网站首页 (Homepage)                       欢   迎   访   问  谢  国  芳 (Roy  Xie) 的  个  人  主  页                    返回 (Return)
Welcome to Roy  Xie's Homepage                   

  外语解密学习法 逆读法(Reverse Reading Method)   解读法(Decode-Reading Method)训练范文 ——                 

解密目标语言:英语                                  解密辅助语言:汉语
               Language to be decoded:  English              Auxiliary Language :  Chinese  

解密文本:     《安娜 · 卡列尼娜》  (俄)列夫 · 托尔斯泰  著         
Анна Каренина
автор Лев Толстой


Anna Karenina
by    Leo Tolstoy

   Part 1 · Part 2 · Part 3 · Part 4 · Part 5 · Part 6 · Part 7 · Part 8

 只看俄语(Russian Only)     只看英语(English Only)     只看汉语(Chinese Only)     英汉对照(English & Chinese)       俄汉对照(Russian & Chinese)        俄英对照(Russian & English)   



Part One

  Chapter 1

  Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

 Everything was in confusion in the Oblonskys' house. The wife had discovered that the husband was carrying on an intrigue with a French girl, who had been a governess in their family, and she had announced to her husband that she could not go on living in the same house with him. This position of affairs had now lasted three days, and not only the husband and wife themselves, but all the members of their family and household, were painfully conscious of it. Every person in the house felt that there was no sense in their living together, and that the stray people brought together by chance in any inn had more in common with one another than they, the members of the family and household of the Oblonskys. The wife did not leave her own room, the husband had not been at home for three days. The children ran wild all over the house; the English governess quarreled with the housekeeper, and wrote to a friend asking her to look out for a new situation for her; the man-cook had walked off the day before just at dinner time; the kitchen-maid, and the coachman had given warning.

 Three days after the quarrel, Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch Oblonsky--Stiva, as he was called in the fashionable world-- woke up at his usual hour, that is, at eight o'clock in the morning, not in his wife's bedroom, but on the leather-covered sofa in his study. He turned over his stout, well-cared-for person on the springy sofa, as though he would sink into a long sleep again; he vigorously embraced the pillow on the other side and buried his face in it; but all at once he jumped up, sat up on the sofa, and opened his eyes.

 "Yes, yes, how was it now?" he thought, going over his dream. "Now, how was it? To be sure! Alabin was giving a dinner at Darmstadt; no, not Darmstadt, but something American. Yes, but then, Darmstadt was in America. Yes, Alabin was giving a dinner on glass tables, and the tables sang, _Il mio tesoro_--not _Il mio tesoro_ though, but something better, and there were some sort of little decanters on the table, and they were women, too," he remembered.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes twinkled gaily, and he pondered with a smile. "Yes, it was nice, very nice. There was a great deal more that was delightful, only there's no putting it into words, or even expressing it in one's thoughts awake." And noticing a gleam of light peeping in beside one of the serge curtains, he cheerfully dropped his feet over the edge of the sofa, and felt about with them for his slippers, a present on his last birthday, worked for him by his wife on gold-colored morocco. And, as he had done every day for the last nine years, he stretched out his hand, without getting up, towards the place where his dressing-gown always hung in his bedroom. And thereupon he suddenly remembered that he was not sleeping in his wife's room, but in his study, and why: the smile vanished from his face, he knitted his brows.

 "Ah, ah, ah!  Oo!..." he muttered, recalling everything that had happened. And again every detail of his quarrel with his wife was present to his imagination, all the hopelessness of his position, and worst of all, his own fault.

 "Yes, she won't forgive me, and she can't forgive me. And the most awful thing about it is that it's all my fault--all my fault, though I'm not to blame. That's the point of the whole situation," he reflected.   "Oh, oh, oh!" he kept repeating in despair, as he remembered the acutely painful sensations caused him by this quarrel.

 Most unpleasant of all was the first minute when, on coming, happy and good-humored, from the theater, with a huge pear in his hand for his wife, he had not found his wife in the drawing-room, to his surprise had not found her in the study either, and saw her at last in her bedroom with the unlucky letter that revealed everything in her hand.

 She, his Dolly, forever fussing and worrying over household details, and limited in her ideas, as he considered, was sitting perfectly still with the letter in her hand, looking at him with an expression of horror, despair, and indignation.

 "What's this? this?" she asked, pointing to the letter.

 And at this recollection, Stepan Arkadyevitch, as is so often the case, was not so much annoyed at the fact itself as at the way in which he had met his wife's words.

 There happened to him at that instant what does happen to people when they are unexpectedly caught in something very disgraceful. He did not succeed in adapting his face to the position in which he was placed towards his wife by the discovery of his fault. Instead of being hurt, denying, defending himself, begging forgiveness, instead of remaining indifferent even--anything would have been better than what he did do--his face utterly involuntarily (reflex spinal action, reflected Stepan Arkadyevitch, who was fond of physiology)--utterly involuntarily assumed its habitual, good-humored, and therefore idiotic smile.

 This idiotic smile he could not forgive himself. Catching sight of that smile, Dolly shuddered as though at physical pain, broke out with her characteristic heat into a flood of cruel words, and rushed out of the room. Since then she had refused to see her husband.

 "It's that idiotic smile that's to blame for it all," thought Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 "But what's to be done? What's to be done?" he said to himself in despair, and found no answer.


 Chapter 2

  Stepan Arkadyevitch was a truthful man in his relations with himself. He was incapable of deceiving himself and persuading himself that he repented of his conduct. He could not at this date repent of the fact that he, a handsome, susceptible man of thirty-four, was not in love with his wife, the mother of five living and two dead children, and only a year younger than himself. All he repented of was that he had not succeeded better in hiding it from his wife. But he felt all the difficulty of his position and was sorry for his wife, his children, and himself. Possibly he might have managed to conceal his sins better from his wife if he had anticipated that the knowledge of them would have had such an effect on her. He had never clearly thought out the subject, but he had vaguely conceived that his wife must long ago have suspected him of being unfaithful to her, and shut her eyes to the fact. He had even supposed that she, a worn-out woman no longer young or good-looking, and in no way remarkable or interesting, merely a good mother, ought from a sense of fairness to take an indulgent view. It had turned out quite the other way.

 "Oh, it's awful! oh dear, oh dear! awful!" Stepan Arkadyevitch kept repeating to himself, and he could think of nothing to be done. "And how well things were going up till now! how well we got on!  She was contented and happy in her children; I never interfered with her in anything; I let her manage the children and the house just as she liked. It's true it's bad _her_ having been a governess in our house. That's bad!  There's something common, vulgar, in flirting with one's governess. But what a governess!"  (He vividly recalled the roguish black eyes of Mlle. Roland and her smile.)  "But after all, while she was in the house, I kept myself in hand. And the worst of it all is that she's seems as if ill-luck would have it so!  Oh, oh! But what, what is to be done?"

 There was no solution, but that universal solution which life gives to all questions, even the most complex and insoluble. That answer is: one must live in the needs of the day--that is, forget oneself. To forget himself in sleep was impossible now, at least till nighttime; he could not go back now to the music sung by the decanter-women; so he must forget himself in the dream of daily life.

 "Then we shall see," Stepan Arkadyevitch said to himself, and getting up he put on a gray dressing-gown lined with blue silk, tied the tassels in a knot, and, drawing a deep breath of air into his broad, bare chest, he walked to the window with his usual confident step, turning out his feet that carried his full frame so easily. He pulled up the blind and rang the bell loudly. It was at once answered by the appearance of an old friend, his valet, Matvey, carrying his clothes, his boots, and a telegram. Matvey was followed by the barber with all the necessaries for shaving.

 "Are there any papers from the office?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, taking the telegram and seating himself at the looking-glass.

 "On the table," replied Matvey, glancing with inquiring sympathy at his master; and, after a short pause, he added with a sly smile, "They've sent from the carriage-jobbers."

 Stepan Arkadyevitch made no reply, he merely glanced at Matvey in the looking-glass. In the glance, in which their eyes met in the looking-glass, it was clear that they understood one another. Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes asked: "Why do you tell me that? don't you know?"

 Matvey put his hands in his jacket pockets, thrust out one leg, and gazed silently, good-humoredly, with a faint smile, at his master.

 "I told them to come on Sunday, and till then not to trouble you or themselves for nothing," he said. He had obviously prepared the sentence beforehand.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch saw Matvey wanted to make a joke and attract attention to himself. Tearing open the telegram, he read it through, guessing at the words, misspelt as they always are in telegrams, and his face brightened.

 "Matvey, my sister Anna Arkadyevna will be here tomorrow," he said, checking for a minute the sleek, plump hand of the barber, cutting a pink path through his long, curly whiskers.

 "Thank God!" said Matvey, showing by this response that he, like his master, realized the significance of this arrival--that is, that Anna Arkadyevna, the sister he was so fond of, might bring about a reconciliation between husband and wife.

 "Alone, or with her husband?" inquired Matvey.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch could not answer, as the barber was at work on his upper lip, and he raised one finger. Matvey nodded at the looking-glass.

 "Alone. Is the room to be got ready upstairs?"

 "Inform Darya Alexandrovna: where she orders."

 "Darya Alexandrovna?" Matvey repeated, as though in doubt.

 "Yes, inform her. Here, take the telegram; give it to her, and then do what she tells you."

 "You want to try it on," Matvey understood, but he only said, "Yes sir."

 Stepan Arkadyevitch was already washed and combed and ready to be dressed, when Matvey, stepping deliberately in his creaky boots, came back into the room with the telegram in his hand. The barber had gone.

 "Darya Alexandrovna told me to inform you that she is going away. Let him do--that is you--do as he likes," he said, laughing only with his eyes, and putting his hands in his pockets, he watched his master with his head on one side. Stepan Arkadyevitch was silent a minute. Then a good-humored and rather pitiful smile showed itself on his handsome face.

 "Eh, Matvey?" he said, shaking his head.

 "It's all right, sir; she will come round," said Matvey.

 "Come round?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Do you think so? Who's there?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, hearing the rustle of a woman's dress at the door.

 "It's I," said a firm, pleasant, woman's voice, and the stern, pockmarked face of Matrona Philimonovna, the nurse, was thrust in at the doorway.

 "Well, what is it, Matrona?" queried Stepan Arkadyevitch, going up to her at the door.

 Although Stepan Arkadyevitch was completely in the wrong as regards his wife, and was conscious of this himself, almost every one in the house (even the nurse, Darya Alexandrovna's chief ally) was on his side.

 "Well, what now?" he asked disconsolately.

 "Go to her, sir; own your fault again. Maybe God will aid you. She is suffering so, it's sad to see her; and besides, everything in the house is topsy-turvy. You must have pity, sir, on the children. Beg her forgiveness, sir. There's no help for it! One must take the consequences..."

 "But she won't see me."

 "You do your part. God is merciful; pray to God, sir, pray to God."

 "Come, that'll do, you can go," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, blushing suddenly. "Well now, do dress me." He turned to Matvey and threw off his dressing-gown decisively.

 Matvey was already holding up the shirt like a horse's collar, and, blowing off some invisible speck, he slipped it with obvious pleasure over the well-groomed body of his master.


 Chapter 3

  When he was dressed, Stepan Arkadyevitch sprinkled some scent on himself, pulled down his shirt-cuffs, distributed into his pockets his cigarettes, pocketbook, matches, and watch with its double chain and seals, and shaking out his handkerchief, feeling himself clean, fragrant, healthy, and physically at ease, in spite of his unhappiness, he walked with a slight swing on each leg into the dining-room, where coffee was already waiting for him, and beside the coffee, letters and papers from the office.

 He read the letters. One was very unpleasant, from a merchant who was buying a forest on his wife's property. To sell this forest was absolutely essential; but at present, until he was reconciled with his wife, the subject could not be discussed. The most unpleasant thing of all was that his pecuniary interests should in this way enter into the question of his reconciliation with his wife. And the idea that he might be led on by his interests, that he might seek a reconciliation with his wife on account of the sale of the forest--that idea hurt him.

 When he had finished his letters, Stepan Arkadyevitch moved the office-papers close to him, rapidly looked through two pieces of business, made a few notes with a big pencil, and pushing away the papers, turned to his coffee. As he sipped his coffee, he opened a still damp morning paper, and began reading it.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch took in and read a liberal paper, not an extreme one, but one advocating the views held by the majority. And in spite of the fact that science, art, and politics had no special interest for him, he firmly held those views on all these subjects which were held by the majority and by his paper, and he only changed them when the majority changed them--or, more strictly speaking, he did not change them, but they imperceptibly changed of themselves within him.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch had not chosen his political opinions or his views; these political opinions and views had come to him of themselves, just as he did not choose the shapes of his hat and coat, but simply took those that were being worn. And for him, living in a certain society--owing to the need, ordinarily developed at years of discretion, for some degree of mental activity--to have views was just as indispensable as to have a hat. If there was a reason for his preferring liberal to conservative views, which were held also by many of his circle, it arose not from his considering liberalism more rational, but from its being in closer accordance with his manner of life. The liberal party said that in Russia everything is wrong, and certainly Stepan Arkadyevitch had many debts and was decidedly short of money. The liberal party said that marriage is an institution quite out of date, and that it needs reconstruction; and family life certainly afforded Stepan Arkadyevitch little gratification, and forced him into lying and hypocrisy, which was so repulsive to his nature. The liberal party said, or rather allowed it to be understood, that religion is only a curb to keep in check the barbarous classes of the people; and Stepan Arkadyevitch could not get through even a short service without his legs aching from standing up, and could never make out what was the object of all the terrible and high-flown language about another world when life might be so very amusing in this world. And with all this, Stepan Arkadyevitch, who liked a joke, was fond of puzzling a plain man by saying that if he prided himself on his origin, he ought not to stop at Rurik and disown the first founder of his family--the monkey. And so Liberalism had become a habit of Stepan Arkadyevitch's, and he liked his newspaper, as he did his cigar after dinner, for the slight fog it diffused in his brain. He read the leading article, in which it was maintained that it was quite senseless in our day to raise an outcry that radicalism was threatening to swallow up all conservative elements, and that the government ought to take measures to crush the revolutionary hydra; that, on the contrary, "in our opinion the danger lies not in that fantastic revolutionary hydra, but in the obstinacy of traditionalism clogging progress," etc., etc. He read another article, too, a financial one, which alluded to Bentham and Mill, and dropped some innuendoes reflecting on the ministry. With his characteristic quickwittedness he caught the drift of each innuendo, divined whence it came, at whom and on what ground it was aimed, and that afforded him, as it always did, a certain satisfaction. But today that satisfaction was embittered by Matrona Philimonovna's advice and the unsatisfactory state of the household. He read, too, that Count Beist was rumored to have left for Wiesbaden, and that one need have no more gray hair, and of the sale of a light carriage, and of a young person seeking a situation; but these items of information did not give him, as usual, a quiet, ironical gratification. Having finished the paper, a second cup of coffee and a roll and butter, he got up, shaking the crumbs of the roll off his waistcoat; and, squaring his broad chest, he smiled joyously:  not because there was anything particularly agreeable in his mind--the joyous smile was evoked by a good digestion.

 But this joyous smile at once recalled everything to him, and he grew thoughtful.

 Two childish voices (Stepan Arkadyevitch recognized the voices of Grisha, his youngest boy, and Tanya, his eldest girl) were heard outside the door. They were carrying something, and dropped it.

 "I told you not to sit passengers on the roof," said the little girl in English; "there, pick them up!"

 "Everything's in confusion," thought Stepan Arkadyevitch; "there are the children running about by themselves." And going to the door, he called them. They threw down the box, that represented a train, and came in to their father.

 The little girl, her father's favorite, ran up boldly, embraced him, and hung laughingly on his neck, enjoying as she always did the smell of scent that came from his whiskers. At last the little girl kissed his face, which was flushed from his stooping posture and beaming with tenderness, loosed her hands, and was about to run away again; but her father held her back.

 "How is mamma?" he asked, passing his hand over his daughter's smooth, soft little neck. "Good morning," he said, smiling to the boy, who had come up to greet him. He was conscious that he loved the boy less, and always tried to be fair; but the boy felt it, and did not respond with a smile to his father's chilly smile.

 "Mamma?  She is up," answered the girl.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed. "That means that she's not slept again all night," he thought.

 "Well, is she cheerful?"

 The little girl knew that there was a quarrel between her father and mother, and that her mother could not be cheerful, and that her father must be aware of this, and that he was pretending when he asked about it so lightly. And she blushed for her father. He at once perceived it, and blushed too.

 "I don't know," she said. "She did not say we must do our lessons, but she said we were to go for a walk with Miss Hoole to grandmamma's."

 "Well, go, Tanya, my darling. Oh, wait a minute, though," he said, still holding her and stroking her soft little hand.

 He took off the mantelpiece, where he had put it yesterday, a little box of sweets, and gave her two, picking out her favorites, a chocolate and a fondant.

 "For Grisha?" said the little girl, pointing to the chocolate.

 "Yes, yes." And still stroking her little shoulder, he kissed her on the roots of her hair and neck, and let her go.

 "The carriage is ready," said Matvey; "but there's some one to see you with a petition."

 "Been here long?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 "Half an hour."

 "How many times have I told you to tell me at once?"

 "One must let you drink your coffee in peace, at least," said Matvey, in the affectionately gruff tone with which it was impossible to be angry.

 "Well, show the person up at once," said Oblonsky, frowning with vexation.

 The petitioner, the widow of a staff captain Kalinin, came with a request impossible and unreasonable; but Stepan Arkadyevitch, as he generally did, made her sit down, heard her to the end attentively without interrupting her, and gave her detailed advice as to how and to whom to apply, and even wrote her, in his large, sprawling, good and legible hand, a confident and fluent little note to a personage who might be of use to her. Having got rid of the staff captain's widow, Stepan Arkadyevitch took his hat and stopped to recollect whether he had forgotten anything. It appeared that he had forgotten nothing except what he wanted to forget--his wife.

 "Ah, yes!"  He bowed his head, and his handsome face assumed a harassed expression. "To go, or not to go!" he said to himself; and an inner voice told him he must not go, that nothing could come of it but falsity; that to amend, to set right their relations was impossible, because it was impossible to make her attractive again and able to inspire love, or to make him an old man, not susceptible to love. Except deceit and lying nothing could come of it now; and deceit and lying were opposed to his nature.

 "It must be some time, though:  it can't go on like this," he said, trying to give himself courage. He squared his chest, took out a cigarette, took two whiffs at it, flung it into a mother-of-pearl ashtray, and with rapid steps walked through the drawing room, and opened the other door into his wife's bedroom.


 Chapter 4

  Darya Alexandrovna, in a dressing jacket, and with her now scanty, once luxuriant and beautiful hair fastened up with hairpins on the nape of her neck, with a sunken, thin face and large, startled eyes, which looked prominent from the thinness of her face, was standing among a litter of all sorts of things scattered all over the room, before an open bureau, from which she was taking something. Hearing her husband's steps, she stopped, looking towards the door, and trying assiduously to give her features a severe and contemptuous expression. She felt she was afraid of him, and afraid of the coming interview. She was just attempting to do what she had attempted to do ten times already in these last three days--to sort out the children's things and her own, so as to take them to her mother's--and again she could not bring herself to do this; but now again, as each time before, she kept saying to herself, "that things cannot go on like this, that she must take some step" to punish him, put him to shame, avenge on him some little part at least of the suffering he had caused her. She still continued to tell herself that she should leave him, but she was conscious that this was impossible; it was impossible because she could not get out of the habit of regarding him as her husband and loving him. Besides this, she realized that if even here in her own house she could hardly manage to look after her five children properly, they would be still worse off where she was going with them all. As it was, even in the course of these three days, the youngest was unwell from being given unwholesome soup, and the others had almost gone without their dinner the day before. She was conscious that it was impossible to go away; but, cheating herself, she went on all the same sorting out her things and pretending she was going.

 Seeing her husband, she dropped her hands into the drawer of the bureau as though looking for something, and only looked round at him when he had come quite up to her. But her face, to which she tried to give a severe and resolute expression, betrayed bewilderment and suffering.

 "Dolly!" he said in a subdued and timid voice. He bent his head towards his shoulder and tried to look pitiful and humble, but for all that he was radiant with freshness and health.   In a rapid glance she scanned his figure that beamed with health and freshness. "Yes, he is happy and content!" she thought; "while I.... And that disgusting good nature, which every one likes him for and praises--I hate that good nature of his," she thought. Her mouth stiffened, the muscles of the cheek contracted on the right side of her pale, nervous face.

 "What do you want?" she said in a rapid, deep, unnatural voice.

 "Dolly!" he repeated, with a quiver in his voice. "Anna is coming today."

 "Well, what is that to me?  I can't see her!" she cried.

 "But you must, really, Dolly..."

 "Go away, go away, go away!" she shrieked, not looking at him, as though this shriek were called up by physical pain.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch could be calm when he thought of his wife, he could hope that she would _come round_, as Matvey expressed it, and could quietly go on reading his paper and drinking his coffee; but when he saw her tortured, suffering face, heard the tone of her voice, submissive to fate and full of despair, there was a catch in his breath and a lump in his throat, and his eyes began to shine with tears.

 "My God! what have I done? Dolly!  For God's sake!.... You know...."  He could not go on; there was a sob in his throat.

 She shut the bureau with a slam, and glanced at him.

 "Dolly, what can I say?.... One thing: forgive...Remember, cannot nine years of my life atone for an instant...."

 She dropped her eyes and listened, expecting what he would say, as it were beseeching him in some way or other to make her believe differently.

 "--instant of passion?" he said, and would have gone on, but at that word, as at a pang of physical pain, her lips stiffened again, and again the muscles of her right cheek worked.

 "Go away, go out of the room!" she shrieked still more shrilly, "and don't talk to me of your passion and your loathsomeness."

 She tried to go out, but tottered, and clung to the back of a chair to support herself. His face relaxed, his lips swelled, his eyes were swimming with tears.

 "Dolly!" he said, sobbing now; "for mercy's sake, think of the children; they are not to blame!  I am to blame, and punish me, make me expiate my fault. Anything I can do, I am ready to do anything!  I am to blame, no words can express how much I am to blame!  But, Dolly, forgive me!"

 She sat down. He listened to her hard, heavy breathing, and he was unutterably sorry for her. She tried several times to begin to speak, but could not. He waited.

 "You remember the children, Stiva, to play with them; but I remember them, and know that this means their ruin," she said--obviously one of the phrases she had more than once repeated to herself in the course of the last few days.

 She had called him "Stiva," and he glanced at her with gratitude, and moved to take her hand, but she drew back from him with aversion.

 "I think of the children, and for that reason I would do anything in the world to save them, but I don't myself know how to save them. By taking them away from their father, or by leaving them with a vicious father--yes, a vicious father.... Tell me, after what...has happened, can we live together?  Is that possible? Tell me, eh, is it possible?" she repeated, raising her voice, "after my husband, the father of my children, enters into a love affair with his own children's governess?"

 "But what could I do? what could I do?" he kept saying in a pitiful voice, not knowing what he was saying, as his head sank lower and lower.

 "You are loathsome to me, repulsive!" she shrieked, getting more and more heated. "Your tears mean nothing!  You have never loved me; you have neither heart nor honorable feeling! You are hateful to me, disgusting, a stranger--yes, a complete stranger!"  With pain and wrath she uttered the word so terrible to herself--_stranger_.

 He looked at her, and the fury expressed in her face alarmed and amazed him. He did not understand how his pity for her exasperated her. She saw in him sympathy for her, but not love. "No, she hates me. She will not forgive me," he thought.

 "It is awful! awful!" he said.

 At that moment in the next room a child began to cry; probably it had fallen down. Darya Alexandrovna listened, and her face suddenly softened.

 She seemed to be pulling herself together for a few seconds, as though she did not know where she was, and what she was doing, and getting up rapidly, she moved towards the door.

 "Well, she loves my child," he thought, noticing the change of her face at the child's cry, "my child: how can she hate me?"

 "Dolly, one word more," he said, following her.

 "If you come near me, I will call in the servants, the children! They may all know you are a scoundrel!  I am going away at once, and you may live here with your mistress!"

 And she went out, slamming the door.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed, wiped his face, and with a subdued tread walked out of the room. "Matvey says she will come round; but how?  I don't see the least chance of it. Ah, oh, how horrible it is!  And how vulgarly she shouted," he said to himself, remembering her shriek and the words--"scoundrel" and "mistress."  "And very likely the maids were listening!  Horribly vulgar! horrible!"  Stepan Arkadyevitch stood a few seconds alone, wiped his face, squared his chest, and walked out of the room.

 It was Friday, and in the dining room the German watchmaker was winding up the clock. Stepan Arkadyevitch remembered his joke about this punctual, bald watchmaker, "that the German was wound up for a whole lifetime himself, to wind up watches," and he smiled. Stepan Arkadyevitch was fond of a joke: "And maybe she will come round!  That's a good expression, '_come round,_'" he thought. "I must repeat that."

 "Matvey!"  he shouted. "Arrange everything with Darya in the sitting room for Anna Arkadyevna," he said to Matvey when he came in.

 "Yes, sir."

 Stepan Arkadyevitch put on his fur coat and went out onto the steps.

 "You won't dine at home?" said Matvey, seeing him off.

 "That's as it happens. But here's for the housekeeping," he said, taking ten roubles from his pocketbook. "That'll be enough."

 "Enough or not enough, we must make it do," said Matvey, slamming the carriage door and stepping back onto the steps.

 Darya Alexandrovna meanwhile having pacified the child, and knowing from the sound of the carriage that he had gone off, went back again to her bedroom. It was her solitary refuge from the household cares which crowded upon her directly she went out from it. Even now, in the short time she had been in the nursery, the English governess and Matrona Philimonovna had succeeded in putting several questions to her, which did not admit of delay, and which only she could answer: "What were the children to put on for their walk?  Should they have any milk?  Should not a new cook be sent for?"

 "Ah, let me alone, let me alone!" she said, and going back to her bedroom she sat down in the same place as she had sat when talking to her husband, clasping tightly her thin hands with the rings that slipped down on her bony fingers, and fell to going over in her memory all the conversation. "He has gone!  But has he broken it off with her?" she thought. "Can it be he sees her? Why didn't I ask him!  No, no, reconciliation is impossible. Even if we remain in the same house, we are strangers--strangers forever!"  She repeated again with special significance the word so dreadful to her. "And how I loved him! my God, how I loved him!.... How I loved him!  And now don't I love him?  Don't I love him more than before?  The most horrible thing is," she began, but did not finish her thought, because Matrona Philimonovna put her head in at the door.

 "Let us send for my brother," she said; "he can get a dinner anyway, or we shall have the children getting nothing to eat till six again, like yesterday."

 "Very well, I will come directly and see about it. But did you send for some new milk?"

 And Darya Alexandrovna plunged into the duties of the day, and drowned her grief in them for a time.


 Chapter 5

  Stepan Arkadyevitch had learned easily at school, thanks to his excellent abilities, but he had been idle and mischievous, and therefore was one of the lowest in his class. But in spite of his habitually dissipated mode of life, his inferior grade in the service, and his comparative youth, he occupied the honorable and lucrative position of president of one of the government boards at Moscow. This post he had received through his sister Anna's husband, Alexey Alexandrovitch Karenin, who held one of the most important positions in the ministry to whose department the Moscow office belonged. But if Karenin had not got his brother- in-law this berth, then through a hundred other personages-- brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, and aunts--Stiva Oblonsky would have received this post, or some other similar one, together with the salary of six thousand absolutely needful for him, as his affairs, in spite of his wife's considerable property, were in an embarrassed condition.

 Half Moscow and Petersburg were friends and relations of Stepan Arkadyevitch. He was born in the midst of those who had been and are the powerful ones of this world. One-third of the men in the government, the older men, had been friends of his father's, and had known him in petticoats; another third were his intimate chums, and the remainder were friendly acquaintances. Consequently the distributors of earthly blessings in the shape of places, rents, shares, and such, were all his friends, and could not overlook one of their own set; and Oblonsky had no need to make any special exertion to get a lucrative post. He had only not to refuse things, not to show jealousy, not to be quarrelsome or take offense, all of which from his characteristic good nature he never did. It would have struck him as absurd if he had been told that he would not get a position with the salary he required, especially as he expected nothing out of the way; he only wanted what the men of his own age and standing did get, and he was no worse qualified for performing duties of the kind than any other man.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch was not merely liked by all who knew him for his good humor, but for his bright disposition, and his unquestionable honesty. In him, in his handsome, radiant figure, his sparkling eyes, black hair and eyebrows, and the white and red of his face, there was something which produced a physical effect of kindliness and good humor on the people who met him. "Aha! Stiva! Oblonsky! Here he is!" was almost always said with a smile of delight on meeting him. Even though it happened at times that after a conversation with him it seemed that nothing particularly delightful had happened, the next day, and the next, every one was just as delighted at meeting him again.

 After filling for three years the post of president of one of the government boards at Moscow, Stepan Arkadyevitch had won the respect, as well as the liking, of his fellow-officials, subordinates, and superiors, and all who had had business with him. The principal qualities in Stepan Arkadyevitch which had gained him this universal respect in the service consisted, in the first place, of his extreme indulgence for others, founded on a consciousness of his own shortcomings; secondly, of his perfect liberalism--not the liberalism he read of in the papers, but the liberalism that was in his blood, in virtue of which he treated all men perfectly equally and exactly the same, whatever their fortune or calling might be; and thirdly--the most important point--his complete indifference to the business in which he was engaged, in consequence of which he was never carried away, and never made mistakes.

 On reaching the offices of the board, Stepan Arkadyevitch, escorted by a deferential porter with a portfolio, went into his little private room, put on his uniform, and went into the boardroom. The clerks and copyists all rose, greeting him with good-humored deference. Stepan Arkadyevitch moved quickly, as ever, to his place, shook hands with his colleagues, and sat down. He made a joke or two, and talked just as much as was consistent with due decorum, and began work. No one knew better than Stepan Arkadyevitch how to hit on the exact line between freedom, simplicity, and official stiffness necessary for the agreeable conduct of business. A secretary, with the good-humored deference common to every one in Stepan Arkadyevitch's office, came up with papers, and began to speak in the familiar and easy tone which had been introduced by Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 "We have succeeded in getting the information from the government department of Penza. Here, would you care?...."

 "You've got them at last?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laying his finger on the paper. "Now, gentlemen...."

 And the sitting of the board began.

 "If they knew," he thought, bending his head with a significant air as he listened to the report, "what a guilty little boy their president was half an hour ago."  And his eyes were laughing during the reading of the report. Till two o'clock the sitting would go on without a break, and at two o'clock there would be an interval and luncheon.

 It was not yet two, when the large glass doors of the boardroom suddenly opened and someone came in.

 All the officials sitting on the further side under the portrait of the Tsar and the eagle, delighted at any distraction, looked round at the door; but the doorkeeper standing at the door at once drove out the intruder, and closed the glass door after him.

 When the case had been read through, Stepan Arkadyevitch got up and stretched, and by way of tribute to the liberalism of the times took out a cigarette in the boardroom and went into his private room. Two of the members of the board, the old veteran in the service, Nikitin, and the _Kammerjunker Grinevitch_, went in with him.

 "We shall have time to finish after lunch," said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 "To be sure we shall!" said Nikitin.

 "A pretty sharp fellow this Fomin must be," said Grinevitch of one of the persons taking part in the case they were examining.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch frowned at Grinevitch's words, giving him thereby to understand that it was improper to pass judgment prematurely, and made him no reply.

 "Who was that came in?" he asked the doorkeeper.

 "Someone, your excellency, crept in without permission directly my back was turned. He was asking for you. I told him: when the members come out, then..."

 "Where is he?"

 "Maybe he's gone into the passage, but here he comes anyway. That is he," said the doorkeeper, pointing to a strongly built, broad-shouldered man with a curly beard, who, without taking off his sheepskin cap, was running lightly and rapidly up the worn steps of the stone staircase. One of the members going down--a lean official with a portfolio--stood out of his way and looked disapprovingly at the legs of the stranger, then glanced inquiringly at Oblonsky.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch was standing at the top of the stairs. His good-naturedly beaming face above the embroidered collar of his uniform beamed more than ever when he recognized the man coming up.

 "Why, it's actually you, Levin, at last!" he said with a friendly mocking smile, scanning Levin as he approached. "How is it you have deigned to look me up in this den?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, and not content with shaking hands, he kissed his friend. "Have you been here long?"

 "I have just come, and very much wanted to see you," said Levin, looking shyly and at the same time angrily and uneasily around.

 "Well, let's go into my room," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who knew his friend's sensitive and irritable shyness, and, taking his arm, he drew him along, as though guiding him through dangers.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch was on familiar terms with almost all his acquaintances, and called almost all of them by their Christian names: old men of sixty, boys of twenty, actors, ministers, merchants, and adjutant-generals, so that many of his intimate chums were to be found at the extreme ends of the social ladder, and would have been very much surprised to learn that they had, through the medium of Oblonsky, something in common. He was the familiar friend of everyone with whom he took a glass of champagne, and he took a glass of champagne with everyone, and when in consequence he met any of his disreputable chums, as he used in joke to call many of his friends, in the presence of his subordinates, he well knew how, with his characteristic tact, to diminish the disagreeable impression made on them. Levin was not a disreputable chum, but Oblonsky, with his ready tact, felt that Levin fancied he might not care to show his intimacy with him before his subordinates, and so he made haste to take him off into his room.

 Levin was almost of the same age as Oblonsky; their intimacy did not rest merely on champagne. Levin had been the friend and companion of his early youth. They were fond of one another in spite of the difference of their characters and tastes, as friends are fond of one another who have been together in early youth. But in spite of this, each of them--as is often the way with men who have selected careers of different kinds--though in discussion he would even justify the other's career, in his heart despised it. It seemed to each of them that the life he led himself was the only real life, and the life led by his friend was a mere phantasm. Oblonsky could not restrain a slight mocking smile at the sight of Levin. How often he had seen him come up to Moscow from the country where he was doing something, but what precisely Stepan Arkadyevitch could never quite make out, and indeed he took no interest in the matter. Levin arrived in Moscow always excited and in a hurry, rather ill at ease and irritated by his own want of ease, and for the most part with a perfectly new, unexpected view of things. Stepan Arkadyevitch laughed at this, and liked it. In the same way Levin in his heart despised the town mode of life of his friend, and his official duties, which he laughed at, and regarded as trifling. But the difference was that Oblonsky, as he was doing the same as every one did, laughed complacently and good-humoredly, while Levin laughed without complacency and sometimes angrily.

 "We have long been expecting you," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, going into his room and letting Levin's hand go as though to show that here all danger was over. "I am very, very glad to see you," he went on. "Well, how are you?  Eh?  When did you come?"

 Levin was silent, looking at the unknown faces of Oblonsky's two companions, and especially at the hand of the elegant Grinevitch, which had such long white fingers, such long yellow filbert-shaped nails, and such huge shining studs on the shirt-cuff, that apparently they absorbed all his attention, and allowed him no freedom of thought. Oblonsky noticed this at once, and smiled.

 "Ah, to be sure, let me introduce you," he said. "My colleagues: Philip Ivanitch Nikitin, Mihail Stanislavitch Grinevitch"--and turning to Levin--"a district councilor, a modern district councilman, a gymnast who lifts thirteen stone with one hand, a cattle-breeder and sportsman, and my friend, Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin, the brother of Sergey Ivanovitch Koznishev."

 "Delighted," said the veteran.

 "I have the honor of knowing your brother, Sergey Ivanovitch," said Grinevitch, holding out his slender hand with its long nails.

 Levin frowned, shook hands coldly, and at once turned to Oblonsky. Though he had a great respect for his half-brother, an author well known to all Russia, he could not endure it when people treated him not as Konstantin Levin, but as the brother of the celebrated Koznishev.

 "No, I am no longer a district councilor. I have quarreled with them all, and don't go to the meetings any more," he said, turning to Oblonsky.

 "You've been quick about it!" said Oblonsky with a smile. "But how? why?"

 "It's a long story. I will tell you some time," said Levin, but he began telling him at once. "Well, to put it shortly, I was convinced that nothing was really done by the district councils, or ever could be," he began, as though some one had just insulted him. "On one side it's a plaything; they play at being a parliament, and I'm neither young enough nor old enough to find amusement in playthings; and on the other side" (he stammered) "it's a means for the coterie of the district to make money. Formerly they had wardships, courts of justice, now they have the district council--not in the form of bribes, but in the form of unearned salary," he said, as hotly as though someone of those present had opposed his opinion.

 "Aha!  You're in a new phase again, I see--a conservative," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "However, we can go into that later."

 "Yes, later. But I wanted to see you," said Levin, looking with hatred at Grinevitch's hand.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch gave a scarcely perceptible smile.

 "How was it you used to say you would never wear European dress again?" he said, scanning his new suit, obviously cut by a French tailor. "Ah!  I see: a new phase."

 Levin suddenly blushed, not as grown men blush, slightly, without being themselves aware of it, but as boys blush, feeling that they are ridiculous through their shyness, and consequently ashamed of it and blushing still more, almost to the point of tears. And it was so strange to see this sensible, manly face in such a childish plight, that Oblonsky left off looking at him.

 "Oh, where shall we meet? You know I want very much to talk to you," said Levin.

 Oblonsky seemed to ponder.

 "I'll tell you what: let's go to Gurin's to lunch, and there we can talk. I am free till three."

 "No," answered Levin, after an instant's thought, "I have got to go on somewhere else."

 "All right, then, let's dine together."

 "Dine together? But I have nothing very particular, only a few words to say, and a question I want to ask you, and we can have a talk afterwards."

 "Well, say the few words, then, at once, and we'll gossip after dinner."

 "Well, it's this," said Levin; "but it's of no importance, though."

 His face all at once took an expression of anger from the effort he was making to surmount his shyness.

 "What are the Shtcherbatskys doing? Everything as it used to be?" he said.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch, who had long known that Levin was in love with his sister-in-law, Kitty, gave a hardly perceptible smile, and his eyes sparkled merrily.

 "You said a few words, but I can't answer in a few words, because.... Excuse me a minute..."

 A secretary came in, with respectful familiarity and the modest consciousness, characteristic of every secretary, of superiority to his chief in the knowledge of their business; he went up to Oblonsky with some papers, and began, under pretense of asking a question, to explain some objection. Stepan Arkadyevitch, without hearing him out, laid his hand genially on the secretary's sleeve.

 "No, you do as I told you," he said, softening his words with a smile, and with a brief explanation of his view of the matter he turned away from the papers, and said: "So do it that way, if you please, Zahar Nikititch."

 The secretary retired in confusion. During the consultation with the secretary Levin had completely recovered from his embarrassment. He was standing with his elbows on the back of a chair, and on his face was a look of ironical attention.

 "I don't understand it, I don't understand it," he said.

 "What don't you understand?" said Oblonsky, smiling as brightly as ever, and picking up a cigarette. He expected some queer outburst from Levin.

 "I don't understand what you are doing," said Levin, shrugging his shoulders. "How can you do it seriously?"

 "Why not?"

 "Why, because there's nothing in it."

 "You think so, but we're overwhelmed with work."

 "On paper. But, there, you've a gift for it," added Levin.

 "That's to say, you think there's a lack of something in me?"

 "Perhaps so," said Levin. "But all the same I admire your grandeur, and am proud that I've a friend in such a great person. You've not answered my question, though," he went on, with a desperate effort looking Oblonsky straight in the face.

 "Oh, that's all very well. You wait a bit, and you'll come to this yourself. It's very nice for you to have over six thousand acres in the Karazinsky district, and such muscles, and the freshness of a girl of twelve; still you'll be one of us one day. Yes, as to your question, there is no change, but it's a pity you've been away so long."

 "Oh, why so?" Levin queried, panic-stricken.

 "Oh, nothing," responded Oblonsky. "We'll talk it over. But what's brought you up to town?"

 "Oh, we'll talk about that, too, later on," said Levin, reddening again up to his ears.

 "All right. I see," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "I should ask you to come to us, you know, but my wife's not quite the thing. But I tell you what; if you want to see them, they're sure now to be at the Zoological Gardens from four to five. Kitty skates. You drive along there, and I'll come and fetch you, and we'll go and dine somewhere together."

 "Capital. So good-bye till then."

 "Now mind, you'll forget, I know you, or rush off home to the country!"  Stepan Arkadyevitch called out laughing.

 "No, truly!"

 And Levin went out of the room, only when he was in the doorway remembering that he had forgotten to take leave of Oblonsky's colleagues.

 "That gentleman must be a man of great energy," said Grinevitch, when Levin had gone away.

 "Yes, my dear boy," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, nodding his head, "he's a lucky fellow!  Over six thousand acres in the Karazinsky district; everything before him; and what youth and vigor!  Not like some of us."

 "You have a great deal to complain of, haven't you, Stepan Arkadyevitch?"

 "Ah, yes, I'm in a poor way, a bad way," said Stepan Arkadyevitch with a heavy sigh.


