【英语名著】安娜卡列宁娜81-听名著学英语

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EIGHTY-ONE

 

 

Chapter 20

 

 

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AS was his wont, Oblonsky did not spend his time idly while in Petersburg. Besides business — his sister’s divorce and his post — it was as usual necessary for him, as he said, to refresh himself in Petersburg after the mustiness of Moscow.

 

Moscow, despite its cafés chantants and its omnibuses, was still a stagnant pool. Oblonsky always felt this. After living in Moscow, especially in the bosom of his family, Oblonsky always felt his spirits flag. When he had spent a long time in Moscow without a break, he reached a state in which he began to be upset by his wife’s ill-humour and reproaches, by the health and education of the children, and the petty details of his work; even the fact that he was in debt worried him then. But he only needed to spend some time in Petersburg among the set in which he moved, where people lived, really lived, instead of vegetating as in Moscow, and at once all these cares vanished and melted away like wax before a fire.

 

His wife? . . . Only that day he had been talking to Prince Chechensky. He had a wife and family with grown-up sons who were pages at Court; and another family, an illegitimate one, in which there were other children. Though the first family was all right, Prince Chechensky felt happier with the second family. He took his eldest son to visit the second family, and told Oblonsky that he considered it developed his son and was good for him. What would they say to that in Moscow?

 

Children? In Petersburg children did not hinder their fathers living. Children were brought up in educational establishments, and there were none of those barbaric views that were becoming so prevalent in Moscow — Lvov’s was a case in point — that the children should have every luxury and the parents nothing but work and worry. Here people understood that a man must live his own life like a civilized being.

 

The Service! . . . Service too was not here that strained, hopeless drudgery that it was in Moscow; here there was an interest in the Service. Meeting the right person, a service rendered, a felicitous remark, the ability to perform certain tricks, made a man’s career in a moment, as was the case with Bryantsov, whom Oblonsky had met the day before, and who was now a great dignitary. Service of that kind had an interest.

 

But it was the Petersburg outlook on money matters that had a particularly soothing effect on Oblonsky. Bartnyansky, who spent at least fifty thousand roubles a year at the rate he was living, had the day before made a notable remark to him on the point.

 

As they were having a chat before dinner, Oblonsky had said to Bartnyansky:

 

‘You are, I think, intimate with Mordvinsky? You could do me a good turn if you would put in a word for me. There is a post I should like to get . . . Member of the Agency . . .’

 

‘Never mind the name, I shouldn’t remember it. . . . But why do you want to mix in those railway concerns, with Jews? . . . Look at it how you like, it’s horrid!’

 

Oblonsky did not tell him that it was a ‘live’ business; Bartnyansky would not have understood that.

 

‘I am hard up; have nothing to live on.’

 

‘But you do live.’

 

‘Yes, but in debt.’

 

‘Really? Is it much?’ asked Bartnyansky sympathetically.

 

‘Very much: about twenty thousand roubles.’

 

Bartnyansky burst into merry laughter.

 

‘Oh, you lucky fellow!’ he cried. ‘My debts amount to a million and a half, and I have nothing! But, as you see, I still find it possible to live!’

 

Oblonsky knew this to be true, not only from hearsay but from actual fact. Zhivakhov, whose debts amounted to three hundred thousand roubles, didn’t possess a penny and yet he lived, and how he lived! Count Krivtsov, whose case had long been considered hopeless, still kept two mistresses. Petrovsky had run through five millions, continued living in just the same style, and even directed the Finance Department and received a salary of twenty thousand.

 

But, apart from that, Petersburg acted pleasantly on Oblonsky physically. It made him younger. In Moscow he sometimes noticed some grey hairs; fell asleep after dinner; stretched himself; walked slowly upstairs, breathing heavily; felt dull among young women, and did not dance at balls. In Petersburg he always felt that he had shaken off ten years.

 

In Petersburg he felt what the sixty-year-old Prince Peter Oblonsky, who had just returned from abroad, had described to him only the day before.

 

‘Here we don’t know how to live,’ Peter Oblonsky had said. ‘Would you believe it? I spent the summer in Baden and really felt quite like a young man. I see a young woman, and my fancy. . . . I dine, drink a little, and feel strong and full of spirits. I returned to Russia and had to be with my wife, and in the country besides, and in a fortnight I took to a dressing-gown and gave up dressing for dinner! And as to thinking about young women! . . . Why, I had turned into quite an old man! There was nothing left for me but to think of saving my soul. . . . Then I went to Paris, and again recovered.’

