Anna Karennina

by Leo Tolstoy

PART FOUR

Chapter I.
The Karenins, husband and wife, continued living in the same house, met every day, but were complete strangers to one another. Alexei Alexandrovich made it a rule to see his wife every day, so that the servants might have no grounds for suppositions, but avoided dining at home. Vronsky was never at Alexei Alexandrovich's house, but Anna saw him away from home, and her husband was aware of it.
The position was one of torture for all three; and not one of them would have been equal to enduring this position for a single day, had it not been for the expectation that it would change, that it was merely a temporary painful difficulty which would pass over. Alexei Alexandrovich hoped that this passion would pass, as everything does pass, that everyone would forget about it, and his name would remain unsullied. Anna, on whom the position depended, and for whom it was more poignant than for any other, endured it because she not merely hoped, but firmly believed, that it would all very soon be settled and come right. She had not the least idea what would settle the situation, but she firmly believed that something would now very soon turn up. Vronsky unaccountably followed her lead, hoping too that something, independent of him, would be sure to clear up all difficulties.
In the middle of the winter Vronsky spent a very tiresome week. A foreign Prince, who had come on a visit to Peterburg, was put under his charge, and he had to show him the sights worth seeing. Vronsky was of distinguished appearance; he possessed, moreover, the art of behaving with respectful dignity, and was used to having to do with such grand personages- that was how he came to be put in charge of the Prince. But he felt his duties to be very irksome. The Prince was anxious to miss nothing about which he would be asked at home: Had he seen this and that in Russia? And on his own account he was anxious to enjoy to the utmost all Russian forms of amusement. Vronsky was obliged to be his guide in satisfying both these inclinations. The mornings they spent driving to look at places of interest: the evenings they passed enjoying the national amusements. The prince enjoyed a health exceptional even among Princes. By gymnastics and careful attention to his person he had brought himself to such a point that in spite of his excesses in pleasure he looked as fresh as a big, glossy, green Dutch cucumber. The Prince had traveled a great deal, and considered one of the chief advantages of modern facilities of communication the accessibility of the pleasures of all nations. He had been in Spain, and there had indulged in serenades, and had made friends with a Spanish girl who played the mandolin. In Switzerland he had killed chamois. In England he had galloped in a red coat over hedges and killed two hundred pheasants on a bet. In Turkey he had got into a harem; in India he had traveled on an elephant; and now, in Russia, he wished to taste all the peculiarly Russian forms of pleasure.
Vronsky, who was, as it were, chief master of the ceremonies to him, was at great pains to distribute all the Russian amusements suggested by various persons to the Prince. They had race horses, and Russian pancakes and bear hunts, and troikas, and gypsy choruses, and drinking orgies, with the Russian accompaniment of broken crockery. And the Prince, with surprising ease, fell in with the Russian spirit; he smashed trays full of crockery, sat with a gypsy girl on his knee, and seemed to be asking: What more? Or does the whole Russian spirit consist in just this?
In reality, of all the Russian entertainments the Prince liked best French actresses, a ballet dancer, and white-seal champagne. Vronsky was used to Princes, but, either because he had himself changed of late, or that he was in too close proximity to the Prince, that week seemed fearfully wearisome to him. The whole of that week he experienced unceasingly a sensation such as a man might have who has been put in charge of a dangerous madman, who is afraid of the madman, and, at the same time, from being with him, fears for his own reason. Vronsky was continually conscious of the necessity of never for a second relaxing the tone of stern official respectfulness, so that he might not himself be insulted. The Prince's manner of treating the very people who, to Vronsky's surprise, were ready to descend to any depths to provide him with Russian amusements, was contemptuous. His criticisms of Russian women, whom he wished to study, more than once made Vronsky crimson with indignation. The chief reason why the Prince was so particularly disagreeable to Vronsky was that he could not help seeing himself in him. And what he saw in this mirror did not gratify his self-esteem. He was a very stupid and a very self-satisfied and a very healthy and a very well-washed man, and nothing else. He was a gentleman, it was true, and Vronsky could not deny it. He was equable and not cringing with his superiors, was free and ingratiating in his behavior with his equals, and was contemptuously indulgent with his inferiors. Vronsky was himself the same, and regarded it as a great merit to be so. But to this Prince he was an inferior, and his contemptuous and indulgent attitude to him revolted him.
"Brainless beef! Can I be like that?" he reflected.
Be that as it might, when, on the seventh day, he parted from the Prince, who was starting for Moscow, and received his thanks, he was happy to be rid of his uncomfortable position and the unpleasant reflection of himself. He said good-by to him at the station, on their return from a bear hunt, at which they had had a display of Russian derring-do kept up all night.
Chapter II.
When he got home, Vronsky found there a note from Anna. She wrote: "I am ill and unhappy. I cannot come out, yet cannot go on longer without seeing you. Come in this evening. Alexei Alexandrovich goes to the Council at seven and will be there till ten." After a minute's reflection on the strangeness of her bidding him come straight to her, in spite of her husband's insisting on her not receiving him, he decided to go.
Vronsky had that winter got his promotion, was now a colonel, had left the regiment, and was living alone. After having some lunch, he lay down on the sofa immediately, and in five minutes memories of the hideous scenes he had witnessed during the last few days were jumbled and joined to a mental image of Anna and of the peasant, one of the encompassing people, who had played an important part in the bear hunt, and Vronsky fell asleep. He waked up in the dark, trembling with horror, and made haste to light a candle. "What was it? What? What was the dreadful thing I dreamed? Yes, yes; the peasant bear hunter, I think; a little dirty man with a disheveled beard was stooping down doing something, and all of a sudden he began saying some strange words in French. Yes, there was nothing else in the dream," he said to himself. "But why was it so awful?" He vividly recalled the peasant again and those incomprehensible French words the peasant had uttered, and a chill of horror ran down his spine.
"What nonsense!" thought Vronsky, and glanced at his watch.
It was half-past eight already. He rang up his servant, dressed in haste, and went out on the steps, completely forgetting the dream and only worried at being late. As he drove up to the Karenins' entrance he looked at his watch and saw it was ten minutes to nine. A high, narrow carriage with a pair of grays was standing at the entrance. He recognized Anna's carriage. "She is coming to me," thought Vronsky, "and better she should. I don't like going into that house. But no matter; I can't hide myself," he thought, and with that manner peculiar to him from childhood, as of a man who has nothing to be ashamed of, Vronsky got out of his sleigh and went to the door. The door opened, and the hall porter with a rug on his arm called the carriage. Vronsky, though he did not usually notice details, noticed at this moment the amazed expression with which the porter glanced at him. In the very doorway Vronsky almost ran up against Alexei Alexandrovich. The gas jet threw its full light on the bloodless, sunken face under the black hat, and on the white cravat, brilliant against the beaver of the coat. Karenin's fixed, dull eyes were fastened upon Vronsky's face. Vronsky bowed, and Alexei Alexandrovich, chewing his lips, lifted his hand to his hat and went on. Vronsky saw him get into the carriage without looking back, receive the rug and the opera glasses through the window, and disappear. Vronsky went into the hall. His brows were scowling, and his eyes gleamed with a proud and angry light in them.
"What a situation!" he thought. "If he would fight, would stand up for his honor, I could act, could express my feelings; but this weakness or baseness... He puts me in the position of playing false, which I never meant and never mean to do."
Vronsky's ideas had changed since the day of his conversation with Anna in the Vrede garden. Unconsciously yielding to the weakness of Anna- who had surrendered herself up to him utterly, and simply looked to him to decide her fate, ready to submit to anything- he had long ceased to think that their liaison might end as he had thought then. His ambitious plans had retreated into the background again, and feeling that he had got out of that circle of activity in which everything was definite, he had given himself up entirely to his passion, and that passion was binding him more and more closely to her.
He was still in the hall when he caught the sound of her retreating footsteps. He realized she had been expecting him, had listened for him, and was now going back to the drawing room.