 Chapter 6

  When Oblonsky asked Levin what had brought him to town, Levin blushed, and was furious with himself for blushing, because he could not answer, "I have come to make your sister-in-law an offer," though that was precisely what he had come for.

 The families of the Levins and the Shtcherbatskys were old, noble Moscow families, and had always been on intimate and friendly terms. This intimacy had grown still closer during Levin's student days. He had both prepared for the university with the young Prince Shtcherbatsky, the brother of Kitty and Dolly, and had entered at the same time with him. In those days Levin used often to be in the Shtcherbatskys' house, and he was in love with the Shtcherbatsky household. Strange as it may appear, it was with the household, the family, that Konstantin Levin was in love, especially with the feminine half of the household. Levin did not remember his own mother, and his only sister was older than he was, so that it was in the Shtcherbatskys' house that he saw for the first time that inner life of an old, noble, cultivated, and honorable family of which he had been deprived by the death of his father and mother. All the members of that family, especially the feminine half, were pictured by him, as it were, wrapped about with a mysterious poetical veil, and he not only perceived no defects whatever in them, but under the poetical veil that shrouded them he assumed the existence of the loftiest sentiments and every possible perfection. Why it was the three young ladies had one day to speak French, and the next English; why it was that at certain hours they played by turns on the piano, the sounds of which were audible in their brother's room above, where the students used to work; why they were visited by those professors of French literature, of music, of drawing, of dancing; why at certain hours all the three young ladies, with Mademoiselle Linon, drove in the coach to the Tversky boulevard, dressed in their satin cloaks, Dolly in a long one, Natalia in a half-long one, and Kitty in one so short that her shapely legs in tightly-drawn red stockings were visible to all beholders; why it was they had to walk about the Tversky boulevard escorted by a footman with a gold cockade in his hat--all this and much more that was done in their mysterious world he did not understand, but he was sure that everything that was done there was very good, and he was in love precisely with the mystery of the proceedings.

 In his student days he had all but been in love with the eldest, Dolly, but she was soon married to Oblonsky. Then he began being in love with the second. He felt, as it were, that he had to be in love with one of the sisters, only he could not quite make out which. But Natalia, too, had hardly made her appearance in the world when she married the diplomat Lvov. Kitty was still a child when Levin left the university. Young Shtcherbatsky went into the navy, was drowned in the Baltic, and Levin's relations with the Shtcherbatskys, in spite of his friendship with Oblonsky, became less intimate. But when early in the winter of this year Levin came to Moscow, after a year in the country, and saw the Shtcherbatskys, he realized which of the three sisters he was indeed destined to love.

 One would have thought that nothing could be simpler than for him, a man of good family, rather rich than poor, and thirty-two years old, to make the young Princess Shtcherbatskaya an offer of marriage; in all likelihood he would at once have been looked upon as a good match. But Levin was in love, and so it seemed to him that Kitty was so perfect in every respect that she was a creature far above everything earthly; and that he was a creature so low and so earthly that it could not even be conceived that other people and she herself could regard him as worthy of her.

 After spending two months in Moscow in a state of enchantment, seeing Kitty almost every day in society, into which he went so as to meet her, he abruptly decided that it could not be, and went back to the country.

 Levin's conviction that it could not be was founded on the idea that in the eyes of her family he was a disadvantageous and worthless match for the charming Kitty, and that Kitty herself could not love him. In her family's eyes he had no ordinary, definite career and position in society, while his contemporaries by this time, when he was thirty-two, were already, one a colonel, and another a professor, another director of a bank and railways, or president of a board like Oblonsky. But he (he knew very well how he must appear to others) was a country gentleman, occupied in breeding cattle, shooting game, and building barns; in other words, a fellow of no ability, who had not turned out well, and who was doing just what, according to the ideas of the world, is done by people fit for nothing else.

 The mysterious, enchanting Kitty herself could not love such an ugly person as he conceived himself to be, and, above all, such an ordinary, in no way striking person. Moreover, his attitude to Kitty in the past--the attitude of a grown-up person to a child, arising from his friendship with her brother--seemed to him yet another obstacle to love. An ugly, good-natured man, as he considered himself, might, he supposed, be liked as a friend; but to be loved with such a love as that with which he loved Kitty, one would need to be a handsome and, still more, a distinguished man.

 He had heard that women often did care for ugly and ordinary men, but he did not believe it, for he judged by himself, and he could not himself have loved any but beautiful, mysterious, and exceptional women.

 But after spending two months alone in the country, he was convinced that this was not one of those passions of which he had had experience in his early youth; that this feeling gave him not an instant's rest; that he could not live without deciding the question, would she or would she not be his wife, and that his despair had arisen only from his own imaginings, that he had no sort of proof that he would be rejected. And he had now come to Moscow with a firm determination to make an offer, and get married if he were accepted. Or...he could not conceive what would become of him if he were rejected.


 Chapter 7

  On arriving in Moscow by a morning train, Levin had put up at the house of his elder half-brother, Koznishev. After changing his clothes he went down to his brother's study, intending to talk to him at once about the object of his visit, and to ask his advice; but his brother was not alone. With him there was a well-known professor of philosophy, who had come from Harkov expressly to clear up a difference that had arisen between them on a very important philosophical question. The professor was carrying on a hot crusade against materialists. Sergey Koznishev had been following this crusade with interest, and after reading the professor's last article, he had written him a letter stating his objections. He accused the professor of making too great concessions to the materialists. And the professor had promptly appeared to argue the matter out. The point in discussion was the question then in vogue: Is there a line to be drawn between psychological and physiological phenomena in man? and if so, where?

 Sergey Ivanovitch met his brother with the smile of chilly friendliness he always had for everyone, and introducing him to the professor, went on with the conversation.

 A little man in spectacles, with a narrow forehead, tore himself from the discussion for an instant to greet Levin, and then went on talking without paying any further attention to him. Levin sat down to wait till the professor should go, but he soon began to get interested in the subject under discussion.

 Levin had come across the magazine articles about which they were disputing, and had read them, interested in them as a development of the first principles of science, familiar to him as a natural science student at the university. But he had never connected these scientific deductions as to the origin of man as an animal, as to reflex action, biology, and sociology, with those questions as to the meaning of life and death to himself, which had of late been more and more often in his mind.

 As he listened to his brother's argument with the professor, he noticed that they connected these scientific questions with those spiritual problems, that at times they almost touched on the latter; but every time they were close upon what seemed to him the chief point, they promptly beat a hasty retreat, and plunged again into a sea of subtle distinctions, reservations, quotations, allusions, and appeals to authorities, and it was with difficulty that he understood what they were talking about.

 "I cannot admit it," said Sergey Ivanovitch, with his habitual clearness, precision of expression, and elegance of phrase. "I cannot in any case agree with Keiss that my whole conception of the external world has been derived from perceptions. The most fundamental idea, the idea of existence, has not been received by me through sensation; indeed, there is no special sense-organ for the transmission of such an idea."

 "Yes, but they--Wurt, and Knaust, and Pripasov--would answer that your consciousness of existence is derived from the conjunction of all your sensations, that that consciousness of existence is  the result of your sensations. Wurt, indeed, says plainly that, assuming there are no sensations, it follows that there is no idea of existence."

 "I maintain the contrary," began Sergey Ivanovitch.

 But here it seemed to Levin that just as they were close upon the real point of the matter, they were again retreating, and he made up his mind to put a question to the professor.

 "According to that, if my senses are annihilated, if my body is dead, I can have no existence of any sort?" he queried.

 The professor, in annoyance, and, as it were, mental suffering at the interruption, looked round at the strange inquirer, more like a bargeman than a philosopher, and turned his eyes upon Sergey Ivanovitch, as though to ask: What's one to say to him? But Sergey Ivanovitch, who had been talking with far less heat and one-sidedness than the professor, and who had sufficient breadth of mind to answer the professor, and at the same time to comprehend the simple and natural point of view from which the question was put, smiled and said:

 "That question we have no right to answer as yet."

 "We have not the requisite data," chimed in the professor, and he went back to his argument. "No," he said; "I would point out the fact that if, as Pripasov directly asserts, perception is based on sensation, then we are bound to distinguish sharply between these two conceptions."

 Levin listened no more, and simply waited for the professor to go.


 Chapter 8

  When the professor had gone, Sergey Ivanovitch turned to his brother.

 "Delighted that you've come. For some time, is it? How's your farming getting on?"

 Levin knew that his elder brother took little interest in farming, and only put the question in deference to him, and so he only told him about the sale of his wheat and money matters.

 Levin had meant to tell his brother of his determination to get married, and to ask his advice; he had indeed firmly resolved to do so. But after seeing his brother, listening to his conversation with the professor, hearing afterwards the unconsciously patronizing tone in which his brother questioned him about agricultural matters (their mother's property had not been divided, and Levin took charge of both their shares), Levin felt that he could not for some reason begin to talk to him of his intention of marrying. He felt that his brother would not look at it as he would have wished him to.

 "Well, how is your district council doing?" asked Sergey Ivanovitch, who was greatly interested in these local boards and attached great importance to them.

 "I really don't know."

 "What!  Why, surely you're a member of the board?"

 "No, I'm not a member now; I've resigned," answered Levin, "and I no longer attend the meetings."

 "What a pity!" commented Sergey Ivanovitch, frowning.

 Levin in self-defense began to describe what took place in the meetings in his district.

 "That's how it always is!" Sergey Ivanovitch interrupted him. "We Russians are always like that. Perhaps it's our strong point, really, the faculty of seeing our own shortcomings; but we overdo it, we comfort ourselves with irony which we always have on the tip of our tongues. All I say is, give such rights as our local self-government to any other European people--why, the Germans or the English would have worked their way to freedom from them, while we simply turn them into ridicule."

 "But how can it be helped?" said Levin penitently. "It was my last effort. And I did try with all my soul. I can't. I'm no good at it."

 "It's not that you're no good at it," said Sergey Ivanovitch; "it is that you don't look at it as you should."

 "Perhaps not," Levin answered dejectedly.

 "Oh! do you know brother Nikolay's turned up again?"

 This brother Nikolay was the elder brother of Konstantin Levin, and half-brother of Sergey Ivanovitch; a man utterly ruined, who had dissipated the greater part of his fortune, was living in the strangest and lowest company, and had quarreled with his brothers.

 "What did you say?" Levin cried with horror. "How do you know?"

 "Prokofy saw him in the street."

 "Here in Moscow?  Where is he?  Do you know?" Levin got up from his chair, as though on the point of starting off at once.

 "I am sorry I told you," said Sergey Ivanovitch, shaking his head at his younger brother's excitement. "I sent to find out where he is living, and sent him his IOU to Trubin, which I paid. This is the answer he sent me."

 And Sergey Ivanovitch took a note from under a paper-weight and handed it to his brother.

 Levin read in the queer, familiar handwriting: "I humbly beg you to leave me in peace. That's the only favor I ask of my gracious brothers.--Nikolay Levin."

 Levin read it, and without raising his head stood with the note in his hands opposite Sergey Ivanovitch.

 There was a struggle in his heart between the desire to forget his unhappy brother for the time, and the consciousness that it would be base to do so.

 "He obviously wants to offend me," pursued Sergey Ivanovitch; "but he cannot offend me, and I should have wished with all my heart to assist him, but I know it's impossible to do that."

 "Yes, yes," repeated Levin. "I understand and appreciate your attitude to him; but I shall go and see him."

 "If you want to, do; but I shouldn't advise it," said Sergey Ivanovitch. "As regards myself, I have no fear of your doing so; he will not make you quarrel with me; but for your own sake, I should say you would do better not to go. You can't do him any good; still, do as you please."

 "Very likely I can't do any good, but I feel--especially at such a moment--but that's another thing--I feel I could not be at peace."

 "Well, that I don't understand," said Sergey Ivanovitch. "One thing I do understand," he added; "it's a lesson in humility. I have come to look very differently and more charitably on what is called infamous since brother Nikolay has become what he know what he did..."

 "Oh, it's awful, awful!" repeated Levin.

 After obtaining his brother's address from Sergey Ivanovitch's footman, Levin was on the point of setting off at once to see him, but on second thought he decided to put off his visit till the evening. The first thing to do to set his heart at rest was to accomplish what he had come to Moscow for. From his brother's Levin went to Oblonsky's office, and on getting news of the Shtcherbatskys from him, he drove to the place where he had been told he might find Kitty.


 Chapter 9

  At four o'clock, conscious of his throbbing heart, Levin stepped out of a hired sledge at the Zoological Gardens, and turned along the path to the frozen mounds and the skating ground, knowing that he would certainly find her there, as he had seen the Shtcherbatskys' carriage at the entrance.

 It was a bright, frosty day. Rows of carriages, sledges, drivers, and policemen were standing in the approach. Crowds of well-dressed people, with hats bright in the sun, swarmed about the entrance and along the well-swept little paths between the little houses adorned with carving in the Russian style. The old curly birches of the gardens, all their twigs laden with snow, looked as though freshly decked in sacred vestments.

 He walked along the path towards the skating-ground, and kept saying to himself--"You mustn't be excited, you must be calm. What's the matter with you?  What do you want?  Be quiet, stupid," he conjured his heart. And the more he tried to compose himself, the more breathless he found himself.   An acquaintance met him and called him by his name, but Levin did not even recognize him. He went towards the mounds, whence came the clank of the chains of sledges as they slipped down or were dragged up, the rumble of the sliding sledges, and the sounds of merry voices. He walked on a few steps, and the skating-ground lay open before his eyes, and at once, amidst all the skaters, he knew her.

 He knew she was there by the rapture and the terror that seized on his heart. She was standing talking to a lady at the opposite end of the ground. There was apparently nothing striking either in her dress or her attitude. But for Levin she was as easy to find in that crowd as a rose among nettles. Everything was made bright by her. She was the smile that shed light on all round her. "Is it possible I can go over there on the ice, go up to her?" he thought. The place where she stood seemed to him a holy shrine, unapproachable, and there was one moment when he was almost retreating, so overwhelmed was he with terror. He had to make an effort to master himself, and to remind himself that people of all sorts were moving about her, and that he too might come there to skate. He walked down, for a long while avoiding looking at her as at the sun, but seeing her, as one does the sun, without looking.

 On that day of the week and at that time of day people of one set, all acquainted with one another, used to meet on the ice. There were crack skaters there, showing off their skill, and learners clinging to chairs with timid, awkward movements, boys, and elderly people skating with hygienic motives. They seemed to Levin an elect band of blissful beings because they were here, near her. All the skaters, it seemed, with perfect self-possession, skated towards her, skated by her, even spoke to her, and were happy, quite apart from her, enjoying the capital ice and the fine weather.

 Nikolay Shtcherbatsky, Kitty's cousin, in a short jacket and tight trousers, was sitting on a garden seat with his skates on. Seeing Levin, he shouted to him:

 "Ah, the first skater in Russia!  Been here long?  First-rate ice--do put your skates on."

 "I haven't got my skates," Levin answered, marveling at this boldness and ease in her presence, and not for one second losing sight of her, though he did not look at her. He felt as though the sun were coming near him. She was in a corner, and turning out her slender feet in their high boots with obvious timidity, she skated towards him. A boy in Russian dress, desperately waving his arms and bowed down to the ground, overtook her. She skated a little uncertainly; taking her hands out of the little muff that hung on a cord, she held them ready for emergency, and looking towards Levin, whom she had recognized, she smiled at him, and at her own fears. When she had got round the turn, she gave herself a push off with one foot, and skated straight up to Shtcherbatsky. Clutching at his arm, she nodded smiling to Levin. She was more splendid than he had imagined her.

 When he thought of her, he could call up a vivid picture of her to himself, especially the charm of that little fair head, so freely set on the shapely girlish shoulders, and so full of childish brightness and good humor. The childishness of her expression, together with the delicate beauty of her figure, made up her special charm, and that he fully realized. But what always struck him in her as something unlooked for, was the expression of her eyes, soft, serene, and truthful, and above all, her smile, which always transported Levin to an enchanted world, where he felt himself softened and tender, as he remembered himself in some days of his early childhood.

 "Have you been here long?" she said, giving him her hand. "Thank you," she added, as he picked up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff.

 "I?  I've not long...yesterday...I mean today...I arrived," answered Levin, in his emotion not at once understanding her question. "I was meaning to come and see you," he said; and then, recollecting with what intention he was trying to see her, he was promptly overcome with confusion and blushed.

 "I didn't know you could skate, and skate so well."

 She looked at him earnestly, as though wishing to make out the cause of his confusion.

 "Your praise is worth having. The tradition is kept up here that you are the best of skaters," she said, with her little black-gloved hand brushing a grain of hoarfrost off her muff.

 "Yes, I used once to skate with passion; I wanted to reach perfection."

 "You do everything with passion, I think," she said smiling. "I should so like to see how you skate. Put on skates, and let us skate together."

 "Skate together!  Can that be possible?" thought Levin, gazing at her.

 "I'll put them on directly," he said.

 And he went off to get skates.

 "It's a long while since we've seen you here, sir," said the attendant, supporting his foot, and screwing on the heel of the skate. "Except you, there's none of the gentlemen first-rate skaters. Will that be all right?" said he, tightening the strap.

 "Oh, yes, yes; make haste, please," answered Levin, with difficulty restraining the smile of rapture which would overspread his face. "Yes," he thought, "this now is life, this is happiness!  _Together,_ she said; _let us skate together!_  Speak to her now?  But that's just why I'm afraid to speak--because I'm happy now, happy in hope, anyway.... And then?.... But I must! I must!  I must!  Away with weakness!"

 Levin rose to his feet, took off his overcoat, and scurrying over the rough ice round the hut, came out on the smooth ice and skated without effort, as it were, by simple exercise of will, increasing and slackening speed and turning his course. He approached with timidity, but again her smile reassured him.

 She gave him her hand, and they set off side by side, going faster and faster, and the more rapidly they moved the more tightly she grasped his hand.

 "With you I should soon learn; I somehow feel confidence in you," she said to him.

 "And I have confidence in myself when you are leaning on me," he said, but was at once panic-stricken at what he had said, and blushed. And indeed, no sooner had he uttered these words, when all at once, like the sun going behind a cloud, her face lost all its friendliness, and Levin detected the familiar change in her expression that denoted the working of thought; a crease showed on her smooth brow.

 "Is there anything troubling you?--though I've no right to ask such a question," he added hurriedly.

 "Oh, why so?.... No, I have nothing to trouble me," she responded coldly; and she added immediately: "You haven't seen Mlle. Linon, have you?"

 "Not yet."

 "Go and speak to her, she likes you so much."

 "What's wrong?  I have offended her. Lord help me!" thought Levin, and he flew towards the old Frenchwoman with the gray ringlets, who was sitting on a bench. Smiling and showing her false teeth, she greeted him as an old friend.

 "Yes, you see we're growing up," she said to him, glancing towards Kitty, "and growing old. _Tiny bear_ has grown big now!" pursued the Frenchwoman, laughing, and she reminded him of his joke about the three young ladies whom he had compared to the three bears in the English nursery tale. "Do you remember that's what you used to call them?"

 He remembered absolutely nothing, but she had been laughing at the joke for ten years now, and was fond of it.

 "Now, go and skate, go and skate. Our Kitty has learned to skate nicely, hasn't she?"

 When Levin darted up to Kitty her face was no longer stern; her eyes looked at him with the same sincerity and friendliness, but Levin fancied that in her friendliness there was a certain note of deliberate composure. And he felt depressed. After talking a little of her old governess and her peculiarities, she questioned him about his life.

 "Surely you must be dull in the country in the winter, aren't you?" she said.

 "No, I'm not dull, I am very busy," he said, feeling that she was holding him in check by her composed tone, which he would not have the force to break through, just as it had been at the beginning of the winter.

 "Are you going to stay in town long?" Kitty questioned him.

 "I don't know," he answered, not thinking of what he was saying. The thought that if he were held in check by her tone of quiet friendliness he would end by going back again without deciding anything came into his mind, and he resolved to make a struggle against it.

 "How is it you don't know?"

 "I don't know. It depends upon you," he said, and was immediately horror-stricken at his own words.

 Whether it was that she had heard his words, or that she did not want to hear them, she made a sort of stumble, twice struck out, and hurriedly skated away from him. She skated up to Mlle. Linon, said something to her, and went towards the pavilion where the ladies took off their skates.

 "My God! what have I done!  Merciful God! help me, guide me," said Levin, praying inwardly, and at the same time, feeling a need of violent exercise, he skated about describing inner and outer circles.

 At that moment one of the young men, the best of the skaters of the day, came out of the coffee-house in his skates, with a cigarette in his mouth. Taking a run, he dashed down the steps in his skates, crashing and bounding up and down. He flew down, and without even changing the position of his hands, skated away over the ice.

 "Ah, that's a new trick!" said Levin, and he promptly ran up to the top to do this new trick.

 "Don't break your neck! it needs practice!" Nikolay Shtcherbatsky shouted after him.

 Levin went to the steps, took a run from above as best he could, and dashed down, preserving his balance in this unwonted movement with his hands. On the last step he stumbled, but barely touching the ice with his hand, with a violent effort recovered himself, and skated off, laughing.

 "How splendid, how nice he is!" Kitty was thinking at that time, as she came out of the pavilion with Mlle. Linon, and looked towards him with a smile of quiet affection, as though he were a favorite brother. "And can it be my fault, can I have done anything wrong?  They talk of flirtation. I know it's not he that I love; but still I am happy with him, and he's so jolly. Only, why did he say that?..." she mused.

 Catching sight of Kitty going away, and her mother meeting her at the steps, Levin, flushed from his rapid exercise, stood still and pondered a minute. He took off his skates, and overtook the mother and daughter at the entrance of the gardens.

 "Delighted to see you," said Princess Shtcherbatskaya. "On Thursdays we are home, as always."

 "Today, then?"

 "We shall be pleased to see you," the princess said stiffly.

 This stiffness hurt Kitty, and she could not resist the desire to smooth over her mother's coldness. She turned her head, and with a smile said:

 "Good-bye till this evening."

 At that moment Stepan Arkadyevitch, his hat cocked on one side, with beaming face and eyes, strode into the garden like a conquering hero. But as he approached his mother-in-law, he responded in a mournful and crestfallen tone to her inquiries about Dolly's health. After a little subdued and dejected conversation with his mother-in-law, he threw out his chest again, and put his arm in Levin's.

 "Well, shall we set off?" he asked. "I've been thinking about you all this time, and I'm very, very glad you've come," he said, looking him in the face with a significant air.

 "Yes, come along," answered Levin in ecstasy, hearing unceasingly the sound of that voice saying, "Good-bye till this evening," and seeing the smile with which it was said.

 "To the England or the Hermitage?"

 "I don't mind which."

 "All right, then, the England," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, selecting that restaurant because he owed more there than at the Hermitage, and consequently considered it mean to avoid it. "Have you got a sledge?  That's first-rate, for I sent my carriage home."

 The friends hardly spoke all the way. Levin was wondering what that change in Kitty's expression had meant, and alternately assuring himself that there was hope, and falling into despair, seeing clearly that his hopes were insane, and yet all the while he felt himself quite another man, utterly unlike what he had been before her smile and those words, "Good-bye till this evening."

 Stepan Arkadyevitch was absorbed during the drive in composing the menu of the dinner.

 "You like turbot, don't you?" he said to Levin as they were arriving.

 "Eh?" responded Levin. "Turbot? Yes, I'm _awfully_ fond of turbot."


 Chapter 10

  When Levin went into the restaurant with Oblonsky, he could not help noticing a certain peculiarity of expression, as it were, a restrained radiance, about the face and whole figure of Stepan Arkadyevitch. Oblonsky took off his overcoat, and with his hat over one ear walked into the dining room, giving directions to the Tatar waiters, who were clustered about him in evening coats, bearing napkins. Bowing to right and left to the people he met, and here as everywhere joyously greeting acquaintances, he went up to the sideboard for a preliminary appetizer of fish and vodka, and said to the painted Frenchwoman decked in ribbons, lace, and ringlets, behind the counter, something so amusing that even that Frenchwoman was moved to genuine laughter. Levin for his part refrained from taking any vodka simply because he felt such a loathing of that Frenchwoman, all made up, it seemed, of false hair, _poudre de riz,_ and _vinaigre de toilette_. He made haste to move away from her, as from a dirty place. His whole soul was filled with memories of Kitty, and there was a smile of triumph and happiness shining in his eyes.

 "This way, your excellency, please. Your excellency won't be disturbed here," said a particularly pertinacious, white-headed old Tatar with immense hips and coat-tails gaping widely behind. "Walk in, your excellency," he said to Levin; by way of showing his respect to Stepan Arkadyevitch, being attentive to his guest as well.

 Instantly flinging a fresh cloth over the round table under the bronze chandelier, though it already had a table cloth on it, he pushed up velvet chairs, and came to a standstill before Stepan Arkadyevitch with a napkin and a bill of fare in his hands, awaiting his commands.

 "If you prefer it, your excellency, a private room will be free directly; Prince Golistin with a lady. Fresh oysters have come in."

 "Ah! oysters."

 Stepan Arkadyevitch became thoughtful.

 "How if we were to change our program, Levin?" he said, keeping his finger on the bill of fare. And his face expressed serious hesitation. "Are the oysters good?  Mind now."

 "They're Flensburg, your excellency. We've no Ostend."

 "Flensburg will do, but are they fresh?"

 "Only arrived yesterday."

 "Well, then, how if we were to begin with oysters, and so change the whole program?  Eh?"

 "It's all the same to me. I should like cabbage soup and porridge better than anything; but of course there's nothing like that here."

 "_Porridge à la Russe,_ your honor would like?" said the Tatar, bending down to Levin, like a nurse speaking to a child.

 "No, joking apart, whatever you choose is sure to be good. I've been skating, and I'm hungry. And don't imagine," he added, detecting a look of dissatisfaction on Oblonsky's face, "that I shan't appreciate your choice. I am fond of good things."

 "I should hope so!  After all, it's one of the pleasures of life," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "Well, then, my friend, you give us two--or better say three--dozen oysters, clear soup with vegetables..."

 "Printaniere," prompted the Tatar. But Stepan Arkadyevitch apparently did not care to allow him the satisfaction of giving the French names of the dishes.

 "With vegetables in it, you know. Then turbot with thick sauce, then...roast beef; and mind it's good. Yes, and capons, perhaps, and then sweets."

 The Tatar, recollecting that it was Stepan Arkadyevitch's way not to call the dishes by the names in the French bill of fare, did not repeat them after him, but could not resist rehearsing the whole menu to himself according to the bill:--"_Soupe printanière, turbot, sauce Beaumarchais, poulard à l'estragon, macédoine de fruits_...etc.," and then instantly, as though worked by springs, laying down one bound bill of fare, he took up another, the list of wines, and submitted it to Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 "What shall we drink?"

 "What you like, only not too much.   Champagne," said Levin.

 "What! to start with?  You're right though, I dare say. Do you like the white seal?"

 "_Cachet blanc,_" prompted the Tatar.

 "Very well, then, give us that brand with the oysters, and then we'll see."

 "Yes, sir. And what table wine?"

 "You can give us Nuits. Oh, no, better the classic Chablis."

 "Yes, sir. And _your_ cheese, your excellency?"

 "Oh, yes, Parmesan. Or would you like another?"

 "No, it's all the same to me," said Levin, unable to suppress a smile.

 And the Tatar ran off with flying coat-tails, and in five minutes darted in with a dish of opened oysters on mother-of-pearl shells, and a bottle between his fingers.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch crushed the starchy napkin, tucked it into his waistcoat, and settling his arms comfortably, started on the oysters.

 "Not bad," he said, stripping the oysters from the pearly shell with a silver fork, and swallowing them one after another. "Not bad," he repeated, turning his dewy, brilliant eyes from Levin to the Tatar.

 Levin ate the oysters indeed, though white bread and cheese would have pleased him better. But he was admiring Oblonsky. Even the Tatar, uncorking the bottle and pouring the sparkling wine into the delicate glasses, glanced at Stepan Arkadyevitch, and settled his white cravat with a perceptible smile of satisfaction.

 "You don't care much for oysters, do you?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, emptying his wine glass, "or you're worried about something. Eh?"

 He wanted Levin to be in good spirits. But it was not that Levin was not in good spirits; he was ill at ease. With what he had in his soul, he felt sore and uncomfortable in the restaurant, in the midst of private rooms where men were dining with ladies, in all this fuss and bustle; the surroundings of bronzes, looking glasses, gas, and waiters--all of it was offensive to him. He was afraid of sullying what his soul was brimful of.

 "I?  Yes, I am; but besides, all this bothers me," he said. "You can't conceive how queer it all seems to a country person like me, as queer as that gentleman's nails I saw at your place..."

 "Yes, I saw how much interested you were in poor Grinevitch's nails," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing.

 "It's too much for me," responded Levin. "Do try, now, and put yourself in my place, take the point of view of a country person. We in the country try to bring our hands into such a state as will be most convenient for working with. So we cut our nails; sometimes we turn up our sleeves. And here people purposely let their nails grow as long as they will, and link on small saucers by way of studs, so that they can do nothing with their hands."

 Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled gaily.

 "Oh, yes, that's just a sign that he has no need to do coarse work. His work is with the mind..."

 "Maybe. But still it's queer to me, just as at this moment it seems queer to me that we country folks try to get our meals over as soon as we can, so as to be ready for our work, while here are we trying to drag out our meal as long as possible, and with that object eating oysters..."

 "Why, of course," objected Stepan Arkadyevitch. "But that's just the aim of civilization--to make everything a source of enjoyment."

 "Well, if that's its aim, I'd rather be a savage."

 "And so you are a savage. All you Levins are savages."

 Levin sighed. He remembered his brother Nikolay, and felt ashamed and sore, and he scowled; but Oblonsky began speaking of a subject which at once drew his attention.

 "Oh, I say, are you going tonight to our people, the Shtcherbatskys', I mean?" he said, his eyes sparkling significantly as he pushed away the empty rough shells, and drew the cheese towards him.

 "Yes, I shall certainly go," replied Levin; "though I fancied the princess was not very warm in her invitation."

 "What nonsense!  That's her manner.... Come, boy, the soup!.... That's her manner--_grande dame,_" said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "I'm coming, too, but I have to go to the Countess Bonina's rehearsal. Come, isn't it true that you're a savage?  How do you explain the sudden way in which you vanished from Moscow?  The Shtcherbatskys were continually asking me about you, as though I ought to know. The only thing I know is that you always do what no one else does."

 "Yes," said Levin, slowly and with emotion, "you're right. I am a savage. Only, my savageness is not in having gone away, but in coming now. Now I have come..."

 "Oh, what a lucky fellow you are!" broke in Stepan Arkadyevitch, looking into Levin's eyes.


     "I know a gallant steed by tokens sure,      And by his eyes I know a youth in love,"

 declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch. "Everything is before you."

 "Why, is it over for you already?"

 "No; not over exactly, but the future is yours, and the present is mine, and the present--well, it's not all that it might be."

 "How so?"

 "Oh, things go wrong. But I don't want to talk of myself, and besides I can't explain it all," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "Well, why have you come to Moscow, then?.... Hi! take away!" he called to the Tatar.

 "You guess?" responded Levin, his eyes like deep wells of light fixed on Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 "I guess, but I can't be the first to talk about it. You can see by that whether I guess right or wrong," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, gazing at Levin with a subtle smile.

 "Well, and what have you to say to me?" said Levin in a quivering voice, feeling that all the muscles of his face were quivering too. "How do you look at the question?"

 Stepan Arkadyevitch slowly emptied his glass of Chablis, never taking his eyes off Levin.

 "I?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, "there's nothing I desire so much as that--nothing! It would be the best thing that could be."

 "But you're not making a mistake?  You know what we're speaking of?" said Levin, piercing him with his eyes. "You think it's possible?"

 "I think it's possible. Why not possible?"

 "No! do you really think it's possible?  No, tell me all you think!  Oh, but if...if refusal's in store for me!... Indeed I feel sure..."

 "Why should you think that?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling at his excitement.

 "It seems so to me sometimes. That will be awful for me, and for her too."

 "Oh, well, anyway there's nothing awful in it for a girl. Every girl's proud of an offer."

 "Yes, every girl, but not she."

 Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He so well knew that feeling of Levin's, that for him all the girls in the world were divided into two classes: one class--all the girls in the world except her, and those girls with all sorts of human weaknesses, and very ordinary girls: the other class--she alone, having no weaknesses of any sort and higher than all humanity.

 "Stay, take some sauce," he said, holding back Levin's hand as it pushed away the sauce.

 Levin obediently helped himself to sauce, but would not let Stepan Arkadyevitch go on with his dinner.

 "No, stop a minute, stop a minute," he said. "You must understand that it's a question of life and death for me. I have never spoken to any one of this. And there's no one I could speak of it to, except you. You know we're utterly unlike each other, different tastes and views and everything; but I know you're fond of me and understand me, and that's why I like you awfully. But for God's sake, be quite straightforward with me."

 "I tell you what I think," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling. "But I'll say more: my wife is a wonderful woman..." Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed, remembering his position with his wife, and, after a moment's silence, resumed--"She has a gift of foreseeing things. She sees right through people; but that's not all; she knows what will come to pass, especially in the way of marriages. She foretold, for instance, that Princess Shahovskaya would marry Brenteln. No one would believe it, but it came to pass. And she's on your side."

 "How do you mean?"

 "It's not only that she likes you--she says that Kitty is certain to be your wife."

 At these words Levin's face suddenly lighted up with a smile, a smile not far from tears of emotion.

 "She says that!" cried Levin. "I always said she was exquisite, your wife. There, that's enough, enough said about it," he said, getting up from his seat.

 "All right, but do sit down."

 But Levin could not sit down. He walked with his firm tread twice up and down the little cage of a room, blinked his eyelids that his tears might not fall, and only then sat down to the table.

 "You must understand," said he, "it's not love. I've been in love, but it's not that. It's not my feeling, but a sort of force outside me has taken possession of me. I went away, you see, because I made up my mind that it could never be, you understand, as a happiness that does not come on earth; but I've struggled with myself, I see there's no living without it. And it must be settled."

 "What did you go away for?"

 "Ah, stop a minute!  Ah, the thoughts that come crowding on one! The questions one must ask oneself!  Listen. You can't imagine what you've done for me by what you said. I'm so happy that I've become positively hateful; I've forgotten everything. I heard today that my brother know, he's here...I had even forgotten him. It seems to me that he's happy too. It's a sort of madness. But one thing's awful.... Here, you've been married, you know the's awful that we--old--with a past... not of love, but of sins...are brought all at once so near to a creature pure and innocent; it's loathsome, and that's why one can't help feeling oneself unworthy."

 "Oh, well, you've not many sins on your conscience."

 "Alas! all the same," said Levin, "when with loathing I go over my life, I shudder and curse and bitterly regret it.... Yes."

 "What would you have?  The world's made so," said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 "The one comfort is like that prayer, which I always liked: 'Forgive me not according to my unworthiness, but according to Thy lovingkindness.' That's the only way she can forgive me."


 Chapter 11

  Levin emptied his glass, and they were silent for a while.

 "There's one other thing I ought to tell you. Do you know Vronsky?" Stepan Arkadyevitch asked Levin.

 "No, I don't. Why do you ask?"

 "Give us another bottle," Stepan Arkadyevitch directed the Tatar, who was filling up their glasses and fidgeting round them just when he was not wanted.

 "Why you ought to know Vronsky is that he's one of your rivals."

 "Who's Vronsky?" said Levin, and his face was suddenly transformed from the look of childlike ecstasy which Oblonsky had just been admiring to an angry and unpleasant expression.

 "Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirill Ivanovitch Vronsky, and one of the finest specimens of the gilded youth of Petersburg. I made his acquaintance in Tver when I was there on official business, and he came there for the levy of recruits. Fearfully rich, handsome, great connections, an aide-de-camp, and with all that a very nice, good-natured fellow. But he's more than simply a good-natured fellow, as I've found out here--he's a cultivated man, too, and very intelligent; he's a man who'll make his mark."

 Levin scowled and was dumb.

 "Well, he turned up here soon after you'd gone, and as I can see, he's over head and ears in love with Kitty, and you know that her mother..."

 "Excuse me, but I know nothing," said Levin, frowning gloomily. And immediately he recollected his brother Nikolay and how hateful he was to have been able to forget him.

 "You wait a bit, wait a bit," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling and touching his hand. "I've told you what I know, and I repeat that in this delicate and tender matter, as far as one can conjecture, I believe the chances are in your favor."

 Levin dropped back in his chair; his face was pale.

 "But I would advise you to settle the thing as soon as may be," pursued Oblonsky, filling up his glass.

 "No, thanks, I can't drink any more," said Levin, pushing away his glass. "I shall be drunk.... Come, tell me how are you getting on?" he went on, obviously anxious to change the conversation.

 "One word more: in any case I advise you to settle the question soon. Tonight I don't advise you to speak," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "Go round tomorrow morning, make an offer in due form, and God bless you..."

 "Oh, do you still think of coming to me for some shooting?  Come next spring, do," said Levin.

 Now his whole soul was full of remorse that he had begun this conversation with Stepan Arkadyevitch. A feeling such as his was profaned by talk of the rivalry of some Petersburg officer, of the suppositions and the counsels of Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He knew what was passing in Levin's soul.

 "I'll come some day," he said. "But women, my boy, they're the pivot everything turns upon. Things are in a bad way with me, very bad. And it's all through women. Tell me frankly now," he pursued, picking up a cigar and keeping one hand on his glass; "give me your advice."

 "Why, what is it?"

 "I'll tell you. Suppose you're married, you love your wife, but you're fascinated by another woman..."

 "Excuse me, but I'm absolutely unable to comprehend how...just as I can't comprehend how I could now, after my dinner, go straight to a baker's shop and steal a roll."

 Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes sparkled more than usual.

 "Why not?  A roll will sometimes smell so good one can't resist it."

     "Himmlisch ist's, wenn ich bezwungen      Meine irdische Begier;      Aber doch wenn's nich gelungen      Hatt' ich auch recht huebsch Plaisir!"

 As he said this, Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled subtly. Levin, too, could not help smiling.

 "Yes, but joking apart," resumed Stepan Arkadyevitch, "you must understand that the woman is a sweet, gentle loving creature, poor and lonely, and has sacrificed everything. Now, when the thing's done, don't you see, can one possibly cast her off?  Even supposing one parts from her, so as not to break up one's family life, still, can one help feeling for her, setting her on her feet, softening her lot?"

 "Well, you must excuse me there. You know to me all women are divided into two least no...truer to say: there are women and there are...I've never seen exquisite fallen beings, and I never shall see them, but such creatures as that painted Frenchwoman at the counter with the ringlets are vermin to my mind, and all fallen women are the same."

 "But the Magdalen?"

 "Ah, drop that!  Christ would never have said those words if He had known how they would be abused. Of all the Gospel those words are the only ones remembered. However, I'm not saying so much what I think, as what I feel. I have a loathing for fallen women. You're afraid of spiders, and I of these vermin. Most likely you've not made a study of spiders and don't know their character; and so it is with me."

 "It's very well for you to talk like that; it's very much like that gentleman in Dickens who used to fling all difficult questions over his right shoulder. But to deny the facts is no answer. What's to be done--you tell me that, what's to be done? Your wife gets older, while you're full of life. Before you've time to look round, you feel that you can't love your wife with love, however much you may esteem her. And then all at once love turns up, and you're done for, done for," Stepan Arkadyevitch said with weary despair.

 Levin half smiled.

 "Yes, you're done for," resumed Oblonsky. "But what's to be done?"

 "Don't steal rolls."

 Stepan Arkadyevitch laughed outright.

 "Oh, moralist!  But you must understand, there are two women; one insists only on her rights, and those rights are your love, which you can't give her; and the other sacrifices everything for you and asks for nothing. What are you to do?  How are you to act? There's a fearful tragedy in it."

 "If you care for my profession of faith as regards that, I'll tell you that I don't believe there was any tragedy about it. And this is why. To my mind, love...both the sorts of love, which you remember Plato defines in his Banquet, served as the test of men. Some men only understand one sort, and some only the other. And those who only know the non-platonic love have no need to talk of tragedy. In such love there can be no sort of tragedy. 'I'm much obliged for the gratification, my humble respects'--that's all the tragedy. And in platonic love there can be no tragedy, because in that love all is clear and pure, because..."

 At that instant Levin recollected his own sins and the inner conflict he had lived through. And he added unexpectedly:

 "But perhaps you are right. Very likely...I don't know, I don't know."

 "It's this, don't you see," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, "you're very much all of a piece. That's your strong point and your failing. You have a character that's all of a piece, and you want the whole of life to be of a piece too--but that's not how it is. You despise public official work because you want the reality to be invariably corresponding all the while with the aim--and that's not how it is. You want a man's work, too, always to have a defined aim, and love and family life always to be undivided--and that's not how it is. All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow."

 Levin sighed and made no reply. He was thinking of his own affairs, and did not hear Oblonsky.

