is not yet finished. I am like a tightly-strung cord which must break. But all is not finished . . . and it will end in some dreadful manner.’

 

‘Oh no! One can loosen the string gently. There is no situation from which there is no escape.’

 

‘I have been thinking and thinking. Only one . . .’

 

Again he understood from her frightened face that she considered death to be the only escape, and did not let her finish.

 

‘Not at all!’ he replied. ‘Listen. You can’t see your position as I can. Let me tell you my frank opinion.’ Again he smiled his almond-oil smile. ‘I will begin at the beginning: you married a man twenty years older than yourself. You married without love and without having known love. That was a mistake, I grant.’

 

‘A dreadful mistake!’ said Anna.

 

‘But again I say that is an accomplished fact. Next, let us admit that you had the misfortune to fall in love, not with your husband. That is a misfortune, but that too is an accomplished fact. Your husband has accepted that and forgiven you.’ He paused between each sentence, expecting her to make objections; but she made no answer. ‘That is so? Now comes the question: Can you go on living with your husband? Do you wish it? Does he wish it?’

 

‘I don’t know at all.’

 

‘But you yourself say you cannot endure him?’

 

‘No, I did not say so. I take back those words. I know nothing, I understand nothing.’

 

‘Yes, but let me . . .’

 

‘You can’t understand. I feel that I am flying headlong over some precipice but must not even try to save myself. And I can’t.’

 

‘Never mind, we’ll spread out something to catch you. I understand that you cannot take it upon yourself to express your wishes and feelings.’

 

‘I have no wishes at all . . . except that everything were at an end.’

 

‘And he sees that and knows it. Do you think it weighs on him less than on you? You suffer and he suffers; what can come of that? While a divorce would solve the whole problem,’ said Oblonsky not without difficulty expressing his main idea, and looking at her significantly.

 

She replied only by shaking her cropped head; but by the expression of her face, suddenly illuminated with its old beauty, he saw that the only reason she did not wish for this solution was because it seemed to her an impossible happiness.

 

‘I am dreadfully sorry for you both! How happy I should be if I could arrange it,’ continued Oblonsky, now smiling more boldly. ‘Don’t, don’t say a word! If only God helps me to say what I feel! I shall go to him.’

 

Anna looked at him with dreamy, shining eyes, but said nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 22

 

 

 

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OBLONSKY, with the same rather solemn expression with which he was wont to take the chair at Council meetings, entered Karenin’s study. Karenin, with his arms crossed behind him, was pacing up and down, meditating on the very subject that his wife and Oblonsky had been discussing.

 

‘I am not disturbing you?’ asked Oblonsky, experiencing at the sight of his brother-in-law a feeling of embarrassment quite unusual with him. To hide that embarrassment he took out a cigarette-case with a new kind of fastening which he had only just bought, smelt the leather of which it was made, and took out a cigarette.

 

‘No. Do you want anything?’ Karenin answered reluctantly.

 

‘Yes. I wished . . . I must have . . . I must have a talk with you,’ said Oblonsky, surprised at his own unaccustomed timidity.

 

That timidity was so unexpected and strange that Oblonsky could not believe it was his conscience telling him that what he was about to do was wrong. He made an effort and conquered it.

 

‘I hope you believe in my affection for my sister and my sincere attachment and respect for yourself,’ said he, flushing.

 

Karenin stopped. He made no reply, but the expression of submissive self-sacrifice on his face struck Oblonsky.

 

‘I intended to talk to you about my sister and your mutual position,’ said Oblonsky, still struggling with his unwonted timidity.

 

Karenin smiled sadly, looked at his brother-in-law, and without replying went to the table and took from it an unfinished letter which he handed to him.

 

‘I think about that subject incessantly, and this is what I have begun to write, as I think I can put it better in writing, and my presence is distasteful to her,’ he said, holding out the letter.

 

Oblonsky took the letter, looked with perplexed amazement at the dull eyes fixed on him, and began reading:

 

‘I see that my presence is distasteful to you. Hard as it was for me to assure myself of this, I see that it is so, and there is no help for it. I do not blame you, and God is my witness that when I saw you ill, I resolved with my whole soul to forget everything that had come between us and to begin a new life. I do not repent and never shall repent of what I did, as my only desire was for your welfare, the welfare of your soul; but now I see that I have not succeeded. Tell me yourself what would give you real happiness and peace of mind! I submit myself entirely to your wishes and sense of justice.’

 

Oblonsky returned the letter and went on looking at his brother-in-law with the same amazement, not knowing what to say. That silence was so disconcerting to both that Oblonsky’s lips twitched painfully as he silently and fixedly gazed at Karenin’s face.

 

‘That is what I wanted to tell her,’ said Karenin as he turned away.

 

‘Yes, yes!’ said Oblonsky, tears choking him and preventing his reply. ‘Yes, yes, I understand you,’ he brought out at last.

 

‘I must know what she wants,’ said Karenin.

 

‘I am afraid she does not understand her position herself. She is no judge of it,’ replied Oblonsky, growing more composed. ‘She is crushed, literally crushed by your generosity. If she reads this letter she will not have the strength to say anything — she will only hang her head lower than ever.’

 

‘Yes, but under these circumstances how is an explanation to be arrived at? . . . How am I to find out what she wishes?’

 

‘If you will permit me to express my opinion, I think it is for you to say what you think should be done in order to put an end to this state of affairs.’