 

Stephen experienced just the same difference as Peter Oblonsky. In Moscow he let himself go to such an extent that, had he continued to live there long, he might even have come to the soul-saving stage; but in Petersburg he again felt quite a smart fellow.

 

Between the Princess Betsy Tverskaya and Oblonsky there existed long-established and very peculiar relations. Oblonsky in fun always paid court to her, and told her the most indecent things also in fun, knowing that she liked that more than anything. The day after his interview with Karenin, Oblonsky, calling on her, felt so youthful that he went accidentally to such lengths in this bantering courtship and humbug that he did not know how to get out of it, for unfortunately she was not merely unattractive but actually repulsive to him. This tone had sprung up between them because he was very attractive to her. So he had been very pleased when the Princess Myagkaya turned up, and put an end to their tête-à-tête.

 

‘Ah, so you are here!’ she said on seeing him. ‘Well, how is your poor sister? Don’t look at me like that,’ she added. ‘Since every one has been attacking her — all those who are a hundred thousand times worse than she — I have thought she has acted splendidly. I can’t forgive Vronsky for not letting me know when she was in Petersburg. I would have gone to her and with her everywhere. Please give her my love. . . . Well, tell me about her.’

 

‘Yes, her situation is a hard one . . .’ Oblonsky began, in the simplicity of his heart taking the Princess Myagkaya’s words for genuine coin when she said ‘Tell me about her’. But the Princess Myagkaya immediately interrupted him, as was her habit, and commenced telling her own tale.

 

‘She has done what everybody, except myself, does secretly, and she would not deceive, and has acted splendidly. And the best thing she did was to leave that half-witted brother-in-law of yours! Excuse me. Every one used to say, “He is so clever, so clever.” I alone said that he was stupid. Now that he has got so chummy with Lydia Ivanovna and Landau, every one says he is half-witted; and I should be glad not to agree with everybody, but this time I can’t help it.’

 

‘But do explain to me what it means!’ said Oblonsky. ‘Yesterday I called on him about my sister’s affair and asked him for a definite answer. He did not give me an answer, but said he must think it over; and this morning instead of an answer I have received an invitation for this evening to go to the Countess Lydia Ivanovna’s.’

 

‘Ah, that’s it, that’s it!’ Princess Myagkaya began joyfully. ‘They will ask Landau and see what he says.’

 

‘Ask Landau? Why? Who is Landau?’

 

‘What? You don’t know Jules Landau, le fameux Jules Landau, le clairvoyant [the famous Jules Landau, the clairvoyant]? He also is half-witted, but your sister’s fate depends on him. See what comes of living in the provinces: you know nothing! Landau, you see, was a commis [shop assistant] in Paris and went to see a doctor. He fell asleep in the doctor’s waiting-room, and while asleep began giving advice to all the patients, and very strange advice too. Afterwards, Yury Meledinsky’s wife (the invalid’s wife, you know) heard of that Landau, and took him to see her husband. He is treating her husband. No good has been done in my opinion, for he is still just as weak, but they believe in him and take him about with them. So they brought him to Russia. Here every one rushed at him, and he began treating everybody. He cured the Countess Bezzubova, and she took such a fancy to him that she adopted him.’

 

‘Adopted! How?’

 

‘Simply adopted him! He is now no longer Landau, but Count Bezzubov. However, that’s not to the point; but Lydia — I am very fond of her, but her head is not screwed on right — naturally has rushed at this Landau, and now nothing is settled either by her or by Karenin without him, so your sister’s fate is now in the hands of this Landau, alias Count Bezzubov.’

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 21

 

 

 

—>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<—

 

 

 

AFTER an excellent dinner and a large quantity of brandy at Bartnyansky’s, Oblonsky, only a little after the appointed time, entered the Countess Lydia Ivanovna’s house.

 

‘Who is with the Countess? The Frenchman?’ Oblonsky asked the hall-porter, noticing on the hall-stand Karenin’s overcoat, which he recognized, and a strange, absurd-looking paletot with clasps.

 

‘Alexis Alexandrovich Karenin and Count Bezzubov,’ the hall-porter replied severely.

 

‘The Princess Myagkaya guessed correctly,’ thought Oblonsky as he ascended the stairs. ‘Strange! But it would be just as well to make friends with her. She has tremendous influence. If she would say a word to Pomorsky, the job is done.’

 

It was still quite light out of doors, but in the Countess Lydia Ivanovna’s small drawing-room the blinds were down and the lamp alight.