"No," she cried, on seeing him, and at the first sound of her voice the tears came into her eyes. "No; if things are to go on like this, the end will come much, much too soon."
"What is it, dear one?"
"What? I've been waiting in agony for an hour, two hours... No, I won't... I can't quarrel with you. Of course you couldn't come. No, I won't."
She laid her two hands on his shoulders, and looked a long while at him with a profound, passionate, and, at the same time, searching look. She was studying his face to make up for the time she had not seen him. She was, every time she saw him, making the picture of him in her imagination (incomparably superior, impossible in reality) fit with him as he really was.
Chapter III.
"You met him?" she asked, when they had sat down at the table in the lamplight. "You're punished, you see, for being late."
"Yes; but how was it? Wasn't he to be at the Council?"
"He had been and come back, and was going out somewhere again. But that doesn't matter. Don't talk about it. Where have you been? With the Prince still?"
She knew every detail of his existence. He was going to say that he had been up all night and had dropped asleep, but looking at her thrilled and rapturous face, he was ashamed. And he said he had had to report on the Prince's departure.
"But it's over now? He is gone?"
"Thank God it's over! You wouldn't believe how insufferable it's been for me."
"Why so? Isn't it the life all of you- all young men- always lead?" she said, knitting her brows; and, taking up the crochet work that was lying on the table, she began drawing the hook out of it, without looking at Vronsky.
"I gave that life up long ago," said he, wondering at the change in her face, and trying to divine its meaning. "And I confess," he said, with a smile, showing his thick, white teeth, "this week I've been, as it were, looking at myself in a glass, seeing that life, and I didn't like it."
She held the work in her hands, but did not crochet, and looked at him with strange, shining, and hostile eyes.
"This morning Liza came to see me- they're not afraid to call on me, in spite of the Countess Lidia Ivanovna," she put in- "and she told me about your Athenian evening. How loathsome!"
"I was just going to say..."
She interrupted him.
"It was that Therese you used to know?"
"I was just saying..."
"How disgusting you are, you men! How is it you can't understand that a woman can never forget that," she said, getting more and more angry, and so letting him see the cause of her irritation, "especially a woman who cannot know your life? What do I know? What have I ever known?" she said. "Only what you tell me. And how do I know whether you tell me the truth?..."
"Anna, you hurt me. Don't you trust me? Haven't I told you that I haven't a thought I wouldn't lay bare to you?"
"Yes, yes," she said, evidently trying to suppress her jealous thoughts. "But if only you knew how wretched I am! I believe you, I believe you.... What were you saying?"
But he could not at once recall what he had been going to say. These fits of jealousy, which of late had been more and more frequent with her, horrified him, and however much he tried to disguise the fact, made him feel cold to her, although he knew the cause of her jealousy was her love for him. How often he had told himself that her love was happiness; and now she loved him as a woman can love when love has outweighed for her all the good things of life- and he was much further from happiness than when he had followed her from Moscow. Then he had thought himself unhappy, but happiness was before him; now he felt that the best happiness was already left behind. She was utterly unlike what she had been when he first saw her. Both morally and physically she had changed for the worse. She had broadened out all over, and in her face at the time when she was speaking of the actress there was an evil expression of hatred that distorted it. He looked at her as a man looks at a faded flower he has gathered, with difficulty recognizing in it the beauty for which he picked and ruined it. And in spite of this he felt that then, when his love was stronger, he could, if he had greatly wished it, have torn that love out of his heart; but now when, as at this moment it seemed to him he felt no love for her, he knew that his bond with her could not be broken.
"Well, well, what was it you were going to say about the Prince? I have driven away the fiend, I have," she added. The fiend was the name they had given her jealousy. "What did you begin to tell me about the Prince? Why did you find it so tiresome?"
"Oh, it was intolerable!" he said, trying to pick up the thread of his interrupted thought. "He does not improve on closer acquaintance. If you want him defined, here he is: a prime, well-fed animal, such as takes medals at the cattle shows, and nothing more," he said, with a tone of vexation that interested her.
"No; how so?" she replied. "He's seen a great deal, anyway; he's cultured?"
"It's an utterly different culture- their culture. He's cultivated, one sees, simply to be able to despise culture, as they despise everything but animal pleasures."
"But don't you all care for these animal pleasures?" she said, and again he noticed a dark look in her eyes that avoided him.
"How is it you're defending him?" he said, smiling.
"I'm not defending him, it's nothing to me; but I imagine, if you had not cared for those pleasures yourself, you might have got out of them. But it affords you satisfaction to gaze at Therese in the attire of Eve..."
"Again- again the devil," Vronsky said, taking the hand she had laid on the table and kissing it.
"Yes; but I can't help it. You don't know what I have suffered waiting for you. I believe I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous: I believe you when you're here, near me; but when you're away somewhere leading your life alone, so incomprehensible to me..."
She turned away from him, pulled the hook at last out of the crochet work, and rapidly with the help of her forefinger, began working loop after loop of the wool that was dazzlingly white in the lamplight, while the slender wrist moved swiftly, nervously in its embroidered cuff.
"How was it, then? Where did you meet Alexei Alexandrovich?" Her voice sounded in an unnatural and jarring tone.
"We ran against each other in the doorway."
"And he bowed to you like this?"
She drew a long face, and half-closing her eyes, quickly transformed her expression, folded her hands, and Vronsky suddenly saw in her beautiful face the very expression with which Alexei Alexandrovich had bowed to him. He smiled, while she laughed gaily, with that sweet, deep laugh, which was one of her greatest charms.
"I don't understand him in the least," said Vronsky. "If after your avowal to him at your summer villa he had broken with you, if he had challenged me... But this I can't understand. How can he put up with such a position? He feels it, that's evident."
"He?" she said sneeringly. "He's perfectly satisfied."
"What are we all miserable for, when everything might be so well?"
"Except for him. Don't I know him- the falsity in which he's utterly steeped?... Could one, with any feeling, live as he is living with me? He understands nothing, and feels nothing. Could a man of any feeling live in the same house with his unfaithful wife? Could he talk to her, call her 'my dear'?"
And again she could not help mimicking him: "Anna, ma chere; Anna, dear!"
"He's not a man, not a human being- he's a mannikin! No one knows him; but I know him. Oh, if I'd been in his place, I'd long ago have killed, have torn to pieces a wife like me. I wouldn't have said, 'Anna, ma chere'! He's not a man, he's a ministerial machine. He doesn't understand that I'm your wife, that he's outside, that he's superfluous.... Don't let's talk of him!..."
"You're unfair, very unfair, dearest," said Vronsky, trying to soothe her. "But never mind, don't let's talk of him. Tell me what you've been doing. What is the matter? Why are you unwell, and what did the doctor say?"
She looked at him with mocking amusement. Evidently she had hit on other absurd and grotesque aspects in her husband and was awaiting the moment to give expression to them.
But he went on:
"I imagine that it's not illness, but your condition. When will it be?"
The ironical light died away in her eyes, but a different smile, a consciousness of something, he did not know what, and of quiet melancholy, came over her face.
"Soon, soon. You say that our position is miserable, that we must put an end to it. If you knew how terrible it is to me- what I would give to be able to love you freely and unafraid! I should not torture myself and torture you with my jealousy.... And it will come soon, but not as we expect."
And at the thought of how it would come, she seemed so pitiable to herself that tears came into her eyes, and she could not go on. She laid on his sleeve her hand, shining with its whiteness and its rings in the lamplight.
"It won't come as we suppose. I didn't mean to say this to you, but you've made me. Soon, soon, all will be over, and we shall all, all be at peace, and suffer no more."
"I don't understand," he said, understanding her.
"You asked when? Soon. And I shan't live through it. Don't interrupt me!" and she made haste to speak. "I know it; I know for certain. I shall die; and I'm very glad I shall die, and release myself and you."
Tears dropped from her eyes; he bent down over her hand and began kissing it, trying to hide his emotion, which, he knew, had no sort of grounds, though he could not control it.
"Yes, it's better so," she said, tightly gripping his hand. "That's the only way- the only way left us."