 

‘Then you think that an end should be put to it?’ Karenin interrupted him. ‘But how?’ he added, moving his hands before his eyes in a manner unusual with him. ‘I don’t see any possible way out.’

 

‘There is a way out of every situation,’ said Oblonsky, rising and growing excited. ‘There was a time when you wished to break with her. . . . Should you be now convinced that you cannot make each other mutually happy . . .’

 

‘Happiness can be defined so differently! However, I am ready to agree to anything — I want nothing at all. What way out is there, in our case?’

 

‘If you wish to know my opinion,’ said Oblonsky with the same soothing, almondy-tender smile with which he had addressed Anna — a kindly smile so convincing that Karenin, conscious of his own weakness and yielding to it, was involuntarily ready to believe anything Oblonsky should say, — ‘she would never say so, but there is one way out, one thing she might wish! It would be, to terminate your relations and everything that reminds her of them. As I look at it, in your case it is necessary to clear up your newly-arisen relation to one another. And this new relation can only be established when both are free.’

 

‘Divorce!’ Karenin interrupted with disgust.

 

‘Yes, divorce, I think. Yes, divorce,’ Oblonsky answered, reddening. ‘That would be the most reasonable way, from every point of view, with a couple placed as you are. What is to be done if they find out that life together has become impossible, as might happen anywhere?’

 

Karenin sighed heavily and closed his eyes.

 

‘There is only one thing to consider: does either party wish to remarry? If not, it is very simple,’ went on Oblonsky, gradually overcoming his embarrassment.

 

Karenin, his face drawn with distress, muttered something to himself and made no reply. He had considered a thousand times all this which appeared so simple to Oblonsky, and it seemed to him not only far from simple but altogether impossible. An action for divorce, with the details of which he was now acquainted, seemed impossible, because a feeling of self-respect and his regard for religion would not allow him to plead guilty to a fictitious act of adultery, and still less to allow the wife he had forgiven and whom he loved to be indicted and disgraced. For other and yet more important reasons also, divorce seemed out of the question.

 

In case of a divorce, what would become of his son? To leave him with his mother was not possible; the divorced mother would have another, an illegitimate family, in which the position and education of a stepson would in all probability be a bad one. Should he keep him himself? He knew that would be revengeful and he did not wish for revenge. But besides all this, what made divorce seem to Karenin more impossible than any other course was that by consenting to it he would by that very act ruin Anna. What Dolly had said in Moscow, to the effect that in considering a divorce he was thinking of himself and not of Anna, who would then be irretrievably lost, had sunk into his heart. And having connected these words with his forgiveness and with his attachment to the children, he now understood them in his own way. To agree to a divorce — to give her her freedom — would mean, as he looked at it, to deprive himself of the only thing that bound him to life, the children he loved; and to deprive her of the last support on the path of virtue and cast her to perdition. As a divorced wife she would form a union with Vronsky which would be both illegal and criminal, because according to the law of the Church a wife may not remarry as long as her husband is living. ‘She will form a union with him and within a year or two he will either abandon her or she will unite with some one else,’ thought Karenin; ‘and I, by consenting to an illegal divorce, shall be the cause of her ruin.’ Hundreds of times he had thought it over and had come to the conclusion that a divorce was not merely less simple than his brother-in-law considered it, but quite out of the question. He did not believe a word of what Oblonsky was saying, and for all his arguments had scores of refutations ready; yet he listened, feeling that those words expressed that coarse and mighty power which overruled his life and to which he would have to submit.

 

‘The only question is, on what conditions you will agree to a divorce. She does not want anything, does not ask for anything, but leaves all to your generosity.’

 

‘O God, O God! How have I deserved this?’ thought Karenin, recalling the particulars of a divorce-suit in which the husband took all the blame on himself; and with the same ashamed gesture with which Vronsky had covered his face, he hid his own in his hands.

 

‘You are upset. I quite understand. But if you consider . . .’

 

‘Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also . . . and if any man will take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also,’ thought Karenin.

 

‘Yes, yes!’ he cried in a shrill voice. ‘I will take the disgrace, and even give up my son . . . but . . . but had we not better let it alone? However, do as you like!’ and turning away so that his brother-in-law should not see his face, he sat down on a chair by the window. It was very bitter, and he felt ashamed; yet mixed with the bitterness and the shame he felt a sense of joy and emotion at the greatness of his own humility.

 

Oblonsky was touched. He remained silent for a while.

 

‘Alexis Alexandrovich! Believe me, she will esteem your generosity,’ said he. ‘But evidently it was God’s will,’ he added, and having said it felt how silly it was and could hardly help smiling at his own stupidity.

 

Karenin would have answered, but could not for his tears.

 

‘It is a fatal disaster and has to be faced. I regard this disaster as an accomplished fact and am trying to help both you and her,’ Oblonsky went on.

 

When he left his brother-in-law’s room Oblonsky was touched, but this feeling did not spoil his contentment at having successfully arranged the matter, for he was certain that Alexis Alexandrovich would not go back on his word. To his contentment was added an idea that had just occurred to him. When the affair was all settled he would ask his wife and intimate friends a riddle: ‘What is the difference between me and a chemist?’ Answer: ‘A chemist makes solutions which do not make anyone happy, but I have made a dissolution and made three people happy!’ Or, ‘Why am I like a chemist? . . . When . . . However, I will improve on it later,’ he said to himself with a smile.