 

At the round table beneath a lamp sat the Countess and Karenin, conversing in low tones. A short lean man, with hips like a woman’s, knock-kneed, very pale, handsome, with beautiful shining eyes and long hair that hung over the collar of his frock-coat, stood at the opposite end of the room, looking at the portraits on the wall. After greeting the hostess and Karenin, Oblonsky involuntarily glanced at the stranger once more.

 

‘Monsieur Landau!’ The Countess addressed him with a softness and caution that struck Oblonsky. And she introduced them.

 

Landau hurriedly looked round, approached smilingly, laid upon Oblonsky’s outstretched hand his own moist and motionless one, went back, and continued looking at the portraits. The Countess and Karenin glanced at each other significantly.

 

‘I am very pleased to see you, especially to-day,’ said the Countess Lydia Ivanovna, pointing to a seat beside Karenin.

 

‘I introduced him to you as Landau,’ she said softly, glancing at the Frenchman and then back at Oblonsky, ‘but really he is Count Bezzubov, as you probably know. But he does not like that title.’

 

‘Yes, I have heard,’ replied Oblonsky. ‘They say he has completely cured the Countess Bezzubov.’

 

‘She called on me to-day, and was so pathetic,’ said the Countess, turning to Karenin. ‘This separation is dreadful for her. It is such a blow to her!’

 

‘Is he going definitely?’ inquired Karenin.

 

‘Yes, he is going to Paris. He heard a voice yesterday,’ said the Countess, with a look at Oblonsky.

 

‘Ah, a voice!’ Oblonsky remarked, feeling that he must be as careful as possible in this company, where something peculiar occurred, or was supposed to occur, to which he as yet lacked a clue.

 

After a momentary pause the Countess Lydia Ivanovna, as if coming to the important point, turned with a subtle smile to Oblonsky.

 

‘I have known you a long time, and am very pleased to know you more intimately. Les amis de nos amis sont nos amis [The friends of our friends are our friends]. But to be a friend, one must enter into the state of the friend’s soul, and I fear you will not do so in relation to Alexis Alexandrovich. You understand what I am speaking about?’ she said, lifting her beautiful dreamy eyes.

 

‘To some extent, Countess! I understand that Alexis Alexandrovich’s position . . .’ said Oblonsky, not quite grasping what it was all about, and therefore wishing to keep to generalities.

 

‘The change is not in his external position,’ Lydia Ivanovna said severely as her enamoured eyes followed Karenin, who had risen and joined Landau. ‘His heart is changed; he has been given a new heart, and I fear that you may not have realized fully that change which has been accomplished within him.’

 

‘Well, broadly speaking, I can picture to myself the change. We have always been friendly, and now . . .’ Oblonsky said, answering her look with a tender gaze, while he considered with which of two Ministers she was the more closely connected — so as to judge which of them he should ask her to influence on his behalf.

 

‘The change that has taken place in him cannot weaken his love for his neighbour; on the contrary, that change must strengthen his love. But I fear you don’t understand me. Won’t you have some tea?’ she said, indicating with her eyes the footman who was handing tea round on a tray.

 

‘Not quite, Countess. Of course his misfortune . . .’

 

‘Yes, a misfortune which has turned into a great blessing, because his heart became new and is filled with Him,’ she said, glancing at Oblonsky with love-sick eyes.

 

‘I think I might ask her to mention me to both,’ thought he.

 

‘Oh, certainly, Countess!’ he said. ‘But I think such changes are so very intimate that nobody, not even the closest friend, cares to speak about them.’

 

‘On the contrary! We must speak, and so help one another.’

 

‘Yes, of course, but there are such differences of conviction, and besides . . .’ said Oblonsky with a gentle smile.

 

‘There cannot be any differences in what concerns the holy Truth!’

 

‘Oh no, of course not! But . . .’ and, becoming embarrassed, Oblonsky stopped short. He realized that it was a question of religion.

 

‘It seems to me he will fall asleep directly,’ said Karenin in a significant whisper, approaching Lydia Ivanovna.

 

Oblonsky turned. Landau was sitting by the window, leaning against the arm and back of an easy-chair, with his head hanging down. Noticing the looks directed toward him, he smiled a childishly naïve smile.

 

‘Take no notice of him,’ said Lydia Ivanovna, and with an agile movement she pushed forward a chair for Karenin. ‘I have noticed . . .’ she began, when a footman entered with a note. Lydia Ivanovna rapidly read the note and, excusing herself with extreme rapidity wrote and despatched the answer and returned to the table. ‘I have noticed,’ she continued her interrupted sentence, ‘that Muscovites, men especially, are most indifferent to religion.’

