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FORTY-SIX
Their conversation was interrupted by Mlle Linon, who with a feigned1 yet affectionate smile came to congratulate her favourite pupil. Before she had gone out, the servants entered with their congratulations. Afterwards relatives arrived, and that beatific2 tumult3 began which did not cease until the day after the wedding. All that time Levin felt uncomfortable and bored, but the stress of his joy went on increasing. All that time he felt that many things he did not know were expected of him, but he did all he was told, and it all gave him joy. He had thought that his courtship would be quite unlike any other, that the ordinary conditions of courtship would spoil his peculiar4 happiness; but he ended by doing what others do, and his happiness was thereby5 only increased, becoming more and more peculiar to him, unlike anyone else’s was or is.
‘Now we shall eat some sweets,’ said Mlle Linon, and off went Levin to buy sweets. ‘I am very pleased indeed,’ said Sviyazhsky, ‘I advise you to go to Fomin’s for the flowers.’ — ‘Are they necessary?’ and off he went to Fomin’s. His brother told him he ought to borrow some money because he would have a lot of expense: there would be presents. . . . ‘Are presents required?’ and off he rushed to Fulda, the jeweller’s.
At the confectioner’s, florist’s, and jeweller’s, he noticed that they were expecting him, that they were pleased to see him, and triumphed in his happiness just like every one else with whom he had anything to do at that time. It was extraordinary that not only was everybody fond of him, but all the hitherto unsympathetic, cold, or indifferent persons were delighted with him, gave way to him in everything, treated his feelings with delicate consideration, and shared his own opinion that he was the happiest man on earth because his betrothed6 was the height of perfection. Kitty felt just the same. When the Countess Nordston took the liberty of hinting that she had hoped for something better, Kitty got so heated and proved so convincingly that no one on earth could be better than Levin, that the Countess had to admit it, and thereafter never encountered Levin in Kitty’s presence without a smile of delight.
The confession7 he had promised her was the one painful episode of that time. He consulted the old Prince, and with his permission gave Kitty his diary, which contained facts that were tormenting8 him. He had written the diary with the intention of showing it to his future bride-elect. The confession of his agnosticism passed without a remark. She was religious and had never doubted the truth of her religion, but the lack of external religion in him did not affect her at all. She knew, through her love, his whole soul, and saw in it what she desired, and the fact that that spiritual condition is called agnosticism was quite indifferent to her. The other confession made her weep bitterly.
Levin had not handed her the diary without an inward struggle. He knew that between him and her there could and should be nothing secret, and therefore he decided9 that it was his duty; but he had not considered how the confession might affect her: he had not put himself in her place. Only when he came that evening, before going to the theatre, and entered her room to see in her tear-stained face the misery10 caused by the irremediable sorrow he had brought about, did he realize from that sweet, pathetic face what an abyss separated his tainted11 past from her dovelike purity, and he was horror-struck at what he had done.
‘Take, take those dreadful books back!’ she cried, pushing away the note-books that lay on the table before her. ‘Why did you give me them? . . . But no — it was best after all,’ she added, pitying the despair on his face. ‘But it is dreadful, dreadful!’
His head dropped and he remained silent, unable to speak.
‘You will not forgive me?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, I have forgiven you, but it is dreadful!’
However, his happiness was so great that this confession did not impair12 it, but only gave it a new tinge13. She forgave him, but after that he felt yet more unworthy of her, morally bowed still lower before her, and valued still more highly his undeserved happiness.
Chapter 17
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INVOLUNTARILY reviewing the impressions left on his mind by the conversations at dinner and after, Karenin returned to his solitary room. What Dolly had said about forgiveness had merely vexed him. Whether or not to apply the Christian principle to his own case was too difficult a question to be lightly discussed, and Karenin had long since answered it in the negative. Of all that had been said the words of the silly good-natured Turovtsyn had sunk deepest into his mind — ‘He acted like a brick, challenged the other man, and killed him.’ Evidently everybody had agreed with that, though they were too polite to say so. ‘However, that point is settled and not worth thinking about,’ said Karenin to himself; and with nothing in his mind but his impending journey and his work of inspection, he went to his room and asked the doorkeeper, who followed him, where his valet was. The man replied that the valet had just gone out. Karenin ordered tea, sat down at a table, took up a time-table, and began planning his journey.
