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‘ 


' ANNA KARENINA 


BY 


LYOF N. TOLSTOI 


TRANSLATED BY 


NATHAN HASKELL DOLE 


ILLUSTRATED EDITION 


- 
IN TWO VOLUMES 


VOU ft 


NEW YORK 
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
PUBLISHERS 





LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


VOLUME I 













. | PAGE 
KY PLEADING WITH Anna. Original drawing 
by E. Boyd Smith  . Photogravure Frontispiece 
x AND Kirry on THE Pe Meas’. abe 36 
a AT THE BALL ni . . | ° ~ . 86 


SKY ENCOUNTERS ANNA AT THE STaTION . 112 
ARREL BETWEEN ANNA AND HER HusBAND 156 
. -_ . ae e 2 ° 222 


»* 


ag rss - “LP r a * 
Say a Pr TE emanates = By me i 
e * : 





INTRODUCTION. 





To preserve, so far as possible, the spirit and style of the 
original, has been the translator’s aim in presenting, for 
the first time to English readers, Count Tolstoi’s great novel, 
*¢ ANNA KARENINA.”’ 

After the present translation was begun, an anonymous 
French paraphrase appeared. In order to hasten the prepa- 
ration of this volume for the press, that version has been 
used in a few passages, but always with the Russiaa 
original at hand. It is a novel which, in spite of some 
faults of repetition, easily stands in the front rank of the 
great romances of the world. Its moral lesson is wonderful, 
— perhaps equalled only by that of George Eliot’s ‘* Romola.”’ 
The sympathy of the reader will doubtless be moved by the 
passion of the ill-fated Anna. Married without love to a 
man old enough to be her father, falling under the fascina- 
tion of one whom, under happier auspices, she might have 
wedded with happiness and honor, she takes the law into her 
own hands. As a recent French critic says, the loves of 
Vronsky and Anna are almost chaste. But lovely though 
she be, intellectual and brilliant, the highest type of a 
woman of the best society, she finds that she cannot defy 
the law. The mills of the gods grind slowly, but the end is 
inevitable. . 

Polevoi, in his illustrated ‘‘ History of Russian Litera- 
ture,’’ says of this story: ‘* Count Tolstoi dwells with espe- 
cial fondness on the sharp contrast between the frivolity, 
the tinsel brightness, the tumult and vanity, of the worldly 
life, and the sweet, holy calm enjoyed by those who, pos- 
sessing the soil, live amid the beauties of Nature and the 
pleasures of the family.’’ This contrast will strike the 
attention of every reader. It is the outgrowth of Count 


iv INTRODUCTION. 


Tolstoi’s own life, a brief sketch of which may be accept- 
able. 

Count Lyof Nikolayevitch Tolstoi was born on the 28th 
of August, 0. s. 1828, at Yasnaia Polyana, in the Govern- 
ment of Tula. His father was a retired lieutenant-colonel, 
_ who traced his ancestry to Count Piotr Andreyevitch Tolstoi, 
a friend and companion of Peter the Great. His mother 
was the Princess Marya Nikolayevna Volkonskaia, the only 
daughter of Prince Nikolai Sergeyevitch Volkonsky. She 
died when he was but two years old; and a distant relative, 
Tatyana Aleksandrovna Yergolskaia, took charge of the 
training of the family. In 1838 they all went to live in 
Moscow, where the eldest son, Nikolai, was pursuing his 
studies in the university. But the following summer the 
father died suddenly, leaving his affairs in confusion; and 
Theodore Russell, the German tutor, and Prosper Saint 
Thomas, the French tutor, both of whom figure in Count 
Tolstoi’s novels, had to be dismissed; and the family was 
divided. The two elder brothers remained in Moscow with 
their paternal aunt, the Countess Aleksandra Ilinishna 
Osten-Sacken; and Lyof, with his brother Dmitri and his 
sister Marya, were taken back to Yasnaia Polyana by Ma- 
dame Yergolskaia. Here they enjoyed a rather desultory 
education, — now under German tutors, and now under Rus- 
sian seminarists. In 1840 the Countess Osten-Sacken died ; 
and all the Tolstois were taken by their paternal aunt, 
Pelagia Ilinishna Yushkovaia, who lived with her husband 
at Kazan. Nikolai left the University of Moscow, and 
entered that of Kazan. 

In 1843 Count Lyof also entered the university, and took 
up the study of Oriental languages ; but at the end of a year 
he exchanged that course for the law, which occupied his 
attention for two years more. But when his brothers passed 
their final examination, and went back to the old estate, he 
suddenly determined to leave the university without gradu- 
ation, and returned to Yasnaia Polyana, where he lived until 
1851. In that year his favorite brother, Nikolai, came home 
from the Caucasus, where he was serving. He inspired 
Count Lyof with ‘‘ the desire to see new lands, and new 
people.”? He returned with Nikolai, and found the splendid 
scenery and the wild, unconventional life of this region, 
which Pushkin, Lermontof, and other great Russian poets 
had described in their verse, so fascinating, that he entered 


INTRODUCTION. Vv 


the service, as a yunker in the fourth battery of the Twen- 
tieth Artillery Brigade, where his brother held the rank of 
captain. 

Here in the Caucasus, Count Tolstoi first began to write 
fiction. He planned a great romance, which should embrace 
his early recollections and the traditions of his family. 
His three stories, ‘‘ Infancy’’ (Dyetstvo), ‘* Adolescence ”’ 
(Otrotchestvo), and ‘* Youth’? (Yunost). ‘* Youth’’ was 
published in 1852, in the ‘‘ Contemporary ’’ (Sovremennik). 
In the Caucasus he also wrote his popular sketches of war- 
‘life, ‘*The Incursion’’ (Nabyeg), ‘‘The Cutting of the 
Forest’’ (Rubka Lyesa), and his novel, ‘* The Cossaks’’ 
(Kazaki), which did not appear till later. 

Count Tolstoi lived nearly three years in the Caucasus, 
taking part in numerous expeditions, and enduring all the 
privations which fell to the lot of the common soldiers. He 
thus gathered the materials for his remarkable ‘* War 
Sketches’? (Voyennuie Razskazui). When the Eastern 
war broke out, Count Tolstoi was transferred, at his own 
request, to the army of the Danube, and was on Prince M. 
D. Gortchakof’s staff. Later he took part in the famous 
defence of Sevastépol, and was promoted to the rank of 
division commander. After the storming of Sevastépol, he 
was sent as special courier to St. Petersburg. At this time 
he wrote his two sketches, ‘‘ Sevastépol in December,’’ and 
*¢ Sevastépol in May.’’- After the war he retired to private 
life, and for several years spent the winter months in Pe- 
tersburg and Moscow, and his summers on his estate. These 
years were the culmination of his literary activity. His 
story, ‘‘ Youth’’ (Yunost), which he had written in Cir- 
passia, as well as the tales, ‘‘ Sevastépol in August,’’ ‘* The 
Two Hussars,’’ and ‘‘ The Three Deaths,’’ appeared about | 
the same time, in the magazines. He began to be recog- 
nized as one of Russia’s greatest writers. 

The emancipation of the serfs [krestyanins], in 1861, 
stirred his interest in agronomic questions; and, like Kon- 
stantin Levin, he went to study these questions in other coun- 
tries of Europe. He also felt it his duty to live constantly 
on his estate ; and he became justice, or judge, of the peace 
[mirovot sudyd], and was interested in the establishment of 
& pedagogical journal, called after the name of the place, 
““Yasnaia Polyana.’’ In 1862 he married Sofia Andreyevna 

Beers, the daughter of a Moscow doctor, who held a chair in the 


vi INTRODUCTION. 


university, and whose wife’s family estates were situated 
not far from Yasnaia Polyana. He had already published his 
story, ‘‘ War and Peace ”’ [ Voind i Mir], which described the 
events of the year 1812 with a master-hand. Great things 
were predicted and expected of Count Tolstoi; but he de- 
voted himself with renewed interest to his efforts in the direc- 
tion of popular education, and, for more than ten years, 
published nothing but spellers and readers for the use of 
district schools. 

In 1873 a famine was raging in a distant province; and 
Count Tolstoi wrote a brief and telling letter to one of the 
Moscow newspapers, drawing public attention to it. He 
also went personally to the famine-stricken province, and 
made a report upon the condition of the peasantry, and what 
he saw. The letter had its effect, and help was sent, both by 
government and by private individuals. 

_In 1875 Count Tolstoi began the publication of ‘¢ Anna 
Karénina’’ in the pages of the ‘‘ Russian Messenger ’”’ 
[Russki Vyestnik]. The publication of this work con- 
tinued, not for menths alone, but for years, and still kept 
public attention. Not even a break of some months be- 
tween two of the parts was sufficient to cool the interest 
of its readers. Its power is immense. After reading it, real 
life seems like fiction, and fiction like real life. There is 
not a detail added that does not increase the effect of this 
realism. In certain scenes, indeed, the realism is too intense 
for our Puritan taste; and, perforce, several of these scenes 
have been more or less modified in the present translation. 
For the most part, the translation follows the original. In 
order to preserve, so far as possible, the Russian flavor of 
the story, many characteristic Russian words have been em- 
ployed, always accompanied by their meaning, and generally 
accented properly. A glossary of those used more than once 
will be found. This use of Russian words was adopted after 
some deliberation, and in spite of the risk of seeming affec- 
tation. The spelling of these words, and of the proper 
names, is a bog in which it is almost impossible not to get 
foundered. Consistency would seem to demand one of two 
courses, — either to spell all words as they are spelled in 
Russian, or to spell them as they are pronounced. Accord- 
ing to the first method, the name Catherine would be spelled 
Ekaterina; according to the other, Yekatyerina. According 
to the one, the word for father would be otets; according to 


INTRODUCTION. Vii 


the other, atyets. The translator lays not the slightest claim 
to consistency. The same letter he has sometimes repre- 
sented by the diphthong ia, sometimes by ya. He has also 
used the numerous diminutives for proper names, which are 
so characteristic of Russian ; and, in order that there may be 
no confusion, he has made a list of the principal characters, 
with their aliases. ‘The Russians use many interjections ; 
and the simpler of them have been introduced, for the same 
purpose of imparting the foreign flavor. In some cases, the 
terms ‘‘Madame’’ and ‘‘Mr.’”’ have been used; but in 
Russian, the difference in sex is shown by the termination. 
Thus, the wife of Alekséi Aleksandrovitch Karénin is spoken 
of either as Anna Arkadyevna, or simply as Karénina. 
Thus, Prince Tverskoi and the Princess Tverskaia. It will 
be noticed that all characters bear two names besides the 
family name. The first is the baptismal name, the second 
is the patronymic. Thus, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch means 
Alexis, the son of Alexander: Anna Arkadyevna means 
Anna, the daughter of Arcadius. This nomenclature is a 
relic of the patriarchal family system, and is paralleled in 
many countries: as, for example, in Scotland, where Tam 
MacTavish means Thomas Davidson; or in Wales, where 
every man has an Ap to his name. The term translated 
*¢ prince,’’ perhaps, needs some explanation. A Russian 
prince may be a boot-black or a ferryman. ‘The word kniaz 
denotes a descendant of any of the hundreds of petty rulers, 
who, before the time of the unification of Russia, held the 
land. They all claim descent from the semi-mythical Rurik ; 
and as every son of a kniaz bears the title, it may be easily 
imagined how numerous they are. The term prince, there- 
fore, is really a too high-sounding title to represent it. 

It need scarcely be added, after what has been said of the 
author, that he has evidently painted himself in the character 
of Levin. His fondness for the muzhik, his struggles with 
doubts, his final emergence into the light of faith, are ali 
paralleled in this country proprietor, whose triumph brings 
the book to a close. It is interesting to turn from ‘‘ My 
Religion ’’ to the evolution of this character, who seems 
vaguely to forebode some such spiritual transformation. At 
all events, the teaching of the story cannot fail to be con- 
sidered in the highest degree moral and stimulating. 


NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. 


CHIEF PERSONS OF THE STORY. 





Alekséi Aleksandrovitch Karénin. 

Anna Arkadyevna Karénina. 

Count Alekséi Kirillovitch Vronsky (Alosha). 

His mother, Countess Vronskaia. 

Prince (Kniaz) Stepan Arkadyevitch Oblonsky (Stiva). 

Princess (Kniagina) Darya Aleksandrovna Oblonskaia (Dolly, Dé- 
linka, Dashenka). 

Konstantin (Kostia) Dmitriyevitch (Dmitritch) Levin, proprietor of 
Pokrovsky. 

His half-brother, Sergéi Ivanovitch (Ivanuitch, Ivanitch) Koznuishef. 

Prince Aleksander Shcherbatsky. 

Princess Shcherbatskaia. 

Their daughter, Ekaterina (Kitty, Katyonka, Katerina, Katya) Alek- 
sandrovna Shcherbatskaia, afterwards Levina. 


viii 


ANNA KARENINA. 


-~ 4 
“—? 





PART I. 


** Vengeance is mine, I will repay.” 


I. 


Aut happy families resemble one another, every unhappy 
family is unhappy after its own fashion. 

Confusion reigned in the house of the Oblonskys. The 
wife had discovered that her husband was too attentive tu 
the French governess who had been in their employ, and sh= 
declared that she could not live in the same house with him. 
For three days this situation had lasted, and the torment was 
felt by the parties themselves and by all the members of the 
family and the domestics. All the members of the family 
and the domestics felt that there was no sense in their trying 
to live together longer, and that in every hotel people who 
meet casually had more mutual interests than they, the 
members of the family and the domestics of the house of 
Oblonsky. Madame did not come out of her own rooms: it 
was now the third day that the husband had not been at 
home. The children ran over the whole house as though 
they were crazy ; the English maid quarrelled with the house- 
keeper and wrote to a friend, begging her to find her a new 
place. The head cook went off the evening before just at 
dinner-time; the black cook and the coachman demanded 
their wages. . 

On the third day after the quarrel, Prince Stepan Arkad-. 
yevitch Oblonsky — Stiva, as he was known in society — 
awoke at the usual hour, that is to say about eight o’clock. 
not in his wife’s chamber, but in his library, on a leather- 

5 


6 ANNA KARENINA. 


covered lounge. He turned his pampered form over on the 
springs of the lounge. In his efforts to catch another nap, 
he took the cushion and hugged it close to his other cheek. 
But suddenly he sat up and opened his eyes. 

‘* Well, well! how was it?’’ he thought, recalling a dream. 
‘¢ Yes, how was it? Yes! Alabin gave a dinner at Darm- 
stadt ; no, not at Darmstadt, but it was something American. 
Yes, but this Darmstadt was in America. Yes, Alabin gave 
a dinner on glass tables, yes, and the tables sang, ‘ J1 mio 
tesoro;’ no, not ‘ Il mio tesoro,’ but something better; and 
some little decanters, they were women !’’ said he, continuing 
his recollections. 

Prince Stepan’s eyes gleamed with joy and he smiled as 
he thought, ‘* Yes, it was good, very good. It was extremely 
elegant, but you can’t tell it in words, and you can’t express 
the reality even in thought.’’ Then noticing a ray of sun- 
light that came through the side of one of the heavy curtains, 
he gayly set foot down from the lounge, found his gilt leather 
slippers — they had been embroidered for him by his wife the 
year before as a birthday present — and according to the old 
custom which he had kept up for nine years, without rising, 
he stretched out his hand to the place where in his chamber 
he hung his dressing-gown. And then he suddenly remem- 
bered how and why he had slept, not in his wife’s chamber, 
but in the library; the smile vanished from his face and he 
frowned. 

*¢ Ach! ach! ach! ah,’’ he groaned, recollecting every thing 
that had occurred. And before his mind arose once more 
all the details of the quarrel with his wife, all the hopeless- 
ness of his situation, and most lamentable of all, his own 
fault. | 

‘¢No! she will not and she can not forgive me. And 
what is the worst of it, ’twas all my own fault—my own. 
fault, and yet I am not to blame. It’s all like a drama,’’ he 
thought. ‘* Ach! ach! ach!’’ he kept murmuring in his 
despair, as he revived the unpleasant memories of this 
quarrel. 

Most disagreeable of all was that first moment when 
returning from the theatre, happy and self-satisfied, with a 
monstrous pear for his wife in his hand, he did not find her 
in the sitting-room, did not find her in the library, and at 
last saw her in her chamber holding the fatal letter which 
revealed all. 


ANNA KARENINA. 7 


She, his Dolly, this forever busy and fussy and foolish 
creature as he always looked upon her, sat motionless with 
the note in her hand, and looked at him with an expression 
of terror, despair and wrath. 

** What is this? This?’’ she demanded, pointing to the 
note. - 

Prince Stepan’s torment at this recollection was caused 
less by the fact itself than by the answer which he gave to 
these words of his wife. His experience at that moment 
was the same that other people have had when unexpectedly 
caught in some shameful deed. He was unable to prepare 
his face for the situation caused by his wife’s discovery of 
his sin. Instead of getting offended, or denying it, or jus- 
tifying himself, or asking forgiveness, or showing indiffer- 
ence — any thing would have been better than what he really 
did — in spite of himself, by a reflex action of the brain as 
Stepan Arkadyevitch explained it, for he loved Physiology, 
absolutely in spite of himself he suddenly smiled with his 
ordinary good-humored and therefore stupid smile. 

He could not forgive himself for that stupid smile. When 
Dolly saw that smile, she trembled as with physical pain, 
poured forth a torrent of bitter words, quite in accordance 
with her natural temper, and fled from the room. Since that 
time she had not wanted to see her husband. 

‘¢'That stupid smile caused the whole trouble,’’ thought 
Stepan Arkadyevitch. 

‘*¢ But what is to be done about it?’’ he asked himself in 
despair, and found no answer. 


II. 


StepaAN ARKADYEVITCH was a sincere man as far as he him- 
self was concerned. He could not deceive himself and per- 
suade himself that he repented of what he had done. He 
could not feel sorry that he, a handsome, susceptible man of 
four and thirty, did not now love his wife, the mother of his 
seven children, five of whom were living, though she was 
only a year his junior. He regretted only that he had not 
succeeded in hiding it better from her. But he felt the whole 
weight of the situation and pitied his wife, his children and 
himself. Possibly he would have had better success in 
deceiving his wife had he realized that this news would have 


8 ANNA KARENINA. 


had such an effect upon her. Evidently this view of it had 
never occurred to him before, but he had a dim idea that his 
wife was aware of his infidelity and looked at it through her 
fingers. As she had lost her freshness, was beginning to 
look old, was no longer pretty and far from distinguished 
and entirely commonplace, though she was an excellent ma- 
tron, he had thought that she would allow her innate sense 
of justice to plead for him. But it proved to be quite the 
contrary. 

‘¢Q how wretched! ay! ay! ay!’’ said Prince Stepan to 
himself over and over. He could not collect his thoughts. 
‘¢ And how well every thing was going until this happened ! 
How delightfully we lived! She was content, happy with 
the children; I never interfered with her in any way, I 
allowed her to do as she pleased with the children and the 
household! To be sure it was bad that she had been our 
own governess; ’twas bad. There is something trivial and 
common in playing the gallant to one’s own governess! But 
what a governess! [He gave a quick thought to Mlle. Ro- 
land’s black roguish eyes and her smile.] But as long as she 
was here in the house with us I did not permit myself any 
liberties. And the worst of all is that she is already... . 
Every thing happens just to spite me. Ay! ay! ay! But 
what, what is to be done? ’”’ 

There was no answer except that common answer which 
life gives to all the most complicated and insoluble questions. 
Her answer is this: You must live according to circum. 
stances, in other words, forget yourself. But as you cannot 
forget yourself in sleep— at least till night, as you cannox 
return to that music which the decanter-women sang, there- 
fore you must forget yourself in the dream of life! 

‘¢ We shall see by and by,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch to 
himself, and rising he put on his gray dressing-gown with 
blue silk lining, tied the tassels into a hasty knot, and took 
a full breath into his ample lungs. Then with his usual firm 
step he went over to the window, where he lifted the curtain 
and loudly rang the bell. It was answered by his old friend, 
the valet de chambre Matvé, bringing his clothes, boots and a 
telegram. Behind Matvé came the barber with the shaving 
utensils. 

‘¢ Are there any papers from the court-house?’’ asked 
Stepan Arkadyevitch, taking the telegram ard p!acing him- 
seif before the mirror. 


1?? 


ANNA KARENINA. 9 


. - On the breakfast-table,’’ replied Matvé, looking 
with inquiry and interest at his master, and after an instant’s 
pause added with a cunning smile, ‘‘I just came from the 
boss of the livery-stable.”’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch answered not a word, but he looked 
at Matvé in the mirror. In their interchange of glances it 
could be seen how they understood each other. The look of 
Stepan Arkadyevitch seemed to ask, ‘‘ Why did you say 
that? Don’t you know?”’ 

Matvé thrust his hands in his sack-coat pockets, kicked out 
his leg, and with an almost imperceptible smile on his good- 
natured face, looked back to his master : — 

‘**]T ordered him to come next Sunday, and till then that 
you and I should not be annoyed without reason,’’ said he, 
with a phrase apparently ready on his tongue. 

Prince Stepan perceived that Matvé wanted to jest and | 
attract attention to himself. He tore open the telegram 
and read it, guessing at the words that were written in cipher, 
and his face brightened. 

. ‘* Matvé, sister Anna Arkadyevna is coming,’’ said 
he, staying fora moment the plump, gleaming hand of his 
barber who was trying to make a pink path through his long, 
curly whiskers. 

** Thank God,’’ cried Matvé, showing by this exclamation 
that he understood as well as his master the significance of 
this arrival, that it meant that Anna Arkadyevna, Prince 
Stepan’s loving sister, might effect a reconciliation between 
husband and wife. 

*¢ Alone or with her husband?’’ asked Matvé. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch could not speak, as the barber was 
engaged on his upper lip, but he lifted one finger. Matvé 
nodded his head toward the mirror. 

** Alone. Get her room ready?’’ 

** Report to Darya Aleksandrovna, and let her decide.’’ 

‘To Darya Aleksandrovna?’’ reported Matvé rather 
sceptically. 

‘*¢ Yes! report to her. And here, take the telegram, give 
it to her and do as she says.’ 

‘** You want to try an experiment,’’ was the thought in 
Matvé’s mind, but he only said, ‘‘I will obey! ”’ 

By this time Stepan Arkady evitch had finished his bath 
and his toilet, and was just putting on his clothes, when 
Matvé, stepping slowly with squeaking boots, and holding the 


10 ANNA KARENINA. 


telegram in his hand, returned to the room. . . . ‘The barber 
was no longer there. 

‘‘ Darya Aleksandrovna bade me tell you she is going 
away. . . . To do just as they — as you — please about it,”’ 
said Matvé with a smile lurking in his eyes. Thrusting his 
hands in his pockets, and bending his head to one side, he 
looked at his master. Stepan Arkadyevitch was silent. 
Then a good-humored and rather pitiful smile lighted up his 
handsome face. 

‘¢ Hey? Matvé?’’ he said, shaking his head. 

‘*Tt’s nothing, sir; she will come to her senses,’ an- 
swered Matvé. 

*¢ Will come to her senses? ”’ 

*¢ Egsactly.”’ 

‘¢ Do you think so? — Who is there?’’ asked Stepan Ar- 
kadyevitch, hearing the rustle of a woman’s dress behind 
the door. 

‘* It’s me,’’ said a powerful and pleasant female voice, 
and in the door-way appeared the severe and pimply face of 
Matriona Filimonoyna, the nurse. 

‘¢ Well, what is it, Matriosha?’’ asked Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch, meeting her at the door. 

Notwithstanding the fact that Stepan Arkadyevitch was 
entirely in the wrong as regarded his wife, as he himself con- 
fessed, still almost every one in the house, even the old 
nurse, Darya’s chief friend, was on his side. 

*¢ Well, what?’’ he asked gloomily. 

‘¢ You go down, sir, ask her forgiveness, just once. Per- 
haps the Lord will bring it out right. She is tormenting her- 
self grievously, and it is pitiful to see her; and every thing 
in the house is going criss-cross. The children, sir, you 
must have pity on them. Ask her forgiveness, sir! What 
is to be done? If you like to coast down hill you’ve got 
TES, 

‘¢ But she won’t accept an apology .. . 

‘¢ But you do your part. God is merciful, sir: pray to 
God.’ 

‘¢ Very well, then, come on,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, 
suddenly blushing. — ‘* Very well, let me have my things,’’ 
said he, turning to Matvé, and resolutely throwing off his 
dressing-gown. 

Matvé had every thing all ready for him, and stood 
blowing off invisible dust from the shirt stiff as a horse 


o> 


ANNA KARENINA. sR 


collar, in which he proceeded with evident satisfaction te 
invest his master’s luxurious form. 


Ii. 


Havine dressed, Stepan Arkadyevitch sprinkled himself 
with cologne, straightened the sleeves of his shirt, according 
to his wont, filled his pockets with cigarettes, portemonnaie, 
matches, and his watch with its locket and double chain, and 
shaking out his handkerchief, feeling clean, well-perfumed, 
healthy and happy in body, if not in mind, went out to the 
dining-room, where his coffee was already waiting for him, 
and next the coffee his letters and the papers from the court- 
house. | 

He read his letters. One was very disagreeable, — from 
a merchant who was negotiating for the purchase of a forest 
on his wife’s estate. It was necessary to sell this wood, 
but now there could be nothing done about it until a recon- 
ciliation was effected with his wife. Most unpleasant it was 
to think that his interests in this approaching transaction 
were complicated with his reconciliation to his wife. And 
the thought that this interest might be his motive, that his 
desire for a reconciliation with his wife was caused by his 
desire to sell the forest, this thought worried him. 

Having finished his letters Stepan Arkadyevitch took up 
the papers from the court-house, rapidly turned over the 
leaves of two deeds, made several notes with a big pencil, 
and then pushing them away, took his coffee. While he was 
drinking it he opened a morning journal still damp, and 
began to read. 

It was a liberal paper which Stepan Arkadyevitch sub- 
scribed to and read. It was not extreme in its views, but 
advocated those principles which the majority hold. And 
in spite of the fact that he was not interested in science or 
art or politics, in the true sense of the word, he strongly 
adhered to the views on all such subjects, as the majority, 
including this paper, advocated, and he changed them only 
when the majority changed; or more correctly, he did not 
change them, but they changed themselves imperceptibly. 

Prince Stepan never chose a line of action or an opinion, 
but thought and action were alike suggested to him, just as 
he never chose the shape of a hat or coat, but took those 


12 ANNA KARENINA. 


that were fashionable. And for one who lived in the upper 
ten, through the necessity of some mental activity, it was as 
indispensable to have views as to have a hat. If there was 
any reason why he preferred a liberal rather than the conser- 
vative direction which some of his circle followed, it was not 
that he found a liberal tendency more rational, but that it 
better suited his mode of life. The liberal party said that 
every thing in Russia was wretched; and the fact was, that 
Stepan Arkadyevitch had a good many debts and was decid- 
edly short of money. The liberal party said that marriage 
was a defunct institution and that it needed to be remodelled. 
And the fact was, that domestic life afforded Stepan Arkad- 
yevitch very little pleasure, and compelled him to lie, and to 
assume that it was contrary to his nature. The liberal party 
said, or rather took it for granted, that religion was only a 
curb on the barbarous portion of the community; and the 
fact was, that Stepan Arkadyevitch could not bear the 
shortest, prayer without pain, and he could not comprehend 
the necessity of all these awful and high-sounding words 
about the other world when it was so very pleasant to live in 
this. And moreover Stepan Arkadyevitch, who liked a merry 
jest, was sometimes fond of scandalizing a quiet man by say- 
ing that any one who was proud of his origin ought not to 
stop at Rurik and deny his earliest ancestor — the monkey. 
Thus the liberal side had become a habit with Stepan Arkad- 
yevitch, and he liked his paper, just as he liked his cigar 
after dinner, because of the slight haziness which it caused 
in his brain. He now read the leading editorial, which ex- 
plained how in our day a cry is raised, without reason, over 
the danger that radicalism may swallow up all the conserva- 
tive elements, and that government ought to take measures 
to crush the hydra of revolution, and how, on the contrary, 
‘¢ according to our opinion, the danger lies not in this imagi- 
nary hydra of revolution, but in the inertia of traditions 
which block progress,’’ and so on. He read through another 
article on finance in which Bentham and Mill were mentioned 
and which dropped some sharp hints for the ministry. With 
his peculiar quickness of comprehension he appreciated each 
point, — from whom and against whom and on what occasion 
each was directed; and this as usual afforded him some 
amusement. But his satisfaction was poisoned by the re- 
membrance of Matriona’s advice and by the chaos that 
reigned in the house. He read also that Count von Beust 


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ANNA KARENINA. 13 


was reported to have left for Wiesbaden, that there was to 
be no more gray hair; he read about the sale of a light car- 
riage and the offer of a young person. But these items did 
not afford him quiet satisfaction and ironical pleasure as 
ordinarily. 

Having finished his paper, his second cup of coffee, and a 
buttered kalatch, he stood up, shook the crumbs of the roll 
from his vest, and filling his broad chest, smiled joyfully, 
not because there was any thing extraordinarily pleasant in 
his mind, but the joyful smile was caused by good digestion. 

But this joyful smile immediately brought back the memory 
of every thing, and he sank into thought. 

Two children’s voices — Stepan Arkadyevitch recognized 
the voice of Grisha, his youngest boy, and Tania, his eldest 
daughter — were now heard behind the door. They brought 
something and dropped it. 

‘*¢T tell you, you can’t put passengers on top,’’ cried the 
little girl in English. — ‘* Now pick ’em up.’’ 

**Kvery thing is at sixes and sevens,’’ thought Stepan 
Arkadyevitch. ‘‘ Now here the children are, running wild! ”’ 
Then going to the door, he called to them. They dropped 
the little box which seryed them for a railway train, and ran 
to their father. 

The little girl, her father’s favorite, ran in boldly, em- 
braced him and laughingly clung around his neck, enjoying 
as usual the odor which exhaled from his whiskers. Then 
kissing his face reddened by his bending position, and 
beaming with tenderness, the little girl unclasped her hands 
and wanted to run away again, but her father held her 
back. 

‘¢ What is mamma doing ?’’ he asked, caressing his daugh- 
ter’s smooth, soft neck. ‘‘ How are you?”’ he added, smiling 
at the boy who stood saluting him. He acknowledged he 
had less love for the little boy, yet he tried to be impartial. 
But the boy felt the difference, and did not smile back in 
reply to his father’s chilling smile. 

‘¢Mamma? She’s up,’’ answered the little girl. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed, and thought, ‘‘ It shows that 
she has spent another sleepless night.’’ 

‘* What? is she happy?’’ 

The little girl knew that there was trouble between her 
father and mother, and that her mother could not be happy, 
and that her father ought to know it, and that he was dissem- 


14 ANNA KARENINA. 


bling when he asked her so lightly. And she blushed for 
her father. He instantly perceived it and also blushed. 

‘*I don’t know,’’ she said: ‘* she told me not to study, 
but she told me to go with Miss Hull over to grandmother’s.’’ 

‘¢ Well, then, run along, Tanchurotchka moya. — Oh, yes, 
wait,’’ said he, still detaining her and smoothing her delicate 
little hand. 

He took down from the mantel-piece a box of candy that 
he had placed there the day before, and gave her two pieces, 
selecting her favorite chocolate and vanilla. 

‘¢ For Grisha?’’ she asked, pointing at the chocolate. 

*¢'Yes, yes;’’ and still smoothing her soft shoulder he 
kissed her on the neck and hair, and let her go. 

‘¢ The carriage is at the door,’’ said Matvé, and he added, 
‘¢ A woman is here to ask a favor.’’ 

‘‘Has she been here long?’’ demanded Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch. | 

‘¢ Half an hour.”’ 

‘¢ How many times have you been told never to keep any 
one waiting? ”’ 

‘¢T had to get your coffee ready,’’ replied Matvé in his 
kind, rough voice, at which no one could ever take offence. 

‘¢ Well, ask her up instantly,’’ said Prince Stepan with an 
angry face. 

The petitioner, the wife of Captain Kalenin, asked some 
impossible and nonsensical favor ; but Prince Stepan, accord- 
ing to his custom, gave her a comfortable seat, listened to 
her story without interrupting, and then gave her careful 
advice to whom and how to apply, and in lively and eloquent 
style wrote in his big, scrawling, but handsome and legivle 
hand a note to the person who might be able to aid her. Havy- 
ing dismissed the captain’s wife, Stepan Arkadyevitch took 
his hat and stood for a moment trying to remember whether 
he had not forgotten something. The result was that he for- 
got nothing except what he wanted to forget — his wife. 

‘¢ Ah, yes!’’? He dropped his head, and a gloomy expres- 
sion came over his handsome face. ‘* To go, or not to go,”’ 
said he to himself; and an inner voice told him that it was 
not advisable to go, that there was no way out of it except 
through falsehood, that to straighten, to smooth out their 
relations was impossible, because it was impossible to make 
her attractive and lovable again, or to make him an old man 
insensible to passion. Nothing but falsehood and lying could 


ANNA KARENINA. 15 


come of it, and falsehood and lying were opposed to his 
nature. 

‘* But it must be done sooner or later; it can’t remain so 
always,’’ he said, striving to gain courage. He straightened 
himself, took out a cigarette, lighted it, inhaled the smoke 
two or three times, threw it into a pearl-lined ash-tray, went 
with quick steps towards the sitting-room, and opened the 
door into his wife’s sleeping-room. 


IV. 


Darya ALEKSANDROVNA, dressed in a koftotchka (or jersey) 
and surrounded by all sorts of things thrown in confusion, 
was standing in the room before an open chest of drawers 
from which she was removing the contents. She had hastily 
pinned back her hair, which now showed thin, but had once 
been thick and beautiful, and her great eyes staring from 
her pale, worn face had an expression of terror. When she 
heard her husband’s steps she turned to the door, and vainly 
tried to put on a stern and forbidding face. She knew that 
she feared him and that she dreaded the coming interview. 
She was in the act of doing what she had attempted to doa 
dozen times during the three days, and that was to gather up 
her own effects and those of her children and escape to her 
mother’s house. Yet she could not bring herself to do it. 
Now, as before, she said to herself that things could not re- 
main as they were, that she must take some measures to 
punish, to shame him in partial expiation for the pain that 
he had caused her. She still said that it was her duty to 
leave him, but she felt that it was impossible: it was impos- 
sible to get rid of the thought that he was still her husband 
and she loved him. Moreover she confessed that if in her 
own home she had barely succeeded in taking care of her 
five children, it would be far worse where she was going with 
them. Her youngest was already suffering from the effects 
of a poorly made broth, and the rest had been obliged to go 
without dinner the night before. She felt that it was impos- 
sible to go, yet for the sake of deceiving herself she was 
collecting her things under the pretence of going. 

_ When she saw her husband, she thrust her hands into the 
drawers of the bureau and did not lift her head until he was 
close to her. Then in place of the severe and determined 


16 ANNA KARENINA. 


look which she intended to assume, she turned to him a face 
full of pain and indecision. . 

‘¢ Dolly,’’ said he in a gentle subdued voice. She lifted 
her head, and gazed at him, hoping to see a humble and sub- 
missive mien; but he was radiant with fresh life and health. 
She surveyed him from head to foot with his radiant life and 
healthy face, and she thought, ‘‘ He is happy and contented 
—but I? Ah, this good nature which others find so pleas- 
ant in him is revolting to me !’’ Her mouth grew firm, the 
muscles of her right cheek contracted nervously, and she 
looked straight ahead. 

‘¢ What do you want?’’ she demanded in a quick, unnatu- 
ral tone. 

‘¢ Dolly,’’ he repeated with a quaver in his voice, ‘*‘ Anna 
is coming to-day.”’ 

‘¢ Well, what is that tome? I cannot receive her.”’ 

‘¢ Still, it must be done, Dolly.’’ 

‘*Go away! go away! go away!”’ she cried without look- 
ing at him, and as though her words were torn from her by 
physical agony. Stepan Arkadyevitch might be able to per- 
suade himself that all would come out right according to 
Matvé’s prediction, and he might be able to read his morn- 
ing paper and drink his coffee tranquilly ; but when he saw 
his wife’s anguish, and heard her piteous cry, he breathed 
hard, something rose in his throat, and his eyes filled with 
tears. ! 

‘‘My God! What have I done? for the love of God! 
See ...’’ He could not say another word for the sobs 
that choked him. | 

She shut the drawer violently, and looked at him. 

‘* Dolly, what can I say? Only one thing: forgive me. 
Just think! Cannot nine years of my life pay for a single 
minute, a minute?’’... 

She let her eyes fall, and listened to what he was going to 
say, as though she hoped that she would be undeceived. 

‘¢A single moment of temptation,’’ he ended, and was 
going to continue ; but at that word, Dolly’s lips again closed 
tight as if from physical pain, and again the muscles of her 
right cheek contracted. 

‘‘Go away, go away from here,’’ she cried still more 
impetuously, ‘‘ and don’t speak to me of your temptations 
and your wretched conduct.”’ 

She attempted to leave the room, but she almost fell, and 


> 


ANNA KARENINA. 17 


was obliged to lean upon a chair for support. Oblonsky’s 
face grew melancholy, his lips trembled, and his eyes filled 
with tears. 

‘¢ Dolly,’’ said he, almost sobbing, ‘‘ for the love of God, 
think of the children. ‘They are not to blame; I am the one 
to blame. Punish me!: Tell me how I can atone for my 
fault. . . . Iam ready todo any thing. Iamsorry! Words 
can’t express how sorry lam. Now, Dolly, forgive me!’”’ 

She sat down. He heard her quick, hard breathing, and 
his soul was filled with pity for her. She tried more than 
once to speak, but could not utter a word. He waited. 

*¢ You think of the children, because you like to play with 
them; but I think of them, too, and I know what they have 
lost,’’ said she, repeating one of the phrases that had been 
in her mind during the last three days. 

She had used the familiar tui (thou), and he looked at her 
with gratitude, and made a movement as though he would 
take her hand, but she avoided him with abhorrence. 

*¢T have consideration for my children, and I will do all in 
the world for them; but I am not sure in my own mind 
whether I ought to remove them from their father or to leave 
them with a father who is a libertine, — yes, a libertine! ... 
Now tell me after this, — this that has happened, whether we 
can live together. Is it possible? Tell me, is it possible? ’”’ 
she demanded, raising her voice. ‘* When my husband, the 
father of my children, makes love to their governess . . . 

. **But what is to be done about it? what is to be 
done? *’ said he, interrupting with broken voice, not know- 
ing what he said, and feeling thoroughly humiliated. 

‘¢ You are revolting to me, you are insulting,’’ she cried 
with increasing anger. ‘‘ Your tears... water! You never 
loved me; you have no heart, no honor. You are abomin- 
able, revolting in my eyes, and henceforth you are a stranger 
to me,— yes, a stranger,’’ and she repeated with spiteful 
anger this word ‘‘ stranger ’’ which was so terrible to her own 
ears. 

He looked at her with surprise and fear, not realizing how 
he exasperated his wife by his pity. It was the only feeling, 
as Dolly well knew, that he retained for her: all his love for 
her was dead. ‘‘ No, she hates me, she will not forgive me,”’ 
was the thought in his mind. 

‘*¢ This is terrible, terrible! ’’ he cried. 

At this moment one of the children in the next room be 


18 ANNA KARENINA. 


gan to cry, and Darya Aleksandrovna’s face softened. She 
seemed to collect her thoughts for a second like a person who 
returns to reality ; then as if remembering where she was, she 
hastened to the door. 

‘¢ At any rate she loves my child,’’ thought Oblonsky, who 
had noticed the effect on her face of the little one’s sorrow. 
‘¢ My child; how then can I seem so revolting to her?’”’ 

*¢ Dolly! one word more,”’ he said, following her. 

‘¢ Tf you follow me, I will call the domestics, the children! 
so that everybody may know that you are infamous! As 
for me, I leave this very day, and you may keep on with 
your... ’’ and she went out and slammed the door. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed, wiped his brow, and softly 
left the room. ‘* Matvé says this can be settled; but how?. 
I don’t see the possibility. Ach! Ach! how terrible! and 
how foolishly she shrieked,’’ said he to himself as he recalled 
the epithets which she applied to him. ‘‘ Perhaps the cham- 
ber-maids heard her! horribly foolish! horribly!” 

It was Friday, and in the dining-room the German clock- 
maker was winding the clocks. Stepan Arkadyevitch re- 
membered a pleasantry that he had made about this accurate 
German; how he had said that he must have been wound up 
himself for a lifetime for the purpose of winding clocks, and 
he smiled. Stepan Arkadyevitch loved a good joke. ‘* Per- 
haps it will come out all right! ’twas a good little word: 
it will come out all right,’’ he thought. _ 

‘¢Matvé!’’ he shouted; and when the old servant ap- 
peared, he said, ‘‘ Have Marya put the best room in order 
for Anna Arkadyevna.”’ 

‘¢ Very well.”’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch took his fur coat, and started down 
the steps. 

‘¢ Shall you dine at home?’’ asked Matvé as he escorted 
him down. 

‘¢That depends. Here, take this if you need to spend any 
thing,’’ said he, taking out a bill of ten rubles. ‘* Will that 
be enough? ”’ 

‘¢ Whether it is enough or not, it will have to do,”’ said 
Matvé, as he shut the carriage-door and went back to the 
house. 

Meantime Darya Aleksandrovna, having pacified the child, 
and knowing by the sound of the carriage that he was gone, 
came back to her room. This was her sole refuge from the 


ANNA KARENINA. 19 


domestic troubles that besieged her when she went out. 
_ Even during the short time that she had been in her child’s 
room the English maid and Matriona Filimonovna asked her 
all serts of questions, which she alone could answer: What 
clothes should they put on the children? should they give 
them milk? should they try to get another cook? 

*¢ Ach! leave me alone, leave me alone!”’ she cried, and 
hastened back to the chamber and sat down in the place where 
she had been talking with her husband. Then clasping her 
thin hands, on whose fingers the rings would scarcely stay, 
she reviewed the whole conversation. 

*¢ He has gone! But has he broken with her?’’ she asked 
herself. ‘* Does he still continue to see her? Why didn’t 
I ask him? No, no, we cannot live together. And if we 
continue to live in the same house, we are only strangers, 
strangers forever! ’’ she repeated, with a strong emphasis 
on the word that hurt her so cruelly. ‘*‘ How I loved him! 
my God, how I loved him! . . . How loved him! and even 
now do I not love him? DoJ not love him even more than 
before? and what is most terrible . . . ’’ she was interrupted 
by Matriona Filimonovna, who said as she stood in the door- 
way, ‘‘ Please give orders to have my brother come: he will | 
get dinner. If you don’t, it will be like yesterday, when the 
children did not have any thing to eat for six hours.”’ 

*¢ Very good, I will come and give the order. Have you 
sent for some fresh milk? ”’ 

And Darya Aleksandrovna entered into her daily tasks, - 
and for the time being forgot her sorrow. 


V. 


StepaAN ARKADYEVITCH had done well at school, thanks to 
his excellent natural gifts, but he was lazy and idle, and con- 
sequently had been at the foot of his class. Although he 
had always been gay, and took a low rank in the 7’chin, and 
was still quite young, he nevertheless held an important 
salaried position as natchalnik, or president of one of the 
courts in Moscow. This place he had won through the good 
offices of his sister Anna’s husband, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch 
Karénin, who was one of the most influential members of 
the ministry. But even if Karénin had not been able to get 
this place for Stiva Arkadyevitch, a hundred other people 


20 ANNA KARENINA. 


— brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, aunts — would have got 
it for him, or found him some place as good, together with 
the six thousand rubles’ salary which he needed for his es- — 
tablishment, his affairs being somewhat out of order in spite 
of his wife’s considerable fortune. Half the people of 
Moscow and Sf. Petersburg were relatives or friends of Ste- 
pan Arkadyevitch ; he was born into the society of the rich 
and powerful of this world. A third of the officials attached 
to the court and in government employ had been friends of 
his father, and had known him from the time when he wore 
petticoats ; the second third addressed him familiarly; the 
others were ‘* hail fellows well met.’’ He had, therefore, on 
his side all those whose function it is to dispense the blessings 
of the land in the form of places, leases, concessions, and 
such things, and who could not afford to neglect their own 
friends. Oblonsky had no trouble in obtaining an excellent 
place. His only aim was to avoid jealousies, quarrels, 
offences, which was not a difficult thing because of his nat- 
ural good temper. He would have thought it ridiculous if 
he had been told that he could not have any place that he 
wanted, with the salary attached, because it did not seem to 
him that he demanded any thing extraordinary. He only 
asked for what his companions were obtaining, and he felt 
that he was as capable as any of them of doing the work. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch was liked by every one, not only on 
account of his good and amiable character and his unim- 
peachable honesty, but for his brilliant and attractive person- 
ality. There was something in his bright, sparkling, keen 
eyes, his black brows, his hair, his vivid coloring, which 
exercised a strong physical influence on those with whom he 
came in contact. ‘* Aha, Stiva! Oblonsky! Here he: is!”’ 
people would say, with a smile of pleasure, when they saw 
him; and, though the results of meeting him were not par- 
ticularly gratifying, nevertheless people were just as glad to 
meet him the second day and the third. 

