第一百四十九章 第二十五章
第二十五章
阿列克谢·亚历山德罗维奇走进莉季娅·伊万诺夫娜伯爵夫人那间雅致的小客厅——室内陈设着古瓷，墙上挂着画像——时，女主人本人尚未露面。
她正在更衣。
圆桌上铺着台布，放着一套瓷茶具和银质的酒精灯与茶壶。阿列克谢·亚历山德罗维奇漫不经心地环顾四周那些熟悉的、挂满房间的肖像，随后在桌旁坐下，打开了桌上的一本《新约》。伯爵夫人丝绸裙裾的窸窣声引开了他的注意。
“好了，现在我们可以安安静静地坐下了，”莉季娅·伊万诺夫娜伯爵夫人说着，面带激动的微笑，匆匆侧身挤过桌子和沙发之间，“一边喝茶，一边谈谈。”
几句开场白之后，莉季娅·伊万诺夫娜伯爵夫人呼吸急促，满面绯红，将收到的那封信递到了阿列克谢·亚历山德罗维奇手中。
读完信后，他久久地默然坐着。
“我想我没有权利拒绝她，”他怯生生地抬起眼睛说。
“亲爱的朋友，你总看不到别人身上的恶！”
“恰恰相反，我看到一切都是恶。但这是否公正……”
他脸上显出犹豫不决，以及在他不理解的事情上寻求劝告、支持和指导的神情。
“不，”莉季娅·伊万诺夫娜伯爵夫人打断了他，“凡事都有个限度。我能理解不道德，”她说，这话并不完全真实，因为她从来无法理解导致女人不道德的那种东西，“但我不理解残忍：对谁残忍？对你！她怎么能待在你所在的城市？不，人活得越久，懂得越多。而我现在正学着理解你的高尚和她的卑下。”
“谁有资格扔石头呢？”阿列克谢·亚历山德罗维奇说，显然对自己扮演的角色颇为满意。“我已宽恕了一切，所以我不能剥夺她心中那爱的要求——她对儿子的爱……”
“但那算是爱吗，我的朋友？那是真诚的吗？就算你已经宽恕——你宽恕了——我们有权去影响那个天使的感情吗？他现在视她如已故之人。他为她祈祷，恳求上帝怜悯她的罪孽。这样反而更好。可现在他会怎么想？”
“我没想到这一点，”阿列克谢·亚历山德罗维奇表示同意。
莉季娅·伊万诺夫娜伯爵夫人双手掩面，沉默不语。她是在祈祷。
“如果你问我意见，”她做完祈祷，放下双手说，“我劝你不要这么做。你以为我看不出你在受多大的苦，这封信又怎样撕开了你的旧伤口吗？但是，假定你像往常一样，完全不考虑自己，这会导致什么结果呢？——只会给你带来新的痛苦，给孩子带来折磨。如果她心中还剩一丝人性，她自己就不该希望这样。不，我毫不犹豫地说，我劝你不要答应。如果你愿意把这件事托付给我，我来给她写信。”
于是阿列克谢·亚历山德罗维奇同意了，莉季娅·伊万诺夫娜伯爵夫人用法文发出了下面这封信：
“亲爱的夫人：
“提起您可能会对您的儿子产生某种后果，使他提出一些问题，而这些问题若不给孩子的心灵灌输一种责备意识——责备那本应在他心中视为神圣的事物——就无法回答。因此，我恳请您将您丈夫的拒绝理解为出于基督徒的爱心。我祈求全能的上帝怜悯您。
“莉季娅伯爵夫人”
这封信达到了莉季娅·伊万诺夫娜伯爵夫人对自己也隐藏着的隐秘目的。它深深地刺伤了安娜的心。
至于阿列克谢·亚历山德罗维奇，从莉季娅·伊万诺夫娜那里回家后，整天都无法像平常那样专心于日常事务，也找不到他近来所感受到的那种得救而信仰者所拥有的心灵安宁。
关于他那大大地亏负了他的妻子，而他对她却如莉季娅·伊万诺夫娜伯爵夫人公正地指出的那样圣洁的想法，本不该使他烦恼；但他却感到不安；他无法理解正在读的书；他无法驱散那些令人痛苦的回忆——关于他与她的关系，以及现在看来，他在对待她的事情上所犯的错误。回想起在从赛马场回家的路上他是如何接受她的不贞忏悔的（尤其是他仅仅坚持要求她维持表面的体面，而没有提出决斗），这像悔恨一样折磨着他。想起他写给她的那封信，也令他痛苦；而最让他心如火焚、充满羞耻和悔恨的是，他的宽恕——那没人需要的宽恕，以及他对别人孩子的关心。
如今，当他回顾与她共度的全部往事，回想起他经过长久犹豫之后向她求婚时所说的那些笨拙的话语，他也感到同样的羞耻和悔恨。
“可是我有什么错呢？”他自问。这个问题总在他心里引出另一个问题——那些弗龙斯基们和奥布隆斯基们……这些侍从武官们，这些细腿先生们，他们是不是感觉不同，恋爱和结婚的方式也不同？他眼前浮现出一连串那些胆大、强壮、自信的人，他们总是，无论何时何地，不由自主地吸引着他那好奇的目光。他试图驱散这些思绪，他试图说服自己，他不是为这转瞬即逝的人生而活，而是为永恒的生命而活，他心里自有平安和爱。
然而，他在这个转瞬即逝、微不足道的人生中犯下的那些在他看来微不足道的错误，却像他所信仰的永恒救赎根本不存在似地折磨着他。但这种诱惑没有持续多久，阿列克谢·亚历山德罗维奇心中很快又重新确立了那种安宁和崇高，凭借这种安宁和崇高，他可以忘记他不想记住的事。
When Alexey Alexandrovitch came into the Countess Lidia Ivanovna’s snug
little boudoir, decorated with old china and hung with portraits, the
lady herself had not yet made her appearance.
