【英語名著】安娜卡列寧娜34-聽名著學(xué)英語

SOUNDS of footsteps and a man’s voice, then that of a woman followed by laughter, reached them, and the expected visitors entered the room, Sappho Stolz and a young man, shining with a super-abundance of health, known as Vaska. It was evident that he flourished on underdone beef, truffles, and Burgundy. Vaska bowed to the ladies, only glancing at them for a second. He came into the drawing-room behind Sappho and followed her across the room as if he were tied to her, with his glittering eye fixed on her as if he were ready to eat her. Sappho Stolz had fair hair and black eyes. She entered with a short, brisk step, in shoes with high French heels, and shook hands with the ladies with a firm grip like a man.
Anna had never met this celebrity before, and was struck by her beauty, by the extravagant fashion of her costume, and by the boldness of her manners. On her head the delicate golden hair (her own and others’) was built up into such an erection that her head was as large as her shapely, well-developed and much-exposed bust. At each strenuous step as she advanced, the shape of her knees and thighs was distinctly visible under her dress, and one involuntarily wondered just where, behind, under her heaped and swaying bustle, the real, graceful little body ended which was so exposed at the top and so hidden at the back and below.
Betsy hastened to introduce her to Anna.
‘Just fancy! We nearly ran over two soldiers,’ she began at once, winking and smiling as she threw back her train which she had jerked too much to one side. ‘I was with Vaska. . . . Oh, but you are not acquainted!’ and she introduced the young man by his surname and burst into ringing laughter at her mistake in speaking of him as Vaska to a stranger. Vaska again bowed to Anna, but said nothing. He turned to Sappho: ‘You have lost the bet: we have arrived first. Pay up!’ he said smiling.
Sappho laughed still more merrily.
‘Surely not now!’ she said.
‘Never mind, I will have it later.’
‘All right! All right! Oh yes!’ she suddenly said, addressing her hostess. ‘I’m a nice one. I quite forgot . . . I have brought you a visitor! Here he is.’
The unexpected young visitor Sappho had brought with her and forgotten was nevertheless so important a personage that, in spite of his youth, both ladies rose to greet him.
He was Sappho’s new admirer, and followed at her heels just like Vaska.
Then the Prince Kaluzhsky arrived, and Lisa Merkalova with Stremov. Lisa Merkalova was a slight brunette with a lazy Oriental type of face and beautiful (everybody said unfathomable) eyes. The character of her dark costume, as Anna at once noticed and appreciated, was perfectly suited to her style of beauty.
Just to the same extent as Sappho was compact and spruce Lisa was limp and pliant.
But to Anna Lisa was by far the more attractive.
When Betsy had spoken to Anna about her, she had said that Lisa was playing the rôle of an ingenuous child; but when Anna saw her she knew that this was untrue. She was really ingenuous, and a perverted but a sweet and irresponsible woman. It is true she had adopted the same tone as Sappho, and, as in Sappho’s case, two admirers followed her as if tied to her and devoured her with their eyes; one a young and the other an old man; but in her there was something superior to her surroundings, — she had the radiance of a real diamond among false stones. This radiance shone out of her beautiful and really unfathomable eyes. The weary yet passionate look of those eyes, with the dark circles beneath them, was striking in its perfect sincerity.
Looking into those eyes every one felt as if they knew her perfectly, and knowing her could not help loving her. At the sight of Anna her whole face lit up with a joyful smile.
‘Oh, I am pleased to see you!’ she said, walking up to Anna.
‘Yesterday at the races I was just trying to get near you when you went away. I was so anxious to see you, yesterday especially. Was it not dreadful?’ and she gave Anna a look that seemed to reveal her whole soul.
‘Yes, I never thought it would be so exciting,’ replied Anna, blushing.
The company rose to go into the garden.
‘I won’t go,’ said Lisa, smiling and sitting down beside Anna. ‘You won’t either? Who wants to play croquet?’
‘I like it,’ said Anna.
‘Tell me, how do you manage not to feel bored? It cheers me to look at you. You are full of life, but I am bored.’
‘You bored? Why, yours is the gayest set in Petersburg,’ said Anna.
‘It may be that those who are not in our set are still more bored, but we — I at any rate — do not feel merry, but terribly, terribly bored.’
Sappho lit a cigarette and went out into the garden with the two young men. Betsy and Stremov stayed at the tea-table.