After he had filled for three years the office of natchalnik, 
Stepan Arkadyevitch had gained not only the friendship but 
also the respect of his colleagues, both those above and those 
below him in station, as well as of the citizens with whom 
he had come in contact. The qualities which gained him this 
universal esteem were, first, his extreme indulgence for every 
one, which was founded on the knowledge of what was lack- 
ing in himself; secondly, his absolute liberality, which was 


ANNA KARENINA. yA 


not the liberalism for which his journal was responsible, but 
that which flowed naturally in his veins, and caused him to 
be agreeable to every one, in whatever station in life; and 
thirdly and principally, his perfect indifference to the busi- 
ness which he transacted, so that he never lost his temper, 
and therefore never made mistakes. 

As soon as he reached his tribunal, he retired to his private 
office, solemnly accompanied by the Swiss guard who bore 
his portfolio, and, having put on his uniform, went to the 
court-room. The employés all stood up as he passed, and 
greeted him with respectful smiles. Stepan Arkadyevitch, 
in accordance with his usual custom, hastened to his place, 
and after shaking hands with the other members of the 
council, he sat down. He uttered a few familiar words, 
full of good humor, and suitable to the occasion, and then 
opened the session. No one better than he understood how 
to preserve the official tone, and, at the same time, give his 
words that impression of simplicity and good nature which 
is so useful in the expedition of official business. The 
secretary came up, and with the free and yet respectful air 
common to all who surrounded Stepan Arkadyevitch, handed 
him his papers, and spoke in the familiarly liberal tone which 
Stepan Arkadyevitch had introduced. 

‘+ We have at last succeeded in obtaining reports from the 
Government of Penza. Permit me to hand them to you.”’ 

**So we have them at last,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, 
pushing the papers away with his finger. ‘* Now, then, gen- 
tlemen .. .’’ And the proceedings began. 

‘** If they only knew,”’ he thought, as he bent his head with 
an air of importance while the report was read, ‘‘ how much 
their president, only a half-hoursince, looked like a naughty 
school-boy!’’ and his eyes shone with merriment as he 
listened to the report. The session generally lasted till two 
o’clock without interruption, and was followed by recess and 
luncheon. The hour had not yet struck, when the great glass 
doors of the hall were thrown open, and some one entered. 
All the members of the council, glad of any diversion, turned 
round to look; but the door-keeper instantly ejected the in- 
truder, and shut the door upon him. 

After the matter under consideration was settled, Stepan 
Arkadyevitch arose, and in a spirit of sacrifice to the liberal- 
ism of the time took out his cigarette, while still in the court- 
room, and then passed into his private office. Two of his 


92 ANNA KARENINA. 


colleagues, the aged veteran Nikitin, and the kammer-junker 
Grinevitch, followed him. 

‘*There’ll be time enough to finish after lunch,’’ saiq 
Oblonsky. 

‘¢] think so,’’ replied Nikitin. 

‘¢ This Famin must be a precious rascal,’’ said Grinevitch, 
alluding to one of the characters in the matter which they 
had been investigating. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch knit his brows at Grinevitch’s words, 
as though to signify that it was not the right thing to form 
snap-judgments, and he remained silent. 

‘¢ Who was it came into the court-room?’’ he demanded 
of the door-keeper. 

‘¢ Some one who entered without permission, your Excel- 
lency, while my back was turned. He wanted to see you: I 
said, ‘ When the session is over, then’ ’? — 

*¢ Where is he?’’ 

‘¢ Probably in the vestibule: he was there a moment ago. 
Ah! here he is,’’ said the door-keeper, pointing to a fair- 
complexioned, broad-shouldered man with curly hair, who, 
neglecting to remove his sheep-skin shapka, was lightly and 
quickly running up the well-worn steps of the stone stair- 
case. An employé, on his way down, with portfolio under 
his arm, stopped to look, with some indignation, at the feet 
of the young man, and turned to Oblonsky with a glance of 
inquiry. Stepan Arkadyevitch stood at the top of the stair- 
case: his bright face, set off by the broad collar of his uni- 
form, was still more radiant when he recognized the visitor. 

‘‘ Here he is at last,’’ he cried with a friendly though 
slightly ironical smile, as he looked at Levin. ‘* What! you 
got tired of waiting for me, and have come to find me in this 
den?’’ he said, not satisfied with pressing his friend’s hand, 
but kissing him affectionately. ‘‘ When did you arrive? ”’ 

‘*] just got here, and was very anxious to see you,’’ said 
Levin timidly, as he looked about him with distrust and 
scorn. 

‘¢ All right! Come into my office,’’ said Stepan Arkad- 
yevitch, who was aware of the egotistic sensitiveness of his 
visitor ; and, as though he wanted to avoid some danger, he 
took him by the hand to show him the way. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch addressed almost all his acquaint- , 
ances with the familiar ‘‘tui’’ (‘‘thou’’),— old men of 
threescore, young men of twenty, actors and ministers, mer- 


ANNA KARENINA. 28 


chants and generals, all with whom he had ever drunken 
champagne — and with whom had he not drunken champagne ? 
Among the people thus brought into his intimacy in the two 
extremes of the social scale, there would have been some 
astonishment to know that, thanks to him, there was some- 
thing in common among them. But when in presence of his 
inferiors, he came in contact with any of his shameful inti- 
mates, as he jestingly called some of his acquaintances, he 
had the tact to save them from disagreeable impressions. 
Levin was not one of his shameful intimates. He was a 
friend of his boyhood; but Oblonsky felt that it might be 
unpleasant to make a public exhibition of their intimacy, 
and therefore he hastened to withdraw with him. Levin was 
about the same age as Oblonsky, and their intimacy arose 
not only from champagne, but because, in spite of the differ- 
ence in their characters and their tastes, they were fond of 
each other in the way of friends who had grown up together. 
But, as often happens among men who move in different 
spheres, each allowed his reason to approve of the character 
of the other, while each at heart really despised the other, 
and believed his own mode of life to be the only rational way 
of living. At the sight of Levin, Oblonsky could not repress 
an ironical smile. How many times had he seen him in Mos- 
cow just in from the country, where he had been doing some- 
thing great, though Oblonsky did not know exactly what, 
and scarcely took any interest in it. Levin always came to 
Moscow anxious, hurried, a trifle vexed, and vexed because 
he was vexed, and generally bringing with him new and un- 
expected ideas about life and things. Stepan Arkadyevitch 
laughed at this and yet liked it. Levin for his part despised 
the life which his friend led in Moscow, treated his official 
employment with light scorn, and made sport of him. But 
Oblonsky took this ridicule in good part, like a man sure of 
being in the right; while Levin, because he was not assured 
in his own mind, sometimes got angry. 

‘¢We have been expecting you for some time,”’ said Ste- 
pan Arkadyevitch, as he entered his office, and let go his 
friend’s hand to show that the danger was past. ‘‘I am 
very, very glad to see you,’’ he continued. ‘* How goes it? 
how are you? When did you come?”’ 

Levin was silent, and looked at the unknown faces of 
Oblonsky’s two colleagues. The elegant Grinevitch was 
completely absorbed in studying his white hands, and his fin- 


94 ANNA KARENINA. 


gers with their long, yellow, and pointed nails, and his cuffs 
with their huge, gleaming cuff-buttons. Oblonsky noticed 
what he was doing, and smiled. 

‘¢ Ah, yes,’’ said he, ‘‘ allow me to make you acquainted : 
my colleagues, Filipp Ivanuitch Nikitin, Mikhail Stanisla- 
vitch Grinevitch ;’’ then turning to Levin, ‘‘ A landed pro 
prietor, a rising man, a member of the zemstvo, and a 
gymnast who can lift five puds [two hundred pounds] with 
one hand, a raiser of cattle, a celebrated hunter, and my 
friend, Konstantin Dmitriévitch Levin, the brother of Sergéi 
Ivanuitch Koznuishef.’’ 

‘¢ Very happy,’’ said the oldest of the company. ‘‘I have 
the honor of knowing your brother, Sergéi Ivanuitch,’’ said 
Grinevitch, extending his delicate hand. Levin’s face grew 
dark: he coldly shook hands, and turned to Oblonsky. Al- 
though he had much respect for his half-brother, a writer 
universally known in Russia, it was none the less unpleasant 
for him to be addressed, not as Konstantin Levin, but as the 
brother of the famous Koznuishef. 

‘¢ No, I am not doing any thing any more. I have quar- 
relled with everybody, and I don’t go to the assemblies,”’ 
said he to Oblonsky. 

‘¢ This is a sudden change,’’ said the latter with a smile. 
‘* But how? why?’’ 

‘*It is a long story, and I will tell it some other time,”’ | 
replied Levin; but he nevertheless went on to say, ‘* To 
make a ldng story short, I am convinced that no action 
amounts to any thing, or can amount to any thing, in our 
provincial assemblies. On the one hand, they try to play 
Parliament, and I am not young enough and not old enough 
to amuse myself with toys; and, on the other hand,’’ —he 
hesitated, — ‘‘ this serves the coterie of the district to make 
a few pennies. There used to be guardianships, judgments ; 
but now we have the zemstvo, not in the way of bribes, but 
in the way of absorbing salaried offices.’’ He said these 
words with some heat and with the manner of a man who 
expects to be contradicted. 

‘¢ Aha! here we find you in a new phase: you are becom- 
ing a conservative,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘* Well, 
we’ll speak about this by and by.’’ 

‘¢' Yes, by and by. But I want to see you particularly,” 
said Levin, looking with scorn at Grinevitch’s hand. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled imperceptibly. ‘‘ Didn’t you 


ANNA KARENINA. 25 


say that you would never again put on European clothes? ”’ 
he asked, examining the new suit made by a French tailor, 
which his friend wore. ‘‘Indeed, I see: ’tis a new 
phase.”’ 

Levin suddenly blushed, not as grown men blush without 
perceiving it, but as timid and absurd boys blush; and it 
made him grow still redder. It gave his intelligent, manly 
face such a strange appearance that Oblonsky ceased to look 
at him. . 

‘¢ But where can we meet? I must have a talk with you,”’ 
said Levin. 

Oblonsky reflected. ‘‘ How is this? We will go and take 
lunch at Gurin’s, and we can talk there. At three o’clock 
I shall be free.’’ 

‘¢ No,’’ answered Levin after a moment’s thought: ‘‘ I’ve 
got to take a drive.”’ 

‘¢ Well, then, let us dine together.’’ 

‘¢Dine? But I have nothing very particular to say, only 
two words, a short sentence: afterwards we can gossip.’’ 

‘¢In that case, speak your two words now: we will talk 
while we are dining.”’ 

‘¢These two words are— But, however, they are not 
very important.’’ His face assumed a hard expression, due 
to his efforts to conquer his timidity. ‘* What are the Shcher- 
batskys doing ? — just as they used to?”’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch had long known that Levin was in 
love with his sister-in-law Kitty. He smiled, and his eyes 
flashed gayly. ‘* You have said your say in two words; but 
I cannot answer in two words, because — excuse me a 
moment.”’ 

The secretary came in at this juncture with his familiar 
but respectful bearing, and with that modest assumption 
peculiar to all secretaries that he knew more about business 
than his superior. He brought some papers to Oblonsky ; 
and under the form of a question, he attempted to explain 
some difficulty. Without waiting to hear the end of the 
explanation, Stepan Arkadyevitch laid his hand confiden- 
tially on the secretary’s arm. ‘‘ No, do as I asked you to,”’ 
said he, tempering his remark with a smile; and, having 
briefly given his own explanation of the matter, he pushed 
away the papers, and said, ‘‘ Do it so, I beg of you, Zakhar 
Nikititch.’’ The secretary went off confused. Levin during 
this little interview had collected his thoughts ; and, standing 


26 ANNA KARENINA. 


behind a chair on which he rested his elbows, he listened 
with ironical attention. 

‘¢T don’t understand, I don’t understand,’’ he said. 

‘¢ What is it that you don’t understand ?’’ asked Oblonsky, 
smiling, and hunting for a cigarette. He was expecting 
some sort of strange outbreak from Levin. 

‘¢T don’t understand what you are up to,’’ said Levin, 
shrugging his shoulders. ‘‘ How can you take this sort of 
thing seriously ? ”’ 

‘¢ Why not?’ 

‘¢ Why, because, because — it doesn’t mean any thing.’’ 

‘¢You think so? On the contrary, we have more work 
than we can do.’’ 

‘¢ Business on paper! Well, yes, you have a special gift 
for such things,’’ added Levin. 

‘¢ You mean that I — there is something that I lack? ”’ 

‘¢ Perhaps so, yes. However, I cannot help admiring 
your high and mighty ways, and rejoicing that I have fora 
friend a man of such importance. Meantime, you have not 
answered my question,’’ he added, making a desperate effort 
to look Oblonsky full in the face. 

‘¢ Well, then, very good, very good! Keep it up, and you 
will succeed. ’Tis well that you have three thousand desyatins 
of land in the district of Karazinsk, such muscles, and the 
complexion of a little girl of twelve; but you will succeed 
all the same. Yes, as to what you asked me. ‘There is no 
change, but I am sorry that it has been so long since you 
were in town.”’ 

‘¢ Why?’’ demanded Levin. 

‘* Because ’’ — replied Oblonsky; ‘‘ but we will talk 
things over by and by. What brought you now?”’ 

‘¢ Ach! we will speak also of that by and by,’’ said Levin, 
blushing to his very ears. 

‘¢Very good. I understand you,”’ said Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch. ‘* Do you see? I should have invited you to dine 
with me at home, but my wife is not well to-day. If you 
want to see them, you will find them at the Zodlogical Gar- 
dens from four to five. Kitty is off skating. Good-by now: 
I will join you later, and we will go and get dinner together.”’ 

“* Excellent. Aw revoir! ’’ 

Levin left the room, and only remembered when he had 
yassed the door that he had forgotten to salute Oblonsky’s 
colleagues. 


ANNA KARENINA. 27 


«‘ That must be a man of great energy,’’ said Grinevitch, 
after Levin had taken his departure. 

‘* Yes, batiushka’’ (papa), said Stepan Arkadyevitch, throw- 
ing his head back. ‘‘ He is a likely fellow. Three thousand 
desyatins (8,100 acres) in the Karazinsk district! He has a 
future before him, and how young he is! He is not like the 
rest of us.’’ 

‘* What have you to complain about, Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch? ”’ 

‘** Yes, every thing goes wrong,”’ replied Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch, drawing a deep sigh. 


VI. 


Wuewn Oblonsky asked Levin what had brought him to 
Moscow, Levin blushed, and he was angry because he 
blushed ; but how could he have replied, ‘‘I have come to 
ask the hand of your sister-in-law’’? Yet that was what 
had brought him. 

The Levin and Shcherbatsky families, belonging to the 
old nobility of Moscow, had always been on friendly terms. 
While Levin was studying at the university the intimacy had 
grown closer, on account of his friendship with the young 
Prince Shcherbatsky, the brother of Dolly and Kitty, who 
was following the same course of study. At that time 
Levin was a frequent visitor at Shcherbatsky’s house, and, 
strange as it may seem, was in love with the whole family, 
especially the feminine portion. Konstantin Levin had lost 
his mother when he was a baby; and as he had only a sister, 
who was much older than he was, he found in the house of 
the Shche~batskys that charming life so peculiar to the old 
nobility, and of which the death of his parents had deprived 
him. All the members of this family, but especially the 
ladies, seemed to him to be surrounded with a mysterious 
and poetic halo. Not only did he fail to discover any faults 
in them, but he gave them credit for the loftiest sentiments 
and the most ideal perfections. Why these three young 
ladies were obliged to speak French and English every day ; 
why they had, one after the other, to play for hours at a 
time on the piano, the sounds of which floated up to their 
brother’s room, where the young students were at work ; why 
professors of French literature, of music, of dancing, of 


28 ANNA KARENINA. 


drawing, came to give them lessons; why the three young 
ladies, at a fixed hour in the day, accompanied by Mlle. 
Linon, were obliged to stop tneir carriage on the Tverskoi 
boulevard, and, under the protection of a liveried valet 
with a gilt cockade on his hat, walk up and down in their 
satin shubkas, Dolly’s very long, Natalie’s of half length, 
and Kitty’s very short, showing her shapely ankles and red 
stockings, — all these things and many others were abso- 
lutely incomprehensible to him. But he felt that all that 
passed in this mysterious sphere was perfect, and from the 
mystery arose his love. 

Even while he was a student he felt his first passion for 
Dolly, the eldest; she married Oblonsky: then he imagined 
that he was in love with the second, for he felt it to be a 
necessity to love one of the three. But Natali entered 
society, and soon married the diplomat, Lvof. Kitty was 
only a child when Levin left the university. Shortly after 
young Shcherbatsky joined the fleet, and was drowned in the 
Baltic; and Levin’s relations with the family became more 
distant, in spite of the friendship which attached him to 
Oblonsky. At the beginning of the winter, however, after 
a year’s absence in the country, he had met the Shcherbat- 
skys again, and learned for the first time which of the three 
he was destined to love. 

It seemed as if there could be nothing easier for a young 
man of thirty-two, of good family, possessed of a handsome 
fortune, and likely to be regarded as an eligible suitor, than 
to ask the young Princess Shcherbatskaia in marriage, and 
probably Levin would have been received with open arms. 
But he was in love. Kitty in his eyes was a creature so ac- 
complished, her superiority was so ideal, and he judged him- 
self so severely, that he was unwilling to admit, even in 
thought, that others or Kitty herself would allow him to 
aspire to her hand. 

Having spent two months in Moscow, as in a dream, meet- 
ing Kitty every day in society, which he allowed himself to 
frequent on account of her, he suddenly took his departure 
for the country, having concluded that this alliance was im- 
possible. His decision was reached after reasoning that in 
the eyes of her parents he had no position to offer that was 
worthy of her, and that Kitty herself did not love him. His 
comrades were colonels or staff-officers, distinguished profess- 
ors, bank directors, railway officials, presidents of tribunais 





4NNA KARENINA. 29 


like Oblonsky, but he —and he knew very well how he was 
regarded by his friends — was only a pomyéshchik, or country 
proprietor, busy with his land, building farmhouses, and 
hunting woodcock : in other words, he had taken the direction 
of those who, in the eyes of society, have made a failure. 
He was not full of illusions in regard to himself: he knew 
that he was regarded as a good-for-nothing. And, moreover, 
how could the charming and poetic Kitty love a man as ill- 
favored and dull as he was? His former relations with her, 
while he had been intimate with her brother, were those of a 
grown man with a child, and seemed to him only an additional 
obstacle. 

It is possible, he thought, for a girl to love a stupid man 
like himself; but he must be good-looking, and show high 
qualities, if he is to be loved with a love such as he felt for 
Kitty. He had heard of women falling in love with ill- 
favored, stupid men, but he did not believe that such would 
be his own experience, just as he felt that it would be impos- 
sible for him to love a woman who was not beautiful, brilliant, 
and poetic. 

But, having spent two months in the solitude of the coun- 
try, he became convinced that the passion which consumed 
him was not ephemeral, like his youthful enthusiasms, and 
that he could not live without settling this mighty question 
— whether she would, or would not, be his wife. After all, 
there was no absolute certainty that she would refuse him. 
He therefore returned to Moscow with the firm intention of 
marrying her if she would accept him. If not... he could 
not think what would become of him. 


VII. 


Comiwe to Moscow by the morning train, Levin had 
stopped at the house of his half-brother, Koznuishef. After 
making his toilet, he went to the library with the intention 
of making a clean breast of it, and asking his advice; but 
his brother was engaged. He was talking with a famous 
professor of philosophy who had come up from Kharkof ex- 
pressly to settle a vexed question that had arisen between 
them on some scientific subject. The professor was waging 
a bitter war on materialism, and Sergéi Koznuishef followed 


his argument with interest ; and, having read a recent article 


80 ANNA KARENINA. 


in which the professor promulgated his views, he raised 
some objections. He blamed the professor for having made 
too large concessions to the claims of materialism, and the 
professor had come on purpose to explain what he meant. 
The’ conversation turned on the question then fashionable: 
Is there a dividing line between the psychical and the physi- 
ological phenomena of man’s action? and where is it to be 
found? 

Sergéi Ivanovitch welcomed his brother with the same 
coldly benevolent smile which he bestowed on all, and, after 
introducing him to the professor, continued the discussion. 
The professor, a small man with spectacles, and narrow fore- 
head, stopped long enough to return Levin’s bow, and then 
continued without noticing him further. Levin sat down till 
the professor should go, and soon began to feel interested in 
the discussion. He had read in the reviews articles on these 
subjects, but he had read them with only that general inter- 
est which a man who has studied the natural sciences at the 
university is likely to take in their development; but he had 
never appreciated the connection that exists between these 
learned questions of the origin of man, of reflex action, of 
biology, of sociology: and those which touched on the pur- 
pose of life and the meaning of death, more and more en- 
gaged his attention as he grew older. 

He noticed, as he took up the line of the arguments, that 
his brother and the professor agreed to a certain kinship 
between scientific and psychological questions. At times he 
felt sure that *they were going to take up this subject; but 
each time that they trended in that direction, they seemed 
possessed with the desire to avoid it as much as possible, and 
take refuge in the domain of subtile distinctions, explana- 
tions, quotations, references to authorities, and he could 
scarcely understand what they wer'e talking about. 

‘¢T cannot accept the theory of Keis,’’ said Sergéi Ivano- 
vitch in his elegant and correct manner of speech, ‘‘ and I 
cannot admit that my whole conception of the exterior 
world is derived entirely from my sensations. The princi- 
ple of all knowledge, the sentiment of being, of existence, 
does not arise from the senses: there is no special organ by 
which this conception is produced.’’ 

‘Yes; but Wurst and Knaust and Pripasof will reply, 
that you have gained the knowledge that you exist absolutely 
and entirely from an accumulation of sensations; in a word, 


ieee a 


ANNA KARENINA. 31 


that it is only the result of sensations. Wurst himself says 
explicitly, that where sensation does not exist, there is no 
consciousness of existence.’’ 

‘¢T will say, on the other hand . . .’”’ replied Sergéi Ivan- 
ovitch. 

But here Levin noticed that once more just as they were 
about to touch the root of the whole matter, they started off 
in a different direction, and he determined to put the follow- 
ing question to the professor: ‘‘In this case, suppose my 
sensations ceased, if my body were dead, would further 
existence be possible? ”’ 

The professor, angry at this interruption, looking at the 
strange questioner as though he took him for a clown (bur- 
lak) rather than a philosopher, turned his eyes to Sergéi 
Ivanovitch as if to ask, ‘‘ What does this mean?’’ But Ser- 
2éi, who was not quite so narrow-minded as the professor, and 
was able to see the simple and rational point of the question, 
answered with a smile, ‘‘ We have not yet gained the right 
to answer that question.”’ ... 

‘¢Qur capacities are not sufficient,’’ continued the pro- 
fessor, taking up the thread of his argument. ‘‘ No, I insist 
upon this, as Pripasof says plainly that sensations are based 
upon impressions, and that we cannot too closely distinguish 
between the two notions.’’ 

Levin did not listen any longer, and waited until the pro- 
fessor took his departure. 


VIIl. 


WueEn the professor was gone, Sergéi Ivanovitch turned 
to his brother. ‘‘I am very glad to see you. Shall you 
make a long stay? How are things on the estate?’’ 

Levin knew that his brother took little interest in the affairs 
of the estate, and only asked out of politeness; and so he 
refrained from giving more than a short report on the sale 
of wheat, and the money which he had received. It had 
been his intention to speak with his brother about his 
marriage project, and to ask his advice; but after the con- 
versation with the professor, and in consequence of the 
involuntarily patronizing tone in which his brother had asked 
about their affairs, he lost his inclination to speak, and felt 
that his brother would not look upon the matter as he should 
wish him to. 


32 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ How is it with the zemstvo ?’’ asked Sergéi Ivanovitch, 
who took a lively interest in these provincial assemblies, toe 
which he attributed great importance. 

‘¢ Fact is, I don’t know’’ — 

‘¢ What! aren’t you a member of the assembly? ”’ 

‘* No, I’m no longer a member: I don’t go any more,” 
said Levin. 

‘* It’s too bad,’’? murmured Sergéi Ivanovitch, wrinkling 
his brows. | 

In order to defend himself, Levin described what had 
taken place at the meetings of his district assembly. 

‘¢ But it is forever thus,’’ interrupted Sergéi Ivanovitch. 
‘¢ We Russians are always like this. Possibly it is one of 
the good traits of our character that we are willing to con- 
fess our faults, but we exaggerate them: we take delight in 
irony, which comes natural to our language. If the rights 
which we have, if our provincial institutions, were given to 
any other people in Europe, Germans or English, I tell you, 
they would derive liberty from them; but we only turn them 
into sport.’’ 

‘* But what is to be done?’’ asked Levin with an air of 
contrition. ‘‘It was my last attempt. I put my whole 
heart into it: I could not do another thing. I was help- 
less.’’ 

‘¢ Helpless!’ said Sergéi Ivanovitch: ‘‘ you did not look 
at the matter in the right light.”’ 

‘* Perhaps not,’’ replied Levin in a melancholy tone. 

*¢ Did you know that our brother Nikolai has just been in 
town? ”’ 

Nikolai was Konstantin Levin’s own brother, and Sergéi 
Ivanovitch’s half-brother, standing between them in age. 
He was a ruined man, who had wasted the larger part of his 
fortune, and had quarrelled with his brothers on account of 
the strange and disgraceful society which he frequented. 

*¢ What did you, say?’’ cried Levin startled. ‘* How did 
you know?”’ 

‘¢ Prokofi saw him on the street.”’ 

‘* Here in Moscow? Where is he?’’ and Levin stood up, 
as though with the intention of instantly going to find him. 

‘¢T am sorry that I told you this,’’ said Sergéi Ivanovitch, 
shaking his head when he saw his younger brother’s emotion. 
‘¢T sent out to find where he was staying ; and I sent him his 
letter of credit on Trubin, the amount of which I paid. But 





ANNA KARENINA. 33 
this is what he wrote me,’’ and Sergéi Ivanovitch handed 
his brother a note which he took from a letter-press. 

Levin read the letter, which was written in the strange hand 
which he knew so well: ‘‘ I humbly beg to be left in peace. 
It is all that I ask from my dear brothers. Nikolai Levin.’’ 

Konstantin, without lifting his head, stood motionless 
before his brother with the letter in his hand. The desire 
arose in his heart entirely to forget his unfortunate. brother, 
and at the same time he felt that it would be wrong. 

‘¢He evidently wants to insult me,’’ continued Sergéi 
Ivanovitch; ‘‘ but that is impossible. I wish with all my 
soul to help him, and yet I know that I shall not succeed.’’ 

‘¢ Yes, yes,’’ replied Levin. ‘‘I understand, and I appre- 
ciate your treatment of him; but I am going to him.”’ 

‘* Go by all means, if it will give you any pleasure,’’ said 
Sergéi Ivanovitch ; ‘* but I would not advise it. Not because 
I fear, that, as far as I am concerned, he might make a quar- 
rel between us, but on your own account, I advise you not 
to go. Youcan’t do any thing. However, do as it seems 
best to you.”’ 

‘¢ Perhaps I can’t do any thing, but I feel especially .. . 
at this moment... I feel that I could not be con- 
tented. .. .”’ 

‘¢T don’t understand you,”’’ said Sergéi Ivanovitch ; ‘‘ but 
one thing I do understand,’’ he added, ‘*‘ and that is, that this 
ls a lesson in humility for us. Since our brother Nikolai has 
become the man he is, I look with greater indulgence on what 
people call ‘ abjectness.’ Do you know what he has done? ”’ 

‘¢ Ach! it is terrible, terrible,’’ replied Levin. 

Having obtained from his brother’s servant, Nikolai’s 
address, Levin set out to find him, but on second thought 
changed his mind, and postponed his visit till evening. 
Before all, he must decide the question that had brought him 
to Moscow, in order that his mind might be free. He there- 
fore went directly to find Oblonsky; and, having learned 
where he could find the Shcherbatskys, he went where he was 
told that he would meet Kitty. 


IX. 
Axout four o’clock Levin left his tzvoshchik (driver) at 


the entrance of the Zodlogical Garden, and with beating heart 
followed the path that led to the ice-mountains, near the 


84 ANNA KARENINA. 


place where there was skating, for he knew that he shoul 
find Kitty there, having seen the Shcherbatskys’ carriage at 
the gate. It was a beautiful frosty day. At the entrance 
of the garden there were crowds of carriages, sleighs, hired 
drivers, policemen. Hosts of fashionable people, gayly glan- 
cing in the bright sunlight, were gathered at the entrance 
and on the paths cleared of snow, between the Russian 
izbas with their carved woodwork. ‘The ancient birch- 
trees, their branches laden with snow and icicles, seemed 
clothed in new and solemn chasubles. 

As Levin followed the foot-path, he said to himself, ‘* Be 
calm! there is no reason for being agitated! What do you 
desire? what ails you? Be quiet, you fool!’’ Thus Levin 
addressed his heart. But the more he endeavored to calm 
his agitation, the more he was overcome by it till at last he 
could hardly breathe. An acquaintance spoke to him as he 
passed, but Levin did not even notice who it was. He drew 
near the ice-mountains. The sledges flashed down the 
inclines, and were drawn up again by ropes. There was a 
gay rush of creaking salazkas (sleds), and the confusion of 
happy voices. At a little distance there was skating, and 
among the skaters he soon discovered her. He knew that 
he was near her from the joy and terror that seized his heart. 
She was standing on the opposite side, engaged in conversa- 
tion with a lady; and neither by her toilet nor by her posi- 
tion was she remarkable among the throng that surrounded 
her, but for Levin she stood out from the rest like a rose 
among nettles. Her presence brightened all around her. 
Her smile filled the place with glory. ‘* Am I brave enough 
to go and meet her on the ice?’’ he thought. The place 
where she was seemed like a sanctuary, which he did not dare 
to approach, and he was so distrustful of himself that he 
almost turned to go away again. Mastering hinfself by a 
supreme effort, he brought himself to think that, as she was 
surrounded by people of every sort, he had as much right as 
the rest to watch her skate. He therefore went down upon 
the ice, looking away from her as though she were the sun ; 
but he saw her, as he saw the sun, though he did not look at 
her. 

This day the ice formed a common meeting-ground for 
people in society. There were also masters in the art of 
skating, who came to show off their talents; others were 
learning to skate by holding on chairs, and making awkward 


ee ale 


ANNA KARENINA. 85 


and distressing gestures ; there were young lads and old peo- 
ple who skated as a matter of health: all seemed to Levin 
to be the favorites of heaven, because they were near 
Kitty. 

And these skaters all glided around her, came close to her, 
even spoke to her, and nevertheless seemed to enjoy them- 
selves, as though they were absolutely fancy-free, and as 
though it was enough for them that the ice was good and the 
weather splendid. . 

Nikolai Shcherbatsky, Kitty’s cousin, in jacket and knick- 
erbockers, was seated on a bench with his skates on, when 


he saw Levin. 


‘6 Ah!’’ he cried, ‘‘ the best skater in Russia: there he is! 
Have you been here long? Put on your skates quick: the ice 
is first-rate !’’ 

‘‘T have not my skates with me,”’ replied Levin, surprised 
that one could speak with such freedom before Kitty, and 
not losing her out of his sight a single instant, although he 
did not look at her. He felt that the sun was shining upon 
him. She, evidently not quite at ease on her high skates, 
glided towards him from the place where she had been stand- 
ing, followed by a young man in Russian costume, who was 
trying to get ahead of her, and making the desperate ges- 
tures of an unskilful skater. Kitty herself did not skate with 
much confidence. She had taken her hands out of the little 
muff which hung around her neck by a ribbon, and was wav- 
ing them wildly, ready to grasp the first object that came in 
her way. She looked at Levin, whom she had just seen for 
the first time, and smiled at her own timidity. As soon as 
she had got a start, she struck out with her little foot, and 
glided up to her cousin, Shcherbatsky, seized him by the arm, 
aud gave Levin a friendly welcome. Never in his imagina- 
tion had she seemed so charming. 

Whenever he thought of her, he could easily recall her 
whole appearance, but especially her lovely blond head, set 
so gracefully on her pretty shoulders, and her expression of 
childlike frankness and goodness. The combination of child- 
like grace and feminine beauty had a special charm which 
Levin thoroughly appreciated. But what struck him like 
something always new and unexpected, was her modest, calm, 
sincere face, which, when she smiled, transported him to a 
world of enchantment, where he felt at peace and at rest, 
with thoughts like those of his childhood. 


36 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ When did you come?’’ she asked, giving him her hand. 

‘¢ Thank you,’’ she added, as he stooped to pick up het 
handkerchief, which had dropped out of her muff. 

‘“‘T? Oh! alittle while ago— yesterday — that is, to-day,” 
answered Levin, so disturbed that he did not know what he 
was saying. ‘*I wanted to call upon you,’’ said he; and 
when he remembered what his errand was, he blushed, and 
was more distressed than ever. ‘‘I did not know that you 
skated, and so well.’’ 

She looked at him closely, as though to divine the reason 
of his embarrassment. ‘‘ Your praise is precious. A tradi- 
tion of your skill as a skater is still floating about,’’ said she, 
brushing off with her daintily gloved hand the pine-needles 
that had fallen on her muff. 

‘‘Yes: I used to be passionately fond of skating. I had 
the ambition to reach perfection.’’ 

*¢ Seems to me that you do all things with all your heart,’’ 
said she with a smile. ‘‘I should like to see you skate. Put 
on your skates, and we will skate together.’’ 

‘¢ Skate together! ’’ he thought, as he looked ather. ‘‘ Is 
it possible? ”’ 

‘¢T will go and put them right on,’’ he said; and he has- 
tened to find a pair of skates. 

‘‘It is a long time, sir, since you have been with us,”’ 
said the katalshchik (the man who rents skates), as he lifted 
his foot to fit on the skate. ‘‘ Since your day, we have not 
had any one who deserved to be called a master in the art. 
Are they going to suit you?’’ he asked, as he tightened the 
strap. 

‘** It’s all right; only make haste,’’ said Levin, unable to 
hide the smile of joy, which, in spite of him, irradiated his 
face. ‘* Yes,’’ thought he, ‘‘ this is life, this is happiness. 
‘ We will skate together,’ she said. Shall I speak now? But 
I am afraid to speak, because I am happy, happy with hope. 
But when? But it must be, it must, it must. Down with 
weakness! ”’ 

Levin arose, took off his cloak, and, after trying his skates 
in the little house, he struck out across the glare ice; and 
without effort, allowing his will to guide him, he directed his 
course toward Kitty. He felt timid about coming up to her, 
but a smile assured him. She gave him her hand, and they 
skated side by side, gradually increasing speed; and the 
faster they went, the closer she held his hand. 




















LEVIN AND KITTY ON THE _ ICE. 





——- 
7 


ANNA KARENINA. 37 


‘¢T should learn very quickly with you,’’ she said. ‘I 
somehow feel confidence in you.”’ 

*¢] am confident in myself when you lean on my arm,’’ 
he answered, and immediately he was startled at what he had 
said, and blushed. In fact, he had scarcely uttered the words, 
when, just as the sun goes under a cloud, her face lost all its 
kindliness, and Levin saw on her smooth brow a wrinkle that 
indicated what her thought was. 

‘* Has any thing disagreeable happened to you? but I have 
no ight to ask,’’ he added quickly. 

‘-Why so? No, nothing disagreeable has happened to 
me,’’ she said coolly, and immediately continued, ‘* Have 
you seen Mile. Linon yet?’’ 

** Not yet.’’ 

*¢Go to see her: she is so fond of you.”’ 

‘¢ What does this mean? I have offended her! O God! 
have pity upon me!”’ thought Levin, and skated swiftly to- 
wards the old French governess, with little gray curls, who 
was watching them from a bench. She received him like an 
old friend, smiling, and showing her false teeth. 

‘*¢ Yes, but how we have grown up,”’ she said, turning her 
eyes to Kitty; ‘‘ and how demure we are! Tiny bear has 
grown large,’’ continued the old governess, still smiling ; and 
she recalled his jest about the three young ladies whom he 
had named after the three bears in the English story... . 
‘¢ Do you remember that you called them so?’’ 

He had entirely forgotten it, but she had laughed at this 
pleasantry for ten years, and still enjoyed it. ‘* Now go, go 
and skate. Doesn’t our Kitty take to it beautifully? ”’ 

When Levin rejoined Kitty, her face was no longer severe ; 
her eyes had regained their fresh and kindly expression: but 
it seemed to him that in her very kindliness, there was some- 
thing that was‘not exactly natural, and he felt troubled. 
After speaking of the old governess and her eccentricities, 
she asked him about his own life. ‘‘ Don’t you get tired of 
living in the country?’’ she asked. 

*¢ No, I don’t get tired of it, I am very busy,”’ he replied, 
feeling that she was bringing him into the atmosphere of in- 
difference, which she had resolved henceforth to throw about 
her, and which he could not escape now, any more than he 
could at the beginning of the winter. 

*¢ Shall you stay long?’’ asked Kitty. 

** I do not know,’’ he answered, without regard to what he 


38 ANNA KARENINA. 


was saying. The idea of falling back into the tone of calm 
friendship, and perhaps of returning home without reaching 
any decision, was revolting to him. 

‘¢Why don’t you know? ’’ 

‘¢T don’t know why. It depends on you,’’ he said, and 
instantly he was horrified at his own words. 

She either did not understand his words, or did not want 
to understand them, but, seeming to stumble once or twice, 
she made an excuse to leave him; and, having spoken to 
Mile. Linon, she went to the little house, where her skates 
were removed by the waiting-women. 

‘¢Good heavens! what have I done? O God! have pity 
upon me, and come to my aid!’’ was Levin’s secret prayer ; 
and feeling the need of taking some violent exercise, he 
began to describe a series of intricate curves on the ice. 

At this instant a young man, the best among the recent 
skaters, came out of the café with his skates on, and a cigar- 
ette in his mouth: without stopping he ran towards the stair- 
way, and without even changing the position of his arms ran 
down the steps and darted out upon the ice. 

‘* That is a new trick,’’ said Levin to himself, and he 
climbed the staircase to imitate it. 

*¢ Don’t you kill yourself! it needs practice,’’ shouted 
Nikolai Shcherbatsky. 

Levin went up the steps, got as good a start as he could, 
and then flew down the stairway, preserving his balance with 
his hands ; but at the last step, he stumbled, made a violent 
effort to recover himself, regained his equilibrium, and glided 
out gaily upon the ice. 

‘Charming, glorious fellow,’’ thought Kitty, at this 
moment coming out of the little house with Mlle. Linon, 
and looking at him with a gentle smile, as though he were a 
beloved brother. ‘‘ Is it my fault? Have I done any thing 
very bad? People say, ‘Coquetry.’ I know that I don’t 
love him, but it is pleasant to be with him, and he is so 
charming. But what made him say that?” . . 

Seeing Kitty departing with her mother, who had come for 
Ler, Levin, flushed with his violent exercise, stopped and 
pondered. Then he took off his skates, and joined the 
mother and daughter at the gate. ‘‘ Very glad to see you,”’ 
said the princess: ‘* we receive on Thursdays, as usual.’’ 

*¢ To-day, then? ”’’ 

‘¢ We shall be delighted to see you,’’ she answered dryly. 





eS ee ee ae ee 


= 


PG. a. =<" ee Te ——. 


ANNA KARENINA. 89 


This haughtiness troubled Kitty, and she could not restrain 
herself from tempering the effect of her mother’s chilling 
manner. She turned to Levin, and said with a smile, ‘‘ We 
shall see you, I hope.’’ 

At this moment Stepan Arkadyevitch with hat on one side, 
with animated face and bright eyes, entered the garden. At 
the sight of his wife’s mother, he assumed a melancholy and 
humiliated expression, and replied to the questions which she 
asked about Dolly’s health. When he had finished speaking 
in a low and broken voice with his mother-in-law, he straight- 
ened himself up, and took Levin’s arm. 

‘* Now, then, shall we go? I have been thinking of you 
all the time, and I am very glad that you came,’’ he said 
with a significant look into his eyes. 

**Come on, come on,’’ replied the happy Levin, who did 
not cease to hear the sound of a voice saying, ‘* We shall see 
you, I hope,’’ or to recall the smile that accompanied the 
words. 

*¢ At the English hotel, or at the Hermitage ?’’ 

*¢ It’s all one to me.”’ 

** At the English hotel,,then,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, 
who chose this restaurant because he owed more there than 
at the Hermitage, and it seemed unworthy of him, so to 
speak, to avoid it. ‘* You have an izvoshchik? So much 
the better, for I sent*off my carriage.’’ 

While they were on the way, not a word was spoken. 
Levin was thinking of how Kitty’s face had changed, and 
he passed through alternations of hope and despair, all the 
time saying that there was no sense in despairing. Never- 
theless he felt that he was another man since he had heard 
those words, ‘‘ We shall see you, I hope,’’ and seen that re- 
assuring smile. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch made out the menu. 

‘** You like turbot, don’t you?’’ were his first words on 
entering the restaurant. 

*¢ What?’ exclaimed Levin. . . . ‘*Turbot? Yes, I am 
excessively fond of turbot.’’ 


X. 
Levin could not help noticing, as they entered the restau- 


rant, how Stepan Arkadyevitch’s face and whole person 
seemed to shine with restrained happiness. Oblonsky took 


40 ANNA KARENINA. 


off his overcoat, and, with hat on one side, marched towards 
the dining-room, giving, as he went, his orders to the Tartar, 
who in swallow-tail, and with his napkin under his arm, came 
to meet him. Bowing to right and left to his acquaintances, 
who as usual seemed delighted to see him, he went directly 
to the bar and took a small glass of vodka (brandy). The 
bar-maid, a pretty French girl with curly hair, who was 
painted, and covered with ribbons and lace, listened to his 
merry jest, and burst into a peal of laughter. As for Levin, 
the sight of this French creature, all made up of false hair, 
rice-powder, and vinaigre de toilette, as he said, took away 
his appetite. He turned away from. her quickly, with dis- 
gust, as from some horrid place. His heart was filled with 
memories of Kitty, and in his eyes shone triumph and happi- 
ness. 

‘¢ This way, your excellency ; come this way, and you will 
not be disturbed,’’ said the old obsequious Tartar, whose 
monstrous waist made the tails of his coat stick out behind. 
*¢ Will you come this way, your excellency ?”’ said he to Levin, 
as a sign of respect for Stepan Arkadyevitch, whose guest 
he was. In a twinkling he had spread a fresh cloth on the 
round table, which, already covered, stood under the bronze 
chandelier; then, bringing two velvet chairs, he stood wait- 
ing for Stepan Arkadyevitch’s orders, holding in one hand 
his napkin, and his order-card in the other. 

‘‘Tf your excellency would like to have a private room, 
one will be at your service in a few moments — Prince Ga- 
luitsin and a lady. We have just received fresh oysters.”’ 

‘¢ Ah, oysters ! ’’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch reflected. ‘‘ Supposing we change 
our plan, Levin,’’ said he with his finger on the bill of fare. 
His face showed serious hesitation. 

‘¢ But are they good? Pay attention! ”’ 

‘¢They are from Flensburg, your excellency: there are 
none from Ostend.’’ 

‘¢ Flensburg oysters are well enough, but are they fresh? ”’ 

‘* They came yesterday.’”’ : 

‘‘ Very good! What do you say?— to begin with oysters, 
and then to make a complete change in our menu? What 
say you?”’ 