 

‘Oh no, Countess! I think Muscovites have the reputation of being the most steadfast believers,’ replied Oblonsky.

 

‘But, as far as I know, you unfortunately are one of the indifferent?’ Karenin remarked to him, with a weary smile.

 

‘How can one be indifferent?’ said Lydia Ivanovna.

 

‘I am in this respect not precisely indifferent, but rather expectant,’ said Oblonsky with his most mollifying smile. ‘I do not think that for me the time for those questions has yet come.’

 

Karenin and Lydia Ivanovna exchanged looks.

 

‘We never know whether our time has come or not,’ Karenin said sternly. ‘We should not consider whether we are ready or not; grace is not influenced by human calculations. Sometimes it does not descend on those who seek it, but descends on the unprepared, as on Saul.’

 

‘No, not yet, I think,’ said Lydia Ivanovna, who was watching the Frenchman’s movements. Landau rose and came up to them.

 

‘You will allow me to listen?’ he asked.

 

‘Oh yes! I did not wish to disturb you,’ said Lydia, looking tenderly at him. ‘Sit down beside us.’

 

‘Only one must not shut one’s eyes, so as to deprive oneself of light,’ Karenin continued.

 

‘Oh, if you only knew the happiness we experience, feeling His continual presence in our souls!’ cried the Countess Lydia Ivanovna with a beatific smile.

 

‘But one may sometimes feel incapable of ascending to such heights,’ remarked Oblonsky, conscious that he was not quite honest in acknowledging the existence of religious heights, yet not venturing to confess his scepticism in the presence of one who, by a single word to Pomorsky, might secure him the desired post.

 

‘You mean to say, he is prevented by sin?’ said Lydia Ivanovna. ‘But that is a false view. Sin does not exist for a believer; sin has already been atoned for. . . . Excuse me!’ she added, glancing at the footman who entered with another note. She read it, and answered by word of mouth: ‘Tell him, “To-morrow at the Grand Duchess’s.” . . . For those who believe, there is no sin,’ she went on.

 

‘Yes, but faith without works is dead,’ said Oblonsky, recalling that sentence from the catechism, and only by a smile maintaining his independence.

 

‘There it is, from the Epistle of St James,’ said Karenin, addressing Lydia Ivanovna in a somewhat reproachful tone. Evidently this was a point they had discussed more than once. ‘How much harm has been done by a false interpretation of that passage! Nothing turns so many from the faith as that interpretation, “I have no works, and therefore cannot have faith.” Yet it is not so said anywhere; just the contrary is said.’

 

‘To labour for God with works; to save one’s soul by fasting,’ said the Countess Lydia Ivanovna with fastidious disdain, ‘those are the barbarous opinions of our monks. . . . Yet it is not so said anywhere. It is much simpler and easier,’ she added, looking at Oblonsky with the same encouraging smile with which at Court she encouraged young Maids of Honour who were confused by their new surroundings.

 

‘We are saved by Christ, who suffered for us. We are saved by faith,’ Karenin chimed in, showing his approval of her remark by a look.

 

‘Vous comprenez l’anglais? [You understand English?]’ asked Lydia Ivanovna, and having received an affirmative answer she rose and began looking among the books on a shelf. ‘I want to read Safe and Happy, or, Under the Wing,’ she said with a questioning look at Karenin. And having found the book and sat down again, she opened it. ‘It is quite short. It describes the way to acquire faith, and the joy, higher than anything else on earth, with which it fills the soul. A believer cannot be unhappy, because he is not alone. But you will see . . .’ She was about to begin reading when the footman came in again. ‘Borozdina? Say “To-morrow at two.” . . . Yes,’ she went on, keeping her finger in the book to mark the place, and sighed, looking with her beautiful dreamy eyes straight before her. ‘This is how true faith acts. You know Mary Sanina? You have heard of her misfortune? She lost her only child. She was in despair. Well, and what happened? She found this Friend, and now she thanks God for her child’s death. That is the happiness faith gives!’

 

‘Oh yes, it is very . . .’ began Oblonsky, glad that she was going to read and give him time to get his ideas together. ‘No, evidently it will be better not to ask for anything tonight,’ he reflected; ‘only let me get away from here without making a mess of things!’

 

‘It will be dull for you,’ said the Countess Lydia Ivanovna, turning to Landau, ‘as you don’t understand English; but it is quite short.’

 

‘Oh, I shall understand,’ replied Landau with the same smile, and closed his eyes.

 

Karenin and Lydia Ivanovna exchanged significant looks, and the reading began.