‘Bored!’ said Betsy. ‘Sappho said that they had a very jolly time at your house yesterday.’
‘Oh dear! It was so dull!’ said Lisa Merkalova. ‘We went back to my place after the races. Always the same people, the very same! Always the same goings on, the very same! We spent the whole evening lolling about on sofas. What was there jolly about it? Do tell me how you manage not to get bored?’ said she again to Anna. ‘One has only to look at you to see that you are a woman who may be happy or unhappy, but who is not dull. Teach me how you do it!’
‘I do not do anything,’ said Anna, blushing at these insistent questions.
‘That is the best way,’ Stremov joined in. Stremov was a man of about fifty, getting grey, but still fresh-looking, with a very plain though intelligent face full of character. Lisa Merkalova was his wife’s niece and he spent all his spare time with her. On meeting Anna Karenina he, like a clever man of the world, being Karenin’s enemy in the service, tried to be specially amiable to her, the wife of his foe.
‘Don’t do anything!’ he repeated with a smile. ‘That is the best way. I have always told you,’ he went on, turning to Lisa Merkalova, ‘that if one wishes not to be bored one must not expect to be bored, just as one must not be afraid of not falling asleep if one wishes to avoid sleeplessness. That is what Anna Arkadyevna says.’
‘I should have been pleased to have said it, for it is not only wise, but true,’ said Anna, smiling.
‘No, but tell me why one cannot fall asleep and cannot help being bored?’
‘To fall asleep one must have worked, and also to amuse oneself one must have worked.’
‘Why should I work when no one wants my work? And I can’t and won’t do it just for a pretence.’
‘You are incorrigible,’ said Stremov without looking at her, and again turned to Anna.
As he rarely met Anna he could not say anything to her except trivialities, but he said these trivialities, about her return from the country to Petersburg and of how fond the Countess Lydia Ivanovna was of her, in a way that expressed his whole-hearted desire to be agreeable to her, and to show her his respect and even more.
Tushkevich came in to say that everybody was waiting for the croquet players.
‘No, please don’t go!’ begged Lisa Merkalova when she heard that Anna was leaving. Stremov joined her in the entreaty.
‘The contrast will be too great,’ he remarked, ‘if you go to see the old Countess Vrede after leaving this company here. Besides, your visit will give her an opportunity to backbite, while here, on the contrary, you arouse the best feelings, quite opposed to backbiting.’
Anna hesitated for a moment. The flattering words of this clever man, the naïve, childish sympathy which Lisa Merkalova expressed to her, all these familiar Society surroundings made her feel so tranquil, while what was lying in wait for her was so hard, that for a moment she doubted whether to remain and put off the dread moment of explanation. But recalling what awaited her when alone at home if she took no decision, and remembering her action (the recollection of which was terrible) when she took hold of her hair with both hands, she took her leave and went away.

IN spite of his apparently reckless existence, Vronsky was a man who hated disorder. While quite young and still in the Cadet Corps he had experienced the humiliation of a refusal when, having got into debt, he had tried to borrow money, and since then he had never again allowed himself to get into such a position.
To keep things straight he was in the habit, some five or six times a year according to circumstances, of secluding himself and clearing up all his affairs. He called it having a clean up, or faire la lessive [doing the laundry]. The morning after the races he woke late, and without having a bath or shaving he put on a linen tunic and, spreading out before him his money, his accounts, and his bills and letters, he set to work.
When Petritsky — who knew that on such occasions Vronsky was often cross — on waking saw his friend at his writing-table, he dressed quietly and went out without disturbing him.
Every one, knowing intimately all the complexities of his own circumstances, involuntarily assumes that these complexities and the difficulty of clearing them up are peculiar to his own personal condition, and never thinks that others are surrounded by similar complexities. And so thought Vronsky. And not without some inward pride, nor without some justification, he reflected that any other man would long ago have got embroiled and been obliged to act badly if placed in a situation as difficult as his. But Vronsky felt that it was necessary for him to investigate his affairs just at that time in order to keep out of trouble.