‘*It makes no difference to me. I’d like best of all some 
shchi (cabbage soup) and kasha (wheat gruel), but you can’t 
get them here.”’ 


ae: 


- > 
= eee 


eS 
es : 


aS =. 2, ore 


rg es We 


ANNA KARENINA. 41 


‘¢ Kasha a la russe, if you would like to order it,’’ said the 
Tartar, bending over towards Levin as a nurse bends towards 
a child. 

‘*No. Jesting aside, whatever you wish is good. I have 
been skating and am almost famished. Don’t imagine,’’ 
he added as he saw an expression of disappointment on 
Oblonsky’s face, ‘‘ that I do not appreciate your menu. 1 


- can eat a good dinner with pleasure.”’ 


*¢Tt should be more than that! You should say that it is 
one of the pleasures of life,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. 
‘In this case, little brother mine, give us two, or—no, 
that’s not enough; three dozen oysters, vegetable soup ’’ — 

** Printaniére,’’ suggested the Tartar. 

But Stepan Arkadyevitch did not allow him the pleasure 
of enumerating the dishes in French, and continued, ‘‘ Vege- 
table soup, you understand; then turbot, with a sauce not 
too thick; then roast beef, but see to it that it be done to a 
turn. Yes, some capon, and lastly, some preserve.’’ 

The Tartar, remembering that Stepan Arkadyevitch did not 
like to call the dishes by their French names, waited till he 
had finished ; then he gave himself the pleasure of repeating 
the bill of fare according to the rule: ‘* Potage printaniére, 
turbot, sauce Beaumarchais, poularde a l’estragon, macédoine 
de fruits.’? ‘Then instantly, as though moved by a spring, 
he substituted for the bill of fare the wine-list, which he 
presented to Stepan Arkadyevitch. 

*¢ What shall we drink? ”’ 

‘* Whatever you please, only let it be champagne,’’ said 
Levin. 

‘¢ What! at the very beginning? But after all, why not? 
Do you like the white seal?’’ 

** Cachet blanc,’’ repeated the Tartar. . 

** Good with oysters: that will go well. Now, as we have 
settled on this brand for the oysters, bring that.’’ 

**Tt shall be done, sir. And what win de table shall I 
bring you?’”’ 

*¢ Some Nuits ; no, hold on, — give us some classic chablis.’ 

**It shall be ‘done, sir; and shall I give you some of 
your cheese?’’ 

**Yes, some parmesan. Or do you prefer some other 
kind ? >> 

** No, it’s all the same to me,’’ replied Levin, who could 
not keep from smiling. The Tartar disappeared on the trot, 


9? 


42 ANNA KARENINA. 


with his coat-tails flying out behind him. Five minutes later 
he came with a platter of oysters and a bottle. Stepan Ar- 
kadyevitch crumpled up his napkin, tucked it in his waist- 
coat, calmly stretched out his hands, and began to attack 
the oysters. ‘*‘ Not bad at all,’’ he said, as he lifted the 
succulent oysters from their shells with a silver fork, and 
swallowed them one by one. ‘‘ Notat all bad,’’ he repeated, 
looking from Levin to the Tartar, his eyes gleaming with sat- 
isfaction. Levin ate his oysters, although he would have 
preferred bread and cheese; but he could not help admiring 
Oblonsky. Even the Tartar, after uncorking the bottle, and 
pouring the sparkling wine into delicate glass cups, looked 
at Stepan Arkadyevitch with a contented smile while he 
adjusted his white neck-tie. ‘* You aren’t very fond of 
oysters, are you?’’ asked Oblonsky, draining his glass. 
‘¢Or you are pre-occupied? Hey?’’ He was anxious to 
get Levin into good spirits ; but the latter was anxious, if he 
was not downcast. His heart being so full, he found him- 
self out of his element in this restaurant, amid the confu- 
sion of guests coming and going, surrounded by the private 
rooms where men and women were dining together: every 
thing was repugnant to his feelings, — the gas, the mirrors, 
even the Tartar. He feared that the sentiment that occupied 
his soul would be defiled. 

‘““T? Yes, I am a little ,absent-minded; but besides, 
every thing here confuses me. You can’t imagine,”’ he said, 
‘‘ how strange all these surroundings seem to a countryman 
like myself. It’s like the finger-nails of that gentleman 
whom I met at your office.’’ 

‘¢ Yes, I noticed that poor Grinevitch’s finger-nails inter- 
ested you greatly,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing. 

‘¢T cannot,’’ replied Levin. ‘* You are a puzzle to me. 
J cannot get you into the focus of a man accustomed to liv- 
ing in the country. The rest of us try to have hands to 
work with; therefore, we cut off our finger-nails, and often- 
times we even turn back our sleeves. Here, on the other 
hand, men let their nails grow as long as possible, and so as 
to be sure of not being able to do any work, they fasten 
their sleeves with plates for buttons.’’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled gayly. ‘‘ That proves that 
there is no need of manual labor: it is brain-work.”’ 

‘¢ Perhaps so. Yet it seems strange to me, no less than 
this that we are doing here, In the country we make haste 


——v 





SS 


a 


ANNA KARENINA. 43 


to get through our meals so as to be at work again; but 
here you and I are doing our best to eat as long as possible 
without getting satisfied, and so we are eating oysters.’’ 

‘¢ Well, there’s something in that,’’ replied Stepan Arkad- 
yevitch; ‘‘ but isn’t it the aim of civilization to translate 
every thing into enjoyment? ”’ 

‘“‘Tf that is the aim of civilization, I prefer to remain a 
barbarian.’’ : 

** And you are a barbarian! Come, now, you are all 
savages in your family.’’ 

Levin sighed. He thought of his brother Nikolai, and 
felt mortified and saddened, and his face grew dark; but 
Oblonsky introduced a subject which had the immediate 
effect of diverting him. 

*¢ Very well, come this evening to our house. I mean to 
the Shcherbatskys’,’’ said he, winking gayly, and pushing 
away the oyster-shells, so as to make room for his cheese. 

‘*¢ Certainly,’’ replied Levin ; ‘‘ though it did not seem that 
the princess was very cordial in her invitation.”’ 

*¢ What an idea! It was only her grande dame manner,”’ 
replied Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘‘I shall come there immedi- 
ately after a musicale at the Countess Bonina’s.— How 
can we help calling you a savage? How can you explain 
your flight from Moscow? ‘The Shcherbatskys have more 
than once besieged me with questions on your account, as if 
I were likely to know any thing about it. I only know this, 
that you are always likely to do things that no one would 
expect you to do.’’ 

*¢ Yes,’’ replied Levin slowly, and with emotion: ‘*‘ you 
are right, Iam a savage; but it was not my departure, but 
my return, that proves me one. Ihave come now’’ — 

‘‘ Are you happy?’’ interrupted Oblonsky, looking into 
Levin’s eyes. 

faa Why? oe) * 

‘¢] know fiery horses by their brand, and I know young 
people who are in love by their eyes,’’ said Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch dramatically: ‘‘ the future is yours.”’ . 

*¢ And yourself, — have you a future before you also? ’”’ 

“I have only the present, and this present is not all 
roses.”’ 

*¢ What is the matter? ”’ 

** Nothing good. But I don’t want to talk about myself, 
especially as I cannot explain the circumstances,’’ replied 


44 ANNA KARENINA. 


Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘‘ What did you come to Moscow 
for? Here! clear off the things! ’’ he cried to the Tartar. 

‘*Can’t you imagine?’’ answered Levin, not taking his 
eyes from his friend’s face. 

‘*T can imagine, but it is not for me to be the first to 
speak about it. By this detail you can tell whether I am 
right in my conjecture,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, looking 
at Levin with a cunning smile. 

‘¢ Well, what have you to tell me?’’ asked Levin with a 
trembling voice, and feeling the muscles of his face quiver. 
‘* How do you look upon the affair? ’’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch slowly drank his glass of chablis 
while he looked steadily at Levin. 

‘*T?”’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘‘I would say nothing 
but this one word — nothing.’”’ 

‘*But aren’t yoa mistaken? Do you know what we are 
talking about?’’ murmured Levin, with his gaze fixed: fever- 
ishly on his companion. ‘* Do you believe that what you say 
is possible? ’’ 

‘¢ Why shouldn’t it be?”’ 

‘* No, do you really think that it is possible? No! tell me 
what you really think. If—if she should refuse me, and I 
am almost certain that ’? — 

‘‘ Why should you be? ”» asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, 
smiling at this emotion. 

a It i is my intuition. It would be terrible for me and for 
her.’ 

‘*Oh! in any case, I can’t see that it would be very terrible 
for her: a young girl is always flattered to be asked in 
marriage.’ 

‘¢ Young girls in general, perhaps, but not she.’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled; he perfectly sndiailiias 
Levin’s feelings, and knew that for him all the young girls 
in the universe could be divided into two categories: in the 
one, all the young girls in existence, participating in all the 
faults common to humanity, — in other words, ordinary girls ; 
in the other, she alone, without the least imperfection, and 
placed above the rest of humanity. 

‘* Hold on! take a little sauce,’’ said he, stopping Levin’s 
hand, who was pushing away the sauce-dish. 

Levin took the sauce in all humility, but he did not give 
Oblonsky time to eat. ‘‘ No, just wait, wait,’’ said he: ‘* I 
want you to understand me perfectly, for with me it is a 


ee a 


to > ¢ 


ee eee ee ee ee ee ee eee eee 


ANNA KARENINA. 45 


question of life and death. I have never spoken to any one 
else about it, and I cannot speak to any one else but you. 
I know we are very different from one another, have differ- 
ent tastes, and conflicting views; but I know also that you 
love me, and that you understand me, and that’s the reason 
Iamso fond of you. In the name of Heaven be sincere with 
me ! ”’ 

*¢T will tell you what I think,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch 
smiling. ‘* But I will tell you more: my wife—a most ex- 
traordinary woman ’’ —and Stepan Arkadyevitch stopped a 
moment to sigh, as he remembered how his relations with his 
wife were strained —‘‘she has a gift of second sight, and 
sees all that goes on in the hearts of others, but she is a 
prophetess when there is a question of marriage. Thus, she 
predicted that Brenteln would marry the Princess Shakhov- 
skaia: no one would believe it, and yet it came to pass. 
Well, my wife is on your side.’’ 

‘¢ What do you mean?”’ 

‘¢ ] mean that she likes you, and she says that Kitty will 
be your wife.”’ | 

As he heard these words, Levin’s face lighted up with a 
smile that was almost ready to melt into tears. ‘* She said 
that!’’ he cried. ‘‘I always thought that your wife was an 
angel. But enough, enough of this sort of talk,’’ he added, 
and rose from the table. 

‘¢Good! but sit a little while longer.’’ 

But Levin could not sit down. He walked two or three 
times up and down the room, winking his eyes to hide the 
tears, and then he came back to the table somewhat calmer. 
*¢ Understand me,’’ he said: ‘‘ this is not love. I have been 
in love, but it was not like this. \This is more than a senti- 
ment: it is an inward power that controls me. I left Moscow 
because I had made up my mind that such happiness could 
not exist, that such good fortune could not be on earth. 
But I struggled in vain against myself: I find that my whole 
life is here. This question must be decided.’’ 

*¢ But why did you leave Moscow? ”’ 

** Ach! stay! Ach! only think! only listen to me! If 
you only knew what your words meant to me! You cannot 
imagine how you have encouraged me. I am so happy that 
Iam becoming selfish, and forgetting every thing; and yet 
this very day I heard that my brother Nikolai— you know 
him — is here, and I had entirely forgotten him. It seems to 


46 ANNA KARENINA. 


me that he, too, ought to be happy. But this is like a fit of 
madness. But one thing seems terrible to me. You who 
are married ought to know this sensation. It is terrible that 
we who are already getting old dare not approach a pure and 
innocent being. Isn’t it terrible? and is it strange that I 
find that I am unworthy? ”’ 

‘* Nu! you have not much to reproach yourself with.’’ 

‘* Ach!’’ said Levin; ‘‘and yet, as I look with disgust 
upon my life, I tremble and curse and mourn bitterly — 
da!’’ 

‘¢ But what can you do? the world is thus constituted,” » 
said Stepan Arkadyevitch. 

‘* There is only one consolation, and that is in the prayer 
that I have always loved: ‘ Pardon me not according to my 
deserts, but according to Thy loving-kindness.’ Thus only 
can she forgive me.’’ 


XI. 


LEVIN emptied his glass, and for a few minutes the two 
friends were silent. ‘‘I ought to tell you one thing, 
though. Do you know Vronsky?’’ asked Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch. 

‘* No: why do you ask? ”’ 

‘¢ Bring us another bottle,’’ said Oblonsky to the Tartar, 
who was refilling their glasses. ‘*‘ You must know that 
Vronsky is a rival of yours.’’ 

‘‘Who is this Vronsky?’’ asked Levin, whose face, a 
moment since beaming with youthful enthusiasm, suddenly 
grew dark. 

‘¢ Vronsky —he is one of Count Kirill Ivanovitch Vron- 
sky’s sons, and one of the finest examples of the gilded 
youth of Petersburg. I used to know him at Tver when I 
was on duty: he came there for recruiting service. He is 
immensely rich, handsome, with excellent connections, an 
adjutant attached to the emperor’s person, and, in spite of 
all, a capital good fellow. From what I have seen of him, 
he is more than a ‘ good fellow;’ he is well educated and 
bright ; he is a rising man.”’ 

Levin scowled, and said nothing. 

‘* Nu-s! he put in an appearance soon after you left ; and, 
if people tell the truth, he fell in love with Kitty. You 
understand that her mother’? — 


ANNA KARENINA. 47 


‘¢ Excuse me, but I don’t understand at all,’’ interrupted 
Levin, scowling still more fiercely. He suddenly remem- 
bered his brother Nikolai, and how ugly it was in him to 
forget him. 

*¢ Just wait,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laying his hand 
on Levin’s arm with a smile. ‘I have told you all that I 
know; but I repeat, that, in my humble opinion, the chances 
in this delicate affair are in your favor.’’ 

Levin grew pale, and leaned on the back of the 
chair. 

‘¢ But I advise you to settle the matter as quickly as pos- 
sible,’’ suggested Oblonsky, handing him a glass. 

*¢ No, thank you: I cannot drink any more,’’ said Levin, 
pushing away the glass. ‘‘It will go to my head. Nu! 
how are you feeling?’’ he added, desiring to change the 
conversation. 

*¢ One word more: in any case I advise you to act quickly. 
I advise you to speak immediately,’’ said Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch. ‘‘Go to-morrow morning, make your proposal in 
classic style, and God be with you.’’ 

‘¢ Why haven’t you ever come to hunt with me as you 
promised to do? Come this spring,’’ said Levin. He now 
repented with all his heart that he had entered upon this con- 
versation with Oblonsky: his deepest feelings were wounded 
by what he had just learned of the pretensions of his rival, 
the young officer from Petersburg, as well as by the advice 
and insinuations of Stepan Arkadyevitch. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch perceived his friend’s thoughts, and 
smiled. ‘I will come some day,’’ he said. ‘‘ Yes, brother, 
woman! She’s the spring that moves every thing in this 
world. My own trouble is bad, very bad. And all on 
account of women. Give me your advice,”’ said he, taking 
a cigar, and still holding his glass in his hand: ‘tell me 
frankly what you think.’’ 

*¢ But what about? ’’ 

** Listen: suppose you were married, that you loved your 
wife, but had been drawn away by another woman ’’ — 

** Excuse me. I can’t imagine any such thing. As it looks 
to me, it would be as though, in coming out from dinner, I 
should steal a loaf of bread from a bakery.’’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch’s eyes sparkled more than usual. 
** Why not? Bread sometimes smells so good, that one cans 
not resist the temptation : — 


48 ANNA KARENINA. 


* Himmlisch ist’s, wenn ich bezwungen 
Meine irdische Begier : 
Aber doch wenns’s nicht gelungen, 
Hitt ich auch recht huebsch Plaisir.”? 1 


As he repeated these lines, Oblonsky smiled. Levin could 
not refrain from smiling also. ‘* But a truce to pleasantries,”’ 
continued Oblonsky. ‘‘ Imagine a charming, modest, lovely 
woman, poor, and alone in the world, who would sacrifice 
herself for you: is it necessary to give her up, in case my 
supposition were true? We'll allow that it is necessary to 
break with her, so as not to disturb the peace of the family ; 
but ought we not to have pity on her, to make the separation 
less painful, to look out for her future? ’’ 

‘¢Pardon me; but you know that for me, women are 
divided into two classes, — no, that is, there are women, and 
there are— But I never yet knew a case of a beautiful 
repentant Magdalen; and as to that French creature at the 
bar, with her false curls, she fills me with disgust, and so do 
all such.”’ 

‘¢ But woman in the New Testament? ’’ 

‘¢ Ach! hold your peace. Never would Christ have sai 
those words if he had known to what bad use they would be 
put. Out of the whole gospel, only those words are taken. 
However, I don’t say what I think, but what I feel, nothing 
more. I feel a disgust for fallen women just as you do for 
criminals. You did not have to study the manners of the 
criminal classes to bring about this feeling, nor I these.’’ 

‘¢ Tt is well for you to say so: it is a very convenient way 
to do as the character in Dickens did, and throw all embar- 
rassing questions over the right shoulder with the left hand. 
But to deny a fact is not to answer it. Now tell me! what 
is to be done? ”’ 

‘¢ Don’t steal fresh bread.”’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch burst out laughing. ‘‘O moralist! 
but please appreciate the situation. Here are two women: 
one insists on her rights, and her rights means your love 
which you cannot give; the other has made an absolute sac- 
rifice, and demands nothing. What can one do? How can 
one proceed? Here is a terrible drama! ”’ 


1 It was heavenly when I gained 
What my heart desired on earth: 
Yet if all were not attained, 
Still I had my share of mirth. 





ANNA KARENINA. 49 


‘¢Tf you want me to confess what I think, I will tell you 
that I don’t believe in this drama, and this is why. In my 
opinion, Love—the two Loves which Plato describes in 
his ** Symposium,’’ you remember, serve as the touch-stone 
for men. The one class of people understands only one of 
them: the other understands the other. Those who do not 
comprehend Platonic affection have no right to speak of this 
drama. In this sort of love there can be no drama. ‘ Much 
obliged to you for the pleasure you have given me;’ and 
therein consists the whole drama. But Platonic affection 
cannot make a drama, because it is bright and pure, and 
because ’’? — 

At this moment Levin remembered his own short-comings 
and the inward struggles which he had undergone, and he 
added in an unexpected fashion, ‘‘ However, you may be 
right. It is quite possible—I know nothing — absolutely 
nothing about it.”’ 

‘¢Do you see,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, ‘‘ you are a 
man of perfect purity? Your great virtue is your only fault. 
And because your character is thus constituted, you desire 
that all the factors of life should also be absolutely pure ; 
and this can never be. So you scorn the service of the 
state, because you see in it no service useful to society, and 
because, according to your idea, every action should corre- 
spond to an exact end; and this can never be. You want 
conjugal life and love to be one and the same, and that can- 
not be. And besides, all the charm, the variety, the beauty 
of life consists in these lights and shades.”’ 

Levin sighed, and did not answer: he did not even listen. 
He was absorbed in the thought of what concerned himself. 
And suddenly both of them felt*that this dinner, which ought 
to have brought them closer together, had widened the dis- 
tance between them, though they were still good friends. 
Each was thinking more of his own affairs, and was forget- 
ting to feel interested in his friend’s. Oblonsky understood 
this phenomenon, having often experienced it after dining ; 
and he also knew what his course of conduct would be. 

‘¢ Give me the account,’’ he cried, and went into the next 
room, where he met an adjutant whom he knew, and with 
whom he began to talk about an actress and her lover. This 
conversation amused and rested Oblonsky after what had 
been said with Levin, who always kept his mind on the 
strain, and wearied him. 


50 ANNA KARENINA. 


When the Tartar had brought the account, amounting to 
twenty-eight rubles and odd kopeks, not forgetting his fee, 
Levin, who generally, in the honest country fashion, would 
have been shocked at the size of the bill, paid the fourteen 
rubles of his share without noticing, and went home to dress 
for the reception at the Shcherbatskys’, where his fate would 
be decided. 


XII. 


Tue Princess Kitty Shcherbatskaia was eighteen years old. 
She was making her first appearance in society this winter, 
and her triumphs had been more brilliant than her elder sis- 
ters, than even her mother had anticipated. All the young 
men in Moscow, who danced at balls, were more or less in 
love with Kitty; but, besides these, there were two who, 
during this first winter of her début, were serious aspirants 
to her hand, — Levin, and, soon after his departure, Count 
Vronsky. 

Levin’s frequent visits and his unconcealed love for Kitty 
were the first subjects in regard to her future that gave cause 
for serious conversation between her father and mother. 
The prince and princess had lively discussions about it. The 
prince was on Levin’s side, and declared that he could not 
desire a better match. The princess, with the skill which 
women have for avoiding the question, insisted that Kitty 
was very young; that she did not show great partiality for 
Levin; and, moreover, that he did not seem to be serious 
in his attentions. But she did not express what was in the 
bottom of her heart, —that she was ambitious for a more 
brilliant marriage, that Levin did not appeal to her sympa- 
thies, and that she did not understand him. And when 
Levin took a sudden leave for the country she was delighted, 
and said, with an air of triumph, to her husband, ‘‘ You see, 
I was right.’” When Vronsky appeared upon the scene, she 
was still more delighted, and her hopes of seeing Kitty not 
only well but brilliantly married, were more than confirmed. 

For the princess there was no comparison between the two 
suitors. The mother disliked Levin’s brusque and strange 
way of looking at things, his awkwardness in society, which 
she attributed to his pride and what she called his savage 
life in the country, occupied with his cattle and peasants. 
And she was still more displeased because Levin, though he 


a  . aa 


ANNA KARENINA. 51 


was in love with her daughter, and had been a frequent vis- 
itor at their house for six weeks, had appeared like a man 
who was hesitating, watching, and questioning whether, if he 
should offer himself, the honor which he conferred upon them 
would not be too great. Was it not customary for one who 
comes assiduously to a house where there was a marriageable 
daughter, to declare his intentions? And then his sudden 
departure without informing any one! ‘‘It is fortunate,”’ 
the mother thought, ‘* that he is so unattractive, and that 
Kitty has not fallen in love with him.”’ 

Vronsky, on the other hand, satisfied all her requirements : 
he was rich, intelligent, of good birth, with a brilliant career 
at court or in the army before him, and, moreover, he was 
charming. Nothing better could be desired. Vronsky was 
devoted to Kitty at the balls, danced with her, and called 
upon her parents: there could be no doubt that his intentions 
were serious. And yet the poor mother had passed a winter 
full of doubts and perplexities. 

When the princess herself was married, through the influ- 
ence of an aunt, she was thirty years old. Her fiancé, who 
was well known by reputation, came to see her and to show 
himself: the interview was favorable, and the intermediary 
announced the impression produced. On the following day 
the official demand was made upon the parents, and granted, 
and all had passed off very simply and naturally. At least, 
so it seemed to the princess, as she looked back to it. But 
when she came to see her own daughters married, she learned 
by experience how difficult and complicated in reality this 
apparently simple matter was. What anxieties, what cares, 
what waste of money, what collisions with her husband, 
when the time came for Dolly and Natali to be married! 
And now she was obliged to pass through the same anxieties, 
and with even more bitter quarrels with her husband. The 
old prince, like all fathers, was excessively punctilious about 
every thing that concerned the honor and purity of his 
daughters: he was distressingly jealous of them, especially 
of Kitty, his favorite, and at every opportunity he accused 
his wife of compromising his daughter. The princess had 
become accustomed to these scenes from the days of her 
elder daughters, but she confessed that her husband’s strict- 
ness was founded on reason. Many of the practices of 
society had undergone a change, and the duties of mothers 
were becoming more and more difficult. She saw how 


Ps 


52 ANNA KARENINA. 


Kitty’s young friends went freely into society, rode horse- 
back, were forward with men, went out to drive with them 
alone: she saw that many of them no longer made courtesies, 
and, what was more serious, each of them was firmly con- 
vinced that the business of choosing a husband was incum- 
bent on her alone, and not at all on her parents. ‘* Marriages 
aren’t made as they used to be,’’ were the thoughts and re- 
marks of these young ladies, and even of some of the older 
people. ‘*‘ But how are marriages made nowadays?’’ and 
this question the princess could not get any one to answer. 
The French custom, which allows the parents full liberty to 
decide the lot of their children, was not accepted, was even 
bitterly criticised. The English custom, which allows the 
girls absolute liberty, was not admissible. The Russian 
custom of marriage, through an intermediary, was regarded 
as a relic of barbarism: everybody ridiculed it, even the 
princess herself. But she was unable to decide what course 
of action to take. Every one with whom the princess 
talked said the same thing: ‘‘ It is high time to renounce 
those exploded notions; it is the young folks and not the 
old who get married, and, therefore, it is for them to make 
their arrangements in accordance with their own ideas.’’ It 
was well enough for those without daughters to say this; but 
the princess knew well, that if she allowed Kitty to enjoy 
the society of young men, she ran the risk of seeing her fall 
in love with some one whom her parents would not approve, 
who would not make her a good husband, or would not 
dream of marrying her. According to the views of the 
princess, one might better give five-year-old children loaded 
pistols as playthings, than allow young people to marry ac- 
cording to their own pleasure, without the aid of their par- 
ents. And, therefore, Kitty gave her mother much more 
solicitude than either of the other daughters had. 

Just at present her fear was that Vronsky would content 
himself with playing the gallant. She saw that Kitty was 
in love with him, and she felt assured only when she thought 
that he was a man of honor; but she could not hide the 
fact, that, through the new liberty allowed in society, it 
would be very easy for a man of the world to turn the head 
of a young girl, without feeling the least scruple at enjoying 
this new sort of intoxication. The week before Kitty had 
told her mother of a conversation which she had held with 
Vronsky during a mazurka, and this conversation seemed 


~~, 


ANNA KARENINA. 58 


significant to the princess, though it did not absolutely sat- 
isfy her. Vronsky told Kitty that he and his brother were 
both so used to letting their mother decide things for them, 
that they never undertook any thing of importance without 
consulting her. ‘* And now,’’ he added, ‘‘ I am looking for 
my mother’s arrival from Petersburg as a great piece of 
good fortune.’’ 

Kitty reported these words without attaching any impor- 
tance to them, but her mother gave them a meaning conform- 
able to her desire. She knew that the old countess was 
expected from day to day, and that she would be satisfied 
with her son’s choice; but it seemed strange to her that he 
had not offered himself before his mother’s arrival, as though 
he feared to offend her. In spite of these contradictions, she 
gave a favorable interpretation to these words, so anxious 
was she to escape from her anxieties. Bitterly as she felt 
the unhappiness of her oldest daughter, Dolly, who was 
thinking of leaving her husband, she was completely ab- 
sorbed in her anxieties about her youngest daughter’s fate, 
which seemed to be trembling in the balance. Levin’s arri- 
val to-day added to her troubles. She feared lest Kitty, 
through excessive delicacy, would refuse Vronsky out of 
respect to the sentiment which she had once felt for Levin. 
His arrival promised to throw every thing into confusion, and 
to postpone a long desired consummation. 

‘¢Has he been here long?’’ asked the princess of her 
daughter, when they reached home after their meeting with 
Levin. 

*¢ Since yesterday, maman.’’ 

‘‘T have one thing that I want to say to you,”’ the prin- 
cess began; but at the sight of her serious and agitated face, 
Kitty knew what was coming. 

‘‘ Mamma,”’ said she blushing, and turning quickly to her, 
** don’t speak about this, I beg of you, —I beg of you. I 
know, I know all! ”’ 

She felt as her mother felt, but the motives that caused 
her mother to feel as she did were repugnant to her. 

*¢ Tonly want to say that as you have given hope to one ’’ — 

** Mamma, galubchik [darling], don’t speak. It’s so ter- 
rible to speak about this.’’ 

*¢T will not,’’ replied her mother, seeing the tears in her 
eyes: ‘‘only one word, moya dusha [my soul], you have 
promised to have no secrets from me.”’ 


54 | ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ Never, mamma, never!’ looking her mother full in the 
face and blushing: ‘‘ but I have nothing to tell—now. I 
— I—even if I wanted to, I could not say what and how — 
I could not’’? — 

‘¢ No, with those eyes she cannot speak a falsehood,’’ was 
the mother’s thought, smiling at her emotion. The princess 
smiled to think how momentous appeared to the poor girl the 
thoughts that were passing in her heart. 


XII. 


AFTER dinner, and during the first part of the evening, 
Kitty felt as a young man feels who is about to fight his first 
duel. Her heart beat violently, and it was impossible for 
her to collect and concentrate her thoughts. She felt that 
this evening, when they two should meet for the first time, 
would decide her fate. She saw them in her imagination, 
sometimes together, sometimes separately. When she thought 
of the past, pleasure, almost tenderness, filled her heart at 
the remembrance of her relations with Levin. The friend- 
ship which he had shown for her departed brother, their own 
childish confidences, invested him with a certain poetic charm. 
She found it agreeable to think of him, and to feel that he 
loved her, for she could not doubt that he loved her, and 
she was proud of it. On the other hand, she felt uneasy 
when she thought about Vronsky, and perceived that there 
was something false in their relationship, for which she 
blamed herself, not him; for he had in the highest degree 
the calmness and self-possession of a man of the world, and 
always remained friendly and natural. All was clear and 
simple in her relations with Levin. But while Vronsky 
seemed to offer her dazzling promises and a brilliant future, 
the future with Levin seemed enveloped in mist. 

After dinner Kitty went to her room to dress for the re- 
ception. As she stood before the mirror she felt that she 
was looking her loveliest, and, what was most important on 
this occasion, that she was mistress of her forces, for she 
felt at ease, and entirely self-possessed. 

At half-past seven, as she was descending to the salon, the 
servant announced, ‘‘ Konstantin Dmitritch Levin.’’ The 
princess was still in her room: the prince had not yet come 
down. ‘‘It has come at last,’’ thought Kitty; and all the 


———— 


ANNA KARENINA. 55 


blood rushed to her heart. As she passed a mirror, she was 
startled to see how pale she looked. She knew now, for a 
certainty, that he had come early, so as to find her alone and 
offer himself. And instantly the situation appeared to her 
for the first time in a new, strange light. It no longer con- 
cerned herself alone; nor was it a question of knowing who 
would make her happy, or to whom she would give the pref- 
erence. She felt that she was about to wound a man whom 
she liked, and to wound him cruelly. Why, why was it that 
such a charming man loved her? Why had he fallen in love 
with her? But it was too late to mend matters: it was fated 
to be so. 

** Merciful heaven! Is it possible that I myself have got 
to give him an answer?’’ she thought, — ‘‘ that I must tell 
him that I don’t love him? It is not true! But what can I 
say? That I love another? Impossible. I will run away, 
I will run away !”’ 

She was already at the door, when she heard his step. 
‘* No, it is not honorable. What have I tofear? I have done 
nothing wrong. Let come what will, I will tell the truth! I 
shall not be ill at ease with him. Ah, here he is!’’ she said 
to herself, as she saw his strong but timid countenance, with 
his brilliant eyes fixed upon her. She looked him full in the 
face, with an air that seemed to implore his protection, and 
extended her hand. 

‘*T came rather early, seems to me,’’ said he, casting a 
glance about the empty room; and when he saw that he was 
not mistaken, and that nothing would prevent him from speak- 
ing, his face grew solemn. 

*¢Oh, no!’’ said Kitty, sitting down near a table. 

‘¢ But it is exactly what I wanted, so that I might find you 
alone,’’ he began, without sitting, and without looking at her, 
lest he should lose his courage. 

‘* Mamma will be here in a moment. She was very tired 
to-day. To-day’”— — 

She spoke without thinking what she said, and did not take 
her imploring and gentle gaze from his face. 

Levin turned to her: she blushed, and stopped speaking. 

**T told you to-day that I did not know how long I should 
stay; that it depended on you’’ — 

Kitty drooped her head lower and lower, not knowing how 
she should reply to the words that he was going to speak. 

‘* That it depended upon you,’’ he repeated. ‘‘I meant — 


56 ANNA KARENINA. 


I meant—I came for this, that—be my wife,’? he mur- 
mured, not knowing what he had said, but feeling that he 
had got through the worst of the difficulty. Then he stopped, 
and looked at her. 

She felt almost suffocated: she did not raise her head. 
Her heart was full of happiness. Never could she have be- 
lieved that the declaration of his love would make such a 
deep impression upon her. But this impression lasted only 
a moment. She remembered Vronsky. She lifted her sin- 
cere and liquid eyes to Levin, whose agitated face she saw, 
and then said hastily, — 

‘¢ This cannot be! Forgive me! ’’ 

How near to him, a moment since, she had been, and how 
necessary to his life! and now how far away and strange she 
suddenly seemed to be! 

‘*Tt could not have been otherwise,’’ he said, without 
looking at her. 

He bowed, and was about to leave the room. 


XIV. 


At this instant the princess entered. Apprehension was 
pictured on her face when she saw their agitated faces, and 
that they had been alone. Levin bowed low, and did not 
speak. Kitty was silent, and did not raise hereyes. ‘* Thank 
God, she has refused him!’’ thought the mother; and the 
smile with which she always received her Thursday guests 
re-appeared upon her lips. She sat down, and began to ask . 
Levin questions about his life in the country. He also sat 
down, hoping to escape unobserved when the guests began to 
arrive. Five minutes later, one of Kitty’s friends, who had 
been married the winter before, was announced, — the Count- 
ess Nordstone. She was a dried-up, yellow, nervous, sickly 
woman, with great black eyes. She was fond of Kitty, and | 
her affection, like that of every married woman for a young 
girl, was expressed by a keen desire to have her married in ° 
accordance with her own ideas of conjugal happiness. She 
wanted to marry her to Vronsky. Levin, whom she had 
often met at the Shcherbatskys’ the first of the winter, was 
always distasteful to her, and her favorite occupation, after 
she had met him in society, was to make sport of him. 

‘+T am enchanted,’’ she said, ‘* when he looks down upon 


SS L—@« 


ANNA KARENINA. 57 


me from his imposing loftiness, or when he fails to honor me 
with his learned conversation because I am too silly for him 
to condescend to. I am enchanted that he cannot endure 
me.’’ She was right, because the fact was, that Levin could 
not endure her, and he despised her for being proud of what 
she regarded as a merit, — her nervous temperament, her in- 
difference and delicate scorn for all that seemed to her gross 
and material. 

The relationship between Levin and the Countess Nord- 
stone was such as is often met with in society where two 
persons, friends in outward appearance, despise each other 
to such a degree that they cannot hold a serious conversa- 
tion, or even clash with each other. 

The Countess Nordstone instantly addressed herself to 
Levin: ‘* Ah, Konstantin Dmitriévitch! are you back again 
in our abominable Babylon?’’ said she, giving him her little 
thin hand, and recalling his own jest that he had made at 
the beginning of the winter when he compared Moscow to 
Babylon. ‘‘Is Babylon converted, or have you been cor- 
rupted?’’ she added with a mocking smile in Kitty’s direc- 
tion. 

‘¢T am greatly flattered, countess, that you kept such ac- 
curate account of my words,’’ replied Levin, who, having had 
time to collect his thoughts, instantly entered into the face- 
tiously hostile tone peculiar to his relations with the Countess 
Nordstone. ‘‘It seems that they have made a very deep 
impression upon you.”’ 

‘¢ Ach! howso? ButI shall make notes. Nu! how is it, 
Kitty, have you been skating to-day?’’ And she began to 
talk with her young friend. 

Although it was scarcely decent to take his departure now, 
Levin would have preferred to commit this breach of eti- 
quette rather than endure the punishment of remaining 
through the evening, and to see Kitty, who was secretly 
watching him, though she pretended not to look at him. He 
therefore attempted to get up; but the princess noticed his 
movement, and, turning toward him, she said, — 

*¢ Do you intend to remain long in Moscow? You are jus- 
tice of the peace in your district, are you not? and I suppose 
that will prevent you from making a long stay.”’ 

** No, princess, I have resigned that office,’’ he said. ‘I 
have come to stay several days.”’ 

‘* Something has happened to him,’’ thought the Countess 


58 ANNA KARENINA. 


Nordstone, as she saw Leyin’s stern and serious face, 
‘* because he does not launch out into his usual tirades; but 
[’ll soon draw him out. Nothing amuses me more than to 
make him ridiculous before Kitty.’’ 

‘¢ Konstantin Dmitritch,’’ she said to him, ‘* you who know 
all things, please explain this to me: at our estate in Kaluga 
all the muzhiks [peasants] and their wives drink up all that 
they own, and don’t pay what they owe us. You are always 
praising the muzhiks: what does this mean? ’’ 

At this moment a lady came in, and Levin arose: ‘* Excuse 
me, countess, I know nothing at all about it, and I cannot 
answer your question,’’ said he, looking at an officer, who 
entered at the same time with the lady. 

‘¢ That must be Vronsky,’’ he thought, and to confirm his 
surmise he glanced at Kitty. She had already had time to 
perceive Vronsky, and observe Levin. When he saw the 
young girl’s shining eyes, Levin saw that she loved that 
man, he saw it as clearly as though she herself had confessed 
it to him. But what sort of a man was he? Now—whether 
for good or ill — Levin could not help remaining: he must © 
find out for himself what sort of a man it was that she 
loved. 

There are men who, in presence of a fortunate rival, are 
disposed to deny that there are any good qualities in him; 
others, on the contrary, endeavor to discover nothing but 
the merits which have won him his success; and with sore 
hearts to attribute to him nothing but good. Levin belonged 
to the latter class. It was not hard for him to discover what 
amiable and attractive qualities Vronsky possessed. They 
were apparent at a glance. He was dark, of medium stat- 
ure, and well proportioned; his face was handsome, calm, 
and friendly ; every thing about his person, from his black, 
short-cut hair, and his freshly shaven chin, to his new, well- 
fitting uniform was simple and perfectly elegant. Vronsky 
allowed the lady to pass before him, then he approached the 
princess, and finally came to Kitty. It seemed to Levin that, 
as he drew near her, her beautiful eyes shone with deeper 
tenderness, and that her smile expressed a joy mingled with 
triumph. He extended toward her his hand which was small, 
but rather wide, and bowed respectfully. After bowing and 
speaking a few words to each of the ladies to whom he was 
presented, he sat down without having seen Levin, who never 
once took his eyes from him. 


a i 





ANNA KARENINA. 59 


‘¢Gentlemen, allow me to make you acquainted, ’ said 
the princess turning to Levin: ‘* Konstantin Dmitritch 
Levin, Count Alekséi Kirillovitch Vronsky.”’ 

Vronsky arose, and, with a friendly look into Levin’s eyes, 
shook hands with him. 

‘¢Tt seems,’’ said he, with his frank and pleasant smile, 
**that I was to have had the honor of dining with you this 
winter ; but you went off unexpectedly to the country.’’ 

*¢ Konstantin Dmitritch despises and shuns the city, and 
us, its denizens,’’ said the Countess Nordstone. 

‘¢ It must be that my words impress you deep'y, since you 
remember them so well,’’ said Levin; and, perceiving that 
he had already made this remark, he blushed deeply. 

Vronsky looked at Levin and the countess, and smiled: 


_**So, then, you always live in the country?’’ he asked. ‘I 
’ should think it would be tiresome in winter.’’ 


‘*Not if one has enough to do; besides, one does not get 
tired of himself,’’ said Levin in a sour tone. 

‘*T like the country,’’ said Vronsky, noticing: Levin’s tone, 
and appearing not to notice it. 

‘*¢ But you would not consent to live always in the country, 
I hope,’’ said the Countess Nordstone. 

**] don’t know; I never made a long stay; but I once 
felt a strange sensation,’’ he added. ‘* Never have I so ea- 
gerly longed for the country, the real Russian country with 
its muzhiks, as during the winter that I spent at Nice with 
my mother. Nice, you know, is melancholy anyway; and 
Naples, Sorrento,.are pleasant only for a short time. It is 
then that one remembers Russia most tenderly, and espe- 
cially the country. One would say that’’ — 

He spoke, now addressing Kitty, now Levin, turning his 
calm and friendly face from one to the other, as he said 
whatever came into his head. 

As the Countess Nordstone seemed desirous to put in her 
word, he stopped, without finishing his phrase, and listened 
attentively. 

_ The conversation did not languish a single instant, so that 
the old princess had no need of advancing her unfailing 
themes, her two heavy guns, — classic and scientific educa- 
tion, and the general compulsory conscription, — which she 
held in reserve in case the silence became prolonged. The 
countess did not even have a chance to rally Levin. 

He wanted to join in the general conversation, but was 


60 ANNA KARENINA. 


unable. He kept saying to himself, ‘‘ Now, I’ll go;”’ and 
still he waited as though he expected something. — 

The conversation turned on table-tipping and spiritism ; 
and the Countess Nordstone, who was a believer in it, began 
to relate the marvels which she had seen. 

‘¢ Ach, countess! in the name of Heaven, take me to see 
them. I never yet saw any thing extraordinary, anxious as 
I have always been,”’ said Vronsky smiling. 

‘¢Good; next Saturday,’’ replied the countess. ‘‘ But 
you, Konstantin Dmitritch, do you believe in it?’’ she 
demanded of Levin. | 

‘¢ Why did you ask me? You knew perfectly well what 
my answer would be.’’ 

‘*¢ Because 1 wanted to hear your opinion.”’ 

‘¢ My opinion is simply this,’’ replied Levin: ** that table- 
tipping proves that good society is scarcely more advanced 
than the peasantry. The muzhiks believe in the evil eye, in 
casting lots, in sorceries, while we ’? — 

‘¢ That means that you don’t believe in it.’’ 

‘* T cannot believe in it, countess.”’ 

‘¢ But if I myself have seen these things? ”’ 

‘¢ The babut [peasant women ] also say that they have seen 
the domovoi’’ [household spirits]. 

‘¢ Then, you think that I do not tell the truth?’’ And she 
broke into an unpleasart laugh. 

‘¢ But no, Masha. Konstantin Dmitritch simply says that 
he cannot believe in spiritism,’’ interrupted Kitty, blushing 
for Levin; and Levin understood her, and began to speak 
in a still more irritated tone. But Vronsky came to the rescue, 
and with a gentle smile brought back the conversation, which 
threatened to go beyond the bounds of politeness. 

*¢ You do not admit at all the possibility of its being true?”’ 
he asked. ‘‘ Why not? We willingly admit the existence of 
electricity, which we do not understand. Why should there 
not exist a new force, as yet unknown, which ’’ — 

‘‘When electricity was discovered,’’ interruped Levia 
eagerly, ‘‘ only its phenomena had been seen, and it was not 
known what produced them, nor whence they arose ; and cen- 
turies passed before people dreamed of making application 
of it. Spiritualists, on the other hand, have begun by mak- 
ing tables write, and calling spirits out of them, and it is 
only afterwards that it was proposed to explain it by an un- 
known force.’’ 





ANNA KARENINA. 61 


Vronsky listened attentively, as was his custom, and seemeG 
interested in Levin’s words. 

**Yes; but the spiritualists say, ‘We do not yet know 
what this force is, and at the same time it is a force, and 
acts under certain conditions.’ Let the scientists find out 
what it is. Why should it not be a new force if it’’ — 

‘* Because,’’ interrupted Levin again, ‘‘ every time you rub 
wood with resin, you produce a certain and invariable electri- 
eal action; while spiritism brings no invariable result, and 
consequently its effects cannot be regarded as natural phe- 
nomena.’’ 

Vronsky, perceiving that the conversation was growing too 
serious for a reception, made no reply; and, in order to make 
a diversion, said, smiling gayly, and turning to the ladies, — 

*¢ Countess, why don’t you make the experiment right 
now?’’ But Levin wanted to finish saying what was in his 
mind. 

‘*¢] think,’’ he continued, ‘‘ that the attempts made by 
spiritual mediums to explain their miracles by a new force, 
cannot succeed. They claim that it is a supernatural force, 
and yet they want to submit it to a material test.’’ All were 
waiting for him to come to an end, and he felt it. 

*¢ And I think that you would be a capital medium,”’’ said 
the Countess Marya Nordstone. ‘‘ There is something so 
enthusiastic about you !”’ 