She was changing her dress.
A cloth was laid on a round table, and on it stood a china tea service
and a silver spirit-lamp and tea kettle. Alexey Alexandrovitch looked
idly about at the endless familiar portraits which adorned the room,
and sitting down to the table, he opened a New Testament lying upon it.
The rustle of the countess’s silk skirt drew his attention off.
“Well now, we can sit quietly,” said Countess Lidia Ivanovna, slipping
hurriedly with an agitated smile between the table and the sofa, “and
talk over our tea.”
After some words of preparation, Countess Lidia Ivanovna, breathing
hard and flushing crimson, gave into Alexey Alexandrovitch’s hands the
letter she had received.
After reading the letter, he sat a long while in silence.
“I don’t think I have the right to refuse her,” he said, timidly
lifting his eyes.
“Dear friend, you never see evil in anyone!”
“On the contrary, I see that all is evil. But whether it is just....”
His face showed irresolution, and a seeking for counsel, support, and
guidance in a matter he did not understand.
“No,” Countess Lidia Ivanovna interrupted him; “there are limits to
everything. I can understand immorality,” she said, not quite
truthfully, since she never could understand that which leads women to
immorality; “but I don’t understand cruelty: to whom? to you! How can
she stay in the town where you are? No, the longer one lives the more
one learns. And I’m learning to understand your loftiness and her
baseness.”
“Who is to throw a stone?” said Alexey Alexandrovitch, unmistakably
pleased with the part he had to play. “I have forgiven all, and so I
cannot deprive her of what is exacted by love in her—by her love for
her son....”
“But is that love, my friend? Is it sincere? Admitting that you have
forgiven—that you forgive—have we the right to work on the feelings of
that angel? He looks on her as dead. He prays for her, and beseeches
God to have mercy on her sins. And it is better so. But now what will
he think?”
“I had not thought of that,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch, evidently
agreeing.
Countess Lidia Ivanovna hid her face in her hands and was silent. She
was praying.
“If you ask my advice,” she said, having finished her prayer and
uncovered her face, “I do not advise you to do this. Do you suppose I
don’t see how you are suffering, how this has torn open your wounds?
But supposing that, as always, you don’t think of yourself, what can it
lead to?—to fresh suffering for you, to torture for the child. If there
were a trace of humanity left in her, she ought not to wish for it
herself. No, I have no hesitation in saying I advise not, and if you
will intrust it to me, I will write to her.”
And Alexey Alexandrovitch consented, and Countess Lidia Ivanovna sent
the following letter in French:
“Dear Madame,
“To be reminded of you might have results for your son in leading to
questions on his part which could not be answered without implanting in
the child’s soul a spirit of censure towards what should be for him
sacred, and therefore I beg you to interpret your husband’s refusal in
the spirit of Christian love. I pray to Almighty God to have mercy on
you.
“Countess Lidia.”
This letter attained the secret object which Countess Lidia Ivanovna
had concealed from herself. It wounded Anna to the quick.
For his part, Alexey Alexandrovitch, on returning home from Lidia
Ivanovna’s, could not all that day concentrate himself on his usual
pursuits, and find that spiritual peace of one saved and believing
which he had felt of late.
The thought of his wife, who had so greatly sinned against him, and
towards whom he had been so saintly, as Countess Lidia Ivanovna had so
justly told him, ought not to have troubled him; but he was not easy;
he could not understand the book he was reading; he could not drive
away harassing recollections of his relations with her, of the mistake
which, as it now seemed, he had made in regard to her. The memory of
how he had received her confession of infidelity on their way home from
the races (especially that he had insisted only on the observance of
external decorum, and had not sent a challenge) tortured him like a
remorse. He was tortured too by the thought of the letter he had
written her; and most of all, his forgiveness, which nobody wanted, and
his care of the other man’s child made his heart burn with shame and
remorse.
And just the same feeling of shame and regret he felt now, as he
reviewed all his past with her, recalling the awkward words in which,
after long wavering, he had made her an offer.
“But how have I been to blame?” he said to himself. And this question
always excited another question in him—whether they felt differently,
did their loving and marrying differently, these Vronskys and Oblonskys
... these gentlemen of the bedchamber, with their fine calves. And
there passed before his mind a whole series of these mettlesome,
vigorous, self-confident men, who always and everywhere drew his
inquisitive attention in spite of himself. He tried to dispel these
thoughts, he tried to persuade himself that he was not living for this
transient life, but for the life of eternity, and that there was peace
and love in his heart.
But the fact that he had in this transient, trivial life made, as it
seemed to him, a few trivial mistakes tortured him as though the
eternal salvation in which he believed had no existence. But this
temptation did not last long, and soon there was reestablished once
more in Alexey Alexandrovitch’s soul the peace and the elevation by
virtue of which he could forget what he did not want to remember.