He had recovered himself, and lifted his head.
"How absurd! What absurd nonsense you are talking!"
"No, it's the truth."
"What- what's the truth?"
"That I shall die. I have had a dream."
"A dream?" repeated Vronsky, and instantly he recalled the peasant of his dream.
"Yes, a dream," she said. "It's a long while since I dreamed it. I dreamed that I ran into my bedroom, that I had to get something there, to find out something; you know how it is in dreams," she said, her eyes wide with horror; "and in the bedroom, in the corner, stood something."
"Oh, what nonsense! How can you believe..."
But she would not let him interrupt her. What she was saying was too important to her.
"And the something turned round, and I saw it was a peasant with a disheveled beard- a little man, and dreadful. I wanted to run away, but he bent down over a sack, and was fumbling there with his hands..."
She showed how he had moved his hands. There was terror in her face. And Vronsky, remembering his dream, felt the same terror filling his soul.
"He was fumbling and kept talking quickly, quickly in French, and, you know, he burred: Il faut le battre, le fer, le broyer, le petrir.... And in my horror I tried to wake up, and woke up... but woke up in the dream. And I began asking myself what it meant. And Kornei said to me: 'In childbirth you'll die, ma'am, you'll die....' And I woke up."
"What nonsense, what nonsense!" said Vronsky; but he felt himself that there was no conviction in his voice.
"But don't let's talk of it. Ring the bell, I'll have tea. And stay a little, now; it's not long I shall..."
But all at once she stopped. The expression of her face instantaneously changed. Horror and excitement were suddenly replaced by a look of soft, solemn, blissful attention. He could not comprehend the meaning of the change. She was listening to the stirring of the new life within her.
Chapter IV.
Alexei Alexandrovich, after meeting Vronsky on his own steps, drove, as he had intended, to the Italian opera. He sat through two acts there, and saw everyone he wanted to see. On returning home, he carefully scrutinized the hatstand, and noticing that there was not a military overcoat there, he went, as usual, to his own room. But, contrary to his usual habit, he did not go to bed; he walked up and down his study till three o'clock in the morning. The feeling of furious anger with his wife, who would not observe the proprieties and keep to the one stipulation he had laid on her- not to receive her lover in her own house- gave him no peace. She had not complied with his request, and he was bound to punish her and carry out his threat- obtain a divorce and take away his son. He knew all the difficulties connected with this course, but he had said he would do it, and now he must carry out his threat. Countess Lidia Ivanovna had hinted that this was the best way out of his position, and of late the obtaining of divorces had been brought to such a pitch of perfection that Alexei Alexandrovich saw a possibility of overcoming the formal difficulties. Misfortunes never come singly, and the affairs of the reorganization of the native tribes, and of the irrigation of the lands of the Zaraisky province, had brought such official worries upon Alexei Alexandrovich that he had been of late in a continual state of extreme irritability.
He did not sleep the whole night, and his fury growing in a sort of vast, arithmetical progression, reached its highest limits in the morning. He dressed in haste, and, as though carrying his cup full of wrath, and fearing to spill any over, fearing to lose with his wrath the energy necessary for the interview with his wife, he went into her room directly he heard she was up.
Anna, who had thought she knew her husband so well, was amazed at his appearance when he went in to her. His brow was lowering and his eyes stared darkly before him, avoiding her eyes; his mouth was tightly and contemptuously shut. In his walk, in his gestures, in the sound of his voice there was a determination and firmness such as his wife had never seen in him. He went into her room, and, without greeting her, walked straight up to her writing table, and, taking her keys, opened a drawer.
"What do you want?" she cried.
"Your lover's letters," he said.
"They're not here," she said, shutting the drawer; but from that action he saw he had guessed right, and roughly pushing away her hand, he quickly snatched a portfolio in which he knew she used to put her most important papers. She tried to pull the portfolio away, but he pushed her back.
"Sit down! I have to speak to you," he said, putting the portfolio under his arm, and squeezing it so tightly with his elbow that his shoulder stood up.
Amazed and intimidated, she gazed at him in silence.
"I told you that I would not allow you to receive your lover in this house."
"I had to see him to..."
She stopped, not finding a reason.
"I do not enter into the details of why a woman wants to see her lover."
"I meant, I only..." she said, flushing hotly. This coarseness of his angered her, and gave her courage. "Surely you must feel how easy it is for you to insult me?" she said.
"An honest man and an honest woman may be insulted, but to tell a thief he's a thief is simply la constatation d'un fait."
"This cruelty is something new- I did not know in you."
"You call it cruelty for a husband to give his wife liberty, giving her the honorable protection of his name, simply on the condition of observing the proprieties: is that cruelty?"
"It's worse that cruel- it's base, if you want to know!" Anna cried, in a rush of hatred, and, getting up, she was about to leave the room.
"No!" he shrieked in his shrill voice, which pitched a note even higher than usual, and his big hands clutching her by the arm so violently that red marks were left from the bracelet he was squeezing, he forcibly made her sit down in her place. "Base! If you care to use that word, what is base is to forsake husband and child for a lover, while you eat your husband's bread!"
She bowed her head. She did not say what she had said the evening before to her lover, that he was her husband, and her husband was superfluous; she did not even think of that. She felt all the justice of his words, and only said softly:
"You cannot describe my position as worse than I feel it to be myself; but what are you saying all this for?"
"What am I saying it for? What for?" he went on, as angrily. "So that you may know that, since you have not carried out my wishes in regard to observing outward decorum, I will take measures to put an end to this state of things."
"Soon, very soon, it will end, anyway," she said; and again, at the thought of death near at hand and now desired, tears came into her eyes.
"It will end sooner than you and your lover have planned! If you must have the satisfaction of animal passion..."
"Alexei Alexandrovich! I won't say it's not generous, but it's not like a gentleman to strike anyone who's down."
"Yes, you only think of yourself! But the sufferings of a man who was your husband have no interest for you. You don't care that his whole life is ruined, that he is seff... seff..."
Alexei Alexandrovich was speaking so quickly that he began to stammer, and was utterly unable to articulate the word "suffering". In the end he pronounced it "saffering". She wanted to laugh, and was immediately ashamed that anything could amuse her at such a moment. And for the first time, for an instant, she felt for him, put herself in his place, and was sorry for him. But what could she say or do? Her head sank, and she sat silent. He too was silent for some time, and then began speaking in a frigid, less shrill voice, emphasizing random words that had no special significance.
I came to tell you..." he said.
She glanced at him. "No; it was my fancy," she thought, recalling the expression of his face when he stumbled over the word "suffering." "No; can a man with those dull eyes, with that self-satisfied complacency, feel anything?"
"I cannot change anything," she whispered.
"I have come to tell you that I am going tomorrow to Moscow, and shall not return again to this house, and you will receive notice of what I decide through the lawyer into whose hands I shall entrust the task of getting a divorce. My son is going to my sister's," said Alexei Alexandrovich, with an effort recalling what he had meant to say about his son.
"You take Seriozha to hurt me," she said, looking at him from under her brows. "You do not love him.... Leave me Seriozha!"
"Yes, I have lost even my affection for my son, because he is associated with the repulsion I feel for you. But still I shall take him. Good-by!"
And he was going away, but now she detained him.
"Alexei Alexandrovich, leave me Seriozha!" she whispered once more. "I have nothing else to say. Leave Seriozha till my... I shall soon be confined; leave him!"
Alexei Alexandrovich flared up, and, snatching his hand from her, he went out of the room without a word.
Chapter V.
The waiting room of the celebrated Peterburg lawyer was full when Alexei Alexandrovich entered it. Three ladies- an old lady, a young lady, and a merchant's wife, and three gentlemen- one a German banker with a ring on his finger, the second a merchant with a beard, and the third a wrathful-looking government clerk in official uniform, with a cross on his neck- had obviously been waiting a long while already. Two clerks were writing at tables with scratching pens. The appurtenances of the writing tables, about which Alexei Alexandrovich was himself very fastidious, were exceptionally good. He could not help observing this. One of the clerks, without getting up, turned fretfully to Alexei Alexandrovich, half-closing his eyes.