He began by first attacking his money problems, as the easiest to deal with. Having noted down in his small handwriting on a piece of notepaper all he owed, he made up the account and found that it came to seventeen thousand and a few hundred roubles. Having struck out the odd hundreds in order to have a round sum, counted his money and looked over his bank-book, he found that he had 1800 roubles, and there was no prospect of receiving any more before the New Year. After reading over the list of his debts, he divided them into three classes, each of which he noted down separately. Under the first head came the debts that had to be paid at once, or the money for which had at any rate to be kept ready, so that they could be paid on demand without any delay. These debts came to about 4000 roubles: 1500 for a horse and 2500 he had incurred by standing security for his young comrade Venevsky, who in Vronsky’s presence had lost that sum to a card-sharper. Vronsky had wished to pay at the time — he had the money with him — but Venevsky and Yashvin insisted that they would pay, and would not permit Vronsky, who had not even been playing, to do so. This was all very fine, but Vronsky knew that in this dirty business, his share in which was simply a verbal guarantee for Venevsky, he must have the 2500 roubles ready to throw to the sharper, and then have no more to do with him. So that for the first part of his debt he must have 4000 roubles ready. Eight thousand roubles under the second heading were less important: they were owing chiefly for the use of the racecourse stables, to the oats and hay-dealer, to the Englishman, to the saddler and others. In respect of these debts it was necessary to pay out 2000 roubles, in order to be quite secure.
The remaining debts were owing to shops, hotels, and to his tailor, and there was no need to trouble about them. So he needed 6000 roubles for immediate use, and had only 1800 roubles ready money. To a man with an income of 100,000 roubles a year, as everybody said Vronsky had, it would seem that such debts could not cause any difficulty, but the fact was that he was far from having the 100,000 roubles. His father’s immense fortune, which alone brought in 200,000 a year, had not been divided between the brothers. When the elder brother, having a number of debts, married the Princess Varya Chirkova, the daughter of a penniless Decembrist [one of those officers and others who in December 1825 conspired to secure a Constitution for Russia on the accession of Nicholas I, some of whom were executed, others exiled to Siberia and their estates confiscated], Alexis gave up to his brother the income from his father’s fortune, stipulating for only 25,000 roubles a year for himself. At that time Alexis told his brother that this would suffice for him till he married, which in all probability he never would do. And his brother, commanding one of the most expensive regiments, and newly married, could not refuse this gift. Their mother, who had her own private fortune, allowed Alexis about 20,000 roubles a year in addition to the 25,000 agreed upon, and Alexis spent it all. Latterly his mother, having quarrelled with him about his connection with Anna and his departure from Moscow, had stopped his allowance. Consequently Vronsky, who was in the habit of spending 45,000 roubles a year, having this year received only 25,000, found himself in difficulties. He could not ask his mother to help him out of them. Her last letter in particular had irritated him, for it contained hints that she was willing to help him to gain success in Society and in the service, but not to help him live in a manner that scandalized all good Society. His mother’s wish to bribe him offended him to the bottom of his soul and increased his coldness toward her. Yet he could not go back on his generous promise, although, dimly foreseeing some eventualities of his connection with Anna, he felt that it had been too lightly given and that, even though unmarried, he might need the whole hundred thousand a year. But it was impossible to go back on it. He had only to remember his brother’s wife and how that dear, excellent Varya at every opportunity showed him that she remembered his generosity and appreciated it, to realize the impossibility of withdrawing what he had given. It was as impossible as to beat a woman, to steal, or to tell a lie. There was only one possible and necessary way out of it, on which Vronsky decided without a moment’s hesitation: to borrow ten thousand roubles from a money-lender, which he could easily do, to cut down his expenses, and to sell his racehorses. Having decided on this, he at once wrote a note to Rolandaki, who had more than once offered to buy his horses. Then he sent for the money-lender and the Englishman, and allotted what money he had among the different bills. Having finished this business he wrote a cold and abrupt reply to his mother. Then taking from his pocket-book three notes from Anna he re-read them, burnt them, and recalling a conversation he had had with her the evening before, fell into a reverie.

VRONSKY was particularly fortunate in that he had a code of rules which clearly defined what should and should not be done. This code covered a very small circle of conditions, but it was unquestionable, and Vronsky, never going beyond that circle, never for a moment hesitated to do what had to be done. The code categorically determined that though the card-sharper must be paid, the tailor need not be; that one may not lie to a man, but might to a woman; that one must not deceive anyone, except a husband; that one must not forgive an insult but may insult others, and so on. These rules might be irrational and bad but they were absolute, and in complying with them Vronsky felt at ease and could carry his head high. Only quite lately, in reference to his relations to Anna, had he begun to feel that his code did not quite meet all circumstances, and that the future presented doubts and difficulties for which he had no guiding principle.
