【有声英语文学名著】安娜卡列宁娜（80）

 EIGHTY

 
 
Chapter 17
 
 
—>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<—
 
 
OBLONSKY’S affairs were in a bad state.
 
Two-thirds of the money for the forest had already been spent, and by allowing a discount of ten per cent, he had obtained from the merchant almost the whole of the last third. But the latter would not advance any more of the money, especially as Dolly, who had that winter for the first time plainly claimed a right to her own property, had refused to endorse the contract with a receipt for the last third of the payment. Oblonsky’s whole salary went for household expenses and the liquidation of small pressing bills. He had no money at all.
 
This was unpleasant, inconvenient, and, in Oblonsky’s opinion, ought not to continue. The cause, as he understood it, was that he received too small a salary. The position had certainly been a very good one a few years ago, but it was so no longer. Petrov, the Bank director, got Rs. 12,000. Sventitsky, Director of a Company, got Rs. 17,000; and Mitin, having founded a bank, got Rs. 50,000. ‘Evidently I have been asleep and have been forgotten!’ thought Oblonsky. And he began pricking up his ears and looking around, and by the end of the winter he had discovered a very good post and begun an attack on it, first from Moscow through aunts, uncles, and friends; and then in the spring, when the matter had ripened, he himself went to Petersburg. This post was one of those, now far more numerous than formerly, carrying salaries from one thousand to fifty thousand roubles a year: soft profitable jobs. It was a Membership of the Committee of the Joint Agency of the Mutual Credit Balance of Southern Railways and Banking Houses. Like all such posts it required such immense knowledge and activity as could hardly be united in one man. And as there was no one found who united those qualities, it was at any rate better for the post to be filled by an honest rather than a dishonest man. Oblonsky was not only an honest man — placing no special emphasis on the word — but he was an honest man with an emphasis, in the special sense attaching to the word in Moscow, where they say: ‘An honest worker, an honest writer, an honest journalist, an honest institution, an honest tendency,’ meaning not only that the man or the institution is not dishonest, but also that they are capable, on occasion, of being objectionable to the Government. Oblonsky moved in those Moscow circles where that word was used, and was there considered an honest man, so that he had a better claim to the post than other people.
 
The post carried a salary of from seven to ten thousand roubles a year, and Oblonsky could hold it without resigning his official position. It depended on two Ministers, one lady, and two Jews; and though they had already been prepared it was necessary for Oblonsky to see all these people in Petersburg. Moreover, he had promised his sister Anna to obtain a decisive answer about the divorce from Karenin. So, having got fifty roubles from Dolly, he went to Petersburg.
 
Sitting in Karenin’s study and listening to his article on ‘The Causes of the Bad State of Russian Finance,’ Oblonsky only waited for him to conclude to speak about his own affairs and about Anna.
 
‘Yes, it is very true,’ Oblonsky agreed when Karenin, taking off the pince-nez without which he could no longer read, looked up inquiringly at his former brother-in-law. ‘It is very true in detail, but all the same the principle of to-day is Freedom.’
 
‘Yes, but I bring forward another principle which embraces the principle of freedom,’ said Karenin, accentuating the word ‘embraces,’ and putting his pince-nez on again to re-read the part where this was said.
 
Turning over the beautifully written, very broad-margined manuscript, Karenin re-read the convincing passage:
 
‘I do not want protection for the benefit of private individuals, but for the common good — for the lowest and for the highest classes equally,’ he said, looking at Oblonsky over his pince-nez. ‘But they cannot understand this, they are concerned only with their private interests and are carried away by phrases.’
 
Oblonsky knew that when Karenin began talking about what they did and thought — they being those who did not wish to accept his projects, and were the cause of all the evil in Russia — the end of the subject was near at hand, and he therefore willingly abandoned the principle of Freedom and agreed entirely. Karenin was silent, thoughtfully turning over the leaves of his manuscript.
 
‘Oh, by the way!’ said Oblonsky, ‘I wanted to ask you to take an opportunity, when you see Pomorsky, to put in a word for me, and to tell him that I should very much like to get the vacant post of Member of the Committee of the Joint Agency of the Mutual Credit Balance of Southern Railways.’ The name of the post that was so near his heart was already familiar to Oblonsky and he pronounced it rapidly without any blunder.
 
Karenin inquired what was the work of this new Committee, and pondered. He was considering whether in the activity of this Committee there was not something at variance with his own projects. But as the work of the new institution was very complicated and his project covered a very extensive domain, he could not decide this immediately, and taking off his pince-nez said:
 
‘Certainly I could speak to him; but, really, why do you want the post?’
 