"What is it you wish?"
"My business has to do with the lawyer."
"He is engaged," the clerk responded severely, and he pointed with his pen at the persons waiting, and went on writing.
"Can't he spare time to see me?" said Alexei Alexandrovich.
"He has no time free; he is always busy. Kindly wait your turn."
"Then I must trouble you to give him my card," Alexei Alexandrovich said with dignity, seeing the impossibility of preserving his incognito.
The clerk took the card and, obviously not approving of what he read on it, went to the door.
Alexei Alexandrovich was in principle in favor of the publicity of legal proceedings, though for some higher official considerations he disliked the application of the principle in Russia, and disapproved of it, as far as he could disapprove of anything instituted by authority of the Emperor. His whole life had been spent in administrative work, and consequently, when he did not approve of anything, his disapproval was softened by the recognition of the inevitability of mistakes and the possibility of reform in every department. In the new public law courts he disliked the restrictions laid on the lawyers conducting cases. But till then he had had nothing to do with the law courts, and so had disapproved of their publicity simply in theory; now his disapprobation was strengthened by the unpleasant impression made on him in the lawyer's waiting room.
"He will be out right away," said the clerk; and two minutes later there did actually appear in the doorway the large figure of an old student of jurisprudence who had been consulting with the lawyer, and the lawyer himself.
The lawyer was a little, squat, bald man, with a dark, reddish beard, light-colored long eyebrows, and beetling brow. He was attired as though for a wedding, from his cravat to his double watch chain and patent-leather shoes. His face was clever and rustic, but his dress was dandified and in bad taste.
"Pray walk in," said the lawyer, addressing Alexei Alexandrovich; and, gloomily ushering Karenin in before him, he closed the door. "Won't you sit down?" He indicated an armchair at a writing table covered with papers. He sat down himself, and, rubbing his little hands with short fingers covered with white hairs, he bent his head on one side. But as soon as he was settled in this position a moth flew over the table. The lawyer, with a swiftness that could never have been expected of him, opened his hands, caught the moth, and resumed his former attitude.
"Before beginning to speak of my business," said Alexei Alexandrovich, following the lawyer's movements with wondering eyes, "I ought to observe that the matter about which I have to speak to you is to be a secret."
The lawyer's drooping reddish mustaches were stirred by a scarcely perceptible smile.
"I should not be a lawyer if I could not keep the secrets confided to me. But if you would like proof..."
Alexei Alexandrovich glanced at his face, and saw that the shrewd, gray eyes were laughing, and seemed to know all about it already.
"You know my name?" Alexei Alexandrovich resumed.
"I know you and the good"- again he caught a moth- "work you are doing, like every Russian," said the lawyer, bowing.
Alexei Alexandrovich sighed, plucking up his courage. But, having once made up his mind, he went on in his shrill voice, without timidity or hesitation, accentuating a word here and there.
"I have the misfortune," Alexei Alexandrovich began, "to be a deceived husband, and I desire to break off all relations with my wife by legal means- that is, to be divorced; but do this so that my son may not remain with his mother."
The lawyer's gray eyes tried not to laugh, but they were dancing with irrepressible glee, and Alexei Alexandrovich saw that it was not simply the delight of a man who has just got a profitable job: there was triumph and joy, there was a gleam like the malignant gleam he had seen in his wife's eyes.
"You desire my assistance in securing a divorce?"
"Yes, precisely; but I ought to warn you that I may be wasting your time and attention. I have come simply to consult you as a preliminary step. I want a divorce, but the form which it may take is of great consequence to me. It is very possible that if that form does not correspond with my requirements I may give up a legal action."
"Oh, that's always the case," said the lawyer, "and that's always for you to decide."
He let his eyes rest on Alexei Alexandrovich's feet, feeling that he might offend his client by the sight of his irrepressible amusement. He looked at a moth that flew before his nose, and moved his hand, but did not catch it from regard for Alexei Alexandrovich's situation.
"Though in their general features our laws on this subject are known to me," pursued Alexei Alexandrovich, "I should be glad to have an idea of the forms in which such things are done, in practice."
"You would be glad," the lawyer, without lifting his eyes, responded, adopting, with a certain satisfaction, the tone of his client's remarks, "for me to lay before you all the methods by which you could secure what you desire?"
And on receiving an assenting nod from Alexei Alexandrovich, he went on, stealing a glance now and then at Alexei Alexandrovich's face, which was growing red in patches.
"Divorce by our laws," he said, with a slight shade of disapprobation of our laws, "is possible, as you are aware, in the following cases... To wait!" he called to a clerk who put his head in at the door, but he got up all the same, said a few words to him, and sat down again. "In the following cases: physical defect in the married parties, desertion without communication for five years," he said, crooking a short finger covered with hair, "adultery" (this word he pronounced with obvious satisfaction), "subdivided as follows" (he continued to crook his fat fingers, though the cases and their subdivisions could obviously not be classified together): "physical defect of the husband or of the wife, adultery of the husband or of the wife." As by now all his fingers were used up, he straightened them and went on: "This is the theoretical view; but I imagine you have done me the honor to apply to me in order to learn its application in practice. And therefore, guided by precedents, I must inform you that in practice cases of divorce may all be reduced to the following- there's no physical defect, I may assume, nor desertion?..."
Alexei Alexandrovich bowed his head in assent.
"They may be reduced to the following: adultery of one of the married parties, and the detection in the fact of the guilty party by mutual agreement, and, failing such agreement, accidental detection. It must be admitted that the latter case is rarely met with in practice," said the lawyer, and stealing a glance at Alexei Alexandrovich he paused, as a man selling pistols, after enlarging on the advantages of each weapon, might await his customer's choice. But Alexei Alexandrovich said nothing, and therefore the lawyer went on: "The most usual and simple, the sensible course, I consider, is adultery by mutual consent. I should not permit myself to express it so, speaking with a man of no education," he said, "but I imagine that to you this is comprehensible."
Alexei Alexandrovich was, however, so perturbed that he did not immediately comprehend all the reasonableness of adultery by mutual consent, and his eyes expressed this uncertainty; but the lawyer promptly came to his assistance.
"People cannot go on living together- here you have a fact. And if both are agreed about it, the details and formalities become a matter of no importance. And at the same time this is the simplest and most certain method."
Alexei Alexandrovich understood fully now. But he had religious scruples, which hindered the execution of such a plan.
"That is out of the question in the present case," he said. "Only one alternative is possible: involuntary detection, supported by letters which I have."
At the mention of letters the lawyer pursed up his lips, and gave utterance to a thin little compassionate and contemptuous sound.
"Kindly consider," he began, "cases of that kind are, as you are aware, under ecclesiastical jurisdiction; the reverend fathers are fond of going into the minutest details in cases of that kind," he said, with a smile which betrayed his sympathy with the taste of the reverend fathers. "Letters may, of course, be a partial confirmation; but detection in the act there must be of the most direct kind- that is, by eyewitnesses. In fact, if you do me the honor to trust me with your confidence, you will do well to leave me the choice of the measures to be employed. If one wants the result, one must allow the means."
"If it is so..." Alexei Alexandrovich began, suddenly turning white; but at that moment the lawyer rose and again went to the door to speak to the intruding clerk.
"Tell her we don't haggle over fees!" he said, and returned to Alexei Alexandrovich.
On his way back he caught, unobserved, another moth. "Nice state my rep curtains will be in by the summer!" he thought, frowning.
"And so you were saying?..." he said.
"I will communicate my decision to you by letter," said Alexei Alexandrovich, getting up, and he clutched at the table. After standing a moment in silence, he said: "From your words I may consequently conclude that a divorce may be obtained? I would ask you to let me know what your terms are."
"It may be obtained if you give me complete liberty of action," said the lawyer, without answering his question. "When can I count on receiving word from you?" he asked moving toward the door, his eyes and his patent-leather shoes shining.