 And suddenly both of them felt that though they were friends, though they had been dining and drinking together, which should have drawn them closer, yet each was thinking only of his own affairs, and they had nothing to do with one another. Oblonsky had more than once experienced this extreme sense of aloofness, instead of intimacy, coming on after dinner, and he knew what to do in such cases.

 "Bill!" he called, and he went into the next room where he promptly came across an aide-de-camp of his acquaintance and dropped into conversation with him about an actress and her protector. And at once in the conversation with the aide-de-camp Oblonsky had a sense of relaxation and relief after the conversation with Levin, which always put him to too great a mental and spiritual strain.

 When the Tatar appeared with a bill for twenty-six roubles and odd kopecks, besides a tip for himself, Levin, who would another time have been horrified, like any one from the country, at his share of fourteen roubles, did not notice it, paid, and set off homewards to dress and go to the Shtcherbatskys' there to decide his fate.


 Chapter 12

  The young Princess Kitty Shtcherbatskaya was eighteen. It was the first winter that she had been out in the world. Her success in society had been greater than that of either of her elder sisters, and greater even than her mother had anticipated. To say nothing of the young men who danced at the Moscow balls being almost all in love with Kitty, two serious suitors had already this first winter made their appearance: Levin, and immediately after his departure, Count Vronsky.

 Levin's appearance at the beginning of the winter, his frequent visits, and evident love for Kitty, had led to the first serious conversations between Kitty's parents as to her future, and to disputes between them. The prince was on Levin's side; he said he wished for nothing better for Kitty. The princess for her part, going round the question in the manner peculiar to women, maintained that Kitty was too young, that Levin had done nothing to prove that he had serious intentions, that Kitty felt no great attraction to him, and other side issues; but she did not state the principal point, which was that she looked for a better match for her daughter, and that Levin was not to her liking, and she did not understand him. When Levin had abruptly departed, the princess was delighted, and said to her husband triumphantly: "You see I was right."  When Vronsky appeared on the scene, she was still more delighted, confirmed in her opinion that Kitty was to make not simply a good, but a brilliant match.

 In the mother's eyes there could be no comparison between Vronsky and Levin. She disliked in Levin his strange and uncompromising opinions and his shyness in society, founded, as she supposed, on his pride and his queer sort of life, as she considered it, absorbed in cattle and peasants. She did not very much like it that he, who was in love with her daughter, had kept coming to the house for six weeks, as though he were waiting for something, inspecting, as though he were afraid he might be doing them too great an honor by making an offer, and did not realize that a man, who continually visits at a house where there is a young unmarried girl, is bound to make his intentions clear. And suddenly, without doing so, he disappeared. "It's as well he's not attractive enough for Kitty to have fallen in love with him," thought the mother.

 Vronsky satisfied all the mother's desires. Very wealthy, clever, of aristocratic family, on the highroad to a brilliant career in the army and at court, and a fascinating man. Nothing better could be wished for.

 Vronsky openly flirted with Kitty at balls, danced with her, and came continually to the house, consequently there could be no doubt of the seriousness of his intentions. But, in spite of that, the mother had spent the whole of that winter in a state of terrible anxiety and agitation.

 Princess Shtcherbatskaya had herself been married thirty years ago, her aunt arranging the match. Her husband, about whom everything was well known before hand, had come, looked at his future bride, and been looked at. The match-making aunt had ascertained and communicated their mutual impression. That impression had been favorable. Afterwards, on a day fixed beforehand, the expected offer was made to her parents, and accepted. All had passed very simply and easily. So it seemed, at least, to the princess. But over her own daughters she had felt how far from simple and easy is the business, apparently so commonplace, of marrying off one's daughters. The panics that had been lived through, the thoughts that had been brooded over, the money that had been wasted, and the disputes with her husband over marrying the two elder girls, Darya and Natalia!  Now, since the youngest had come out, she was going through the same terrors, the same doubts, and still more violent quarrels with her husband than she had over the elder girls. The old prince, like all fathers indeed, was exceedingly punctilious on the score of the honor and reputation of his daughters. He was irrationally jealous over his daughters, especially over Kitty, who was his favorite. At every turn he had scenes with the princess for compromising her daughter. The princess had grown accustomed to this already with her other daughters, but now she felt that there was more ground for the prince's touchiness. She saw that of late years much was changed in the manners of society, that a mother's duties had become still more difficult. She saw that girls of Kitty's age formed some sort of clubs, went to some sort of lectures, mixed freely in men's society; drove about the streets alone, many of them did not curtsey, and, what was the most important thing, all the girls were firmly convinced that to choose their husbands was their own affair, and not their parents'. "Marriages aren't made nowadays as they used to be," was thought and said by all these young girls, and even by their elders. But how marriages were made now, the princess could not learn from any one. The French fashion--of the parents arranging their children's future--was not accepted; it was condemned. The English fashion of the complete independence of girls was also not accepted, and not possible in Russian society. The Russian fashion of match-making by the offices of intermediate persons was for some reason considered unseemly; it was ridiculed by every one, and by the princess herself. But how girls were to be married, and how parents were to marry them, no one knew. Everyone with whom the princess had chanced to discuss the matter said the same thing: "Mercy on us, it's high time in our day to cast off all that old-fashioned business. It's the young people have to marry; and not their parents; and so we ought to leave the young people to arrange it as they choose." It was very easy for anyone to say that who had no daughters, but the princess realized that in the process of getting to know each other, her daughter might fall in love, and fall in love with someone who did not care to marry her or who was quite unfit to be her husband. And, however much it was instilled into the princess that in our times young people ought to arrange their lives for themselves, she was unable to believe it, just as she would have been unable to believe that, at any time whatever, the most suitable playthings for children five years old ought to be loaded pistols. And so the princess was more uneasy over Kitty than she had been over her elder sisters.

 Now she was afraid that Vronsky might confine himself to simply flirting with her daughter. She saw that her daughter was in love with him, but tried to comfort herself with the thought that he was an honorable man, and would not do this. But at the same time she knew how easy it is, with the freedom of manners of today, to turn a girl's head, and how lightly men generally regard such a crime. The week before, Kitty had told her mother of a conversation she had with Vronsky during a mazurka. This conversation had partly reassured the princess; but perfectly at ease she could not be. Vronsky had told Kitty that both he and his brother were so used to obeying their mother that they never made up their minds to any important undertaking without consulting her. "And just now, I am impatiently awaiting my mother's arrival from Petersburg, as peculiarly fortunate," he told her.

 Kitty had repeated this without attaching any significance to the words.   But her mother saw them in a different light. She knew that the old lady was expected from day to day, that she would be pleased at her son's choice, and she felt it strange that he should not make his offer through fear of vexing his mother. However, she was so anxious for the marriage itself, and still more for relief from her fears, that she believed it was so. Bitter as it was for the princess to see the unhappiness of her eldest daughter, Dolly, on the point of leaving her husband, her anxiety over the decision of her youngest daughter's fate engrossed all her feelings. Today, with Levin's reappearance, a fresh source of anxiety arose. She was afraid that her daughter, who had at one time, as she fancied, a feeling for Levin, might, from extreme sense of honor, refuse Vronsky, and that Levin's arrival might generally complicate and delay the affair so near being concluded.

 "Why, has he been here long?" the princess asked about Levin, as they returned home.

 "He came today, mamma."

 "There's one thing I want to say..." began the princess, and from her serious and alert face, Kitty guessed what it would be.

 "Mamma," she said, flushing hotly and turning quickly to her, "please, please don't say anything about that. I know, I know all about it."

 She wished for what her mother wished for, but the motives of her mother's wishes wounded her.

 "I only want to say that to raise hopes..."

 "Mamma, darling, for goodness' sake, don't talk about it. It's so horrible to talk about it."

 "I won't," said her mother, seeing the tears in her daughter's eyes; "but one thing, my love; you promised me you would have no secrets from me. You won't?"

 "Never, mamma, none," answered Kitty, flushing a little, and looking her mother straight in the face, "but there's no use in my telling you anything, and I...I...if I wanted to, I don't know what to say or how...I don't know..."

 "No, she could not tell an untruth with those eyes," thought the mother, smiling at her agitation and happiness. The princess smiled that what was taking place just now in her soul seemed to the poor child so immense and so important.


 Chapter 13

  After dinner, and till the beginning of the evening, Kitty was feeling a sensation akin to the sensation of a young man before a battle. Her heart throbbed violently, and her thoughts would not rest on anything.

 She felt that this evening, when they would both meet for the first time, would be a turning point in her life. And she was continually picturing them to herself, at one moment each separately, and then both together. When she mused on the past, she dwelt with pleasure, with tenderness, on the memories of her relations with Levin. The memories of childhood and of Levin's friendship with her dead brother gave a special poetic charm to her relations with him. His love for her, of which she felt certain, was flattering and delightful to her; and it was pleasant for her to think of Levin. In her memories of Vronsky there always entered a certain element of awkwardness, though he was in the highest degree well-bred and at ease, as though there were some false note--not in Vronsky, he was very simple and nice, but in herself, while with Levin she felt perfectly simple and clear. But, on the other hand, directly she thought of the future with Vronsky, there arose before her a perspective of brilliant happiness; with Levin the future seemed misty.

 When she went upstairs to dress, and looked into the looking-glass, she noticed with joy that it was one of her good days, and that she was in complete possession of all her forces,--she needed this so for what lay before her: she was conscious of external composure and free grace in her movements.

 At half-past seven she had only just gone down into the drawing room, when the footman announced, "Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin."  The princess was still in her room, and the prince had not come in. "So it is to be," thought Kitty, and all the blood seemed to rush to her heart. She was horrified at her paleness, as she glanced into the looking-glass. At that moment she knew beyond doubt that he had come early on purpose to find her alone and to make her an offer. And only then for the first time the whole thing presented itself in a new, different aspect; only then she realized that the question did not affect her only-- with whom she would be happy, and whom she loved--but that she would have that moment to wound a man whom she liked. And to wound him cruelly. What for?  Because he, dear fellow, loved her, was in love with her. But there was no help for it, so it must be, so it would have to be.

 "My God! shall I myself really have to say it to him?" she thought. "Can I tell him I don't love him?  That will be a lie. What am I to say to him?  That I love someone else?  No, that's impossible. I'm going away, I'm going away."

 She had reached the door, when she heard his step. "No! it's not honest. What have I to be afraid of?  I have done nothing wrong. What is to be, will be!  I'll tell the truth. And with him one can't be ill at ease. Here he is," she said to herself, seeing his powerful, shy figure, with his shining eyes fixed on her. She looked straight into his face, as though imploring him to spare her, and gave her hand.

 "It's not time yet; I think I'm too early," he said glancing round the empty drawing room. When he saw that his expectations were realized, that there was nothing to prevent him from speaking, his face became gloomy.

 "Oh, no," said Kitty, and sat down at the table.

 "But this was just what I wanted, to find you alone," he began, not sitting down, and not looking at her, so as not to lose courage.

 "Mamma will be down directly. She was very much tired.... Yesterday..."

 She talked on, not knowing what her lips were uttering, and not taking her supplicating and caressing eyes off him.

 He glanced at her; she blushed, and ceased speaking.

 "I told you I did not know whether I should be here long...that it depended on you..."

 She dropped her head lower and lower, not knowing herself what answer she should make to what was coming.

 "That it depended on you," he repeated. "I meant to say...I meant to say...I came for be my wife!" he brought out, not knowing what he was saying; but feeling that the most terrible thing was said, he stopped short and looked at her...

 She was breathing heavily, not looking at him. She was feeling ecstasy. Her soul was flooded with happiness. She had never anticipated that the utterance of love would produce such a powerful effect on her. But it lasted only an instant. She remembered Vronsky. She lifted her clear, truthful eyes, and seeing his desperate face, she answered hastily:

 "That cannot be...forgive me."

 A moment ago, and how close she had been to him, of what importance in his life!  And how aloof and remote from him she had become now!

 "It was bound to be so," he said, not looking at her.

 He bowed, and was meaning to retreat.

  Chapter 14

 But at that very moment the princess came in. There was a look of horror on her face when she saw them alone, and their disturbed faces. Levin bowed to her, and said nothing. Kitty did not speak nor lift her eyes. "Thank God, she has refused him," thought the mother, and her face lighted up with the habitual smile with which she greeted her guests on Thursdays. She sat down and began questioning Levin about his life in the country. He sat down again, waiting for other visitors to arrive, in order to retreat unnoticed.

 Five minutes later there came in a friend of Kitty's, married the preceding winter, Countess Nordston.

 She was a thin, sallow, sickly, and nervous woman, with brilliant black eyes. She was fond of Kitty, and her affection for her showed itself, as the affection of married women for girls always does, in the desire to make a match for Kitty after her own ideal of married happiness; she wanted her to marry Vronsky. Levin she had often met at the Shtcherbatskys' early in the winter, and she had always disliked him. Her invariable and favorite pursuit, when they met, consisted in making fun of him.

 "I do like it when he looks down at me from the height of his grandeur, or breaks off his learned conversation with me because I'm a fool, or is condescending to me. I like that so; to see him condescending!  I am so glad he can't bear me," she used to say of him.

 She was right, for Levin actually could not bear her, and despised her for what she was proud of and regarded as a fine characteristic--her nervousness, her delicate contempt and indifference for everything coarse and earthly.

 The Countess Nordston and Levin got into that relation with one another not seldom seen in society, when two persons, who remain externally on friendly terms, despise each other to such a degree that they cannot even take each other seriously, and cannot even be offended by each other.

 The Countess Nordston pounced upon Levin at once.

 "Ah, Konstantin Dmitrievitch! So you've come back to our corrupt Babylon," she said, giving him her tiny, yellow hand, and recalling what he had chanced to say early in the winter, that Moscow was a Babylon. "Come, is Babylon reformed, or have you degenerated?" she added, glancing with a simper at Kitty.

 "It's very flattering for me, countess, that you remember my words so well," responded Levin, who had succeeded in recovering his composure, and at once from habit dropped into his tone of joking hostility to the Countess Nordston. "They must certainly make a great impression on you."

 "Oh, I should think so!  I always note them all down. Well, Kitty, have you been skating again?..."

 And she began talking to Kitty. Awkward as it was for Levin to withdraw now, it would still have been easier for him to perpetrate this awkwardness than to remain all the evening and see Kitty, who glanced at him now and then and avoided his eyes. He was on the point of getting up, when the princess, noticing that he was silent, addressed him.

 "Shall you be long in Moscow? You're busy with the district council, though, aren't you, and can't be away for long?"

 "No, princess, I'm no longer a member of the council," he said. "I have come up for a few days."

 "There's something the matter with him," thought Countess Nordston, glancing at his stern, serious face. "He isn't in his old argumentative mood. But I'll draw him out. I do love making a fool of him before Kitty, and I'll do it."

 "Konstantin Dmitrievitch," she said to him, "do explain to me, please, what's the meaning of it. You know all about such things. At home in our village of Kaluga all the peasants and all the women have drunk up all they possessed, and now they can't pay us any rent. What's the meaning of that?  You always praise the peasants so."

 At that instant another lady came into the room, and Levin got up.

 "Excuse me, countess, but I really know nothing about it, and can't tell you anything," he said, and looked round at the officer who came in behind the lady.

 "That must be Vronsky," thought Levin, and, to be sure of it, glanced at Kitty. She had already had time to look at Vronsky, and looked round at Levin. And simply from the look in her eyes, that grew unconsciously brighter, Levin knew that she loved that man, knew it as surely as if she had told him so in words. But what sort of a man was he?  Now, whether for good or for ill, Levin could not choose but remain; he must find out what the man was like whom she loved.

 There are people who, on meeting a successful rival, no matter in what, are at once disposed to turn their backs on everything good in him, and to see only what is bad. There are people, on the other hand, who desire above all to find in that lucky rival the qualities by which he has outstripped them, and seek with a throbbing ache at heart only what is good. Levin belonged to the second class. But he had no difficulty in finding what was good and attractive in Vronsky. It was apparent at the first glance. Vronsky was a squarely built, dark man, not very tall, with a good-humored, handsome, and exceedingly calm and resolute face. Everything about his face and figure, from his short-cropped black hair and freshly shaven chin down to his loosely fitting, brand-new uniform, was simple and at the same time elegant. Making way for the lady who had come in, Vronsky went up to the princess and then to Kitty.

 As he approached her, his beautiful eyes shone with a specially tender light, and with a faint, happy, and modestly triumphant smile (so it seemed to Levin), bowing carefully and respectfully over her, he held out his small broad hand to her.

 Greeting and saying a few words to everyone, he sat down without once glancing at Levin, who had never taken his eyes off him.

 "Let me introduce you," said the princess, indicating Levin. "Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin, Count Alexey Kirillovitch Vronsky."

 Vronsky got up and, looking cordially at Levin, shook hands with him.

 "I believe I was to have dined with you this winter," he said, smiling his simple and open smile; "but you had unexpectedly left for the country."

 "Konstantin Dmitrievitch despises and hates town and us townspeople," said Countess Nordston.

 "My words must make a deep impression on you, since you remember them so well," said Levin, and, suddenly conscious that he had said just the same thing before, he reddened.

 Vronsky looked at Levin and Countess Nordston, and smiled.

 "Are you always in the country?" he inquired. "I should think it must be dull in the winter."

 "It's not dull if one has work to do; besides, one's not dull by oneself," Levin replied abruptly.

 "I am fond of the country," said Vronsky, noticing, and affecting not to notice, Levin's tone.

 "But I hope, count, you would not consent to live in the country always," said Countess Nordston.

 "I don't know; I have never tried for long. I experienced a queer feeling once," he went on. "I never longed so for the country, Russian country, with bast shoes and peasants, as when I was spending a winter with my mother in Nice. Nice itself is dull enough, you know. And indeed, Naples and Sorrento are only pleasant for a short time. And it's just there that Russia comes back to me most vividly, and especially the country. It's as though..."

 He talked on, addressing both Kitty and Levin, turning his serene, friendly eyes from one to the other, and saying obviously just what came into his head.

 Noticing that Countess Nordston wanted to say something, he stopped short without finishing what he had begun, and listened attentively to her.

 The conversation did not flag for an instant, so that the princess, who always kept in reserve, in case a subject should be lacking, two heavy guns--the relative advantages of classical and of modern education, and universal military service--had not to move out either of them, while Countess Nordston had not a chance of chaffing Levin.

 Levin wanted to, and could not, take part in the general conversation; saying to himself every instant, "Now go," he still did not go, as though waiting for something.

 The conversation fell upon table-turning and spirits, and Countess Nordston, who believed in spiritualism, began to describe the marvels she had seen.

 "Ah, countess, you really must take me, for pity's sake do take me to see them!  I have never seen anything extraordinary, though I am always on the lookout for it everywhere," said Vronsky, smiling.

 "Very well, next Saturday," answered Countess Nordston. "But you, Konstantin Dmitrievitch, do you believe in it?" she asked Levin.

 "Why do you ask me?  You know what I shall say."

 "But I want to hear your opinion."

 "My opinion," answered Levin, "is only that this table-turning simply proves that educated society--so called--is no higher than the peasants. They believe in the evil eye, and in witchcraft and omens, while we..."

 "Oh, then you don't believe in it?"

 "I can't believe in it, countess."

 "But if I've seen it myself?"

 "The peasant women too tell us they have seen goblins."

 "Then you think I tell a lie?"

 And she laughed a mirthless laugh.

 "Oh, no, Masha, Konstantin Dmitrievitch said he could not believe in it," said Kitty, blushing for Levin, and Levin saw this, and, still more exasperated, would have answered, but Vronsky with his bright frank smile rushed to the support of the conversation, which was threatening to become disagreeable.

 "You do not admit the conceivability at all?" he queried.   "But why not?  We admit the existence of electricity, of which we know nothing. Why should there not be some new force, still unknown to us, which..."

 "When electricity was discovered," Levin interrupted hurriedly, "it was only the phenomenon that was discovered, and it was unknown from what it proceeded and what were its effects, and ages passed before its applications were conceived. But the spiritualists have begun with tables writing for them, and spirits appearing to them, and have only later started saying that it is an unknown force."

 Vronsky listened attentively to Levin, as he always did listen, obviously interested in his words.

 "Yes, but the spiritualists say we don't know at present what this force is, but there is a force, and these are the conditions in which it acts. Let the scientific men find out what the force consists in. No, I don't see why there should not be a new force, if it..."

 "Why, because with electricity," Levin interrupted again, "every time you rub tar against wool, a recognized phenomenon is manifested, but in this case it does not happen every time, and so it follows it is not a natural phenomenon."

 Feeling probably that the conversation was taking a tone too serious for a drawing room, Vronsky made no rejoinder, but by way of trying to change the conversation, he smiled brightly, and turned to the ladies.

 "Do let us try at once, countess," he said; but Levin would finish saying what he thought.

 "I think," he went on, "that this attempt of the spiritualists to explain their marvels as some sort of new natural force is most futile. They boldly talk of spiritual force, and then try to subject it to material experiment."

 Every one was waiting for him to finish, and he felt it.

 "And I think you would be a first-rate medium," said Countess Nordston; "there's something enthusiastic in you."

 Levin opened his mouth, was about to say something, reddened, and said nothing.

 "Do let us try table-turning at once, please," said Vronsky. "Princess, will you allow it?"

 And Vronsky stood up, looking for a little table.

 Kitty got up to fetch a table, and as she passed, her eyes met Levin's. She felt for him with her whole heart, the more because she was pitying him for suffering of which she was herself the cause. "If you can forgive me, forgive me," said her eyes, "I am so happy."

 "I hate them all, and you, and myself," his eyes responded, and he took up his hat. But he was not destined to escape. Just as they were arranging themselves round the table, and Levin was on the point of retiring, the old prince came in, and after greeting the ladies, addressed Levin.

 "Ah!" he began joyously. "Been here long, my boy?  I didn't even know you were in town. Very glad to see you."  The old prince embraced Levin, and talking to him did not observe Vronsky, who had risen, and was serenely waiting till the prince should turn to him.

 Kitty felt how distasteful her father's warmth was to Levin after what had happened. She saw, too, how coldly her father responded at last to Vronsky's bow, and how Vronsky looked with amiable perplexity at her father, as though trying and failing to understand how and why anyone could be hostilely disposed towards him, and she flushed.

 "Prince, let us have Konstantin Dmitrievitch," said Countess Nordston; "we want to try an experiment."

 "What experiment?  Table-turning?  Well, you must excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but to my mind it is better fun to play the ring game," said the old prince, looking at Vronsky, and guessing that it had been his suggestion. "There's some sense in that, anyway."

 Vronsky looked wonderingly at the prince with his resolute eyes, and, with a faint smile, began immediately talking to Countess Nordston of the great ball that was to come off next week.

 "I hope you will be there?" he said to Kitty. As soon as the old prince turned away from him, Levin went out unnoticed, and the last impression he carried away with him of that evening was the smiling, happy face of Kitty answering Vronsky's inquiry about the ball.


 Chapter 15

  At the end of the evening Kitty told her mother of her conversation with Levin, and in spite of all the pity she felt for Levin, she was glad at the thought that she had received an _offer_. She had no doubt that she had acted rightly. But after she had gone to bed, for a long while she could not sleep. One impression pursued her relentlessly. It was Levin's face, with his scowling brows, and his kind eyes looking out in dark dejection below them, as he stood listening to her father, and glancing at her and at Vronsky. And she felt so sorry for him that tears came into her eyes. But immediately she thought of the man for whom she had given him up. She vividly recalled his manly, resolute face, his noble self-possession, and the good nature conspicuous in everything towards everyone. She remembered the love for her of the man she loved, and once more all was gladness in her soul, and she lay on the pillow, smiling with happiness. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry; but what could I do? It's not my fault," she said to herself; but an inner voice told her something else. Whether she felt remorse at having won Levin's love, or at having refused him, she did not know. But her happiness was poisoned by doubts. "Lord, have pity on us; Lord, have pity on us; Lord, have pity on us!" she repeated to herself, till she fell asleep.

 Meanwhile there took place below, in the prince's little library, one of the scenes so often repeated between the parents on account of their favorite daughter.

 "What? I'll tell you what!" shouted the prince, waving his arms, and at once wrapping his squirrel-lined dressing-gown round him again. "That you've no pride, no dignity; that you're disgracing, ruining your daughter by this vulgar, stupid match-making!"

 "But, really, for mercy's sake, prince, what have I done?" said the princess, almost crying.

 She, pleased and happy after her conversation with her daughter, had gone to the prince to say good-night as usual, and though she had no intention of telling him of Levin's offer and Kitty's refusal, still she hinted to her husband that she fancied things were practically settled with Vronsky, and that he would declare himself so soon as his mother arrived. And thereupon, at those words, the prince had all at once flown into a passion, and began to use unseemly language.

 "What have you done?  I'll tell you what. First of all, you're trying to catch an eligible gentleman, and all Moscow will be talking of it, and with good reason. If you have evening parties, invite everyone, don't pick out the possible suitors. Invite all the young bucks. Engage a piano player, and let them dance, and not as you do things nowadays, hunting up good matches. It makes me sick, sick to see it, and you've gone on till you've turned the poor wench's head. Levin's a thousand times the better man. As for this little Petersburg swell, they're turned out by machinery, all on one pattern, and all precious rubbish. But if he were a prince of the blood, my daughter need not run after anyone."

 "But what have I done?"

 "Why, you've..." The prince was crying wrathfully.

 "I know if one were to listen to you," interrupted the princess, "we should never marry our daughter. If it's to be so, we'd better go into the country."

 "Well, and we had better."

 "But do wait a minute. Do I try and catch them?  I don't try to catch them in the least. A young man, and a very nice one, has fallen in love with her, and she, I fancy..."

 "Oh, yes, you fancy!  And how if she really is in love, and he's no more thinking of marriage than I am!... Oh, that I should live to see it!  Ah! spiritualism!  Ah!  Nice!  Ah! the ball!" And the prince, imagining that he was mimicking his wife, made a mincing curtsey at each word. "And this is how we're preparing wretchedness for Kitty; and she's really got the notion into her head..."

 "But what makes you suppose so?"

 "I don't suppose; I know. We have eyes for such things, though women-folk haven't. I see a man who has serious intentions, that's Levin: and I see a peacock, like this feather-head, who's only amusing himself."

 "Oh, well, when once you get an idea into your head!..."

 "Well, you'll remember my words, but too late, just as with Dolly."

 "Well, well, we won't talk of it," the princess stopped him, recollecting her unlucky Dolly.

 "By all means, and good night!"

 And signing each other with the cross, the husband and wife parted with a kiss, feeling that they each remained of their own opinion.

 The princess had at first been quite certain that that evening had settled Kitty's future, and that there could be no doubt of Vronsky's intentions, but her husband's words had disturbed her. And returning to her own room, in terror before the unknown future, she, too, like Kitty, repeated several times in her heart, "Lord, have pity; Lord, have pity; Lord, have pity."


 Chapter 16

  Vronsky had never had a real home life. His mother had been in her youth a brilliant society woman, who had had during her married life, and still more afterwards, many love affairs notorious in the whole fashionable world. His father he scarcely remembered, and he had been educated in the Corps of Pages.

 Leaving the school very young as a brilliant officer, he had at once got into the circle of wealthy Petersburg army men. Although he did go more or less into Petersburg society, his love affairs had always hitherto been outside it.

 In Moscow he had for the first time felt, after his luxurious and coarse life at Petersburg, all the charm of intimacy with a sweet and innocent girl of his own rank, who cared for him. It never even entered his head that there could be any harm in his relations with Kitty. At balls he danced principally with her. He was a constant visitor at their house. He talked to her as people commonly do talk in society--all sorts of nonsense, but nonsense to which he could not help attaching a special meaning in her case. Although he said nothing to her that he could not have said before everybody, he felt that she was becoming more and more dependent upon him, and the more he felt this, the better he liked it, and the tenderer was his feeling for her. He did not know that his mode of behavior in relation to Kitty had a definite character, that it is courting young girls with no intention of marriage, and that such courting is one of the evil actions common among brilliant young men such as he was. It seemed to him that he was the first who had discovered this pleasure, and he was enjoying his discovery.

 If he could have heard what her parents were saying that evening, if he could have put himself at the point ov view of the family and have heard that Kitty would be unhappy if he did not marry her, he would have been greatly astonished, and would not have believed it. He could not believe that what gave such great and delicate pleasure to him, and above all to her, could be wrong. Still less could he have believed that he ought to marry.

 Marriage had never presented itself to him as a possibility. He not only disliked family life, but a family, and especially a husband was, in accordance with the views general in the bachelor world in which he lived, conceived as something alien, repellant, and, above all, ridiculous.

 But though Vronsky had not the least suspicion what the parents were saying, he felt on coming away from the Shtcherbatskys' that the secret spiritual bond which existed between him and Kitty had grown so much stronger that evening that some step must be taken. But what step could and ought to be taken he could not imagine.

 "What is so exquisite," he thought, as he returned from the Shtcherbatskys', carrying away with him, as he always did, a delicious feeling of purity and freshness, arising partly from the fact that he had not been smoking for a whole evening, and with it a new feeling of tenderness at her love for him--"what is so exquisite is that not a word has been said by me or by her, but we understand each other so well in this unseen language of looks and tones, that this evening more clearly than ever she told me she loves me. And how secretly, simply, and most of all, how trustfully!  I feel myself better, purer. I feel that I have a heart, and that there is a great deal of good in me. Those sweet, loving eyes!  When she said:  Indeed I do...'

 "Well, what then?  Oh, nothing. It's good for me, and good for her." And he began wondering where to finish the evening.

 He passed in review of the places he might go to. "Club? a game of bezique, champagne with Ignatov? No, I'm not going. _Château des Fleurs_; there I shall find Oblonsky, songs, the cancan. No, I'm sick of it. That's why I like the Shtcherbatskys', that I'm growing better. I'll go home." He went straight to his room at Dussot's Hotel, ordered supper, and then undressed, and as soon as his head touched the pillow, fell into a sound sleep.


 Chapter 17

  Next day at eleven o'clock in the morning Vronsky drove to the station of the Petersburg railway to meet his mother, and the first person he came across on the great flight of steps was Oblonsky, who was expecting his sister by the same train.

 "Ah! your excellency!" cried Oblonsky, "whom are you meeting?"

 "My mother," Vronsky responded, smiling, as everyone did who met Oblonsky. He shook hands with him, and together they ascended the steps. "She is to be here from Petersburg today."

 "I was looking out for you till two o'clock last night. Where did you go after the Shtcherbatskys'?"

 "Home," answered Vronsky. "I must own I felt so well content yesterday after the Shtcherbatskys' that I didn't care to go anywhere."

      "I know a gallant steed by tokens sure,      And by his eyes I know a youth in love,"

 declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch, just as he had done before to Levin.

 Vronsky smiled with a look that seemed to say that he did not deny it, but he promptly changed the subject.

 "And whom are you meeting?" he asked.

 "I? I've come to meet a pretty woman," said Oblonsky.

 "You don't say so!"

 "_Honi soit qui mal y pense!_ My sister Anna."

 "Ah! that's Madame Karenina," said Vronsky.

 "You know her, no doubt?"

 "I think I do. Or perhaps not...I really am not sure," Vronsky answered heedlessly, with a vague recollection of something stiff and tedious evoked by the name Karenina.

 "But Alexey Alexandrovitch, my celebrated brother-in-law, you surely must know. All the world knows him."

 "I know him by reputation and by sight. I know that he's clever, learned, religious somewhat.... But you know that's not..._not in my line,_" said Vronsky in English.

 "Yes, he's a very remarkable man; rather a conservative, but a splendid man," observed Stepan Arkadyevitch, "a splendid man."

 "Oh, well, so much the better for him," said Vronsky smiling. "Oh, you've come," he said, addressing a tall old footman of his mother's, standing at the door; "come here."

 Besides the charm Oblonsky had in general for everyone, Vronsky had felt of late specially drawn to him by the fact that in his imagination he was associated with Kitty.

 "Well, what do you say? Shall we give a supper on Sunday for the _diva?_" he said to him with a smile, taking his arm.

 "Of course. I'm collecting subscriptions. Oh, did you make the acquaintance of my friend Levin?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 "Yes; but he left rather early."

 "He's a capital fellow," pursued Oblonsky. "Isn't he?"

 "I don't know why it is," responded Vronsky, "in all Moscow people--present company of course excepted," he put in jestingly, "there's something uncompromising. They are all on the defensive, lose their tempers, as though they all want to make one feel something..."

 "Yes, that's true, it is so," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing good-humoredly.

 "Will the train soon be in?" Vronsky asked a railway official.

 "The train's signaled," answered the man.

 The approach of the train was more and more evident by the preparatory bustle in the station, the rush of porters, the movement of policemen and attendants, and people meeting the train. Through the frosty vapor could be seen workmen in short sheepskins and soft felt boots crossing the rails of the curving line. The hiss of the boiler could be heard on the distant rails, and the rumble of something heavy.

 "No," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who felt a great inclination to tell Vronsky of Levin's intentions in regard to Kitty. "No, you've not got a true impression of Levin. He's a very nervous man, and is sometimes out of humor, it's true, but then he is often very nice. He's such a true, honest nature, and a heart of gold. But yesterday there were special reasons," pursued Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a meaning smile, totally oblivious of the genuine sympathy he had felt the day before for his friend, and feeling the same sympathy now, only for Vronsky. "Yes, there were reasons why he could not help being either particularly happy or particularly unhappy."

 Vronsky stood still and asked directly: "How so? Do you mean he made your _belle-soeur_ an offer yesterday?"

 "Maybe," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "I fancied something of the sort yesterday. Yes, if he went away early, and was out of humor too, it must mean it.... He's been so long in love, and I'm very sorry for him."

 "So that's it!  I should imagine, though, she might reckon on a better match," said Vronsky, drawing himself up and walking about again, "though I don't know him, of course," he added. "Yes, that is a hateful position!  That's why most fellows prefer to have to do with Klaras. If you don't succeed with them it only proves that you've not enough cash, but in this case one's dignity's at stake. But here's the train."

 The engine had already whistled in the distance. A few instants later the platform was quivering, and with puffs of steam hanging low in the air from the frost, the engine rolled up, with the lever of the middle wheel rhythmically moving up and down, and the stooping figure of the engine-driver covered with frost. Behind the tender, setting the platform more and more slowly swaying, came the luggage van with a dog whining in it. At last the passenger carriages rolled in, oscillating before coming to a standstill.

 A smart guard jumped out, giving a whistle, and after him one by one the impatient passengers began to get down: an officer of the guards, holding himself erect, and looking severely about him; a nimble little merchant with a satchel, smiling gaily; a peasant with a sack over his shoulder.

 Vronsky, standing beside Oblonsky, watched the carriages and the passengers, totally oblivious of his mother. What he had just heard about Kitty excited and delighted him. Unconsciously he arched his chest, and his eyes flashed. He felt himself a conqueror.

 "Countess Vronskaya is in that compartment," said the smart guard, going up to Vronsky.

 The guard's words roused him, and forced him to think of his mother and his approaching meeting with her. He did not in his heart respect his mother, and without acknowledging it to himself, he did not love her, though in accordance with the ideas of the set in which he lived, and with his own education, he could not have conceived of any behavior to his mother not in the highest degree respectful and obedient, and the more externally obedient and respectful his behavior, the less in his heart he respected and loved her.


 Chapter 18

  Vronsky followed the guard to the carriage, and at the door of the compartment he stopped short to make room for a lady who was getting out.

 With the insight of a man of the world, from one glance at this lady's appearance Vronsky classified her as belonging to the best society. He begged pardon, and was getting into the carriage, but felt he must glance at her once more; not that she was very beautiful, not on account of the elegance and modest grace which were apparent in her whole figure, but because in the expression of her charming face, as she passed close by him, there was something peculiarly caressing and soft. As he looked round, she too turned her head. Her shining gray eyes, that looked dark from the thick lashes, rested with friendly attention on his face, as though she were recognizing him, and then promptly turned away to the passing crowd, as though seeking someone. In that brief look Vronsky had time to notice the suppressed eagerness which played over her face, and flitted between the brilliant eyes and the faint smile that curved her red lips. It was as though her nature were so brimming over with something that against her will it showed itself now in the flash of her eyes, and now in her smile. Deliberately she shrouded the light in her eyes, but it shone against her will in the faintly perceptible smile.

 Vronsky stepped into the carriage. His mother, a dried-up old lady with black eyes and ringlets, screwed up her eyes, scanning her son, and smiled slightly with her thin lips. Getting up from the seat and handing her maid a bag, she gave her little wrinkled hand to her son to kiss, and lifting his head from her hand, kissed him on the cheek.

 "You got my telegram?  Quite well?  Thank God."

 "You had a good journey?" said her son, sitting down beside her, and involuntarily listening to a woman's voice outside the door. He knew it was the voice of the lady he had met at the door.

 "All the same I don't agree with you," said the lady's voice.

 "It's the Petersburg view, madame."

 "Not Petersburg, but simply feminine," she responded.

 "Well, well, allow me to kiss your hand."

 "Good-bye, Ivan Petrovitch. And could you see if my brother is here, and send him to me?" said the lady in the doorway, and stepped back again into the compartment.

 "Well, have you found your brother?" said Countess Vronskaya, addressing the lady.

 Vronsky understood now that this was Madame Karenina.

 "Your brother is here," he said, standing up. "Excuse me, I did not know you, and, indeed, our acquaintance was so slight," said Vronsky, bowing, "that no doubt you do not remember me."

 "Oh, no," said she, "I should have known you because your mother and I have been talking, I think, of nothing but you all the way."  As she spoke she let the eagerness that would insist on coming out show itself in her smile. "And still no sign of my brother."

 "Do call him, Alexey," said the old countess. Vronsky stepped out onto the platform and shouted:

 "Oblonsky! Here!"

 Madame Karenina, however, did not wait for her brother, but catching sight of him she stepped out with her light, resolute step. And as soon as her brother had reached her, with a gesture that struck Vronsky by its decision and its grace, she flung her left arm around his neck, drew him rapidly to her, and kissed him warmly. Vronsky gazed, never taking his eyes from her, and smiled, he could not have said why. But recollecting that his mother was waiting for him, he went back again into the carriage.

 "She's very sweet, isn't she?" said the countess of Madame Karenina. "Her husband put her with me, and I was delighted to have her. We've been talking all the way. And so you, I hear..._vous filez le parfait amour. Tant mieux, mon cher, tant mieux._"

 "I don't know what you are referring to, maman," he answered coldly. "Come, maman, let us go."

 Madame Karenina entered the carriage again to say good-bye to the countess.

 "Well, countess, you have met your son, and I my brother," she said. "And all my gossip is exhausted. I should have nothing more to tell you."

 "Oh, no," said the countess, taking her hand. "I could go all around the world with you and never be dull. You are one of those delightful women in whose company it's sweet to be silent as well as to talk. Now please don't fret over your son; you can't expect never to be parted."

 Madame Karenina stood quite still, holding herself very erect, and her eyes were smiling.

 "Anna Arkadyevna," the countess said in explanation to her son, "has a little son eight years old, I believe, and she has never been parted from him before, and she keeps fretting over leaving him."

 "Yes, the countess and I have been talking all the time, I of my son and she of hers," said Madame Karenina, and again a smile lighted up her face, a caressing smile intended for him.

 "I am afraid that you must have been dreadfully bored," he said, promptly catching the ball of coquetry she had flung him. But apparently she did not care to pursue the conversation in that strain, and she turned to the old countess.

 "Thank you so much. The time has passed so quickly. Good-bye, countess."

 "Good-bye, my love," answered the countess. "Let me have a kiss of your pretty face. I speak plainly, at my age, and I tell you simply that I've lost my heart to you."

 Stereotyped as the phrase was, Madame Karenina obviously believed it and was delighted by it. She flushed, bent down slightly, and put her cheek to the countess's lips, drew herself up again, and with the same smile fluttering between her lips and her eyes, she gave her hand to Vronsky. He pressed the little hand she gave him, and was delighted, as though at something special, by the energetic squeeze with which she freely and vigorously shook his hand. She went out with the rapid step which bore her rather fully-developed figure with such strange lightness.

 "Very charming," said the countess.

 That was just what her son was thinking. His eyes followed her till her graceful figure was out of sight, and then the smile remained on his face. He saw out of the window how she went up to her brother, put her arm in his, and began telling him something eagerly, obviously something that had nothing to do with him, Vronsky, and at that he felt annoyed.

 "Well, maman, are you perfectly well?" he repeated, turning to his mother.

 "Everything has been delightful. Alexander has been very good, and Marie has grown very pretty. She's very interesting."

 And she began telling him again of what interested her most--the christening of her grandson, for which she had been staying in Petersburg, and the special favor shown her elder son by the Tsar.

 "Here's Lavrenty," said Vronsky, looking out of the window; "now we can go, if you like."

 The old butler who had traveled with the countess, came to the carriage to announce that everything was ready, and the countess got up to go.

 "Come; there's not such a crowd now," said Vronsky.

 The maid took a handbag and the lap dog, the butler and a porter the other baggage. Vronsky gave his mother his arm; but just as they were getting out of the carriage several men ran suddenly by with panic-stricken faces. The station-master, too, ran by in his extraordinary colored cap. Obviously something unusual had happened. The crowd who had left the train were running back again.