‘The salary is good, up to nine thousand, and my means . . .’
 
‘Nine thousand,’ repeated Karenin, and frowned.
 
The large figure of the salary reminded him that, in that respect, the post Oblonsky was aspiring to was opposed to the main idea of his projects, which always tended toward economy.
 
‘I consider, and I have written an article on the point, that the enormous salaries paid nowadays are a symptom of the false economic position of our administration.’
 
‘Yes, but what would you have?’ said Oblonsky. ‘Let’s say a bank director gets ten thousand, — he’s worth it, you know! Or an engineer gets twenty thousand. It’s a live business, anyway.’
 
‘I consider that a salary is payment for value received and should be subject to the law of supply and demand. If that law is ignored when fixing a salary, as for instance when I see that, of two engineers who have passed through the same Institute and are equally well instructed and capable, one receives forty thousand and the other is satisfied with two thousand; or when lawyers or hussars who have no special knowledge are appointed Directors of banks or companies and receive gigantic salaries, I conclude that these salaries are not fixed by the law of supply and demand but by personal influence. This is an abuse important in itself which has a bad effect on the State service. I consider . . .’
 
Oblonsky hastened to interrupt his brother-in-law.
 
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘but you will agree that a new and unquestionably useful institution is being started. Anyway, it is a live business! It is particularly desired that the work should be managed honestly,’ concluded Oblonsky, with an emphasis on the word.
 
But the Moscow meaning of ‘honest’ was unintelligible to Karenin.
 
‘Honesty is only a negative quality,’ said he.
 
‘But you would greatly oblige me, all the same, if you would put in a word — when you happen to see Pomorsky,’ said Oblonsky.
 
‘But it depends chiefly on Bolgarinov, I think,’ said Karenin.
 
‘Bolgarinov quite agrees, as far as he is concerned,’ returned Oblonsky with a blush.
 
He blushed at the mention of Bolgarinov, because he had that morning been to see the Jew and the visit had left an unpleasant impression on his mind.
 
Oblonsky was firmly convinced that the business he wished to serve was new, alive, and honest; but that morning when Bolgarinov, with obvious intention, made him wait two hours in his waiting-room with other petitioners, he had suddenly felt uncomfortable.
 
Whether it was that he, Prince Oblonsky, a descendant of Rurik, was waiting two hours in a Jew’s waiting-room, or that, for the first time in his life, he was departing from the example set by his ancestors of serving the State only and was entering on a new field, at any rate he felt uncomfortable. During those two hours in Bolgarinov’s waiting-room he had walked about boldly, smoothing his whiskers, entering into conversation with other applicants, inventing a joke to tell, of how he had waited at the Jew’s, carefully concealing his feelings from others and even from himself.
 
But all the time he felt uncomfortable and vexed without knowing why. Was it that nothing would come of his pun: ‘I had business with a Jew, but could not get at him even to say ajew (adieu),’ or was it something else? And when Bolgarinov at length received him with extreme politeness, evidently triumphing in his humiliation, and very nearly refused his request, Oblonsky hastened to forget it as quickly as he could; and only now on recollecting it blushed.
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter 18
 
 
 
—>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<—
 
 
 
‘NOW there’s another matter; you know what it is . . . about Anna,’ said Oblonsky after a short pause, when he had shaken off the unpleasant recollection.
 
Directly Oblonsky mentioned Anna’s name Karenin’s face entirely changed. Instead of its former animation it expressed weariness and lifelessness.
 
‘What is it you wish of me?’ Karenin said, turning round in his chair and folding his pince-nez.
 
‘A decision, some decision, Alexis Alexandrovich! I address myself to you not as . . .’ He was going to say, ‘as an offended husband,’ but, afraid of injuring his case thereby, he changed the expression to ‘not as a statesman’ (this sounded inappropriate) ‘but simply as a man, a kind man and a Christian! You should have pity on her.’
 
‘What do you mean exactly?’ asked Karenin in a low tone.
 
‘Why, pity her! If you had seen her as I have, who have spent the whole winter with her, you would pity her. Her position is awful! Literally awful!’
 
‘It seems to me,’ returned Karenin in a more high-pitched, almost squeaky voice, ‘that Anna Arkadyevna has everything she herself desired.’
 
‘Oh, Alexis Alexandrovich! For God’s sake don’t let us have any recriminations! What is past is past! You know what she wants and is waiting for: the divorce.’
 
‘But I understood that Anna Arkadyevna declined a divorce if I insisted on keeping my son. I answered in that sense and thought the matter was closed. I consider it closed,’ shrieked Karenin.
 