‘Two telegrams,’ said the valet, entering. ‘Excuse me, your Excellency — I had only just gone out.’
Karenin took the telegrams and opened them. The first contained the news that Stremov had obtained the very appointment Karenin had been hoping for. He threw down the telegram and flushed. Rising he began to pace the room. ‘Quos vult perdere dementat [Those God would ruin he first deprives of reason],’ he thought, quos being those who had had a hand in making the appointment. He was vexed, not so much at having missed that post himself and at having been obviously passed over, as at the incomprehensible and surprising fact that they did not realize how much less suitable than anyone else was that voluble windbag, Stremov.
How was it they did not see that by giving him that post they were ruining themselves and their own prestige?
‘Something else of the same kind,’ he thought bitterly, as he opened the second telegram. It was from his wife, and Anna, written in blue pencil, was the first word he saw. ‘I am dying. I beg and entreat you, come! I shall die easier for your forgiveness,’ he read. Smiling contemptuously, he threw down the telegram. His first thought was that beyond doubt it was only falsehood and cunning.
‘She would not hesitate at any deception. She was going to be confined; perhaps that is the illness. But what can they be aiming at? To legitimize the child, compromise me, and prevent a divorce?’ he reflected. ‘But there is something about dying. . . .’ he re-read the telegram, and was suddenly struck by the direct meaning of the words. ‘Supposing it is true?’ he said to himself ‘If it is true, and at the moment of suffering and approach to death she is sincerely repentant, and I, believing it to be false, refuse to come? It would not only be cruel and everybody would condemn me, but it would be stupid on my part.’
‘Peter, keep the carriage! I am returning to Petersburg,’ he told the valet.
He decided to go back to Petersburg and see his wife.
If the news of her illness were false, he would go away again saying nothing; but if she were really ill and dying, and wished to see him before her death, he would, should he find her still living, forgive her and should he arrive too late he would perform his last duty to her.
While on his way he did not again think about what he should do.
With the sense of fatigue and want of cleanliness resulting from a night spent in a railway carriage, Karenin drove through the fog of a Petersburg morning, along the deserted Nevsky, looking straight before him and not thinking of what awaited him. He dared not think of it, because when he imagined what would happen he could not drive from his mind the thought that her death would at once dissolve all the difficulties of the situation. Bakers, the closed shops, night izvoshchiks and men sweeping the pavements passed before his eyes, and watching all this he tried to stifle the thought of what lay before him and of what he dared not desire and yet could not help desiring. The carriage stopped at the porch. A carriage, with a coachman asleep on the box, and an izvoshchik were standing at the entrance. As he entered the hall Karenin dragged forth his resolve as it were from a remote corner of his brain, and conned it over. It said: ‘If it is all a fraud, then calm contempt and leave again; if true, keep up appearances.’
The door was opened by the hall-porter before Karenin had time to ring. The porter, Petrov, otherwise Kapitonich, looked strange in an old coat without a tie, and in slippers.
‘How is your mistress?’
‘Safely delivered yesterday.’
Karenin halted and turned pale. Now he clearly realized how much he had desired her death.
‘And her health?’
Korney, wearing his morning apron, came running downstairs.
‘Very bad,’ he said. ‘There was a consultation yesterday and the doctor is here now.’
‘Take my things,’ said Karenin; and somewhat relieved by the news that there was still some hope of her dying, he entered the ante-room. On the hall-stand was hanging a military coat, and he noticed it.
‘Who is here?’
‘The doctor, the midwife, and Count Vronsky.’
Karenin passed on to the inner apartments.
There was no one in the drawing-room, but the midwife, with lilac ribbons in her cap, came out of Anna’s boudoir. She approached Karenin, and with a familiarity bred by death’s approach took him by the hand and led him toward the bedroom.
‘Thank God you have come! She talks only about you and nothing but you,’ said she.