"In a week's time. You will be kind enough to communicate to me your answer as to whether you will undertake to conduct the case, and on what terms."
"Very good, sir."
The lawyer bowed respectfully, let his client out of the door, and, left alone, gave himself up to his sense of amusement. He felt so mirthful that, contrary to his rule, he made a reduction in his terms to the haggling lady, and gave up catching moths, finally deciding that next winter he must have the furniture covered with velvet, like Sigonin's.
Chapter VI.
Alexei Alexandrovich had gained a brilliant victory at the sitting of the Commission of the 17th of August, but in the sequel this victory cut the ground from under his feet. The new commission for the inquiry into the condition of the native tribes on every aspect had been formed and despatched to its destination with an unusual speed and energy, inspired by Alexei Alexandrovich. Within three months a report was presented. The condition of the native tribes was investigated in its political, administrative, economic, ethnographic, material, and religious aspects. To all these questions there were answers admirably stated, and answers admitting no shade of doubt, since they were not a product of human thought, always liable to error, but were all the product of official activity. The answers were all based on official data furnished by governors and bishops, and founded on the reports of district magistrates and ecclesiastical superintendents, founded in their turn on the reports of local authorities and parish priests; and so all of these answers were unhesitating and certain. All such questions as, for instance, the cause of crop failures, why certain tribes adhered to their ancient beliefs, and so on- questions which, but for the convenient intervention of the official machine, are not, and cannot be solved for ages- received full, unhesitating solution. And this solution was in favor of Alexei Alexandrovich's contention. But Stremov, who had felt stung to the quick at the last sitting, had, on the reception of the commission's report, resorted to tactics which Alexei Alexandrovich had not anticipated. Stremov, carrying with him several other members, went over to Alexei Alexandrovich's side, and, not contenting himself with warmly defending the measure proposed by Karenin, proposed other measures, still more extreme, in the same direction. These measures, still stronger than Alexei Alexandrovich's fundamental idea, were passed by the commission, and then the aim of Stremov's tactics became apparent. Carried to an extreme, the measures seemed at once to be so absurd that the highest authorities, and public opinion, and intellectual ladies, and the newspapers, all at the same time fell foul of them, expressing their indignation both with the measures and their nominal father, Alexei Alexandrovich. Stremov drew back, affecting to have blindly followed Karenin, and to be astounded and distressed at what had been done. This meant the defeat of Alexei Alexandrovich. But in spite of failing health, in spite of his domestic griefs, he did not give in. There was a split in the Commission. Some members, with Stremov at their head, justified their mistake on the ground that they had put faith in the commission of revision, instituted by Alexei Alexandrovich, and maintained that the report of the commission was rubbish, and simply so much wastepaper. Alexei Alexandrovich, with a following of those who saw the danger of so revolutionary an attitude to official documents, persisted in upholding the statements obtained by the revising commission. In consequence of this, in the higher spheres, and even in society, all was chaos, and although everyone was interested, no one could tell whether the native tribes really were becoming impoverished and ruined, or whether they were in a flourishing condition. The position of Alexei Alexandrovich, owing to this, and partly owing to the contempt lavished on him for his wife's infidelity, became very precarious. And in this position he took an important resolution. To the astonishment of the Commission, he announced that he should ask permission to go himself to investigate the question on the spot. And having obtained permission, Alexei Alexandrovich prepared to set off to these remote provinces.
Alexei Alexandrovich's departure created a great stir, the more so as just before he started he officially returned the posting fares allowed him for twelve horses to drive to his destination.
"I think it very noble," Betsy said about this to the Princess Miaghkaia. "Why take money for posting horses when everyone knows that there are railways everywhere now?"
But Princess Miaghkaia did not agree, and the Princess Tverskaia's opinion annoyed her indeed.
"It's all very well for you to talk," said she, "when you have I don't know how many millions; but I am very glad when my husband goes on a revising tour in the summer. It's very good for him and pleasant traveling about, and it's a settled arrangement for me to keep a carriage and hired coach on the money."
On his way to the remote provinces Alexei Alexandrovich stopped for three days at Moscow.
The day after his arrival he went to call on the governor general. At the crossroads by Gazetny Lane, where there are always crowds of carriages and hired sleighs, Alexei Alexandrovich suddenly heard his name called out in such a loud and cheerful voice that he could not help looking round. At the corner of the pavement, in a short, stylish overcoat and a low-crowned fashionable hat, jauntily askew, with a smile that showed a gleam of white teeth and red lips, stood Stepan Arkadyevich, radiant, young, and beaming. He called him vigorously and urgently, and insisted on his stopping. He had one arm on the window of a carriage that was stopping at the corner, and out of the window were thrust the heads of a lady in a velvet hat, and two children. Stepan Arkadyevich was smiling and beckoning to his brother-in-law. The lady smiled a kindly smile too, and she too waved her hand to Alexei Alexandrovich. It was Dolly with her children.
Alexei Alexandrovich did not want to see anyone in Moscow, and least of all his wife's brother. He raised his hat and would have driven on, but Stepan Arkadyevich told his coachman to stop, and ran across the snow to him.
"Well, what a shame not to have let us know! Been here long? I was at Dussot's yesterday and saw 'Karenin' on the visitors' list, but it never entered my head that it was you," said Stepan Arkadyevich, sticking his head in at the window of the carriage, "or I should have looked you up. I am glad to see you!" he said, knocking one foot against the other to shake the snow off. "What a shame you did not let us know!" he repeated.
"I had no time; I am very busy," Alexei Alexandrovich responded dryly.
"Come to my wife- she does so want to see you."
Alexei Alexandrovich unfolded the rug in which his frozen feet were wrapped, and getting out of his carriage made his way over the snow to Darya Alexandrovna.
"Why, Alexei Alexandrovich, what are you cutting us like this for?" said Dolly smiling.
"I was very busy. Delighted to see you!" he said in a tone clearly indicating that he was annoyed by it. "How are you?"
"Tell me, how is my darling Anna?"
Alexei Alexandrovich mumbled something and would have gone on. But Stepan Arkadyevich stopped him.
"I tell you what we'll do tomorrow. Dolly, ask him to dinner. We'll ask Koznishev and Pestsov, so as to entertain him with our Moscow intellectuals."
"Yes, please, do come," said Dolly; "we will expect you at five- or six o'clock, if you like. How is my darling Anna? How long..."
"She is quite well," Alexei Alexandrovich mumbled, frowning. "Delighted!" and he moved away toward his carriage.
"You will come?" Dolly called after him.
Alexei Alexandrovich said something which Dolly could not catch in the noise of the moving carriages.
"I shall come round tomorrow!" Stepan Arkadyevich shouted to him.
Alexei Alexandrovich got into his carriage, and buried himself in it so as neither to see nor to be seen.
"Queer fish!" said Stepan Arkadyevich to his wife, and, glancing at his watch, he made a motion of his hand before his face, indicating a caress to his wife and children, and walked jauntily along the pavement.
"Stiva! Stiva!" Dolly called, reddening.
He turned round.
"I must get coats, you know, for Grisha and Tania. Give me the money."
"Never mind; you tell them I'll pay the bill!" and he vanished, nodding genially to an acquaintance who drove by.
Chapter VII.
The next day was Sunday. Stepan Arkadyevich went to the Grand Theater to a rehearsal of the ballet, and gave Masha Chibisova, a pretty dancing girl who had been engaged through his protection, the coral necklace he had promised her the evening before, and, behind the scenes, in the dim daylight of the theater, managed to kiss her pretty little face, radiant over the present. Besides the gift of the necklace he wanted to arrange a meeting with her after the ballet. After explaining that he could not come at the beginning of the ballet, he promised he would come for the last act and take her to supper. From the theater Stepan Arkadyevich drove to Okhotny Riad, selected himself the fish and asparagus for dinner, and by twelve o'clock was at Dussot's, where he had to see three people, luckily all staying at the same hotel: Levin, who had recently come back from abroad and was staying there; the new head of his board who had just been promoted to that position, and had come on a tour of revision to Moscow; and his brother-in-law, Karenin, whom he must see, so as to be sure of bringing him to dinner.