‘For heaven’s sake don’t excite yourself,’ said Oblonsky, touching his brother-in-law’s knee. ‘The matter is not closed. If you will let me recapitulate, this is how matters stood: when you parted, you were great, as magnanimous as a man can possibly be; you consented to everything: her freedom and even a divorce. She appreciated that. Yes, don’t think otherwise! She really appreciated it! She appreciated it to such a degree that, at the moment, feeling herself to blame toward you, she did not consider and could not consider everything. She renounced everything. But facts and time have shown that her situation is tormenting and impossible.’
 
‘Anna Arkadyevna’s life cannot interest me,’ interposed Karenin, lifting his brows.
 
‘Allow me not to believe that,’ Oblonsky rejoined gently. ‘Her situation is tormenting to her and does not benefit anyone. “She has deserved it,” you may say. She knows that and does not ask you for anything. She says plainly that she dare not ask anything. But I, and all her relatives, who all love her, beg and implore you! Why should she be so tormented? Who gains by it?’
 
‘Excuse me! You seem to be placing me in the position of defendant,’ Karenin remonstrated.
 
‘Oh, no, no! Not at all! Understand me!’ said Oblonsky, now touching Karenin’s hand, as if he were sure that the contact would soften his brother-in-law. ‘All I say is that her position is tormenting, and could be made easier by you, without any detriment to yourself. I would arrange everything for you so that you would not be bothered. You see, you promised!’
 
‘The promise was given before, and I thought the question about my son had settled the matter. . . . Besides, I hoped that Anna Arkadyevna would have generosity enough . . .’ uttered Karenin with difficulty, his lips trembling and his face turning pale.
 
‘She leaves everything to your generosity! She asks, she pleads for one thing only: help her out of the intolerable position she is in! She no longer asks for her son . . . Alexis Alexandrovich! You are a good man. Enter for a moment into her situation. The question of a divorce is for her — in her position — one of life and death. If you had not promised before, she would have grown reconciled to her position and have gone on living in the country. But as you had promised, she wrote to you and moved to Moscow. And now in Moscow, where every time she meets anyone it is like a knife in her heart, she has been living for six months every day expecting your decision. Why, it’s like keeping a man condemned to death with the halter round his neck for months, promising him either death or a reprieve! Have pity on her, and I undertake to arrange . . . Your scruples . . .’
 
‘I am not speaking of that . . . of that . . .’ Karenin interrupted him in a disgusted tone. ‘But perhaps I promised something I had no right to promise.’
 
‘Then you refuse what you promised?’
 
‘I have never refused to do what is possible, but I want time to consider how far what was promised is possible.’
 
‘No, Alexis Alexandrovich!’ said Oblonsky, jumping to his feet. ‘I will not believe that! She is as wretched as a woman can be, and you cannot refuse such a . . .’
 
‘As far as what I promised is possible. Vous professez d’être un libre penseur [You profess to be a freethinker]; but I, as a believer, in so important a matter cannot act contrary to the Christian law.’
 
‘But in Christian communities, and in ours too as far as I know, divorce is permitted,’ said Oblonsky. ‘Divorce is also permitted by our Church. And we see . . .’
 
‘It is permitted, but not in that sense.’
 
‘Alexis Alexandrovich, I don’t recognize you!’ said Oblonsky after a pause. ‘Was it not you (and did we not appreciate it?) who forgave everything, and, moved just by Christian feeling, were ready to sacrifice everything? You yourself said: “Give your coat when they would take your cloak . . .”! And now . . .’
 
‘I beg,’ began Karenin in a shrill voice, suddenly rising to his feet, pale and with trembling jaw, ‘I beg you to stop . . . stop . . . this conversation!’
 
‘Oh, no! Well then, forgive me! forgive me if I have pained you,’ said Oblonsky with an embarrassed smile, holding out his hand. ‘I only delivered my message as an envoy.’
 
Karenin gave him his hand, reflected, and then said:
 
‘I must think it over and seek for guidance. The day after to-morrow I will give you a final answer,’ he added, after consideration.
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter 19
 
 
 
—>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<—
 
 
 
OBLONSKY was just leaving when Korney entered and announced:
 
‘Sergey Alexeyich!’
 
‘Who is Sergey Alexeyich?’ Oblonsky was about to ask, but immediately recollected.
 
‘Oh, Serezha!’ he said. ‘Sergey Alexeyich! Why, I thought it was the Director of the Department!’ and he remembered that Anna had asked him to see the boy.
 