Levin opened his mouth to speak, but he said nothing, and 
blushed. ; 

‘*¢ Come, ladies, let us arrange the tables, and give them a 
trial,’’ said Vronsky: ‘‘ with your permission, princess.’’ 
And Vronsky rose, and looked for a table. 

Kitty was standing by a table; and her eyes met Levin’s. 
Her whole soul pitied him, because she felt that she was the 
cause of his pain. Her look said, ‘‘ Forgive me if you can. 
Iam so happy.’’ And his look replied, ‘‘I hate the whole 
world, — you and myself.’’ He went to get his hat. 

But fate once more was unpropitious. Hardly had the 
guests taken their places around the table, and he was about 
to go out, when the old prince entered, and, after bowing to 


_ the ladies, went straight to Levin. 


**Ah!’’ he cried joyfully. ‘* What a stranger! I did 
not know that you were here. Very glad to see you!”’ 

In speaking to Levin the prince sometimes used tui (thou), 
and sometimes vui (you). He took him by the arm, and 


62 ANNA KARENINA. 


while conversing with him, gave no notice to Vronsky, who 
was standing behind Levin, waiting patiently to bow as soon 
as the prince should see him. 

Kitty felt that her father’s friendliness must seem hard to 
Levin after what had happened. She also noticed how coldly 
her father at last cac«nowledged Vronsky’s bow, and how 
Vronsky seemed to ask himself, with good-humored surprise, 
what this icy reception meant, and she blushed. 

‘¢ Prince, let us have Konstantin Dmitritch,’’ said the 
Countess Nordstone. ‘* We want to try an experiment.’’ 

‘¢ What sort of an experiment? table-tipping? Nw! ex- 
cuse me, ladies and gentlemen ; but, in my opinion, kaletchki 
[grace-hoops| would be more amusing,’’ said the prince, 
looking at Vronsky, whom he took to be the originator of 
this sport. ‘* At least there’s some sense in grace-hoops.’’ 

Vronsky, astonished, turned his steady eyes upon the old 
prince, and, gently smiling, began to speak with the Countess 
Nordstone about the arrangements for a ball to be given the 
following week. 

‘¢T hope that you will be there,’’ said he, turning to Kitty. 

As soon as the old prince had gone, Levin made his escape ; 
and the last impression which he bore away from this recep- 
tion was Kitty’s happy, smiling face, answering Vronsky iv 
regard to the ball. 


AV. 


Arter the reception, Kitty told her mother of her conver- 
sation with Levin; and, in spite of all the pain that she 
had caused him, the thought that he had asked her to 
marry him flattered her. But while she felt the conviction 
that she had acted properly, it was long before she could 
go to sleep. One memory constantly arose in her mind: 
it was Levin as he stood near her father, looking at her 
and Vronsky with gloomy, melancholy eyes. She could not 
keep back the tears. But, as she thought of him who had 
replaced Levin in her regards, she saw vividly his hand- 
some, strong, and manly face, his self-possession, so digni- 
fied, his air of benevolence: she recalled his love for her, 
and how she loved him; and joy came back to her heart. 
She laid her head on the pillow, and smiled with happiness. 
‘‘It is too bad, too bad; but I can’t help it, it is not my 
fault,’’ she said to herself, although an inward voice whis- 


ee 
GC 


ANNA KARENINA. 63 


pered the contrary. Ought she to reproach herself for 
having been attracted to Levin, or for having refused him? 
She did not know, but her happiness was not unalloyed. 
*¢ Lord, have pity upon me! Lord, have pity upon me! Lord, 
have pity upon me!”’ she repeated until she went to sleep. 

Meantime there was going on in the prince’s little library 
one of those scenes which frequently occurred between the 
parents in regard to their favorite daughter. 

‘* What? This is what!’’ cried the prince, raising his 
arms in spite of the awkwardness of his fur-lined dressing- 
gown. ‘‘ You have neither pride nor dignity: you are ruin- 
ing your daughter with this low and ridiculous manner of 
hunting a husband for her.’’ 

‘*¢ But, in the name of Heaven, prince, what have I done? ”’ 
said the princess in tears. 

She had come, as usual, to say good-night to her husband ; 
and feeling very happy over her conversation with her daugh- 
ter, and though she had not ventured to breathe a word of 
Kitty’s rejection of Levin, she allowed herself to allude to 
the project of her marriage with Vronsky, which she looked 
upon as settled, as soon as the countess should arrive. At 
these words the prince had fallen into a passion, and had 
addressed her with unpleasant reproaches. 

‘¢ What have you done? In the first. place, you have 
decoyed a husband for her; and all Moscow will say so, and 
with justice. If you want to give receptions, give them, by 
all means, but invite everybody, and not suitors of your 
own choice. Invite all these tiutkof’’ [dudes],—thus the 
prince called the young fellows of Moscow, — ‘‘ have some- 
body to play, and let ’em dance; but don’t arrange such 
interviews as you had to-night. It seems to me abom- 
inable, abominable ; and you will get the worst of it. You 
have turned the girl’s head. Levin is worth a thousand men. 
And as to this Petersburg idiot, who goes as if he were 
worked by machinery, he and all his kind are alike, — all 
trash! My daughter has no need of going out of her way, 
even for a prince of the blood.”’ 

*¢ But what have I done? ”’ 

** Why, this ’’ — cried the prince angrily. 

**T know well enough, that, if I listen to you,’’ interrupted 
the princess, ‘‘ we shall never see our daughter married ; 
and, in that case, we might just as well go into the country.” 

** That certainly would be better.’’ 


64. ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ But listen! Have I made any advances? No, I have 
not. But a young man, and a very handsome young man, 
is in love with her; and she, it seems,’’ — 

‘¢ Yes, so it seems to you. But suppose she should be in 
love with him, and he have as much intention of getting 
married as I myself? Och! Haven’t I eyes to see? Ach, 
spiritism! ach, Nice! ach, the ball!’’ Here the prince, 
attempting to imitate his wife, made a courtesy at every 
word. ‘* We shall be very proud when we have made our 
Kationka unhappy, and when, on account of this very thing, 
her head ’? — 

‘¢ But what makes you think so?”’ 

‘*T don’t think so, I know so; and that’s why we have 
eyes, and you mothers haven’t. I see a man who has seri- 
ous intentions, — Levin; and I see a fine bird, like this good- 
for-nothing, who is merely amusing himself.’’ 

‘¢ Nu! you, too, have fine ideas in your head.’’ 

*¢' You will remember what I have said, but too late, as 
you did with Ddshenka.’’ 

‘‘ Nu! very well, very well, we will not say any thing 
more about it,’’ said the princess, who was cut short by the 
remembrance of Dolly. 

‘¢So much the better, and good-night.”’ 

The husband and wife, as they separated, kissed each other 
good-night, making the sign of the cross as usual; but each 
remained unchanged in opinion. 

The princess had been firmly convinced that Kitty’s fate 
was decided by the events of the evening, and she felt that 
Vronsky’s designs were evident; but her husband’s words 
troubled her. On her return to her room, as she thought in 
terror of the unknown future, she followed Kitty’s example, 
and prayed from the bottom of her heart, ‘‘ Lord, have pity! 
Lord, have pity! Lord, have pity! ”’ 


XVI. 


Vronsky had never experienced the enjoyment of family 
life: his mother, a woman of fashion, who had been very 
orilliant in her youth, had taken part in romantic adventures 
during her husband’s lifetime, and after his death. Vronsky 
had never known his father, and his education had_ been 
given him in the School of Pages. 


ANNA KARENINA, | 65 


As soon as the brilliant young officer had graduated, he 
began to move in the highest military circles of Petersburg. 
Though he occasionally went into general society, he found 
nothing as yet to stir the interests of his heart. 

It was at Moscow that for the first time he felt the charm 
of familiar intercourse with a young girl of good family, 
lovely, naive, and evidently not averse to his attentions. 
The contrast with his luxurious but dissipated life in Peters- 
burg enchanted him, and it never occurred to him that com- 
plications might arise from his relations with Kitty. At 
receptions he preferred to dance with her, he called upon her, 
talked with her in the light way common in society; all that 
he said to her might have been heard by others, and yet he 
felt that these trifles had a different significance when spoken 
to her, that they established between them a bond which 
every day grew closer and closer. It was farthest from his 
thoughts that his conduct might be regarded as dishonorable, 
since he did not dream of marriage. He simply imagined 
that he had discovered a new pleasure, and he enjoyed his 
discovery. 

What would have been his surprise could he have heard 
the conversation between Kitty’s parents, could he have 
realized that Kitty would be made unhappy if he did not 
propose to her. He would not have believed that this frank 


‘and charming relationship could be dangerous, or that it 


brought any obligation to marry. He had never considered 
the possibility of his getting married. Not only was family 
life distasteful to him, but frem his view as a bachelor, the 
family, and especially the husband, belonged to a strange, 
hostile, and, worst of all, ridiculous world. But though 
Vronsky had not the slightest suspicion of the conversation 
of which he had been the subject, he left the Shcherbatskys 
with the feeling that the mysterious bond which attached him 
to Kitty was closer than ever, so close, indeed, that he felt 
that he must make some resolution. But what resolution he 
ought to make, he could not tell for the life of him. 

** How charming! ’’ he thought, as he went to his rooms, 
feeling as he always felt when he left the Shcherbatskys, a 
deep impression of purity and freshness, arising from the 
fact that he had not smoked all the evening, and a new sen- 
sation of tenderness caused by her love for him. ‘‘ How 
charming that, without either of us saying any thing, we 
understand each other so perfectly through this mute lan. 


66 | ANNA KARENINA. 


guage of glances and tones, so that to-dav more than ever 
before she told me that she loves me! And _ how lovely, 
natural, and, above all, confidential she was! I feel that I 
myself am better, purer. I feel that I have a heart, and 
that there is something good in me. Those gentle, lovely 
eyes! When she said— Nu! what did she say? Nothing 
much, but it was pleasant for me, and pleasant for her.’’ 
And he reflected how he could best finish up the evening. 
*¢ Shall it be the * club,’ a hand of bezique, and some cham- 
pagne with Ignatof? No, not there. The Chateau des 
Fleurs, to find Oblonsky, songs, and the cancan? No, it’s a 
bore. And this is just why I like the Shcherbatskys, — be- 
cause I feel better for having been there. I'll go home!”’ 
He went to his room at Dusseaux’s, ordered supper, and 
scarcely touched his head to the pillow before he was sound 
asleep. 


XVII. 


THE next day, about eleven o’clock, Vronsky went to the 
station to meet his mother on the Petersburg train; and the 
first person whom he saw on the grand staircase was Oblon- 
sky, who had come to welcome his sister. 

‘* Ah! your excellency,’’ cried Oblonsky. ‘* Whom are 
you expecting ?’’ . 

‘‘My matushka,’’ replied Vronsky, with the smile with 
which people always met Oblonsky. And, after shaking 
hands, they mounted the staircase side by side. ‘‘ She was 
to come from Petersburg to-day.’’ 

‘*T waited for you till two o’clock this morning. Where 
did you go after leaving the Shcherbatskys?’”’ 

‘¢ Home,’’ replied Vronsky. ‘‘ To tell the truth, I did not 
feel like going anywhere after such a pleasant evening at the 
Shcherbatskys’.’’ 

‘*] know fiery horses by their brand, and young people 
who are in love by their eyes,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch in 
the same dramatic tone in which he had spoken to Levin the 
evening before. 

Vronsky smiled, as much as to say that he did not deny 
it; but he hastened to change the conversation. 

‘¢ And whom have you come to meet?’’ he asked. 

‘*T? a very pretty woman,’’ said Oblonsky. 

** Ah! indeed! ”’ 





ANNA KARENINA. 67 


‘* Hloni soit qui mal y pense! My sister Anna!”’ 

*¢ Ach! Madame Karénina?’’ asked Vronsky. 

‘*Do you know her, then? ’”’ 

‘¢ It seems to me that I do. Or—no—truth is, I don’t 
think I do,’’ replied Vronsky somewhat confused. The 
name Karénina brought to his mind a tiresome and affected 
person. | 

‘+ But Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, my celebrated brother-in- 
law, you must know him! Everybody in creation knows 
him.”’ 

‘¢ That is, I know him by reputation, but not by sight. I 
know that he is talented, learned, and something divine ; but 
_ you know that he is not—not in my line,’’ said Vronsky in 
English. 

‘¢ Yes: he is a remarkable man, somewhat conservative, 
but a famous man,’’ replied Stepan Arkadyevitch. . ‘‘ A 
famous man.’’ 

‘¢ Nu! so much the better for him,’’ said Vronsky, smil- 
ing. ‘*Ah! here you are,’’ he cried, seeing his mother’s 
old lackey. ‘‘ This way,’’ he added, stationing him at the 
door. 

Vronsky, besides experiencing the pleasure that everybody 
felt in seeing Stepan Arkadyevitch, had for some time espe- 
cially liked being in his society, because, in a certain way, it 
brought him closer to Kitty. Therefore he took him: by the 
arm, and said gayly, ‘‘ Nu! what do you say to giving the 
diva a supper Sunday? ”’ 

‘*¢ Certainly: I will pay my share. Ach! tell me, did you 
meet my friend Levin last evening? ’”’ 

*¢ Yes; but he went away very early.”’ 

‘¢ He is a famous fellow,’’ said Oblonsky, ‘‘ isn’t he? ”’ 

*¢] don’t know why it is,’’ replied Vronsky, ‘‘ but all the 
Muscovites, present company excepted,’’ he added jestingly, 
‘* have something sharp about them. They all seem to be 
high-strung, fiery-tempered, as though they all wanted to 
make you understand ’’? — 

*¢ That is true enough: it is’? —replied Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch, smiling pleasantly. 

*¢ Ts the train on time? ’’ demanded Vronsky of an employé. 

*¢ Tt will be here directly,’’ replied the employé. 

The increasing bustle in the station, the coming and going 
of the artelshchiks, the appearance of policemen and officials, 
the arrival of expectant friends, all indicated the approach 


68 ANNA KARENINA. 


of the train. The morning was frosty; and through the 
steam, workmen could be seen, dressed in their winter cos- 
tumes, silently passing in their felt boots amid the network 
of rails. The whistle of the coming engine was already 
heard, and a monstrous object seemed to be advancing with 
a heavy rumble. 

‘* No,’’ continued Stepan Arkadyevitch, who was anxious 
to inform Vronsky of Levin’s intentions in regard to Kitty. 
‘* No, you are unjust towards my friend Levin. He is a 
very nervous man, and sometimes he can be disagreeable ; 
but, on the other hand, he can be very charming. He is 
such an upright, genuine nature, true gold! Last evening 
there were special reasons why he should have been either 
very happy or very unhappy,’’ continued Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch with a significant smile, and entirely forgetting in his 
present sympathy for Vronsky, his sympathy of the evening 
before for his old friend. 

Vronsky stopped short, and asked point blank, — 

*¢ Do you mean that he proposed yesterday evening to your 
belle-sceur?’’ [sister-in-law |. 

‘¢ Possibly,’’ replied Stepan Arkadyevitch : ‘‘ this disturbed 
me lastevening. Yes, he went off so early, and was in such 
bad spirits, that it seemed to me as if— He has been in 
love with her for so long, and I am very angry with him.”’ 

‘¢ Ah, indeed! I thought that she might, however, have 
aspirations for a better match,’’ said Vronsky, turning around, 
wad beginning to walk up and down. ‘‘ However, I don’t 
know him, but this promises to be a painful situation. That 
is why so many men prefer to be faithful to their Claras; at 
least with these ladies, there is no suspicion of any merce- 
nary considerations — you stand on your own merits. But 
here is the train.”’ 

The train was just rumbling into the station. The plat- 
form shook ; and the locomotive, driving before it the steam 
condensed by the cold air, became visible. Slowly and rhyth- 
mically the connecting rod of the great wheels rose and fell: 
the engineer, well muffled, ana covered with frost, leaped to 
the platform. Next the tender came the baggage-car, still 
more violently shaking the platform; a dog in its cage was 
yelping piteously ; finally appeared the passenger-cars, which 
jolted together as the train came to a stop. 

A youthful-looking and somewhat pretentiously elegant 
eonductor slowly stepped down from the car, and whistled, 


ee ee ee 


ANNA KARENINA. 69 


‘and behind him came the more impatient of the travellers, — 


an Officer of the guard, with martial bearing ; a small, smiling 
merchant, with his grip-sack ; and a muzhik, with his bundle 
slung over his shoulder. 

Vronsky, standing near Oblonsky, watched the sight, and 
completely forgot his mother. What he had just heard about 
Kitty caused him emotion and joy: he involuntarily straight- 
ened himself; his eyes glistened ; he felt that he had won a 


victory. 


‘¢ The Countess Vronskaia is in that coach,’’ said the 
youthful-looking conductor, approaching him. These words 
awoke him from his revery, and brought his thoughts back 
to his mother and their approaching interview. Without 
ever having confessed as much to himself, he had no great 
respect for his mother, and he did not love her. But his 
education and the usages of the society in which he lived did 
not allow him to admit that there could be in his relations 
with her the slightest want of consideration. But the more 
he exaggerated the bare outside forms, the more he felt in 
his heart that he did not respect or love her. 


XVIII. 


Vronsky followed the conductor; and as he was about to 
enter the coach, he stood aside to allow a lady to pass him. 
With the instant intuition of a man of the world he saw that 
she belonged to the very best society. Begging her pardon, 
he was about to enter the door, but involuntarily he turned 
to give another look at the lady, not on account of her 
beauty, her grace, or her eleganee, but because the expres- 
sion of her lovely face, as she passed, seemed to him so gentle 
and sweet. 

She also turned her head as he looked back at her. With 
her gray eyes shining through the long lashes, she gave’ him 
a friendly, benevolent look as though she had seen in him a 
friend, and instantly she turned to seek some one in the 
throng. Quick as this glance was, Vronsky had time to per- 
ceive in her face a dignified vivacity which was visible in the 
half smile that parted her rosy lips, and in the brightness of 
her eyes. Her whole person was radiant with the overflow- 
ing spirits of youth, which she tried to hide; but in spite cf 
her, the veiled lightning of her eyes gleamed in her smile. 


70 ANNA KARENINA. 


Vronsky went into the coach. His mother, an old lady 
with little curls and black eyes, received him with a slight 
smile on her thin lips. She got up from her chair, handed 
her bag to her maid, and extended her little thin hand to 
her son, who bent over it; then she kissed him on the brow. 

‘¢ You received my telegram? You are well? Thank the 
Lord! ”’ 

‘¢ Did you have a comfortable journey?’’ said the son, 
sitting down near her, and at the same time listening to a 
woman’s voice just outside the door. He knew that it was 
the voice of the lady whom he had met. 

‘¢ However, I don’t agree with you,’’ said the voice. 

‘¢It is a St. Petersburg way of looking at it, madame.”’ 

*¢ Not at all, but simply a woman’s,’’ was her reply. 

*¢ Nu-s! allow me to kiss your hand.”’ 

*¢ Good-by, Ivan Petrovitch. Now look and see if my 
brother is here, and send him to me,’’ said the lady at the 
very door, and re-entering the coach. 

‘¢ Have you found your brother? ’’ asked Madame Vron- 
skaia. 

Vronsky now knew that it was Madame Karénina. 

** Your brother is here,’’ he said, rising. ‘* Excuse me: I 
did not recognize you; but our acquaintance was so short,’ 
he added with a bow, ‘‘ that you were not exactly sure that 
you remembered me? ’”’ 

‘¢Oh,no!’’ she said. ‘*I should have known you even if 
your mdtushka and I had not spoken ?%out you all the time 
that we were on the way.’’ And the gayety which she had 
endeavored to hide lighted her face with a smile. ‘* But my 
brother does not come.’’ , . 

‘*Go and eall him, Aldsha,’’ said the old countess. 

Vronsky went out on the platform and shouted, ‘* Oblon- 
sky! here! ’’ 

But Madame Karénina did not wait for her brother ; as soon 
as she saw him she ran out of the car, went straight to him, 
and with a gesture full of grace and energy, threw one arm 
around his neck and kissed him affectionately. 

Vronsky could not keep his eyes from her face, and smiled 
without knowing why. At last he remembered that his 
mother was waiting, and he went back into the car. 

‘‘ Very charming, isn’t she?’’ said the countess, referring 
to Madame Karénina. ‘* Her husband put her in my charge, 
end I was delighted. We talked all the way. Nu/ and you? 





ANNA KARENINA. 71 


They say vous filez le parfait amour. Tant mieux, mon 
cher, tant mieux.’’ [*‘* You are desperately in love. So much 
the better, my dear, so much the better.’’ ] 

*¢ ] don’t know what you allude to, maman,’’ replied the 
son coldly. ‘Come, maman, let us go.”’ 

At this moment Madame Karénina came back to take leave 
of the countess. 

*¢ Nu vot, countess! you have found your son, and I my 
brother,’’ she said gayly; ‘‘ and I have exhausted my whole 
fund of stories. I shouldn’t have had any thing more to 
talk about.”’ 

*¢ Nu! not so,’’ said the countess, taking her hand. ‘IT 
should not object to travel round the world with you. You 
are one of those agreeable women with whom either speech 
or silence is golden. As to your son, I beg of you, don’t 
think about him: we must have separations in this world.”’ 

Madame Karénina’s eyes smiled while she stood and lis- 
tened. 

‘¢ Anna Arkadyevna has a little boy about eight years 
old,’’ said the countess in explanation to her son: ‘* she has 
never been separated from him before, and it troubles her.’’ 

** Yes, we have talked about our children all the time, — 
the countess of her son, I of mine,’’ said Madame Karénina 
turning to Vronsky; and again her face broke out into the 
caressing smile which fascinated him. 

‘*'That must have been very tiresome,’’ tossing lightly 
back the ball in this little battle of coquetry. She did not 
continue in the same tone, but turned to the old countess: 
‘* Thank you very much. I don’t see where the day has 
gone. Au revoir, countess.”’ 

‘*Good-by, my dear,’’ replied the countess. ‘‘ Let me 
kiss your pretty face, and tell you frankly, as it is permitted 
an old lady, that I am enraptured with you.’’ 

Hackneyed as this expression was, Madame Karénina ap- 
peared touched by it. She blushed, bowed slightly, and 
bent her face down to the old countess. Then she gave 
her hand to Vronsky with the smile that seemed to belong 
as much to her eyes as to her lips. He pressed her little 
hand, and, as though it were something wonderful, was 
delighted to feel its answering pressure firm and energetic. 

Madame Karénina went out with light and rapid step. 

** Very charming,”’ said the old lady again. 

Her son was of the same opinion; and again his eyes 


72 ANNA KARENINA. 


followed her graceful round form till she was out of sight, 
and a smile came over his face. Through the window he saw 
her join her brother, take his arm, and engage him in lively 
conversation, evidently about some subject in which Vron- 
sky had no connection, and the young man was vexed. 

‘‘Nu! has every thing gone well, maman?’’ he asked, 
turning to his mother. 

‘¢ Very well, indeed, splendid. Alexandre has been charm- 
ing, and Marie has been very good. She is very interesting.” 
And again she began to speak of what lay close to her 
heart, —the baptism of her grandson, the reasons that brought 
her to Moscow, and the special favor shown her eldest son by 
the emperor. 

‘¢ And there is Lavronty,’’ said Vronsky, looking out the 
window. ‘* Now let us go, if you are ready.’’ 

The old servant came to tell the countess that every thing 
was ready, and she arose to go. 

‘¢Come, there are only a few people about now,’ 
Vronsky. 

He offered his mother his arm, while the old servant, the 
maid, and a porter loaded themselves with the bags and other 
things. But just as they stepped down from the car, a 
number of men with frightened faces ran by them. The 
station-master followed in his curiously colored furazhka (uni- 
- form-cap). An accident had taken place, and the people 
who had left the train were coming back again. 

‘¢ What is it?— What is it? — Where? — He was thrown 
down !—he is crushed !’’ were the exclamations made by the 
crowd. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch with his sister on his arm had re- 
turned with the others, and were standing with frightened 
faces near the train to avoid the crush. 

The ladies went back into the car, and Vronsky with 
Stepan Arkadyevitch went with the crowd to see what had 
happened. | 

_A train-hand, either from drunkenness, or because his ears 
were too closely muffled from the intense cold to allow him 
to hear the noise of a train that was backing out, had been 
crushed. 

The ladies had already learned about the accident from 
the lackey before Vronsky and Oblonsky came back. The 
latter had seen the disfigured body. Oblonsky was deeply 
moved, and seemed ready to shed tears. 


, 


said 








ANNA KARENINA. 73 


*¢ Ach, how horrible! Ach, Anna, if you had only seen it! 
Ach, how horrible!’’ he repeated. 

Vronsky said nothing ; his handsome face was serious, but 
absolutely impassive. 

*¢ Ach, if you had only seen it, countess !’’ continued Stepan 
Arkadyevitch, —‘‘ and his wife is there. It was terrible to 
see her. She threw herself on his body. They say that he 


was the only support of a large family. How terrible! ’’ 


‘¢ Could any thing be done for her?’’ said Madame Karén- 
ina in a whisper. 

Vronsky looked at her, and saying, ‘‘ I will be right back, 
maman,’’ he left the car. When he came back at the end 
of a few minutes, Stepan Arkadyevitch was talking with the 
countess about a new singer, and she was impatiently watch- 
ing the door for her son. 

‘¢ Now let us go,’’ said Vronsky. 

They all went out together, Vronsky walking ahead with 
his mother, Madame Karénina and her brother side by side. 
At the door the station-master overtook them, and said to 
Vronsky, — 

‘¢ You have given my assistant two hundred rubles. Will 
you kindly indicate the disposition that we shall make of 
them ?”’ 

‘¢ For his widow,’’ said Vronsky, shrugging his shoulders. 
‘*¢ ] don’t see why you should have asked me.”’ 

‘** Did you give that?’’ asked Oblonsky ; and pressing his 
sister’s arm, he said, ‘* Very kind, very kind. Glorious 
fellow, isn’t he? I wish you good-morning, countess.’’ 

He delayed with his sister looking for her maid. When 
they left the station, the Vronskys’ carriage had already gone. 
People on all sides were talking about the accident. 

‘¢ What a horrible way of dying!’’ said a gentleman, pass- 
ing near them. ‘+ They say he was cut in two.”’ 

*¢ It seems to me, on the contrary,’’ replied another, ‘* that 
it was a delightful way : death was instantaneous.’’ 

‘¢ Why weren’t there any precautions taken?’’ demanded 
a third. 

Madame Karénina stepped into the carriage; and Stepan 
Arkadyevitch noticed, with astonishment, that her lips trem- 
bled, and that she could hardly keep back the tears. 

‘* What is the matter, Anna?’’ he asked, when they had 
gone a little distance. 

‘* Tt is an evil omen,’’ she answered. 


74 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ What nonsense!’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘‘ You 
are here, — that is the main thing. You cannot realize how 
much I hope from your visit.’’ 

‘¢ Have you known Vronsky long?’’ she asked. 

*¢ Yes. You know we hope that he will marry Kitty.’’ 

- Really,”’ said Anna gently. ‘* Nu/ now let us talk about 
yourself,’’ she added, shaking her head as though she wanted 
to drive away something that troubled and pained her. ‘* Let 
us speak about your affairs. I received your letter, and here 
I am. 

*¢ Yes: all my hope is in you,”’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. 

** Nu! tell me all.’’ 

And Stepan Arkadyevitch began his story. When they 
reached the house he helped his sister from the carriage, 
shook hands with her, and hastened back to the council- 
chamber. 


XIX. 


Wuen Anna entered, Dolly was sitting in her little recep- 
tion-room, with a handsome light-haired lad, the image of his 
father, who was learning a lesson from a French reading- 
book. The boy was reading aloud, and at the same time 
twisting and trying to pull from his vest a button that was 
hanging loose. His mother had many times reproved him, 
but the plump little hand kept returning to the button. At 
last she had to take the button off, and put it in her pocket. 

‘¢ Keep your hands still, Grisha,’’ said she, and again took 
up the bed-quilt on which she had been long at work, and 
which always came handy at trying moments. She worked 
nervously, jerking her fingers and counting the stitches. 
Though she had said to her husband the day before, that his 
sister’s arrival made no difference, nevertheless, she was ready 
to receive her, and was waiting for her impatiently. 

Dolly was absorbed by her woes, — absolutely swallowed 
up by them. Nevertheless, she did not forget that her sister- 
in-law, Anna, was the wife of one of the important person- 
ages of St. Petersburg, —a Petersburg grande dame. And, 
grateful for this fact, she did not finish her remark to her 
husband ; that is, she did not forget that her sister was com- 
ing. ‘ ‘After all, Anna is not to blame,” she said to herself. 
“] know nothing about her that is not good, and our rela- 
tions have always been good and friendly.’’ To be sure, she 





ANNA KARENINA. 75 


could not do away with the impression left by her visits with 
the Karénins, at Petersburg, that their home did not seem 
to her entirely pleasant: there was something false in the 
relations of their family life. ‘* But why should I not re- 
ceive her? Provided, only, that she does not take it into her 
head to console me,’’ thought Dolly. ‘‘I know what these 
Christian exhortations and consolations mean: I have gone 
over them a thousand times, and I know that they amount 
to nothing at all.’’ 

Dolly had spent these last days alone with her children. 
She did not care to speak to any one about her sorrow, and 
under the load of it she felt that she could not talk about 
indifferent matters. She knew that now she should have to 
open her heart to Anna, and now the thought that at last she 
could tell how she had suffered, delighted her; and now she 
was pained because she must speak of her humiliations before 
his sister, and listen to her reasons and advice. She had 
been expecting every moment to see her sister-in-law appear, 
and had been watching the clock; but, as often happens in 
such cases, she became so absorbed in her thoughts that she 
did not hear the door-bell, and when light steps and the 
rustling of a dress caused her to raise her head, her jaded 
face expressed not pleasure, but surprise. She arose, and 
met her guest. 

*¢ What, have you come?”’ she cried, kissing her. 

*¢ Dolly, how glad I am to see you!”’ 

*¢ And I am glad to see you,’”’ replied Dolly, with a faint 
smile, and trying te read, by the expression of Anna’s face, 
how much she knew. ‘‘ She knows all,’’ was her thought, 
as she saw the look cf compassion on her features. ‘* Nu! 
let us go: I will show you to your room,’’ she went on to 
say, trying to postpone, as long as possible, the time for ex- 
planations. 

**Ts this Grisha? Heavens! How he has grown!”’ said 
Anna, kissing him. Then, not taking her eyes from Dolly, 
she added, with a blush, ‘‘ No, please don’t go yet.”’ 

She took off her platok (silk handkerchief), and shaking 
her head with a graceful gesture, freed her dark curly locks 
from the band which fastened her hat. 

‘* How brilliantly happy and healthy you look,’’ said Dolly, 
almost enviously. 

“I?” exclaimed Anna. ‘*Ah!— Bozhe moi! [Good 
heavens!] Tania! is that you, the playmate of my little 


76 ANNA KARENINA. 


Serozha?’’ said she, turning to the little girl who came run- 
ning in. She took her by the hand, and kissed her. ‘* What 
a charming little girl! Charming! But you must show them 
all to me.”’ 

She recalled, not only the name and age of each, but their 
characteristics and their little ailments, and Dolly could not 
help feeling touched. 

‘* Nu! let us go and see them: but Vasia is asleep; it’s 
too bad.’’ 

After they had seen the children they came back to the 
sitting-room alone, for lunch, which was waiting. Anna 
began to eat her soup, and then pushing it away, said, — 

*¢ Dolly, he has told me.’’ 

Dolly looked at Anna coldly. She expected some expres- 
sion of hypocritical sympathy, but Anna said nothing of the 
kind. 

‘*¢ Dolly, my dear,’’ she said, ‘*I do not intend to speak 
to you in defence of him, nor to console you: it is impossi- 
ble. But, diéishenka [dear heart], I am sorry, sorry from 
the bottom of my heart! ”’ 

Under her long lashes her brilliant eyes suddenly filled 
with tears. She drew closer, and with her energetic little 
hand seized the hand of her sister-in-law. Dolly did not 
repulse her, though she looked cold and haughty. 

‘¢ It is impossible to console me. After what has hap- 
pened, all is over for me, all is lost.”’ 

As she said these words, her face suddenly softened a 
little. Anna lifted to her lips the thin, dry hand that she 
held, and kissed it: 

‘* But, Dolly, what is to be done? what is to be done? 
How can we escape from this frightful position? We must 
think about it.’’ 

‘* All is over! Nothing can be done!’’ Dolly replied. 
‘* And, what is worse than all, you must understand it, is 
that I cannot leave him! the children! I am chained to him! 
and I cannot live with him! It is torture to see him!”’ 

‘* Dolly, galubchik [darling], he has told me; but I should 
like to hear your side of the story. Tell me all.”’ 

Dolly looked at her with a questioning expression. She 
could read sympathy and the sincerest affection in Anna’s 
face. 

‘¢ 7 should like to,’’ she suddenly said. ‘* But I shall tell 
you every thing from the very beginning. You know how I 





ANNA KARENINA. 77 


was married. With the education that maman gave me, 
{ was not only innocent, I was a goose. I did not know any 
thing. I know they said husbands told their wives all about 
their past lives; but Stiva,’’ —she corrected herself, — 
‘Stepan Arkadyevitch never told me any thing. You would 
oot believe it, but, up to the present time, I supposed that I 
was the only woman with whom he was acquainted. Thus 


L lived with him eight years. You see, I not only never sus- 


pected him of being unfaithful to me, but I believed such a 
thing to be impossible. And with such ideas, imagine how 
[ suffered when I suddenly learned all this horror —all this 
dastardliness. Understand me. To believe absolutely in 
his honor,’’ continued Dolly, struggling to keep back her 


sobs, ** and suddenly to find a letter, —a letter from him to 


his mistress, to the governess of my children. No: this is 
too cruel!’’ She took her handkerchief, and hid her face. 
‘¢T might have been able to admit a moment of temptation,”’ 
she continued, after a moment’s pause ; ‘* but this hypocrisy, 
this continual attempt to deceive me— And for whom? 
It is frightful: you cannot comprehend.”’ 

*¢Oh, yes! I comprehend: I comprehend, my poor Dolly,” 
said Anna, squeezing her hand. 

** And do you imagine that he appreciates all the horror 
of my situation?’’ continued Dolly. ‘‘ Certainly not: he is 
happy and contented.”’ 

‘¢ Oh, no!”’ interrupted Anna warmly. ‘‘ He is thoroughly 
repentant: he is filled with remorse ’’ — 

‘¢ Is he capable of remorse? ’’ demanded Dolly, scrutinizing 
her sister-in-law’s face. 

‘‘Yes: I know him. I could not look at him without 
feeling sorry for him. We both of us know him. He is 
kind; but he is proud, and now how humiliated! What 
touched me most [Anna knew well enough that this would 
touch Dolly also] are the two things that pained him: In 
the first place, the children; and secondly, because, lov- 
ing you, —yes, yes, loving you more than any one else in 
the world,’’ she added vehemently, to prevent Dolly from 
interrupting her,—‘‘he has wounded you grievously, has 
almost killed you. ‘ No, no, she will never forgive me!’ he 
repeats all the time.”’ 

Dolly looked straight beyond her sister, but listened to 
what she was saying. 

‘** Yes, I comprehend what he suffers. The guilty suffers 


78 ANNA KARENINA. 


more than the innocent, if he knows that he is the cause of 
all the trouble. But how can I forgive him? How can I be 
his wife after — To live with him henceforth would be all 
the greater torment, because I still love what I used to love 
in him ’’— And the sobs prevented her from speaking. 

But after she had become a little calmer, the subject which 
hurt her most cruelly involuntarily recurred to her thoughts. 

‘¢She is young, you see, she is pretty,’’ she went on to 
say. ‘*To whom have I sacrificed my youthfulness, my 
beauty? For him and his children! I have served my day, 
I have given him the best that I had; and now, naturally, 
some one younger and fresher than I am is more pleasing to 
him. They have, certainly, discussed me between them, — 
or, worse, have insulted me with their silence.”’ 

And again her eyes expressed her jealousy. 

*¢ And after this will he tell me? . . . and could I believe 
it? No, never! it is all over, all that gave me recompense 
for my sufferings, for my sorrows. . . . Would you believe 
it? just now I was teaching Grisha. It used to be a pleas- 
ure to me; now it is a torment. Why should I take the 
trouble? Why have I children? It is terrible, because my 
whole soul is in revolt; instead of love, tenderness, I am filled 
with nothing but hate, yes, hate! I could kill him and’? — 

*¢ Dishenka! Dolly! I understand you; but don’t tor- 
ment yourself so! You are too excited, too angry to see 
things in their right light.’’ Dolly grew calmer, and for a 
few moments not a word was said. , 

‘¢ What is to be done, Anna? Consider and help me. I 
have thought of every thing, but I cannot see any help.”’ 

Anna herself did not see any, but her heart responded to 
every word, to every sorrowful gesture of her sister-in-law. 

‘¢T will tell you one thing,’’ said she at last. ‘‘I am his 
sister, and I know his character, his peculiarity of forgetting 
every thing— [she touched her forehead] — this peculiarity 
of his which is so conducive to sudden temptation, but also 
to repentance. At the present moment, he does not under- 
stand how it was possible for him to have done what he 
did.’’ 

‘¢ Not so! He does understand and he did understand,’’ 
interrupted Dolly. ‘* But 1?— you forget me: does that 
make the pain less for me? ’”’ 

‘¢ Wait! when he made his confession to me, I acknowl- 
edge that I did not appreciate the whole extent of your suf- 


= ee eo oe 


lr Le = 
Sa Ss. > = 








ANNA KARENINA. 79 


fering I only saw one thiag, —the disruption of the family. 
I was grieved; but after talking with you, I, as a woman, 
look upon it in a very different light. I see your grief, and 
I cannot tell you how sorry I am. But, Dolly, dishenka, 
while I appreciate your misfortune there is one thing which I 
do not know: I do not know—I do not know to what degree 
you still love him. You alone can tell whether you love him 
enough to forgive him. If you do, then forgive him.’ 

‘*'No,”’ began Dolly ; but Anna interrupted her again. 

pet | know the world better than you do,’’ she said. ‘I 
know how such men as Stiva look on these things. You say 
that they have discussed you between them. Don’t you 
believe it. These men can be unfaithful to their marriage 
vows, but their homes and their wives remain no less sacred 
in their eyes. They draw between these women whom at 
heart they despise and their families, a line of demarcation, 
which is never crossed. I cannot understand how it can be, 
but so it is.’’ 

‘* Yes, but he has kissed her ’’ — 

‘¢ Listen, Dolly, dushenka! I saw Stiva when he was in 
love with thee. I remember the time when he used to come 
to me and talk about thee with tears in his eyes. I know to 
what a poetic height he raised thee, and I know that the 
longer he lived with thee the more he admired thee. We 
always have smiled at his habit of saying at every opportu- 
nity, ‘ Dolly is an extraordinary woman.’ You have been, 
and you always will be, an object of adoration in his eyes, 
and this passion is not a aefection of his heart’? ~— 

‘¢ But supposing it should begin again? ’”’ 

*¢ It is impossible, as I think ec 

*¢ Yes, but would you have forgiven him? ”? 

‘6 T don’t know: I can’t say. Yes, I could,”’ said Anna 
after a moment’s thought and weighing the gravity of the 
situation. ‘‘I could, I could, I could! Yes, I could forgive 
him, but I should not be the same; but I should forgive him, 
and I should forgive him in such a way as to show that the 
past was forgotten, absolutely forgotten.”’ 

‘¢ Nu! of course,’’ interrupted Dolly impetuously, as 
though Anna had spoken her own thought — ‘‘ otherwise it 
would not be forgiveness. If you forgive, it must be abe 
solutely, absolutely. — Nu! let me show you to your room,” 
said she, rising, and throwing her arm arourd her sister-in 


law. 


80 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ My dear, how glad I am that you came. My heart is 
already lighter, much lighter.’’ 


XX. 


Anna spent the whole day at home, that is to say, with the 
Oblonskys, and excused herself to all visitors, who, having 
learned of her arrival, came to see her. The whole morning 
was given to Dolly and the children. She sent word to her 
brother that he must dine at home. ‘‘ Come, God is merci- 
ful,’’ was her message. 

Oblonsky accordingly dined at home. The conversation 
was general; and his wife, when she spoke to him, called him 
tui (thou), which had not been the case before. The rela- 
tions between husband and wife remained cool, but nothing 
more was said about a separation, and Stepan Arkadyevitch 
saw the possibility of a reconciliation. 

Kitty came in soon after dinner. Her acquaintance with 
Anna Arkadyevna was very slight, and she was not without 
solicitude as to the welcome which she would receive from 
this great Petersburg lady whose praise was in everybody’s 
mouth. But she soon felt that she had made a pleasing 
impression on Anna Arkadyeyna, who was impressed with 
her youth and beauty, and she, on her part, immediately fell 
under the charm of Anna’s gracious manner, as young girls 
do when brought into relations with women older than them- 
selves. Besides, there was nothing about Anna which sug- 
gested a society woman or the mother of an eight-year-old 
son; but to see her graceful form, her fresh and animated 
face, one would have guessed that she was a young lady of 
twenty, had not a serious and sometimes almost melancholy 
expression, which struck and attracted Kitty, come into het 
eyes. 

Kitty felt that she was perfectly natural and sincere, but 
she did not deny that there was something about her that 
suggested a whole world of complicated and poetic interest 
far beyond her comprehension. 

After dinner Dolly went back to her room, and Anna arose 
and went eagerly to her brother who was smoking a cigar. 

‘¢ Stiva,’’ said she, glancing towards the door, and mak- 
ing the sin of the cross, ‘‘ go, and God help you.”’ 

He understood her, and, throwing away his cigar, dis 
appeared behind the door. 





ANNA KARENINA. 81 


As soon as he had gone, Anna sat down upon a sofa sur- 
rounded by the children. 

Either because they saw that their mamma loved this new 
aunt, or because they themselves felt a drawing to her, the 
two eldest, and therefore the younger, in the imitative manner 
of children, had taken possession of her even before dinner, 
and now they were enjoying the rivalry of getting next to 
her, of holding her hand, of kissing her, of playing with her 
rings, or of hanging to her dress. 

‘* Nu! Nu! let us sit as we were before,’’ said Anna, tak- 
ing her place. 

And Grisha, proud and delighted, thrust his head under 
his aunt’s hand, and laid it on her knees. 

*¢ And when is the bail?’’ she asked of Kitty. 

**To-night! it will be a lovely ball, — one of those balls 
where one always has a good time.’’ 

‘Then there are places where one always has a good 
time?’’ asked Anna in a tone of gentle irony. 

** Strange, but it is so. We always enjoy ourselves at the 
Bobrishchefs and at the Nikitins, but at the Mezhkofs it is 
always dull. Haven’t you ever noticed that? ”’ 

** No, dusha [my soul], no ball could be amusing to me;’’ 
and again Kitty saw in her eyes that unknown world, which 
had not yet been revealed to her. ‘‘ For me they are all 
more or less tiresome.”’ 

** How could you find a ball tiresome? ”’ 

*¢ And why should not J find a ball tiresome? ’’ 

% Kitty perceived that Anna foresaw what her answer would 
e,— 

** Because you are always the loveliest of all!”’ 

Anna blushed easily: she blushed now, and said, — 

‘In the first place, that is not true; and in the second, if 
it were, it would not make any difference.’’ 

*¢ Won’t you go to this ball?’’ asked Kitty. 

**T think that I would rather not go. Here! take this,’’ 
said she to Tania, who was amusing herself by drawing off 
her rings from her delicate white fingers. 

**T should be delighted if you would go: I should like to 
see you at a ball.”’ 

** Well, if I have to go, I shall console myself with the 
thought that Iam making you happy. — Grisha, don’t pull 
my hair down! it is disorderly enough now,’’ said she, ad 
justing the net with which the lad was playing. 


82 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘‘T should imagine you at a ball dressed in violet.’’ 

‘¢ Why in violet?’’ asked Anna, smiling. ‘‘ Nu! children, 
run away, runaway. Don’t you hear? Miss Hull is calling 
you to tea,’’ said she, sending the children out to the dining- 
room. 

‘I know why you want me to go to the ball. You ex- 
pect something wonderful to happen at this ball, and you 
are anxious for us all to be there.”’ 