Stepan Arkadyevich liked dining, but still better he liked to give a dinner, small, but very choice, both as regards the food and drink and as regards the selection of guests. He particularly liked the program of that day's dinner. There would be fresh perch, asparagus, and la piece de resistance- first-rate, but quite plain, roast beef, and wines to suit: so much for the eating and drinking. Kitty and Levin would be of the party, and, so that this might not be obtrusively evident, there would be a girl cousin too, and young Shcherbatsky, and- la piece de resistance among the guests- Sergei Koznishev and Alexei Alexandrovich. Sergei Ivanovich was a Moscow man, and a philosopher; Alexei Alexandrovich a Peterburg man, and a practical politician. He was asking, too, the well-known eccentric enthusiast, Pestsov, a liberal, a great talker, a musician, a historian, and the most delightfully youthful person of fifty, who would be a sauce or garnish for Koznishev and Karenin. He would provoke them and set them off against one another.
The second installment for the forest had been received from the merchant and was not yet exhausted; Dolly had been very amiable and good-humored of late, and the idea of the dinner pleased Stepan Arkadyevich from every point of view. He was in the most lighthearted mood. There were two circumstances a little unpleasant, but these two circumstances were drowned in the sea of good-humored gaiety which flooded the soul of Stepan Arkadyevich. These two circumstances were: first, that on meeting Alexei Alexandrovich the day before in the street Stiva had noticed that the latter was cold and reserved with him, and putting together the expression of Alexei Alexandrovich's face, and the fact that he had not come to see them, or let them know of his arrival, with the rumors he had heard about Anna and Vronsky, Stepan Arkadyevich guessed that something was wrong between the husband and wife.
That was one disagreeable thing. The other slightly disagreeable fact was that the new head of his board, like all new heads, already had the reputation of a terrible person, who got up at six o'clock in the morning, worked like a horse, and insisted on his subordinates working in the same way. Moreover, this new head had the further reputation of being a bear in his manners, and was, according to all reports, a man of a class in all respects the opposite of that to which his predecessor had belonged, and to which Stepan Arkadyevich had hitherto belonged himself. On the previous day Stepan Arkadyevich had appeared at the office in a uniform, and the new chief had been very affable and had talked to him as to an acquaintance. Consequently Stepan Arkadyevich deemed it his duty to call upon him in his nonofficial dress. The thought that the new chief might not give him a warm reception was the other unpleasant thing. But Stepan Arkadyevich instinctively felt that everything would come round all right. "They're all human, all men, like us poor sinners; why be nasty and quarrelsome?" he thought as he went into the hotel.
"Good day, Vassilii," he said, walking into the corridor with his hat cocked on one side, and addressing a footman he knew; "why, you've let your whiskers grow! Levin- number seven, eh? Take me up, please. And find out whether Count Anychkin" (this was the new head) "is receiving."
"Yes, sir," Vassilii responded, smiling. "You've not been to see us for a long while."
"I was here yesterday, but at the other entrance. Is this number seven?"
Levin was standing with a peasant from Tver in the middle of the room, measuring a fresh bearskin, when Stepan Arkadyevich came in.
"What! You killed him?" cried Stepan Arkadyevich. "Well done! A she-bear? How are you, Arkhip!"
He shook hands with the peasant and sat down on a chair, without taking off his coat and hat.
"Come, take off your coat and stay a little," said Levin, taking his hat.
"No, I haven't time; I've only looked in for just a second," answered Stepan Arkadyevich. He threw open his fur coat, but afterward did take it off, and sat on for a whole hour, talking to Levin about hunting and the most intimate subjects. "Come, tell me, please, what you did abroad. Where have you been?" said Stepan Arkadyevich, when the peasant had gone.
"Oh, I stayed in Germany, in Prussia, in France, and in England- not in the capitals, but in the manufacturing towns- and saw a great deal that was new to me. And I'm glad I went."
"Yes, I knew your idea of the solution of the labor question."
"Not a bit: in Russia there can be no labor question. In Russia the question is that of the relation of the working people to the land; though the question exists there too- but there it's a matter of repairing what's been ruined, while with us..."
Stepan Arkadyevich listened attentively to Levin.
"Yes, yes!" he said. "It's very possible you're right. But I'm glad you're in good spirits, and are hunting bears, and working, and interested. Shcherbatsky told me another story- he met you: that you were in such a depressed state, talking of nothing but death..."
"Well, what of it? I've not given up thinking of death," said Levin. "It's true that it's high time I was dead; and that all this is nonsense. It's the truth I'm telling you. I do value my idea and my work awfully; but really, do consider this: all this world of ours is nothing but a speck of mildew, which has grown up on a tiny planet. And yet we think that something great is possible to us- ideas, work! Grains of sand- that's all they are."
"But all that's as old as the hills, my boy!"
"It is old; but, do you know, when you grasp this fully, then somehow everything becomes of no consequence. When you understand that you will die tomorrow, if not today, and nothing will be left, then everything is so unimportant! And I consider my idea very important, but it turns out really to be just as unimportant, even if it were carried out, as outwitting that she-bear. So one goes on living, amusing oneself with hunting, with work- anything, so as not to think of death!"
Stepan Arkadyevich smiled a subtle and affectionate smile as he listened to Levin.
"Well, of course! Here you've come round to my point. Do you remember you attacked me for seeking enjoyment in life?
'Don't be, O moralist, severe...'"
"No; all the same, what's fine in life is..." Levin hesitated. "Oh! I don't know. All I know is that we shall soon be dead."
"Why so soon?"
"And I know there's less charm in life, when one thinks of death- but there's more peace."
"On the contrary, the finish is always the best. But I must be going," said Stepan Arkadyevich, getting up for the tenth time.
"Oh, no, stay a bit!" said Levin, detaining him. "Now, when shall we see each other again? I'm going tomorrow."
"I'm a fine fellow! Why, that's just what I came for! You simply must come to dinner with us today. Your brother's coming, and Karenin, my brother-in-law."
"You don't mean to say he's here?" said Levin, and he wanted to inquire about Kitty. He had heard at the beginning of the winter that she was at Peterburg with her sister, the wife of the diplomat, and he did not know whether she had come back or not; but he changed his mind and did not ask. "Whether she's coming or not, I don't care," he said to himself.
"So you'll come?"
"Of course."
"At five o'clock, then, and wear a frock coat."
And Stepan Arkadyevich got up and went down below to the new head of his department. Instinct had not misled Stepan Arkadyevich. The terrible new head turned out to be an extremely amenable person, and Stepan Arkadyevich lunched with him and stayed on, so that it was past three o'clock before he got to Alexei Alexandrovich.
Chapter VIII.
Alexei Alexandrovich, on coming back from church service, had spent the whole morning indoors. He had two pieces of business before him that morning; first, to receive and send on a deputation from the native tribes which was on its way to Peterburg, and which was now at Moscow; secondly, to write the promised letter to the lawyer. The deputation, though it had been summoned at Alexei Alexandrovich's instigation, was not without its discomforting and even dangerous aspect, and he was glad he had found it in Moscow. The members of this deputation had not the slightest conception of their duty and the part they were to play. They naively believed that it was their business to lay before the Commission their needs and the actual condition of things, and to ask assistance of the government, and utterly failed to grasp that some of their statements and requests supported the contention of the enemy's side, and so spoiled the whole business. Alexei Alexandrovich was busily engaged with them for a long while, drew up a program for them from which they were not to depart, and on dismissing them wrote a letter to Peterburg for the guidance of the deputation. He had his chief support in this affair in the Countess Lidia Ivanovna. She was a specialist in the matter of deputations, and no one knew better than she how to puff, and put them in the way they should go. Having completed this task, Alexei Alexandrovich wrote the letter to the lawyer. Without the slightest hesitation he gave him permission to act as he might judge best. In the letter he enclosed three of Vronsky's notes to Anna, which were in the portfolio he had taken away.