 "What?... What?... Where?... Flung himself!... Crushed!..." was heard among the crowd. Stepan Arkadyevitch, with his sister on his arm, turned back. They too looked scared, and stopped at the carriage door to avoid the crowd.

 The ladies got in, while Vronsky and Stepan Arkadyevitch followed the crowd to find out details of the disaster.

 A guard, either drunk or too much muffled up in the bitter frost, had not heard the train moving back, and had been crushed.

 Before Vronsky and Oblonsky came back the ladies heard the facts from the butler.

 Oblonsky and Vronsky had both seen the mutilated corpse. Oblonsky was evidently upset. He frowned and seemed ready to cry.

 "Ah, how awful!  Ah, Anna, if you had seen it!  Ah, how awful!" he said.

 Vronsky did not speak; his handsome face was serious, but perfectly composed.

 "Oh, if you had seen it, countess," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "And his wife was there.... It was awful to see her!.... She flung herself on the body. They say he was the only support of an immense family. How awful!"

 "Couldn't one do anything for her?" said Madame Karenina in an agitated whisper.

 Vronsky glanced at her, and immediately got out of the carriage.

 "I'll be back directly, maman," he remarked, turning round in the doorway.

 When he came back a few minutes later, Stepan Arkadyevitch was already in conversation with the countess about the new singer, while the countess was impatiently looking towards the door, waiting for her son.

 "Now let us be off," said Vronsky, coming in. They went out together. Vronsky was in front with his mother. Behind walked Madame Karenina with her brother. Just as they were going out of the station the station-master overtook Vronsky.

 "You gave my assistant two hundred roubles. Would you kindly explain for whose benefit you intend them?"

 "For the widow," said Vronsky, shrugging his shoulders. "I should have thought there was no need to ask."

 "You gave that?" cried Oblonsky, behind, and, pressing his sister's hand, he added: "Very nice, very nice!  Isn't he a splendid fellow? Good-bye, countess."

 And he and his sister stood still, looking for her maid.

 When they went out the Vronsky's carriage had already driven away. People coming in were still talking of what happened.

 "What a horrible death!" said a gentleman, passing by. "They say he was cut in two pieces."

 "On the contrary, I think it's the easiest--instantaneous," observed another.

 "How is it they don't take proper precautions?" said a third.

 Madame Karenina seated herself in the carriage, and Stepan Arkadyevitch saw with surprise that her lips were quivering, and she was with difficulty restraining her tears.

 "What is it, Anna?" he asked, when they had driven a few hundred yards.

 "It's an omen of evil," she said.

 "What nonsense!" said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "You've come, that's the chief thing. You can't conceive how I'm resting my hopes on you."

 "Have you known Vronsky long?" she asked.

 "Yes.   You know we're hoping he will marry Kitty."

 "Yes?" said Anna softly. "Come now, let us talk of you," she added, tossing her head, as though she would physically shake off something superfluous oppressing her. "Let us talk of your affairs. I got your letter, and here I am."

 "Yes, all my hopes are in you," said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 "Well, tell me all about it."

 And Stepan Arkadyevitch began to tell his story.

 On reaching home Oblonsky helped his sister out, sighed, pressed her hand, and set off to his office.


 Chapter 19

  When Anna went into the room, Dolly was sitting in the little drawing-room with a white-headed fat little boy, already like his father, giving him a lesson in French reading. As the boy read, he kept twisting and trying to tear off a button that was nearly off his jacket. His mother had several times taken his hand from it, but the fat little hand went back to the button again. His mother pulled the button off and put it in her pocket.

 "Keep your hands still, Grisha," she said, and she took up her work, a coverlet she had long been making. She always set to work on it at depressed moments, and now she knitted at it nervously, twitching her fingers and counting the stitches. Though she had sent word the day before to her husband that it was nothing to her whether his sister came or not, she had made everything ready for her arrival, and was expecting her sister-in-law with emotion.

 Dolly was crushed by her sorrow, utterly swallowed up by it. Still she did not forget that Anna, her sister-in-law, was the wife of one of the most important personages in Petersburg, and was a Petersburg _grande dame_. And, thanks to this circumstance, she did not carry out her threat to her husband--that is to say, she remembered that her sister-in-law was coming. "And, after all, Anna is in no wise to blame," thought Dolly. "I know nothing of her except the very best, and I have seen nothing but kindness and affection from her towards myself." It was true that as far as she could recall her impressions at Petersburg at the Karenins', she did not like their household itself; there was something artificial in the whole framework of their family life. "But why should I not receive her? If only she doesn't take it into her head to console me!" thought Dolly. "All consolation and counsel and Christian forgiveness, all that I have thought over a thousand times, and it's all no use."

 All these days Dolly had been alone with her children. She did not want to talk of her sorrow, but with that sorrow in her heart she could not talk of outside matters. She knew that in one way or another she would tell Anna everything, and she was alternately glad at the thought of speaking freely, and angry at the necessity of speaking of her humiliation with her, his sister, and of hearing her ready-made phrases of good advice and comfort. She had been on the lookout for her, glancing at her watch every minute, and, as so often happens, let slip just that minute when her visitor arrived, so that she did not hear the bell.

 Catching a sound of skirts and light steps at the door, she looked round, and her care-worn face unconsciously expressed not gladness, but wonder. She got up and embraced her sister-in-law.

 "What, here already!" she said as she kissed her.

 "Dolly, how glad I am to see you!"

 "I am glad, too," said Dolly, faintly smiling, and trying by the expression of Anna's face to find out whether she knew. "Most likely she knows," she thought, noticing the sympathy in Anna's face. "Well, come along, I'll take you to your room," she went on, trying to defer as long as possible the moment of confidences.

 "Is this Grisha? Heavens, how he's grown!" said Anna; and kissing him, never taking her eyes off Dolly, she stood still and flushed a little. "No, please, let us stay here."

 She took off her kerchief and her hat, and catching it in a lock of her black hair, which was a mass of curls, she tossed her head and shook her hair down.

 "You are radiant with health and happiness!" said Dolly, almost with envy.

 "I?.... Yes," said Anna. "Merciful heavens, Tanya!  You're the same age as my Seryozha," she added, addressing the little girl as she ran in. She took her in her arms and kissed her. "Delightful child, delightful!  Show me them all."

 She mentioned them, not only remembering the names, but the years, months, characters, illnesses of all the children, and Dolly could not but appreciate that.

 "Very well, we will go to them," she said. "It's a pity Vassya's asleep."

 After seeing the children, they sat down, alone now, in the drawing room, to coffee. Anna took the tray, and then pushed it away from her.

 "Dolly," she said, "he has told me."

 Dolly looked coldly at Anna; she was waiting now for phrases of conventional sympathy, but Anna said nothing of the sort.

 "Dolly, dear," she said, "I don't want to speak for him to you, nor to try to comfort you; that's impossible. But, darling, I'm simply sorry, sorry from my heart for you!"

 Under the thick lashes of her shining eyes tears suddenly glittered. She moved nearer to her sister-in-law and took her hand in her vigorous little hand. Dolly did not shrink away, but her face did not lose its frigid expression. She said:

 "To comfort me's impossible. Everything's lost after what has happened, everything's over!"

 And directly she had said this, her face suddenly softened. Anna lifted the wasted, thin hand of Dolly, kissed it and said:

 "But, Dolly, what's to be done, what's to be done? How is it best to act in this awful position--that's what you must think of."

 "All's over, and there's nothing more," said Dolly. "And the worst of all is, you see, that I can't cast him off: there are the children, I am tied. And I can't live with him! it's a torture to me to see him."

 "Dolly, darling, he has spoken to me, but I want to hear it from you: tell me about it."

 Dolly looked at her inquiringly.

 Sympathy and love unfeigned were visible on Anna's face.

 "Very well," she said all at once. "But I will tell you it from the beginning. You know how I was married. With the education mamma gave us I was more than innocent, I was stupid. I knew nothing. I know they say men tell their wives of their former lives, but Stiva"--she corrected herself--"Stepan Arkadyevitch told me nothing. You'll hardly believe it, but till now I imagined that I was the only woman he had known. So I lived eight years. You must understand that I was so far from suspecting infidelity, I regarded it as impossible, and then-- try to imagine it--with such ideas, to find out suddenly all the horror, all the loathsomeness.... You must try and understand me. To be fully convinced of one's happiness, and all at once..." continued Dolly, holding back her sobs, "to get a letter...his letter to his mistress, my governess. No, it's too awful!"  She hastily pulled out her handkerchief and hid her face in it. "I can understand being carried away by feeling," she went on after a brief silence, "but deliberately, slyly deceiving me...and with whom?... To go on being my husband together with's awful!  You can't understand..."

 "Oh, yes, I understand! I understand! Dolly, dearest, I do understand," said Anna, pressing her hand.

 "And do you imagine he realizes all the awfulness of my position?" Dolly resumed. "Not the slightest! He's happy and contented."

 "Oh, no!" Anna interposed quickly. "He's to be pitied, he's weighed down by remorse..."

 "Is he capable of remorse?" Dolly interrupted, gazing intently into her sister-in-law's face.

 "Yes. I know him. I could not look at him without feeling sorry for him. We both know him. He's good-hearted, but he's proud, and now he's so humiliated. What touched me most..." (and here Anna guessed what would touch Dolly most) "he's tortured by two things: that he's ashamed for the children's sake, and that, loving you--yes, yes, loving you beyond everything on earth," she hurriedly interrupted Dolly, who would have answered--"he has hurt you, pierced you to the heart. 'No, no, she cannot forgive me,' he keeps saying."

 Dolly looked dreamily away beyond her sister-in-law as she listened to her words.

 "Yes, I can see that his position is awful; it's worse for the guilty than the innocent," she said, "if he feels that all the misery comes from his fault. But how am I to forgive him, how am I to be his wife again after her?  For me to live with him now would be torture, just because I love my past love for him..."

 And sobs cut short her words. But as though of set design, each time she was softened she began to speak again of what exasperated her.

 "She's young, you see, she's pretty," she went on. "Do you know, Anna, my youth and my beauty are gone, taken by whom? By him and his children. I have worked for him, and all I had has gone in his service, and now of course any fresh, vulgar creature has more charm for him. No doubt they talked of me together, or, worse still, they were silent. Do you understand?"

 Again her eyes glowed with hatred.

 "And after that he will tell me.... What! can I believe him? Never!  No, everything is over, everything that once made my comfort, the reward of my work, and my sufferings.... Would you believe it, I was teaching Grisha just now: once this was a joy to me, now it is a torture. What have I to strive and toil for? Why are the children here? What's so awful is that all at once my heart's turned, and instead of love and tenderness, I have nothing but hatred for him; yes, hatred. I could kill him."

 "Darling Dolly, I understand, but don't torture yourself. You are so distressed, so overwrought, that you look at many things mistakenly."

 Dolly grew calmer, and for two minutes both were silent.

 "What's to be done? Think for me, Anna, help me. I have thought over everything, and I see nothing."

 Anna could think of nothing, but her heart responded instantly to each word, to each change of expression of her sister-in-law.

 "One thing I would say," began Anna. "I am his sister, I know his character, that faculty of forgetting everything, everything" (she waved her hand before her forehead), "that faculty for being completely carried away, but for completely repenting too. He cannot believe it, he cannot comprehend now how he can have acted as he did."

 "No; he understands, he understood!" Dolly broke in. "But are forgetting me...does it make it easier for me?"

 "Wait a minute. When he told me, I will own I did not realize all the awfulness of your position. I saw nothing but him, and that the family was broken up. I felt sorry for him, but after talking to you, I see it, as a woman, quite differently. I see your agony, and I can't tell you how sorry I am for you!  But, Dolly, darling, I fully realize your sufferings, only there is one thing I don't know; I don't know...I don't know how much love there is still in your heart for him. That you know--whether there is enough for you to be able to forgive him. If there is, forgive him!"

 "No," Dolly was beginning, but Anna cut her short, kissing her hand once more.

 "I know more of the world than you do," she said. "I know how men like Stiva look at it. You speak of his talking of you with her. That never happened. Such men are unfaithful, but their home and wife are sacred to them. Somehow or other these women are still looked on with contempt by them, and do not touch on their feeling for their family. They draw a sort of line that can't be crossed between them and their families. I don't understand it, but it is so."

 "Yes, but he has kissed her..."

 "Dolly, hush, darling.   I saw Stiva when he was in love with you. I remember the time when he came to me and cried, talking of you, and all the poetry and loftiness of his feeling for you, and I know that the longer he has lived with you the loftier you have been in his eyes. You know we have sometimes laughed at him for putting in at every word: 'Dolly's a marvelous woman.' You have always been a divinity for him, and you are that still, and this has not been an infidelity of the heart..."

 "But if it is repeated?"

 "It cannot be, as I understand it..."

 "Yes, but could you forgive it?"

 "I don't know, I can't judge.... Yes, I can," said Anna, thinking a moment; and grasping the position in her thought and weighing it in her inner balance, she added: "Yes, I can, I can, I can. Yes, I could forgive it. I could not be the same, no; but I could forgive it, and forgive it as though it had never been, never been at all..."

 "Oh, of course," Dolly interposed quickly, as though saying what she had more than once thought, "else it would not be forgiveness. If one forgives, it must be completely, completely. Come, let us go; I'll take you to your room," she said, getting up, and on the way she embraced Anna. "My dear, how glad I am you came. It has made things better, ever so much better."


 Chapter 20

  The whole of that day Anna spent at home, that's to say at the Oblonskys', and received no one, though some of her acquaintances had already heard of her arrival, and came to call; the same day. Anna spent the whole morning with Dolly and the children. She merely sent a brief note to her brother to tell him that he must not fail to dine at home. "Come, God is merciful," she wrote.

 Oblonsky did dine at home: the conversation was general, and his wife, speaking to him, addressed him as "Stiva," as she had not done before. In the relations of the husband and wife the same estrangement still remained, but there was no talk now of separation, and Stepan Arkadyevitch saw the possibility of explanation and reconciliation.

 Immediately after dinner Kitty came in. She knew Anna Arkadyevna, but only very slightly, and she came now to her sister's with some trepidation, at the prospect of meeting this fashionable Petersburg lady, whom everyone spoke so highly of. But she made a favorable impression on Anna Arkadyevna--she saw that at once. Anna was unmistakably admiring her loveliness and her youth: before Kitty knew where she was she found herself not merely under Anna's sway, but in love with her, as young girls do fall in love with older and married women. Anna was not like a fashionable lady, nor the mother of a boy of eight years old. In the elasticity of her movements, the freshness and the unflagging eagerness which persisted in her face, and broke out in her smile and her glance, she would rather have passed for a girl of twenty, had it not been for a serious and at times mournful look in her eyes, which struck and attracted Kitty. Kitty felt that Anna was perfectly simple and was concealing nothing, but that she had another higher world of interests inaccessible to her, complex and poetic.

 After dinner, when Dolly went away to her own room, Anna rose quickly and went up to her brother, who was just lighting a cigar.

 "Stiva," she said to him, winking gaily, crossing him and glancing towards the door, "go, and God help you."

 He threw down the cigar, understanding her, and departed through the doorway.

 When Stepan Arkadyevitch had disappeared, she went back to the sofa where she had been sitting, surrounded by the children. Either because the children saw that their mother was fond of this aunt, or that they felt a special charm in her themselves, the two elder ones, and the younger following their lead, as children so often do, had clung about their new aunt since before dinner, and would not leave her side. And it had become a sort of game among them to sit a close as possible to their aunt, to touch her, hold her little hand, kiss it, play with her ring, or even touch the flounce of her skirt.

 "Come, come, as we were sitting before," said Anna Arkadyevna, sitting down in her place.

 And again Grisha poked his little face under her arm, and nestled with his head on her gown, beaming with pride and happiness.

 "And when is your next ball?" she asked Kitty.

 "Next week, and a splendid ball. One of those balls where one always enjoys oneself."

 "Why, are there balls where one always enjoys oneself?" Anna said, with tender irony.

 "It's strange, but there are. At the Bobrishtchevs' one always enjoys oneself, and at the Nikitins' too, while at the Mezhkovs' it's always dull. Haven't you noticed it?"

 "No, my dear, for me there are no balls now where one enjoys oneself," said Anna, and Kitty detected in her eyes that mysterious world which was not open to her. "For me there are some less dull and tiresome."

 "How can _you_ be dull at a ball?"

 "Why should not _I_ be dull at a ball?" inquired Anna.

 Kitty perceived that Anna knew what answer would follow.

 "Because you always look nicer than anyone."

 Anna had the faculty of blushing. She blushed a little, and said:

 "In the first place it's never so; and secondly, if it were, what difference would it make to me?"

 "Are you coming to this ball?" asked Kitty.

 "I imagine it won't be possible to avoid going. Here, take it," she said to Tanya, who was pulling the loosely-fitting ring off her white, slender-tipped finger.

 "I shall be so glad if you go. I should so like to see you at a ball."

 "Anyway, if I do go, I shall comfort myself with the thought that it's a pleasure to you...Grisha, don't pull my hair. It's untidy enough without that," she said, putting up a straying lock, which Grisha had been playing with.

 "I imagine you at the ball in lilac."

 "And why in lilac precisely?" asked Anna, smiling. "Now, children, run along, run along. Do you hear?  Miss Hoole is calling you to tea," she said, tearing the children from her, and sending them off to the dining room.

 "I know why you press me to come to the ball. You expect a great deal of this ball, and you want everyone to be there to take part in it."

 "How do you know?  Yes."

 "Oh! what a happy time you are at," pursued Anna. "I remember, and I know that blue haze like the mist on the mountains in Switzerland. That mist which covers everything in that blissful time when childhood is just ending, and out of that vast circle, happy and gay, there is a path growing narrower and narrower, and it is delightful and alarming to enter the ballroom, bright and splendid as it is.... Who has not been through it?"

 Kitty smiled without speaking. "But how did she go through it? How I should like to know all her love story!" thought Kitty, recalling the unromantic appearance of Alexey Alexandrovitch, her husband.

 "I know something. Stiva told me, and I congratulate you. I liked him so much," Anna continued. "I met Vronsky at the railway station."

 "Oh, was he there?" asked Kitty, blushing. "What was it Stiva told you?"

 "Stiva gossiped about it all. And I should be so glad...I traveled yesterday with Vronsky's mother," she went on; "and his mother talked without a pause of him, he's her favorite. I know mothers are partial, but..."

 "What did his mother tell you?"

 "Oh, a great deal!  And I know that he's her favorite; still one can see how chivalrous he is.... Well, for instance, she told me that he had wanted to give up all his property to his brother, that he had done something extraordinary when he was quite a child, saved a woman out of the water. He's a hero, in fact," said Anna, smiling and recollecting the two hundred roubles he had given at the station.

 But she did not tell Kitty about the two hundred roubles. For some reason it was disagreeable to her to think of it. She felt that there was something that had to do with her in it, and something that ought not to have been.

 "She pressed me very much to go and see her," Anna went on; "and I shall be glad to go to see her tomorrow. Stiva is staying a long while in Dolly's room, thank God," Anna added, changing the subject, and getting up, Kitty fancied, displeased with something.

 "No, I'm first!  No, I!" screamed the children, who had finished tea, running up to their Aunt Anna.

 "All together," said Anna, and she ran laughing to meet them, and embraced and swung round all the throng of swarming children, shrieking with delight.


 Chapter 21

  Dolly came out of her room to the tea of the grown-up people. Stepan Arkadyevitch did not come out. He must have left his wife's room by the other door.

 "I am afraid you'll be cold upstairs," observed Dolly, addressing Anna; "I want to move you downstairs, and we shall be nearer."

 "Oh, please, don't trouble about me," answered Anna, looking intently into Dolly's face, trying to make out whether there had been a reconciliation or not.

 "It will be lighter for you here," answered her sister-in-law.

 "I assure you that I sleep everywhere, and always like a marmot."

 "What's the question?" inquired Stepan Arkadyevitch, coming out of his room and addressing his wife.

 From his tone both Kitty and Anna knew that a reconciliation had taken place.

 "I want to move Anna downstairs, but we must hang up blinds. No one knows how to do it; I must see to it myself," answered Dolly addressing him.

 "God knows whether they are fully reconciled," thought Anna, hearing her tone, cold and composed.

 "Oh, nonsense, Dolly, always making difficulties," answered her husband. "Come, I'll do it all, if you like..."

 "Yes, they must be reconciled," thought Anna.

 "I know how you do everything," answered Dolly. "You tell Matvey to do what can't be done, and go away yourself, leaving him to make a muddle of everything," and her habitual, mocking smile curved the corners of Dolly's lips as she spoke.

 "Full, full reconciliation, full," thought Anna; "thank God!" and rejoicing that she was the cause of it, she went up to Dolly and kissed her.

 "Not at all. Why do you always look down on me and Matvey?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling hardly perceptibly, and addressing his wife.

 The whole evening Dolly was, as always, a little mocking in her tone to her husband, while Stepan Arkadyevitch was happy and cheerful, but not so as to seem as though, having been forgiven, he had forgotten his offense.

 At half-past nine o'clock a particularly joyful and pleasant family conversation over the tea-table at the Oblonskys' was broken up by an apparently simple incident. But this simple incident for some reason struck everyone as strange. Talking about common acquaintances in Petersburg, Anna got up quickly.

 "She is in my album," she said; "and, by the way, I'll show you my Seryozha," she added, with a mother's smile of pride.

 Towards ten o'clock, when she usually said good-night to her son, and often before going to a ball put him to bed herself, she felt depressed at being so far from him; and whatever she was talking about, she kept coming back in thought to her curly-headed Seryozha. She longed to look at his photograph and talk of him. Seizing the first pretext, she got up, and with her light, resolute step went for her album. The stairs up to her room came out on the landing of the great warm main staircase.

 Just as she was leaving the drawing room, a ring was heard in the hall.

 "Who can that be?" said Dolly.

 "It's early for me to be fetched, and for anyone else it's late," observed Kitty.

 "Sure to be someone with papers for me," put in Stepan Arkadyevitch. When Anna was passing the top of the staircase, a servant was running up to announce the visitor, while the visitor himself was standing under a lamp. Anna glancing down at once recognized Vronsky, and a strange feeling of pleasure and at the same time of dread of something stirred in her heart. He was standing still, not taking off his coat, pulling something out of his pocket. At the instant when she was just facing the stairs, he raised his eyes, caught sight of her, and into the expression of his face there passed a shade of embarrassment and dismay. With a slight inclination of her head she passed, hearing behind her Stepan Arkadyevitch's loud voice calling him to come up, and the quiet, soft, and composed voice of Vronsky refusing.

 When Anna returned with the album, he was already gone, and Stepan Arkadyevitch was telling them that he had called to inquire about the dinner they were giving next day to a celebrity who had just arrived. "And nothing would induce him to come up. What a queer fellow he is!" added Stepan Arkadyevitch.

 Kitty blushed. She thought that she was the only person who knew why he had come, and why he would not come up. "He has been at home," she thought, "and didn't find me, and thought I should be here, but he did not come up because he thought it late, and Anna's here."

 All of them looked at each other, saying nothing, and began to look at Anna's album.

 There was nothing either exceptional or strange in a man's calling at half-past nine on a friend to inquire details of a proposed dinner party and not coming in, but it seemed strange to all of them. Above all, it seemed strange and not right to Anna.


 Chapter 22

  The ball was only just beginning as Kitty and her mother walked up the great staircase, flooded with light, and lined with flowers and footmen in powder and red coats. From the rooms came a constant, steady hum, as from a hive, and the rustle of movement; and while on the landing between trees they gave last touches to their hair and dresses before the mirror, they heard from the ballroom the careful, distinct notes of the fiddles of the orchestra beginning the first waltz. A little old man in civilian dress, arranging his gray curls before another mirror, and diffusing an odor of scent, stumbled against them on the stairs, and stood aside, evidently admiring Kitty, whom he did not know. A beardless youth, one of those society youths whom the old Prince Shtcherbatsky called "young bucks," in an exceedingly open waistcoat, straightening his white tie as he went, bowed to them, and after running by, came back to ask Kitty for a quadrille. As the first quadrille had already been given to Vronsky, she had to promise this youth the second. An officer, buttoning his glove, stood aside in the doorway, and stroking his mustache, admired rosy Kitty.

 Although her dress, her coiffure, and all the preparations for the ball had cost Kitty great trouble and consideration, at this moment she walked into the ballroom in her elaborate tulle dress over a pink slip as easily and simply as though all the rosettes and lace, all the minute details of her attire, had not cost her or her family a moment's attention, as though she had been born in that tulle and lace, with her hair done up high on her head, and a rose and two leaves on the top of it.

 When, just before entering the ballroom, the princess, her mother, tried to turn right side out of the ribbon of her sash, Kitty had drawn back a little. She felt that everything must be right of itself, and graceful, and nothing could need setting straight.

 It was one of Kitty's best days. Her dress was not uncomfortable anywhere; her lace berthe did not droop anywhere; her rosettes were not crushed nor torn off; her pink slippers with high, hollowed-out heels did not pinch, but gladdened her feet; and the thick rolls of fair chignon kept up on her head as if they were her own hair. All the three buttons buttoned up without tearing on the long glove that covered her hand without concealing its lines. The black velvet of her locket nestled with special softness round her neck. That velvet was delicious; at home, looking at her neck in the looking glass, Kitty had felt that that velvet was speaking. About all the rest there might be a doubt, but the velvet was delicious. Kitty smiled here too, at the ball, when she glanced at it in the glass. Her bare shoulders and arms gave Kitty a sense of chill marble, a feeling she particularly liked. Her eyes sparkled, and her rosy lips could not keep from smiling from the consciousness of her own attractiveness. She had scarcely entered the ballroom and reached the throng of ladies, all tulle, ribbons, lace, and flowers, waiting to be asked to dance--Kitty was never one of that throng--when she was asked for a waltz, and asked by the best partner, the first star in the hierarchy of the ballroom, a renowned director of dances, a married man, handsome and well-built, Yegorushka Korsunsky. He had only just left the Countess Bonina, with whom he had danced the first half of the waltz, and, scanning his kingdom--that is to say, a few couples who had started dancing--he caught sight of Kitty, entering, and flew up to her with that peculiar, easy amble which is confined to directors of balls. Without even asking her if she cared to dance, he put out his arm to encircle her slender waist. She looked round for someone to give her fan to, and their hostess, smiling to her, took it.

 "How nice you've come in good time," he said to her, embracing her waist; "such a bad habit to be late." Bending her left hand, she laid it on his shoulder, and her little feet in their pink slippers began swiftly, lightly, and rhythmically moving over the slippery floor in time to the music.

 "It's a rest to waltz with you," he said to her, as they fell into the first slow steps of the waltz. "It's exquisite--such lightness, precision."  He said to her the same thing he said to almost all his partners whom he knew well.

 She smiled at his praise, and continued to look about the room over his shoulder. She was not like a girl at her first ball, for whom all faces in the ballroom melt into one vision of fairyland. And she was not a girl who had gone the stale round of balls till every face in the ballroom was familiar and tiresome. But she was in the middle stage between these two; she was excited, and at the same time she had sufficient self-possession to be able to observe. In the left corner of the ballroom she saw the cream of society gathered together. There--incredibly naked--was the beauty Lidi, Korsunsky's wife; there was the lady of the house; there shone the bald head of Krivin, always to be found where the best people were. In that direction gazed the young men, not venturing to approach. There, too, she descried Stiva, and there she saw the exquisite figure and head of Anna in a black velvet gown. And _he_ was there. Kitty had not seen him since the evening she refused Levin. With her long-sighted eyes, she knew him at once, and was even aware that he was looking at her.

 "Another turn, eh? You're not tired?" said Korsunsky, a little out of breath.

 "No, thank you!"

 "Where shall I take you?"

 "Madame Karenina's here, I think...take me to her."

 "Wherever you command."

 And Korsunsky began waltzing with measured steps straight towards the group in the left corner, continually saying, "Pardon, mesdames, pardon, pardon, mesdames"; and steering his course through the sea of lace, tulle, and ribbon, and not disarranging a feather, he turned his partner sharply round, so that her slim ankles, in light transparent stockings, were exposed to view, and her train floated out in fan shape and covered Krivin's knees. Korsunsky bowed, set straight his open shirt front, and gave her his arm to conduct her to Anna Arkadyevna. Kitty, flushed, took her train from Krivin's knees, and, a little giddy, looked round, seeking Anna. Anna was not in lilac, as Kitty had so urgently wished, but in a black, low-cut, velvet gown, showing her full throat and shoulders, that looked as though carved in old ivory, and her rounded arms, with tiny, slender wrists. The whole gown was trimmed with Venetian guipure. On her head, among her black hair--her own, with no false additions--was a little wreath of pansies, and a bouquet of the same in the black ribbon of her sash among white lace. Her coiffure was not striking. All that was noticeable was the little wilful tendrils of her curly hair that would always break free about her neck and temples. Round her well-cut, strong neck was a thread of pearls.

 Kitty had been seeing Anna every day; she adored her, and had pictured her invariably in lilac. But now seeing her in black, she felt that she had not fully seen her charm. She saw her now as someone quite new and surprising to her. Now she understood that Anna could not have been in lilac, and that her charm was just that she always stood out against her attire, that her dress could never be noticeable on her. And her black dress, with its sumptuous lace, was not noticeable on her; it was only the frame, and all that was seen was she--simple, natural, elegant, and at the same time gay and eager.

 She was standing holding herself, as always, very erect, and when Kitty drew near the group she was speaking to the master of the house, her head slightly turned towards him.

 "No, I don't throw stones," she was saying, in answer to something, "though I can't understand it," she went on, shrugging her shoulders, and she turned at once with a soft smile of protection towards Kitty. With a flying, feminine glance she scanned her attire, and made a movement of her head, hardly perceptible, but understood by Kitty, signifying approval of her dress and her looks. "You came into the room dancing," she added.

 "This is one of my most faithful supporters," said Korsunsky, bowing to Anna Arkadyevna, whom he had not yet seen. "The princess helps to make balls happy and successful. Anna Arkadyevna, a waltz?" he said, bending down to her.

 "Why, have you met?" inquired their host.

 "Is there anyone we have not met? My wife and I are like white wolves--everyone knows us," answered Korsunsky. "A waltz, Anna Arkadyevna?"

 "I don't dance when it's possible not to dance," she said.

 "But tonight it's impossible," answered Korsunsky.

 At that instant Vronsky came up.

 "Well, since it's impossible tonight, let us start," she said, not noticing Vronsky's bow, and she hastily put her hand on Korsunsky's shoulder.

 "What is she vexed with him about?" thought Kitty, discerning that Anna had intentionally not responded to Vronsky's bow. Vronsky went up to Kitty reminding her of the first quadrille, and expressing his regret that he had not seen her all this time. Kitty gazed in admiration at Anna waltzing, and listened to him. She expected him to ask her for a waltz, but he did not, and she glanced wonderingly at him. He flushed slightly, and hurriedly asked her to waltz, but he had only just put his arm round her waist and taken the first step when the music suddenly stopped. Kitty looked into his face, which was so close to her own, and long afterwards--for several years after--that look, full of love, to which he made no response, cut her to the heart with an agony of shame.

 "_Pardon! pardon!_  Waltz! waltz!" shouted Korsunsky from the other side of the room, and seizing the first young lady he came across he began dancing himself.


 Chapter 23

  Vronsky and Kitty waltzed several times round the room. After the first waltz Kitty went to her mother, and she had hardly time to say a few words to Countess Nordston when Vronsky came up again for the first quadrille. During the quadrille nothing of any significance was said: there was disjointed talk between them of the Korsunskys, husband and wife, whom he described very amusingly, as delightful children at forty, and of the future town theater; and only once the conversation touched her to the quick, when he asked her about Levin, whether he was here, and added that he liked him so much. But Kitty did not expect much from the quadrille. She looked forward with a thrill at her heart to the mazurka. She fancied that in the mazurka everything must be decided. The fact that he did not during the quadrille ask her for the mazurka did not trouble her. She felt sure she would dance the mazurka with him as she had done at former balls, and refused five young men, saying she was engaged for the mazurka. The whole ball up to the last quadrille was for Kitty an enchanted vision of delightful colors, sounds, and motions. She only sat down when she felt too tired and begged for a rest. But as she was dancing the last quadrille with one of the tiresome young men whom she could not refuse, she chanced to be vis-a-vis with Vronsky and Anna. She had not been near Anna again since the beginning of the evening, and now again she saw her suddenly quite new and surprising. She saw in her the signs of that excitement of success she knew so well in herself; she saw that she was intoxicated with the delighted admiration she was exciting. She knew that feeling and knew its signs, and saw them in Anna; saw the quivering, flashing light in her eyes, and the smile of happiness and excitement unconsciously playing on her lips, and the deliberate grace, precision, and lightness of her movements.

 "Who?" she asked herself. "All or one?" And not assisting the harassed young man she was dancing with in the conversation, the thread of which he had lost and could not pick up again, she obeyed with external liveliness the peremptory shouts of Korsunsky starting them all into the _grand rond_, and then into the _châine_, and at the same time she kept watch with a growing pang at her heart. "No, it's not the admiration of the crowd has intoxicated her, but the adoration of one. And that one? can it be he?" Every time he spoke to Anna the joyous light flashed into her eyes, and the smile of happiness curved her red lips. she seemed to make an effort to control herself, to try not to show these signs of delight, but they came out on her face of themselves. "But what of him?" Kitty looked at him and was filled with terror. What was pictured so clearly to Kitty in the mirror of Anna's face she saw in him. What had become of his always self-possessed resolute manner, and the carelessly serene expression of his face?  Now every time he turned to her, he bent his head, as though he would have fallen at her feet, and in his eyes there was nothing but humble submission and dread. "I would not offend you," his eyes seemed every time to be saying, "but I want to save myself, and I don't know how." On his face was a look such as Kitty had never seen before.

 They were speaking of common acquaintances, keeping up the most trivial conversation, but to Kitty it seemed that every word they said was determining their fate and hers. And strange it was that they were actually talking of how absurd Ivan Ivanovitch was with his French, and how the Eletsky girl might have made a better match, yet these words had all the while consequence for them, and they were feeling just as Kitty did. The whole ball, the whole world, everything seemed lost in fog in Kitty's soul. Nothing but the stern discipline of her bringing-up supported her and forced her to do what was expected of her, that is, to dance, to answer questions, to talk, even to smile. But before the mazurka, when they were beginning to rearrange the chairs and a few couples moved out of the smaller rooms into the big room, a moment of despair and horror came for Kitty. She had refused five partners, and now she was not dancing the mazurka. She had not even a hope of being asked for it, because she was so successful in society that the idea would never occur to anyone that she had remained disengaged till now. She would have to tell her mother she felt ill and go home, but she had not the strength to do this. She felt crushed. She went to the furthest end of the little drawing room and sank into a low chair. Her light, transparent skirts rose like a cloud about her slender waist; one bare, thin, soft, girlish arm, hanging listlessly, was lost in the folds of her pink tunic; in the other she held her fan, and with rapid, short strokes fanned her burning face. But while she looked like a butterfly, clinging to a blade of grass, and just about to open its rainbow wings for fresh flight, her heart ached with a horrible despair.

 "But perhaps I am wrong, perhaps it was not so?" And again she recalled all she had seen.

 "Kitty, what is it?" said Countess Nordston, stepping noiselessly over the carpet towards her. "I don't understand it."

 Kitty's lower lip began to quiver; she got up quickly.

 "Kitty, you're not dancing the mazurka?"

 "No, no," said Kitty in a voice shaking with tears.

 "He asked her for the mazurka before me," said Countess Nordston, knowing Kitty would understand who were "he" and "her." "She said: 'Why, aren't you going to dance it with Princess Shtcherbatskaya?'"

 "Oh, I don't care!" answered Kitty.

 No one but she herself understood her position; no one knew that she had just refused the man whom perhaps she loved, and refused him because she had put her faith in another.

 Countess Nordston found Korsunsky, with whom she was to dance the mazurka, and told him to ask Kitty.

 Kitty danced in the first couple, and luckily for her she had not to talk, because Korsunsky was all the time running about directing the figure. Vronsky and Anna sat almost opposite her. She saw them with her long-sighted eyes, and saw them, too, close by, when they met in the figures, and the more she saw of them the more convinced was she that her unhappiness was complete. She saw that they felt themselves alone in that crowded room. And on Vronsky's face, always so firm and independent, she saw that look that had struck her, of bewilderment and humble submissiveness, like the expression of an intelligent dog when it has done wrong.

 Anna smiled, and her smile was reflected by him. She grew thoughtful, and he became serious. Some supernatural force drew Kitty's eyes to Anna's face. She was fascinating in her simple black dress, fascinating were her round arms with their bracelets, fascinating was her firm neck with its thread of pearls, fascinating the straying curls of her loose hair, fascinating the graceful, light movements of her little feet and hands, fascinating was that lovely face in its eagerness, but there was something terrible and cruel in her fascination.

 Kitty admired her more than ever, and more and more acute was her suffering. Kitty felt overwhelmed, and her face showed it. When Vronsky saw her, coming across her in the mazurka, he did not at once recognize her, she was so changed.

 "Delightful ball!" he said to her, for the sake of saying something.

 "Yes," she answered.

 In the middle of the mazurka, repeating a complicated figure, newly invented by Korsunsky, Anna came forward into the center of the circle, chose two gentlemen, and summoned a lady and Kitty. Kitty gazed at her in dismay as she went up. Anna looked at her with drooping eyelids, and smiled, pressing her hand. But, noticing that Kitty only responded to her smile by a look of despair and amazement, she turned away from her, and began gaily talking to the other lady.

 "Yes, there is something uncanny, devilish and fascinating in her," Kitty said to herself.

 Anna did not mean to stay to supper, but the master of the house began to press her to do so.

 "Nonsense, Anna Arkadyevna," said Korsunsky, drawing her bare arm under the sleeve of his dress coat, "I've such an idea for a _cotillion!  Un bijou!_"

 And he moved gradually on, trying to draw her along with him. Their host smiled approvingly.

 "No, I am not going to stay," answered Anna, smiling, but in spite of her smile, both Korsunsky and the master of the house saw from her resolute tone that she would not stay.

 "No; why, as it is, I have danced more at your ball in Moscow than I have all the winter in Petersburg," said Anna, looking round at Vronsky, who stood near her. "I must rest a little before my journey."

 "Are you certainly going tomorrow then?" asked Vronsky.

 "Yes, I suppose so," answered Anna, as it were wondering at the boldness of his question; but the irrepressible, quivering brilliance of her eyes and her smile set him on fire as she said it.

 Anna Arkadyevna did not stay to supper, but went home.


 Chapter 24

  "Yes, there is something in me hateful, repulsive," thought Levin, as he came away from the Shtcherbatskys', and walked in the direction of his brother's lodgings. "And I don't get on with other people. Pride, they say. No, I have no pride. If I had any pride, I should not have put myself in such a position."  And he pictured to himself Vronsky, happy, good-natured, clever, and self-possessed, certainly never placed in the awful position in which he had been that evening.   "Yes, she was bound to choose him. So it had to be, and I cannot complain of anyone or anything. I am myself to blame. What right had I to imagine she would care to join her life to mine? Who am I and what am I? A nobody, not wanted by any one, nor of use to anybody." And he recalled his brother Nikolay, and dwelt with pleasure on the thought of him. "Isn't he right that everything in the world is base and loathsome? And are we fair in our judgment of brother Nikolay? Of course, from the point of view of Prokofy, seeing him in a torn cloak and tipsy, he's a despicable person. But I know him differently. I know his soul, and know that we are like him. And I, instead of going to seek him out, went out to dinner, and came here."  Levin walked up to a lamppost, read his brother's address, which was in his pocketbook, and called a sledge. All the long way to his brother's, Levin vividly recalled all the facts familiar to him of his brother Nikolay's life. He remembered how his brother, while at the university, and for a year afterwards, had, in spite of the jeers of his companions, lived like a monk, strictly observing all religious rites, services, and fasts, and avoiding every sort of pleasure, especially women. And afterwards, how he had all at once broken out: he had associated with the most horrible people, and rushed into the most senseless debauchery. He remembered later the scandal over a boy, whom he had taken from the country to bring up, and, in a fit of rage, had so violently beaten that proceedings were brought against him for unlawfully wounding. Then he recalled the scandal with a sharper, to whom he had lost money, and given a promissory note, and against whom he had himself lodged a complaint, asserting that he had cheated him. (This was the money Sergey Ivanovitch had paid.)  Then he remembered how he had spent a night in the lockup for disorderly conduct in the street. He remembered the shameful proceedings he had tried to get up against his brother Sergey Ivanovitch, accusing him of not having paid him his share of his mother's fortune, and the last scandal, when he had gone to a western province in an official capacity, and there had got into trouble for assaulting a village elder.... It was all horribly disgusting, yet to Levin it appeared not at all in the same disgusting light as it inevitably would to those who did not know Nikolay, did not know all his story, did not know his heart.