‘¢ How did you know? You are right! ’’ 

*¢ Oh, what a lovely age is ours!’’ continued Anna. ‘I 
remember well that purple haze which resembles that which 
you see hanging over the mountains in Switzerland. This 
haze covers every thing in that delicious time when child- 
hood ends, and through it every thing looks beautiful and 
joyous. And then, by and by appears a footpath which 
leads up to those heights, where every thing is bright and 
beautiful.— Who has not passed through it? ’’ 

Kitty listened and smiled. ‘‘ How did she pass through 
it? How I should like to know the whole romance of her 
life!’’ thought Kitty, remembering the unpoetic appearance 
of her husband, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch. 

‘¢T know a thing or two,’’ continued Anna. ‘‘ Stiva told 
me, and I congratulate you: he pleased me very much. I 
met Vronsky this morning, at the station.”’ 

*¢ Ach! was he there?’’ asked Kitty, blushing. ‘* What 
did Stiva tell you?’’ 

‘¢Stiva told me the whole story; and I should be de- 
lighted! I came from Petersburg with Vronsky’s mother,’’ 
she continued; ‘‘and his mother never ceased to speak of 
him. He is her favorite. I know how partial mothers are, 
but’? — 

‘¢ What did his mother tell you?’’ 

** Ach! many things; and I know that he is her favorite. 
But still, he has a chivalrous nature.— Nw! for example, 
she told me how he wanted to give up his whole fortune to 
his brother ; how he did something still more wonderful when 
he was a boy —saved a woman from drowning. In a word, 
he is a hero!’’ said Anna, smiling, and remembering the two 
hundred rubles which he had given at the station. 

But she did not tell about the two hundred rubles. The 
memory of it was not entirely satisfactory, for she felt that 
his action concerned herself too closely. 

**The countess urged me to come to see her,’’ continued 





ANNA KARENINA. 88 


Anna, ‘‘ and I should be very happy to meet her again and 
I will go to-morrow.— ‘Thank the Lord, Stiva remains a long 
time with Dolly in the library,’’ she added, changing the 
subject, and, as Kitty perceived, looking a little vexed. 

‘¢ T’ll be the first. No, I,’’ cried the children, who had 
just finished their supper, and came running to their aunt 
Anna. 

*¢ All together,’’ she said, laughing, and running to meet 


them. She seized them and ‘piled them in a heap, struggling 


and screaming with delight. 


XXI. 


At tea-time Dolly came out of her room. Stepan Arkad- 
yevitch was not with her: he had left his wife’s chamber by 
the rear door. 

‘*T am afraid you will be cold up-stairs,’’ said Dolly, ad- 
dressing Anna. ‘‘ I should like to have you come down and 
be near me.’’ 

*¢ Ach! don’t worry about me, I beg of you,’’ replied 
Anna, trying to divine by Dolly’s face if there had been a 
reconciliation. 

‘* Perhaps it would be too light for you beta? 
sister-in-law. 

‘**]T assure you, I sleep anywhere and everywhere as sound 
as a woodchuck.’’ 

‘¢ What is it?’’? asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, coming in, 
and addressing his wife. 

By the tone of his voice, both Kitty and Anna knew that 
the reconciliation had taken place. 

‘¢] wanted to install Anna here, but we should have to 
put up some curtains. No one knows how to do it, and so I 
must,’’ said Dolly, in reply to her husband’s question. 

‘¢God knows if they have made up,’’ thought Anna, as 
she noticed Dolly’s cold and even tone. 

‘** Ach! don’t, Dolly, don’t make mountains out of mole- 
hills! Nw! if you like, I will fix every thing ’’ — 

‘** Yes,’’ thought Anna, ‘‘ it must have been settled.”’ 

ey know how you fix things,’’ said Dolly, with a mocking 
smile: ‘* you give Matvé an order which he does not under- 
stand, and then you go out, and he gets every thing into a 
tangle,”? 


9? 


? 


said her 


84 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ Complete, complete reconciliation, complete,’’ theaght 
Anna. ‘* Thank God!”’’ and, rejoicing that she had accom 
plished her purpose, she went up to Dolly and kissed her. 

‘*Not by any means. Why have you such scorn for 
Matvé and me?’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch to his wife 
with an almost imperceptible smile. 

Throughout the evening Dolly, as usual, was lightly ironi- 
cal towards her husband, and he was happy and gay, but 
within bounds, and as though he wanted to make it evident 
that even if he had obtained pardon he had not forgotten 
his sins. | 

About half-past nine a particularly animated and pleasant 
conversation was gcing on at the tea-table, when an inci- 
dent occurred that, apparently of the slightest importance, 
seemed to each member of the family to be very strange. 

They were talking about some one of their acquaintances 
in St. Petersburg, when Anna suddenly arose. 

‘*T have her picture in my album,’’ she said; ‘‘and at 
the same time I will show you my little Serozha,’’ she added, 
with a smile of maternal pride. 

It was usually about ten o’clock when she bade her sor. 
good-night. Oftentimes she herself put him to bed before- 
she weut out to parties, and now she felt a sensation of 
sadness to be so far from him. No matter what she was 
speaking about, her thoughts reverted always to her little 
curly-haired Serozha, and the desire seized her to go and 
look at his picture, and to talk about him. She immediately 
left the room with her light, decided step. The stairs to her 
room started from the landing-place in the large staircase, 
which led from the heated hall. Just as she went after the 
album the front door-bell rang. 

‘¢ Who can that be?’’ said Dolly. 

‘¢ It is too early to come after me, and too late for a call,”’ 
remarked Kitty. 

** Doubtless somebody with papers for me,’ 
Arkadyevitch. 

As Anna came down towards the staircase she saw the 
servant going to announce a visitor, while the latter stood in 
the light of the hall-lamp, and was waiting. Anna leaned 
over the railing, and saw that it was Vronsky. <A strange 
sensation of joy, mixed with terror, suddenly seized her 
heart. He was standing with his coat on, and was searching 
his pockets for something. At the moment that Anna 


said Stepan 


a 


a 


7 a a ee oe 


ANNA KARENINA. 85 


reached the central staircase, he lifted his eyes, perceived 
her, and his face assumed an expression of humility and 
confusion. She bowed her head slightly in salutation; and 
as she descended, she heard Stepan Arkadyevitch’s loud 
voice calling him to comé in, and then Vronsky’s low, soft, 
and tranquil voice excusing himself. 

When Anna reached the room with the album, he had 
gone, and Stepan Arkadyevitch was telling how he came to 
see about a dinner which they were going to give the next 
day in honor of some celebrity who was in town. 

** And nothing would induce him to come in. What a 
queer fellow!’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. 

Kitty blushed. She thought that she alone understood 
what he had come for, and why he would not come in. 
‘¢ He must have been at our house,’’ she thought, ‘‘ and not 
finding any one, have supposed that I was here; but he did 
not come in because it was late and Anna here.”’ 

Everybody exchanged glances, but nothing was said, and 
they began to examine Anna’s album. 

There was nothing extraordinary in a man coming about 
half-past nine o’clock in the evening to ask information of a 
friend, and not coming in; yet to everybody it seemed 
strange, and it seemed more strange and unpleasant to Anna 
than to anybody else. _ 


XXII. 


Tue ball was just beginning when Kitty and her mother 
mounted the grand staircase brilliantly lighted and adorned 
with flowers, on which stood powdered lackeys in red livery. 
From the ante-room, as they were giving the last touches to 
their toilets before a mirror, they could hear a noise like the 
humming of a bee-hive and the scraping of violins as the 
orchestra was tuning up for the first waltz. 

A little old man who was laboriously arranging his thin 
white locks at another mirror, and who exhaled a penetrating 
odor of perfumes, looked at Kitty with admiration. He 
had climbed the staircase with them, and allowed them to 
pass before him. A beardless young man, such as the old 
Prince Shcherbatsky would have reckoned among the sim- 
pletons, wearing a very low-cut vest and a white necktie 
which he adjusted as he walked, bowed to them, and then 
came to ask Kitty for a quadrille. The first dance was 


86 ANNA KARENINA. 


already promised to Vronsky, and so she was obliged ta 
content the young man with the second. An officer button- 
ing his gloves was standing near the door of the Sail-room: 
he cast a glance of admiration at Kitty, and caressed his 
mustache. 

Kitty had been greatly exercised by her toilet, her dress, 
and all the preparations for this ball; but no one would have 
imagined such a thing to see her enter the ball-room in her 
complicated robe of tulle with its rose-colored overdress. 
She wore her ruches and her laces so easily and naturally 
that one might almost believe that she had been born in this 
lace-trimmed ball-dress, and with a rose placed on the 
top of her graceful head. Kitty was looking her prettiest. 
Her dress was not too tight; her rosettes were just as she 
liked to have them, and did not pull off; her rose-col- 
ored slippers with their high heels did not pinch her, but 
were agreeable to her feet. All the buttons on her long 
gloves which enveloped and enhanced the beauty of her 
hands fastened easily, and did not tear. The black velvet 
ribbon, attached to a medallion, was thrown daintily about 
her neck. This ribbon was charming; and at home, as 
she saw it in her mirror adorning her neck, Kitty felt that 
this ribbon spoke. Every thing else might be dubious, but 
this ribbon was charming. Kitty smiled, even there at the 
ball, as she saw it in the mirror. As she saw her shoulders 
and her arms, Kitty felt a sensation of marble coolness 
which pleased her. Her eyes shone and her rosy lips could 
not refrain from smiling with the consciousness of how 
charming she was. 

She had scarcely entered the ball-room and joined a group 
of ladies covered with tulle, ribbons, lace, and flowers, who 
were waiting for partners, — Kitty did not belong to the 
number, — when she was invited to waltz with the best dancer, 
the principal cavalier in the whole hierarchy of the ball-room, 
the celebrated leader of the mazurka,the master of ceremo- 
nies, the handsome, elegant Yegorushka Korsunsky, a mar- 
ried man. He had just left the Countess Bonina, with whom 
he opened the ball, and as soon as he perceived Kitty, he made 
his way to her in that easy manner peculiar to leaders of the 
mazurka, and without even asking her permission put his arm 
around the young girl’s slender waist. She looked for some 
one to whom to confide her fan; and the mistress of the 
mansion, smiling upon her, took charge of it. 


~ 


* 
3 
e 
Es 











KITTY AT THE BALL 





a ic 


ANNA KARENINA. 87 


** How good of you to come early,”’ said Korsunsky. ‘‘I 
don’t like the fashion of being late.’’ 
Kitty placed her left hand on her partner’s shoulder, and 


‘her little feet, shod in rose-colored bashmaks, glided lightly 


and rhythmically over the polished floor. 

*¢ Tt is restful to dance with you,”’ said he as he fell into 
the slow measures of the waltz: ‘‘ charming! such lightness! 
such précision!’’? This is what he said to almost all his 
dancing acquaintances. 

Kitty smiled at this eulogium, and continued to study the 
ball-room across her partner’s shoulder. This was not her 
first appearance in society, and she did not confound all 
faces in one magic sensation, nor was she so surfeited with 
balls as to know every one present, and be tired of seeing 
them. She noticed a group that had gathered in the left- 
hand corner of the ball-room, composed of the very flowers 
of society. There was Korsunsky’s wife, Lidi, a beauty in 
outrageously low-cut corsage; there was the mistress of the 
mansion; there was Krivin with shiny bald head, who was 
always to be seen where the cream of society was gathered. 
There also were gathered the young men looking on, and not 
venturing upon the floor. Her eyes fell upon Stiva, and then 
she saw Anna’s elegant figure dressed in black velvet. And 
he was there. Kitty had not seen him since the evening 
when she refused Levin. Kitty discovered him from afar, 
and saw that he was looking at her. 

*¢ Shall we have one more turn? You are not fatigued?’”’ 
asked Korsunsky, slightly out of breath. 

*¢ No, thank you.”’ 

*¢ Where shall I leave you? ”’ 

*¢ T think Madame Karénina is here ; — take me to her.’’ 

** Anywhere that you please.”’ 

And Korsunsky, still waltzing with Kitty but with a slower 
step, made his way toward the group on the left, saying as 
he went, ‘* Pardon, mesdames ; pardon, pardon, mesdames ; ”’ 
and steering skilfully through the sea of laces, tulle, and rib- 
bons, placed her in a chair after a final turn, which gave a 
glimpse of dainty blue stockings, and threw her train over 
Krivin’s knees, half burying him under a cloud of tulle. 

Korsunsky bowed, then straightened himself up, and offered 
Kitty his arm to conduct her to Anna Arkadyevna. Kitty, 
blushing a little, freed Krivin from the folds of her train, 
and, just a trifle dizzy, went in search of Madame Karénina. 


88 ANNA KARENINA. 


Anna was not dressed in violet, as Kitty had hoped, but in a 
low-cut black velvet gown, which showed her ivory shoulders, 
her beautiful round arms, and her dainty wrists. Her robe 
was adorned with Venetian guipure ; on her head, gracefully 
set on her dark locks, was a wreath of mignonette; and a 
similar bouquet was fastened in her breast with a black rib- 
bon. Her hair was dressed very simply: there was nothing 
remarkable about it except the abundance of little natural 
curls, which strayed in fascinating disorder about her neck and 
temples. She wore a string of pearls about her firm round 
throat. Kitty had seen Anna every day, and was delighted 
with her; but now that she saw her dressed in black, instead 
of the violet which she had expected, she thought that she 
never before had appreciated her full beauty. She saw her 
in a new and unexpected light. She confessed that violet 
would not have been becoming to her, but that her charm 
consisted entirely in her independence of toilet; that her 
toilet was only an accessory, and her black robe showing her 
splendid shoulders was only the frame in which she appeared 
simple, natural, elegant, and at the same time full of gayety 
and animation. When Kitty joined her, she was standing in 
her usual erect attitude, talking with the master of the house, 
her head lightly bent towards him. 

‘* No: I would not cast the first stone,’’ she was saying to 
him, and then, perceiving Kitty, she received her with an 
affectionate and re-assuring smile. With a quick, compre- 
hensive glance, she approved of the young girl’s toilet, and 
gave her an appreciative nod, which Kitty understood. 

‘¢ You even dance into the ball-room,”’ she said. 

‘*¢ She is the most indefatigable of my aids,’’ said Korsun- 
sky, addressing Anna Arkadyevna. ‘‘ The princess makes 
any ball-room gay and delightful. Anna Arkadyeyna, will 
you take a turn?’’ he asked, with a bow. 

** Ah! you are acquainted? ’’ said the host. 

‘¢ Who is it we don’t know, my wife and I? We are like 
white wolves, — everybody knows us,’’ replied Korsunsky. 
‘¢ A little waltz, Anna Arkadyevna?’”’ 

‘¢T don’t dance when I can help it,’’ she replied. 

*¢ But you can’t help it to-night,’’ said Korsunsky. 

At this moment Vronsky joined them. 

‘¢ Nu! if I can’t help dancing, let us dance,’’ said she, 
placing her hand on Korsunsky’s shoulder, and not replying 
to Vronsky’s salutation. | 


> 


a en. 


ANNA KARENINA. $9 


‘* Why is she vexed with him?’’ thought Kitty, noticing 
that Anna purposely paid no attention to Vronsky’s bow. 
Vronsky joined Kitty, reminded her that she was engaged to 
him for the first quadrille, and expressed regret that he had 
not seen her for so long. Kitty, while she was looking with 
admiration at Anna in the mazes of the waltz, listened to 
Vronsky. She expected that he would invite her; but he did 
nothing of the sort, and she looked at him with astonishment. 
He blushed, and with some precipitation suggested that they 
should waltz; but they had scarcely taken the first step, 
when suddenly the music stopped. Kitty looked into his 
face, which was close to her own, and for many a long day, 
even after years had passed, the loving look which she gave 
him and which he did not return tore her heart with cruel 
shame. 

** Pardon! Pardon! A waltz! a waltz!’’ cried Korsunsky 
at the other end of the ball-room, and, seizing the first young 
lady at hand, he began once more to dance. 


XXII. 


Vronsky took a few turns with Kitty, then she joined her 
mother; and after a word or two with the Countess Nord- 
stone, Vronsky came back to get her for the first quadrille. 
In the intervals of the dance they talked of unimportant tri- 
fles, now of Korsunsky and his wife whom Vronsky described 
as amiable children of forty years, now of some private the- 
atricals ; and only once did his words give her a keen pang, — 
when he asked if Levin were there, and added that he liked 
him very much. But Kitty counted little on the quadrille: 
it was the mazurka which she waited for, with a violent beat- 
ing of the heart. She had been told that the mazurka gen- 
erally settled all such questions. Though Vronsky did not 
ask her during the quadrille, she felt sure that she would be 
selected as his partner for the mazurka as in all preceding 
balls. She was so sure of it that she refused five invita- 
tions, saying that she was engaged. This whole ball, even 
to the last quadrille, seemed to Kitty like a magical dream, 
full of flowers, of joyous sounds, of movement: she did not 
cease to dance until her strength began to fail, and then she 
begged to rest a moment. But in dancing the last quadrille 
with one of those tiresome men whom she found it impossible 


90 ANNA KARENINA. 


to refuse, she found herself vis-d-vis to Vronsky and Anna. 
Kitty had not fallen in with Anna since the beginning of the 
ball, and now she suddenly seemed to her in another new and 
unexpected light. She seemed laboring under an excitement 
such as Kitty herself had experienced,— that of success, 
which seemed to intoxicate her as though she had partaken 
too freely of wine. Kitty understood the sensation, and rec- 
ognized the <jiaptoms in Anna’s brilliant and animated eyes, 
her joyous and triumphant smile, her parted lips, and her 
harmonious and graceful movements. 

** Who has caused it?’’ she asked herself. ‘*‘ All, or one? ”’ 
She would not come to the aid of her unhappy partner, who 
was struggling to renew the broken thread of conversation ; 
and though she submitted with apparent good grace to the 
loud orders of Korsunsky, shouting ‘+ Ladies’ chain’’ and 
‘* All hands around,’’ she watched her closely, and her heart 
oppressed her more and more. ‘* No, it is not the approval 
of the crowd which has so intoxicated her, but the admira- 
tion of the one. Whoisit?— Canitbehe?’’ Everytime 
that Vronsky spoke to Anna, her eyes sparkled, and a smile 
of happiness parted her ruby lips. She seemed anxious to 
hide this joy, but nevertheless happiness was painted on her 
face. ‘*Can it be he?’’ thought Kitty. She looked at him, 
and was horror-struck. The sentiments that were reflected 
on Anna’s face as in a mirror, were also visible on his. 
Where were his coolness, his calm dignity, the repose which 
always marked his face? Now, as he addressed his partner, 
his head bent as though he were ready to worship her, and 
his look expressed at once humility and passion, as though 
it said, ‘‘ I would not offend you. I would save my heart, and 
how can I?’’ Such was the expression of his face, and she 
had never ‘before seen it in him. 

Their conversation was made up of trifles, and yet Kitty 
felt that every trifling word decided her fate. Strange’as it 
might seem, they, too, in jesting about Ivan Ivanitch’s droll 
French and of Miss Eletska’s marriage, found in every word 
a peculiar meaning which they understood as well as Kitty. 

In the poor girl’s mind, the ball, the whole evening, every 
thing, seemed enveloped in mist. Only the force of her 
education sustained her, and enabled her to do her duty, 
that is to say, to dance, to answer questions, even to smile. 
But as soon as the mazurka began, and the chairs had been 
arranged, and the smaller rooms were all deserted in favor of 





ANNA KARENINA. 9T 


the great ball-room, a sudden attack of despair and terror 
seized her. She had refused five invitations, she had no 
partner; and the last chance was gone, for the very reason 
that her social success would make it unlikely to occur to 
any one that she would be without a partner. She would 
have to tell her mother that she was not feeling well, and go 
home, but it seemed impossible. She felt as though she 
would sink through the floor. 

She took refuge in a corner of a boudoir, and threw her- 
self into an arm-chair. The airy skirts of her robe enveloped 
her delicate figure as in a cloud. One bare arm, as yet a 
little thin, but dainty, fell without energy, and lay in the 
folds of her rose-colored skirt: with the other she fanned 
herself nervously. But while she looked like a lovely butter- 
fly caught amid grasses, and ready to spread its trembling 
wings, a horrible despair oppressed her heart. 

*¢ But perhaps I am mistaken: perhaps it is not so.’’ And 
again she recalled what she had seen. 

*¢ Kitty, what does this mean? ’”’ said the Countess Nord- 
stone, coming to her with noiseless steps. 

Kitty’s lips quivered: she hastily arose. 

*¢ Kitty, aren’t you dancing the mazurka?”’ 

*¢ No, —no,”’ she replied, with trembling voice. 

‘*T heard him invite her for the mazurka,’’ said the count- 
ess, knowing that Kitty would know whom she meant. ‘‘ She 
said, ‘ What! aren’t you going to dance with the Princess 
Shcherbatskaia?’ ’’ 

*¢ Ach! it’s mi one to me,’’ said Kitty. 

No one besides herself should learn of her trouble. Noone 
should know that she had refused a man whom perhaps she 
loveil, — refused him because she preferred some one else. 

The countess went in search of Korsunsky, who was her 
partner for the mazurka, and sent him to invite Kitty. 

Fortunately, Kitty, who danced in the first figure, was not 
obliged to talk: Korsunsky, in his quality of leader, was 
obliged to be ubiquitous. Vronsky and Anna were nearly 
cpposite to her: she saw them sometimes near, sometimes 
at a distance, as their turn brought them into the figures ; 
and as she watched them, she felt more and more certain 
that her cup of sorrow was full. She saw that they felt them- 
selves alone even in the midst of the crowded room; ard on 
Vronsky’s face, usually so impassive and calm, she remarked 
that mingled expression of humility and fear, such as strikes 


92 ANNA KARENINA. 


one in an intelligent dog, conscious of having done wrong. 

If Anna smiled, his smile replied: if she became thoughtful, 

he looked serious. An almost supernatural power seemed 
to attract Kitty’s gaze to Anna’s face. She was charming 
in her simple black velvet; charming were her round arms, 
clasped by bracelets ; charming her exquisite neck, encircled 
with pearls; charming her dark, curly locks breaking from 
restraint ; charming the slow and graceful movements of her 
feet and hands; charming her lovely face, full of animation ; 
but in all this charm there was something terrible and cruel. 

Kitty admired her more than ever, even while her pain 
increased. She felt crushed, and her face told the story. 
When Vronsky passed her, in some figure of the mazurka, 
he hardly knew her, so much had she changed. 

*¢ Lovely ball,’’ he said, so as to say something. 

‘* Yes,’’ was her reply. 

Towards the middle of the mazurka, in a complicated fig- 
ure recently invented by Korsunsky, Anna was obliged to 
leave the circle, and call out two gentlemen and two ladies: 
Kitty was one. She looked at Anna, and approached her 
with dismay. Anna, half shutting her eyes, looked at her 
with a smile, and pressed her hand; then noticing the ex- 
pression of melancholy surprise on Kitty’s face, she turned 
to the other lady, and began to talk to her in animated tones. 

‘¢ Yes, there is some terrible, almost infernal attraction 
about her,’’ said Kitty to herself. 

Anna did not wish to remain to supper, but the host in- 
sisted. 

‘* Do stay, Anna Arkadyevna,’’ said Korsunsky, touching 
her on the arm. ‘‘ Such a cotillion I have in mind! Un 
bijou!’’ [A jewel]. 

And the master of the house, looking on with a smile, 
encouraged his efforts to detain her. 

‘¢ No, I cannot stay,’’ said Anna, also smiling; but in 
spite of her smile the two men understood by the determina- 
tion in her voice that she would not stay. 

‘* No, for I have danced here in Moscow at this single ball 
more than all winter in Petersburg ;’’ and she turned towards 
Vronsky, who was standing near her: —‘‘one must rest 
after a journey.”’ 

‘¢ And so you must go back to-morrow? ”’ he said. 

*¢Yes: I think so,’’ replied Anna, as though surprised at 
the boldness of his question. But while she was speaking 





ANNA KARENINA. 93 


to him, the brilliancy of her eyes and her smile set his heart 
on fire. 

Anna Arkadyevna did not stay for supper, but took her 
departure. 


XXIV. 


‘¢ Yrs, there must be something repulsive about me,’’ 
thought Levin, as he left the Shcherbatskys, and went in 
search of his brother. ‘‘I am not popular with men. They 
say itis pride. No, I am not proud: if I had been proud, 
I should not have put myself in my present situation.’’ 
And he imagined himself to be a happy, popular, calm, 
witty Vronsky, with strength enough to avoid such a terrible 
position as he had put himself into on thatevening. ‘‘ Yes, 
she naturally chose him, and I have no right to complain 
about any one or any thing. I am the only person to blame. 
What right had I to think that she would unite her life with 
mine? WhoamI? and what am I? A man useful to no 
ove, — a good-for-nothing.”’ 

Then the memory of his brother Nikolai came back to 
him. ‘* Was he not right in saying that every thing in this 
world was miserable and wretched? Have we been just in 
our judgment of brother Nikolai? Of course, in the eyes 
of Prokofi, who saw him drunk and in ragged clothes, he is 
a miserable creature; but I judge him differently. I know 
his heart, and I know that we are alike. And I, instead of 
going to find him, have been out dining, and to this party !”’ 
Levin read his brother’s address in the light of a street- 
lamp, and calted an izvoshchik (hack-driver). While on the 
way, he recalled one by one the incidents of Nikolai’s life. 
He remembered how at the university, and for a year after 
his graduation, he had lived like a monk notwithstanding the 
ridicule of his comrades, strictly devoted to all the forms of 
religion, services, fasts, turning his back on all pleasures, 
and especially women, and then how he had suddenly turned 
around, and fallen into the company of people of the low- 
est lives, and entered upon a course of dissipation and 
debauchery. He remembered his conduct towards a lad 
whom he had taken from the country to bring up, and whom 
he whipped so severely in a fit of anger that he narrowly 
escaped being transported for mayhem. He remembered 
his conduct towards a swindler whom he had given a bill of 


94 ANNA KARENINA. 


exchange in payment of a gambling debt, and whom he had 
caused to be arrested: this was, in fact, the bill of exchange 
which Sergéi Ivanuitch had just paid. He remembered the 
night spent by Nikolai at the station-house on account of a 
spree; the scandalous lawsuit against his brother Sergéi 
Ivanuitch, because the latter had refused to pay his share of 
their maternal inheritance; and finally he recalled his last 
adventure, when, having taken a position in one of the West- 
ern governments, he was dismissed for assaulting a superior. 
All this was detestable, but the impression on Levin was less 
odious than it would be on those who did not know Nikolai, 
did not know his history, did not know his heart. 

Levin did not forget how at the time that Nikolal was 
seeking to curb the evil passions of his nature by devotions, 
fasting, prayers, and other religious observances, no one had 
approved of it, or aided him, but how, on the contrary, every 
one, even himself, had turned it into ridicule: they had 
mocked him, nicknamed him Noah, the monk! Then when 
he had fallen, no one had helped him, but all had fled from 
him with horror and disgust. Levin felt that his brother 
Nikolai at the bottom of his heart, in spite of all the deform- 
ity of his life, could not be so very much worse than those 
who despised him. ‘‘I will go and find him, and tell him 
every thing, and show him that I love him, and think about 
him,’’ said Levin to himself, and about eleven o’clock in the 
evening he bade the driver take him to the hotel indicated on 
the address. 

‘¢ Up-stairs, No. 12 and 13,” said the Swiss, in reply to 
Levin’s question. 

*¢ Ts he at home? ”’ 

‘¢ Probably.”’ 

The door of No. 12 was ajar, and from the room came the 
dense fumes of inferior tobacco. Levin heard an unknown 
voice speaking ; then he recognized his brother’s presence by 
his cough. 

When he entered the door, he heard the unknown voice 
saying, ‘‘ All depends upon whether the affair is conducted 
in a proper and rational manner.”’ 

Konstantin Levin glanced through the doorway, and saw 
that the speaker was a young man, clad like a peasant, and 
with an enormous shapka on his head. On the sofa was sit- 
ting a young woman, with pock-marked face, and dressed in 
a woollen gown without collar or cuffs. Konstantin’s heart 


ANNA KARENINA. 95 


sank to think of the strange people with whom his brother 
associated. No one heard him; and while he was removing 
his goloshes, he listened to what the man in the doublet said. 
He was speaking of some enterprise under consideration. 

‘*‘ Nu! the Devil take the privileged classes!’’ said his 
brother’s voice, after a fit of coughing. 

‘¢ Masha, see if you can’t get us something to eat, and 
bring some wine if there’s any left: if not, go y for some.’ 

The woman arose, and as she came out of the inner room, 
she saw Konstantin. 

‘* A gentleman here, Nikolai Dmitritch,’” she cried. 

‘¢ What is wanted?’’ said the voice of Nikolai Levin an 
grily. 

** It’s I,’’ replied Konstantin, appearing at the door. 

‘* Who’s [?”’ repeated Nikolai’s voice, still more angrily. 

A sound of some one quickly rising and stumbling against 
something, and then Konstantin saw ‘his brother standing be- 
fore him at the door, infirm, tall, thin, and bent, with creat 
startled eyes. He was still thinner than when Konstantin last 
saw him, three years before. He wore a short overcoat. 
His hands and his bony frame seemed to him more colossal 
than ever. His hair was cut close, his mustaches stood out 
straight from his lips, and his eyes glared at his visitor with 
a strange, uncanny light. 

*¢ Ah, Kostia!’’ he cried, suddenly recognizing his brother, 
and his eyes shone with joy. But in an instant he turned 
towards his brother, and only made a quick, convulsive 
motion of his head and neck, as though his cravat choked 
him, a gesture well known to Konstantin, and at the same 
time an entirely different expression, savage and cruel, swept 
over his pinched features. 

‘¢I wrote both to you and to Sergéi Ivanuitch that I do 
not know you, nor wish to know you. What dost thou, what 
do you, want? ”’ 

He was not at all such as Konstantin had imagined him. 
The hard and wild elements of his character, which made 
family relationship difficult, had faded from Konstantin Lev- 
in’s memory whenever he thought about him ; and now when 
he saw his face and the characteristic convulsive motions of 
his head, he remembered it. 

‘** But I wanted nothing of you except to see you,’ he 
replied, a little timidly. ‘‘ I only came to see you.”’ 

His brother’s diffidence apparently disarmed Nikolai 


96 ANNA KARENINA, 


‘“¢ Ah! did you?’’ said he. ‘* Nu! come \a, sit down 
Do you want some supper? Masha, bring enough for three. 
No, hold on! Do you know who this is?’’ he asked, pointing 
to the young man in the doublet. ‘+ This gentleman is Mr. 
Kritsky, a friend of mine from Kief, a very remarkable man. 
It seems the police are after him, because he is not a cow: 
ard.’’ And he looked, as he always did after speaking, af 
all who were in the room. Then seeing that the woman, 
who stood at the door, was about to leave, he shouted, — 

*¢ Wait, I tell you.”’ 

Then with his blundering, ignorant mode of speech, which 
Konstantin knew so well, he began to narrate the whole story 
of Kritsky’s life; how he had been driven from the univer- 
sity, because he had tried to found an aid society and Sun- 
day schools among the students; how afterwards he had 
been appointed teacher in the primary school, only to be dis- 
missed; and how finally they had tried him for something or 
other. 

‘* Were you at the University of Kief?”’ asked Konstantin 
of Kritsky, in order to break the awkward silence. 

‘¢ Yes, at Kief,’’ replied Kritsky curtly, with a frown. 

‘¢ And this woman,” cried Nikolai Levin, with a gesture, 
‘¢is the companion of my life, Marya Nikolayevna. I found 
her,’’ he said, shrugging his shoulders, — ‘‘ but I love her, 
and I esteem her; and all who want to know me, must love 
her and esteem her. She is just the same as my wife, just 
the same. Thus you know with whom you have to do. And 
if you think that you lower yourself, there’s the door!’’ And 
again his questioning eyes looked about the room. 

‘¢T do not understand how I should lower myself.’’ 

‘¢ All right, Masha, bring us up enough for three, — some 
vodka and wine. No, wait; no matter, though; go! 


XXV. 


‘¢ As you see,’’ continued Nikolai Levin, frowning, and 
speaking with effort. So great was his agitation that he did 
not know what to do or to say. ‘* But do you see?”’ and he 
pointed to the corner of the room where lay some iron bars 
attached to straps. ‘*Do you see that? That is the begin- 
ning of a new work which we are undertaking. This work 
belongs to a productive labor association.’”’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 97 


Konstantin scarcely listened : he was looking at his brother’s 
sick, consumptive face, and his pity grew upon him, and he 
could not heed what his brother was saying about the labor 
association. He saw that the work was only an anchor of 
safety to keep him from absolute self-abasement. Nikolai 
went on to say, — 

*¢ You know that capital is crushing the laborer: the labor- 
ing classes with us are the muzhiks, and they bear the whole 
weight of toil; and no matter how they exert themselves, 
they can never get above their condition of laboring cattle. 
All the advantages that their productive labor creates, ali 
that could better their lot, give them leisure, and therefore 
instruction, all their superfluous profits, are swallowed up 
by the capitalists. And society is so constituted that the 
harder they work, the more the proprietors and the merchants 
fatten at their expense, while they remain beasts of burden 
still. And this must be changed.’’ He finished speaking, 
and looked at his brother. 

‘*¢ Yes, of course,’’ replied Konstantin, looking at the pink 
spots which burned in his brother’s hollow cheeks. 

** And we are organizing an artel of locksmiths where all 
will be in common, — work, profits, and even the tools.’’ 

‘¢ Where will this artel be situated?’’ asked Konstantin. 

‘In the village of Vozdrem, government of Kazan.’’ 

** Yes, but why in a village? In the villages, it seems to 
me, there is plenty of work: why associated locksmiths in a 
village? ’’ 

*¢ Because the muzhiks are serfs, just as much as they ever 
were, and you and Sergéi Ivanuitch.don’t like it because we 
want to free them from this slavery,’’ replied Nikolai, vexed 
by his brother’s question. While he spoke, Konstantin was 
looking about the melancholy, dirty room: he sighed, and 
his sigh made Nikolai still more angry. 

‘“T know the aristocratic prejudices of such men as you 
and Sergéi Ivanuitch. I know that he is spending all the 
strength « of his mind in defence of the evils which crush us.’ 

‘* No! but why do you speak of Sergéi Ivanuitch?’’ asked 
Levin, smiling. 

**Sergéi Ivanuitch? This is why!”’ cried Nikolai at the 
mention of Sergéi Ivanuitch — ‘‘ this is why! . . . yet what 
is the good? tell me this—what did you come ‘here for? 
You despise ail this ; very good! Go away, for God’s sake,” 
he cried, rising from his chair, — ‘*90 away! go away!”’ 


98 ANNA KARENINA. 

‘¢T don’t despise any thing,”’ 
only refrain from discussing.”’ 

At this moment Marya Nikolayevna came in. Nikolai 
turned towards her angrily, but she quickly stepped up to 
him, and whispered a few words in his ear. 

‘¢T am not well, I easily become irritable,’’ he explained, 
calmer, and breathing with difficulty, ‘‘ and you just spoke to 
me about Sergéi Ivanuitch and his article. It is so utterly 
insane, so false, so full of error. How can a man, who 
knows nothing about justice, write on the subject? Have 
you read his article? ’’ said he, turning to Kritsky, and then, 
_ going to the table, he brushed off the half-rolled cigarettes. 

‘¢T have not read it,’’ replied Kritsky with a gloomy face, 
evidently not wishing to take part in the conversation. 

‘¢Why?’’ demanded Nikolai irritably. 

‘¢ Because I don’t care to waste my time.”’ 

‘¢ That is, excuse me — how do you know that it would be 
a waste of time? For many people this article is wn-get-at- 
able, because it is above them. But I find it different: I see 
the thoughts through and through, and know wherein it is 
weak.”’ 

No one replied. Kritsky immediately arose, and took his 
shapka. 

‘‘Won’t you take some lunch? Nu! good-by! Come 
to-morrow with the locksmith.’’ 

Kritsky had hardly left the room, when Nikolai smiled and 
winked. 

‘¢ He is to be pitied; but I see’? — 

Kritsky, calling at the door, interrupted him. 

‘¢ What do you want?’’ he asked, joining him in the cor- 
ridor. Left alone with Marya Nikolayevna, Levin said to 
her, — 

‘¢ Have you been long with my brother? ”’ 

‘¢ This is the second year. His health has become very 
feeble: he drinks a great deal,’’ she said. 

‘¢ What do you mean? ”’ 

‘¢ He drinks vodka, and it is bad for him.’’ 

*¢ Does he drink too much? ”’ 

‘¢ Yes,’’ said she, looking timidly towards the door where 
Nikolai Levin was just entering. 

‘¢What were you talking about?’’ he demanded with a 
scowl, and looking from one to the other with angry eyes. 
** Tell me.”’ 


said Konstantin gently: ‘I 


ANNA KARENINA. 99 


**Oh! nothing,’* replied Konstantin in confusion. 

*¢ You don’t want to answer: all right! don’t. But you 
have no business to be talking with her: she is a girl, you a 
gentleman,’’ he shouted with the twitching of his neck. ‘‘I 
see that you have understood every thing, and judged every 
thing, and that you look with scorn on the errors of my 
ways.” | 

He went on speaking, raising his voice. 

‘* Nikolai Dmitritch! Nikolai Dmitritch!’’ murmured 
Marya Nikolayevna, coming close to him. 

*¢ Nu! very good, very good. . . . Supper, then? ah! 
here it is,’’ he said, seeing a servant entering with a platter. 

‘* Here! put it here!’’ he said crossly, then, taking the 
vodka, he poured out a glass, and drank it eagerly. 

** Will you have a drink?’’ he asked his brother. The 
sudden cloud had passed. 

*¢ Nu! no more about Sergéi Ivanuitch! I am very glad 
to see you. Henceforth people can’t say that we are not 
friends. Nu! drink! Tell me what you are doing,’ he 
said, taking a piece of bread, and pouring out a second glass. 
** How do you live? ”’ 

‘¢ T live alone in the country as I always have, and busy 
myself with farming,’’ replied Konstantin, looking with ter- 
ror at the eagerness with which his brother ate and drank, 
and trying to hide his impressions. 

‘¢ Why don’t you get married? ”’ 

** J have not come to that yet,’’ replied Konstantin, blush- 
ing. 

‘¢ Why so? For me—it’s all over! I have wasted my 
life! This I have said, and always shall say, that, if they 
had given me my share of the estate when I needed it, my 
whole life would have been different.’’ 

Konstantin hastened to change the conversation. ‘* Did 
you know that your Vaniushka [Jack] is with me at Pokrov- 
sky as book-keeper?’’ he said. Nikolai’s neck twitched, and 
he sank into thought. 

** Da! (Yes). Tell me what is doing at Pokrovsky. Is 
the house just the same? and the birches and our study-room ? 
Is Filipp, the gardener, still alive? How I remember the 
summer-house and the sofa!— Da! don’t let any thing in 
the house be changed, but get a wife right away, and begin 
to live as you used to. I will come to visit you if you will 
get a good wife.” — 


100 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘* Then come now with me,’’ said Konstantin. ‘*How welt 
we would get along together! ’’ 

‘*T would come if I weren’t afraid of meeting Sergéi Ivan- 
uitch.’’ 

‘* You would not meet him: I live absolutely independent 
of him.”’ 

‘¢ Yes; but whatever you say, you would have to choose 
between him and me,’’ said Nikolai, looking timorously in 
his brother’s eyes. This timidity touched Konstantin. 

‘*¢ Tf you want to hear my whole confession as to this mat- 
ter, I will tell you that I take sides neither with you nor 
with him in your quarrel. You are both in the wrong; but 
in your case the wrong is external, while in his the wrong is 
inward.’ 

‘¢*Ha, ha! Do you understand it? do you understand 
it?’’ cried Nikolai with an expression of joy. 

‘¢ But I, for my part, if you would like to know, value 
your friendship higher because ’? — 

‘Why? why?” 

Konstantin could not say that it was because Nikolai was 
sick, and needed his friendship; but Nikolai understood that 
that was what he meant, and, frowning darkly, he betook 
himself to the vodka. 

‘¢Enough, Nikolai Dmitritch!’’ cried Marya Nikola- 
yevna, laying her great pudgy hand on the decanter. 

‘¢ Let me alone! don’t bother me, or I’ll strike you,’’ he 
cried. , 

Marya Nikolayevna smiled with her gentle and good- 
natured smile, which pacified. Nikolat, and she took the 
vodka. 

‘¢There! Do you think that she does not understand 
things?’’ said Nikolai. ‘* She understands this thing better 
than all of you. Isn’t there something about her good and 
ventle?’”’ 

‘¢ Haven’t you ever been in Moscow before?’’ said Kon- 
stantin, in order to say something to her. 

‘¢ Da! don’t say vui [you] to her. It frightens her. .No 
one said vui to her except the justice of the peace, when 
they had her up because she wanted to escape from the 
house of ill fame where she was. My God! how senseless 
every thing is in this world !’’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘+ These 
new institutions, these justices of the peace, the zemstvo, 
what abominations! ”’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 101 


And he began to relate his experiences with the new insti- 
tutions. 

Konstantin listened to him; and the criticisms on the 
absurdity of the new institutions, which he had himself often 
expressed, now that he heard them from his brother’s lips, 
seemed disagreeable to him. 

*¢ We shall find out all about it in the next world,’’ he 
said jestingly. | 

*¢In the next world? Och! I don’t like your next world, 
I don’t like it,’’ he repeated, fixing his timid, haggard eyes 
on his brother’s face. ‘* And yet it would seem good to go 
from these abominations, this chaos, from this unnatural state 
of things, from one’s self; but I am afraid of death, horribly 
afraid of death!’’ Heshuddered. ‘** Da! drink something ! 
Would you like some champagne? or would you rather go 
out somewhere? Let’s go and see the gypsies. You know I 
am very fond of gypsies and Russian folk-songs.’’ 

His speech grew thick, and he hurried from one subject 
to another. Konstantin, with Masha’s aid, persuaded him to 
stay at home; and they put him on his bed completely drunk. 

Masha promised to write Konstantin in case of need, and 
to persuade Nikolai Levin to come and live with his brother. 


XXVI. 


Tue next forenoon Levin left Moscow, and towards even- 
ing was at home. On the journey he talked with the people 
in the car about politics, about the new railroads, and, just 
as in Moscow, he felt oppressed by the chaos of conflicting 
opinions, weary of himself, and ashamed without knowing 
why. But when he reached his station, and perceived his 
one-eyed coachman, Ignat, in his kaftan, with his collar above 
his ears; when he saw, in the flickering light cast by the dim 
station-lamps, his covered sledge and his horses with their 
neatly cropped tails and their jingling bells; when Ignat, as 
he tucked the robes comfortably around him, told him all the 
news of the village, about the coming of the contractor, and 
how Pava the cow had calved, — then it seemed to him that 
the chaos resolved itself a little, and his shame and dis- 
satisfaction passed away. ‘The very sight of Ignat and his 
horses was a consolation; but as soon as he had put on his 
sulup (sheep-skin coat), which he found in the sleigh, and 


102 ANNA KARENINA. 


ensconced himself in his seat, and began to think what orders 
he should have to give as soon he reached home, and at the 
same time examined the off-horse, which used to be his saddle- 
horse, a swift though broken-down steed, then, indeed, what 
he had experienced came to him in an absolutely different 
light. He felt himself again, and no longer wished to be 
a different person. He only wished to be better than he had 
ever been before. In the first place, he resolved from that 
day forth that he would never look forward to extraordinary 
joys, such as had led him to make his offer of marriage ; and, 
in the second place, he would never allow himself to be led 
away by low passion, the remembrances of which so shamed 
him when he had made his proposal. And lastly he prom- 
ised not to forget his brother Nikolai again, or let him out of 
sight, and to go to his aid as soon as it seemed needful, and 
that seemed likely to be very soon. ‘Then the conversation 
about communism, which he had so lightly treated with his 
brother, came back to him, and made him reflect. A reform 
of economic conditions seemed to him doubtful, but he was 
none the less impressed by the unfair difference between the 
misery of the people and his own superfluity of blessings, 
and he promised himself that, though hitherto he had worked 
hard, and lived economically, he would in the future work 
still harder, and live with even less luxury than ever. And 
the effect upon himself of all these reflections was that 
throughout the long ride from the station he was the subject 
of the pleasantest illusions. With the full enjoyment of 
his hopes for a new and better life, he reached his house. 
The clock was just striking ten. 

