The rain did not last long, and by the time Vronsky arrived, his shaft-horse trotting1 at full speed and dragging the trace-horses galloping2 through the mud, with their reins3 hanging loose, the sun had peeped out again, the roofs of the summer villas4 and the old limetrees in the gardens on both sides of the principal streets sparkled with wet brilliance5, and from the twigs6 came a pleasant drip and from the roofs rushing streams of water. He thought no more of the shower spoiling the race course, but was rejoicing now that--thanks to the rain--he would be sure to find her at home and alone, as he knew that Alexey Alexandrovitch, who had lately returned from a foreign watering place, had not moved from Petersburg.
Hoping to find her alone, Vronsky alighted, as he always did, to avoid attracting attention, before crossing the bridge, and walked to the house. He did not go up the steps to the street door, but went into the court.
"Has your master come?" he asked a gardener.
"No, sir. The mistress is at home. But will you please go to the frond7 door; there are servants there," the gardener answered. "They'll open the door."
"No, I'll go in from the garden."
And feeling satisfied that she was alone, and wanting to take her by surprise, since he had not promised to be there today, and she would certainly not expect him to come before the races, he walked, holding his sword and stepping cautiously over the sandy path, bordered with flowers, to the terrace that looked out upon the garden. Vronsky forgot now all that he had thought on the way of the hardships and difficulties of their position. He thought of nothing but that he would see her directly, not in imagination, but living, all of her, as she was in reality. He was just going in, stepping on his whole foot so as not to creak, up the worn steps of the terrace, when he suddenly remembered what he always forgot, and what caused the most torturing side of his relations with her, her son with his questioning--hostile, as he fancied--eyes.
This boy was more often than anyone else a check upon their freedom. When he was present, both Vronsky and Anna did not merely avoid speaking of anything that they could not have repeated before everyone; they did not even allow themselves to refer by hints to anything the boy did not understand. They had made no agreement about this, it had settled itself. They would have felt it wounding themselves to deceive the child. In his presence they talked like acquaintances. But in spite of this caution, Vronsky often saw the child's intent, bewildered glance fixed9 upon him, and a strange shyness, uncertainty10, at one time friendliness11, at another, coldness and reserve, in the boy's manner to him; as though the child felt that between this man and his mother there existed some important bond, the significance of which he could not understand.
As a fact, the boy did feel that he could not understand this relation, and he tried painfully, and was not able to make clear to himself what feeling he ought to have for this man. With a child's keen instinct for every manifestation12 of feeling, he saw distinctly that his father, his governess, his nurse,--all did not merely dislike Vronsky, but looked on him with horror and aversion, though they never said anything about him, while his mother looked on him as her greatest friend.
"What does it mean? Who is he? How ought I to love him? If I don't know, it's my fault; either I'm stupid or a naughty boy," thought the child. And this was what caused his dubious13, inquiring, sometimes hostile, expression, and the shyness and uncertainty which Vronsky found so irksome. This child's presence always and infallibly called up in Vronsky that strange feeling of inexplicable14 loathing15 which he had experienced of late. This child's presence called up both in Vronsky and in Anna a feeling akin8 to the feeling of a sailor who sees by the compass that the direction in which he is swiftly moving is far from the right one, but that to arrest his motion is not in his power, that every instant is carrying him further and further away, and that to admit to himself his deviation16 from the right direction is the same as admitting his certain ruin.
This child, with his innocent outlook upon life, was the compass that showed them the point to which they had departed from what they knew, but did not want to know.
This time Seryozha was not at home, and she was completely alone. She was sitting on the terrace waiting for the return of her son, who had gone out for his walk and been caught in the rain. She had sent a manservant and a maid out to look for him. Dressed in a white gown, deeply embroidered17, she was sitting in a corner of the terrace behind some flowers, and did not hear him. Bending her curly black head, she pressed her forehead against a cool watering pot that stood on the parapet, and both her lovely hands, with the rings he knew so well, clasped the pot. The beauty of her whole figure, her head, her neck, her hands, struck Vronsky every time as something new and unexpected. He stood still, gazing at her in ecstasy18. But, directly he would have made a step to come nearer to her, she was aware of his presence, pushed away the watering pot, and turned her flushed face towards him.
"What's the matter? You are ill?" he said to her in French, going up to her. He would have run to her, but remembering that there might be spectators, he looked round towards the balcony door, and reddened a little, as he always reddened, feeling that he had to be afraid and be on his guard.