 Levin remembered that when Nikolay had been in the devout stage, the period of fasts and monks and church services, when he was seeking in religion a support and a curb for his passionate temperament, everyone, far from encouraging him, had jeered at him, and he, too, with the others. They had teased him, called him Noah and Monk; and, when he had broken out, no one had helped him, but everyone had turned away from him with horror and disgust.

 Levin felt that, in spite of all the ugliness of his life, his brother Nikolay, in his soul, in the very depths of his soul, was no more in the wrong than the people who despised him. He was not to blame for having been born with his unbridled temperament and his somehow limited intelligence. But he had always wanted to be good. "I will tell him everything, without reserve, and I will make him speak without reserve, too, and I'll show him that I love him, and so understand him," Levin resolved to himself, as, towards eleven o'clock, he reached the hotel of which he had the address.

 "At the top, 12 and 13," the porter answered Levin's inquiry.

 "At home?"

 "Sure to be at home."

 The door of No. 12 was half open, and there came out into the streak of light thick fumes of cheap, poor tobacco, and the sound of a voice, unknown to Levin; but he knew at once that his brother was there; he heard his cough.

 As he went in the door, the unknown voice was saying:

 "It all depends with how much judgment and knowledge the thing's done."

 Konstantin Levin looked in at the door, and saw that the speaker was a young man with an immense shock of hair, wearing a Russian jerkin, and that a pockmarked woman in a woolen gown, without collar or cuffs, was sitting on the sofa. His brother was not to be seen. Konstantin felt a sharp pang at his heart at the thought of the strange company in which his brother spent his life. No one had heard him, and Konstantin, taking off his galoshes, listened to what the gentleman in the jerkin was saying. He was speaking of some enterprise.

 "Well, the devil flay them, the privileged classes," his brother's voice responded, with a cough. "Masha! get us some supper and some wine if there's any left; or else go and get some."

 The woman rose, came out from behind the screen, and saw Konstantin.

 "There's some gentleman, Nikolay Dmitrievitch," she said.

 "Whom do you want?" said the voice of Nikolay Levin, angrily.

 "It's I," answered Konstantin Levin, coming forward into the light.

 "Who's _I_?" Nikolay's voice said again, still more angrily. He could be heard getting up hurriedly, stumbling against something, and Levin saw, facing him in the doorway, the big, scared eyes, and the huge, thin, stooping figure of his brother, so familiar, and yet astonishing in its weirdness and sickliness.

 He was even thinner than three years before, when Konstantin Levin had seen him last. He was wearing a short coat, and his hands and big bones seemed huger than ever. His hair had grown thinner, the same straight mustaches hid his lips, the same eyes gazed strangely and naively at his visitor.

 "Ah, Kostya!" he exclaimed suddenly, recognizing his brother, and his eyes lit up with joy. But the same second he looked round at the young man, and gave the nervous jerk of his head and neck that Konstantin knew so well, as if his neckband hurt him; and a quite different expression, wild, suffering, and cruel, rested on his emaciated face.

 "I wrote to you and Sergey Ivanovitch both that I don't know you and don't want to know you. What is it you want?"

 He was not at all the same as Konstantin had been fancying him. The worst and most tiresome part of his character, what made all relations with him so difficult, had been forgotten by Konstantin Levin when he thought of him, and now, when he saw his face, and especially that nervous twitching of his head, he remembered it all.

 "I didn't want to see you for anything," he answered timidly. "I've simply come to see you."

 His brother's timidity obviously softened Nikolay. His lips twitched.

 "Oh, so that's it?" he said. "Well, come in; sit down. Like some supper?  Masha, bring supper for three. No, stop a minute. Do you know who this is?" he said, addressing his brother, and indicating the gentleman in the jerkin: "This is Mr. Kritsky, my friend from Kiev, a very remarkable man. He's persecuted by the police, of course, because he's not a scoundrel."

 And he looked round in the way he always did at everyone in the room. Seeing that the woman standing in the doorway was moving to go, he shouted to her, "Wait a minute, I said."  And with the inability to express himself, the incoherence that Konstantin knew so well, he began, with another look round at everyone, to tell his brother Kritsky's story: how he had been expelled from the university for starting a benefit society for the poor students and Sunday schools; and how he had afterwards been a teacher in a peasant school, and how he had been driven out of that too, and had afterwards been condemned for something.

 "You're of the Kiev university?" said Konstantin Levin to Kritsky, to break the awkward silence that followed.

 "Yes, I was of Kiev," Kritsky replied angrily, his face darkening.

 "And this woman," Nikolay Levin interrupted him, pointing to her, "is the partner of my life, Marya Nikolaevna. I took her out of a bad house," and he jerked his neck saying this; "but I love her and respect her, and any one who wants to know me," he added, raising his voice and knitting his brows, "I beg to love her and respect her. She's just the same as my wife, just the same. So now you know whom you've to do with. And if you think you're lowering yourself, well, here's the floor, there's the door."

 And again his eyes traveled inquiringly over all of them.

 "Why I should be lowering myself, I don't understand."

 "Then, Masha, tell them to bring supper; three portions, spirits and wine.... No, wait a minute.... No, it doesn't matter.... Go along."


 Chapter 25

  "So you see," pursued Nikolay Levin, painfully wrinkling his forehead and twitching.

 It was obviously difficult for him to think of what to say and do.

 "Here, do you see?"... He pointed to some sort of iron bars, fastened together with strings, lying in a corner of the room. "Do you see that? That's the beginning of a new thing we're going into. It's a productive association..."

 Konstantin scarcely heard him. He looked into his sickly, consumptive face, and he was more and more sorry for him, and he could not force himself to listen to what his brother was telling him about the association. He saw that this association was a mere anchor to save him from self-contempt. Nikolay Levin went on talking:

 "You know that capital oppresses the laborer. The laborers with us, the peasants, bear all the burden of labor, and are so placed that however much they work they can't escape from their position of beasts of burden. All the profits of labor, on which they might improve their position, and gain leisure for themselves, and after that education, all the surplus values are taken from them by the capitalists. And society's so constituted that the harder they work, the greater the profit of the merchants and landowners, while they stay beasts of burden to the end. And that state of things must be changed," he finished up, and he looked questioningly at his brother.

 "Yes, of course," said Konstantin, looking at the patch of red that had come out on his brother's projecting cheek bones.

 "And so we're founding a locksmiths' association, where all the production and profit and the chief instruments of production will be in common."

 "Where is the association to be?" asked Konstantin Levin.

 "In the village of Vozdrem, Kazan government."

 "But why in a village? In the villages, I think, there is plenty of work as it is. Why a locksmiths' association in a village?"

 "Why? Because the peasants are just as much slaves as they ever were, and that's why you and Sergey Ivanovitch don't like people to try and get them out of their slavery," said Nikolay Levin, exasperated by the objection.

 Konstantin Levin sighed, looking meanwhile about the cheerless and dirty room. This sigh seemed to exasperate Nikolay still more.

 "I know your and Sergey Ivanovitch's aristocratic views. I know that he applies all the power of his intellect to justify existing evils."

 "No; and what do you talk of Sergey Ivanovitch for?" said Levin, smiling.

 "Sergey Ivanovitch?  I'll tell you what for!"  Nikolay Levin shrieked suddenly at the name of Sergey Ivanovitch. "I'll tell you what for.... But what's the use of talking? There's only one thing.... What did you come to me for? You look down on this, and you're welcome to,--and go away, in God's name go away!" he shrieked, getting up from his chair. "And go away, and go away!"

 "I don't look down on it at all," said Konstantin Levin timidly. "I don't even dispute it."

 At that instant Marya Nikolaevna came back. Nikolay Levin looked round angrily at her. She went quickly to him, and whispered something.

 "I'm not well; I've grown irritable," said Nikolay Levin, getting calmer and breathing painfully; "and then you talk to me of Sergey Ivanovitch and his article. It's such rubbish, such lying, such self-deception. What can a man write of justice who knows nothing of it?  Have you read his article?"  he asked Kritsky, sitting down again at the table, and moving back off half of it the scattered cigarettes, so as to clear a space.

 "I've not read it," Kritsky responded gloomily, obviously not desiring to enter into the conversation.

 "Why not?" said Nikolay Levin, now turning with exasperation upon Kritsky.

 "Because I didn't see the use of wasting my time over it."

 "Oh, but excuse me, how did you know it would be wasting your time?  That article's too deep for many people--that's to say it's over their heads. But with me, it's another thing; I see through his ideas, and I know where its weakness lies."

 Everyone was mute. Kritsky got up deliberately and reached his cap.

 "Won't you have supper?  All right, good-bye!  Come round tomorrow with the locksmith."

 Kritsky had hardly gone out when Nikolay Levin smiled and winked.

 "He's no good either," he said. "I see, of course..."

 But at that instant Kritsky, at the door, called him...

 "What do you want now?" he said, and went out to him in the passage. Left alone with Marya Nikolaevna, Levin turned to her.

 "Have you been long with my brother?" he said to her.

 "Yes, more than a year. Nikolay Dmitrievitch's health has become very poor. Nikolay Dmitrievitch drinks a great deal," she said.

 "That does he drink?"

 "Drinks vodka, and it's bad for him."

 "And a great deal?" whispered Levin.

 "Yes," she said, looking timidly towards the doorway, where Nikolay Levin had reappeared.

 "What were you talking about?" he said, knitting his brows, and turning his scared eyes from one to the other. "What was it?"

 "Oh, nothing," Konstantin answered in confusion.

 "Oh, if you don't want to say, don't. Only it's no good your talking to her. She's a wench, and you're a gentleman," he said with a jerk of the neck. "You understand everything, I see, and have taken stock of everything, and look with commiseration on my shortcomings," he began again, raising his voice.

 "Nikolay Dmitrievitch, Nikolay Dmitrievitch," whispered Marya Nikolaevna, again going up to him.

 "Oh, very well, very well!... But where's the supper? Ah, here it is," he said, seeing a waiter with a tray. "Here, set it here," he added angrily, and promptly seizing the vodka, he poured out a glassful and drank it greedily. "Like a drink?" he turned to his brother, and at once became better humored.

 "Well, enough of Sergey Ivanovitch. I'm glad to see you, anyway. After all's said and done, we're not strangers.   Come, have a drink. Tell me what you're doing," he went on, greedily munching a piece of bread, and pouring out another glassful. "How are you living?"

 "I live alone in the country, as I used to. I'm busy looking after the land," answered Konstantin, watching with horror the greediness with which his brother ate and drank, and trying to conceal that he noticed it.

 "Why don't you get married?"

 "It hasn't happened so," Konstantin answered, reddening a little.

 "Why not?  For me now...everything's at an end!  I've made a mess of my life. But this I've said, and I say still, that if my share had been given me when I needed it, my whole life would have been different."

 Konstantin made haste to change the conversation.

 "Do you know your little Vanya's with me, a clerk in the countinghouse at Pokrovskoe."

 Nikolay jerked his neck, and sank into thought.

 "Yes, tell me what's going on at Pokrovskoe. Is the house standing still, and the birch trees, and our schoolroom? And Philip the gardener, is he living? How I remember the arbor and the seat!  Now mind and don't alter anything in the house, but make haste and get married, and make everything as it used to be again. Then I'll come and see you, if your wife is nice."

 "But come to me now," said Levin. "How nicely we would arrange it!"

 "I'd come and see you if I were sure I should not find Sergey Ivanovitch."

 "You wouldn't find him there. I live quite independently of him."

 "Yes, but say what you like, you will have to choose between me and him," he said, looking timidly into his brother's face.

 This timidity touched Konstantin.

 "If you want to hear my confession of faith on the subject, I tell you that in your quarrel with Sergey Ivanovitch I take neither side. You're both wrong. You're more wrong externally, and he inwardly."

 "Ah, ah!  You see that, you see that!"  Nikolay shouted joyfully.

 "But I personally value friendly relations with you more because..."

 "Why, why?"

 Konstantin could not say that he valued it more because Nikolay was unhappy, and needed affection. But Nikolay knew that this was just what he meant to say, and scowling he took up the vodka again.

 "Enough, Nikolay Dmitrievitch!" said Marya Nikolaevna, stretching out her plump, bare arm towards the decanter.

 "Let it be!  Don't insist!  I'll beat you!" he shouted.

 Marya Nikolaevna smiled a sweet and good-humored smile, which was at once reflected on Nikolay's face, and she took the bottle.

 "And do you suppose she understands nothing?" said Nikolay. "She understands it all better than any of us. Isn't it true there's something good and sweet in her?"

 "Were you never before in Moscow?" Konstantin said to her, for the sake of saying something.

 "Only you mustn't be polite and stiff with her. It frightens her. No one ever spoke to her so but the justices of the peace who tried her for trying to get out of a house of ill-fame. Mercy on us, the senselessness in the world!" he cried suddenly. "These new institutions, these justices of the peace, rural councils, what hideousness it all is!"

 And he began to enlarge on his encounters with the new institutions.

 Konstantin Levin heard him, and the disbelief in the sense of all public institutions, which he shared with him, and often expressed, was distasteful to him now from his brother's lips.

 "In another world we shall understand it all," he said lightly.

 "In another world!  Ah, I don't like that other world!  I don't like it," he said, letting his scared eyes rest on his brother's eyes. "Here one would think that to get out of all the baseness and the mess, one's own and other people's, would be a good thing, and yet I'm afraid of death, awfully afraid of death." He shuddered. "But do drink something. Would you like some champagne?  Or shall we go somewhere?  Let's go to the Gypsies! Do you know I have got so fond of the Gypsies and Russian songs."

 His speech had begun to falter, and he passed abruptly from one subject to another. Konstantin with the help of Masha persuaded him not to go out anywhere, and got him to bed hopelessly drunk.

 Masha promised to write to Konstantin in case of need, and to persuade Nikolay Levin to go and stay with his brother.


 Chapter 26

  In the morning Konstantin Levin left Moscow, and towards evening he reached home. On the journey in the train he talked to his neighbors about politics and the new railways, and, just as in Moscow, he was overcome by a sense of confusion of ideas, dissatisfaction with himself, shame of something or other. But when he got out at his own station, when he saw his one-eyed coachman, Ignat, with the collar of his coat turned up; when, in the dim light reflected by the station fires, he saw his own sledge, his own horses with their tails tied up, in their harness trimmed with rings and tassels; when the coachman Ignat, as he put in his luggage, told him the village news, that the contractor had arrived, and that Pava had calved,--he felt that little by little the confusion was clearing up, and the shame and self-dissatisfaction were passing away. He felt this at the mere sight of Ignat and the horses; but when he had put on the sheepskin brought for him, had sat down wrapped up in the sledge, and had driven off pondering on the work that lay before him in the village, and staring at the side-horse, that had been his saddle-horse, past his prime now, but a spirited beast from the Don, he began to see what had happened to him in quite a different light. He felt himself, and did not want to be any one else. All he wanted now was to be better than before. In the first place he resolved that from that day he would give up hoping for any extraordinary happiness, such as marriage must have given him, and consequently he would not so disdain what he really had. Secondly, he would never again let himself give way to low passion, the memory of which had so tortured him when he had been making up his mind to make an offer. Then remembering his brother Nikolay, he resolved to himself that he would never allow himself to forget him, that he would follow him up, and not lose sight of him, so as to be ready to help when things should go ill with him. And that would be soon, he felt. Then, too, his brother's talk of communism, which he had treated so lightly at the time, now made him think. He considered a revolution in economic conditions nonsense. But he always felt the injustice of his own abundance in comparison with the poverty of the peasants, and now he determined that so as to feel quite in the right, though he had worked hard and lived by no means luxuriously before, he would now work still harder, and would allow himself even less luxury. And all this seemed to him so easy a conquest over himself that he spent the whole drive in the pleasantest daydreams. With a resolute feeling of hope in a new, better life, he reached home before nine o'clock at night.

 The snow of the little quadrangle before the house was lit up by a light in the bedroom windows of his old nurse, Agafea Mihalovna, who performed the duties of housekeeper in his house. She was not yet asleep. Kouzma, waked up by her, came sidling sleepily out onto the steps. A setter bitch, Laska, ran out too, almost upsetting Kouzma, and whining, turned round about Levin's knees, jumping up and longing, but not daring, to put her forepaws on his chest.

 "You're soon back again, sir," said Agafea Mihalovna.

 "I got tired of it, Agafea Mihalovna. With friends, one is well; but at home, one is better," he answered, and went into his study.

 The study was slowly lit up as the candle was brought in. The familiar details came out: the stag's horns, the bookshelves, the looking-glass, the stove with its ventilator, which had long wanted mending, his father's sofa, a large table, on the table an open book, a broken ash tray, a manuscript book with his handwriting. As he saw all this, there came over him for an instant a doubt of the possibility of arranging the new life, of which he had been dreaming on the road. All these traces of his life seemed to clutch him, and to say to him: "No, you're not going to get away from us, and you're not going to be different, but you're going to be the same as you've always been; with doubts, everlasting dissatisfaction with yourself, vain efforts to amend, and falls, and everlasting expectation, of a happiness which you won't get, and which isn't possible for you."

 This the things said to him, but another voice in his heart was telling him that he must not fall under the sway of the past, and that one can do anything with oneself. And hearing that voice, he went into the corner where stood his two heavy dumbbells, and began brandishing them like a gymnast, trying to restore his confident temper. There was a creak of steps at the door. He hastily put down the dumbbells.

 The bailiff came in, and said everything, thank God, was doing well; but informed him that the buckwheat in the new drying machine had been a little scorched. This piece of news irritated Levin. The new drying machine had been constructed and partly invented by Levin. The bailiff had always been against the drying machine, and now it was with suppressed triumph that he announced that the buckwheat had been scorched. Levin was firmly convinced that if the buckwheat had been scorched, it was only because the precautions had not been taken, for which he had hundreds of times given orders. He was annoyed, and reprimanded the bailiff. But there had been an important and joyful event: Pava, his best cow, an expensive beast, bought at a show, had calved.

 "Kouzma, give me my sheepskin. And you tell them to take a lantern. I'll come and look at her," he said to the bailiff.

 The cowhouse for the more valuable cows was just behind the house. Walking across the yard, passing a snowdrift by the lilac tree, he went into the cowhouse. There was the warm, steamy smell of dung when the frozen door was opened, and the cows, astonished at the unfamiliar light of the lantern, stirred on the fresh straw. He caught a glimpse of the broad, smooth, black and piebald back of Hollandka. Berkoot, the bull, was lying down with his ring in his lip, and seemed about to get up, but thought better of it, and only gave two snorts as they passed by him. Pava, a perfect beauty, huge as a hippopotamus, with her back turned to them, prevented their seeing the calf, as she sniffed her all over.

 Levin went into the pen, looked Pava over, and lifted the red and spotted calf onto her long, tottering legs. Pava, uneasy, began lowing, but when Levin put the calf close to her she was soothed, and, sighing heavily, began licking her with her rough tongue. The calf, fumbling, poked her nose under her mother's udder, and stiffened her tail out straight.

 "Here, bring the light, Fyodor, this way," said Levin, examining the calf. "Like the mother! though the color takes after the father; but that's nothing. Very good. Long and broad in the haunch. Vassily Fedorovitch, isn't she splendid?" he said to the bailiff, quite forgiving him for the buckwheat under the influence of his delight in the calf.

 "How could she fail to be?  Oh, Semyon the contractor came the day after you left. You must settle with him, Konstantin Dmitrievitch," said the bailiff. "I did inform you about the machine."

 This question was enough to take Levin back to all the details of his work on the estate, which was on a large scale, and complicated. He went straight from the cowhouse to the counting house, and after a little conversation with the bailiff and Semyon the contractor, he went back to the house and straight upstairs to the drawing room.


 Chapter 27

  The house was big and old-fashioned, and Levin, though he lived alone, had the whole house heated and used. He knew that this was stupid, he knew that it was positively not right, and contrary to his present new plans, but this house was a whole world to Levin. It was the world in which his father and mother had lived and died. They had lived just the life that to Levin seemed the ideal of perfection, and that he had dreamed of beginning with his wife, his family.

 Levin scarcely remembered his mother. His conception of her was for him a sacred memory, and his future wife was bound to be in his imagination a repetition of that exquisite, holy ideal of a woman that his mother had been.

 He was so far from conceiving of love for woman apart from marriage that he positively pictured to himself first the family, and only secondarily the woman who would give him a family. His ideas of marriage were, consequently, quite unlike those of the great majority of his acquaintances, for whom getting married was one of the numerous facts of social life. For Levin it was the chief affair of life, on which its whole happiness turned. And now he had to give up that.

 When he had gone into the little drawing room, where he always had tea, and had settled himself in his armchair with a book, and Agafea Mihalovna had brought him tea, and with her usual, "Well, I'll stay a while, sir," had taken a chair in the window, he felt that, however strange it might be, he had not parted from his daydreams, and that he could not live without them. Whether with her, or with another, still it would be. He was reading a book, and thinking of what he was reading, and stopping to listen to Agafea Mihalovna, who gossiped away without flagging, and yet with all that, all sorts of pictures of family life and work in the future rose disconnectedly before his imagination. He felt that in the depth of his soul something had been put in its place, settled down, and laid to rest.

 He heard Agafea Mihalovna talking of how Prohor had forgotten his duty to God, and with the money Levin had given him to buy a horse, had been drinking without stopping, and had beaten his wife till he'd half killed her. He listened, and read his book, and recalled the whole train of ideas suggested by his reading. It was Tyndall's _Treatise on Heat_. He recalled his own criticisms of Tyndall of his complacent satisfaction in the cleverness of his experiments, and for his lack of philosophic insight. And suddenly there floated into his mind the joyful thought: "In two years' time I shall have two Dutch cows; Pava herself will perhaps still be alive, a dozen young daughters of Berkoot and the three others--how lovely!"

 He took up his book again. "Very good, electricity and heat are the same thing; but is it possible to substitute the one quantity for the other in the equation for the solution of any problem? No. Well, then what of it?  The connection between all the forces of nature is felt instinctively.... It's particulary nice if Pava's daughter should be a red-spotted cow, and all the herd will take after her, and the other three, too!  Splendid!  To go out with my wife and visitors to meet the herd.... My wife says, Kostya and I looked after that calf like a child.'  'How can it interest you so much?' says a visitor. 'Everything that interests him, interests me.'  But who will she be?"  And he remembered what had happened at Moscow.... "Well, there's nothing to be done.... It's not my fault. But now everything shall go on in a new way. It's nonsense to pretend that life won't let one, that the past won't let one. One must struggle to live better, much better."... He raised his head, and fell to dreaming. Old Laska, who had not yet fully digested her delight at his return, and had run out into the yard to bark, came back wagging her tail, and crept up to him, bringing in the scent of fresh air, put her head under his hand, and whined plaintively, asking to be stroked.

 "There, who'd have thought it?" said Agafea Mihalovna. "The dog now...why, she understands that her master's come home, and that he's low-spirited."

 "Why low-spirited?"

 "Do you suppose I don't see it, sir? It's high time I should know the gentry. Why, I've grown up from a little thing with them. It's nothing, sir, so long as there's health and a clear conscience."

 Levin looked intently at her, surprised at how well she knew his thought.

 "Shall I fetch you another cup?" said she, and taking his cup she went out.

 Laska kept poking her head under his hand. He stroked her, and she promptly curled up at his feet, laying her head on a hindpaw. And in token of all now being well and satisfactory, she opened her mouth a little, smacked her lips, and settling her sticky lips more comfortably about her old teeth, she sank into blissful repose. Levin watched all her movements attentively.

 "That's what I'll do," he said to himself; "that's what I'll do! Nothing's amiss.... All's well."


 Chapter 28

  After the ball, early next morning, Anna Arkadyevna sent her husband a telegram that she was leaving Moscow the same day.

 "No, I must go, I must go"; she explained to her sister-in-law the change in her plans in a tone that suggested that she had to remember so many things that there was no enumerating them: "no, it had really better be today!"

 Stepan Arkadyevitch was not dining at home, but he promised to come and see his sister off at seven o'clock.

 Kitty, too, did not come, sending a note that she had a headache. Dolly and Anna dined alone with the children and the English governess. Whether it was that the children were fickle, or that they had acute senses, and felt that Anna was quite different that day from what she had been when they had taken such a fancy to her, that she was not now interested in them,--but they had abruptly dropped their play with their aunt, and their love for her, and were quite indifferent that she was going away. Anna was absorbed the whole morning in preparations for her departure. She wrote notes to her Moscow acquaintances, put down her accounts, and packed. Altogether Dolly fancied she was not in a placid state of mind, but in that worried mood, which Dolly knew well with herself, and which does not come without cause, and for the most part covers dissatisfaction with self. After dinner, Anna went up to her room to dress, and Dolly followed her.

 "How queer you are today!" Dolly said to her.

 "I? Do you think so? I'm not queer, but I'm nasty. I am like that sometimes. I keep feeling as if I could cry. It's very stupid, but it'll pass off," said Anna quickly, and she bent her flushed face over a tiny bag in which she was packing a nightcap and some cambric handkerchiefs. Her eyes were particularly bright, and were continually swimming with tears. "In the same way I didn't want to leave Petersburg, and now I don't want to go away from here."

 "You came here and did a good deed," said Dolly, looking intently at her.

 Anna looked at her with eyes wet with tears.

 "Don't say that, Dolly. I've done nothing, and could do nothing. I often wonder why people are all in league to spoil me. What have I done, and what could I do? In your heart there was found love enough to forgive..."

 "If it had not been for you, God knows what would have happened! How happy you are, Anna!" said Dolly. "Everything is clear and good in your heart."

 "Every heart has its own _skeletons_, as the English say."

 "You have no sort of _skeleton_, have you? Everything is so clear in you."

 "I have!" said Anna suddenly, and, unexpectedly after her tears, a sly, ironical smile curved her lips.

 "Come, he's amusing, anyway, your _skeleton_, and not depressing," said Dolly, smiling.

 "No, he's depressing. Do you know why I'm going today instead of tomorrow? It's a confession that weighs on me; I want to make it to you," said Anna, letting herself drop definitely into an armchair, and looking straight into Dolly's face.

 And to her surprise Dolly saw that Anna was blushing up to her ears, up to the curly black ringlets on her neck.

 "Yes," Anna went on. "Do you know why Kitty didn't come to dinner?  She's jealous of me. I have spoiled...I've been the cause of that ball being a torture to her instead of a pleasure. But truly, truly, it's not my fault, or only my fault a little bit," she said, daintily drawling the words "a little bit."

 "Oh, how like Stiva you said that!" said Dolly, laughing.

 Anna was hurt.

 "Oh no, oh no!  I'm not Stiva," she said, knitting her brows. "That's why I'm telling you, just because I could never let myself doubt myself for an instant," said Anna.

 But at the very moment she was uttering the words, she felt that they were not true. She was not merely doubting herself, she felt emotion at the thought of Vronsky, and was going away sooner than she had meant, simply to avoid meeting him.

 "Yes, Stiva told me you danced the mazurka with him, and that he..."

 "You can't imagine how absurdly it all came about. I only meant to be matchmaking, and all at once it turned out quite differently. Possibly against my own will..."

 She crimsoned and stopped.

 "Oh, they feel it directly?" said Dolly.

 "But I should be in despair if there were anything serious in it on his side," Anna interrupted her. "And I am certain it will all be forgotten, and Kitty will leave off hating me."

 "All the same, Anna, to tell you the truth, I'm not very anxious for this marriage for Kitty. And it's better it should come to nothing, if he, Vronsky, is capable of falling in love with you in a single day."

 "Oh, heavens, that would be too silly!" said Anna, and again a deep flush of pleasure came out on her face, when she heard the idea, that absorbed her, put into words. "And so here I am going away, having made an enemy of Kitty, whom I liked so much!  Ah, how sweet she is! But you'll make it right, Dolly? Eh?"

 Dolly could scarcely suppress a smile. She loved Anna, but she enjoyed seeing that she too had her weaknesses.

 "An enemy? That can't be."

 "I did so want you all to care for me, as I do for you, and now I care for you more than ever," said Anna, with tears in her eyes. "Ah, how silly I am today!"

 She passed her handkerchief over her face and began dressing.

 At the very moment of starting Stepan Arkadyevitch arrived, late, rosy and good-humored, smelling of wine and cigars.

 Anna's emotionalism infected Dolly, and when she embraced her sister-in-law for the last time, she whispered: "Remember, Anna, what you've done for me--I shall never forget. And remember that I love you, and shall always love you as my dearest friend!"

 "I don't know why," said Anna, kissing her and hiding her tears.

 "You understood me, and you understand. Good-bye, my darling!"


 Chapter 29

  "Come, it's all over, and thank God!" was the first thought that came to Anna Arkadyevna, when she had said good-bye for the last time to her brother, who had stood blocking up the entrance to the carriage till the third bell rang. She sat down on her lounge beside Annushka, and looked about her in the twilight of the sleeping-carriage. "Thank God! tomorrow I shall see Seryozha and Alexey Alexandrovitch, and my life will go on in the old way, all nice and as usual."

 Still in the same anxious frame of mind, as she had been all that day, Anna took pleasure in arranging herself for the journey with great care. With her little deft hands she opened and shut her little red bag, took out a cushion, laid it on her knees, and carefully wrapping up her feet, settled herself comfortably. An invalid lady had already lain down to sleep. Two other ladies began talking to Anna, and a stout elderly lady tucked up her feet, and made observations about the heating of the train. Anna answered a few words, but not foreseeing any entertainment from the conversation, she asked Annushka to get a lamp, hooked it onto the arm of her seat, and took from her bag a paper knife and an English novel. At first her reading made no progress. The fuss and bustle were disturbing; then when the train had started, she could not help listening to the noises; then the snow beating on the left window and sticking to the pane, and the sight of the muffled guard passing by, covered with snow on one side, and the conversations about the terrible snowstorm raging outside, distracted her attention. Farther on, it was continually the same again and again: the same shaking and rattling, the same snow on the window, the same rapid transitions from steaming heat to cold, and back again to heat, the same passing glimpses of the same figures in the twilight, and the same voices, and Anna began to read and to understand what she read. Annushka was already dozing, the red bag on her lap, clutched by her broad hands, in gloves, of which one was torn. Anna Arkadyevna read and understood, but it was distasteful to her to read, that is, to follow the reflection of other people's lives. She had too great a desire to live herself. If she read that the heroine of the novel was nursing a sick man, she longed to move with noiseless steps about the room of a sick man; if she read of a member of Parliament making a speech, she longed to be delivering the speech; if she read of how Lady Mary had ridden after the hounds, and had provoked her sister-in-law, and had surprised everyone by her boldness, she too wished to be doing the same. But there was no chance of doing anything; and twisting the smooth paper knife in her little hands, she forced herself to read.

 The hero of the novel was already almost reaching his English happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna was feeling a desire to go with him to the estate, when she suddenly felt that _he_ ought to feel ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same thing. But what had he to be ashamed of?  "What have I to be ashamed of?" she asked herself in injured surprise. She laid down the book and sank against the back of the chair, tightly gripping the paper cutter in both hands. There was nothing. She went over all her Moscow recollections. All were good, pleasant. She remembered the ball, remembered Vronsky and his face of slavish adoration, remembered all her conduct with him: there was nothing shameful. And for all that, at the same point in her memories, the feeling of shame was intensified, as though some inner voice, just at the point when she thought of Vronsky, were saying to her, "Warm, very warm, hot."  "Well, what is it?" she said to herself resolutely, shifting her seat in the lounge. "What does it mean?  Am I afraid to look it straight in the face? Why, what is it?  Can it be that between me and this officer boy there exist, or can exist, any other relations than such as are common with every acquaintance?"  She laughed contemptuously and took up her book again; but now she was definitely unable to follow what she read. She passed the paper knife over the window pane, then laid its smooth, cool surface to her cheek, and almost laughed aloud at the feeling of delight that all at once without cause came over her. She felt as though her nerves were strings being strained tighter and tighter on some sort of screwing peg. She felt her eyes opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes twitching nervously, something within oppressing her breathing, while all shapes and sounds seemed in the uncertain half-light to strike her with unaccustomed vividness. Moments of doubt were continually coming upon her, when she was uncertain whether the train were going forwards or backwards, or were standing still altogether; whether it were Annushka at her side or a stranger. "What's that on the arm of the chair, a fur cloak or some beast? And what am I myself?  Myself or some other woman?"  She was afraid of giving way to this delirium. But something drew her towards it, and she could yield to it or resist it at will. She got up to rouse herself, and slipped off her plaid and the cape of her warm dress. For a moment she regained her self-possession, and realized that the thin peasant who had come in wearing a long overcoat, with buttons missing from it, was the stoveheater, that he was looking at the thermometer, that it was the wind and snow bursting in after him at the door; but then everything grew blurred again.... That peasant with the long waist seemed to be gnawing something on the wall, the old lady began stretching her legs the whole length of the carriage, and filling it with a black cloud; then there was a fearful shrieking and banging, as though someone were being torn to pieces; then there was a blinding dazzle of red fire before her eyes and a wall seemed to rise up and hide everything. Anna felt as though she were sinking down. But it was not terrible, but delightful. The voice of a man muffled up and covered with snow shouted something in her ear. She got up and pulled herself together; she realized that they had reached a station and that this was the guard. She asked Annushka to hand her the cape she had taken off and her shawl, put them on and moved towards the door.

 "Do you wish to get out?" asked Annushka.

 "Yes, I want a little air. It's very hot in here." And she opened the door. The driving snow and the wind rushed to meet her and struggled with her over the door. But she enjoyed the struggle.

 She opened the door and went out. The wind seemed as though lying in wait for her; with gleeful whistle it tried to snatch her up and bear her off, but she clung to the cold door post, and holding her skirt got down onto the platform and under the shelter of the carriages.   The wind had been powerful on the steps, but on the platform, under the lee of the carriages, there was a lull. With enjoyment she drew deep breaths of the frozen, snowy air, and standing near the carriage looked about the platform and the lighted station.


 Chapter 30

  The raging tempest rushed whistling between the wheels of the carriages, about the scaffolding, and round the corner of the station. The carriages, posts, people, everything that was to be seen was covered with snow on one side, and was getting more and more thickly covered. For a moment there would come a lull in the storm, but then it would swoop down again with such onslaughts that it seemed impossible to stand against it. Meanwhile men ran to and fro, talking merrily together, their steps crackling on the platform as they continually opened and closed the big doors. The bent shadow of a man glided by at her feet, and she heard sounds of a hammer upon iron. "Hand over that telegram!" came an angry voice out of the stormy darkness on the other side. "This way!  No. 28!" several different voices shouted again, and muffled figures ran by covered with snow. Two gentlemen with lighted cigarettes passed by her. She drew one more deep breath of the fresh air, and had just put her hand out of her muff to take hold of the door post and get back into the carriage, when another man in a military overcoat, quite close beside her, stepped between her and the flickering light of the lamp post. She looked round, and the same instant recognized Vronsky's face. Putting his hand to the peak of his cap, he bowed to her and asked, Was there anything she wanted?  Could he be of any service to her?  She gazed rather a long while at him without answering, and, in spite of the shadow in which he was standing, she saw, or fancied she saw, both the expression of his face and his eyes. It was again that expression of reverential ecstasy which had so worked upon her the day before. More than once she had told herself during the past few days, and again only a few moments before, that Vronsky was for her only one of the hundreds of young men, forever exactly the same, that are met everywhere, that she would never allow herself to bestow a thought upon him. But now at the first instant of meeting him, she was seized by a feeling of joyful pride. She had no need to ask why he had come. She knew as certainly as if he had told her that he was here to be where she was.

 "I didn't know you were going. What are you coming for?" she said, letting fall the hand with which she had grasped the door post. And irrepressible delight and eagerness shone in her face.

 "What am I coming for?" he repeated, looking straight into her eyes. "You know that I have come to be where you are," he said; "I can't help it."

 At that moment the wind, as it were, surmounting all obstacles, sent the snow flying from the carriage roofs, and clanked some sheet of iron it had torn off, while the hoarse whistle of the engine roared in front, plaintively and gloomily. All the awfulness of the storm seemed to her more splendid now. He had said what her soul longed to hear, though she feared it with her reason. She made no answer, and in her face he saw conflict.

 "Forgive me, if you dislike what I said," he said humbly.

 He had spoken courteously, deferentially, yet so firmly, so stubbornly, that for a long while she could make no answer.

 "It's wrong, what you say, and I beg you, if you're a good man, to forget what you've said, as I forget it," she said at last.

 "Not one word, not one gesture of yours shall I, could I, ever forget..."

 "Enough, enough!" she cried trying assiduously to give a stern expression to her face, into which he was gazing greedily. And clutching at the cold door post, she clambered up the steps and got rapidly into the corridor of the carriage. But in the little corridor she paused, going over in her imagination what had happened. Though she could not recall her own words or his, she realized instinctively that the momentary conversation had brought them fearfully closer; and she was panic-stricken and blissful at it. After standing still a few seconds, she went into the carriage and sat down in her place. The overstrained condition which had tormented her before did not only come back, but was intensified, and reached such a pitch that she was afraid every minute that something would snap within her from the excessive tension. She did not sleep all night. But in that nervous tension, and in the visions that filled her imagination, there was nothing disagreeable or gloomy:  on the contrary there was something blissful, glowing, and exhilarating. Towards morning Anna sank into a doze, sitting in her place, and when she waked it was daylight and the train was near Petersburg. At once thoughts of home, of husband and of son, and the details of that day and the following came upon her.

 At Petersburg, as soon as the train stopped and she got out, the first person that attracted her attention was her husband. "Oh, mercy! why do his ears look like that?" she thought, looking at his frigid and imposing figure, and especially the ears that struck her at the moment as propping up the brim of his round hat. Catching sight of her, he came to meet her, his lips falling into their habitual sarcastic smile, and his big, tired eyes looking straight at her. An unpleasant sensation gripped at her heart when she met his obstinate and weary glance, as though she had expected to see him different. She was especially struck by the feeling of dissatisfaction with herself that she experienced on meeting him. That feeling was an intimate, familiar feeling, like a consciousness of hypocrisy, which she experienced in her relations with her husband. But hitherto she had not taken note of the feeling, now she was clearly and painfully aware of it.

 "Yes, as you see, your tender spouse, as devoted as the first year after marriage, burned with impatience to see you," he said in his deliberate, high-pitched voice, and in that tone which he almost always took with her, a tone of jeering at anyone who should say in earnest what he said.

 "Is Seryozha quite well?" she asked.

 "And is this all the reward," said he, "for my ardor? He's quite well..."


 Chapter 31

  Vronsky had not even tried to sleep all that night. He sat in his armchair, looking straight before him or scanning the people who got in and out. If he had indeed on previous occasions struck and impressed people who did not know him by his air of unhesitating composure, he seemed now more haughty and self-possessed than ever. He looked at people as if they were things. A nervous young man, a clerk in a law court, sitting opposite him, hated him for that look. The young man asked him for a light, and entered into conversation with him, and even pushed against him, to make him feel that he was not a thing, but a person. But Vronsky gazed at him exactly as he did at the lamp, and the young man made a wry face, feeling that he was losing his self-possession under the oppression of this refusal to recognize him as a person.

 Vronsky saw nothing and no one. He felt himself a king, not because he believed that he had made an impression on Anna--he did not yet believe that,--but because the impression she had made on him gave him happiness and pride.

 What would come of it all he did not know, he did not even think. He felt that all his forces, hitherto dissipated, wasted, were centered on one thing, and bent with fearful energy on one blissful goal. And he was happy at it. He knew only that he had told her the truth, that he had come where she was, that all the happiness of his life, the only meaning in life for him, now lay in seeing and hearing her. And when he got out of the carriage at Bologova to get some seltzer water, and caught sight of Anna, involuntarily his first word had told her just what he thought. And he was glad he had told her it, that she knew it now and was thinking of it. He did not sleep all night. When he was back in the carriage, he kept unceasingly going over every position in which he had seen her, every word she had uttered, and before his fancy, making his heart faint with emotion, floated pictures of a possible future.

 When he got out of the train at Petersburg, he felt after his sleepless night as keen and fresh as after a cold bath. He paused near his compartment, waiting for her to get out. "Once more," he said to himself, smiling unconsciously, "once more I shall see her walk, her face; she will say something, turn her head, glance, smile, maybe."  But before he caught sight of her, he saw her husband, whom the station-master was deferentially escorting through the crowd. "Ah, yes!  The husband."  Only now for the first time did Vronsky realize clearly the fact that there was a person attached to her, a husband. He knew that she had a husband, but had hardly believed in his existence, and only now fully believed in him, with his head and shoulders, and his legs clad in black trousers; especially when he saw this husband calmly take her arm with a sense of property.