From the windows of the room occupied by his old nurse, 
Agafya Mikhailovna, who fulfilled the functions of house- 
keeper, the light fell upon the snow-covered steps before his 
house. She was not yet asleep. Kuzma, wakened by her, 
barefooted, and with sleepy eyes, hurried down to open the 
door. Laska, the setter, almost knocking Kuzma down in 
her desire to get ahead of him, ran to meet her master, and 
jumped upon him, trying to place her fore-paws on his breast. 

“You are back very soon, bdtiushka’’ [little father], said 
Agafya Mikhailovna. 

‘¢] was bored, Agafya Mikhailovna: ’tis good to go visit- 
ing, but it’s better at home,’’ said he, as he went into his 
library. 

The library was soon lighted with wax candles brought in 


ANNA KARENINA. 103 


haste. The familiar details little by little came home to him, 
—the great antlers, the shelves lined with books, the mirror, 
the stove with holes burned through and long ago beyond re- 
pair, the ancestral sofa, the great table, and on the table an 
open book, a broken ash-tray, a note-book filled with his 
writing. As he saw all these things, for the moment he be- 
gan to doubt the possibility of any such change in his man- 
ner of life as he had dreamed of during his journey. All 
these signs of his past seemed to say to him, ‘‘ No, thou 
shalt not leave us! thou shalt not become another; but thou 
shalt still be as thou hast always been, — with thy doubts, thy 
-verlasting self-dissatisfaction, thy idle efforts at reform, thy 
sauuures, and thy perpetual striving for a happiness which 
will never be thine.’’ 

But while these external objects spoke to him thus, a dif- 
ferent voice whispered to his soul, bidding him cease to be a 
slave to his past, and declaring that a man has every possi- 
bility within him. And listening to this voice, he went to 
one side of the room, where he found two dumb-bells, each 
weighing forty pounds. And he began to practise his gym- 
nastic exercises with them, endeavoring to fill himself with 
strength and courage. At the door, a noise of steps was 
heard. He instantly put down the dumb-bells. 

It was the prikashchik (intendant), who came to say that, 
thanks to God, every thing was well, but that the wheat in 
the new drying-room had got burnt. This provoked Levin. 
This new drying-room he had himself built, and partially in- 
vented. But the prikashchik was entirely opposed to it, and 
now he announced with a modest but triumphant expression 
that the wheat was burnt. Levin was sure that it was be- 
cause he had neglected the precautions a hundred times sug- 
gested. He grew angry, and reprimanded the prikashchik. 
But there was one fortunate and important event: Pava, his 
best, his most beautiful cow, which he had bought at the 
cattle-show, had calved. 

‘* Kuzma, give me my tulup. And you,’’ said he to the 
prikashchik, *‘ get a lantern. I will go and see her.’’ 

The stable for the cattle was not far from the house. 
_ Crossing the court-yard, where the snow was heaped under 
the lilac-bushes, he stepped up to the stable. As he opened 
the door, which creaked on its frosty hinges, he was met 
by the warm, penetrating breath from the stalls, and the 
kine, astonished at the unwonted light of the lantern, turned 


104 ANNA KARENINA. 


around from their beds of fresh straw. The shiny black 
and white back of his Holland cow gleamed in the obscurity. 
Berkut, the bull, with a ring in his nose, tried to get to his 
feet, but changed his mind, and only snorted when they 
approached his stanchion. 

The beautiful Pava, huge as a hippopotamus, was lying 
near her calf, snuffing at it, and protecting it by her back, as 
with a rampart, from those who would come too close. 

Levin entered the stall, examined Pava, and lifted the 
calf, spotted with red and white, on its long, awkward legs. 
Pava bellowed with anxiety, but was re-assured when the 
calf was restored to her, and began to lick it with her rough 
tongue. The calf hid its nose under its mother’s side, and 
frisked its tail. ‘*Bring the light this way, Fyodor, this 
way,’’ said Levin, examining the calf. ‘‘ Like its mother, 
but its hair is like the sire, long and prettily spotted. 
Vasili Fyodorovitch, isn’t it a beauty ?”” turning towards 
his prikashchik, forgetting, in his joy over the new-born calf, 
the grief caused by the burning of his wheat. 

‘* Why should it be homely? But Simon the contractor 
was here the day after you left. It will be necessary to 
come to terms with him, Konstantin Dmitritch,’’ replied the 
prikashchik. ‘¢T have already spoken to you about the 
machine.’’ This single phrase brought Levin back to all 
the details of his enterprise, which was great and compli- 
cated ; and from the stable he went directly to the office, and 
after a long conversation with the prikashchik and Simon 
the contractor, he went back to the orate and marched 
straight into the parlor. 


XXVIII. 


Lxrvin’s house was large and old, but, though he lived 
there alone, he occupied and warmed the whole of it. He 
knew that this was ridiculous; he knew that it was bad, and 
contrary to his new plans; but this house was a world of 
itself to him. It was a world where his father and mother 
had lived and died, and had lived a life, which, for Levin, 
seemed the ideal of all perfection, and which he dreamed of 
renewing with his own wife, with his own family. 

Levin scarcely remembered his mother, but this remem- 
brance was sacred; and his future wife, as he imagined her, 


ee a ee ee 


ANNA KARENINA. 104 


was to be the counterpart of the ideally charming and ador- 
able woman, his mother. For him, love for a woman could 
not exist outside of marriage; but he imagined the family 
relationship first, and only afterwards the woman who would 
be the centre of the family. His ideas about marriage were 
therefore essentially different from those held by the majority 
of his friends, for whom it was only one of the innumerable 
actions of the social life ; for Levin it was the most important 
act of his life, whereon all his happiness depended, and now 
he must renounce it. 

When he entered his little parlor where he generally took 
tea, and threw himself into his arm-chair with a book, while 
Agafya Mikhailovna brought him his cup, and sat down near 
the window, saying as usual, ‘* But I’ll sit down, bdti- 
ushka,’’ —then he felt, strangely enough, that he had not 
renounced his day-dreams, and that he could not live with- 
out them. Were it Kitty or another, still it would be. He 
read his book, had his mind on what he read, and at the 
same time listened to the unceasing prattle of Agafya Mik- 
hailovna, but his imagination was nevertheless filled with 
these pictures of family happiness which hovered before him. 
He felt that in the depths of his soul some change was going 
on, some modification arising, some crystallization taking 
place. 

He listened while Agafya Mikhailovna told how Prokhor 
had forgotten God, and, instead of buying a horse with the 
money which Levin had given him, had taken it and gone on 
a spree, and beaten his wife almost to death; and while he 
listened he read his book, and again caught the thread of his 
thoughts, awakened by his reading. It was a book of Tyn- 
dall, on heat. He remembered his criticisms on Tyndall’s 
satisfaction in speaking of the results of his experiences, 
and his lack of philosophical views, and suddenly a happy 
thought crossed his mind: ‘‘ In two years I shall have two 
Holland cows, and perhaps Pava herself will still be alive, 
and possibly a dozen of Berkut’s daughters will have been 
added to the herd! Splendid!’’ And again he picked up 
his book. ‘‘ Nu! very good: let us grant that electricity 
and heat are only one and the same thing, but could this one 
quantity stand in the equations used to settle this question? 
No. What then? The bond between all the forces of na- 
ture is felt, like instinct. . . . When Pavina’s daughter 
grows into a cow with red and white spots, what a herd I 


106 ANNA KARENINA. 


shali have with those three! Admirable! And my wife 
and I will go out with our guests to see the herd come in; 

- and my wife will say, ‘ Kostia and I have brought this 
calf up just like a child.” —‘ How can this interest you so?’ 
the guest will say. ‘All that interests him interests me 
also.’ . . . But who will she be?’’ and he began to think 
of what had happened in Moscow.— ‘‘ Nu! What is to be 
done about it? I am not to blame. But now every thing 
will be different. It is foolishness to let one’s past life dom- 
inate the present. One must struggle to live better — much 
better.’’ . . . He raised his head, and sank into thought. 
Old Laska, who had not yet got over her delight at seeing her 
master, was barking up and down the court. She came into 
the room, wagging her tail, and bringing the freshness of the 
open air, and thrust her head under his ‘hand, and begged for 
a caress, whining plaintively. 

‘*He almost talks,’’ said Agafya Mikhailovna: ‘‘ he is 
only a dog, but he knows just as well that his master has 
come home, and is sad.”’ 

*¢ Why sad? ’’ 

‘¢ Da! don’t I see it, bdtiushka? It’s time I knew how 
to read my masters. Grew up with my masters since they 
were children! No matter, bdtiushka: with good health and 
a pure conscience ’? — 

Levin looked at her earnestly, in astonishment that she so 
divined his thoughts. 

‘¢ And shall I give you some more tea?’’ said she; and 
she went out with the cup. 

. Laska continued to nestle her head in her master’s hand. 

He caressed her, and then she curled herself up around his 
feet, laying her head on one of her hind-paws ; and as a proof 
that all was arranged to suit her, she opened her mouth a 
little, let her tongue slip out between her aged teeth, and, 
with a gentle puffing of her lips, gave herself up to beatific 
repose. Levin followed all of her movements. 

‘¢So will I!’’ he said to himself; ‘* so will I! all will be 
well! ”’ 


XXVIII. 
On the morning after the ball, Anna Arkadyevna sent her 


husband a telegram, announcing that she was going to leave 
Moscow that day, 








ANNA KARENINA. 107 


‘* No, I must, I must go,’’ she said to her sister-in-law, 
in explanation of her change of plan, and her tone signified 
that she had just remembered something that demanded her 
instant attention. ‘‘ No, it would be much better to-day.”’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch dined out, but he agreed to get back 
at seven o’clock to escort his sister to the train. 

Kitty did not put in an appearance, but sent word that 
she had a headache. Dolly and Anna dined alone with the 
children and the English maid. It was either because the 
children were fickle or very quick-witted, and felt instinct- 
ively that Anna was not at all as she had been on the day 
of her arrival when they had taken so kindly to her, that 
they suddenly ceased playing with their aunt, seemed to 
lose their affection for her, and cared very little that she 
was going away. Anna spent the whole morning in making 
the preparations for her departure. She wrote a few notes 
to her Moscow acquaintances, settled her accounts, and 
packed her trunks. It seemed to Dolly that she was now at 
rest in her mind, and that this mental agitation, which Dolly 
knew from experience, arose, not without excellent reason, 
from dissatisfaction with herself. After dinner Anna went 
to her room to dress, and Dolly followed her. 

‘¢ How strange you are to-day !’’ said Dolly. 

*“*T? You think so? I am not strange, but I am cross. 
This is common with me. I should like to have a good ery. 
It is very silly, but it will pass away,’’ said Anna, speaking 
quickly, and hiding her blushing face in a little bag where 
she was packing her toilet articles and her handkerchiefs. 
Her eyes shone with tears which she could hardly keep back. 
‘*T was so loath to come away from Petersburg, and now I 
don’t want to go back! ”’ 

*¢ You came here and you did a lovely thing,’’ said Dolly, 
attentively observing her. 

Anna looked at her with eyes wet with tears. 

** Don’t say that, Dolly. I have done nothing, and could 
do nothing. I often ask myself why people say things to 
spoil me. What have I done? What could I do? You 
found that your heart had enough love left to forgive.’’ 

‘* Without you, God knows what would have been! How 
fortunate you are, Anna!’’ said Dolly. ‘‘ All is serene and 
pure in your soul.’’ 

‘* Every one has a skeleton in his closet, as the English 
say.”’ 


108 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ What skeletons have you, pray? In you every thing is 
serene.’’ 

‘‘T have mine cried Anna suddenly; and an unex- 
pected, crafty, mocking smile hovered over her lips in spite 
of her tears. 

‘¢ Nu! in your case the skeletons must be droll ones, and 
not grievous,’’ replied Dolly with a smile. 

‘* No: they are grievous! Do you know why I go to-day, 
and not to-morrow? This is a confession which weighs me 
down, but I wish to make it,’’ said Anna decidedly, sitting 
down in an arm-chair, and looking Dolly straight in the eyes. 

And to her astonishment she saw that Anna was blushing, 
even to her ears, even to the dark curls that played about 
the back of her neck. 

‘¢ Da!’’ Anna proceeded. ‘* Do you know why Kitty did 
not come to dinner? She is jealous of me. I spoiled —it 
was through me that the ball last night was a torment and 
not a joy to her. But truly, truly, I was not to blame, — or 
not much to blame,’’ said she, with a special accent on the 
word nemndézhko [not much]. 

‘¢Oh, how exactly you said that like Stiva!’’ remarked 
Dolly, laughing. 

Anna was vexed. ‘*Oh, no! Oh, no! I am not like 
Stiva,’’ said she, frowning. ‘‘I have told you this, simply 
because I do not allow myself, for an instant, to doubt my- 
self.’’ 

But the very moment that she said these words, she per- 
ceived how untrue they were: she not only doubted herself, 
but she felt such emotion at the thought of Vronsky that she 
took her departure sooner than she otherwise would, so that 
she might not meet him again. 

‘* Yes, Stiva told me that you danced the mazurka with 
him, and he ’? — 

‘¢ You cannot imagine how singularly it turned out. I 
thought only to help along the match, and suddenly it went 
exactly opposite. Perhaps ‘against my will, I1’’ — 

She blushed, and did not finish her sentence. 

‘¢Oh! these things are felt instantly,’’ said Dolly. 

‘¢ But I should be in despair if I felt that there could be 
any thing serious on his part,’’ interrupted Anna; ‘‘ but Iam 
convinced that all will be quickly forgotten, and that Kitty 
will not long be angry with me.”’ 

‘¢ In the first place, Anna, to tell the truth, I should not be 


1? 











ANNA KARENINA. 109 


very sorry if this marriage fell through. It would be vastly 
better for it to stop right here if Vronsky can fall in love 
with you in a single day.”’ 

‘* Ach! Bozhe moi! that would be so idiotic!’ said Anna, 
and again an intense blush of satisfaction overspread her 
face at hearing the thought that occupied her expressed in 
words. ‘* And that is why I go away, though I have made 
an enemy of Kitty whom I loved so dearly. But you will 
arrange that, Dolly? Da?’’ 

Dolly could hardly refrain from smiling. She loved Anna, 
but it was not unpleasant to discover that she also had her 
weaknesses. 

‘*Anenemy? That cannot be!”’ 

*¢ And I should have been so glad to have you all love me 
as I love you; but now I love you all more than ever,”’ said 
Anna with tears in her eyes. ‘‘ Ach! how absurd I am to- 
day !”’ | 

She passed her handkerchief over her eyes, and began to 
get ready. 

At the very moment of departure came Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch with rosy, happy face, and smelling of wine and cigars. 

Anna’s tender-heartedness had communicated itself to 
Dolly, who, as she kissed her for the last time, whispered, 
‘¢ Think, Anna! what you have done for me, I shall never 
forget. And think that I love you, and always shall love 
you as my best friend !”’ 

‘¢T don’t understand why,’’ replied Anna, kissing her, and 
struggling with her tears. ‘* You have understood me, and 
you do understand me. Proshchai [ good-by], my dearest.”’ 


XXIX. 


*¢ Nu! all is over. Thank the Lord!’’ was Anna’s first 
thought after she had said good-by to her brother, who had 
blocked up the entrance to the coach, even after the third 
bell had rung. She sat down on the little sofa next An- 
nushka, her maid, and began to examine the feebly lighted 
compartment. ‘* Thank the Lord! to-morrow I shall see 
Serozha and Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, and my good and 
commonplace life will begin again as of old.”’ 

With the same agitation of mind that had possessed her 
all day, Anna attended most minutely to the preparations for 


110 ANNA KARENINA. 


the journey. With her skilful little hands she opened her 
red bag, and took out a pillow, placed it on her knees, 
wrapped her feet warmly, and composed herself comfortably. 
A lady, who seemed to be an invalid, had already gone to 
sleep. Two other ladies entered into conversation ; and a fat, 
elderly dame, well wrapped up, began to criticise the temper- 
ature. Anna exchanged a few words with the ladies, but, 
not taking any interest in their conversation, asked Annushka 
for her travelling-lamp, placed it on the back of her seat, 
and took from her bag a paper-cutter and an English novel. 
At first she could not read; the going and coming disturbed 
her; when once the train had started, she could not help lis- 
tening to the noises: the snow striking against the window, 
and sticking to the glass; the conductor, as he passed with 
the snowflakes melting on his coat; the conversation carried 
on by her travelling companions, who were talking about the 
storm, — all distracted her attention. Afterwards it became 
more monotonous: always the same jolting and jarring, the 
same snow on the window, the same sudden changes from 
warmth to cold, and back to warmth again, the same faces in 
the dim light, and the same voices. And Anna began to 
read, and to follow what she was reading. Annushka was 
already asleep, holding her little red bag on her knees with 
great, clumsy hands, clad in gloves, one of which was torn. 
Anna read, and understood what she read; but the reading, 


that is, the necessity of entering into the lives of other people, 


became intolerable to her. She had too keen a desire to 
live herself. She read how the heroine of her story took 
care of the sick: she would have liked to go with noiseless 
steps into the sick-room. She read how an M. P. made a 
speech: she would have liked to make that speech. She 
read how Lady Mary rode horseback, and astonished every 
one by her boldness: she would have liked to do the same. 
But she could do nothing; and with her little hands she 
clutched the paper-cutter, and forced herself to read calmly. 

The hero of her novel had reached the summit of his Eng: 
lish ambition, — a baronetcy and an estate; and Anna felt a 
desire to go and visit this estate, when suddenly it seemed to 
her that he ought to feel a sense of shame, and that she 
ought to share it. But why should he feel ashamed? ‘* Why 
should I feel ashamed? ’’ she demanded of herself with aston- 
ishment and discontent. She closed the book, and, leaning 
back against the chair, held the paper-cutter tightly in both 


ANNA KARENINA. 111 


hands. There was nothing to be ashamed of: she reviewed 
all her memories of her visit to Moscow ; they were all pleas- 
ant and good. She remembered the ball, she remembered 
Vronsky and his humble and passionate face, she recalled 
her relations with him: there was nothing to warrant a blush. 
And yet in these reminiscences the sentiment of shame was 
a growing factor; and it seemed to her that inward voice, 
whenever she thought of Vronsky, seemed to say, ‘‘ Warmly, 
very warmly, passionately.’’ . . . ‘‘Nu/ what is this?’’ she 
asked herself resolutely, as she changed her position in the 
chair. ‘* What does this mean? Am I afraid to face these 
memories? Nu! whatis it? Is there, can there be, any rela- 
tionship between that boy-officer and me beyond what exists 
between all the members of society?’’ She smiled disdain- 
fully, and betook herself to her book again; but it was evi- 
dent that she did not any longer comprehend what she was 
reading. She rubbed her paper-cutter over the frost-covered 
pane, and then pressed her cheek against its cool, smooth 
surface, and then she almost laughed out loud with the joy 
that suddenly took possession of her. She felt her nerves 
grow more and more excited, her eyes open wider and wider, 
her fingers clasped convulsively, something seemed to choke 
her, and objects and sounds assumed an exaggerated impor- 
tance in the semi-obscurity of the car. She kept asking 
herself at every instant, if they were going backwards or 
forwards, or if the train had come to a stop. Was Annush- 
ka there, just in front of her, or was it a stranger? ‘* What 
is thas on the hook? —fur, or an animal? And what am I? 
Am I myself, or some one else?’’ She was frightened at her 
own state ; she felt that her will-power was leaving her; and, 
in order to regain possession of her faculties, Anna arose, 
took her plaid and her fur collar, and thought that she had con- 
quered herself, for at this moment a tall, thin muzhik, dressed 
in along nankeen overcoat, which lacked a button, came in, 
and she recognized in him the istopnik (stove-tender). She 
saw him look at the thermometer, and noticed how the wind 
and the snow came blowing in as he opened the door; and 
then every thing became confused. The tall peasant began 
to draw fantastic figures on the wall; the old lady seemed to 
stretch out her legs, and fill the whole car as with a black 
cloud; then she thought she heard a strange thumping and 
rapping, a noise like something tearing; then a red and 
blinding fire flaslied in her eyes, and then all vanished in 


112 ANNA KARENINA. 


darkness. Anna felt as if she had fallen from a height. 
But these sensations were not at all alarming, but rather 
pleasant. The voice of a man all wrapped up, and covered 
with snow, shouted something in her ear. She started up, 
recovered her wits, and perceived that they were approach- 
ing a station, and the man was the conductor. She bade 
Annushka bring her shawl and fur collar, and, having put 
them on, she went to the door. 

‘+ Do you wish to go out?’’ asked Annushka. 

‘¢Yes: I want to get a breath of fresh air. Very hot 
here.’’ 

And she opened the door. The snow-laden wind opposed 
her passage ; and she had to exert herself to open the door, 
which seemed amusing to her. The storm seemed to be 
waiting for her, eager to carry her away, as it gayly whistled 
by ; but she clung to the cold railing with one hand, and, hold- 
ing her dress, she stepped upon the platform, and left the 
car. The wind was not so fierce under the shelter of the 
station, and she found a genuine pleasure in filling her lungs 
with the frosty air of the tempest. Standing near the car 
she watched the platform and the station gleaming with 
lights. : 


XXX. 


A Furious storm was raging, and drifting the snow between 
the wheels of the cars, and into the corners of the station. 
The cars, the pillars, the people, every thing visible, were cov- 
ered on one side with snow. <A few people were running 
hither and thither, opening and shutting the great doors of 
the station, talking gayly, and making the planks of the walk 
creak under their feet. The shadow of a man passed rap- 
idly by her, and she heard the blows of a hammer falling on 
the iron. 

‘¢ Let her go,’’ cried an angry voice on the other side of 
the track. 

‘‘ This way, please, No. 28,’’ cried other voices, and sey- 
eral people covered with snow hurried by. Two gentlemen, 
with lighted cigarettes in their mouths, passed near Anna. 
She was just about to re-enter the car, after getting one 
more breath of fresh air, and had already taken her hand 
from her muff, to lay hold of the railing, when the flickering 
light from the reflector was cut off by a man in a military 


AT THE STATION. 


ANNA 


n 
4 
ico) 
= 





SKY ENCOU 


VRON 














ANNA KARENINA. 118 


coat, who came close to her. She looked up, and in an 
instant recognized Vronsky’s face. 

He saluted her, carrying his hand to the visor, and then 
asked respectfully if there was not some way in which he 
might be of service to her. 

Anna looked at him for some moments without ability to 
speak: although they were in the shadow, she saw, or 
thought that she saw, in his eyes the expression of enthusi- 
astic ecstasy which had struck her on the evening of the 
ball. How many times had she said to herself that Vronsky, 
for her, was only one of the young people whom one meets 
by the hundred in society, and who would never cause her 
to give him a second thought! and now, on the first instant 
of seeing him again, a sensation of triumphant joy seized 
her. It was impossible to ask why he was there. She knew, 
as truly as though he had told her, that it was because she 
was there. 

‘JT did not know that you were coming. Why did you 
come?’’ said she, letting her hand fall from the railing. A 
joy that she could not restrain shone in her face. 

‘Why did I come?”’ he repeated, looking straight into 
her-eyes. ‘‘ You know that I came simply for this, — to be 
where you are,’’ he said. ‘I could not do otherwise.’ 

And at this instant the wind, as though it had conquered 
every obstacle, drove the snow from the roof of the car, 
and tossed in triumph a birch-leaf which it had torn off, 
and at the same time the whistle of the locomotive gave a 
melancholy, mournful cry. Never had the horror of a tem- 
pest appeared to her more beautiful than now. She had just 
heard what her reason feared, but:which her heart longed to 
hear. She made no reply, but he perceived by her face how 
she fought against herself. 

‘¢ Forgive me if what I said displeases you,’’ he murmured 
humbly. 

He spoke respectfully, but in such a resolute, decided tone, 
that for some time she was unable to reply. 

*¢ What you said was wrong; and I beg of you, if you are 
a gentleman, to forget it, as I shall forget it.”’ 

‘*¢T shall never forget, and I shall never be able to forget 
any of your words, any of your gestures ’’— 

*¢ Enough, enough! ’’ she cried, vainly endeavoring to give 
an expression of severity to her face, at which he was pas- 
gionately gazing. And helping herself. by the cold railing, 


114 ANNA KARENINA. 


she quickly mounted the steps, and entered the car. But she 
stopped in the little entry, and tried to recall to her imagi- 
nation what had taken place. She found it impossible to 
bring back the words that had passed between them ; but she 
felt that that brief conversation had brought them closer to- 
gether, and she was at once startled and delighted. At 
the end of a few seconds, she went back to her place in the 
car. 

The nervous strain which tormented her became more in- 
tense, until she began to fear that every moment something 
would snap within her brain. She did not sleep all night: 
but in this nervous tension, and in the fantasies which filled 
her imagination, there was nothing disagreeable or painful ; 
on the contrary, it was joyous, burning excitement. 

Toward morning, Anna dozed as she sat in her arm-chair ; 
and when she awoke it was bright daylight, and the train 
was approaching Petersburg. The thought of her home, her 
husband, her son, and all the little labors of the day and the 
coming days, filled her mind. 

The train had hardly reached the station at Petersburg, 
when Anna stepped upon the platform; and the first person 
that she saw was her husband waiting for her. 

‘¢ Ach! Bozhe moi! Why are his ears so long?’’ she 
thought, as she looked at his reserved but distinguished face, 
and was struck by the lobes of his ears protruding from 
under the lappets of his round cap. When he saw her, he 
came to meet her at the car, with his habitual smile of 
irony, looking straight at her with his great, weary eyes. A 
disagreeable thought oppressed her heart when she saw his 
stubborn, weary look. She felt that she had expected to 
find him different. Not only was she dissatisfied with her- 
self, but she confessed to a certain sense of hypocrisy im her 
relations with her husband. This feeling was not novel: she 
had felt it before without heeding it, but now she recognized 
it clearly and with distress. 

‘¢ Da! you see, I’m a tender husband, tender as the first 
year of our marriage: I was burning with desire to see you,”’ 
said he, in his slow, deliberate voice, and with the light tone 
of raillery that he generally used in speaking to her, a tone 
of ridicule, as if any one could speak as he had done. 

‘¢ Ts Serozha well? ’’ she demanded. 

‘¢ And is this all the reward,’’ he said, ‘‘ for my ardor? 
He is well, very well.”’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 115 


XXXI. 


Vronsky had not even attempted to sleep all that night. 
He sat in his arm-chair, with eyes wide open, looking with 
perfect indifference at those who came in and went out; for 
him, men were of no more account than things. People who 
were ordinarily ‘struck by his imperturbable dignity, would 
have found him now tenfold more haughty and unapproacha- 
vle. A nervous young man, an employé of the district court, 
sitting near him in the car, detested him on account of this 
aspect. The young man did his best to make him appreciate 
that he was an animated object; he asked for a light, he 
spoke to him, he even touched him: but Vronsky looked at 
him as though he had been the reflector. And the young 
man, with a grimace, thought that he should lose command of 
himself to be so ignored by Vronsky. 

Vronsky saw nothing, heard nothing. He felt as though 
he were afsar, not because he saw that he had made an impres- 
sion upon Anna, — he did not fully realize that, as yet, — but 
because of the power of the impression which she had made 
on him, and which filled him with happiness and pride. 

What would be the result of this, he did not know, and did 
not even consider; but he felt that all his powers, which had 
been dissipated and scattered hitherto, were now tending 
with frightful rapidity towards one beatific focus. As he left 
his compartment at Bologoi, to get a glass of seltzer, he saw 
Anna, and almost from the first word had told her what he 
thought. And he was glad that he had spoken as he did; 
glad that she knew all now, and was thinking about it. 
Returning to his car, he recalled, one by one, all his memo- 
ries of her, the words that she had spoken, and his imagina- 
tion painted the possibility of a future which overwhelmed 
his heart. 

On reaching Petersburg, he dismounted from the car, and 
in spite of a sleepless night felt as fresh and vigorous as 
though he had just enjoyed a cold bath. He stood near his 
car, waiting to see her pass. ‘‘I will see her once more,”’ 
he said to himself with a smile. ‘‘I will see her graceful 
bearing ; perhaps she will speak a word to me, will look at 
me, smile upon me.’’ But it was her husband whom first he 
saw, politely escorted through the crowd by the station-mas- 
ter. ‘* Ach! da! the husband!’’ And then Vronsky for the 


116 ANNA KARENINA. 


first time got a realizing sense that he was an important factor 
in Anna’s life. He knew that she had a husband, but had 
never realized the fact until now, when he saw his head, 
his shoulders, and his legs clothed in black pantaloons, and 
especially when he saw him unconcernedly go up to Anna, 
and take her hand as though he had the right of possession. 

The sight of Alekséi Aleksandrovitch with his Petersburg- 
ish-fresh face, and his solid, self-confident figure, his round 
cap, and his slightly stooping shoulders, confirmed the fact, 
and filled him with the same sensation that a man dying of 
thirst experiences, who discovers a fountain, but finds that a 
dog, a sheep, or a pig has been roiling the water. Alekséi 
Aleksandrovitch’s stiff and heavy gait was exceedingly dis- 
tasteful to Vronsky. He did not acknowledge that any one 
besides himself had the right to love Anna. When she 
appeared, the sight of her filled him with physical exultation. 
She had not changed, and his soul was touched and moved. 
He ordered his German body-servant, who came hurrying up 
to him from the second-class car, to see to the baggage ; and 
while he was on his way towards her, he witnessed the meet- 
ing between husband and wife, and, with a lover’s intuition, 
perceived the shade of constraint with which Anna greeted 
her husband. ‘* No, she does not love him, and she cannot 
love him,’’ was his mental judgment. 

As he joined them, he noticed with joy that she felt his 
approach, and was glad, and that she recognized him, 
though she went on talking with her husband. 

‘¢Did you have a good night?’’ said he, when he was 
near enough, and bowing to her, but in such a manner as to 
include the husband, and allow Alekséi Aleksandroyitch the 
opportunity to acknowledge the salute, and recognize him, if 
it seemed good to him so to do. 

‘Thank you, very good,’’ she replied. 

Her face expressed weariness, and her eyes and smile 
lacked their habitual animation; but the moment she saw 
Vronsky, something flashed into her eyes, and, notwithstand: 
ing the fact that the fire instantly died away, he was overjoyed 
even at this. She raised her eyes to her husband, to see 
whether he knew Vronsky. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch looked 
at him with displeasure, vaguely remembering who he was. 
Vronsky’s calm self-assurance struck upon Aleks& Aleksane 
drovitch’s cool superciliousness as a feather on a rock. 

‘¢ Count Vronsky,”’ said Anna. 


ANNA KArENINA. 117 


« Ah! We have met before, it seems to me,’’ said Alek. 
set Aleksandrovitch with indifference, extending his hand. 
‘¢ Went with the mother, and came home with the son,’’ said 
he, speaking with precision, as though his words were worth 
aruble apiece. ‘* Back from a furlough, probably?’* And 
without waiting for an answer, he turned to his wife, in his 
ironical tone, ‘‘ Did they shed many tears in Moscow to 
have you leave them? ’”’ 

His manner toward his wife told Vronsky that he wanted 
to be left alone, and the impression was confirmed when he 
touched his hat, and turned from him; but Vronsky still 
remained with Anna. 

*¢T hope to have the honor of calling upon you,’’ said he. 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, with weary eyes, looked at Vron- 
sky. ‘* Very happy,’’ he said coldly: ‘* we receive on Mon- 
days.’’ Then, leaving Vronsky entirely, he said to his wife, 
still in a jesting tone, ‘‘ And how fortunate that I happened 
to have a spare half-hour to come to meet you, and show 
you my tenderness.”’ 

** You emphasize your affection too much for me to appre- 
ciate it,’’ replied Anna, in the same spirit of raillery, 
although she was listening involuntarily to Vronsky’s 
steps behind them. ‘‘ But what is that to me?’’ she asked 
herself in thought. Then she began to ask her husband 
how Serozha had got along during her absence. 

*¢Oh! excellently. Mariette says that he has been very 
good, and —I am sorry to have to tell you—that he did not 
seem to miss you—not so muchas your husband. But again, 
merci, my dear, that you came a day earlier. Ourdear Sam- 
ovar will be delighted.’’ He called the celebrated Countess 
Lidia Ivanovna by the nickname of the Samovar (tea-urn), 
because she was always and everywhere bubbling and boiling. 
*¢ She has kept asking after you; and do you know, if I 
make bold to advise you, you would do well to go to see her 
to-day. You see, her heart is always sore on your account. 
At present besides her usual cares, she is greatly concerned 
about the reconciliation of the Oblonskys.’’ 

The Countess Lidia Ivanovna was a friend of Anna’s hus- 
band, and the centre of a certain circle in Petersburg soci- 
ety, to which Anna, on her husband’s account, more than 
for any other reason, belonged. 

** Dal But didn’t I write her?’’ 

**She expects to have all the details. Go to her, my 


118 ANNA KARENINA. 


dear, if you are not too tired. Nu! Kondrato will call yout 
carriage, and Iam going to a committee-meeting. I shall 
not have to dine alone this time,’’ continued Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch, not in jest this time. ‘‘ You cannot imagine 
how used Lam to.. .”’ 

And with a peculiar smile, giving her a long pressure of 
the hand, he led her to the carriage. 


XXXII. 


Tue first face that Anna saw when she reached home was 
her son’s. Rushing down the stairs, in spite of his nurse’s 
reproof, he hastened to meet her with a cry of joy. 
‘¢ Mamma! mamma!’’ and sprang into her arms. 

‘¢T told you it was mamma !’’ he shouted to the governess. 
‘¢T knew it was!’’ 

But the son, no less than the husband, awakened in Anna 
a feeling like disillusion. She imagined him better than he 
was in reality. She was obliged to descend to the reality in. 
order to look upon him as he was. But in fact, he was 
lovely, with his curly head, his blue eyes, and his pretty plump 
legs in their neatly fitting stockings. She felt an almost 
physical satisfaction in feeling him near her, and in his 
caresses, and a moral calm in looking into his tender, con- 
fiding, loving eyes, and in hearing his childish questions. 
She unpacked the gifts sent him by Dolly’s children, and 
told him how there was a little girl in Moscow, named Tania, 
and how this Tania knew how to read, and was teaching the 
other children to read. 

‘¢ Am I not as good as she?’’ 

‘¢ For me, you are worth all the rest of the world.” 

‘¢T know it,’’ said Serozha, smiling. 

Anna had hardly finished her coffee, when the Countess 
Lidia Ivanovna was announced. The countess was a robust, 
stout woman, with an unhealthy, sallow complexion, and 
handsome, dreamy black eyes. Anna liked her, but to-day, 
as for the first time, she seemed to see her with all her faults. 

‘¢ Nu! my dear, did you carry the olive-branch?’’ demanded 
the Countess Lidia Ivanovna, as she entered the room. 

‘‘ Yes; it is all made up,’’ replied Anna; ‘‘ but it was not 
so bad as we thought. Asa general thing, my belle-sewr is 
too hasty.’’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 119 


But the Countess Lidia, who was interested in all that did 
not specially concern herself, had the habit of sometimes not 
heeding what did interest her. She interrupted Anna. 

‘¢ Da! This world is full of woes and tribulations, and I 
am all worn out to-day.”’ 

‘¢ What is it?’’ asked Anna, striving to repress a smile. 

‘¢T am beginning to weary of the “useless strife for the 
right, and sometimes I am utterly discouraged. The work 
of the Little Sisters [this was a philanthropical and reli- 
giously patriotic institution] is getting along splendidly, but 
there is nothing to be done with these men,’’ added the 
Countess Lidia Ivanovna, with an air of ironical resignation 
to fate. ‘*They get hold of an idea, they mutilate it, and 
then they judge it so meanly, so wretchedly. Two or three 
men, your husband among them, understand all the meaning 
of this work; but the others only discredit it. Yesterday 
Pravdin wrote me ’’— 

Pravdin was a famous Panslavist, who lived abroad, and 
the Countess Lidia Ivanovna related what he had said in his 
letter. Then she went on to describe the troubles and snares 
which blocked the work of uniting the churches, and finally 
departed in haste, because it was the day for her to be pres- 
ent at the meeting of some society or other, and at the sit- 
ting of the Slavonic Committee. 

*¢ All this used to exist, but why did I never notice it be- 
fore?’’ said Anna to herself. ‘* Was she very irritable to-day ? 
But at any rate, it is ridiculous: her aims are charitable, she 
is a Christian, and yet she is angry with everybody, and 
everybody is her enemy ; and yet all her enemies are working 
for Christianity and charity.’’ 

After the departure of the Countess Lidia Ivanovna, came 
a friend, the wife of a direktor, who told her all the news of 
the city. At three o’clock she went out, promising to be 
back in time for dinner. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch was at 
the meeting of the ministry. The hour before dinner, which 
_ Anna spent alone, she employed sitting with her son, — who 
ate apart from the others, —in arranging her things, and in 
catching up in her correspondence, which was in arrears. 

The sensation of causeless shame, and the trouble from 
which she had suffered so strangely during her journey, now 
completely disappeared. Under the conditions of her ordi- 
nary every-day life, she felt calm, and free from reproach, 
and she was surprised as she recalled her condition of the 


120 ANNA KARENINA. 


night before. ‘* What was it? Nothing. Vronsky said a 
foolish thing, to which it is idle to give any further thought. 
To speak of it to my husband is worse than useless. To 
speak about it would seem to attach too much importance to 
it.’ And she recalled a trifling episode which had occurred 
between her and a young subordinate of her husband’s in 
Petersburg, and how she had felt called upon to tell him 
about it, and how Alekséi Aleksandrovitch told her that as 
she went into society, she, like all society women, might ex- 
pect such experiences, but that he had too much confidence 
in her tact to allow his jealousy to humiliate her or himself. 
‘¢ Why tell, then? Besides, I have nothing to tell.’’ 


XXXII. 


ALEKsit ALEKSANDROVITCH returned from the ministry 
about four o’clock, but, as often happened, he found no time 
to speak to Anna. He went directly to his library to give 
audience to some petitioners who were waiting for him, and 
to sign some papers brought him by his chief secretary. 

The Karénins always had at least three visitors to dine 
with them; and to-day there came an old lady, a cousin of 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch’s, a department direktor with his 
wife, and a young man recommended to Alekséi Aleksandro- 
vitch for employment. Anna came to the drawing-room to 
receive them. The great bronze clock, cf the time of Peter 
the Great, had just finished striking five, when Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch, in white cravat, and with two decorations on his 
dress-coat, left his dressing-room: he had an engagement 
immediately after dinner. Every moment of Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch’s life was counted and occupied, and, in order 
to accomplish what he had to do every day, he was forced to 
use the strictest regularity and punctuality. ‘* Without 
haste, and without rest,’’ was his motto. He entered the 
salon, bowed to his guests, and, giving his wife a smile, led 
the way to the table. 

‘¢ Da! my solitude is over. You don’t realize how irk- 
some [he laid a special stress on the word nelovko, irksome] 
it is to dine alone! ”’ 

During the dinner he talked with his wife about matters 
in Moscow, and, with his mocking smile, inquired especially 
about Stepan Arkadyevitch ; but the conversation remained 


ANNA KARENINA. 12) 


for the most on common subjects, about Petersburg society, 
and matters connected with the government. After dinner 
he spent a half-hour with his guests, and then giving his 
wife another smile, and pressing her hand, he left the room, 
and went to the council. Anna did not go this evening to 
the Princess Betsy Tverskaia’s, who, having heard of her arri- 
val, had sent her an invitation; and she did not go to the 
theatre, where she just now had a box. She did not go out, 
principally because a dress, which she had expected, was not 
done. After the departure of her guests, Anna investigated 
her wardrobe, and was much disturbed to find that of the 
three dresses, which in a spirit of economy she had given te 
the dressmaker to make over, and which ought to have been 
done three days ago, two were absolutely unfinished, and 
one vas done in a way that Anna did not like. The dress- 
makey came with her excuses, declaring that it would be 
better so, and Anna reprimanded her so severely that after- 
wards she felt ashamed of herself. To calm her agitation, 
she went to the nursery, and spent the evening with her son, 
put him to bed herself, made the sign of the cross over him, 
and tucked the quilt about him. She was glad that she had 
not gone out, and that she had spent such a happy evening. 
It was so quiet and restful, and now she saw clearly that all 
that had seemed so important during her railway journey 
was only one of the ordinary insignificant events of social 
life, —that she had nothing in the world of which to be 
ashamed. She sat down in front of the fireplace with her 
English novel, and waited for her husband. At half-past 
nine exactly his ring was heard at the door, and he came into 
the room. 

‘¢ Here you are, at last,’’ she said, giving him her hand. 
He kissed her hand, and sat down near her. 

‘¢- Your journey, I see, was on the whole very successful,”’ 
said he. 

*¢ Yes, very,’ she replied; and she began to relate all the 
details —her journey with the old countess, her arrival, the 
accident at the station, the pity which she had felt, first for her 
brother, and afterwards for Dolly. 

‘¢¥ do not see how it is.possible to pardon such a man, 
even though he is your brother,’’ said Alekséi Aleksandro- 
vitch severely. 

Anna smiled. She appreciated that he said this to show 
that not even kinship could bend him from the strictness 


122 ANNA KARENINA. 


of his honest judgment. She knew this trait in her husband’g 
character, and liked it. 

‘‘T am glad,’’ he continued, ‘‘ that all ended so satisfac- 
torily, and that you have come home again. Nu/ what do 
they say there about the new measures that I introduced in 
the council? ”’ 

Anna had heard nothing said about this new measure, and 
she was confused because she had so easily forgotten some- 
thing which to him was so important. 

‘¢ Here, on the contrary, it has made a great sensation,”’ 
said he, with a self-satisfied smile. 

She saw that Aleks¢éi Aleksandrovitch wanted to tell her 
something very flattering to himself about this affair, and, by 
means of questions, she led him up to the story. And he, 
with the same self-satisfied smile, began to tell her of the 
congratulations which he had received on account of this 
measure, which had been passed. 

‘¢T was very, very glad. This proves that at last, reason- 
able and serious views about this question are beginning to be 
formed among us.’’ After he had taken his second cup of 
tea, with cream and bread, Aleks¢éi Aleksandrovitch arose to 
go to his library. 

‘¢ But you did not go out: was it very tiresome for you?”’ 
he said. 

‘¢Oh, no!’’ she replied, rising with her husband, and 
going with him through the hall to the library. 

‘¢ What are you reading now?”’ she asked. 

‘¢ Just now I am reading the Duc de Lille — Poésie des 
enfers,’’ he replied, —‘* a very remarkable book.”’ 

Anna smiled, as one smiles at the weaknesses of those we 
love, and, passing her arm through her husband’s, accompa- 
nied him to the library-door. She knew that his habit of 
reading in the evening had become inexorable, and that 
notwithstanding his absorbing duties, which took so much of 
his time at the council, he felt it his duty to follow all that 
seemed remarkable in the sphere of literature. She also 
knew, that while he felt a special interest in works on politi- 
cal economy, philosophy, and religion, Alekséi Aleksandro- 
vitch allowed no book on art which seemed to him to possess 
any value, to escape his notice, and for the very reason that art 
was contrary to his nature. She knew that in the province 
of political economy, philosophy, religion, Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch had doubts, and tried to solve them; but in 





ANNA KARENINA. 123 


questions of art or poetry, particularly in music, the compre- 
hension of which was utterly beyond him, he had the most 
precise and definite opinions. He loved to speak of Shak- 
speare, Raphael, and Beethoven ; of the importance of the new 
school of musicians and poets, —all of whom were classed by 
him according to the most rigorous logic. 

‘¢ Nu! God be with you,’’ she said, as they reached the 
door of the library, where were standing, as usual, near her 
husband’s arm-chair, the shade-lamp already lighted, and a 
carafe with water. ‘‘ And I am going to write to Moscow.”’ 

Again he pressed her hand, and kissed it. 

‘¢ Taken all in all, he is a good man; upright, excellent, 
remarkable in his sphere,’’ said Anna to herself, on her way 
to her room, as though she felt it necessary to defend him from 
some one who accused him of not being lovable. 

‘¢ But why do his ears stick out so? Or does he cut his 
hair too short?’ 