‘Be quick and bring the ice!’ came the authoritative sound of the doctor’s voice from the bedroom.
Karenin entered the boudoir. Beside the table, sitting with his side toward the back of a low chair, was Vronsky, his hands covering his face, weeping. At the sound of the doctor’s voice he jumped up, uncovered his face, and saw Karenin. But at sight of her husband he was filled with such confusion that he again sat down, drawing his head down between his shoulders as if trying to become invisible. Then, making an effort, he rose and said:
‘She is dying. The doctors say there is no hope. I am entirely in your hands . . . but allow me to remain here, please. . . . However, I am in your hands. I . . .’
The sight of Vronsky’s tears made Karenin aware of the approach of that mental perturbation which other people’s visible sufferings always aroused in him, and turning away his head he went toward the door without heeding what Vronsky was saying. Anna’s voice, talking about something, came from the bedroom. It sounded cheerful and animated, and its articulation was extremely distinct. Karenin entered and went up to the bed. She lay with her face toward him. Her cheeks were rosy red, her eyes glittered, and her little white hands, from which the cuffs of her dressing jacket had been pushed back, toyed with the corner of the blanket, twisting it.
She appeared not only fresh and well but in the best of spirits. She spoke rapidly, in a ringing voice with extraordinarily accurate intonations, full of feeling.
‘Because Alexis . . . I am speaking of Alexis Alexandrovich — how strange and terrible that they are both called Alexis, is it not? — Alexis would not have refused me. I should have forgotten and he would have forgiven. . . . But why does he not come? He is kind, he himself does not know how kind he is. Oh God! What weariness! Give me some water, quick! Oh, but it will be bad for her, for my little girl! Well, all right — well, let her have a nurse. Well, I agree, it will be better so. He will come back and it will pain him to see her. Take her away!’
‘Anna Arkadyevna, he has come! Here he is,’ said the midwife, trying to draw Anna’s attention to Alexis Alexandrovich.
‘Oh, what nonsense!’ Anna went on, taking no notice of her husband. ‘But let me have her, let me have my little girl! He has not come yet. You say he won’t forgive me, because you don’t know him. No one knew him, only I, and even for me it has become hard. One must know his eyes. Serezha’s are just the same — that’s why I can’t bear to see them. Have they given Serezha his dinner? Don’t I know that everybody will forget? He would not forget. Serezha must be moved into the corner room, and Mariette must be asked to sleep with him.’
Suddenly she recoiled, became silent and frightened, and put her arms before her face as if in expectation of a blow; she had seen her husband.
‘No, no!’ she began again. ‘I am not afraid of him. I am afraid of death. Alexis, come here! I am in a hurry, because I have no time. I have not long to live, I shall soon become feverish and then I shall no longer understand anything. Now I understand, understand everything and see everything!’
Over Karenin’s drawn face came a look of suffering; he took her hand and was about to say something, but could not speak. His lower jaw trembled; he struggled with his agitation, every now and then glancing at her. And every time he did so he saw her eyes looking at him with such tender and ecstatic emotion as he had never before seen in them.
‘Wait a bit — you don’t know . . . Wait, wait! . . . she paused as if to collect her thoughts. ‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘yes, yes, yes! This is what I wished to say. Don’t be surprised at me; I am still the same. . . . But there is another in me as well, and I am afraid of her. She fell in love with that other one, and I wished to hate you but could not forget her who was before. That other is not I. Now I am the real one, all of me. I am dying now, I know I am; ask him. Even now I feel it. Here they are, my hands and feet and fingers, whole hundredweights are on them. My fingers, see how enormous they are! But all this will soon end. . . . I only want one thing: forgive me, forgive me completely! I am dreadfully bad, but the nurse told about the holy martyr — what was her name? — she was worse. And I shall go to Rome, there is a wilderness there and then I shall be in nobody’s way. I shall only take Serezha and the little girl. . . . No, you cannot forgive me! I know that I cannot be forgiven. No, no, go! You are too good!’ With one hot hand she held his, while with the other she pushed him away.