 Seeing Alexey Alexandrovitch with his Petersburg face and severely self-confident figure, in his round hat, with his rather prominent spine, he believed in him, and was aware of a disagreeable sensation, such as a man might feel tortured by thirst, who, on reaching a spring, should find a dog, a sheep, or a pig, who has drunk of it and muddied the water. Alexey Alexandrovitch's manner of walking, with a swing of the hips and flat feet, particularly annoyed Vronsky. He could recognize in no one but himself an indubitable right to love her. But she was still the same, and the sight of her affected him the same way, physically reviving him, stirring him, and filling his soul with rapture. He told his German valet, who ran up to him from the second class, to take his things and go on, and he himself went up to her. He saw the first meeting between the husband and wife, and noted with a lover's insight the signs of slight reserve with which she spoke to her husband. "No, she does not love him and cannot love him," he decided to himself.

 At the moment when he was approaching Anna Arkadyevna he noticed too with joy that she was conscious of his being near, and looked round, and seeing him, turned again to her husband.

 "Have you passed a good night?" he asked, bowing to her and her husband together, and leaving it up to Alexey Alexandrovitch to accept the bow on his own account, and to recognize it or not, as he might see fit.

 "Thank you, very good," she answered.

 Her face looked weary, and there was not that play of eagerness in it, peeping out in her smile and her eyes; but for a single instant, as she glanced at him, there was a flash of something in her eyes, and although the flash died away at once, he was happy for that moment. She glanced at her husband to find out whether he knew Vronsky. Alexey Alexandrovitch looked at Vronsky with displeasure, vaguely recalling who this was. Vronsky's composure and self-confidence here struck, like a scythe against a stone, upon the cold self-confidence of Alexey Alexandrovitch.

 "Count Vronsky," said Anna.

 "Ah! We are acquainted, I believe," said Alexey Alexandrovitch indifferently, giving his hand.

 "You set off with the mother and you return with the son," he said, articulating each syllable, as though each were a separate favor he was bestowing.

 "You're back from leave, I suppose?" he said, and without waiting for a reply, he turned to his wife in his jesting tone: "Well, were a great many tears shed at Moscow at parting?"

 By addressing his wife like this he gave Vronsky to understand that he wished to be left alone, and, turning slightly towards him, he touched his hat; but Vronsky turned to Anna Arkadyevna.

 "I hope I may have the honor of calling on you," he said.

 Alexey Alexandrovitch glanced with his weary eyes at Vronsky.

 "Delighted," he said coldly. "On Mondays we're at home. Most fortunate," he said to his wife, dismissing Vronsky altogether, "that I should just have half an hour to meet you, so that I can prove my devotion," he went on in the same jesting tone.

 "You lay too much stress on your devotion for me to value it much," she responded in the same jesting tone, involuntarily listening to the sound of Vronsky's steps behind them. "But what has it to do with me?" she said to herself, and she began asking her husband how Seryozha had got on without her.

 "Oh, capitally! Mariette says he has been very good, And...I must disappoint you...but he has not missed you as your husband has. But once more _merci,_ my dear, for giving me a day. Our dear _Samovar_ will be delighted."  (He used to call the Countess Lidia Ivanovna, well known in society, a samovar, because she was always bubbling over with excitement.)  "She has been continually asking after you. And, do you know, if I may venture to advise you, you should go and see her today. You know how she takes everything to heart. Just now, with all her own cares, she's anxious about the Oblonskys being brought together."

 The Countess Lidia Ivanovna was a friend of her husband's, and the center of that one of the coteries of the Petersburg world with which Anna was, through her husband, in the closest relations.

 "But you know I wrote to her?"

 "Still she'll want to hear details. Go and see her, if you're not too tired, my dear. Well, Kondraty will take you in the carriage, while I go to my committee. I shall not be alone at dinner again," Alexey Alexandrovitch went on, no longer in a sarcastic tone. "You wouldn't believe how I've missed..."  And with a long pressure of her hand and a meaning smile, he put her in her carriage.


  Chapter 32

  The first person to meet Anna at home was her son. He dashed down the stairs to her, in spite of the governess's call, and with desperate joy shrieked:  "Mother! mother!"  Running up to her, he hung on her neck.

 "I told you it was mother!" he shouted to the governess. "I knew!"

 And her son, like her husband, aroused in Anna a feeling akin to disappointment. She had imagined him better than he was in reality. She had to let herself drop down to the reality to enjoy him as he really was. But even as he was, he was charming, with his fair curls, his blue eyes, and his plump, graceful little legs in tightly pulled-up stockings. Anna experienced almost physical pleasure in the sensation of his nearness, and his caresses, and moral soothing, when she met his simple, confiding, and loving glance, and heard his naïve questions. Anna took out the presents Dolly's children had sent him, and told her son what sort of little girl was Tanya at Moscow, and how Tanya could read, and even taught the other children.

 "Why, am I not so nice as she?" asked Seryozha.

 "To me you're nicer than anyone in the world."

 "I know that," said Seryozha, smiling.

 Anna had not had time to drink her coffee when the Countess Lidia Ivanovna was announced.   The Countess Lidia Ivanovna was a tall, stout woman, with an unhealthily sallow face and splendid, pensive black eyes. Anna liked her, but today she seemed to be seeing her for the first time with all her defects.

 "Well, my dear, so you took the olive branch?" inquired Countess Lidia Ivanovna, as soon as she came into the room.

 "Yes, it's all over, but it was all much less serious than we had supposed," answered Anna. "My _belle-soeur_ is in general too hasty."

 But Countess Lidia Ivanovna, though she was interested in everything that did not concern her, had a habit of never listening to what interested her; she interrupted Anna:

 "Yes, there's plenty of sorrow and evil in the world. I am so worried today."

 "Oh, why?" asked Anna, trying to suppress a smile.

 "I'm beginning to be weary of fruitlessly championing the truth, and sometimes I'm quite unhinged by it. The Society of the Little Sisters" (this was a religiously-patriotic, philanthropic institution) "was going splendidly, but with these gentlemen it's impossible to do anything," added Countess Lidia Ivanovna in a tone of ironical submission to destiny. "They pounce on the idea, and distort it, and then work it out so pettily and unworthily. Two or three people, your husband among them, understand all the importance of the thing, but the others simply drag it down. Yesterday Pravdin wrote to me..."

 Pravdin was a well-known Panslavist abroad, and Countess Lidia Ivanovna described the purport of his letter.

 Then the countess told her of more disagreements and intrigues against the work of the unification of the churches, and departed in haste, as she had that day to be at the meeting of some society and also at the Slavonic committee.

 "It was all the same before, of course; but why was it I didn't notice it before?" Anna asked herself. "Or has she been very much irritated today? It's really ludicrous; her object is doing good; she a Christian, yet she's always angry; and she always has enemies, and always enemies in the name of Christianity and doing good."

 After Countess Lidia Ivanovna another friend came, the wife of a chief secretary, who told her all the news of the town. At three o'clock she too went away, promising to come to dinner. Alexey Alexandrovitch was at the ministry. Anna, left alone, spent the time till dinner in assisting at her son's dinner (he dined apart from his parents) and in putting her things in order, and in reading and answering the notes and letters which had accumulated on her table.

 The feeling of causeless shame, which she had felt on the journey, and her excitement, too, had completely vanished. In the habitual conditions of her life she felt again resolute and irreproachable.

 She recalled with wonder her state of mind on the previous day. "What was it?  Nothing. Vronsky said something silly, which it was easy to put a stop to, and I answered as I ought to have done. To speak of it to my husband would be unnecessary and out of the question. To speak of it would be to attach importance to what has no importance."  She remembered how she had told her husband of what was almost a declaration made her at Petersburg by a young man, one of her husband's subordinates, and how Alexey Alexandrovitch had answered that every woman living in the world was exposed to such incidents, but that he had the fullest confidence in her tact, and could never lower her and himself by jealousy. "So then there's no reason to speak of it?  And indeed, thank God, there's nothing to speak of," she told herself.


 Chapter 33

  Alexey Alexandrovitch came back from the meeting of the ministers at four o'clock, but as often happened, he had not time to come in to her. He went into his study to see the people waiting for him with petitions, and to sign some papers brought him by his chief secretary. At dinner time (there were always a few people dining with the Karenins) there arrived an old lady, a cousin of Alexey Alexandrovitch, the chief secretary of the department and his wife, and a young man who had been recommended to Alexey Alexandrovitch for the service. Anna went into the drawing room to receive these guests. Precisely at five o'clock, before the bronze Peter the First clock had struck the fifth stroke, Alexey Alexandrovitch came in, wearing a white tie and evening coat with two stars, as he had to go out directly after dinner. Every minute of Alexey Alexandrovitch's life was portioned out and occupied. And to make time to get through all that lay before him every day, he adhered to the strictest punctuality. "Unhasting and unresting," was his motto. He came into the dining hall, greeted everyone, and hurriedly sat down, smiling to his wife.

 "Yes, my solitude is over. You wouldn't believe how uncomfortable" (he laid stress on the word _uncomfortable_) "it is to dine alone."

 At dinner he talked a little to his wife about Moscow matters, and, with a sarcastic smile, asked her after Stepan Arkadyevitch; but the conversation was for the most part general, dealing with Petersburg official and public news. After dinner he spent half an hour with his guests, and again, with a smile, pressed his wife's hand, withdrew, and drove off to the council. Anna did not go out that evening either to the Princess Betsy Tverskaya, who, hearing of her return, had invited her, nor to the theater, where she had a box for that evening. She did not go out principally because the dress she had reckoned upon was not ready. Altogether, Anna, on turning, after the departure of her guests, to the consideration of her attire, was very much annoyed. She was generally a mistress of the art of dressing well without great expense, and before leaving Moscow she had given her dressmaker three dresses to transform. The dresses had to be altered so that they could not be recognized, and they ought to have been ready three days before. It appeared that two dresses had not been done at all, while the other one had not been altered as Anna had intended. The dressmaker came to explain, declaring that it would be better as she had done it, and Anna was so furious that she felt ashamed when she thought of it afterwards. To regain her serenity completely she went into the nursery, and spent the whole evening with her son, put him to bed herself, signed him with the cross, and tucked him up. She was glad she had not gone out anywhere, and had spent the evening so well. She felt so light-hearted and serene, she saw so clearly that all that had seemed to her so important on her railway journey was only one of the common trivial incidents of fashionable life, and that she had no reason to feel ashamed before anyone else or before herself. Anna sat down at the hearth with an English novel and waited for her husband. Exactly at half-past nine she heard his ring, and he came into the room.

 "Here you are at last!" she observed, holding out her hand to him.

 He kissed her hand and sat down beside her.

 "Altogether then, I see your visit was a success," he said to her.

 "Oh, yes," she said, and she began telling him about everything from the beginning: her journey with Countess Vronskaya, her arrival, the accident at the station. Then she described the pity she had felt, first for her brother, and afterwards for Dolly.

 "I imagine one cannot exonerate such a man from blame, though he is your brother," said Alexey Alexandrovitch severely.

 Anna smiled. She knew that he said that simply to show that family considerations could not prevent him from expressing his genuine opinion. She knew that characteristic in her husband, and liked it.

 "I am glad it has all ended so satisfactorily, and that you are back again," he went on. "Come, what do they say about the new act I have got passed in the council?"

 Anna had heard nothing of this act, And she felt conscience-stricken at having been able so readily to forget what was to him of such importance.

 "Here, on the other hand, it has made a great sensation," he said, with a complacent smile.

 She saw that Alexey Alexandrovitch wanted to tell her something pleasant to him about it, and she brought him by questions to telling it. With the same complacent smile he told her of the ovations he had received in consequence of the act he had passed.

 "I was very, very glad. It shows that at last a reasonable and steady view of the matter is becoming prevalent among us."

 Having drunk his second cup of tea with cream, and bread, Alexey Alexandrovitch got up, and was going towards his study.

 "And you've not been anywhere this evening? You've been dull, I expect?" he said.

 "Oh, no!" she answered, getting up after him and accompanying him across the room to his study. "What are you reading now?" she asked.

 "Just now I'm reading Duc de Lille, _Poésie des Enfers,_" he answered. "A very remarkable book."

 Anna smiled, as people smile at the weaknesses of those they love, and, putting her hand under his, she escorted him to the door of the study. She knew his habit, that had grown into a necessity, of reading in the evening. She knew, too, that in spite of his official duties, which swallowed up almost the whole of his time, he considered it his duty to keep up with everything of note that appeared in the intellectual world. She knew, too, that he was really interested in books dealing with politics, philosophy, and theology, that art was utterly foreign to his nature; but, in spite of this, or rather, in consequence of it, Alexey Alexandrovitch never passed over anything in the world of art, but made it his duty to read everything. She knew that in politics, in philosophy, in theology, Alexey Alexandrovitch often had doubts, and made investigations; but on questions of art and poetry, and, above all, of music, of which he was totally devoid of understanding, he had the most distinct and decided opinions. He was fond of talking about Shakespeare, Raphael, Beethoven, of the significance of new schools of poetry and music, all of which were classified by him with very conspicuous consistency.

 "Well, God be with you," she said at the door of the study, where a shaded candle and a decanter of water were already put by his armchair. "And I'll write to Moscow."

 He pressed her hand, and again kissed it.

 "All the same he's a good man; truthful, good-hearted, and remarkable in his own line," Anna said to herself going back to her room, as though she were defending him to someone who had attacked him and said that one could not love him. "But why is it his ears stick out so strangely? Or has he had his hair cut?"

 Precisely at twelve o'clock, when Anna was still sitting at her writing table, finishing a letter to Dolly, she heard the sound of measured steps in slippers, and Alexey Alexandrovitch, freshly washed and combed, with a book under his arm, came in to her.

 "It's time, it's time," said he, with a meaning smile, and he went into their bedroom.

 "And what right had he to look at him like that?" thought Anna, recalling Vronsky's glance at Alexey Alexandrovitch.

 Undressing, she went into the bedroom; but her face had none of the eagerness which, during her stay in Moscow, had fairly flashed from her eyes and her smile; on the contrary, now the fire seemed quenched in her, hidden somewhere far away.


 Chapter 34

  When Vronsky went to Moscow from Petersburg, he had left his large set of rooms in Morskaia to his friend and favorite comrade Petritsky.

 Petritsky was a young lieutenant, not particularly well-connected, and not merely not wealthy, but always hopelessly in debt. Towards evening he was always drunk, and he had often been locked up after all sorts of ludicrous and disgraceful scandals, but he was a favorite both of his comrades and his superior officers. On arriving at twelve o'clock from the station at his flat, Vronsky saw, at the outer door, a hired carriage familiar to him. While still outside his own door, as he rang, he heard masculine laughter, the lisp of a feminine voice, and Petritsky's voice. "If that's one of the villains, don't let him in!"  Vronsky told the servant not to announce him, and slipped quietly into the first room. Baroness Shilton, a friend of Petritsky's, with a rosy little face and flaxen hair, resplendent in a lilac satin gown, and filling the whole room, like a canary, with her Parisian chatter, sat at the round table making coffee. Petritsky, in his overcoat, and the cavalry captain Kamerovsky, in full uniform, probably just come from duty, were sitting each side of her.

 "Bravo! Vronsky!" shouted Petritsky, jumping up, scraping his chair. "Our host himself!  Baroness, some coffee for him out of the new coffee pot. Why, we didn't expect you!  Hope you're satisfied with the ornament of your study," he said, indicating the baroness. "You know each other, of course?"

 "I should think so," said Vronsky, with a bright smile, pressing the baroness's little hand. "What next!  I'm an old friend."

 "You're home after a journey," said the baroness, "so I'm flying. Oh, I'll be off this minute, if I'm in the way."

 "You're home, wherever you are, baroness," said Vronsky. "How do you do, Kamerovsky?" he added, coldly shaking hands with Kamerovsky.

 "There, you never know how to say such pretty things," said the baroness, turning to Petritsky.

 "No; what's that for?  After dinner I say things quite as good."

 "After dinner there's no credit in them?  Well, then, I'll make you some coffee, so go and wash and get ready," said the baroness, sitting down again, and anxiously turning the screw in the new coffee pot. "Pierre, give me the coffee," she said, addressing Petritsky, whom she called Pierre as a contraction of his surname, making no secret of her relations with him. "I'll put it in."

 "You'll spoil it!"

 "No, I won't spoil it!  Well, and your wife?" said the baroness suddenly, interrupting Vronsky's conversation with his comrade. "We've been marrying you here. Have you brought your wife?"

 "No, baroness. I was born a Bohemian, and a Bohemian I shall die."

 "So much the better, so much the better. Shake hands on it."

 And the baroness, detaining Vronsky, began telling him, with many jokes, about her last new plans of life, asking his advice.

 "He persists in refusing to give me a divorce! Well, what am I to do?"  (_He_ was her husband.)  "Now I want to begin a suit against him. What do you advise?  Kamerovsky, look after the coffee; it's boiling over. You see, I'm engrossed with business! I want a lawsuit, because I must have my property. Do you understand the folly of it, that on the pretext of my being unfaithful to him," she said contemptuously, "he wants to get the benefit of my fortune."

 Vronsky heard with pleasure this light-hearted prattle of a pretty woman, agreed with her, gave her half-joking counsel, and altogether dropped at once into the tone habitual to him in talking to such women. In his Petersburg world all people were divided into utterly opposed classes. One, the lower class, vulgar, stupid, and, above all, ridiculous people, who believe that one husband ought to live with the one wife whom he has lawfully married; that a girl should be innocent, a woman modest, and a man manly, self-controlled, and strong; that one ought to bring up one's children, earn one's bread, and pay one's debts; and various similar absurdities. This was the class of old-fashioned and ridiculous people. But there was another class of people, the real people. To this class they all belonged, and in it the great thing was to be elegant, generous, plucky, gay, to abandon oneself without a blush to every passion, and to laugh at everything else.

 For the first moment only, Vronsky was startled after the impression of a quite different world that he had brought with him from Moscow. But immediately as though slipping his feet into old slippers, he dropped back into the light-hearted, pleasant world he had always lived in.

 The coffee was never really made, but spluttered over every one, and boiled away, doing just what was required of it--that is, providing much cause for much noise and laughter, and spoiling a costly rug and the baroness's gown.

 "Well now, good-bye, or you'll never get washed, and I shall have on my conscience the worst sin a gentleman can commit. So you would advise a knife to his throat?"

 "To be sure, and manage that your hand may not be far from his lips. He'll kiss your hand, and all will end satisfactorily," answered Vronsky.

 "So at the Francais!" and, with a rustle of her skirts, she vanished.

 Kamerovsky got up too, and Vronsky, not waiting for him to go, shook hands and went off to his dressing room.

 While he was washing, Petritsky described to him in brief outlines his position, as far as it had changed since Vronsky had left Petersburg. No money at all. His father said he wouldn't give him any and pay his debts. His tailor was trying to get him locked up, and another fellow, too, was threatening to get him locked up. The colonel of the regiment had announced that if these scandals did not cease he would have to leave. As for the baroness, he was sick to death of her, especially since she'd taken to offering continually to lend him money. But he had found a girl--he'd show her to Vronsky--a marvel, exquisite, in the strict Oriental style, "genre of the slave Rebecca, don't you know."  He'd had a row, too, with Berkoshov, and was going to send seconds to him, but of course it would come to nothing. Altogether everything was supremely amusing and jolly. And, not letting his comrade enter into further details of his position, Petritsky proceeded to tell him all the interesting news. As he listened to Petritsky's familiar stories in the familiar setting of the rooms he had spent the last three years in, Vronsky felt a delightful sense of coming back to the careless Petersburg life that he was used to.

 "Impossible!" he cried, letting down the pedal of the washing basin in which he had been sousing his healthy red neck. "Impossible!" he cried, at the news that Laura had flung over Fertinghof and had made up to Mileev. "And is he as stupid and pleased as ever? Well, and how's Buzulukov?"

 "Oh, there is a tale about Buzulukov--simply lovely!" cried Petritsky. "You know his weakness for balls, and he never misses a single court ball. He went to a big ball in a new helmet. Have you seen the new helmets?  Very nice, lighter. Well, so he's standing.... No, I say, do listen."

 "I am listening," answered Vronsky, rubbing himself with a rough towel.

 "Up comes the Grand Duchess with some ambassador or other, and, as ill-luck would have it, she begins talking to him about the new helmets. The Grand Duchess positively wanted to show the new helmet to the ambassador. They see our friend standing there." (Petritsky mimicked how he was standing with the helmet.) "The Grand Duchess asked him to give her the helmet; he doesn't give it to her. What do you think of that?  Well, every one's winking at him, nodding, frowning--give it to her, do!  He doesn't give it to her. He's mute as a fish. Only picture it!... Well, the...what's his name, whatever he was...tries to take the helmet from him...he won't give it up!... He pulls it from him, and hands it to the Grand Duchess. 'Here, your Highness,' says he, 'is the new helmet.'  She turned the helmet the other side up, And--just picture it!--plop went a pear and sweetmeats out of it, two pounds of sweetmeats!...He'd been storing them up, the darling!"

 Vronsky burst into roars of laughter. And long afterwards, when he was talking of other things, he broke out into his healthy laugh, showing his strong, close rows of teeth, when he thought of the helmet.

 Having heard all the news, Vronsky, with the assistance of his valet, got into his uniform, and went off to report himself. He intended, when he had done that, to drive to his brother's and to Betsy's and to pay several visits with a view to beginning to go into that society where he might meet Madame Karenina. As he always did in Petersburg, he left home not meaning to return till late at night.





 奥勃朗斯基家里一片混乱。妻子知道丈夫同原先的法籍家庭女教师 有暖昧关系,就向丈夫声明,她不能再同他生活在一起。这种局面已持 续了三天。面对这样的局面,不仅夫妻两人,而且一家老少,个个都感 到很痛苦。大家都觉得,他们两个这样生活在一起没有意思,就算是随 便哪家客店里萍水相逢的旅客吧,他们的关系也要比奥勃朗斯基夫妻融 洽些。妻子一直关在自己房里,丈夫离家已有三天,孩子们象野小鬼一 样在房子里到处乱跑;英籍家庭女教师跟女管家吵了嘴,写信请朋友替 她另找工作;厨子昨天午餐时走掉了;厨娘和车夫也都辞职不干。

 吵架后的第三天,斯吉邦·阿尔卡迪奇·奥勃朗斯基公爵(社交界 都叫他小名斯基华)照例在早晨八点钟醒来,但不在妻子的卧室里,而 在书房的皮沙发上。他那保养得很好的肥胖身子在沙发上翻了个身,抱 着个枕头使劲贴住面颊,仿佛还想睡一大觉。但突然一骨碌爬起来,坐 在沙发上,睁开眼睛。

 “嗯,嗯,这是怎么一回事?”他回想着刚才的梦。“嗯,这是怎 么一回事?对了,阿拉平在达姆斯塔特请客;不,不是达姆斯塔特, 是美国的什么地方。对了,达姆斯塔特就在美国。对了,阿拉平在玻璃 做的桌子上请客,大家唱意大利歌儿《我的宝贝》②,不,不是唱《我的宝贝》,是唱更好听的曲子;还有些玲珑的水晶玻璃瓶,可这些酒瓶原来都是女人。”

奥勃朗斯基高兴得眼睛闪闪发亮。他想得出神,脸上 浮着微笑。“对,真有意思,真是太有意思了。还有许多妙事,可惜一 醒来就忘记,连印象都模糊了。”他看到厚窗帘边上漏进来的一线阳光, 快乐地从沙发上挂下双腿,用脚去探索妻子亲手绣上花的那双金色皮拖 鞋(去年的生日礼物),并且按照九年来的老习惯,不等起床,就伸手 去摸挂在卧室老地方的那件晨衣。这时他才明白,自己并不是睡在妻子 的卧室里,而是睡在书房里,以及怎么会睡在这里。笑容从他脸上消失 了,他皱起眉头。


 他的脑子里又浮现出他同妻子吵架的详情细节,想到他那走投无路的处 境,以及他一手造成、最使他苦恼的事端。

 “唉!她不原谅我,她不肯原谅我。最糟的是什么事都怪我,都怪 我,可我又没有错。全部悲剧就在这里,啊呀呀!”他回想着这场争吵 中最使他痛苦的情景,颓丧地叹着气。

 最不痛快的是他刚从剧场回来的那个情景。当时他兴冲冲地拿着一 个大梨子要给妻子吃,可是她不在客厅里。奇怪的是书房里也找不到她, 最后到了卧室,才发现她手里拿着那封使真相大白的该死的信。

 她,这个永远忙忙碌碌、心事重重、被他认作头脑简单的陶丽,手 里拿着信,一动不动地坐着,脸上带着惊讶、绝望和忿怒的神色瞧着他。


 每次想到这情景,奥勃朗斯基感到最难堪的,往往不是事件本身, 而是他回答妻子时的那副蠢相。

 他当时的感觉就象一个人干了丑事突然被揭发了似的。在他的过错 暴露以后,他站在妻子面前的那副模样,实在太别扭了。他既不感到委 屈,也不否认,也不辩解,也不过饶,甚至装得满不在乎——真是糟得 不能再糟了!——脸上竟不由自主地(奥勃朗斯基爱好生理学,认为这 是“延髓反射作用”),完全不由自主地突然浮现出那种他平时常有的 敦厚而愚憨的微笑。

 他因这样的憨笑不能饶恕自己。陶丽一看见他这种笑容,就象被针 扎了一下似的,浑身打了个哆嗦。她按捺不住怒气,嘴里吐出一连串尖 刻的话,奔出房间。从此她就不愿再见他了。


 “但有什么办法呢?有什么办法呢?”他绝望地问自己,可是答不 上来。



奥勃朗斯基对待自己是诚实的。他不能欺骗自己,不能装作对自己 的行为感到悔恨。他今年三十四岁,是个多情的美男子;他的妻子比他 只小一岁,却已是五个活着、两个死去的孩子的母亲。现在他不再爱她 了,这一层他并不后悔。他后悔的是没有把那件事瞒过妻子。不过,他 感觉到自己处境的为难,也替妻子、孩子和自己难过。他要是早知道这 件事会让妻子如此伤心,也许会竭力把这罪孽瞒住,不让她知道。这个 问题他从没认真考虑过,只模模糊糊地感到妻子早已知道他对她不忠 实,不过装作没看见罢了。他甚至认为,她已经年老色衰,失去风姿, 毫无魅力,纯粹成了个贤妻良母,理应对他宽宏大量,不计较什么。谁 知正好相反。

 “唉,真糟糕!啊呀,真糟糕!”奥勃朗斯基一直唉声叹气,一筹 莫展。“没出这件事以前,一切都多么如意,我们的日子过得多美!她 有了几个孩子,感到心满意足,十分幸福。我也从不干涉她的事,让她 随意照顾孩子,料理家务。说真的,糟就糟在她原是我们的家庭教师。

 真糟糕!勾搭自己家里的家庭教师的确有点儿庸俗,下流。可她是个多 么迷人的家庭教师啊!(他清晰地想起了罗兰小姐那双调皮的黑眼睛和 她的笑靥。)不过她在我们家的时候,我还没有放肆过。现在最糟糕的 是她已经……真象有意跟我过不去似的!啊呀呀!究竟怎么办呢,怎么 办呢?”

 在生活中遇到各种最复杂最棘手的问题时,他通常解决的办法就 是:过一天算一天,抛弃烦恼忘记愁。他现在也别无他法。但此刻他可 不能靠睡眠来忘掉烦恼,至少不到夜里办不到,因此也就不能重温有酒 瓶女人唱歌的美梦,只好浑浑噩噩地混日子。

 “往后瞧着办吧,”奥勃朗斯基自言自语。他站起来穿上一件蓝绸 里子的灰色晨衣,拉起腰带打了个结。他挺起宽阔的胸膛,深深地吸了 一口气,照例迈开那双轻灵地支撑着他那肥胖身子的八字脚,精神抖擞 地走到窗前,拉开窗帘,使劲摇了摇铃。他的贴身老仆马特维应声而来, 手里拿着衣服、靴子和一封电报。理发师手拿理发用具也跟着马特维走 进来。


 “在桌上呐,”马特维回答,疑惑而又同情地瞅了老爷一眼,等了 不多一会儿,又露出调皮的微笑补了一句:“马车行老板派人来过了。”

 奥勃朗斯基什么也没回答,只在镜子里瞧了瞧马特维。从镜子里相 遇的目光中可以看出,他们彼此是很了解的。奥勃朗斯基的眼神仿佛在 问:“你何必说这话呢?难道你还不明白吗?”

 马特维双手插在上装口袋里,伸出一只脚,脸上露出一丝笑意,忠 心耿耿地对主人默默看了一眼。



 奥勃朗斯基懂得,马特维想说说笑话,逗人家注意。他拆开电报, 看了一遍,猜测着电报里常有的几个译错的字,顿时容光焕发。

 “马特维,我妹妹安娜·阿尔卡迪耶夫娜明天就要到了,”他做了 个手势,要理发师那只光润的胖手停一下,说道。理发师正在他那又长 又鬈的络腮胡子中剃出一条粉红色的纹路来。

 “赞美上帝,”马特维回答了一声,表示他象老爷一样懂得她这次 来访的重大意义,就是说,安娜·阿尔卡迪耶夫娜,奥勃朗斯基的爱妹 来访,也许能使兄嫂言归于好。


 奥勃朗斯基不好回答,因为理发师正在剃他的上唇,他就竖起一只 手指。马特维对镜子点点头。





 马特维心里明白:“您这是要我去试探一下,”但嘴里却说:“是, 老爷。”

 当马特维手里拿着电报,穿着咔嚓咔嚓响的长靴慢吞吞地回到房里 的时候,奥勃朗斯基已经梳洗完毕,正要穿衣服。理发师已经走了。

 “达丽雅·阿历山德罗夫娜要我向您回禀:她要走了。她说,‘他 ——就是说您——爱怎么办就怎么办好了,’”马特维眼睛里含着笑意 说,接着双手插在口袋里,歪着脑袋打量主人。

 奥勃朗斯基不作声。随后他那漂亮的脸上浮起了一丝无可奈何的苦 笑。





 “你这样想吗?谁来了?”奥勃朗斯基听见门外有女人衣服的窸窣 声,问道。

 “是我,老爷,”回答的是一个女人坚定而愉快的声音。接着老保 姆马特廖娜严厉的麻脸从门外探了进来。


 尽管奥勃朗斯基在妻子面前一无是处,他自己也有这样的感觉,但 家里几乎人人都站在他一边,就连达丽雅·阿历山德罗夫娜的心腹,这 个老保姆,也不例外。


 “您去一下吧,老爷,再去认个错。也许上帝会赐恩的。她太受罪 了,人家瞧着她都觉得可怜。再说家里闹得颠三倒四的,也不是个办法。

 老爷,您得可怜可怜孩子他们哪。去认个错吧,老爷。有什么办法呢! 玩出事情来了……”


 “您只要尽心尽力就行。上帝是仁慈的,老爷,您一定得祷告上帝, 祷告上帝。”

 “好的,你去吧,”奥勃朗斯基突然涨红了脸说。“来,让我换衣 服,”他对马特维说,随即利索地脱下晨衣。

 马特维举着那件洗净熨挺的衬衫,好象举着一具马轭,吹吹上面看 不见的灰尘,这才满意地把它套在老爷强壮的身体上。



奥勃朗斯基穿好衣服,身上洒了香水,拉齐衬衫袖口,照例把香烟、 皮夹子、火柴、系着双重链子带表坠的怀表分别放到几个口袋里,然后 又抖了抖手帕。尽管他在家庭生活中遭到了不幸,但觉得自己还是那么 清洁健康,浑身芳香,精神抖擞。他微微抖动双腿,走进餐厅。餐厅里 已给他准备好咖啡,咖啡杯旁边摆着信件和公文。

 他看了信件。有一封是那个想买他妻子林产的商人写来的,他看了 很不愉快。那座树林非卖不可,但现在同妻子还没有言归于好,这件事 就根本谈不上。他感到最不愉快的是,这种金钱上的利害关系,竟会牵 涉到当前他同妻子的和解问题。一想到他会受这种金钱关系的支配—— 为了出卖树林而非同妻子讲和不可,——他感到自尊心受到了伤害。

 奥勃朗斯基看完信,把公文挪到面前,迅速地翻阅了两件公事,用 粗铅笔做了记号,又把公文推开,开始喝咖啡。他一面喝咖啡,一面翻 开油墨未干的晨报,看了起来。

 奥勃朗斯基订阅的是一张自由主义的报纸,——不是极端自由主 义,而是多数人赞成的那种自由主义。说实话,他对科学、艺术、政治 都不感兴趣,但却始终支持大多数人和他们的报纸对各种问题的观点, 而且只有当大多数人改变观点时,他才改变观点,或者说得更确切些, 不是他改变了观点,而是观点本身在他头脑里不知不觉地起了变化。

 奥勃朗斯基从不选择政治派别和观点,而是这些政治派别和观点自 动找上门来,就象他从不选择帽子和上装的式样,在穿着上总是随大流 一样。由于进出上流社会,再加上成年人思想活跃,他需要有政治观点, 就象需要帽子一样。至于他选中自由派,而不象他周围许多人那样信奉 保守派,那并不是因为他觉得自由主义比保守主义更有道理,而是因为 自由主义更适合他的生活。自由派说俄国什么事都很糟。不错,奥勃朗 斯基负债累累,手头总是很拮据。自由派说,婚姻制度陈旧,必须加以 改革。不错,家庭生活确实没有给奥勃朗斯基带来多少乐趣,还违反他 的本性,强迫他说谎做假。自由派说——或者更确切些,暗示,——宗 教只是对野蛮人的束缚。不错,奥勃朗斯基即使做一个短礼拜也觉得两 腿酸痛,再说,他也无法理解,既然现实生活这样快乐,那又何必用恐 怖而玄妙的语言来谈论来世呢。此外,奥勃朗斯基爱开玩笑,喜欢作弄 作弄老实人。例如他说,若要夸耀祖宗的话,那就不应限于留利克[1]而把 人类的老祖宗——猴子忘掉。就这样,自由主义倾向在奥勃朗斯基身上 扎了根,他爱读他订的报纸,就象饭后爱抽一支雪茄,因为读报会使他 头脑里腾起一片轻雾。他读了社论,社论里说,现在完全没有必要叫嚣 什么激进主义有吞没一切保守分子的危险,叫嚣什么政府必须采取措施 镇压革命这一洪水猛兽,恰恰相反,“我们认为,危险不在于凭空捏造 的革命这一洪水猛兽,而在于阻碍进步的因循守旧”,等等。他又读了 一篇论财政问题的文章,文中提到边沁和穆勒[2] ,并且讽刺了政府某部。

[1] 留利克——俄国建国者。

[2] 边沁(17481832)——英国伦理学家、法学家、资产阶级功利主义代表。穆勒(18061873)——英 国唯心主义哲学家、经济学家、逻辑学家。

 凭着天生的机灵,他能识破各种各样的讽刺文章:是什么人策划的,针 对什么人的,出于什么动机。他觉得这种分析是一种乐趣。可是今天他 没有这样的心情,因为想到了马特廖娜的劝告和家里的风波。他还在报 上看到,贝斯特伯爵已赴维斯巴登,以及根治白发、出售轻便马车、某 青年征婚等广告,不过这些新闻广告并没象往常那样使他觉得有点滑 稽。

 他看过报纸,喝了两杯咖啡,吃好黄油面包,站起身来,拂掉落在 背心上的面包屑,接着挺起胸膛,快乐地微微一笑。这并不是因为心里 有什么愉快的事,而纯粹是由良好的消化引起的。


 门外传来两个孩子的声音(奥勃朗斯基听出是他的小儿子格里沙和 大女儿塔尼雅的声音)。他们在搬弄什么东西,把东西弄翻在地上。


 “怎么能让孩子们自己到处乱跑呢,”奥勃朗斯基想,“真是乱七 八糟。”他走到门口召唤他们。孩子们丢下充当火车的匣子,向父亲跑 来。

 这女孩是父亲的小宝贝,她大胆地跑进房间,抱住他,嘻嘻哈哈地 笑着吊在他的脖子上。她象平时一样,闻到他络腮胡子里散发出来的熟 识的香水味,就感到快乐。最后,女孩吻了吻他那焕发着慈爱的光辉、 因为弯腰而涨得通红的脸,松开双手,正要跑开,却被父亲拦住了。



 他知道他不太喜欢男孩子,但总是竭力表示一视同仁;男孩子感觉 到这一点,对父亲冷淡的笑容并没有报以微笑。


 奥勃朗斯基叹了一口气。“这么说,她又是一个通宵没睡觉,”他 想。


 女孩子知道父亲和母亲吵过嘴,母亲心里不高兴。这一点父亲应该 知道,他这样若无其事地问,显然是装出来的。她为父亲脸红。做父亲 的立刻察觉了,脸也红了。

 “我不知道,”女儿说。“她没叫我们上课,她叫古丽小姐带我们 到奶奶家去玩。”

 “好的,去吧,我的小塔尼雅。哦,等一下,”他又拦住她,抚摩 着她柔软的小手说。

 他从壁炉上取下昨天放在那里的一盒糖果,挑了两块她喜爱的糖: 一块巧克力,一块软糖。


 “对,对,”他又摸摸她的小肩膀,吻吻她的头发和脖子,这才放 她走。

 “马车准备好了,”马特维说。“来了一个请愿的女人,”他补充 说。




 “总得让您把咖啡喝完哪,”马特维说。他的语气那么亲切朴实, 叫你没法子发火。


 来请愿的是加里宁上尉的妻子。她提出一个办不到的无理要求,但 奥勃朗斯基还是照例请她坐下,仔细听她把话说完,中间也没有插嘴, 还给她作了详细的指示,告诉她应该怎么办,应该去向谁要求,甚至用 他粗犷、奔放、漂亮而清晰的字体,写了一封信给一个可能帮她忙的人。

 奥勃朗斯基把上尉的妻子打发走了,拿起帽子,站住想了想他有没有忘 记什么东西。看来没有忘记什么,除了他希望忘记的妻子之外。

 “真糟糕!”他垂下头,漂亮的脸上现出苦恼的神情。“去还是不 去?”他自言自语着,但内心却在说,不用去,除了虚情假意,不会有别的,他们的关系已无法补救,因为她不能再变得年轻美丽,富有魅力, 而他也不能立刻成为对女人无动于衷的老人。现在除了虚情假意、说谎 骗人之外没有别的办法,而虚情假意、说谎骗人却是违反他的本性的。


 他挺起胸膛,掏出一支烟,点着了,吸了两口,就把它丢在螺钿烟灰缸 里,迈着大步穿过阴暗的客厅,打开另一扇门,走进妻子的卧室。



 陶丽穿着短袄,站在打开的小衣柜前面找东西。她从前那头浓密的 秀发,现在已变得稀疏难看,用发针盘在脑后。她面颊凹陷,那双惊惶 不安的眼睛由于脸瘦而显得格外触目。房间里乱七八糟,到处摊着衣物。

 一听到丈夫的脚步声,她停下来,眼睛盯住门,竭力装出严厉而轻蔑的 神气,但是装不象。她怕他,怕此刻同他见面。她正在试着做三天来已 经过了十次的那件事:把准备带到娘家去的孩子们的东西和自己的东西 清理出来,可她总是下不了这个决心。这会儿,又象前几次那样,她对 自己说,不能再这样因循下去了,她得想出一些办法来惩罚惩罚他,羞 辱羞辱他,哪怕只让他稍微尝尝他给她的痛苦滋味,也算是对他作了报 复。她老说要离开他,但又觉得这是不可能的。她无法不把他看作自己 的丈夫,无法不再爱他。此外,她觉得既然在家里都照管不好五个孩子, 一离开家,到了外面,就更管不好。事实上,这几天最小的孩子因为吃 了不干净的肉汤病了,另外几个孩子昨天一天简直没有吃上饭。她知道 离家是不可能的,但她还是欺骗自己,继续整理东西,装出要走的样子。

 一看到丈夫,她伸手到衣柜抽屉里,仿佛在找寻东西。等他走到身 边,才回头向他瞧了一眼。她原想摆出一副严肃果断的样子,结果却露 出困惑痛苦的神色。

 “陶丽!”他怯生生地低声说,把头缩在肩膀里,竭力装出驯顺的 可怜相,但还是显得容光焕发,精神饱满。


 “哼,他倒得意!”她想。“可我呢?……他那副和颜悦色的样子真叫 人讨厌,可大家还因此喜欢他,称赞他;我就是恨他这副样子。”她抿 紧嘴唇;苍白的神经质的脸上,右颊的肌肉抽搐起来。





 “走开,走开,走开!”她眼睛不看他,嚷道。她这么叫嚷,仿佛 是由于身体上什么地方疼痛得厉害。

 当奥勃朗斯基想到妻子的时候,他还能保持镇定,还能象马特维说 的那样希望一切都顺利解决,还能平静地看报,喝咖啡。但是当他一看 到她痛苦憔悴的脸,一听见这种听天由命的绝望声音时,他就喘不过气 来,喉咙里就象有样东西哽住,眼睛里也泪光闪闪。




 “陶丽,我还有什么话好说呢?……只有一句话:请你原谅我,原 谅我……你想想,难道九年的共同生活不能原谅我一时的……一时 的……”

 她垂下眼睛听着,看他还要说些什么,仿佛求他否认有过那件事, 好使她改变想法。

 “一时的冲动……”他继续说,可是一听到这句话,她又象身上给 扎了一针似的,抿紧嘴唇,右颊的肌肉又抽搐起来。

 “走开,走开!”她声音更尖锐地嚷道。“别来对我说您那种冲动 和卑鄙的行为!”