Since Alexei Alexandrovich had left home with the intention of not returning to his family again, and since he had been at the lawyer's and had spoken, though only to one man, of his intention, since, moreover, he had translated the matter from the world of real life to the world of ink and paper, he had grown more and more used to his own intention, and by now distinctly perceived the feasibility of its execution.
He was sealing the envelope to the lawyer, when he heard the loud tones of Stepan Arkadyevich's voice. Stepan Arkadyevich was disputing with Alexei Alexandrovich's servant, and insisting on being announced.
"No matter," thought Alexei Alexandrovich, "so much the better. I will inform him at once of my position in regard to his sister, and explain why it is I can't dine with him."
"Come in!" he said aloud, collecting his papers, and putting them under the blotting pad.
"There, you see, you're talking nonsense, and he is at home!" responded Stepan Arkadyevich's voice, addressing the servant, who had refused to let him in, and, taking off his coat as he went, Oblonsky walked into the room. "Well, I'm awfully glad I've found you! So I hope..." Stepan Arkadyevich began cheerfully.
"I cannot come," Alexei Alexandrovich said coldly, standing and not asking his visitor to sit down.
Alexei Alexandrovich had thought to pass at once into those frigid relations in which he ought to stand with the brother of a wife against whom he was beginning a suit for divorce. But he had not taken into account the ocean of kindliness brimming over in the heart of Stepan Arkadyevich.
Stepan Arkadyevich opened wide his clear, shining eyes.
"Why can't you? What do you mean?" he asked in perplexity, speaking in French. "Oh, but it's a promise. And we're all counting on you."
"I want to tell you that I can't dine at your house, because the terms of relationship which have existed between us must cease."
"How? How do you mean? For what reason?" said Stepan Arkadyevich with a smile.
"Because I am beginning an action for divorce against your sister, my wife. I ought to have..."
But, before Alexei Alexandrovich had time to finish his sentence, Stepan Arkadyevich was behaving not at all as he had expected. Stepan Arkadyevich groaned and sank into an armchair.
"No, Alexei Alexandrovich! What are you saying?" cried Oblonsky, and his suffering was apparent in his face.
"It is so."
"Excuse me, I can't, I can't believe it!"
Alexei Alexandrovich sat down, feeling that his words had not had the effect he anticipated, and that it would be unavoidable for him to explain his position, and that, whatever explanations he might make, his relations with his brother-in-law would remain unchanged.
"Yes, I am brought to the painful necessity of seeking a divorce," he said.
"I will say one thing, Alexei Alexandrovich. I know you for an excellent, upright man; I know Anna- excuse me, I can't change my opinion of her- for a good, an excellent woman; and so you must excuse me if I cannot believe it. There is some misunderstanding," said he.
"Oh, if it were merely a misunderstanding!..."
"Pardon, I understand," interposed Stepan Arkadyevich. "But of course... One thing: you must not act in haste. You must not, you must not act in haste!"
"I am not acting in haste," Alexei Alexandrovich said coldly, "but one cannot ask advice of anyone in such a matter. I have quite made up my mind."
"This is awful!" said Stepan Arkadyevich. "I would do one thing, Alexei Alexandrovich. I beseech you- do it!" he said. "No action has yet been taken, if I understand rightly. Before you take advice, see my wife, talk to her. She loves Anna like a sister, she loves you, and she's a wonderful woman. For God's sake, talk to her! Do me that favor, I beseech you!"
Alexei Alexandrovich pondered, and Stepan Arkadyevich looked at him sympathetically, without interrupting his silence.
"You will go to see her?"
"I don't know. That was just why I have not been to see you. I imagine our relations must change."
"Why so? I don't see that. Allow me to believe that, apart from our connection, you have for me, at least in part, the same friendly feeling I have always had for you... and sincere esteem," said Stepan Arkadyevich, pressing his hand. "Even if your worst suppositions were correct, I don't- and never would- take on myself to judge either side, and I see no reason why our relations should be affected. But now, do this, come and see my wife."
"Well, we look at the matter differently," said Alexei Alexandrovich coldly. "However, we won't discuss it."
"No; why shouldn't you come today to dine, anyway? My wife's expecting you. Please, do come. And, above all, talk it over with her. She's a wonderful woman. For God's sake, on my knees, I implore you!"
"If you so much wish it, I will come," said Alexei Alexandrovich, sighing.
And, anxious to change the conversation, he inquired about what interested them both- the new head of Stepan Arkadyevich's board, a man not yet old, who had suddenly been promoted to so high a position.
Alexei Alexandrovich had previously felt no liking for Count Anychkin, and had always differed from him in his opinions. But now, from a feeling readily comprehensible to officials- that hatred felt by one who has suffered a defeat in the service for one who has received a promotion- he could not endure him.
"Well, have you seen him?" said Alexei Alexandrovich with a malignant smile.
"Of course; he was at our sitting yesterday. He seems to know his work capitally, and to be very energetic."
"Yes, but what is his energy directed to?" said Alexei Alexandrovich. "Is he aiming at doing anything, or simply doing again what's been done? It's the great misfortune of our government- this paper administration, of which he's a worthy representative."
"Really, I don't know what fault one could find with him. His policy I don't know, but one thing is certain- he's a very fine fellow," answered Stepan Arkadyevich. "I've just been seeing him, and he's really a fine fellow. We lunched together, and I taught him how to make- you know that drink- wine and oranges. It's so cooling. And it's a wonder he didn't know it. He liked it awfully. No, really, he's a fine fellow."
Stepan Arkadyevich glanced at his watch.
"Why, good heavens, it's four already, and I've still to go to Dolgovushin's! So please come round to dinner. You can't imagine how you will grieve my wife and me if you don't."
The way in which Alexei Alexandrovich saw his brother-in-law out was very different from the manner in which he had met him.
"I've promised, and I'll come," he answered wearily.
"Believe me, I appreciate it, and I hope you won't regret it," answered Stepan Arkadyevich, smiling.
And, putting on his coat as he went, he patted the footman on the head with his coat sleeve, chuckled, and went out.
"At five o'clock, and wear your frock coat, please," he shouted once more, returning at the door.
Chapter IX.
It was past five, and several guests had already arrived, before the host himself got home. He went in together with Sergei Ivanovich Koznishev and with Pestsov, both of whom had reached the street door at the same moment. These were the two leading representatives of the Moscow intellectuals, as Oblonsky had called them. Both were men respected for their character and their intelligence. They respected each other, but were in complete and hopeless disagreement upon almost every subject, not because they belonged to opposite parties, but precisely because they were of the same party (their enemies refused to see any distinction between their views); but, in that party, each had his own special shade of opinion. And since no difference is less easily overcome than the difference of opinion about semiabstract questions, they never agreed on any opinion, and, indeed, had long been accustomed to jeer without anger at each other's incorrigible aberrations.
They were just going in at the door, talking of the weather, when Stepan Arkadyevich overtook them. In the drawing room there were already sitting Prince Alexander Dmitrievich Shcherbatsky, young Shcherbatsky, Turovtsin, Kitty, and Karenin.
Stepan Arkadyevich saw immediately that things were not going well in the drawing room without him. Darya Alexandrovna, in her best gray silk gown, obviously worried about the children who were to have their dinner by themselves in the nursery, and by her husband's absence, was not equal to the task of making the party mix without him. All were sitting like so many priests' daughters on a visit (so the old Prince expressed it), obviously wondering why they were there, and pumping up remarks simply to avoid being silent. Turovtsin- goodhearted man- felt unmistakably like a fish out of water, and the smile with which his thick lips greeted Stepan Arkadyevich said, as plainly as words: "Well, old boy, you have popped me down in a learned set! A drinking party, and the Chateau des Fleurs, would be more in my line!" The old Prince sat in silence, his bright little eyes watching Karenin with a sidelong look; and Stepan Arkadyevich saw that he had already formed a sharp remark to sum up that politician of whom guests had been invited to partake, as though he were a sturgeon. Kitty was looking at the door, calling up all her energies to keep her from blushing at the entrance of Konstantin Levin. Young Shcherbatsky, who had not been introduced to Karenin, was trying to look as though he were not in the least embarrassed by it. Karenin himself had followed the Peterburg. etiquette for a dinner with ladies present and was wearing evening dress and a white tie. Stepan Arkadyevich saw by his face that he had come simply to keep his promise, and was performing a disagreeable duty in being present at this gathering. He was indeed the person chiefly responsible for the chill benumbing all the guests before Stepan Arkadyevich came in.