"No, I'm quite well," she said, getting up and pressing his outstretched hand tightly. "I did not expect...thee."
"Mercy! what cold hands!" he said.
"You startled me," she said. "I'm alone, and expecting Seryozha; he's out for a walk; they'll come in from this side."
But, in spite of her efforts to be calm, her lips were quivering.
"Forgive me for coming, but I couldn't pass the day without seeing you," he went on, speaking French, as he always did to avoid using the stiff Russian plural19 form, so impossibly frigid20 between them, and the dangerously intimate singular.
"Forgive you? I'm so glad!"
"But you're ill or worried," he went on, not letting go her hands and bending over her. "What were you thinking of?"
"Always the same thing," she said, with a smile.
She spoke21 the truth. If ever at any moment she had been asked what she was thinking of, she could have answered truly: of the same thing, of her happiness and her unhappiness. She was thinking, just when he came upon her of this: why was it, she wondered, that to others, to Betsy (she knew of her secret connection with Tushkevitch) it was all easy, while to her it was such torture? Today this thought gained special poignancy22 from certain other considerations. She asked him about the races. He answered her questions, and, seeing that she was agitated23, trying to calm her, he began telling her in the simplest tone the details of his preparations for the races.
"Tell him or not tell him?" she thought, looking into his quiet, affectionate eyes. "He is so happy, so absorbed in his races that he won't understand as he ought, he won't understand all the gravity of this fact to us."
"But you haven't told me what you were thinking of when I came in," he said, interrupting his narrative24; "please tell me!"
She did not answer, and, bending her head a little, she looked inquiringly at him from under her brows, her eyes shining under their long lashes25. Her hand shook as it played with a leaf she had picked. He saw it, and his face expressed that utter subjection, that slavish devotion, which had done so much to win her.
"I see something has happened. Do you suppose I can be at peace, knowing you have a trouble I am not sharing? Tell me, for God's sake," he repeated imploringly26.
"Yes, I shan't be able to forgive him if he does not realize all the gravity of it. Better not tell; why put him to the proof?" she thought, still staring at him in the same way, and feeling the hand that held the leaf was trembling more and more.
"For God's sake!" he repeated, taking her hand.
"Shall I tell you?"
"Yes, yes, yes . . ."
"I'm with child," she said, softly and deliberately27. The leaf in her hand shook more violently, but she did not take her eyes off him, watching how he would take it. He turned white, would have said something, but stopped; he dropped her hand, and his head sank on his breast. "Yes, he realizes all the gravity of it," she thought, and gratefully she pressed his hand.
But she was mistaken in thinking he realized the gravity of the fact as she, a woman, realized it. On hearing it, he felt come upon him with tenfold intensity28 that strange feeling of loathing of someone. But at the same time, he felt that the turning-point he had been longing29 for had come now; that it was impossible to go on concealing30 things from her husband, and it was inevitable31 in one way or another that they should soon put an end to their unnatural32 position. But, besides that, her emotion physically33 affected34 him in the same way. He looked at her with a look of submissive tenderness, kissed her hand, got up, and, in silence, paced up and down the terrace.
"Yes," he said, going up to her resolutely35. "Neither you nor I have looked on our relations as a passing amusement, and now our fate is sealed. It is absolutely necessary to put an end"--he looked round as he spoke--"to the deception36 in which we are living."
"Put an end? How put an end, Alexey?" she said softly.
She was calmer now, and her face lighted up with a tender smile.
"Leave your husband and make our life one."
"It is one as it is," she answered, scarcely audibly.
"Yes, but altogether; altogether."
"But how, Alexey, tell me how?" she said in melancholy37 mockery at the hopelessness of her own position. "Is there any way out of such a position? Am I not the wife of my husband?"
"There is a way out of every position. We must take our line," he said. "Anything's better than the position in which you're living. Of course, I see how you torture yourself over everything--the world and your son and your husband."
"Oh, not over my husband," she said, with a quiet smile. "I don't know him, I don't think of him. He doesn't exist."
"You're not speaking sincerely. I know you. You worry about him too."
"Oh, he doesn't even know," she said, and suddenly a hot flush came over her face; her cheeks, her brow, her neck crimsoned38, and tears of shame came into her eyes. "But we won't talk of him."
收听单词发音 |
1
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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frond
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| n.棕榈类植物的叶子 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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36
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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38
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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