 她想出去,可是身子一晃,她连忙抓住椅背。他的脸变宽了,嘴唇 噘起,眼睛里噙满了泪水。

 “陶丽!”他说着哭起来。“看在上帝份上,想想孩子吧,他们是 没有罪的。我有罪,你惩罚我好了,让我来赎罪吧。只要办得到,我什 么都愿意干!我有罪,我确实罪孽深重!可是陶丽,你就原谅我吧!”

 她坐下了。他听见她沉重的喘息声。他说不出有多么可怜她。她几 次想说话,可是开不了口。他等待着。

 “你想到孩子们,就是为了逗他们玩;可我想到他们,知道他们这 下子都给毁了,”她这样说,显然这是她三天来反复叨念的话里的一句。

 她照旧用“你”来称呼他,他感激地瞧了她一眼,挨近些想去拉她 的手,却被她嫌恶地避开了。

 “我一直想着孩子们,为了拯救他们我什么都愿意干。可是我真不 知道怎样才能拯救他们:带他们离开他们的父亲呢,还是把他们留给放 荡好色的父亲——对,就是放荡好色的父亲……好,您倒说说,出了那 件……那件事以后,难道我们还能生活在一起吗?难道还有可能吗?您 倒说说,难道还有可能吗?”她提高声音反复说。“在我的丈夫,我的 孩子的父亲,同自己孩子的家庭教师发生了关系以后……”

 “可是叫我怎么办呢?叫我怎么办呢?”他可怜巴巴地说,自己也 不知道在说些什么,他的头垂得越来越低。

 “我讨厌你,我恨你!”她嚷道,火气越来越大。“您的眼泪象水 一样不值钱!您从来没有爱过我;您没有良心,不知羞耻!您卑鄙,讨 厌,您是个外人,是个十足的外人!”她又痛苦又憎恨地说出连她自己 也觉得可怕的“外人”这两个字。

 他对她瞧了瞧。她一脸的怨气使他又害怕又惊奇。他不懂得为什么 他可怜她反而使她生气。她看出了他对她只有怜悯,没有爱情。“哦, 她恨我,她不会原谅我的,”他想。


 这时候,隔壁房间里有个孩子哭起来,大概是摔交了。陶丽留神倾 听着,她的脸色顿时变得温和了。

 她稍微定了定神,似乎弄不懂她在什么地方,应该怎么办,接着霍 地站起来,向门口走去。

 “可见她还是爱我的孩子的,”他注意到孩子哭时她脸色的变化, 心里想,“她爱我的孩子,又怎么能恨我呢?”


 “您要是跟住我,我就叫仆人,叫孩子!让大家都知道您是个无赖! 我今天就走,您同您那位姘头住在这儿好了!”


 奥勃朗斯基叹了一口气,用手擦擦脸,悄悄地从房间里走出去。“马 特维说事情会解决的,可是怎么解决呢?我看不出有丝毫的可能。唉, 真糟糕!她叫起来多么粗野呀!”他想起她的叫嚷和“无赖”、“姘头”

 这些字眼,自言自语道。“说不定连女仆都听到了!太粗野了,真是太 粗野了。”奥勃朗斯基独自站了几秒钟,擦擦眼睛,叹了一口气,挺起 胸膛,走出房间。

 这天是礼拜五,德国钟表师正在餐厅里给挂钟上发条。奥勃朗斯基 想起他对这个认真的秃头钟表师开过的玩笑,说这个德国人“为了给钟 表上发条,自己一辈子都上足发条了”。他想到这个笑话,笑了。奥勃 朗斯基喜欢说俏皮话。“说不定事情真的会解决的!会解决的,这话说 得好。”他想。“应该这样说。”

 “马特维!”他叫道。“你同马莉亚还是把休息室收拾收拾让安娜·阿 尔卡迪耶夫娜住吧,”他对走进房里来的马特维说。




 “不一定。拿去开销吧,”他从皮夹子里掏出一张十卢布钞票交给 马特维,说。“够不够?”

 “够也好,不够也好,总得凑合着过呀,”马特维说罢,砰地一声 关上车门,退到台阶上。

 这时候,陶丽哄好孩子,听见马车的辘辘声,知道他走了,就回到 卧室。只要她一走出卧室,一大堆家务事就会把她包围起来,因此卧室 就成了她唯一的避难所。刚才她一走进育儿室,英国保姆和马特廖娜就 抓住机会,向她提了几个不容耽搁而且只有她才能回答的问题:孩子们 出去散步穿什么衣服?让不让他们吃牛奶?要不要派人去找一个新厨 子? “嗳,别来打扰我,别来打扰我!”她说着回到卧室,在她刚才同 丈夫谈话的地方坐下,紧握着瘦得戒指都要从手指上滑下来的双手,从 头至尾重温那场谈话。“他走了。但他同她到底怎么断绝关系呢?”她 想。“他是不是还在同她见面?我刚才怎么不问问他?不,不,和解是 不可能的。即使我们还住在一座房子里,我们彼此也是外人,永远是外 人!”她特别感慨地重复着这个她觉得十分可怕的词儿。“我本来多么 爱他,多么爱他呀!……多么爱他呀!难道现在就不爱他了?我现在不 是比以前更爱他吗?最可怕的是……”刚想到这里,马特廖娜从门口探 进头来,把她的思路打断了。

 “太太,您把我的兄弟叫来吧,”她说,“他很会做饭,要不然孩 子们又会象昨天那样,到六点钟还吃不上饭呢。”





 奥勃朗斯基凭着一点小聪明,在学校里书念得不坏,但他常常偷懒, 又喜欢淘气,因此毕业时名次还是排在末尾。他生活放荡,年资不高, 却在莫斯科官厅里担任一个体面而俸金优厚的官职。这个位置他是通过 妹妹安娜的丈夫阿历克赛·阿历山德罗维奇·卡列宁的关系谋得的。卡 列宁在部里身居要职,奥勃朗斯基的官厅就隶属于他那个部。不过,即 使卡列宁不给他的内兄谋得这个位置,奥勃朗斯基通过其他许多亲戚— —兄弟、姐妹、从表兄弟、从表姐妹、叔伯、舅父、姑妈、姨妈等—— 的关系,也可以弄到这个或类似的位置,每年约莫有六千卢布俸金。他 需要这笔进款,因为他的妻子虽说有大宗财产,他自己经营的事业却总 是很不顺手。

 奥勃朗斯基的亲戚朋友极多,莫斯科和彼得堡几乎有一半人认识 他。他生于烜赫的官宦世家。官场里上了年纪的人,有三分之一是他父 亲的朋友,从小就认识他;另外三分之一是他的知交;再有三分之一是 他的老相识。这样,地位、租金、租赁权等尘世福利的支配者都是他的 朋友,他们是不会把一个自己人忘记的。因此,奥勃朗斯基要弄到一个 肥缺并不太费力。他只要不固执己见,不妒忌,不同人吵架,不发火就 行,而他生性随和,素来没有这些毛病。要是人家说,他不能得到他所 需要的肥缺,他会觉得可笑,再说他也没有什么非分的要求。他所要求 的只是领取跟他的同年人一样的俸金,因为他任这类官职决不比别人 差。

 凡是认识奥勃朗斯基的人都喜欢他,不仅因为他善良乐天,诚实可 靠,还因为在他的身上,在他英俊健康的外貌上,在他闪闪发亮的眼睛、 乌黑的眉毛、头发和白里透红的脸上,有一种招人喜爱的生理上的力量。

 “哦!斯基华!奥勃朗斯基!是他来了!”谁遇见他都会这样笑逐颜开 地叫起来。即使有时同他谈话并不特别有趣,但到了第二天或者第三天, 遇见他还是很高兴。

 奥勃朗斯基主管莫斯科那个官厅已有三年,他不仅获得同僚、下属、 上司和同他打过交道的一切人的好感,而且受到他们的尊敬。奥勃朗斯 基赢得他的同事普遍尊敬的主要原因是:第一,他由于知道自己的缺点, 待人接物极其宽大;第二,他的自由主义不是从报上学来,而是天赋的, 因此很彻底,本着这样的自由主义思想,他对人一视同仁,不问他们的 身份和头衔;第三,也是最重要的一点,他对职务总是很随便,从来不 卖力,也从来不犯错误。

 奥勃朗斯基到了官厅,在毕恭毕敬的看门人陪同下,挟着公事包走 进他的小办公室,换上制服,这才走到办公大厅里。全体文书和公务员 纷纷起立,快乐而恭敬地向他鞠躬。奥勃朗斯基照例走向自己的位子, 一路上跟同事们一一握手,然后坐下来。他先讲几句笑话,讲得很有分 寸,接着开始办公。办公时应保持多少自由、随便和礼节,才能使大家 愉快地工作,这一层奥勃朗斯基比谁都懂得。秘书象其他官员那样,愉 快而恭敬地拿着公文走过来,并且用奥勃朗斯基所提倡的没有拘束的亲 昵语气说: “我们终于拿到奔萨省的报告了。这就是,您要不要……”

 “终于拿到了?”奥勃朗斯基用一只手指按住公文说。“哦,各 位……”



 他一面煞有介事地低下头听报告,一面想,但眼睛里含着笑意。办公要 持续到两点钟,这以后才能休息和进餐。

 不到两点钟的时候,办公厅的大玻璃门突然打开了,有一个人闯进 来。坐在沙皇像和守法镜下办公的全体官员,看到有机会松散松散都很 高兴,纷纷向门口回过头去。但看门人立刻把闯进来的人赶了出去,随 手把玻璃门关上。

 等秘书读完公文,奥勃朗斯基站起来,伸了个懒腰,按照时髦的自 由主义作风,就在办公厅里掏出一支烟,往他的小办公室走去。他的两 个同僚——老资格的官员尼基丁和侍从官格里涅维奇跟着他走出去。



 “福明那家伙是个十足的骗子手,”格里涅维奇说到同他们正在办 的案件有关的一个人。

 奥勃朗斯基听了格里涅维奇的话皱皱眉头,表示不该过早地下判 断,但一句话也没有回答。


 “大人,有个人趁我一转身,问也不问就钻了进来。他要见您。我 说,等官员他们都走了,再……”


 “大概在门厅里,刚才还在这儿走来走去呢。哦,就是他,”看门 人指着一个体格强壮、肩膀宽阔、蓄有鬈曲大胡子的男人说。那人也不 脱下羊皮帽,就沿着石级磨损的台阶矫捷地跑上来。一个瘦小的官员挟 着公事包正好走下去,就站住了,不以为然地望望这个跑上来的人的两 脚,然后用询问的目光对奥勃朗斯基瞟了一眼。

 奥勃朗斯基站在台阶顶上。他一认出跑上来的人是谁,他那张被制 服的绣花领子托住的和颜悦色的脸,就更加容光焕发了。

 “哦,原来是你!列文①,你到底来啦!”他打量着迎面走来的列 文,带着友好而嘲弄的微笑说。“你怎么屈驾到这鬼地方来找我呀?”

 奥勃朗斯基说,他不以握手为满足,又吻了吻他的朋友。“你来好久了 吗?”“我刚到,很想看看你,”列文一面回答,一面羞怯而愤怒地向 周围望望。

 “嗯,到我的办公室去吧,”奥勃朗斯基知道这位朋友自尊心很强, 容易恼羞,就说。他挽住列文的胳膊,拉着他走,仿佛带着他经过什么 危险的地方。凡是相识的人,奥勃朗斯基差不多都“你我”相称:不论 是六十岁的老人还是二十岁的青年,是演员还是大臣,是商人还是侍从 武官,他都一视同仁,因此在社会最上层和最下层,他都有许多老朋友。

 这些处于社会两极的人,要是知道通过奥勃朗斯基的关系,他们之间也 有共同的东西,准会感到惊奇的。他会跟随便什么人一起喝香槟酒,凡 是同他喝过香槟酒的人,他都同他们“你我”相称。因此,如果有下属 在场,他遇见一些不体面的“你”——他就这样戏称他的许多朋友,— —他也会凭他的机灵冲淡下属不愉快的印象。列文并不是一个不体面的 “你”,但奥勃朗斯基凭他的机灵感觉到,列文以为他也许不愿在下属 面前暴露同他的亲密关系,因此连忙把他领到他的小办公室里去。

 列文跟奥勃朗斯基的年龄不相上下,他们彼此“你我”相称也并非 只因香槟酒的缘故。列文从小就是他的同伴和朋友。他们尽管性格不同, 志趣各异,却象一般从小就熟识的朋友那样感情深厚。不过,他们也象 一般行业不同的朋友那样,对对方的工作,口头上也会谈论并表示赞成, 心底里却总是鄙薄的。各人都以为自己所过的是唯一正确的生活,而别 人却在虚度年华。奥勃朗斯基一看见列文,就忍不住露出嘲弄的微笑。

 他看见列文从乡下来到莫斯科不知有多少次了。列文在乡下忙忙碌碌, 但究竟在忙些什么,奥勃朗斯基从来不很清楚,而且也不感兴趣。列文 每次来莫斯科,总是情绪激动,慌慌张张,手足无措,又因自己这种窘 态而恼怒,而且对各种事物往往抱着人家意料不到的新观点。奥勃朗斯 基对他的这种态度又是嘲笑,又是欣赏。同样,列文心里也瞧不起朋友 这种城市生活方式和他的职务,认为他办的公事根本没有意思,因而经 常加以嘲笑。所不同的只是,奥勃朗斯基做着一般人都在做的事,笑得 很自在,很淳朴,而列文却笑得不自在,有时还有点气愤。

 “我们盼了你好久了,”奥勃朗斯基说着走进了办公室,这才放下 列文的胳膊,仿佛表示这里没有危险了。“看见你真是太高兴了,太高 兴了,”他继续说。“你说说,你好吗?过得怎么样?几时到的?”

 列文不作声,打量着奥勃朗斯基那两个同事陌生的脸,特别注意到 文质彬彬的格里涅维奇的两只手。这两只手的手指那么白皙细长,尖端 弯曲的指甲那么焦黄,还有袖口上的钮扣那么大那么亮,仿佛把列文的 全部注意力都吸引住了,使他无法自由思想。奥勃朗斯基立刻发觉这一 点,微微一笑。

 “哦,对了,让我来给你们介绍一下,”他说。“这两位是我的同 事:菲里浦·伊凡诺奇·尼基丁,米哈伊尔·斯坦尼斯拉维奇·格里涅 维奇,”接着又转身对列文说:“地方自治会会员,自治会里的新派人 物,一手举得起五普特 ①的体育家,畜牧家,猎手,我的朋友康斯坦京·德 米特里奇·列文,谢尔盖·伊凡诺维奇·柯兹尼雪夫的老弟。”“不胜 荣幸,”那个小老头说。


 “我有幸认识令兄谢尔盖·伊凡诺维奇,”格里涅维奇伸出他那指 甲很长的瘦手,说。列文皱起眉头,冷冷地握了握他的手,立刻又转身 跟奥勃朗斯基说话。虽然他很尊敬他的异父同母哥哥——那位全国闻名 的作家,但遇到人家不是把他当作康斯坦京·列文,而是把他当作名作 家柯兹尼雪夫的兄弟和他交往时,他就觉得不舒服。

 “不,我已经不是地方自治会会员了。我同个个人都吵过架,不再 参加会议了,”他转身对奥勃朗斯基说。

 “这么快吗?”奥勃朗斯基微笑着说。“这是怎么一回事?为什 么?”“说来话长。我以后告诉你,”列文说,但接着就讲了起来。“好 吧,简单地说,我确信地方自治会根本没有事干,也不可能有事干,”

 他气愤地说,仿佛刚才有人得罪了他,“一方面,它玩弄议会的一套, 现在要我搞这玩艺儿,既不够年轻,也不够年老;另一方面(他口吃了 一下),这是县里某一帮人发财致富的手段。从前有监护机关,有法院, 现在有地方自治会,只不过不是受贿而是支干薪罢了,”他说得十分激 动,仿佛有人在反对他的意见。

 “哈哈!我看你又变了,变成保守派了,”奥勃朗斯基说。“不过 这事我们以后再谈吧。”

 “好的,以后再谈。现在我有事要找你,”列文一面说,一面嫌恶 地瞧着格里涅维奇的手。


 “你不是说过你不再穿西装了吗?”他打量着列文身上那套显然是 法国裁缝缝制的新衣服,说。“对了!我看这也是新的变化。”

 列文的脸刷地一下红了,但不是象一般成年人那样微微有点红,而 是象孩子那样满脸通红。他对自己的腼腆感到可笑,因此更加害臊,脸 也就红得更厉害,简直要流出眼泪来。这张聪明的、男子汉的脸上竟现 出如此孩子般天真的神气,看上去真是别扭,奥勃朗斯基就不再向他看 了。


 奥勃朗斯基仿佛沉吟了一下,说: “这样吧,我们到古林那里去吃午饭,到那边去谈谈。三点钟以前 我有空。”“不,”列文想了想回答,“我还得到别的地方去一下。”


 “吃晚饭?其实我也没有什么特别的事,我只要问你两句话,我们 以后谈吧。”





 奥勃朗斯基早就知道列文爱上了他的姨妹吉娣,脸上微微一笑,眼 睛里闪出愉快的光芒。

 “你问的只有两句话,可我不能用两句话来回答你,因为……对不 起,你等一下……”

 秘书现出亲切而又恭敬的样子走进来,并且象每个做秘书的人那 样,自信在办公事方面比上司高明,拿着公文走到奥勃朗斯基跟前,嘴 里说是请示,其实是向他说明困难所在。奥勃朗斯基没有听完他的话, 就亲切地用手按住他的衣袖。


 接着,他三言两语说明了自己对这桩公事的看法,推开公文说:“请您 就这样去办吧,查哈尔·尼基奇。”

 秘书尴尬地退了出去。列文趁奥勃朗斯基同秘书谈话的时候,克服 了窘态。他双臂搁在椅背上,脸上露出嘲弄的神气。“我不明白,我真 不明白,”他说。

 “你不明白什么呀?”奥勃朗斯基依旧那么快乐地微笑着,掏出一 支烟说。他期待列文说出什么古怪的话来。

 “我不明白你们在做些什么,”列文耸耸肩膀说。“你怎么会这样 认真哪?”“为什么不会呢?”“为什么不会吗?因为没有意思。”

 “这是你的想法,可我们还忙不过来呢!”“忙于纸上谈兵。不过 你干这种事是很有才能的,”列文补了一句。“你是不是认为我有什么 缺点?”

 “也许是的,”列文说。“但我还是很欣赏你的魄力,并且因为有 你这样一位伟大的人物做朋友而感到荣幸。不过你并没有回答我的问 题,”他补充说,竭力想正视奥勃朗斯基的眼睛。“嗯,好的,好的。

 你等着吧,你将来也会弄到这个地步的。你现在在卡拉金县拥有三千亩 土地,你身上的肌肉这么发达,脸色又象个十二岁小姑娘那样红润,你 当然很得意喽。但有朝一日你也会到我们这里来的。至于你所打听的事: 没有什么变化,可惜你太久没到这儿来了。”



 “没什么,”奥勃朗斯基回答。“我们以后再谈吧。你这次来莫斯 科到底有什么事?”



 “好的,我明白了,”奥勃朗斯基说。“老实说,我本来要请你到 我家去的,可是我妻子身体不太好。对了,你要是想见他们,那么可以 到动物园去,他们四、五点钟大概在那里。吉娣在那里溜冰。你先坐车 去吧,我回头去找你。我们再一起到什么地方去吃晚饭。”


 “留神别忘了。你这个人,我知道,弄不好又会忘记的,或者一转 身又回乡下去了!”奥勃朗斯基笑着大声说。


 列文走出办公室,直到门口才想起他忘记同奥勃朗斯基那两位同事 告别了。


 “可不是,朋友,”奥勃朗斯基摇摇头说,“他真是个幸运儿!在 卡拉金县有三千亩土地,真是前途无量,身体又强壮!可不象我们这班 人。”





 奥勃朗斯基问到列文这次来莫斯科的目的,列文脸红了,并且因为 脸红而生自己的气,因为他不能回答说:“我是来向你姨妹求婚的,”


 列文家和谢尔巴茨基家都是莫斯科的贵族世家,彼此交谊深厚。他 们的关系在列文读大学时更加深了。列文同陶丽和吉娣的哥哥,谢尔巴 茨基公爵少爷,一起准备应考,一起进了大学。他经常出入谢尔巴茨基 家,并且爱上了他们一家人。看来似乎有点奇怪,但列文确实爱上了他 们一家,特别是他们家的姑娘。列文已经记不起他的生母了,他唯一的 姐姐又比他大好多岁,因此正是在谢尔巴茨基家里,他初次看到了有教 养的名门望族的生活,而这样的生活,他由于父母去世,早就丧失了。

 他们家的每个人,特别是姑娘,他觉得仿佛都披着一重诗意盎然的神秘 纱幕,他不仅看不到他们身上有什么缺点,而且隔着这一重充满诗意的 纱幕,他还感觉到他们都赋有最崇高的感情和完美无瑕的品德。为什么 这三位小姐必须今天说法语明天讲英语呢?为什么她们必须在规定的时 间轮流弹钢琴,却让琴声送到楼上她们哥哥那间有两个大学生在做功课 的房间里呢?为什么要请教师上门来教她们法国文学、音乐、绘画和跳 舞呢?为什么她们每天要在规定的时间穿上缎子外套——陶丽穿长外 套,娜塔丽雅穿中外套,吉娣穿短外套,这外套短得连她那双紧裹在红 袜子里的小腿都暴露无遗了——同林侬小姐一起坐马车在特维尔林荫大 道上兜风呢?为什么她们还要让有金色帽徽的仆人保护着,在那里散步 呢?这一切以及她们在她们的神秘世界里所做的其他许多事,他都无法 理解,但他知道她们所做的一切都是美好的,他呢,就是喜爱这种神秘 的生活。

 在大学时代,他差点儿爱上了大小姐陶丽,但陶丽不久就嫁给了奥 勃朗斯基。接着他爱起二小姐来。他觉得他一定要在她们姐妹中间爱上 一个。至于究竟爱哪一个,他却拿不定主意。娜塔丽雅一踏进社交界, 不久就嫁给了外交官李伏夫。列文大学毕业的时候,吉娣还是个孩子。

 谢尔巴茨基少爷进海军不久,就在波罗的海淹死了。这样,列文同谢尔 巴茨基一家人的关系,尽管有同奥勃朗斯基的交情,从此也就疏远了。

 列文在乡下住了一年,今年初冬又来到莫斯科,看见了谢尔巴茨基一家 人。这时他才明白,在这三姐妹中他真正应该爱的是哪一个。

 他这个出身望族、算得上富有的三十二岁男子,去向谢尔巴茨基公 爵小姐求婚,在别人看来真是太容易了。他可能立刻就会被看作是一个 理想的夫婿。但列文正在热恋中,他觉得吉娣是个十全十美的姑娘,是 下凡的仙女,他自己则是个庸夫俗子,因此简直不敢想象,别人和她本 人会认为他能高攀得上。

 列文为了要看见吉娣,几乎天天出入交际场所。他就这样神魂颠倒 地在莫斯科混了两个月。后来他忽然断定这件事没有希望,就回乡下去 了。

 列文认为这件事没有希望,理由是他在她亲戚的眼里根本配不上迷 人的吉娣,而吉娣本人也不会爱他。在她亲戚的眼里,他这人已经三十 二岁,却还没有固定的事业和社会地位,他的同辈,有的已是上校和侍 从武官,有的当上教授,有的做了银行行长和铁路经理,有的就象奥勃 朗斯基那样当上政府机关的长官。可他呢(他很知道他在人家眼里是个 什么样的人物),是个地主,只会养养牛,打打大鹬,盖盖仓库,也就 是说,是个毫无出息的傻小子。他所干的,照社交界看来,正是蠢材干 的事。

 至于神秘而迷人的吉娣本人呢,她是不可能爱上象他这样相貌不好 看而又才具平庸的人的。还有,他认为他一向对待吉娣的态度——他是 她哥哥的朋友,因此待她就象大人对待孩子一样——也是他们恋爱上的 一个障碍。他认为象他这样相貌不好看而心地善良的人,只能得到人家 的友谊,而要获得象他对吉娣那样的爱情,就必须是个相貌英俊、才华 出众的人才行。

 据说,女人往往会爱上丑陋而平庸的人,但他不信,因为平心而论, 他自己觉得,他也只能爱美丽、神秘而不同凡响的女人。

 但是,在乡下独自待了两个月以后,他相信这次恋爱同他青年时期 所经历的不一样。这次的爱情使他得不到片刻的安宁。她肯不肯做他的 妻子,这个问题不解决,他简直一天也活不下去。而他的绝望完全是由 于他自己的推测,因为没有任何证据表明他将遭到拒绝。他终于下定决 心到莫斯科来求婚。要是成功,就结婚;或者……要是遭到拒绝,他无 法想象他将会怎么样。



 列文乘早车来到莫斯科,住在他异父同母哥哥柯兹尼雪夫家里。他 换好衣服,走进哥哥的书房,想立刻告诉他此行的目的,征求一下他的 意见。但他发现书房里不止他哥哥一个人,还坐着一位著名的哲学教授。

 这位教授特地从哈尔科夫赶来,要和他解释他们之间由于一个重要哲学 问题而发生的误会。教授那时正在同唯物论者展开激烈的辩论,而柯兹 尼雪夫则兴致勃勃地注视着这场辩论。他读了教授最近发表的一篇论 文,就写信给他表示不同意见。他责备教授对唯物论者过分让步。教授 立刻赶来同他辩论。他们辩论的是一个时髦问题:在人类活动中,心理 现象和生理现象之间有没有界线?如果有,又在哪里? 柯兹尼雪夫迎接弟弟时,露出他那种对任何人一视同仁的亲切而冷 淡的微笑。他给弟弟和教授作过介绍后,又继续他们的讨论。

 这位教授前额狭窄,脸色枯黄,身材矮小,戴着一副眼镜。他停住 话头,同列文打了个招呼,又说下去,不再理他。列文坐下来,想等教 授走,但很快就对他们所讨论的问题发生了兴趣。

 列文在报刊上读到过他们正在讨论的那些文章。他在大学里读的是 自然科学,因此对那些文章很感兴趣,认为它们发展了科学原理。不过, 他从没把作为动物的人类的起源以及反射作用、生物学和社会学等科学 论断同生和死的意义问题联系起来。这些问题近来越来越频繁地在他的 头脑里盘旋。

 他听着哥哥同教授的谈话,注意到他们把科学问题同精神问题联系 起来,有几次甚至要专门探讨精神问题,但每次他们一接触到这个他认 为最重要的问题,总是立刻避开,又转入琐碎的分类、保留条件、引证 论据、暗示和引用权威意见等方面,使他很难听懂他们的讨论。

 “我不能容忍,”柯兹尼雪夫用他一贯明确的叙述和文雅的措辞说, “我说什么也不能同意凯斯的话,他认为我对外部世界的全部概念都是 从印象产生的。事实上,我关于存在这个最根本的概念就不是通过感觉 获得的,因为没有传达这种概念的专门器官。”

 “是的,但是他们,伍斯特也好,克瑙斯特也好,普利巴索夫也好, 都会回答您说,存在这一意识是由全部感觉的总和产生的,存在这一意 识是感觉的结果。伍斯特甚至直率地说,如果没有感觉,也就没有存在 的概念。”


 这时列文又觉得他们快要接触到最核心的问题,但他们又离开了这 个题目。他决定向教授提一个问题。

 “这样说来,如果我的感觉不存在了,如果我的肉体死亡了,就不 可能有任何存在了吗?”他问。

 教授恼怒地、仿佛因话头被打断而痛苦地打量了一下这位古怪的提 问者(他与其说象个哲学家,不如说象个拉纤夫),然后把目光转向柯 兹尼雪夫,仿佛在问:“叫我怎么说呢?”不过,柯兹尼雪夫说话远不 象教授那样激动,那样偏激。他从容不迫,既能回答教授的话,又能理 解列文提这问题的淳朴而自然的想法。他微微一笑说: “这个问题我们还没有权利解决……”

 “我们没有资料……”教授应和着说,又继续阐述他的论点。“不, 我要指出的是,如果确实象普利巴索夫所明白提出的那样,感觉是以印 象为基础的,那么我们就应该严格区别这两个概念。”




等教授走了以后,柯兹尼雪夫对弟弟说: “你来了,我很高兴。要住一阵吧?农场搞得怎么样?”

 列文知道哥哥对农业并不太感兴趣,他这样问只是客套一番,因此 只告诉他出卖小麦和金钱上的一些事。

 列文原想把结婚的打算告诉哥哥,并征求一下他的意见。他确实下 了决心,可是一看见哥哥,听了他同教授的谈话,又听到哥哥询问农业 (他们母亲遗下的田产还没有分,列文同时管理着两房产业)时那种居 高临下的语气,不知怎的,他感到不能把决心要结婚的事告诉哥哥。他 觉得哥哥不会象他所希望的那样看待这件事。

 “那么,你们那边的地方自治会弄得怎么样?”柯兹尼雪夫问。他 对地方自治会很感兴趣,对它很重视。



 “不,已经不是理事了,我辞职了,”列文回答,“我不再出席他 们的会议了。”



 “事情总是这样!”柯兹尼雪夫打断他的话说。“我们俄国人总是 这样。能看到自己的缺点,这也许是我们的长处,但我们往往夸大其词, 随便讽刺挖苦,聊以自慰。我老实对你说,要是把我们地方自治会的权 利交给任何一个欧洲国家的人,譬如说德国人或者英国人,他们准会把 这种权利变成自由,可是到了我们手里,只会变成一种嘲弄。”

 “可是有什么办法呢?”列文负疚地说。“这是我最近的感受。我 诚心诚意地试过了。我没有办法,无能为力。”




 尼古拉是列文的亲哥哥,柯兹尼雪夫的异父同母弟弟。他自甘堕落, 荡光了大部分家产,在最荒唐的下层社会里混日子,同兄弟们都闹翻了。



 “他在这里,在莫斯科吗?他在哪里?你知道吗?”列文站起来, 仿佛马上就要去找他。

 “我悔不该把这事告诉你,”柯兹尼雪夫看到弟弟那副激动的样子, 摇摇头说。“我派人打听到他的住处,替他还清了欠特鲁宾的债,把借 据给他送去。可是你瞧,他是怎么回答我的。”




 列文看完这张条子,没有抬起头来,却拿着条子站在柯兹尼雪夫面 前。

 他想从此忘记这个不幸的哥哥,但又觉得这样做是卑鄙的。这两种 思想在他心里斗争着。

 “他显然是要侮辱我,”柯兹尼雪夫继续说,“但要侮辱我他又办 不到。我原来倒确实是愿意帮助他的,可是现在我明白了,这是无可奈 何的事。”

 “是的,是的,”列文连声说。“我了解并且看重你对他的态度, 但我还是要去看看他。”

 “你要去就去吧,可我劝你别去,”柯兹尼雪夫说。“就我来说, 我没有什么顾虑,他不会挑唆你来跟我闹的。至于你,我劝你最好还是 别去。要帮助他也没有办法,不过,你高兴怎么办就怎么办吧。”

 “也许是没办法帮助他,但我觉得于心不忍……特别是现在这种时 候……不过那当然是另一回事……”

 “噢,这一层我可不明白,”柯兹尼雪夫说。“我只明白了一件事, 也就是学会了宽恕。自从看到尼古拉弟弟变成这个样子以后,我对所谓 卑鄙行为的看法改变了,变得宽宏大量了……你真不知道他干了些什 么……”


 列文从柯兹尼雪夫的仆人那里打听到尼古拉的地址,本想立刻去看 他,但经过一番考虑后,决定改到下午去。要做到心情平静,首先要解 决促使他这次来莫斯科的那件事。列文从他哥哥那里出来,到奥勃朗斯 基的官厅里去。他打听到了谢尔巴茨基家的情况,就坐上马车到可能找 到吉娣的地方去了。



 四点钟光景,列文感到他的心怦怦直跳,在动物园门口下了车,沿 着小径向山上溜冰场走去。他知道一定可以在那边找到她,因为看见谢 尔巴茨基家的马车停在入口处。

 这是一个严寒而晴朗的日子。入口处停着一排排私人马车、雪橇、 出租马车,还可以看到许多宪兵。服装整洁的人群,帽子被灿烂的阳光 照得闪闪发亮,在入口处和打扫得干干净净的甬道上,在俄国式雕花小 木屋之间,熙来攘往。园里的老桦树,枝叶扶疏,被雪压得低垂下来, 看上去仿佛穿着节日的新装。



 可他越是要镇定,就越是紧张得喘不过气来。有个熟人看见他,喊他的 名字,可是他连那人是谁都没有认出来。他向山上走去,那里传来滑下 来和拖上去的雪橇链子的铿锵声、雪橇滑动的刷刷声和欢乐的人声。他 又走了几步,看见溜冰场就在前面,并且立刻就在溜冰的人群中认出她 来了。

 他认出她就在这里,不禁惊喜交集。她站在溜冰场的那一头,正在 同一位太太谈话。她的服装和姿势都没有什么与众不同的地方,但列文 一下子就在人群中认出她来,就象从荨麻丛中找出玫瑰花一样。一切都 因她而生辉。她是照亮周围一切的微笑。他想:“难道我真的可以走到 她眼前去吗?”他觉得她所在的地方是不可接近的圣地。刹那间,他竟 然害怕到这个地步:他差点儿逃走。他不得不竭力克制自己的激动,并 且用形形色色的人都在她周围运动、他也可以到那边去溜冰的想法来宽 慰自己。他走了过去,象对着太阳似地不敢朝她多望,但也象对着太阳 一般,即使不去望她,还是看得见她。

 每星期的这一天,只要到了这个时刻,溜冰场上就都聚集着同一个 圈子里的人,他们彼此认识。这里有大显身手的溜冰健儿,也有扶着椅 背胆怯而笨拙地学步的新手,有小孩,还有为了增进健康而来溜冰的老 人。列文觉得他们个个都是得天独厚的幸运儿,因为他们就在这里,就 在她旁边。所有溜冰的人似乎都若无其事地赶上她,超过她,甚至同她 攀谈,完全不把她放在心上,纯粹因为冰场出色和天气晴朗而兴高采烈, 纵情欢乐。

 吉娣的堂弟尼古拉·谢尔巴茨基穿着短上装和紧身裤,脚上套着溜 冰鞋,坐在长凳上。他一看见列文,就对他叫道: “喂,全俄溜冰冠军!您来了好久了吗?冰面挺不错,快穿上溜冰 鞋吧!”

 “我没有溜冰鞋,”列文回答,在她面前居然这样放肆,连他自己 都感到惊奇。他虽然没向她那边望,却没有一秒钟没看见她。他觉得“太 阳”在向他靠近。她在拐弯的地方,转动她那双裹在长靴里的窄小的脚, 显然胆怯地向他溜过来。一个身穿俄式服装的少年,放肆地挥动双臂, 身子低低地弯向地面,追上了她。她溜得不很稳;她的双手从带子吊着 的小袖筒里伸出来,以防摔倒。她的眼睛望着列文。她认出他来了,向 他微微笑着,同时因为自己的胆怯而露出羞涩的神气。她拐了个弯,一 只脚富有弹性地往冰上一蹬直溜到她的堂弟眼前。她抓住他的手臂,微 微笑着向列文点点头。她比他所想象的还要美。

 他一想到她,她的整个形象就会生动地浮现在他的眼前,特别是在 她那少女秀美的肩上灵活地转动着的淡黄头发的玲珑脑袋,再加上她孩 子气的开朗善良的面貌,使她显得格外妩媚动人。她脸上天真无邪的神 气,配上她柔美苗条的身材,具有一种超凡的魅力,深深地留在他的心 坎里。不过,使他感到惊奇的,往往是她那温柔、安详和真挚的眼神。

 而最使他难忘的是她的微笑,这笑容每次都把列文带到一个神奇的仙 境,使他心驰神往,留连忘返,好象回到童年时代难得遇到的快乐日子 里一般。

 “您来这儿好久了吗?”她向他伸出一只手,说。列文捡起从她袖 筒里掉下的手帕,她说了声:“谢谢。”

 “我吗?没多久,我是昨天……我是说今天……才到的,”列文由 于激动,没有立刻明白她问这话的意思,这样回答。“我要来看看您,”

 他说,但一想到他来找她的用意,顿时涨红了脸,窘态毕露。“我不知 道您会溜冰,而且溜得这样漂亮。”





 “看来您干什么事都挺认真,”她笑眯眯地说。“我真想瞧瞧您溜 冰。





 “先生,您好久没到我们这儿来了,”溜冰场的侍者扶住他的脚, 替他拧紧溜冰鞋,说。“您一走,这儿就没有一个真正的溜冰大师了。

 这样行吗?”他拉紧皮带问。“行,行,就是请快一点儿,”列文回答, 好不容易才忍住脸上幸福的微笑。他想:“是的,这就是生活,这就是 幸福!她说:‘一起,让我们一起溜吧。’我现在就对她说吗?可我很 怕向她开口,因为我现在很幸福,至少充满幸福的希望……要是现在不 说呢?……可我得说!一定得说,一定得说!不要胆怯!”列文站起来, 脱下大衣,沿着小屋旁边高低不平的冰面滑出去。一滑到光滑的冰场上, 就毫不费力地溜起来,随心所欲地加快速度,不断弯来弯去,改变方向。

 他怯生生地接近她,但她的微笑使他放下心来。她向他伸出一只手,他 们就肩并肩地溜起来,不断加快速度。他们溜得越快,她把他的手握得 越紧。“同您一起溜,我会学得快一点。不知怎的,我就是相信您,”

 她对他说。“您靠着我,我也就更加有信心了,”他说,但立刻因为说 了这句话而感到害怕,脸都红了。果然,他一说出这句话,她脸上亲切 的表情顿时消失,好象太阳躲进乌云里。列文熟悉她脸上这种变化,知 道她在深思,她那光滑的前额上也出现了皱纹。“您没有什么不愉快的 事吧?不过我没有权利问您,”他慌忙说。“为什么?……不,我没有 什么不愉快的事,”她冷冷地回答,立刻又补了一句:“您没有看见林 侬小姐吗?”“还没有。”“您去看看她吧,她可喜欢您啦!”“这是 什么意思?我得罪她了。上帝啊,你帮助我吧!”列文想着,就向坐在 长凳上的那个满头灰白鬈发的法国老妇人跑去。她笑眯眯地露出一口假 牙,象老朋友一般迎接他。“您瞧,我们的孩子都长大了,”她看看吉 娣,对他说,“可我们也老了。小熊 都变成大熊啦( 原文为英语)!”法国老妇人笑着 继续说,提到他以前曾拿英国童话中的三只熊来戏称她们三姐妹。“您 还记得您这样说过她们吗?”这件事他完全不记得了,可是她十年来一 直在笑这句话,并且很欣赏它。“嗯,去吧,去吧,你们去溜吧!我们 的吉娣现在溜得可好啦,是不是?”

 列文跑回吉娣身边的时候,她已经不再绷着脸,眼神也显得诚恳亲 切了,但列文觉得她的亲切中含有一种故作镇定的特殊味道。他感到不 痛快。她谈了一下这位上了年纪的家庭女教师,谈到她的怪癖,然后问 起他的生活情况来。


 “不,不寂寞,我忙得很,”他一面说,一面感到她在用镇定的语 气控制他,使他无法越出这样的话题,就同初冬那次一样。


 “我不知道,”他嘴里回答着,自己也不知道在说些什么。他心里 想,如果他又被她那种平静友好的语气控制住,那他这次又会空手回去 的。他决定打破这种局面。



 是她没有听见他这句话呢,还是她不愿意听,她仿佛绊了一交,顿 了两次脚,就匆匆地从他身边溜走了。她溜到林侬小姐面前,对她说了 些什么,又向妇女换鞋的那所小房子溜去。

 “上帝呀,我做了什么啦!上帝呀,帮助我,引导我吧!”列文祷 告着,觉得需要剧烈地运动一下,就奔跑起来,在冰上兜着大大小小的 圈子。

 这时候,一个年轻人,溜冰场上的新秀,嘴里衔着一支香烟,穿着 溜冰鞋从咖啡室里出来。他起步滑了一下,沿着台阶一级级跳下来,发 出嗒嗒的响声。接着,他飞跑下来,两臂的姿势都没有改变,就在冰场 上溜了起来。

 “嗬,这倒是一种新鲜玩意儿!”列文说着跑上去,也要试试这种 新花样。

 “当心别摔死了,这是要练过的!”尼古拉·谢尔巴茨基对他大声 说。

 列文走到台阶上,从上面一个劲儿直冲下来,伸开两臂在这种不熟 练的溜法中保持着平衡。在最后一个台阶上他绊了一下,一只手几乎触 到冰面,但他猛一使劲恢复了平衡,就笑着溜开去了。

 “他这人真好,真可爱,”这会儿,吉娣同林侬小姐从小房子里出 来,脸上露出亲切宁静的微笑,象瞧着心爱的哥哥那样瞧着他,心里想。




 列文由于剧烈的运动而满脸通红。他看见吉娣要走,她母亲在台阶 上接她,他就站住,想了想。他连忙脱下溜冰鞋,在动物园门口追上了 她们母女俩。




 母亲这种冷淡的态度使吉娣觉得难受。她忍不住想弥补一下,就回 过头,笑盈盈地对他说了一声: “再见!”