It was just midnight, and Anna was still sitting at her 
writing-table finishing a letter to Dolly, when Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch’s steps were heard : he wore his slippers and dress- 
ing-gown; he had had his bath, and his hair was brushed. 
His book was under his arm: he stopped at his wife’s room. 

*¢ Late, late,’’ said he, with his usual smile, and passed on 
to their sleeping-room. 

‘¢ And what right had he to look at him so?’’ thought 
Anna, recalling Vronsky’s expression when he saw Alekséi 
Aleksandrovitch. Having undressed, she went to her room ; 
but in her face there was none of that animation which shone 
in her eyes and in her smile at Moscow. On the contrary, 
the fire had either died away, or was somewhere far away and 
out of sight. 


XXXIV. 


Own leaving Petersburg, Vronsky had installed his beloved 
friend and comrade, Petritsky, in his ample quarters on the 
Morskaia. Petritsky was a young lieutenant, not partic- 
ularly distinguished, and not only not rich, but over ears in 
debt. Every evening he came home tipsy, and he spent much 
of his time at the police courts, in search of strange or amus- 
ing or scandalous stories; but in spite of all he was a favor- 
ite with his comrades and his chiefs. About eleven o’clock 
in the morning, when Vronsky reached home after his jour. 


124 ANNA KARENINA. 


ney, he saw at the entrance an izvoshchik’s carriage, which 
he knew very well. From the door, when he rang, he heard 
men’s laughter and the lisping of a woman’s voice, and Pe- 
tritsky shouting, ‘‘ If it’s any of those villains, don’t let ’°em 
in.’’ Vronsky, not allowing his denshchik to announce his 
presence, quietly entered the ante-room. The Baroness Shil- 
ton, a friend of Petritsky’s, shining in a lilac satin robe, and 
with her little pink face, was making coffee before a round 
table, and, like a canary-bird, was filling the room with her 
Parisian slang. Petritsky in his overcoat, and Captain Kam- 
erovsky in full uniform, apparently to help her, were sittin 


* near her. 


‘¢ Bravo, Vronsky!’’ cried Petritsky, leaping up, and over- 
turning the chair. ‘‘The master himself. Baronessa, cof- 
fee for him from the new biggin! We did not expect you. 
I hope that you are pleased with the new ornament in your 
library,’’ he said, pointing to the baroness. ‘‘ You are ac- 
quainted ?’’ 

‘¢T should think so!’’ said Vronsky, smiling gayly, and 
squeezing the baroness’s dainty little hand. ‘* We’re old 
friends.’’ 

‘‘Are you back from a journey?’’ asked the baroness. 
‘¢Then I’m off. Ach! I am going this minute if I am in 
the way.”’ ; 

‘¢You are at home wherever you are, baronessa,”’ said 
Vronsky. ‘‘ How are you, Kamerovsky?’’ coolly shaking 
hands with the captain. 

‘‘Vot! you would never be able to say such lovely things 
as that,’’ said the baroness to Petritsky. 

‘‘No? Why not? After dinner I could say better 
things !”’ 

‘¢ After dinner there’s no more merit in them. Nu! I 
will make your coffee while you go and wash your hands and 
brush off the dust,’’ said the baroness, again sitting down, 
and turning industriously the handle of the new coffee-mill. 
‘‘ Pierre, bring some more coffee,’’ said she to Petritsky, 
whom she called Pierre, after his family name, to show her 
intimacy with him. ‘‘ I will add it.’’ 

‘¢ You will spoil it.’’ 

‘¢No! Iwon’t spoil it. MNu/ and your wife?’’ said the 
baroness, suddenly interrupting Vronsky’s remarks to his 
companions. ‘‘ We have been marrying you off. Did you 
bring your wife? ’’ 


> 





ANNA KARENINA. 125 


** No, baronessa. I was born a Bohemian, and I shall die 
a Bohemian.’’ 

‘¢So much the better, so much the better: give us your 
hand! ”’ 

And the baroness, without letting him go, began to talk 
with him, developing her various plans of life, and asking 
his advice with many jests. 

‘¢ He will never be willing to let me have a divorce. Nu! 
What amI todo? [He was her husband.] I now mean to 
institute a law-suit. What should you think of it? Kame- 
rovsky, just watch the coffee! It’s boiling over. You see 
how well I understand business! I mean to begin a law-suit 
to get control of my fortune. Do you understand this non- 
sense? Under the pretext that I have been unfaithful, he 
means to get. possession of my estate.’’ 

Vronsky listened with amusement to this gay prattle of 
the pretty woman, approved of what she said, gave his ad- 
vice, and assumed the tone he usually affected with women of 
her character. In his Petersburg world, humanity was di- 
vided into two absolutely distinct categories, — the one of a 
low order, trivial, stupid, and above all ridiculous, people, 
declaring that one husband ought to live with one wedded 
wife, that girls should be virtuous, women chaste, men 
brave, temperate, and unshaken, occupied in bringing up 
their children decently, in earning their bread, and paying 
their debts, and other such absurdities. This kind of people 
were old-fashioned and dull. But the other and vastly su- 
perior class, to which he and his friends belonged, required 
that its members should be, above all, elegant, generous, bold, 
gay, shamelessly unrestrained in the pursuit of pleasure, and 
scornful of all the rest. 

Vronsky, still under the influence of his totally different 
life in Moscow, was at first almost stunned at the change; 
but soon, and as naturally as one puts on old slippers, he got 
into the spirit of his former gay and jovial life. 

The coffee was never served; it boiled over, and wet a. 
costly table-cloth and the’ baroness’s dress ; but it served the 
end that was desired, for it gave rise to many jests and 
merry peals of laughter. 

*¢ Nu! now I am going, for you will never get dressed, and 
I shall have on my conscience the worst crime that a decent 
man can commit, — that of not taking a bath. Sa you advise 
me to put the knife to his throat? ”’ 


196 ANNA KARENINA, 


‘¢ By all means, and in such a way that your little hand 
will come near his lips. He will kiss your little hand, and 
all will end to everybody’s satisfaction,’’ said Vronsky. 

‘¢This evening at the Thédtre Frangais,’’ and she took 
her departure with her rustling train. 

Kamerovsky likewise arose, but Vronsky, without waiting 
for him to go, shook hands with him, and went to his dress- 
ing-room. While he was taking his bath, Petritsky sketched 
for him in a few lines how his situation had changed during 
Vronsky’s absence, —no money at all; his father declaring 
that he would not give him any more, or pay a single debt. 
One tailor determined to have him arrested, and a second no 
less determined. His colonel insisted that if these scandals 
continued, he should leave the regiment. A duel was on 
with Berkoshef, and he wanted to send him his .seconds, but 
he guessed nothing would come of it. As for the rest, every 
thing was getting along particularly jolly. And then, with- 
out leaving Vronsky time to realize the situation, Petritsky 
began to retail the news of the day. Petritsky’s well-known 
gossip, his familiar room, and where he had lived for three 
years, all his surroundings, contributed to bring Vronsky 
back into the current of his gay and idle Petersburg life, 
and he felt a certain pleasure in renewing the sensation. 

‘¢ Tt cannot be!’’ he cried, as he turned on the faucet of 
his wash-basin, in which he was washing his handsome, 
healthy neck: ‘‘it cannot be!’’ he cried. He had just 
learned that Laura was now under Fertinghof’s protection. 
‘¢ And is he as stupid and as conceited as ever? Nu! and 
Buzulukof ?”’ 

*¢ Ach! Buzulukof! that’s a whole history,’’ said Petritsky. 
‘¢ You know his passion, — balls ; and he never misses one at 
court. At the last one he went in a new helmet. Have you 
seen the new helmets? Very handsome, very light. Well, 
he was standing — No; but listen.” 

‘¢- Yes, I am listening,’’ replied Vronsky, rubbing his face 
with a towel. 

‘¢ The Grand Duchess was just going by on the arm of some 
foreign ambassador or other, and unfortuuately for him con- 
versation turned on the new helmets. The Grand Duchess 
wanted to point out one of the new helmets, and, seeing our 
galubchik standing there [here Petritsky showed how he 
stood in his helmet], she begged him to show her his hel- 
met. Hedid not budge. What does it mean? The fellows 


_ ANNA KARENINA. 127 


wink at him, make signs, scowl at him. ‘Give it to her.’ 
He does not stir. He is like adead man. You can imagine 
the scene! Now—as he—then they attempt to take it off. 
He does not stir. At last he himself takes it off, and hands 
it to the Grand Duchess. 

‘¢¢ This is the new kind,’ said the Grand Duchess. But, 
as she turned it over, — you can imagine it, —out came, bukh! 
pears, bon-bons, — two pounds of bon-bons! He had been to 
market, galubchik !”’ 

Vronsky broke into a hearty laugh; and long afterwards, 
even when speaking of other things, the memory of the 
unfortunate helmet caused him to break out into his good- 
natured laugh which showed his handsome, regular teeth. 

Having learned all the news, Vronsky donned his uniform 
with the aid of his valet, and went out to report himself. 
Then he determined to call on his brother, on the Princess 
Betsy, and to make a series of calls, so as to secure an entry 
into the society where he should be likely to see the Karén- 
ins ; and in accordance with the usual custom at Petersburg, 
he left his rooms, expecting to return only when it was very 
late at night. 


i,m ANNA KARENINA. 


PART II. 


I. 


Towarps the close of the winter the Shcherbatskys held a 
consultation of physicians in regard to Kitty’s health: she 
was ill, and the approach of spring only increased her ail- 
ment. The family doctor had ordered cod-liver oil, then 
iron, and last of all, nitrate of silver; but as none of these 
remedies did any good, he advised them to take her abroad. 

It was then resolved to consult a celebrated specialist. 
This celebrity, still a young man, and very neat in his per- 
sonal appearance, insisted on a careful investigation of the 
trouble ; and as all the other doctors who belonged to the 
same school, studied the same books, and consequently held 
the same ideas, had decided that this specialist possessed 
the necessary skill to save Kitty, his request was granted. 
After a careful examination and a prolonged use of the 
stethoscope on the lungs of the poor, trembling girl, the cele- 
brated physician carefully washed his hands, and returned to 
the drawing-room. ‘The prince, with a little cough, listened 
to what he had to say, and frowned. MHe himself had 
never been sick, and he had no faith in doctors. Moreover 
he was a man of common sense, and was all the more angry 
at this comedy, because possibly he alone understood what 
ailed his daughter. ‘‘ A regular humbug,’’ thought the old 
prince, and mentally applied to the celebrated doctor a 
hunting expression, which signifies a man who has not had 
any luck, but comes home with large stories. The latter, on 
his side, with aifficulty stooping to the low level of this old 
gentleman’s intelligence, barely disguised his disdain. It 
scarcely seemed to him necessary to speak to the poor old 
man, since, in his eyes, the head of the house was the prin- 
cess. He was ready to pour out before her all the floods of 
his eloquence ; and, as she came in at this moment with the 





ANNA KARENINA. | 129 


family doctor, the old prince left the room, so as not to 
show too clearly what he thought about it all. The princess 
was troubled, and did not know what course to take. She 
felt a little guilty in regard to Kitty. 

‘‘ Nu! Doctor, decide upon our fate: tell me all.’’ She 
wanted to say, ‘‘ Is there any hope?’’ but her lips trembled, 
and she hesitated. ‘' Nu! tell us.’’ 

‘*]T shall be at your service, princess, after I have con- 
ferred with my colleague. We shall then have the honor of 
giving you our opinion.’’ 

*¢ Do you wish to be alone? ”’ 

*¢ Just as you please.”’ 

The princess sighed, and left the room. 

The family doctor timidly expressed his opinion about her 
condition, and gave his reasons for thinking that it was the 
beginning of tubercular disease because — and because — and 
et cetera. ‘The celebrated physician listened, and in the midst 
of his diagnosis took out his great gold watch. 

*¢ Yes,’’ said he, ** but’? — 

His colleague stopped respectfully. 

‘You know that it is hardly possible to décide when 
wubercular disease first begins. In the present case, one can 
only suspect this trouble from the presence of such symptoms 
as indigestion, nervousness, and others. The question, 
therefore, stands thus: what is to be done, granting that a 
tubercular development is to be feared, in order to superin- 
duce improved alimentation ? ”’ 

‘¢ But you know well, that there is back of all some men- 
tal reason,’’ said the family doctor, with a cunning smile. 

‘¢ Of course,’’ replied the celebrated doctor, looking at his 
watch again. ‘* Excuse me, but do you know whether the 
bridge over the Yausa is finished yet, or whether one has to 
go around? ”’ 

‘* It is finished.”’ 

‘* Da! Then I have only twenty minutes left.— We were 
just saying that the question remains thus: to improve the 
digestion, and strengthen the nerves; the one cannot go with- 
out the other, and it is necessary to act on the two halves of 
the circle.’’ 

** But the journey abroad? ”’ 

‘*T am opposed to these journeys abroad. — I beg you to 
follow my reasoning. If tubercular development has already 
set in, which we are not yet ina condition to prove, what 


130 ANNA KARENINA. 


good would travel do? The main thing is to discover a 
means of promoting good digestion.’’ And the celebrated 
doctor began to develop his plan for a cure by means of 
Soden water, the principal merits of which were, in his eyes, 
their absolutely inoffensive character. 

The family doctor listened with attention and respect. 

‘*But I should urge in favdr of a journey abroad the 
change of her habits and the dissociations from the condi- 
tions that serve to recall unhappy thoughts. And, finally, 
her mother wants her to’go.”’ 

‘* Ah! nu! in that case let them go, provided always that 
those German quacks do not aggravate her disease. They 
must follow my prescriptions with the most absolute strict- 
ness. Nu! let them travel.’’ 

And again he looked at his watch. 

‘¢Tt is time for me to go;’’ and he started for the 
door. 

The celebrated doctor assured the princess that he wished 
to see the invalid once more —it was probably through a 
sentiment of social propriety. 

‘¢ What! have another examination? ’’ cried the princess, 
with horror. 

‘¢Oh, no! only a few minor points, princess.”’ 

‘¢' Then come in, I beg of you.”’ 

And the mother ushered the doctor into Kitty’s little bow- 
doir. The poor, emaciated girl was standing in the middle 
of the room, with flushed cheeks, and eyes brilliant with the 
excitement caused by the doctor’s visit. When she saw 
them coming back, her eyes filled with tears, and she blushed 
still more crimson. Her illness and the remedies which she 
was obliged to endure seemed to her such ridiculous non- 
sense. What did these remedies mean? It was like gather- 
ing up the fragments of a broken vase in order to make it 
whole again. Her heart was broken, and could it be restored 
to health by pills and powders? But she did not dare to go 
against her mother’s judgment, the more because she felt 
that she herself had been to blame. 

‘¢ Will you sit down, princess?’’ said the celebrated 
doctor. 

He sat down in front of her, felt her pulse, and with a 
smile began a series of wearisome questions. At first she 
replied to them, then suddenly arose impatiently. 

*¢ Excuse me, doctor, but, indeed, this all leads to nothing. 


ANNA KARENINA. 131 


This is the third time that you have asked me the same 
question.”” 

The celebrated doctor took no offence. 

*¢ Tt is her nervous irritability,’’ he remarked to the prin- 
cess when Kitty had gone from the room. ‘* However, I 
was through.’’ 

And the celebrated. doctor explained the young girl’s 
condition to her mother, treating her as a person of remark- 
able intelligence, and giving her, finally, the most precise 
directions as to the method of drinking those mineral waters, 
whose virtue, in his eyes, consisted in their uselessness. As 
to the question, ‘‘ Is it best to take her abroad?’’ the cele- 
brated doctor pondered deeply, and the result of his reflec- 
tions was that they might travel on condition that they would 
not trust any quacks, and would follow his prescriptions. 

After the doctor’s departure, everybody felt as if some 
great good fortune had happened. The mother, in much 
better spirits, rejoined her daughter, and Kitty declared that 
she was better already. It often seemed necessary of late 
for her to hide what she really felt. 

‘* Truly, I feel better, maman, but if you desire it, let 
us go,’’ said she; and in her endeavor to show what inter- 
est she took in the journey, she began to speak of their 
preparations. 


II. 


Dotty knew that the consultation was to take place that 
day ; and though she was scarcely yet able to go out, having 
had a little daughter towards the end of the winter, and 
although one of the other children was sick, she left them 
both in order to learn what Kitty’s fate should be. 

*¢ Nu! how is it?’’ she said, as she came in with her bon- 
neton. ‘* You are all happy! Then all is well.’’ 

They endeavored to tell her what the doctor had said; but 
though it had been a long discourse, couched in very beau- 
tiful language, no one was able to give the gist of it. The 
interesting point was the decision in regard to the journey. 

Dolly sighed involuntarily. She was going to lose her 
sister, her best friend; and life for her was not joyous. 
Her relations with her husband seemed to her more and 
_ more humiliating: the reconciliation brought about by Anna 
had not been of long duration, and the family discords had 


132 ANNA KARENINA. 


become as unpleasant as ever. Stepan Arkadyevitch was 
scarcely ever at home, and there was scarcely ever any money 
in the house. The suspicion that he was still unfaithful to 
her ever tormented her; but as she remembered with horror 
the sufferings caused by her jealousy, and desired above all 
things not to break up the family, she preferred to shut her 
eyes to his deception. But she despised her husband, and 
despised herself because of herfeebleness. And, moreover, 
the cares of a numerous family were a heavy load. 

‘¢ And how are the children?’’ asked the princess. 

‘¢ Ach, maman! we have so many tribulations. Lili is 
sick a-bed, and I am afraid that she is going to have the 
scarletina. I came out to-day to see how you were, for I 
was afraid that after this I should not have a chance.’’ 

The old prince came in at this moment, bent down his 
cheek for Dolly to kiss, said a few words to her, and then 
turned to his wife. 

‘¢ What decision have you come to? Shall you go? Nu! 
and what are you going to do with me?”’ 

‘¢] think, Aleksandr, that you had better stay at home.”’ 

*¢ Just as you please.”’ 

‘¢ Maman, why doesn’t papa come with us?’’ said Kitty. 
‘¢ Tt would be gayer for him and for us.”’ 

The old prince smoothed Kitty’s hair with his hand: she 
raised her head, and with an effort smiled as she looked at 
him; she felt that her father alone, though he did not say 
much, understood her. She was the youngest, and therefore 
her father’s favorite daughter, and his love made him clair- 
voyant, as she imagined. When her eyes met his, it seemed 
to her that he read her very soul, and saw all the evil that 
was working there. She blushed, and bent towards him, 
expecting a kiss; but he contented himself with pulling her 
hair, and saying, — 

‘‘ These abominable chignons! one never gets down to the 
real daughter. It is always the hair of some departed saint. 
Nu! Délinka,’’ turning to his eldest daughter, ‘‘ what is that 
trump of yours doing? ”’ 

‘¢ Nothing, papa,’’ said Dolly, perceiving that her father 
referred to her husband : — ‘‘ he is always away from home, 
and I scarcely ever see him,’’ she could not refrain from 
adding with an ironical smile. 

** He has not gone vet to the country to sell his wood?”’ 

** No: he is always putting it off.’’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 138 


‘¢ Truly,’’ said the old prince, ‘‘ is he taking after me? — 
[ should think so,’’ he added turning to his wife, and sitting 
down. ‘‘And as for you, Katya,’’ addressing his youngest 
daughter, ‘‘ do you know what you ought to do? Some fine 
morning when you wake up, you ought to say, ‘Da! how 
happy and gay I feel! Why not resume my morning walks 
with papa, now that the cold is not so bitter?’ ha?’”’ 

At these simple words of her father’s, Kitty felt as though - 
she had been convicted of a crime. ‘‘ Yes, he knows all, he 
understands all, and these words mean that I ought to over- 
come my humiliation, however great it has been.’’ She had 
not the courage to reply, but burst into tears, and left the 
room. 

‘¢ Just like your tricks! ’’ said the princess to her husband 
angrily. ‘* You always’’— And she began one of her 
tirades. 

_ The prince received her reproaches at first good-humoredly 
but at last his face changed color. 

‘* She is so sensitive, poor little thing, so sensitive! and 
you don’t understand how she suffers at the slightest allusion 
to the cause of her suffering. Ach! how mistaken we are in 
people! ’’ said the princess. And by the change in the in- 
flection of her voice, Dolly and the prince perceived that she 
had reference to Vronsky. 

‘*¢] don’t understand why there are not any laws to punish 
such vile, such ignoble actions.”’ 

** Ach! do hear her,’’ said the prince, with a frown, getting 
up and going to the door as though he wanted to escape ; but 
he halted on the threshold and said, — 

‘There are laws, mdtushka;.and if you force me to ex- 
plain myself, I will tell you that in all this trouble, you, you 
alone, are the true culprit. There are laws against these 
young fops, and there always will be; and, old man that 1 
am, I should have been able to punish this barber, this villain, 
if you had not been the first to invite him here. Da-s! and 
now to cure her, show her to these mountebanks! ”’ 

The prince would have made a long speech if the princess 
had not immediately taken a humble and submissive tone, as 
she always did when important matters came up. 

** Alexandre! Alexandre!’’ she murmured, weeping, and 
going up to him. The prince held his peace when he saw 
her tears. ‘* Nu! let it go, let it go. I know that it is hard 
for you also. Don’t weep any more.— The harm is not 


134 : ANNA KARENINA. 


great. God is merciful.— Thank you!”’’ said he, not 
knowing what he said in his emotion; and feeling on his 
hand the princess’s kiss bedewed with tears, he left the 
room. 

Dolly with her maternal instinct would have liked to fol- 
low Kitty to her chamber, feeling sure that a woman’s hand 
would be a relief; but as she listened to her mother’s re- 
proaches, and her father’s bitter words, she had felt the de- 
sire to interfere in so far as her filial respect allowed. When 
the prince went out, she said, — 

‘¢T have always wanted to tell you, maman; did you know 
that when Levin was here the last time, he intended to offer 
himself to Kitty? He told Stiva.”’ 

‘© Nu! what? I do not understand ’’ — 

‘¢ Perhaps Kitty refused him. Didn’t she tell you?”’ 

‘¢No, she did not say any thing to me about either of 
them: she is too proud. But I know that all this comes 
from ’’— 

‘¢ Yes; but think; perhaps she refused Levin. I know | 
that she would not have done so if it had not been for the 
other — and then she was so abominably deceived.”’ 

The princess felt too guilty not to affect indignation. 

*“* Ach! I don’t know any thing about it. Nowadays 
every girl wants to live as she pleases, and not to say any 
thing to her mother, and so it comes that ’’— 

‘¢ Maman, I am going to see her.’’ 

‘¢Go! I will not prevent you,’’ said her mother. 


II. 


As she entered Kitty’s little boudoir, all furnished in pink 
with vieux saxe ware, Dolly remembered with what pleasure 
the two had decorated it the year before: how happy and 
gay they were then! She felt a chill at her heart as she saw 
her sister sitting motionless on a low chair near the door, 
her eyes fixed on a corner of the carpet. Kitty’s cold and 
stern expression vanished the moment she saw her sister 
come in. 

‘¢T am very much afraid that when I once get home, I 
shall not be able to leave the house for some time,’ said 
Dolly, sitting down near her sister. ‘‘ And that’s why J 
wanted to have a little talk with you.’’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 135 


*¢ What about? ’’ asked Kitty, quickly raising her head. 

‘¢ What else than about your disappointment? ’”’ 

‘¢T am not disappointed about any thing.’’ 

*¢'That’ll do, Kitty. Do you really imagine that I don’t 
know any thing at all? I know every thing; and if you will 
believe me, it’s all about nothing at all. Who of us has not 
been through such experiences? ”’ 

Kitty said nothing, and her face resumed its severe 
expression. 

*¢ He is not worth the trouble that you have given yourself 
for him,’”’ continued Darya Aleksandrovna, coming right to 
the point. 

** Da! because he jilted me!’’ murmured Kitty, with 
trembling voice. ‘‘ Don’t speak of it, I beg of you! ”’ 

** But what did he say to you? I am sure that he was in 
love with you, — that he is still; but ’’— 

*¢ Ach! nothing exasperates me so as condolences,’’ cried 
Kitty, in a sudden rage. Blushing, she turned around in her 
chair, and with nervous fingers twisted the buckle on her belt. 

Dolly well knew this habit of her sister when she was 
provoked. She knew that she was capable of saying harsh 
and cruel things in moments of petulance, and she tried to 
calm her; but.it was too late. 

‘¢ What do you wish me to understand? what is it? ’’ cried 
Kitty, with quick words: — ‘‘ that I am in love with a man 
who does not care for me, and that Iam dying of love for 
him? And itis my sister who says this to me! — my sister 
who thinks that — that — that — she shows me her sympa- 
thy! I hate such hypocrisy and such sympathy ! ”’ 

“* Kitty, you are unjust.”’ 

** Why do you torment me? ’”’ 

‘**7T did not mean — I saw that you were sad ’’— 

Kitty in her anger did not heed her. 

*¢T have nothing to break my heart over, and don’t need 
consolation. I am too proud to love a man who does not 
love me.”’ 

‘* Da! I do not say—I say only one thing— Tell me 
the truth,’’ added Darya Aleksandrovna, taking her hand. 
** Tell me, did Levin speak to you?”’ 

At the name of Levin, Kitty lost all control of herself: she 
jumped up from her chair, threw on the floor the buckle 
which she had torn from her belt, and with quick, indignant 
gestures, cried, — 


186 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ Why do you speak to me of Levin? I really don’t see 
why it is necessary for you to torment me. I have already 
said, and I repeat it, that I am proud, and never, never 
would I do what you have done, — go back to a man who had 
been false to me, who had made love to another woman. I 
do not understand this: you can, but I cannot! ”’ 

As she said these words, she looked at her sister. Dolly 
bent her head sadly without answering ; but Kitty, instead of 
leaving the room as she had intended to do, sat down near 
the door again, and hid her face in her handkerchief. 

The silence lasted several minutes. Dolly was thinking 
of her tribulations. Her humiliation, which she felt only too 
deeply, appeared to her more cruel than ever, thus recalled 
by her sister. Never would she have believed her capable 
of being so severe. But suddenly she heard the rustling of 
a dress, a broken sob, and then two arms were thrown 
around her neck. Kitty was on her knees before her. 

‘¢ Délinka, [am so unhappy! forgive me,’’ she murmured ; 
and her pretty face, wet with tears, was hid in Dolly’s skirt. 

Possibly these tears were needed to bring the two sisters 
into complete harmony: however, after a good cry, they did 
not return to the subject which interested them both. Kitty 
knew that she was forgiven, but she also knew that the cruel 
words that had escaped her in regard to Dolly’s humiliation, 
remained heavy on her poor sister’s heart. Dolly, on her 
side, knew that she had guessed correctly, and that the pain 
Kitty felt lay in the fact that she had refused Levin, only to 
see herself deceived in Vronsky, and that her sister was on 
the point of loving the first, and hating the other. Kitty 
spoke only of the general state of her soul. 

‘¢T am not disappointed,’’ she said, regaining her calmness 
a little ; ‘* but you cannot imagine how wretched, disgusting, 
and vulgar every thing seems to me — myself worse than all. 
You cannot imagine what evil thoughts come into my mind.”’ 

‘‘ Da! but what evil thoughts can you have?’’ asked 
Dolly, with a smile. 

‘¢The most abominable, the most repulsive. I cannot 
describe them to you. It is not melancholy, and it is not 
weariness. It is much worse. One might say that all the 
good that was in me had disappeared, and only the evil was 
left. Nu! how can that be explained?’’ she asked, looking 
at her sister. ‘‘ Papa spoke to me a few minutes ago. It 
seems to me that he thinks of nothing else than the need of 


i ak a i eli 


<i 


_— Ss Sa re, 


ANNA KARENINA. 137 


getting me a husband. Mamma takes me to the ball. It 
seems to me that it is for the sole purpose of getting rid of 
me, of getting me married as soon as possible. I know that 
it is not true, and yet I cannot drive away these ideas. So- 
called marriageable young men are unendurable to me. I 
always have the impression that they are summing me up. 
Once I liked to go into society; it amused me; I enjoyed 
preparing my toilet; now it is a bore to me, and I feel ill 
at ease. Nu! what? The doctor —nu’’— 

Kitty stopped: she wanted to say further, that, since she 
had felt this great change in herself, she could no longer see 
Stepan Arkadyevitch without the most extraordinary and 
unpleasant conjectures arising in her mind. 

*¢ Nu! da! every thing takes a most repulsive aspect in my 
sight,’’ she continued. ‘‘It is a disease, — perhaps it will 
pass away. Ido not feel at ease except with you and the 
children.’’ 

‘¢ What a pity that you can’t come home with me now!’’ 

*¢] will go all the same. I have had scarlatina. I will 
persuade maman.”’ 

Kitty insisted so eagerly, that she was allowed to go with 
her sister. Throughout the course of the disease, — for it 
proved to be the scarlatina, as Dolly had feared, — she aided 
her in taking care of the children. ‘They soon entered upon 
a happy convalescence without relapses; but Kitty’s health 
did not improve, and at Lent the Shcherbatskys went 
abroad. 


IV. 


THE upper society at Petersburg is remarkably united. 
Everybody knows everybody else, and everybody exchanges 
visits. But it has its subdivisions. Anna Arkadyevna 
Karénina had friendly relations with three different circles 
of which society was composed. The first was the official 
circle, to which her husband belonged, composed of his col- 
leagues and subordinates, bound together, or even further 
subdivided, by the most varied, and often the most capricious, 
social relations. It was difficult for Anna to comprehend 
the sentiment of almost religious respect which at first she 


felt for all these personages. Now she knew them, as one 


Jearns to know people in a provincial city, with all their weak- 
uesses and failings. She knew how the shoe pinched, ana 


138 ANNA KARENINA. 


what were their relations among themselves, and to the com 
mon centre to which they all belonged. But this official 
clique, in which her husband’s interests lay, no longer pleased 
her; and she did her best to avoid it, in spite of the insinua- 
tions of the Countess Lidia Ivanovna. 

The second circle in which Anna moved was that which 
had helped Alekséi Aleksandrovitch in his career. The pivot 
of this wheel was the Countess Lidia Ivanovna: it was com- 
* posed of aged, ugly, charitable, and zealous women, and in- 
telligent, learned, and ambitious men. Some one had given 
it the sobriquet of the ‘‘ conscience of Petersburg society.’’ 
Karénin was very much devoted to this coterie; and Anna, 
whose flexible character easily accommodated itself to her 
surroundings, had made friends in its number. After her re- 
turn from Moscow, this set of people seemed to her insup- 
portable ; it seemed as if she herself, as well as the others, 
were unnatural: and she saw the Countess Lidia as infre- 
quently as she possibly could. 

And finally, Anna had friendly relations with the society — 
properly speaking, fashionable society, that world of balls, 
dinner-parties, brilliant toilets — which with one hand lays 
fast hold of the Court lest it fall absolutely into the demi- 
monde, which its members affect to despise, but whose tastes 
are precisely similar. The bond that attracted her to this sort 
of society was the Princess Betsy Tverskaia, the wife of one 
of her cousins, who enjoyed an income of a hundred and 
twenty thousand rubles, and who had taken Anna under her 
protection as soon as she came ‘to Petersburg. She had a 
great attraction for her, and rallied her on the society that 
gathered around the Countess Lidia. 

‘¢When I am old and ugly, I will do the same,’’ said 
Betsy ; ‘‘ but’ a young and pretty woman like yourself has 
as yet no place in such an asylum.”’ 

Anna at first had avoided as far as possible the society of 
the Princess Betsy Tverskaia, the manner of life in these 
lofty spheres calling for expenses beyond her means; but 
after her return from Moscow all this was changed. She 
neglected her worthy old friends, and cared to go only into 
grand society. It was there that she experienced the trou- 
blesome pleasure of meeting Vronsky : they met oftener than 
elsewhere at the house of Betsy, who was a Vronsky before 
her marriage, and was an own cousin of the count. He, 
‘moreover, went everywhere that he was likely to meet Anna, 


ANNA KARENINA. 139 


and, if possible, spoke to her of his love. She made no ad- 
vances: but her heart, as soon as she saw him, instantly felt 
the sensation of fulness which had seized her the moment 
that they met, for the first time, near the train at Moscow ; 
this joy, she knew, betrayed itself in her eyes, in her smile, 
but she had not the power to hide it. 

Anna at first sincerely tried to persuade herself that she 
was angry because he persisted in forcing himself upon her ; 
but one evening when she was present at a house where she 
expected to meet him, and he failed to come, she perceived 
clearly, by the pang that went through her heart, how vain 
were her illusions, and how her infatuation, irstead of dis- 
pleasing her, formed the ruling passion of her life. 


A famous diva was singing for the second time, and all 
the society of Petersburg was at the theatre. Vronsky saw 
his cousin there, and, without waiting for the entr’acte, left 
his seat in the first row, to visit her box. 

‘¢ Why didn’t you come to dinner?’’ she demanded of him ; 
and then she added in a whisper, and with a smile, so as to 
be heard only by him, ‘‘ I admire this second sight of lovers: 
she was not there. But come to my house after the opera.”’ 

Vronsky looked at her as though he would ask what she 
meant, and Betsy replied with a nod. He thanked her with 
a smile, and sat down. 

‘¢ But how I miss all your pleasantries: what have become 
of them?’’ continued the princess, who followed with keen 
pleasure the progress of this passion. ‘‘ You are in love, 
my dear! ”’ . 

‘¢That is all that I ask for,’’? he replied, with a smile of 
good-humor, — ‘*‘to be in love. If I complain, it is not 
because I am not sufficiently in love; for, to tell the truth, 
I am beginning to lose hope.’’ 

‘*¢ What hope could you have?’’ asked Betsy, taking the 
part of her friend: ‘‘ entendons nous’’ [let us have a clear 
understanding |: but the fire in her eyes told with sufficient 
clearness that she understood as well as he did what his hope 
meant. — 

** None,”’ replied Vronsky, laughing, and showing his reg- 
ular white teeth. ‘*‘Excuse me,’’ he added, taking the 
opera-glasses from his cousin’s hand, in order to direct it 
across her shoulder at one of the opposite boxes. ‘+I fear 
I am becoming ridiculous.”’ 


140 ANNA KARENINA. 


He knew very well that in Betsy’s eyes, and in those of 
her world, he ran no such risk: he knew perfectly well that 
though a man might seem ridiculous by being hopelessly in 
love with a young girl, or an unmarried woman, he ran no 
such risk if he made love to a married woman. Such sport 
was grand and exciting; and thus Vronsky, as he handed 
back the opera-glasses, looked at his cousin with a smile 
lurking under his mustache. 

‘¢ Why didn’t you come to dinner?’’ she asked again, un- 
able to refrain from admiration of him. 

‘¢T suppose I must tell you: I was busy—and what 
about? I will give you one guess out of a hundred — out 
of a thousand: you would never hit it. I have been recon- 
ciling a husband with his wife’s persecutor. Yes, fact!’ 

‘¢ What! and you succeeded? ’”’ 

*¢ Pretty nearly.’’ 

‘¢You must tell me all about it between the acts,’’ said 
Betsy, rising. 

‘¢ Impossible: I am going to the French Theatre.”’ 

‘¢From Nilsson?’’ said Betsy incredulously, though she 
could not have distinguished Nilsson from the poorest cho- 
rus-singer. 

‘¢ But what canI do? I have made an appointment in order 
to finish my act of peacemaking.’’ 

‘¢ Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be saved,”’ 
said Betsy, remembering that she had heard somewhere some 
such quotation. 


V. 


‘¢ Tr’s a little improper, but so amusing, that I wanted to 
tell you about it,’? said Vronsky, looking at his cousin’s 
sparkling eyes. ‘* However, I will not mention any names.’”’ 

‘* But I can guess? so much the better! ”’ 

‘¢ Listen, then. Two young men, just a little’’ — 

‘¢ Officers of your regiment, of course ’’? — 

‘*T did not say that they were officers, but simply young 
men, who had dined well ’’ — 

‘¢ Translated, tipsy !”’ 

‘¢ Possibly — go to dine with a comrade: they are in very 
excellent spirits. They see a young woman passing them in 
a hired carriage: she turns around, and, as it seems to them, 
looks at them and laughs. They follow her on the double: 


Se ae 


ANNA KARENINA. 141 


quick. To their great surprise their beauty stops before the 
very house where they were going: she mounts to the upper 
floor, and they see nothing but a pair of rosy lips under a 
veil, and a pair of pretty little feet.”’ 

*¢ But you describe the scene so vividly as to make me be- 
lieve that you were in the party.”’ 

*¢ Why do you accuse me so soon? Nu/ my two young 
men climb up to their comrade’s room, who was going to give 
a farewell dinner, and these parting ceremonies compel them 
to drink, perhaps, more than was good for them. They 
question their host about the inmates of the house; he knows 
nothing at all about it: their friend’s valet, to their ques- 
tions, ‘ Are there any mamselles here?’ replies that there are 
a good many.— After dinner the two young men go into 
their friend’s library and write a fiery letter to their unknown, 
full of passionate protestations: they themselves carry up 
the letter, in order to explain whatever might not be under- 
stood.’’ 

‘¢ But why do you tell me such horrible things? Nu!”’ 

‘¢'They ring. A girl comes to the door: they give her the 
letter, telling her they are so smitten that they are ready to 
die, then and there, where they are. The girl parleys with 
them. Suddenly a gentleman appears, red as a lobster, and 
with side-whiskers like sausages, and he unceremoniously 
puts them out of the door, declaring that there is no one 
there except his wife.’’ 

‘¢ How did you know that his side-whiskers were like sau- 
sages?’’ demanded Betsy. | 

‘But you shall see. I have just made peace between 
them.”’ 

*¢ Nu! what came of it?”’ 

‘‘'This is the most interesting part of the affair. The 
happy couple prove to be a titular counsellor and his wife. 
The titular counsellor brings a complaint, and I am obliged 
to serve as peacemaker. What a diplomatist! Talleyrand 
compared to me was nobody.’’ 

*¢ What! did you have difficulties ? ”’ 

** Da vot! Listen! We began by making the very best 
excuse that we could, as was proper enough: ‘ We are des- 
perately sorry,’ we said, ‘for this unfortunate occurrence.’ 
The titular counsellor seemed to be calming down a little ; 
but he felt it necessary to express his feelings, and as soon 
as he began to express his feelings he began to get wrathy, 


142 ANNA KARENINA. 


and he said very impudent things, and I was obliged to bring 
my diplomatic talents into requisition: ‘I agree that their 
conduct was most reprehensible, but please remember that 
there was a misunderstanding: they were young, and had 
just come from a good dinner. Youunderstand? Now they 
are sorry from the bottom of their hearts, and beg you to 
forgive them their fault.’ The titular counsellor softened 
still more: ‘I agree with you, count, and I am ready to par- 
don them ; but you perceive that my wife, a virtuous woman, 
has been exposed to insult, to persecution, to the impudence 
of good-for-nothing young’— And the impudent, good- 
for-nothing young fellows being present, I have to exert 
myself to calm them down, and so to resume my diplomatic 
efforts over and over again. Every time I seem on the point 
of success, my titular counsellor gets wrathy again, and his 
face gets red, and his sausages begin to wag up and down, 
and I find myself drowned in the waves of diplomatic subtle- 
ties.’’ 

‘¢ Ach! we must tell you all about this,’’ said Betsy to a 
lady who at this moment came into her box. ‘‘It has 
amused me much! ”’ 

*¢ Nu, bonne chance!’’ said she, giving Vronsky the ends 
of her fingers, as she held her fan; and then shrugging her 
shoulders, so as to keep the waist of her dress from coming 
up, she went to the front of the box, where she sat down in 
the full blaze of gas, and in the eyes of all. 

Vronsky went to the French Theatre to meet the colonel 
of his regiment, who never failed to be present at a single 
representation. It was with him that he wished to speak in 
regard to his business of patching up the peace, which had 
occupied and amused him for three days. The heroes of 
this affair were his comrade Petritsky and a charming young 
fellow, Prince Kerdrof, who had lately joined their regiment. 
The principal point was, that the affair concerned the inter- 
ests of his regiment, for both the young men belonged to 
Vronsky’s company. 

Venden, the titular counsellor, had lodged with the 
colonel a complaint that the officers had insulted his wife. 
His young wife, Venden told the colonel, to whom he had 
been married scarcely five months, had been to church with 
her mother, and feeling indisposed, had engaged the first 
izvoshchik at hand, in order to reach home quickly. The 
officers had chased her: she had come home feeling still 


ANNA KARENINA. 143 


more ill, in consequence of her emotion, and of having run 
up the stairs. Venden himself had just returned from his 
office, when he heard voices and the sound of a bell. See- 
ing that he had to do with a pair of drunken officers, he had 
pitched them out of the door. He demanded that they should 
be severely punished. 

‘* No, it’s all very well to talk,’’ said the colonel to Vron- 
sky, who had come at his summons to talk with him; ‘‘ but 
Petritsky is becoming unbearable. Not a week goes by 
without some scandal. This Tchinovnik will not stop here, 
he will go farther.’’ 

Vronsky saw all the unpleasant consequences of this affair, 
and he felt that a duel must not be, and that it was much 
better to make the titular counsellor relent, and smooth over 
the scandal. The colonel had summoned him because he 
knew that he was a shrewd and gentlemanly man, and zealous 
for the interests of the regiment. It was after their consul- 
tation that Vronsky, accompanied by Petritsky and Kerdrof, 
had gone to carry their excuses to the titular counsellor, in 
the hope that his name, and his epaulets of aide-de-camp, 
might succeed in calming the angry titular counsellor. 
Vronsky had only partially succeeded, as he had just related, 
and the reconciliation seemed dubious. 

At the theatre Vronsky took the colonel into the lobby, 
and told him of the success, or rather the lack of success, 
which had attended his mission. After reflection the colonel 
decided to leave the matter in abeyance; but he could not 
help laughing as he heard Vronsky’s lively description of the 
wrath of the titular counsellor, and his repeated attempts to 
bring him into a suitable frame of mind. 

** It is a wretched piece of business, but exceedingly amus- 
ing. Still, Kerdrof could not fight with this gentleman. And 
how do you like Claire this evening ?— charming!’ said he, 
referring to a French actress. ‘‘ One can’t see her too 
_ often: she is always new. Let alone the French for that!”’ 


VI. 


Tue Princess Betsy left the theatre without waiting for 
the end of the last act. She had scarcely had more than 
time enough, after reaching home, to go into her dressing- 
room, and scatter a little rice-powder over her long, pale 


144 ANNA KARENINA. 


face, re-arrange her toilet, and order tea to be served in the 
large drawing-room, when the carriages began to arrive at 
her palace on the Bolshaia Morskaia. 'The mistress of the 
mansion, with renewed color, and hair re-arranged, came 
down to receive her guests. ‘The walls of the great drawing- 
room were hung with sombre draperies, and the floor was 


laid with a thick carpet. On the table, which was covered ~ 


with a cloth of dazzling whiteness, shining in the light of 
numberless candles, stood a silver samovar (tea-urn) and a 
tea-service of transparent porcelain. 

The princess took her place before the samovar, and drew 
off her gloves. Servants, quick to bring chairs, were in 
attendance, and helped with noiseless assiduity to arrange 
the guests in two camps, the one around the princess, the 
other in a corner of the drawing-room around the wife of 
a foreign ambassador, a handsome lady, with black, well- 
arched eyebrows, who was dressed in black velvet. The 
conversation, as usual at the beginning of a reception, was 
continually interrupted by the arrival of new faces, the offers 
of tea, and the exchange of salutations, and seemed to be 
endeavoring to find a common subject of interest. 

‘¢ She is remarkably handsome for an actress: you can see 
that she has studied Kaulbach,’’ said a diplomatist in the 
group around the ambassador’s wife. ‘‘ Did you notice how 
she fell?’ 

‘¢ Ach! I beg of you, don’t let us speak of Nilsson. 
Nothing new can be said about her,’’ said a great fat lady, 
with light complexion, without either eyebrows or chignon, 
and dressed in an old silk gown. This was the Princess Miag- 
kaia, famous for her simplicity and frightful manners, and 
surnamed the Hnfant terrible. Princess Miagkaia was seated 
between the two groups, listening to what was said on both 
sides of her, and taking impartial interest in both. ‘‘ This 
very day, three people have made that same remark about 
Kaulbach. It must be fashionable. I don’t see why that 
phrase should be so successful.’’ 

The conversation was cut short by this remark, and a new 
theme had to be started. 