The perturbation in Karenin’s soul went on increasing and reached a point where he gave up struggling against it. Suddenly he felt that what he had taken for perturbation was on the contrary a blissful state of his soul, bringing him joy such as he had never before known. He was not thinking that the law of Christ, which all his life he had tried to fulfil, told him to forgive and love his enemies, but a joyous feeling of forgiveness and love for his enemies filled his soul. He knelt with his head resting on her bent arm, which burnt through its sleeve like fire, and sobbed like a child. She put her arm round his bald head, moved closer to him, and looked up with an expression of proud defiance.
‘Here he is; I knew! Now good-bye to all, good-bye! . . . They have come again, why don’t they go away? . . . Oh, take these furs off me!’
The doctor moved her arms and carefully drew the bedclothes over her shoulders. She meekly lay down on her back and gazed with radiant eyes straight before her.
‘Remember that the only thing I want is your forgiveness, I wish for nothing else. . . . Why does he not come in!’ she cried, calling to Vronsky on the other side of the door. ‘Come, come! Give him your hand.’
Vronsky came to her bedside and, on seeing Anna, again hid his face in his hands.
‘Uncover your face! Look at him! He is a saint,’ said she. ‘Uncover, yes, uncover your face!’ she went on angrily. ‘Alexis Alexandrovich, uncover his face! I want to see him.’
Karenin took Vronsky’s hands and moved them away from his face, terrible with its look of suffering and shame.
‘Give him your hand. Forgive him. . . .’
Karenin held out his hand, without restraining the tears that were falling.
‘Thank God, thank God!’ she cried. ‘Now everything is ready. Only stretch out my legs a little. That’s right — now it’s splendid. How badly those flowers are drawn, not a bit like violets,’ and she pointed to the wallpaper. ‘Oh, my God, my God! When will it all come to an end? Doctor, give me some morphia! Oh, my God, my God!’ And she began to toss in her bed.
The doctor and his colleagues said it was puerperal fever, which in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred ended fatally. All day she was feverish, delirious, and unconscious. At midnight she lay insensible, with hardly any pulse.
The end was expected every moment.
Vronsky went away, but came again in the morning to inquire. Karenin met him in the ante-room and said: ‘Remain here: she may ask for you,’ and himself showed him into Anna’s boudoir. Toward morning she had become excited and animated, and her thoughts and words flowed rapidly; but again this state lapsed into unconsciousness. On the third day she was just the same, and the doctors gave some hope. That day Karenin went out into the boudoir where Vronsky sat, and having locked the door took a seat opposite him.
‘Alexis Alexandrovich,’ said Vronsky, feeling that an explanation was coming. ‘I am unable to think, unable to understand. Spare me! However painful it may be to you, believe me it is still more terrible for me.’
He was about to rise, but Karenin took him by the hand and said:
‘I beg you to hear me; it is necessary. I must explain to you my feelings, those that have guided me and will guide me in future, so that you may not misunderstand me. You know that I resolved on a divorce and had even taken steps toward obtaining it. I will not conceal from you that when I took action I was in a state of indecision; I suffered, and I confess that I was haunted by a desire for vengeance. On receiving the telegram I came here with the same feelings — more than that, I wished for her death. But . . .’ He stopped and reflected whether he should reveal his feelings or not. ‘But I saw her and forgave her. And the joy of forgiving has revealed my duty to me. I have wholly forgiven — I want to turn the other cheek — I want to give my cloak because my coat has been taken. I only pray God that the joy of forgiving may not be taken from me.’
Tears filled his eyes, and their clear calm expression struck Vronsky.
‘That is my position. You may trample me in the mud, make me the laughing-stock of the world, — I will not forsake her and will never utter a word of reproach to you,’ continued Karenin. ‘My duty is clearly defined: I must and will remain with her. If she wishes to see you I will let you know; but now I think it will be best for you to leave.’
He rose, and sobs broke his voice. Vronsky got up at once, and stooping before him looked up into his face without unbending his back. He could not understand Karenin, but felt that here was something high, and inaccessible to one with his outlook on life.
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1
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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