 这时候,奥勃朗斯基歪戴着帽子,容光焕发,眼睛发亮,以胜利者 的快乐姿态走进动物园。但他一走到丈母娘眼前,就露出负疚的忧郁神 色,回答她关于陶丽健康状况的询问。他沮丧地同丈母娘低声交谈了几 句,就挺起胸膛,挽住列文的手臂。

 “我们现在就走吗,呃?”他问。“我一直在惦记你。你来了,我 真高兴,”他意味深长地盯住他的眼睛,说。

 “走吧,走吧,”列文兴高采烈地回答。他的耳朵里还一直响着“再 见”这个声音,眼前还浮现着她说这句话时的那张笑脸。



 “那就到英国饭店吧,”奥勃朗斯基说。他所以挑选英国饭店,是 因为他欠英国饭店的帐比欠爱弥塔日饭店的更多,他觉得避着不到那里 去是不好的。“你有马车吗?那太好了,我把我那辆打发走了。”


 他一会儿信心十足,一会儿又悲观失望,分明看出他的希望是不现实的, 同时又觉得在看到她的笑容,听到她说“再见”之后,他仿佛已变成了 另一个人。



 “什么?”列文反问了一句。“比目鱼吗?是的,我太喜欢比目鱼 了。”



 列文同奥勃朗斯基一起走进饭店的时候,他发现奥勃朗斯基脸上和 身上显然有一种特殊的表情,仿佛是抑制着的欢乐。奥勃朗斯基脱下外 套,歪戴着帽子,走进餐厅,对那些身穿燕尾服、手拿餐巾围拢来的鞑 靼侍者吩咐了一下。他向遇见的熟人一一点头致意。这里也象别处一样, 凡是认识的人见到他都很高兴。他走到酒台旁边,喝了一杯伏特加,吃 了一点鱼,对柜台后面那个浓妆艳抹、一身都是缎带、花边和满头鬈发 的法国女人说了几句俏皮话,引得她格格格地笑起来。对这个全身仿佛 都是用假发、花粉和香油做成的法国女人,列文极其厌恶,连一口酒都 没有喝。他连忙从她身边走开,好象避开脏地方一样。他的整个心灵都 沉浸在对吉娣的回忆里,他的眼睛闪耀着胜利和幸福的微笑。

 “请到这边来,大人,这边没有人打扰,大人,”一个头发花白的 鞑靼老头特别殷勤地说。他的臀部很宽,把燕尾服都撑得叉开来。“大 人,您请,”他对列文说,表示由于尊敬奥勃朗斯基,对他的客人也格 外殷勤。

 他一转眼工夫就在青铜吊灯下面那张原来已铺有桌布的圆桌上再铺 上一块干净桌布,挪了挪丝绒面椅子,手里拿着餐巾和菜单,站在奥勃 朗斯基面前,听候吩咐。

 “大人,您要是喜欢单间,马上就有一间要空出来了,戈里曾公爵 同一位夫人就要走了。今天有新鲜牡蛎。”


 奥勃朗斯基考虑起来。“原来的计划不变吧,列文?”他指着菜单, 脸上露出迟疑不决的神色说。“牡蛎好不好?你得注意了!”

 “是弗仑斯堡 ①货,大人,奥斯坦德②货没有。”






 “我反正都一样。我最喜欢蔬菜汤和麦片粥,不过这里当然不会有 这种东西。”

 “您要吃俄国麦片粥吗?”鞑靼人弯腰问列文,好象保姆问孩子一 样。


 他发现奥勃朗斯基脸上有点不高兴,又补充说:“你别以为我不欣赏你 的挑选。我吃起来一定满意。”

 “那当然!不论怎么说,吃是人生一大乐事,”奥勃朗斯基说。“伙 计那么就给我来二十个,不,二十个太少,来三十个牡蛎,再有蔬菜 汤……”

 “青菜汤,”鞑靼人用法语应和说。不过,奥勃朗斯基显然不让他 再卖弄法文菜名的知识。

 “蔬菜汤,懂吗?再来个浓汁比目鱼,再来……煎牛排。注意了, 要好的。或者再来个阉鸡,还有罐头水果。”

 鞑靼人记起奥勃朗斯基一向不喜欢照法文菜单点菜,就不再用法文 菜名重复一遍,但他还是自得其乐地把整张菜单用法语念了一遍。接着 又象装了弹簧一样灵活,啪地一下把菜单放下,拿起酒单递给奥勃朗斯 基。









 “好,来点帕尔玛 干酪。你也许要来点别的什么吧?”



 鞑靼人摆动着燕尾服后襟跑开了。过了五分钟,他端着一盘珍珠母 色贝壳都打开了的牡蛎,手指间夹着一瓶酒,飞奔而来。

 奥勃朗斯基揉了揉浆过的餐巾,把巾角塞到背心领口里,稳稳当当 地摆开双臂,动手吃牡蛎。

 “真不错,”他用银叉把滑腻腻的牡蛎从珍珠母色的贝壳里挑出来, 一个又一个地吞下去。“真不错,”他连声说,那双湿润发亮的眼晴忽 而望望列文,忽而望望鞑靼人。

 列文也吃着牡蛎,虽然他更爱吃白面包夹干酪。他欣赏着奥勃朗斯 基那种吃得津津有味的模样。就连那个鞑靼侍者也一面开瓶塞,把起泡 的葡萄酒倒进精致的酒杯里,一面现出得意的笑容,整整他的白领带, 不时望望奥勃朗斯基。



 他想让列文高兴,可是列文不仅不高兴,还感到局促不安。他心事 重重,在这个饭店里,在男人带着太太一起用餐的这些单独房间之间, 在这种嘈杂的闹声中,他觉得难受,觉得不舒服。这里的青铜器、镜子、 煤气灯、鞑靼侍者,这一切都使他感到讨厌。他唯恐充满心灵的美好感


 “我?是的,我有心事;不过这一切都使我不舒服,”他说。“你 不能想象,这一切对我这个乡下人来说有多么古怪,就象我在你们那里 看见那位先生的长指甲一样……”

 “是的,我也发觉你很注意可怜的格里涅维奇的指甲,”奥勃朗斯 基笑着说。

 “我真看不惯,”列文回答。”你设身处地替我想一想,用乡下人 的眼光来看一看吧。我们在乡下总是竭力使自己的一双手便于干活,因 此经常剪指甲,有时还把袖子卷起来。可是这里大家故意留指甲,留得 越长越好,还有袖口的钮子也大得象碟子,弄得两只手什么事也不能 做。”



 “也许是这样。可我总觉得别扭,就象在吃饭这件事上觉得别扭一 样:我们乡下人吃饭,总是尽量吃得快一点,吃完了好干活,可咱们在 这里却想尽量吃得慢一点,因此先弄点牡蛎来吃吃……”

 “哦,这个当然,”奥勃朗斯基随和地说。“不过这也就是文明的 目的:处处讲究享受。”“嗯,如果这就是文明的目的,那我宁可做个 野蛮人。”


 列文叹了一口气,他想起尼古拉哥哥,感到羞愧和痛苦,皱起了眉 头,但奥勃朗斯基一谈到另一个题目,立刻就吸引了他的注意。

 “那么,今天晚上你到我们那里,就是谢尔巴茨基家去吗?”他推 开粗糙的空牡蛎壳,把干酪挪到面前,意味深长地闪亮眼睛说。

 “去,一定去,”列文回答。“尽管我觉得公爵夫人的邀请并不热 情。”

 “你这算什么话!真是胡说八道!这是她的派头……喂,伙计,来 汤!……这是她的派头,贵夫人的派头嘛,”奥勃朗斯基说。“我也要 去,不过我得先去参加一下巴宁娜伯爵夫人的音乐会。嗐,你这个人还 不算野蛮吗?你忽然从莫斯科失踪了,这事该怎么解释呢?谢尔巴茨基 一家人一再问我,你到哪里去了,仿佛我一定知道似的。其实我只知道 一点:你常常做些人家不会做的事。”





 “‘我凭烙印识别骏马,从小伙子的眼睛看出他有了情人,’”奥 勃朗斯基背诵着诗句。“你真是前途似锦啊!”


 “虽不是一切都过去了,但你有前途,可我只有现实生活,而且是 颠三倒四的。”


 “糟得很。唉,我不想谈我的事,其实也无从谈起,”奥勃朗斯基 说。“那么你来莫斯科到底有什么事?……来,收掉!”他大声吩咐鞑 靼人。

 “你猜得着吗?”列文回答,他那双炯炯发亮的眼睛盯住奥勃朗斯 基。

 “猜得着,但这事我不好先开口。你从这一点上也可以看出,我猜 得对不对,”奥勃朗斯基带着微妙的笑容瞧着列文,说。

 “那么你有什么话要对我说呢?”列文声音哆嗦地说,觉得自己脸 上的全部肌肉都在抽搐。“这问题你怎么看?”


 “我吗?”奥勃朗斯基说。“我所希望的,再没有比这更好的事了, 没有了。真是再好也没有了。”

 “那么你没有搞错吧?你知道我们谈的是什么事吗?”列文眼睛盯 住对方问。“你看这事有希望吗?”


 “不,你真的以为这事有希望吗?不,你把你的想法统统说出来! 不过,万一,万一我遭到拒绝呢?……我简直相信会遭到拒绝……”


 “我有时就有这样的感觉。因为这事对我也好,对她也好,都是太 可怕了。”

 “嗳,这对一位姑娘来说决没有什么好怕的。随便哪一位姑娘遇到 人家来求婚,总是挺得意的。”


 奥勃朗斯基微微一笑。他很懂得列文的这种感情,懂得在他看来天 下的姑娘可以分成两类:一类是除了她以外的天下所有的姑娘,这些姑 娘个个具有人类的各种缺点,都平凡得很;另一类就是她一个人,没有 任何缺点,而且凌驾于全人类之上。



 “不,等一下,等一下,”列文说。“你要明白,对我来说这是个 生死攸关的问题。这件事我同谁都没有谈过,我同谁都不能象同你这样 坦率地谈。其实咱俩处处不一样:趣味不一样,观点不一样,什么都不 一样,但我知道,你喜欢我,了解我,我也非常喜欢你。啊呀,看在上 帝份上,你就把实话全说出来吧。”

 “我怎么想,就怎么对你说,”奥勃朗斯基微笑着说。“不过我先 要对你说:我妻子是个极其古怪的女人……”奥勃朗斯基想到同妻子的 关系,叹了一口气。他沉默了一下,又说:“她有先见之明。她看人看 得很透,可这还不算,她还能未卜先知,特别是在婚姻问题上。譬如说, 她曾预言沙霍夫斯卡雅小姐将嫁给勃仑登。当时谁也不相信,但后来果 然如此。这会儿她是赞成你的。”




 “她说得太好了!”列文叫道。“我一向说她是个极好的人,你的 夫人是个极好的人。好,这事谈得够了,够了,”他一边站起来,一边 说。


 但列文坐不住了。他迈着矫健的步伐在这小房间里来回踱了两次, 眨眨眼睛,免得人家看见他的眼泪。然后又回到桌旁坐下。

 “你要明白,”他说,“这不是一般的爱情。我谈过恋爱,但这不 是那么一回事。我这不是出于自己的感情,而是受一种外界力量的支配。

 说实在的,我上次离开这儿,因为觉得那事没有希望,那是一种人间不 可能有的幸福;但我经过一番内心斗争,觉得没有她我活不下去,我一 定要解决……”


 “啊,这个回头再说!啊呀,我心里有多少想法,有多少事要问问 你呀! 你准不能想象,你刚才的话对我起了多大的作用。我太幸福了,幸 福得简直叫人家讨厌。我把什么都忘记了……我今天才知道尼古拉哥 哥……才知道他也在这里……可我连他都给忘了。我仿佛觉得连他都是 幸福的。我简直疯了。但有一件事太可怕……你已经结过婚,你一定能 够理解这种感情……可怕的是,如今我们都有了年纪,以前我们都有 过……不是爱情,而是罪孽……可如今我们忽然要同一个纯洁无瑕的姑 娘接近。这太可憎了,因此不能不觉得自己高攀不上。”


 “咳,还是有的,”列文说,“毕竟还是有的,‘我嫌恶地回顾我 的生活,我战栗,我诅咒,我痛恨自己……’就是这样。”


 “我唯一的安慰就是想到我喜爱的那句祷告:‘不是我可以将功赎 罪,而是凭你的慈爱饶恕我。’也只有这样,她才能饶恕我。”




 “我还有一句话要跟你说。你认识伏伦斯基吗?”奥勃朗斯基问列 文。


 “再来一瓶酒,”奥勃朗斯基吩咐鞑靼侍者。那个侍者没有事也守 在他们旁边,转来转去,替他们斟酒。



 “伏伦斯基是个什么人?”列文问。他的脸色顿时变了,从奥勃朗 斯基刚才还在欣赏的天真的喜悦变成凶狠和恼怒。

 “伏伦斯基是基里尔·伊凡诺维奇·伏伦斯基伯爵的儿子,是彼得 堡花花公子的一个活标本。我在特维尔服役时就同他认识了,他常常到 那边去招募新兵。非常有钱,人又长得漂亮,交游又广。他在担任宫廷 武官,是个心地善良的好小子。不仅心地善良,我来到这儿以后还发现 他很有教养,又很聪明,是个前程远大的人物。”


 “对了,你走了没多久,他就来到这儿了。据我了解,他爱吉娣爱 得入了迷,还有,她母亲……”

 “对不起,这个我实在不明白,”列文忧郁地皱着眉头说。他立刻 想到了尼古拉哥哥,痛恨自己竟把他给忘了。


 “我把我所知道的全告诉你了。我再说一遍,我认为在这件微妙的事上, 从各方面看来,希望都在你这一边。”


 “不过我劝你赶紧把这事解决掉,”奥勃朗斯基给他斟满酒,继续 说。



 “再说一遍:我劝你无论如何要赶紧解决。今晚不要谈了,”奥勃 朗斯基说。“明天一早正式去求婚,愿上帝保佑你……”

 “哦,你不是一直想到我们那边去打猎吗?你明年春天来吧,”列 文说。

 他心里十分悔恨,真不该同奥勃朗斯基谈这件事。奥勃朗斯基竟然 跟他谈什么彼得堡的一个军官在跟他竞争,还作了猜测,提了劝告,这 可亵渎了他的特殊的感情。


 “我以后一定去,”他说。“是啊,老弟,女人好比螺旋桨,弄得 你老是团团打转。我的情况也很糟,糟得很呢。都是女人的缘故。你坦 率告诉我,”他掏出一支雪茄,一只手按住酒杯说下去,“你给我出出 主意。”


 “是这么一回事。假定你结过婚,你爱你的妻子,可是另外有个女 人把你迷住了……”

 “对不起,这种事我可一点也不理解,就好象……譬如说,我现在 吃饱了饭,经过面包店,又溜进去偷面包。”



 ‘我若能克制尘世欲望, 那当然无比高尚; 我若忍耐不了这寂寞, 毕竟也享尽人间欢乐!’”


 “好吧,言归正传,”奥勃朗斯基继续说。“你要知道,那女人温 柔多情,真是可爱,而且孤苦伶仃,她牺牲了一切。如今木已成舟,我 又怎么能把她抛弃呢?就算为了不破坏家庭生活,非得同她分手不可, 难道就不能可怜可怜她,设法减轻点儿她的痛苦吗?”


 说得确切些:真正的女人只有一种……那种既堕落又可爱的女人,我没 有见过,我看也不会有。至于那个坐在柜台后面、满头鬈发、涂脂抹粉 的法国女人,我觉得她不是女人,简直是个妖精。凡是堕落的女人都是 这样的。”

 “那么福音书中的那个女人 呢?”




 一部福音书大家就只记得这样几句话。不过我所说的并不是我所想的, 而是我所感觉的。我嫌恶堕落的女人。你害怕蜘蛛,我可害怕那些妖精。

 你一定没有研究过蜘蛛,所以不知道它们的特性;我对那些女人也是这 样。”

 “你说说倒轻巧,好象狄更斯小说中的那位先生,他遇到难题,就 用左手一个个从右肩上往后扔。不过,抹煞事实并不解决问题。你倒说 说,叫我怎么办呢,怎么办呢?妻子老了,可你还精力旺盛。你只要看 上一眼,就会觉得你再也无法爱你的妻子了,不管你怎样尊敬她。一旦 遇到一位可爱的人儿,你就完了,完了!”奥勃朗斯基颓丧地说。列文 嗨地笑了一声。“是啊,完了,”奥勃朗斯基继续说。“可是有什么办 法呢?”



 “吓,真是一位道学先生!但你要明白,现在有两个女人:一个始 终坚持她的权利,也就是坚持要你的爱情,但你却不能给她;另一个女 人为你牺牲了一切,对你却毫无所求。你该怎么办呢?怎么办才好呢? 这是一大悲剧。”

 “如果你想知道我对这种事情的看法,那我可以告诉你,我不相信 这里有什么悲剧。理由是这样的:我认为恋爱……就是柏拉图在《酒宴》 中所说的两种恋爱,这两种不同的恋爱就是对人们的试金石。有些人只 懂得这种恋爱,有些人只懂得另一种。对那些只懂得非柏拉图式恋爱的 人根本谈不上什么悲剧不悲剧。那种恋爱是不会有什么悲剧的。‘多谢 您使我得到了满足,再见!’——这就是全部悲剧。至于柏拉图式的恋 爱是不会有什么悲剧的,因为这种恋爱始终是纯洁无瑕的,因为……”

 这当儿,列文想起自己的罪孽和他所经历过的内心斗争,出其不意 地补充说: “但你说的话也许是对的。很可能是对的……可我说不上来,实在 说不上来。”

 “你要知道,”奥勃朗斯基说,“你是个一丝不苟的人。这是你的 美德,也是你的缺点。你自己具有一丝不苟的脾气,你就要求实际生活 里一切都一丝不苟,但这是办不到的。譬如说,你瞧不起公益事业,因 为你要求它都能符合你的目的,可这是办不到的。你要求人家的一举一 动都具有目的性,要求恋爱和家庭生活永远统一,可这是办不到的。人 生的一切变化,一切魅力,一切美,都是由光和影组成的。”

 列文叹了一口气,什么也没回答。他在想心事,没有听奥勃朗斯基 说话。

 两人忽然发觉,他们虽然是朋友,虽然在一起吃饭喝酒,关系似乎 应该更加融洽,其实各人在想各人的心事,彼此互不关心。奥勃朗斯基多次发觉,他们在饭后往往意见更加分歧,而不是更加融洽,但是他知 道遇到这种情况应该怎么办。

 “开帐!”他吩咐侍者,起身走到隔壁大厅,在那里遇见一个熟识 的副官,就同他谈起某女演员和她的供养者来。奥勃朗斯基同那个副官 一谈话,顿时感到轻松愉快,同列文谈话时产生的那种思想上和精神上 的极度紧张感也消除了。

 鞑靼人送来帐单,总共是二十六卢布零几个戈比,外加小帐,其中 列文吃的酒菜帐是十四卢布。要是在别的时候,他这个乡下人准会大吃 一惊,但今天他毫不在意,立刻付清了帐,以便回家去换衣服,再坐车 到决定他命运的谢尔巴茨基家去。



 吉娣·谢尔巴茨基公爵小姐今年才十八岁。冬天里,她第一次进入 社交界。她在交际场中获得的成功超过她的两位姐姐,甚至出乎公爵夫 人的意料之外。不仅涉足莫斯科舞会的青年几乎个个拜倒在吉娣脚下, 而且在这第一个冬天就出现了两位认真的求婚者:列文和在他走后立即 出现的伏伦斯基伯爵。

 列文在初冬时节的出现,他的频繁来访和对吉娣明显的爱慕之情, 使做父母的第一次正式谈论吉娣的前途并发生了争吵。公爵中意列文, 认为他配吉娣再合适也没有了。公爵夫人呢,她以女人家回避问题的惯 用手法,说吉娣年纪还小,说看不出列文有诚意,说吉娣对他没有意思, 用诸如此类的话加以推托;但她没有把主要的理由讲出来,那就是她希 望替女儿选择个更好的对象,而列文不中她的意,她不了解他的为人。

 上次列文突然从莫斯科不别而行,公爵夫人倒很高兴,她得意洋洋地对 丈夫说:“你瞧,被我说中了吧!”后来伏伦斯基一出现,她就更加高 兴了,确信吉娣准能找到一个不仅是好的而且是杰出的夫婿。

 在吉娣母亲看来,列文同伏伦斯基是怎么也不能相比的。她不喜欢 列文偏激而古怪的议论,不喜欢他在交际场所表现出来的笨拙行为—— 她认为这是由于他的傲慢而产生的,——不喜欢他整天同牲口和农民打 交道的这种她认为粗野的乡下生活。她特别不喜欢的是,他爱上她的女 儿,出入她们家也有一个半月了,却还在等待,还在观察,唯恐开口求 婚会使他有失面子,他不懂得,一个男子经常出入有年轻姑娘的人家是 非表明来意不可的。后来他又突然不别而行。“幸好他一点也不招人喜 欢,吉娣没有爱上他,”做母亲的这样想。

 伏伦斯基能使吉娣母亲的愿望全部得到满足。他很有钱,又很聪明, 家庭出身好,当上了宫廷武官,更是前程似锦,而且又是个招人喜欢的 男人。再也找不到比他更理想的女婿了。

 伏伦斯基在舞会上露骨地向吉娣献媚,他同她跳舞,经常出入她们 的家,因此他的一片心意是毋庸置疑的,虽然如此,整整一个冬天,母 亲的心情却一直极其烦躁。

 三十年前公爵夫人自己出嫁,那是姑妈做的媒。未婚夫——他的情 况事先都已知道——上门来相亲,他也就露了脸。做媒的姑妈事后分头 传达了双方的印象。印象都很好。然后约定日期,公爵向女方父母求婚, 当场就被接受了。这件事的经过很简单很顺利。至少公爵夫人有这样的 感觉。但轮到给她的女儿择婿,她才体会到这件事看来平常,做起来却 不简单,不容易。为了两个大女儿——陶丽和娜塔丽雅——出嫁,她担 了多少忧,操了多少心,花了多少钱,同丈夫争吵了多少回呀!如今小 女儿要出嫁,她还是那样恐惧,那样忧虑,同丈夫争吵得比前两次更厉 害。老公爵也象天下一切做父亲的人那样,对女儿的名誉和贞操管得特 别严。他狂热地守着女儿,特别是他的爱女吉娣,处处同公爵夫人吵嘴, 说她败坏了女儿的名声。在两个大女儿的婚事上,公爵夫人对公爵这一 套已经习惯了,如今她更觉得公爵的严格管教是有道理的。她看到近来 世风日下,做母亲的责任更重了。她看到,象吉娣这样年纪轻轻的姑娘 都在组织什么团体,听什么演讲,同男人自由交往,单独坐车上街,有 许多人甚至不行屈膝礼,而最主要的是,她们都坚持选择丈夫是她们本 人的事,与父母无关。“现在出嫁同以前不一样了,”年轻姑娘都这么 想这么说,就连上了年纪的人也一样。可是究竟该怎样出嫁,公爵夫人 却怎么也打听不到。父母替儿女作主的法国规矩行不通,还遭到非难。


 通过别人做媒的俄国风俗被认为不开明,遭到大家的唾弃,包括公爵夫 人在内。可是究竟女孩子该怎样出嫁,做父母的该怎样嫁女儿,谁也说 不上来。公爵夫人不论同谁谈这件事,大家都说:“算了吧,那种老规 矩如今该丢掉了。结婚的可是年轻人,不是他们的父母,还是让年轻人 自己作主去吧。”没有女儿的人说说这种风凉话当然很容易,可是公爵 夫人懂得,女孩子同男人接触就可能发生爱情,她可能爱上一个不想结 婚的人,或者一个不配做她丈夫的人。不管人家怎样劝告公爵夫人,说 如今应该让年轻人自己去安排生活,她却怎么也不能接受,就象她不能 接受有朝一日实弹手枪将成为五岁孩子最好的玩具这种说法一样。因 此,公爵夫人为吉娣比为两个大女儿操的心就更多了。

 她唯恐伏伦斯基对待她的女儿只不过玩弄玩弄罢了。她看出女儿已 经爱上了他,不过她认为他是个正派人,不至于做出那种事来,并以此 自慰。但她也知道,如今社交自由,女孩子很容易丧失理智,而男人对 那种罪孽又不当一回事。上星期吉娣把她同伏伦斯基跳玛祖卡舞时谈的 话告诉了母亲。这番话使公爵夫人稍稍宽了心,但她还不能完全放心。

 伏伦斯基对吉娣说,他们弟兄俩都很听母亲的话,凡是重大的事,不同 她商量是从来不作决定的。他说:“眼下我在等我妈从彼得堡来,也就 是在等待一种特殊的幸福。”

 吉娣讲这几句话的时候,并没有什么特别的意思。但做母亲的对这 事有做母亲的想法。她知道伏伦斯基天天都在等老夫人到来,老夫人对 儿子的选择也一定会高兴的。使公爵夫人感到纳闷的是,他竟因唯恐违 反母亲的心意而绝口不提婚事。但她渴望这件婚事成功,特别是要使自 己定心,就更相信女儿的话了。公爵夫人看到大女儿陶丽遭到这样的不 幸,竟至准备离开丈夫,心里虽然十分难过,但她的全部感情还是集中 在这件决定小女儿命运的事上。今天,列文的出现更增添了她的焦虑。

 她觉得女儿曾一度钟情于列文,因此唯恐她过分单纯而拒绝伏伦斯基的 求婚。总之,她唯恐列文的到来会使这桩眼看就要成功的好事受到影响, 横生波折。



 “我有一句话要说,”公爵夫人开了头。从她严肃而激动的脸色上, 吉娣猜到她要谈的是什么事。

 “妈妈,”她涨红了脸,连忙向她回过头去说。“我请求您,我请 求您不要说。我知道了,我全知道了。”



 “啊,妈妈,好妈妈,看在上帝份上,不要说吧。说那种事太可怕 了。”

 “不说,不说,”母亲看到女儿眼睛里的泪水,说。“但是有一件 事,我的心肝,你曾经答应过我,说你不会对我隐瞒任何事情的。你这 么说了,不会做不到吧?”

 “永远不会的,妈妈,我对你什么事也不隐瞒,”吉娣涨红脸,眼 睛盯住母亲回答。“可我现在没有什么话要说。我……我……就是想说, 我也不知道该说什么,该怎么说……”

 “对,凭她这种眼神,她是不会说谎的,”母亲想,看见女儿激动 和幸福的模样,微笑起来。公爵夫人笑的是这个可怜的孩子一定以为她 自己此刻所想的事是多么重大,多么意义深长。



在吃过晚饭到晚会开始前的这段时间里,吉娣的心情就象一个初临 战场的新兵。她的心卜卜直跳,头脑里思潮翻腾。

 她觉得他们两人第一次见面的这个晚会,将决定她的命运。她不停 地想着他们两个,忽而分开想,忽而联起来想。回顾往事,她愉快而亲 切地想起了她同列文的交往。她回忆起童年时代以及列文和她已故哥哥 的友谊,这使他们之间的关系显得格外富有诗意。她相信列文是爱她的, 列文对她的爱慕使她觉得荣幸和欣喜,她想到列文就觉得愉快。可是一 想到伏伦斯基,却有一种局促不安的感觉,尽管他温文尔雅,彬彬有礼。

 和他在一起,仿佛有一点矫揉造作,但不在他那一边——他是很诚挚可 爱的,—一而是在她这一边。她同列文在一起,却觉得十分自在。不过, 她一想到将来同伏伦斯基在一起,她的面前就出现了一片光辉灿烂的前 景;同列文在一起,却觉得面前是一片迷雾。

 她上楼去穿上夜礼服,照了照镜子,快乐地想到今天是她的一个好 日子,她有足够的力量应付当前的局面:她觉得自己镇定自若,举止优 雅。

 七点半钟,她刚走进客厅,仆人就来通报说:“康斯坦京·德米特 里奇·列文到。”这时公爵夫人还在自己的房间里,公爵也还没有出来。

 “果然来了,”吉娣想。全身的血液似乎都涌到了心里。她照了照镜子, 看到自已脸色苍白,吃了一惊。

 现在她才断定,他之所以来得特别早,就是为了要同她单独见面, 以便向她求婚。直到此刻,她才看到事情的另一面。直到此刻,她才明 白问题不仅关系到她一个人,——她同谁在一起生活才会幸福,她爱的 又是哪一个,——就在这一分钟里她将使一个她所爱的人感到屈辱。而 且将残酷地使他感到屈辱……为的是什么?为的是这个可爱的人爱上了 她,对她发生了爱情。可是没有办法,她需要这样做,她应该这样做。

 “天哪,难道真的要我亲口对他说吗?”她想。“叫我对他说什么 好呢?难道真的要我对他说我不爱他吗?那分明是说谎。叫我对他说什 么好呢?难道要对他说我爱上别人了?不,这可办不到。我要逃走,逃 走。”

 她听到脚步声时她已走到门口了。“不!这样做是不行的。可我怕 什么呢?我又没有做过什么坏事。该怎么办就怎么办吧!我要说实话。

 同他在一起是不会觉得局促不安的。瞧,他来了!”看见他那强壮而又 拘谨的身影和那双紧盯着她的明亮的眼睛,她自言自语。她对着他的脸 瞧了一眼,仿佛在请求他宽恕,同时向他伸出一只手。

 “我没有按时来,看样子来得太早了,”他扫视了一下空荡荡的客 厅,说。他看到他的愿望已经达到,没有谁会妨碍他向她开口,脸色顿 时变得紧张起来。


 “不过,我就是想同您单独见面,”他开口说,没有坐下来,也没 有向她看,唯恐丧失勇气。


 她嘴里说着,但她自己也不知道在说些什么。她那恳求和怜爱的目 光也一直没有离开过他。



 她的头垂得越来越低,自己也不知道该怎样回答他眼看就要出口的 话。

 “这要看您了,”他又说了一遍。“我想说……我想说……我来是 为了……为了要您做我的妻子!”他嗫嚅地说,自己也不知道在说些什 么;不过他觉得最可怕的话已经说出来了,就住了口,对她望了望。


 她怎么也没想到,他的爱情表白竟会对她发生这样强烈的作用。但这只 是一刹那的事。她想起了伏伦斯基。她抬起她那双诚实明亮的眼睛望着 列文,看见他那绝望的神色,慌忙回答: “这不可能……请您原谅……”

 一分钟以前,她对他是那么亲近,对他的生命是那么重要!可此刻 她对他又是多么隔膜多么疏远哪! “不可能有别的结果,”他眼睛避开她,说。




 就在这当儿,公爵夫人进来了。她看见只有他们两人在场,又发觉 他们那副尴尬的模样,脸上顿时现出焦虑的神色。列文向她鞠了个躬, 一句话也没有说。吉娣不作声。也没有抬起眼睛来。“赞美上帝,她拒 绝他了。”做母亲的想。她的脸上又浮起每星期四接待客人时惯常的微 笑。她坐下来,问起列文乡下的生活。列文只得又坐下,等待别的客人 到来,以便悄悄溜掉。

 过了五分钟,吉娣的朋友,去年冬天才结婚的诺德斯顿伯爵夫人来 了。

 这是一个消瘦、枯黄、病态的神经质女人,生有一双乌黑发亮的眼 睛。她象一般已婚女人爱姑娘那样爱吉娣,总是照她自己的幸福观来替 吉娣择婿,因此希望她嫁给伏伦斯基,今年初冬,她在吉娣家里常常遇 见列文,她一直不喜欢他。她一遇到他,总是爱拿他开玩笑。

 “我就喜欢他那种居高临下的神气,他不是认为我愚蠢而不愿在我 面前高谈阔论,就是摆出一副宽容大度的样子。他那副样子,我觉得怪 好玩的!我就喜欢他看见我受不了,”她这样说到列文。

 她说得对,列文看到她确实受不了,并且瞧不起她,因为她竟认为 神经质是她的长处,值得自豪,又因为她对一切庸俗粗野的事物总是抱 着满不在乎的冷漠态度。

 在诺德斯顿伯爵夫人和列文之间形成了一种社交界常见的关系,那 就是表面上客客气气,心底里彼此却极其蔑视,不可能相互认真对待, 甚至也不会生对方的气。


 “嘿!康斯坦京·德米特里奇!您又光临我们这个腐化堕落的巴比 了,”她伸出瘦黄的小手给他,想起初冬时他有一次把莫斯科说成巴 比伦,说。“那么,是巴比伦改邪归正了呢,还是您堕落了?”她嘲弄 地打量着吉娣,加上一句。


 “哟,伯爵夫人,承您这样牢牢记住我的话,真是不胜荣幸,”列 文回答,他已经恢复了常态,立刻照老规矩对诺德斯顿伯爵夫人反唇相 稽。“我这话对您的作用真是太大了。”

 “可不是!我总是把您的话一字不漏地记下来。啊,吉娣,你又溜 过冰了?……”

 然后她同吉娣谈起话来。列文觉得,不管现在退席有多么尴尬,但 总比整个晚上留在这里,面对着偶尔瞅他一眼又慌忙避开他的视线的吉 娣要好过一些。他刚要起身,公爵夫人却发现他不作声,就对他说: “您这次来莫斯科,可以住一阵吗?您一定是忙于地方自治会的工 作,不能耽搁得太久,是吗?”

 “不,公爵夫人,地方自治会的事我已经不管了,”他说。“我要 在这里住几天。”

 “他出什么事了?”诺德斯顿伯爵夫人注视着他那一本正经的脸 色,思忖着。“今天他怎么不高兴辩论辩论呢?我要逗他一逗。我最爱 在吉娣面前出出他的丑,我要逗他一下。”

 “康斯坦京·德米特里奇,”她对他说,“请您给我讲讲,这是怎 么一回事——您是无所不知的,——我们卡卢加乡下的庄稼汉和婆娘把 他们的东西统统喝酒喝光了,如今弄得没钱给我们付租子。这算什么呀? 您一向总是很称赞庄稼汉的。”




 “这一定是伏伦斯基,”列文想,为了证实这一点,他对吉娣望了 望。吉娣瞟了一眼伏伦斯基,又回头瞅了一下列文。单从她那情不自禁 地闪出光芒的眼睛,列文就看出,她爱的正是这个人,他看得清清楚楚, 就跟她亲口告诉他一样。但他到底是个怎样的人呢? 如今不管是不是合适,列文都只好留下来,因为他需要知道吉娣所 爱的究竟是个怎样的人。

 有些人一遇到一个在某方面幸运的情敌,就立刻抹煞他的一切优 点,只看到他身上的缺点;但有些人正好相反,他们最希望在这幸运的 情敌身上发现胜过自己的地方,并且忍住揪心的剧痛,一味找寻对方的 长处。列文属于后一种人。不过,他要在伏伦斯基身上找出他的长处和 迷人的地方并不困难。这是一眼就看得出来的。伏伦斯基是个个儿不高、 体格强壮的黑发男子,相貌端正英俊,性格沉着刚毅而又和蔼可亲。从 他的面孔到身材,从他剪得短短的黑发、刮得光光的下巴到宽舒的崭新 军服,一切都显得落落大方,雅致洒脱。伏伦斯基给进来的太太让了路, 走到公爵夫人面前,然后又走到吉娣身边。

 当他走近吉娣的时候,他那双漂亮的眼睛闪出特别温柔的光芒。他 带着隐隐约约的幸福、谦逊而得意的微笑(列文有这样的感觉),彬彬 有礼地向她鞠躬,又把他那短小而宽阔的手伸给她。

 他同每个人点头致意,寒暄几句,这才坐下来,就是没有对列文望 一眼,而列文却一直盯着他看个不停。

 “让我来给你们介绍一下,”公爵夫人指着列文说。“这位是康斯 坦京·德米特里奇·列文。这位是阿历克赛·基利洛维奇·伏伦斯基伯 爵。”


 “今年冬天我本来有个机会同您一起吃顿饭,”他露出诚恳而开朗 的微笑说。“可您忽然回乡下去了。”



 “看来我的话对您的作用太大了,使您记得这样牢,”列文说。想 到这话刚才已经说过,他脸红了。



 “要是事情忙,就不寂寞,再说在自己家里是不会寂寞的,”列文 生硬地回答。

 “我喜欢乡下,”伏伦斯基说,听出列文那种生硬的语气,但假装 没有注意。

 “但我想,伯爵,您是不肯一辈子都住在乡下的吧,”诺德斯顿伯 爵夫人说。

 “我不知道,我没有长期住过,但我有过一种奇怪的心情,”伏伦 斯基回答。“我同我妈在尼斯 ①住过一个冬天,我从来没有那么怀念过乡村,那有树皮鞋和庄稼汉的俄国乡村。说实在的,尼斯这地方很枯燥乏 味。还有,那不勒斯、索伦多,短期住住是不错的,可是待在那些地方 就特别怀念俄国,怀念俄国乡村。那些地方就象……”


 他对吉娣,也对列文说着。他那安详友好的目光一会儿看看这个, 一会儿看看那个。他说话显然很随便。


 谈话没有片刻停顿,弄得老公爵夫人随时备用的两门重炮——古今 教育问题和普遍兵役制问题——没有机会搬出来,诺德斯顿伯爵夫人也 没有机会向列文挑衅。

 列文想加入大家的谈话,但是插不进嘴。他时刻都对自己说:“现 在可以走了。”但他没有走,仿佛在等待着什么。

 谈话转到扶乩和灵魂的问题。诺德斯顿伯爵夫人相信招魂木,就讲 起一桩她亲眼目睹的奇迹来。“啊,伯爵夫人,看在上帝份上,请您务 必带我去看看!我从没见过这样的怪事,虽然我一直在到处找寻,”伏 伦斯基笑眯眯地说。

 “好的,下星期六陪您去,”诺德斯顿伯爵夫人回答。“那么您, 康斯坦京·德米特里奇,相信不相信哪?”她问列文。



 “我的意见就是,”列文回答,“相信扶乩只能证明所谓有教养的上流社会并不比庄稼汉高明。庄稼汉相信毒眼 ,相信中邪,相信蛊术, 而我们却……”









 吉娣说,她为列文脸红了。列文察觉到了这一点,心里更加恼火。他正 要对诺德斯顿伯爵夫人进行反击,但这时伏伦斯基眼看再谈下去会弄得 不愉快,就带着开朗快活的微笑来打圆场。

 “您认为完全没有这种可能吗?”他问。“为什么?我们承认电是 存在的,虽然我们并不懂得电。既然如此,为什么不可能有我们还不知 道的东西存在呢……”

 “人们最初发现电的时候,”列文立刻打断他的话说,“只是发现 了它的现象,还不知道它是从哪儿来的,有什么作用。一直过了多少世 纪,才想到应用它。招魂术呢,正好相反,一开头就是什么茶几写字, 灵魂降临,然后才说这是一种未知的力。”


 “是的,不过招魂术家说:现在我们还不知道这是一种什么力,但 力是存在的,并且在一定条件下会起作用。至于这种力是由什么组成的,那就让科学家去揭示吧。我不懂为什么这不可能是一种新的力,如果 它……”

 “那是因为,”列文打断他的话说,“你每次拿松香在皮毛上摩擦, 就会产生电的现象,可是招魂术并不是每次都灵的,所以它不是自然现 象。”

 伏伦斯基大概觉得在客厅里谈这类事太严肃了,因此没有反驳列文 的话,却竭力转变话题。他只快乐地微微一笑,向太太们转过身去。

 “让我们现在就来试一试吧,伯爵夫人,”伏伦斯基说,但列文要 把他想说的话说完。

 “我想,”列文继续说,“招魂术家企图把自己的奇迹说成是一种 新的力,这是完全徒劳的。他们直率地谈论灵魂力,想用物质的方式来 检验它。”


 “我想您可以成为一个出色的降神家,”诺德斯顿伯爵夫人说,“您 身上有一股灵气。”


 “公爵小姐,让我们现在就来试一试扶乩吧,”伏伦斯基说,“公 爵夫人,您答应吗?”



 她从心底里可怜他,特别是因为他的痛苦都是由她造成的。“要是你能 原谅我,那就请原谅我吧,”她的眼神这样说,“我实在太幸福了。”

 “我恨所有的人,包括您和我自己在内,”他的眼神这样回答。接 着他拿起帽子,但他还是命定不能脱身。正当大家在小桌子旁坐下而列 文想离开的时候,老公爵走了进来。他向太太们问了好,就招呼列文。