He recalled the timid pathetic look with which Anna at parting from him had said: ‘Anyhow, you will see him. Find out everything: where he is, who is with him. And, Stiva . . . if it is possible. . . . Isn’t it possible?’ He had understood what ‘If it is possible’ meant. It meant, if it is possible to arrange the divorce so that she should have her son. . . . But now Oblonsky saw that it was useless even to think of that; he was, however, glad to see his nephew.
 
Karenin reminded his brother-in-law that they never mentioned his mother to the boy, and asked him not to say a word about her.
 
‘He was very ill after that unexpected interview with his mother,’ remarked Karenin. ‘We even feared for his life. But sensible treatment and sea-bathing in the summer have restored his health, and now, on doctor’s advice, I send him to school. The influence of his school-fellows has really had a good effect on him, and he is quite well and learns well.’
 
‘Hullo! What a fine fellow! True enough, it’s not little Serezha now, but a complete Sergey Alexeyich!’ said Oblonsky, smiling as he looked at a handsome boy in a bluejacket and long trousers who entered the room boldly and confidently. The lad looked healthy and bright. He bowed to his uncle as to a stranger, but recognizing him he blushed and turned away from him quickly as if offended and angry about something. The boy came up to his father and handed him his school report.
 
‘Well, that’s pretty good,’ said his father. ‘You may go now.’
 
‘He has grown thin and tall, and is no longer a child but a regular boy,’ said Oblonsky. ‘I like it. Do you remember me?’
 
The boy glanced swiftly at his father.
 
‘I do, mon oncle,’ he answered, looking at his uncle and then again lowering his eyes.
 
His uncle called him nearer and took his hand.
 
‘Well, how are things?’ said he, wishing to start a conversation, but not knowing what to say.
 
The boy, blushing and not answering, gently withdrew his hand from his uncle’s grasp. As soon as Oblonsky released it, after a questioning glance at his father, he hastily left the room like a bird let out of its cage.
 
A year had passed since Serezha last saw his mother. Since then he had not heard any more of her. During this year he had been sent to school, and had learned to know his schoolmates and to like them. The dreams and memories of his mother which, after their interview, had made him ill, no longer occupied him. When they rose in his memory he took pains to drive them away, considering them shameful and fit only for girls, but not for a boy and a chum. He knew that his father and mother had had a quarrel which separated them; knew that it was his fate to remain with his father, and he tried to accustom himself to that thought.
 
He felt uncomfortable at meeting his uncle, who resembled his mother, because it awakened those very memories which he considered shameful. It was the more disagreeable because from some words he had overheard while waiting outside the study door, and especially from his father’s and uncle’s faces, he guessed that they had been talking about his mother. And in order not to blame the father with whom he lived and upon whom he depended, and above all not to give way to the sensibility which he considered so degrading, Serezha tried not to look at that uncle, who had come to upset his peace of mind, and not to think of what was called to mind by the sight of him.
 
But when Oblonsky, who had come out after him, saw him on the stairs, and called him and asked how he spent his time between lessons at school, Serezha, in his father’s absence, got into conversation with him.
 
‘We play at railways now,’ he said, answering the question. ‘You see, it’s this way: two sit down on a form; they are passengers. One stands on the same form. The others all harness themselves to it — they may do it with their hands or their belts — and then off they go through all the rooms. The doors are opened beforehand. . . . It’s not easy to be the guard!’
 
‘That’s the one who stands up?’ asked Oblonsky with a smile.
 
‘Yes. It needs courage and quickness, especially if they stop suddenly, or if somebody falls down.’
 
‘Yes, that’s no joke,’ said Oblonsky, looking sadly into those animated eyes so like the mother’s — an infant’s eyes no longer, and no longer altogether innocent. And, in spite of his promise to Karenin, he could not refrain from speaking of Anna.
 
‘Do you remember your mother?’ he suddenly asked.
 
‘No, I don’t!’ hurriedly replied Serezha, and blushing scarlet he hung down his head. His uncle could get nothing more out of him.
 
Half an hour later the Slav tutor found his pupil on the stairs, and for a long while could not make out whether he was in a temper or was simply crying.
 
‘I expect you hurt yourself when you fell down?’ said the tutor. ‘I told you it was a dangerous game. I shall have to tell your head master about it.’
 
‘If I had hurt myself no one would have known it, that is quite certain!’
 
‘Well then, what is it?’
 
‘Leave me alone! If I do remember, or if I don’t . . . what business is it of his? Why should I remember? Leave me alone!’ he said, now addressing not his tutor but the world in general.