His present relations to her and her husband were clear and simple to him. They were very clearly and exactly defined in the code of rules by which he was guided.
She was a respectable woman who had given him her love, and he loved her; therefore she was for him a woman worthy of as much or even more respect than a legitimate wife. He would have let his hand be cut off before he would have allowed himself by word or hint to insult her, or fail to show her all the respect that a woman can possibly desire.
His relations toward Society were also clear. Every one might know or suspect, but no one must dare to speak about the matter, or he was prepared to silence the speaker and make him respect the non-existent honour of the woman he loved.
His relations to her husband were simplest of all. From the moment that Anna gave him her love he considered his own right to her indefeasible. Her husband was only a superfluous person and a hindrance. No doubt he was in a pitiable position, but what was to be done? The only right the husband had was, weapon in hand, to demand satisfaction, and that Vronsky from the first was prepared to give him.
But latterly new inner relations had sprung up between himself and her, which frightened him by their indefiniteness. Only yesterday she had told him that she was pregnant, and he felt that this news and what she expected of him called for something that was not fully defined by his code of rules. He was taken by surprise, and at the moment when she told him of her condition his heart had suggested his proposal to her to leave her husband. He had made this proposal, but now, thinking it over, he saw clearly that it would be better to avoid that plan, and yet, while he told himself so, he feared that this might be wrong.
‘When I told her to leave her husband, that meant that she should unite herself with me. Am I ready for that? How can I take her away now that I have no money? No doubt I could arrange that . . . but how could I go away with her while I am in the army? Having proposed it, I must be ready to carry it out — that is to say I must find the money and leave the army.’
He pondered. The question of whether to leave or not to leave the army led him to another private matter — almost the chief, though the secret, interest of his life.
Ambition was the old motive of his childhood and youth, one which he did not acknowledge even to himself, but which was so strong a passion that it now struggled against his love. His first steps in Society and in the service had been successful, but two years ago he had made a bad blunder. Wishing to show his independence and to get promotion, he had refused a post that was offered him, hoping that this refusal would enhance his value, but it turned out that he had been too bold and he was passed over. Having then perforce to assume the rôle of an independent character, he played it very adroitly and cleverly, as though he had no grudge against anyone, did not feel himself at all offended, and only wished to be left in peace to enjoy himself. In reality he had begun to feel dissatisfied about the time that he went to Moscow the year before.
He felt that the rôle of the independent man, who could have anything but wanted nothing, was beginning to pall, and that many people were beginning to think he could never do anything more than be an honest, good-natured fellow. His intrigue with Anna Karenina, which had caused such a sensation and attracted so much notice in Society, by investing him with fresh glamour had for a while quieted the worm of ambition that gnawed him, but a week ago that worm had reawakened with fresh vigour.
A playmate of his childhood, and his fellow-pupil at the Cadet Corps, Serpukhovskoy, who belonged to the same social circle, and who had finished the same year as himself and had been his rival in the classroom, at gymnastics, in mischief and in ambitious dreams, had just returned from Central Asia, where he had gained two steps in official rank and had won a distinction rarely awarded to so young a General.
As soon as he reached Petersburg people began to talk about him as a rising star of the first magnitude. Of the same age as Vronsky, and his messmate, Serpukhovskoy was already a General expecting an appointment that might have an influence on State affairs; while Vronsky, though independent and brilliant and beloved by an enchanting woman, remained only a Cavalry Captain and was allowed to be as independent as he pleased. ‘Of course I am not jealous and could not be jealous of Serpukhovskoy, but his promotion shows me that if one bides one’s time the career of such a man as myself may be very quickly made. Three years ago he and I were in the same position. If I retire I burn my boats. By remaining in the service I lose nothing. She herself said that she did not want to change her position; and I, having her love, cannot envy Serpukhovskoy.’ And slowly twisting his moustache he rose from the table and walked across the room. His eyes shone with peculiar brightness and he felt, that firm, calm, and joyful mood which always came when he had cleared up the situation. Everything was clear and distinct, as after his former periodical stocktakings. He shaved, had a cold bath, dressed, and went out.