On entering the drawing room Stepan Arkadyevich apologized, explaining that he had been detained by that Prince who was always the scapegoat for all his absences and unpunctualities, and in one moment he had made all the guests acquainted with each other, and, bringing together Alexei Alexandrovich and Sergei Koznishev, had started them on a discussion of the Russification of Poland, into which they immediately plunged with Pestsov. Slapping Turovtsin on the shoulder, he whispered something comic in his ear, and set him down by his wife and the old Prince. Then he told Kitty she was looking very pretty that evening, and presented Shcherbatsky to Karenin. In a moment he had so kneaded together the social dough that the drawing room became very lively, and there was a merry buzz of voices. Konstantin Levin was the only person who had not arrived. But this was so much the better, as, going into the dining room, Stepan Arkadyevich found to his horror that the port and sherry had been procured from Depre, and not from Leve, and, directing that the coachman should be sent off as speedily as possible to Leve's he started back to the drawing room.
In the dining room he was met by Konstantin Levin.
"I'm not late?"
"You can never help being late!" said Stepan Arkadyevich, taking his arm.
"Have you a lot of people? Who's here?" asked Levin, unable to help blushing, as he knocked the snow off his cap with his glove.
"All our own set. Kitty's here. Come along, I'll introduce you to Karenin."
Stepan Arkadyevich, for all his liberal views, was well aware that to meet Karenin was sure to be felt a flattering distinction, and so treated his best friends to this honor. But at that instant Konstantin Levin was not in a condition to feel all the gratification of making such an acquaintance. He had not seen Kitty since that memorable evening when he met Vronsky- not counting, that is, the moment when he had had a glimpse of her on the highroad. He had known at the bottom of his heart that he would see her here today. But, to keep his thoughts free, he had tried to persuade himself that he did not know it. Now when he heard that she was here, he was suddenly conscious of such delight, and at the same time of such dread, that his breath failed him and he could not utter what he wanted to say.
"What is she like, what is she like? As she used to be, or as she was in the carriage? What if Darya Alexandrovna told the truth? Why shouldn't it be the truth?" he thought.
"Oh, please, introduce me to Karenin," he brought out with an effort, and with a desperately determined step he walked into the drawing room and beheld her.
She was not the same as she used to be, nor was she as she had been in the carriage; she was quite different.
She was scared, shy, shamefaced, and because of all this, still more charming. She saw him the very instant he walked into the room. She had been expecting him. She was delighted, and so confused at her own delight that there was a moment, the moment when he went up to her sister and glanced again at her, when she, and he, and Dolly, who saw it all, thought she would break down and begin to cry. She crimsoned, turned white, crimsoned again, and grew faint, waiting with quivering lips for him to come to her. He went up to her, bowed, and held out his hand without speaking. Except for the slight quiver of her lips and the moisture in her eyes, making them brighter, her smile was almost calm as she said:
"How long it is since we've seen each other!" and, with desperate determination, with her cold hand squeezed his.
"You've not seen me, but I've seen you," said Levin, with a radiant smile of happiness. "I saw you when you were driving from the railway station to Ergushovo."
"When?" she asked, wondering.
"You were driving to Ergushovo," said Levin, feeling as if he would sob with the rapture that was flooding his heart.- "And how dared I associate a thought of anything not innocent with this touching creature? And, yes, I do believe what Darya Alexandrovna told me is true," he thought.
Stepan Arkadyevich took him by the arm and led him away to Karenin.
"Let me introduce you." He mentioned their names.
"Very glad to meet you again," said Alexei Alexandrovich coldly, shaking hands with Levin.
"You are acquainted?" Stepan Arkadyevich asked in surprise.
"We spent three hours together in the train," said Levin smiling, "but got out, just as in a masquerade, quite mystified- at least I was."
"Oh, so that's it! Come along, please," said Stepan Arkadyevich, pointing in the direction of the dining room.
The men went into the dining room and went up to the table for hors d'oeuvres, laid with six sorts of vodka and as many kinds of cheese, some with little silver spades and some without, caviar, herrings, preserves of various kinds, and plates with slices of French bread.
The men stood round the strong-smelling spirits and salt delicacies, and the discussion of the Russification of Poland between Koznishev, Karenin and Pestsov, died down in anticipation of dinner.
Sergei Ivanovich was unequaled in his skill in winding up the most heated and serious argument by some unexpected pinch of Attic salt that changed the disposition of his opponent. He did this now.
Alexei Alexandrovich had been maintaining that the Russification of Poland could only be accomplished as a result of greater principles, which ought to be introduced by the Russian government.
Pestsov insisted that one country can absorb another only when it is the more densely populated.
Koznishev admitted both points, but with limitations. As they were going out of the drawing room to conclude the argument, Koznishev said smiling:
"So, then, for the Russification of our foreign populations there is but one method- to bring up as many children as one can. My brother and I are terribly at fault, I see. You married men- especially you, Stepan Arkadyevich- are the real patriots: what number have you reached?" he said, smiling genially at their host and holding out a tiny wineglass to him.
Everyone laughed, and Stepan Arkadyevich with particular good humor.
"Oh, yes, that's the best method!" he said, munching cheese and filling the wineglass with a special sort of vodka. The conversation dropped at the jest.
"This cheese is not bad. Shall I give you some?" said the master of the house. "Why, have you been going in for gymnastics again?" he asked Levin, pinching his muscle with his left hand. Levin smiled, bent his arm, and under Stepan Arkadyevich's fingers the muscles swelled up like a sound cheese, hard as a knob of iron, through the fine cloth of the coat.
"What biceps! A perfect Samson!"
"I imagine great strength is needed for hunting bears," observed Alexei Alexandrovich, who had the mistiest notions about the chase. He cut off and spread with cheese a wafer of bread fine as a spiderweb.
Levin smiled.
"Not at all. Quite the contrary- a child can kill a bear," he said, with a slight bow moving aside for the ladies, who were approaching the hors d'oeuvres table.
"You have killed a bear, I've been told!" said Kitty, trying assiduously to catch with her fork a perverse mushroom that would slip away, and shaking the lace over her white arm. "Are there bears on your place?" she added, turning her charming little head to him and smiling.
There was apparently nothing extraordinary in what she said, but what unutterable meaning there was for him in every sound, in every turn of her lips, her eyes, her hand as she said it! There was entreaty for forgiveness, and trust in him, and tenderness- soft, timid tenderness- and promise, and hope, and love for him, which he could not but believe in, and which suffocated him with happiness.
"No, we've been hunting in the Tver province. It was coming back from there that I met your beau-frere in the train, or your beau-frere's brother-in-law," he said with a smile. "It was an amusing meeting."
And he began telling with droll good humor how, after not sleeping all night, he had, wearing a fur-lined, full-skirted coat, got into Alexei Alexandrovich's compartment.
"The conductor, forgetting the proverb, would have chucked me out on account of my attire; but thereupon I began expressing my feelings in elevated language, and... you, too," he said, addressing Karenin and forgetting his name, "at first would have ejected me on the ground of my coat, but afterward you took my part, for which I am extremely grateful."
"The rights of passengers generally to choose their seats are too ill-defined," said Alexei Alexandrovich, rubbing the tips of his fingers on his handkerchief.
"I saw you were in uncertainty about me," said Levin, smiling good-naturedly, "but I made haste to plunge into intellectual conversation to smooth over the defects of my attire."
Sergei Ivanovich, while he kept a conversation with their hostess, had one ear for his brother,