‘¢ Tell us something amusing, but don’t let it be naughty,”? 
said the ambassador’s wife, who was a mistress of the art 
of conversation, called, by the English small talk. She was 
addressing the diplomatist. 

‘¢They say that there is nothing more difficult, since 


: 





ANNA KARENINA. 145 


naughty things alone are amusing,’’ replied the diplomatist, 
with a smile. ‘‘ However, I will do my best. Give me a 
theme. Every thing depends upon the theme. When you 
get that for a background, you can easily fill it in with 
embroidery. I often think that the celebrated talkers of the 
past would be exceedingly embarrassed if they were alive 
now: every thing intellectual is considered so dull.”’ 

** You are not the first to say that,’’ remarked the ambas- 
sador’s wife, interrupting him with a smile. 

The conversation began sleepily, and therefore it quickly 
languished again. It was necessary to infuse new life ; and to 
do this, they had recourse to an unfailing subject, — gossip. 

‘¢ Don’t you think that there is something Louis XV. 
about Tushkiévitch?’’ asked some one, indicating a hand- 
some, light-haired young man, who was standing near the 
table. 

*¢Oh, yes! he’s quite in the style of the drawing-room of 
which he is such an important ornament.”’ 

This subject sustained the conversation, since it consisted 
wholly of hints. It could not be treated openly, for it would 
have brought direct reference to Tushkiévitch’s love affair 
with the Princess Betsy. | 

Around the samovav, the conversation hesitated for some 
time upon three inevitable subjects, — the news of the day, 
the theatre, and a lawsuit which was to be tried the next day. 
At last the same subject arose that was occupying the other 
group, — gossip. 

‘¢ Have you heard that Maltishchef — that is, the mother, 
not the daughter — has had a costume in diable rose?’’ 

‘¢Ts it possible? No! That.is delicious.’’ 

‘¢T am astonished that with her sense, — for she is sensi- 
ble, — she does not perceive how ridiculous she is.’?, Every- 
body found something in which to criticise and tear to pieces 
the unfortunate Maltishchef; and the conversation grew 
lively, brilliant, and gay, like a flaming pyre. : 

The Princess Betsy’s husband, a tall, good-natured man, 
passionately fond of collecting prints, entered gently at this 
moment. He had heard that his wife had a reception, and 
desired to show himself in her circle. He approached the 
Princess Miagkaia, but, owing to his noiseless step on the 
carpet, she did not perceive him. 

** How did you like Nilsson? ’’ he asked. 

“Ach! Do you steal in upona body that way? How you 


146 ANNA KARENINA. 


startled me!’’ she cried. ‘‘ Don’t speak to me about the 
opera, I beg of you: you don’t know any thing about music. 
I prefer to descend to your level, and talk with you about 
your engravings and majolicas. Nu/ What treasures have 
you discovered lately? ”’ 

‘¢If you would like, I will show them to you; but you 
would not appreciate them.”’ 

‘¢ Show them to me all the same. I am getting my educa- 
tion among these — bankers, as you call them. ‘They have 
lovely engravings. They like to show them.”’ 

‘¢Have you been at the Schutzburgs?’’ asked the mis- 
tress of the house, from her place by the samovar. 

*¢ Certainly, ma chére. They invited my husband and me 
to dinner, and I have been told that at this dinner, they had 
a sauce that cost a thousand rubles,’’ replied the Princess 
Miagkaia, in a loud voice calculated to be heard by all; 
‘and it was a very poor sauce, too, —something green. I 
had to return the compliment, and I got them up a sauce 
that cost eighty-five kopeks.1 Every one was happy. I 
can’t afford to make thousand-ruble sauces, —not I.’’ 

‘¢ She is unique,’’ said Betsy. 

‘¢ Astonishing,’’ said another. 

The Princess Miagkaia never failed of causing a sensation 
by her speeches, and it arose from the fact that she spoke 
with great good sense of very ordinary things, but did not 
introduce them at suitable occasions, as was the case at the 
present time ; but in the society where she moved, this great 
good sense gave the effect of the most subtile wit; her suc- 
cess astonished even herself, and she enjoyed it none the less 
on that account. 

Taking advantage of the silence that followed, the lady of 
the house wanted to make the conversation more general ; 
and, turning to the ambassador’s wife, she said, — 

‘¢ Are you sure that you will not have some tea? Then 
come this way.’’ 

‘¢ No: we are very well where we are, in this corner,”’ re- 
plied the latter with a smile, resuming the thread of a con- 
versation which interested her very deeply. It concerned 
Karénin and his wife. 

‘¢ Anna is very much changed since her return from Mos- 
cow. There is something strange about her,’’ said one of 
her friends. 


1 One ruble, or one hundred kopeks, is worth eighty cents. 





ANNA KARENINA. 147 


‘¢ The change is due to the fact, that she brought back in 
her train the shadow of Alekséi Vronsky,’’ said the ambas- 
sador’s wife. 

‘¢ What does that prove? There’s a story in Grimm’s 
Tales — a man without a shadow —a man loses his shadow 
in punishment of something or other. I, for my part, cannot 
see where the punishment lies, but perhaps it’s painful for a 
woman to be deprived of her shadow.’’ 

‘*¢ Yes, but the women who have shadows generally come 
to some bad end,’’ said Anna’s friend. 

*¢ Hold your tongues!’’? cried the Princess Miagkaia, as 
she heard these words. ‘‘ Madame Karénina is a charming 
woman, but I can’t abide her husband.’’ 

‘Why don’t you like him?’’ demanded the wife of the 
ambassador. ‘‘He is a very remarkable man. My hus- 
band insists that there are few statesman in Europe that 
equal him.”’ 

‘¢ My husband insists on the same thing, but I don’t be- 
lieve it,’’ replied the princess: ‘‘ if our husbands had not had 
this idea, we should have seen Alekséi Aleksandrovitch as he 
really is; and in my opinion, he is a blockhead. I only 
whisper it, but that gives me some satisfaction. Once upon 
a time, I used to think it was my fault because I could not 
see wherein lay his wit; but as soon as I said to myself, — 
under my breath, understand you,—he is a blockhead, 
all was explained. As to Anna, I agree with you entirely. 
She is lovely and good. Is it her fault, poor woman, if 
everybody falls in love with her, and pursues her like 
shadows ?”’ 

*¢ Da! I do not allow myself to judge her,’’ said Anna’s 
friend, willing to avoid blame. 

** Because no one follows us like a shadow, it’s no sign 
that we haven’t the right to judge.”’ 

Having thus disposed of Anna’s friend, the princess and 
the ambassador’s wife drew up to the table, and joined in 
the general conversation about the King of Prussia. 

‘¢ Whom have you been gossiping about?’’ asked Betsy. 

** About the Karénins. The princess has been picturing 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch,’’ replied the ambassador’s wife, 
sitting down near the table, with a smile. 

**Shame that we could not have heard it,’’ said Betsy, 


1 Pipun vam na yazuik!” A slang expression, literally meaning, ‘‘ May your 
tongue have the pip! ¥ : : 


148 ANNA KARENINA. 


looking towards the door. ‘*Ah! here you are at last,”’ 
said she, turning to Vronsky, who at that moment came in. 

Vronsky knew, and met every day, all the people whom he 
found collected in his cousin’s drawing-room; therefore he 
came in with the ealmness of a man who rejoins friends from 
whom he has only just parted. 

‘¢ Where have I come from? I must confess,’’ said he, in 
reply to a question from the ambassador’s wife, ‘‘ from the 
Bouffes. And it seems to me with a new pleasure, although 
’tis for the hundredth time. It is charming. It is humiliat- 
ing to confess, but I get sleepy at the opera; but I enjoy 
it at Les Bouffes up to the very last minute. To-day ’’— 

He mentioned a French actress, but the ambassador’s wife 
stopped him with an expression of mock terror. 

‘¢ Don’t speak to us of this fright !”’ 

‘¢ Nu! I will hold my peace the more willingly because you 
all know these frights.’’ 

‘¢ And you would all go there if it were as fashionable as 
the opera,’’ added the Princess Miagkaia. 


Vil. 


Steps were heard near the door, and Betsy, convinced that 
she should see Anna appear, looked at Vronsky. He also 
looked in the direction of the door, and his face had a 
strange expression of joy, expectation, and almost of fear, 
and he rose slightly from his chair. Anna came into the 
drawing-room. She crossed the short distance between her 
and the mistress of the mansion, with that rapid, light, but 
decided step, which distinguished her from all the other 
women of this circle. As usual, she stood extremely 
straight, and, with her eyes fixed on Betsy, went directly 
up to her, and shook hands with a smile, and with the 
same smile she looked at Vronsky. He bowed profoundly, 
and offered her a chair. . 

Anna bent her head a little, and blushed, and gave a slight 
frown. Several of the ladies pressed around her; she shook 
hands with them, and then she turned to Betsy : — 

‘¢T have just been at the Countess Lidia’s: I wanted to 
get away earlier, but I was detained. Sir John was there. 
He is very interesting.’’ 

‘¢ Ach! that missionary ? ”’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 149 


-¢ Yes: he related many very curious things about life in 
the Indies.’ 

The conversation, which Anna’s entrance had interrupted, 
again wavered, like a fire that threatens to go out. 

‘¢Sir John! da, Sir John! Yes, I have seen him. He 
speaks well. Vlasief is actually in love with him!”’ 

‘¢Ts it true that the youngest of the Vlasiefs is going to 
marry Tapof?’’ 

‘¢Yes: people say that the affair is fully decided.’’ 

‘¢]T am astonished that the parents are willing.”’ 

‘¢ They say that it is a love-match.”’ 

‘¢A love-match? What antediluvian ideas you have! 
Who speaks of love in our days?’’ said the ambassador’s 
wife. 

‘¢ What is to be done about it? This foolish old custom 
is still occasionally met with,’’ said Vronsky. 

‘¢ So much the worse for those who adhere to it: the only 
happy marriages that I know about are those of reason.”’ 

‘¢Yes; but does it not often happen that these marriages 
of reason break like ropes of sand, precisely because of this 
love which you affect to scorn? ’’ 

** Let us see: what we call a marriage of reason is where 
both parties take an equal risk. Love is a disease through 
which we all must pass, like the measles.’’ 7 

*¢ In that case it would be wise to find an artificial means 
of inoculation, as in small-pox.”’ 

‘¢ When I was young I fell in love with a sacristan: I 
should like to know what good that did me!’ said the Prin- 
cess Miagkaia. 

*¢ No; but, jesting aside, I believe that to know what love 
really is, one must have been deceived once, and then been 
set right,’’ said the Princess Betsy. 

‘¢ Even after marriage?’’ asked the ambassador’s wife, 
laughing. 

*¢ It is never to late to mend,’’ said the diplomatist, quot- 
ing the English proverb. 

‘¢ But really,’’ interrupted Betsy, ‘‘ you are deceived the 
first time, so as afterwards to get into the right path. What 
do you say?’* said she, turning to Anna, who was listening 
to the conversation with a smile. 

Vronsky looked at her, and waited for her answer with a 
violent beating of the heart: after she had spoken, he drew 
a long breath, as though he had escaped some danger. 


150 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢T think,’’ said Anna, playing with her glove, ‘‘ that if 
there are as many opinions as there are heads, then there are 
as many ways of loving as there are hearts.’’ 

She turned quickly to Vronsky. 

‘¢T have just had a letter from Moscow. They write me 
that Kitty Shcherbatskaia is very ill.’’ 

*¢ Really,’’ said Vronsky gloomily. 

Anna looked at him with a severe expression. 

*¢ Doesn’t this interest you? ”’ 

‘¢ On the contrary, I am very sorry. Exactly what did 
they write you, if I may be permitted to inquire? ’”’ 

Anna arose and went to Betsy. 

‘¢ Will you give me a cup of tea?’’ she said, leaning on 
the chair. While Betsy was pouring the tea, Vronsky went 
to Anna. 

‘¢ What did they write you?’’ 

*¢ T often think that men do not know what nobility means, 
though they are all the time talking about it,’’ said Anna, 
not answering his question. 

‘¢T have been wanting to tell you for a long time,”’ she 
added, going towards a table laden with albums. 

‘¢T don’t know what your words mean,”’ he said, offering 
her a cup of tea. 

She glanced at the sofa near, and then sat down, and he 
instantly sat beside her. 

‘¢- Yes, I have been wanting to tell you,’’ she continued, 
without looking at him. ‘‘ You have acted badly, — very 
badly.”’ 

‘¢ Do you believe that I don’t feel that I have? But whose 
fault was it?’ 

‘¢ Why do you say that to me?’’ said she, with a severe 
look. 

‘¢ You know it yourself,’’ he replied, without dropping his 
eyes. 

"She, not he, felt the burden of the guilt. 

‘¢ This simply proves that you have no heart,’’ said she. 
But her eyes told the story, that she knew that he had a 
heart, and that therefore she feared him. 

‘¢ What you were talking about just now was error, not 
love.”’ 

‘¢ Remember that I have forbidden you to speak that word, 
that hateful word,’’ said Anna, trembling ; and instantly she 
felt that by the use of the word ‘‘ forbidden,”’’ she recog- 


ANNA KARENINA. 151 


nized a certain jurisdiction over him, and thus encouraged 
him to speak. ‘‘For a long time I have been wanting to 
have a talk with you,’’ she continued, in a firm tone, looking 
him full in the face, though her cheeks were aflame. ‘I 
have come to-night on purpose, knowing that I should find 
you here: this must come to an end. I have never had to 
blush before any one before, and you cause me to feel guilty 
in my own eyes.”’ 

He looked at her, and was struck with the new expression 
of her beauty. 

*¢ What do you want me to do?’’ said he. 

‘¢T want you to go to Moscow, and beg Kitty’s pardon.”’ 

*¢ You do not want that,’ said he. 

He felt that she was compelling herself to say one thing, 
while she really desired something else. 

‘*Tf you love me, as you say you do,’’ she murmured, — 
** then do what will give me peace! ”’ 

Vronsky’s face lighted up. 

*¢ Don’t you know that you are my life? But I don’t know 
what peace means, and I can’t give it to you. Myself, my 
love I can give—vyes, I cannot think of our being apart 
from each other. For me, you and I are one. I see no 
hope of peace for you or for me in the future. As I look 
ahead, I see nothing but despair and misfortune, — unless I 
see the possibility of happiness, and what happiness! Is it 
really impossible? ’’ he murmured, scarcely daring to pro- 
nounce the words; but she understood him. 

All the forces of her mind pointed to what she ought to 
say; but instead of speaking, she looked at him with love 
in her eyes, and said nothing. 

** Ah!” he said to himself, in his transport, ‘‘ at the very 
moment when I was in despair, when I thought I should never 
succeed, it has come! This is love! She loves me! 4 It is 
a confession.”’ 

** Do this for me: let us be good friends, and never speak 
to me in this way again,’’ said her words: her eyes told a 
totally different story. 

**'We can never be mere friends: you yourself know it. 
Shall we be the most miserable, or the happiest, of human 
beings? It is for you to decide.”’ 

She began to speak, but he interrupted her. 

** All that I ask is the right of hoping and suffering, as 
Ido now; if it is impossible, order me to disappear, and 1 


152 ANNA KARENINA. 


will disappear: if my presence is painful to you, you shall 
be relieved of the sight of me.’’ 

‘¢T do not wish to drive you from me.”’ 

‘¢'Then change nothing; let things go as they are,”’ said 
he, with trembling voice. ‘‘ Here is your husband! ”’ 

Indeed, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch at that instant was enter- 
ing the drawing-room, with his 9 face and ungraceful 
walk. 

He went first to the mistress of the mansion, as he passed 
casting a glance at Anna and Vronsky, and then he sat down 
by the tea-table, and in his slow and well-modulated voice, 
and in the tone of persiflage, which seemed always to deride 
some one or some thing, he said, as he took in the assem- 
bly, ‘* Your Rambouillet is complete, — the Graces and the 
Muses !”’ 

But the Princess Betsy, who could not endure this tone of 
derision, — ‘‘ sneering’’ she called it, — with the tact of a 
consummate hostess, quickly brought him round to a ques- 
tion of serious interest. The forced conscription was under 
discussion, and Alekséi Aleksandrovitch defended it with 
vivacity against Betsy’s attacks. 

Vronsky and Anna still sat near their little table. ‘* That 
is getting rather pronounced,’’ said a lady in a whisper, 
referring to Karénin, Anna, and Vronsky. 

‘What did I tell you?’’ said Anna’s friend. 

These were not the only ladies who were making the same 
remarks: the Princess Miagkaia and Betsy themselves 
glanced more than once to the side of the room where they 
sat alone. Only Alekséi Aleksandrovitch paid no attention 
to them, and did not allow his thoughts to wander from the 
interesting conversation on which he had started. 

Betsy, perceiving the unfortunate effect caused by her 
friends, executed a skilful manceuvre so that some one else 
could reply in her stead to Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, and 
crossed over to Anna. 

‘¢] always admire your husband’s clear and explicit lan- 
guage,’’ shesaid. ‘* The most transcendental questions seem 
within my reach when he speaks.”’ . 

*¢Oh, yes!’ said Anna, radiant with joy, though she did 
not understand a word that Betsy had said. Then she arose 
and went over to the large table, and joined in the general 
conversation. 

At the end of half an hour Alekséi Aleksandrovitch pro« 


ANNA KARENINA. 153 


posed to her to go home; but she answered, without looking 
at him, that she wished to remain to supper. Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch took leave of the company and departed. 


The Karénins’ coachman, an old Tartar, dressed in his 
waterproof, was having some difficulty in restraining his 
horses, excited with the cold. <A lackey stood with his hand 
on the door of the coupé. The Swiss was standing near the 
outer door; and Anna listened with ecstasy to what Vronsky 
whispered, while she was freeing, with nervous fingers, the 
lace of her sleeve which had caught on the hook of her fur 
cloak. 

‘¢' You made no agreement, I confess,’’ Vronsky was say- 
ing, as he accompanied her to the carriage, ‘‘ but you know 
that it is not friendship that I ask for: for me, the whole 
happiness of my life is contained in that one word that you 
despise, — love.’’ 

*¢ Love,’’ she repeated slowly, as though she had spoken to 
herself : then, as she disentangled her lace, she suddenly said, 
**T do not like this word, because it has for me a sense more 
profound, and vastly more serious, than you can imagine. 
But till next time,’’ she said, looking him in the face. 

She reached him her hand, and, with a rapid step, passed 
the Swiss, and disappeared in her carriage. 

Her look, her pressure of his hand, overwhelmed Vronsky. 
He kissed the palm where her fingers had touched it, and 
went back to his quarters with the conviction that this even- 
ing had brought him nearer to the goal of which he dreamed, 
than all the two months past. 


VIII. 


AtreKst1 ALEKSANDROVITCH found nothing out of the way 
in the fact that his wife and Vronsky had held a rather pro- 
nounced téte-d-téte, but it seemed to him that others showed 
some astonishment, and he resolved to keep Anna under his 
observation. According to his usual custom, when he 
reached home, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch went to his library, 
threw himself into his arm-chair, and opened his book at the 
place marked by a paper-cutter, and read an article on 
-Papistry till the clock struck one. From time to time he 
passed his hand across his forehead, and shook his head, as 


154 ANNA KARENINA. 


though to drive away an importunate thought. At his usual 
hour he prepared for rest, but Anna had not yet returned. 
With his book under his arm, he went to her room; but 
instead of being pre-occupied, as usual, with considerations 
appertaining to his governmental duties, he was thinking of 
his wife, and of the disagreeable impression which the state 
of things caused him. Unwilling to go to bed, he walked up 
and down with arms behind his back, feeling the necessity 
upon him of some reflection on the events of the evening. 

At first thought, 1t seemed to Aleks¢i Aleksandrovitch very 
simple and natural to speak with his wife on the subject; 
but as he reflected, it came over him that the matter was 
comp.icated in a most vexatious fashion. Karénin was not 
jealous. A husband, in his eyes, offered his wife an insult 
in showing jealousy, but he saw no special reason for repos- 
ing implicit confidence in his young wife, and for believing 
that she would always love him. It was not this, however, 
that he asked himself. Having hitherto been free from sus- 
picions and doubts, he assured himself that he would have 
absolute trust in her. Yet, as he dwelt upon these details, 
he felt that he was placed in an illogical and absurd situa- 
tion where he was powerless to act. ‘Till now, he had never 
come in contact with the trials of life, except as they met 
him in the sphere of his official functions. The impression 
which the present crisis made upon him, was such as a man 
feels, who, passing calmly over a bridge above a precipice, 
suddenly discovers that the arch is broken, and that the abyss 
yawns beneath his feet. 

The abyss in his case was actual life; and the bridge, the 
artificial existence, which, till the present time, had alone 
been open to him. The idea that his wife could love another 
man occurred to him for the first time, and filled him with 
terror. 

Without stopping to undress, he kept walking up and 
down with regular steps over the echoing floors. First he 
went through the dining-room, lighted with a single burner ; 
then the dark drawing-room, where a feeble ray of light 
from the door fell on his full-length portrait, which had been 
recently painted; and then his wife’s boudoir, where two 
candles shed their radiance on the costly bric-d-brac of her 
writing-table, and on the portraits of parents and friends. 
When he reached the door of her bedroom, he turned on his 
heel. | 


ANNA KARENINA. 155 


From time to time he stopped, and said to himself, ‘* Yes, 
this must be cut short; I must be decided; I must tell her 
my way of looking at it! But what can I say? what de- 
cision can I make? After all, what has been done? She 
had a long talk with him— But whom does not a society 
woman talk with? To show jealousy for such a trifle would 
be humiliating for us both.”’ 

But this reasoning, which at first sight appeared to him 
conclusive, suddenly lost its cogency. From the door of 
her sleeping-room he returned again to the dining-room, 
then, as he crossed the drawing-room, he thought he heard a 
voice saying to him, ‘‘ The rest seemed surprised, therefore 
there must be something in it.— Yes, the thing must be 
broken short off ; you must be decided: but how??”’ 

His thoughts, like his steps, followed the same circle, and 
he struck no new idea. He recognized this, passed his hand 
over his forehead, and sat down in her boudoir. 

There, as he looked at Anna’s writing-table, with its mala- 
chite ornaments and a letter unfinished, his thoughts took 
another direction: he thought of her, and how she would 
feel. His imagination showed him his wife’s life, the needs 
of her heart and her intellect; her tastes, her desires: and 
the idea that possibly she could, that absolutely she must, 
have an individual existence apart from his, came over him 
so powerfully, that he hastened to put it out of his mind. 
This was the abyss that he must fathom with his gaze. To 
penetrate by thought and feeling into the soul of another 
was to him a thing unknown, and seemed to him dangerous. 

‘¢ And what is most terrible,’’ he said to himself, ‘* is that 
this wretched uncertainty comes upon me just as I am about 
to bring my work to completion,’’ — he referred to a law 
that he wished to have passed,— ‘‘and when I have the 
greatest need of all my mental powers, of all my equa- 
nimity. What is to be done? I am not one of those who 
cannot face their misfortunes. I must reflect: I must 
take some stand, and get rid of this annoyance,’’ he added 
aloud. ‘*I do not admit that I have any right to probe into 
her feelings, or to scrutinize what is going on in her heart: 
that belongs to her conscience, and comes into the domain 
of religion,’’ he said to himself, rejoiced that he had found 
a law applicable to the circumstances that had arisen. 

‘¢'Thus,’’ he continued, ‘‘ the questions relating to her 
feelings are questions of conscience, in which I have no con- 


1b: ANNA KARENINA 


cern. My duty lies clearly before me. Obliged, as head of. 
my family, to watch over her, to point out the dangers which 
I see, responsible as I am for her conduct, I must, if need- 
ful, make use of my rights.”’ 

And Alekséi Aleksandrovitch laid out, in his mind, a plan 
by which he would speak to his wife, and all the time he re- 
gretted the necessity of wasting his time and his intellectual 
powers in family matters. But, in spite of him, his plan 
assumed, in his thought, the clear, precise, and logical form 
of a report : — 

‘¢ ] must make her understand as follows: First, The mean- 
ing and importance of public opinion ; Secondly, The reli- 
gious significance of marriage; Thirdly, The misfortunes 
which might assail her son; Fourthly, The misfortunes which 
might befall herself.’’ And Alekséi Aleksandrovitch twisted 
his fingers together, and made the joints crack. This gesture, 
which was a bad habit of his, calmed him, and helped to 
bring him back to moral equilibrium, of which he stood in 
such need. 

The rumbling of the carriage was heard in front of the 
house, and Alekséi Aleksandrovitch stopped in the middle of 
the dining-room. He heard his wife’s steps on the stair- 
way. His sermon was all ready; but still he stood there. 
twisting his fingers until they cracked again. Though he was 
satisfied with his little sermon, he trembled when he saw her 
come, with fear of what the consequences might be. 


IX. 


Anna entered with bent head, playing with the tassels of 
her bashluik [Turkish hood]. Her face was radiant, but not 
with joy: it was rather the terrible glow of a conflagration 
on a cloudy sky. When she saw her husband she raised 
her head and smiled, as though she had awakened from a 
dream. 

‘¢ You are not a-bed yet? what a miracle!’’ she said, tak- 
ing off her bashluik ; and, without pausing, she went into her 
dressing-room, crying, ‘‘ It is late, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch,”’ 
as she got to the door. 

‘¢ Anna, I must have a talk with you.’’ 

‘¢ With me?’’ she said in astonishment, coming out into 
the hall, and looking at him. ‘‘ What is it? What about?’’ 





THE QUARREL BETWEEN ANNA AND HER HUSBAND. 








ANNA KARENINA. 157 


she demanded, as she sat down. ‘‘ Nu! let us talk, then, 
since it is so necessary; but I would much rather go te 
‘ sleep.”’ 

Sink said what came to her mind, astonished at her own 
facility at telling a lie: her words sounded perfectly natural. 
She seemed really to want to go to sleep: she felt sustained, 
lifted up, by some invisible power, and clad in an impenetra- 
ble armor of falsehood. 

*¢ Anna, I must put you on your guard.”’ 

‘¢On my guard! why ?”’ 

She looked at him so gayly, so innocently, that for any 
one who did not know her as her husband did, the tone of 
her yoice would have sounded perfectly natural. But for 
him, who knew that he could not deviate from the least of his 
habits without her asking the reason, who knew that her 
first impulse was always to tell him of her pleasures and her 
sorrows, the fact that Anna took special pains not to observe 
his agitation, or even to speak, was very significant to him. 
He felt, by the very tone that she assumed, that she said 
openly and without dissimulation, ‘‘Da/ thus it must be, and 
from henceforth.’’ He felt like a man who should come home 
and find his house barricaded against him. 

*¢ Perhaps the key will yet be found,’’ thought Alekséi 
Aleksandrovitch. | 

*¢T want to put you on your guard,”’ said he, in a calm 
voice, ‘‘ against the interpretation which might be put by 
society on your imprudence and your rashness. Your rather 
too lively conversation this evening with Count Vronsky ’’ — 
he pronounced this name slowly and distinctly — ‘‘ attracted 
attention.’’ : 

As he spoke, he looked at Anna’s laughing eyes, for him 
so impenetrable, and saw, with a feeling of terror, all the 
idleness and uselessness of his words. 

*¢ You are always like this,’’ she said, as though she had 
comprehended absolutely nothing, and attached no impor- 
tance except to a part of his speech. ‘* Sometimes you don’t 
like it because I am bored, and sometimes because I have a 
ine time. I was not bored this evening: has that disturbed 
you?” 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch trembled: again he twisted his 
fingers till the knuckles cracked. | 

“‘Ach! I beg of you, keep your hands still; I detest that,” 
said she. 


158 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ Anna, is this you?’’ said Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, try- 
ing to control himself, and stop the movement of his hands. 

** Da! but what is it?’’ she asked, with a sincere and al- 
most comic astonishment. ‘' What do you want of me?”’ 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch was silent, and passed his hand 
across his brow and over his eyes. He felt that instead of 
having warned his wife of her errors in the sight of the world, 
he was agitated at what concerned her conscience, and was 
perhaps striking some imaginary obstacle. 

‘¢ This is what I wanted to say,’’ he continued, in a cool 
and tranquil tone, ‘‘ and I beg you to listen to me until I 
have done. As you know, I look upon jealousy as a humili- 
ating and wounding sentiment which I would never allow 
myself to be led away by, but there are certain social barriers 
which one cannot cross with impunity. This evening, judging 
by the impression which you made, —TI am not the only one, 
everybody noticed it, — you did not conduct yourself at all in 
a proper manner.’’ 

‘¢ Decidedly I did not please anybody,’’ said Anna, shrug- 
ging her shoulders. ‘*He does not really care,’’ she 
thought: ‘‘ all he fears is the opinion of the world. — You 
are not well, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch,’’ she added, rising, and 
turning to go to her room. 

But he stepped up to her, and held her back. Never had 
Anna seen his face so displeased and angry: she remained 
on her feet, tipping her head to one side, while with quick 
fingers she began to pull out the hair-pins. 

*¢ Nu-s/ I hear you,’’ she said, in a calm tone of banter. 
‘¢T shall even listen with interest, because I should like to 
know what it’s all about.’’ 

She herself was astonished at the assurance and calm 
naturalness which she put on, as well as at her choice of 
words. 

‘¢T have no right to examine your feelings. I think it is 
useless and even dangerous,’’ Alekséi Aleksandrovitch be- 
gan. ‘* If we probe too deeply into our hearts, we run the 
risk of touching on what we ought not to perceive. Your 
feelings concern your conscience. But in presence of your- 
self, of me, and of God, I am in duty bound to remind you 
of your obligations. Our lives are united, not by men, but 
by God. Only by crime can this bond be broken, and such 
@ crime brings its own punishment.’’ 

*¢T don’t understand at all. Ach! Bozhe moi, how sleepy 


ANNA KARENINA. 159 


ITam!”’ said Anna, still undoing her hair, and taking out 
the last pin. 

** Anna! in the name of Heaven, don’t speak so,’’ said he 
gently. ‘* Maybe I am mistaken; but believe me, what I 
say to you is as much for your advantage as for mine: 
I am your husband, and I love you.’’ 

A slight frown passed over Anna’s face, and the mocking 
fire disappeared from her eyes; but the word ‘‘love’’ irri- 
tated her. ‘‘ Love!’’ she thought: ‘‘ does he even know 
what it means? Is it possible that he loves me? If he had 
never heard of love, he would always have been ignorant that 
there was such a word.”’ 

*¢ Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, honestly, I don’t know what 
you mean,”’ she said. ‘‘ Make clear to me that you find ’’ — 

*¢ Allow me to finish. Ilove you, but I am not speaking 
for myself: those who are chiefly interested are your son and 
yourself. It is quite possible, I repeat, that my words may 
seem idle and ill-judged: possibly they are the result of 
mistake on my part. In that case, I beg your forgiveness ; 
but you yourself must feel that there is some foundation for 
my remarks, and I earnestly urge you to reflect, and, if your 
heart inclines you, to confide in me’? — 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, without noticing the fact, had 
spoken a very different discourse from the one that he had 
prepared. 

** T have nothing to say.’’ And she added in a sprightly 
tone, scarcely hiding a smile, ‘* Da! it is truly time to go 

to bed.’’ 

-  Alekséi Aleksandrovitch sighed, and, without speaking 
further, went to his room. 

When she reached the room, he was already in bed. His 
lips were sternly set, and he did not look at her. Anna got 
into bed, expecting that he would speak to her; she both 
feared it and desired it: but he said nothing. 

She waited long without moving, and then forgot all about 
him. The image of another filled her with emotion and with 
guilty joy. Suddenly she heard a slow and regular sound of 
snoring. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch at first was startled him- 
self, and stopped; but at the end of a second the snoring 
began again with monotonous regularity. 

**Too late! too late!’’ thought she, with a smile. She 
remained for a long time thus, motionless, with open eyes, 
the shining of which it seemed to her she herself could see. 


160 ANNA KARENINA. 


X. 


From this evening a new life began for Alekséi Aleksan- 
drovitch and his wife. There was no outward sign of it. 
Anna continued to go into society, and especially affected 
the Princess Betsy; and everywhere she met Vronsky. 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch understood it, but was powerless to 
preventit. Whenever he tried to bring about an explanation, 
she met him with an affectation of bumorous surprise which 
was absolutely beyond his penetration. 

No change took place to outward observation, but their 
relations were extremely variable. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, 
a remarkably strong man in matters requiring statesmanship, 
here found himself at his wits’ end. He waited for the 
final blow with head bent, and with the resignation of an ox 
led to slaughter. When these thoughts came to him, he told 
himself that once more he must try gentleness, tenderness, 
reason, to save Anna, and bring her back to him. Every day 
he made up his mind to speak; but as soon as he made the 
attempt, the same evil spirit of falsehood which possessed 
her, seemed to lay hold of him, and he spoke not at all in the 
tone in which he meant to speak. Involuntarily, what he 
said was spoken in his tone of raillery, which seemed to cast 
ridicule on those who would speak as he did. And this tone 
was not at all suitable for the expression of the thoughts that 
he wished to express. 


XI. 


Wnuar had been for Vronsky for nearly a year the only 
and absolute aim of his life, was for Anna a dream of 
happiness, all the more enchanting because it seemed to her 
unreal and terrible. It was like a dream. At last the 
waking came, and a new life began for her with a sentiment 
of moral decadence. She felt the impossibility of expressing 
the shame, the horror, the joy, that were now her portion. 
Rather than put her feelings into idle and fleeting words, she 
preferred to keep silent. As time went on, words fit to ex- 
press the complexity of her sensations still failed to come 
to her, and even her thoughts were incapable of translating 
the impressions of her heart. She hoped that calmness and 
peace would come to her, but they held aloof. Whenever she 


ANNA KARENINA. 161 


thought of the past, and thought of the future, and thought 
of her own fate, she was seized with fear, and tried to drive 
these thoughts away. 

** By and by, by and by,’ 
zalmer.”’ 

On the other hand, when during sleep she lost all control 
of her imagination, her situation appeared in its frightful 
reality: almost every night she had the same dream. She 
dreamed that she was the wife both of Vronsky and of 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch. And it seemed to her that Alekséi 
Aleksandrovitch kissed her hands, and said, weeping, ‘*‘ How 
happy we are now!’’ And Alekséi Vronsky, he, also, was 
her husband. She was amazed that she could believe such 
a thing impossible; and she laughed when she seemed to 
explain to them that every thing would simplify itself, and 
that both would henceforth be satisfied and. happy. But this 
dream weighed on her spirits like a nightmare, and she 
always awoke in fright. 


? 


she repeated, ‘‘ when I am 


XII. 


In the first weeks after Levin returned from Moscow, 
every time that with blushes and a trembling in his limbs he 
remembered the shame of his rejection, he would say to him- 
self, ‘*‘ I suffered like this, and I felt that I was ruined, when 
I was rejected on account of my physical condition, and had 
to go into the second class; and it was the same when I 
bungled in my sister’s affairs, which were confided to me. 
And now? Now the years have gone by, and I look back 
with astonishment on those young tribulations. It will be 
just the same with my disappointment this time. Time will 
pass, and I shall grow callous.’’ 

But three months passed away, and the callousness did 
not come, and his pain remained as severe as on the first 
day. What troubled him the most was, that after dreaming 
so long of family life, after being, as he thought, so well 
prepared for it, not only was he not married, but found him- 
self farther than ever from the goal of marriage. Almost 
painfully he felt, as those around him felt, that it is not good 
for man to live alone. He remembered that before his 
departure for Moscow he had said to his skotnik [cowherd], 
Nikolai, a clever muzhik with whom he liked to talk, ‘* Do 
you know, Nikolai, I am thinking of getting married?” 


162 ANNA KARENINA. 


whereupon Nikolai had replied instantly without hesitation, 
‘* This ought to have been long ago, Konstantin Dmitritch.’’ 
And now never had he been so far from marriage. The 
place was taken: and if he had been able to settle upon some 
young girl of his acquaintance, he felt the impossibility of 
putting Kitty out of his heart; the memories of the past 
still tormented him. It was idle to say that he had com- 
mitted no sin: he blushed at these memories as deeply as 
though they had been the most disgraceful of his life. The 
feeling of his humiliation, slight as it really was, weighed 
heavier on his conscience than any of the evil deeds of his 
past. It was a wound that refused to heal. 

Time and labor, however, brought their balm: the painful 
impressions little by little began to fade in presence of the 
events of the country life, important in reality, in spite of 
their apparent insignificance. Every week brought some- 
thing by which to remember Kitty: he even began to await 
with impatience the news of her marriage, hoping that this 
event would bring healing in the same way as the pulling of 
a tooth. 

Meantime spring came, beautiful, friendly, without treach- 
ery or false promises, —a spring such as fills plants and 
animals, no less than men, with joy. This splendid season 
gave Levin new zeal: it confirmed his resolution to tear him- 
self from the past so as to re-organize his life on conditions 
of permanence and independence. The plans that he had 
formed on his return to the country had not all been realized, 
but what was most essential, the purity of his life had not 
been stained. He could look in the faces of those who sur- 
rounded him without any humiliating sense of having fallen, 
or any loss of self-esteem. 

Towards the month of February, Marya Nikolayevna had 
written him that his brother’s health was failing, and that 
it was impossible to take proper care of him. This letter 
brought him immediately to Moscow, where he persuaded 
Nikolai to consult a physician, and then to take the baths 
abroad: he even induced him to accept a loan for the jour- 
ney. Under these circumstances he could, therefore, be sat- 
isfied with himself. Besides his farm-labors and his ordinary 
reading, Levin undertook, during the winter, a study of rural 
economy, in which he began with this premise, that the 
laborer’s temperament is a more important factor than cli- 
mate or the nature of the soil: agronomic science, according 


ANNA KARENINA. 163 


to him, must not neglect either of these three equally im- 
rtant elements. 

His life, therefore, was very busy and full, in spite of his 
loneliness: the only thing that he felt the lack of was the 
possibility of sharing the ideas that came to him with any 
one besides his old nurse. However, he brought himself to 
discuss with her about physics, the theories of rural economy, 
and, above all, philosophy, which was Agafya Mikhailovna’s 
favorite subject. 

The spring was rather late. During the last weeks of 
Lent the weather was clear, but cold. Though during the 
day the snow melted in the sun, at night the mercury went 
down to seven degrees: the crust on the snow was so thick 
that wheels did not sink through. 

It snowed on Easter Sunday. Then suddenly, on the fol- 
lowing day, a south wind blew up, the clouds drifted over, 
and for three days and three nights a warm and heavy rain 
fell ceaselessly. On Thursday the wind went down, and 
. then over the earth was spread a thick gray mist, as if to 
conceal the mysteries that were accomplishing in nature: 
the ice, in every direction, was melting and disappearing, the 
rivers overflowed their banks, the brooks came tumbling 
down, with foamy, muddy waters. Towards evening the 
Red Hill began to show through the fog, the clouds drifted 
away, like white sheep, and spring, spring in reality, was 
there in all her brilliancy. The next morning a bright sun 
melted away the thin scales of ice which still remained, and 
the warm atmosphere grew moist with the vapors rising from 
the earth; the dry grass immediately took a greenish tint, 
and the young blades began to peep from the sod, like mil- 
lions of tiny needles; the buds on the birch-trees, the goose- 
berry bushes, and the snowball-trees, swelled with sap, and 
around their branches swarms of honey-bees buzzed in the 
sun. Invisible larks sent forth their songs of joy, to see the 
prairies freed from snow ;_ the lapwings seemed to mourn for 
their marshes, submerged by the stormy waters; the wild 
swans and geese flew high in the air, with their calls of 
spring. The cows, with rough hair, and places worn bare 
by the stanchions, lowed as they left their stalls; around 
the heavy-fleeced sheep gambolled awkwardly the young 
lambs; children ran barefoot over the wet paths, where their 
footprints were left like fossils; the peasant-women gossiped 
gayly around the edge of the pond, where they were bleach- 


164 ANNA KARENINA. 


ing their linen; from all sides resounded the axes of the 
muzhiks, repairing their sokhi (Russian ploughs) and their 
wagons. Spring had really come. 


XIII. 


For the first time Levin left off his shuba [fur cloak], and 
clad more lightly, and shod in his heavy boots, he went out, 
tramping through the brooklets, as they glanced in the sun, 
and stepping, now on a cake of ice, and now in deep mud. 

Spring is the epoch of plans and projects. Levin, as he 
went out, was not decided upon what he would first take in 
hand, any more than the tree knows how and why the young 
sprouts push out, and the young branches clothe themselves 
with buds; but he felt that he was going to originate the 
most charming projects and the most sensible plans. 

He went first to see his cattle. The cows were let out 
into the yard, and were warming themselves in the sun, low- 
ing as if to beg permission to go out to pasture. Levin 
knew them all, even to the least. He examined them with 
satisfaction, and gave orders to the enraptured cowboy to take 
them to pasture, and to let out the calves. The milkmaids, 
gathering up their petticoats, and leaping into the mud with 
bare feet, white as yet, and free from tan, chased the frisky 
calves about, and with dry sticks kept them from escaping 
from the yard. 

The yearlings were uncommonly beautiful; the oldest had 
already reached the size of ordinary cows: and Pava’s 
daughter, three months old, was as big as a yearling. Levin 
admired them, and ordered their troughs to be brought out, 
and their food to be given them in reshdtki. He found, how- 
ever, that these reshdtki, or portable palisades, which had 
been made in the autumn, were out of repair because they 
had not been needed. He had the carpenter sent for, who 
was supposed to be busy repairing the threshing-machine ; 
but he was not there. He was repairing the ploughs, which 
should have been done during Lent. Levin was very indig- 
nant. Oh this everlasting procrastination, against which he 
had so long struggled in vain! The reshdtki, as he soon 
learned, not having been in use during the winter, had been 
carried to the stable, where, as they were of light construc- 
tion, they had been broken. 


ANNA KARENINA. 166 


As to the ploughs and harrows, which should have been put 
in order during the winter months, — and he had hired three 
carpenters, — nothing at all was in proper condition. Levin 
summoned the prikashchik: then, angry at the delay, he him- 
self went in search of him. The prikashchik, as radiant as 
the whole universe, came at his master’s call, dressed in a 
light lambskin tuluptchika, twisting a straw between his 
fingers. 

‘** Why isn’t the carpenter at work on the threshing-ma- 
chine ?”’ 

‘¢ Da! that is what I wanted to tell you, Konstantin Dmi- 
tritch: the ploughs had to be repaired! We’ve got to 
plough.’’ 

** Da! what have you been doing this winter ?”’ 

*¢ Da! but why do you have such a carpenter? ”’ 

‘* Where are the reshdtki for the calves? ”’ 

‘**T ordered them to be put in place. You can’t do any 
thing with such people,’’ replied the prikashchik, making 
with his hands a gesture of despair. 

‘* It is not these people, but this prikashchik, with whom 
nothing can be done,’’ said Levin, getting still more angry. 
** Nu! what do we pay you for?’’ he shouted ; but recollect- 
ing that shouts did not do any good, he stopped, and con- 
tented himself with a sigh. ‘‘ Nu! can you get the seed in 

et?’’ he demanded, after a moment of silence. 

** Back of Turkino we could to-morrow, or the day after.”’ 

*¢ And the clover? ”’ 

‘¢T sent Vasili and Mishka to sow it, but I don’t know 
whether they succeeded: the ground isn’t thawed out yet.’’ 

** On how many desyatins?’’ 

*¢ Six ’”’ [144 acres]. 

‘* Why not the whole?’’ cried Levin angrily. He was 
furious to learn, that instead of sowing down twenty-four 
desyatins, they had only planted six: he knew by his own 
experience, as well as by theory, the need of sowing the 
clover-seed as early as possible after the snow was gone, and 
it never was done. 

** Not enough people. What can you do with these men? 
The three hired men did not come; and then Simon’? — 

** Nu! you would better have taken them away from the 
straw.”’ 

** Da! I did that very thing.” 

“ Where are all the people? ’’ 


166. ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ There are five at the compote [he meant to say compost] : 
four are moving the oats, so that they should not spoil, 
Konstantin Dmitritch.’’ 

Levin knew very well that these words, ‘‘ So that it should 
not spoil,’’ meant that his English oats saved for seed were 
already ruined. Again they had disobeyed his orders. 

‘¢ Da! But did I not tell you during Lent to put in the 
ventilating-chimneys?’’ he cried. 

*¢ Don’t you be troubled: we will do all in good time.”’ 

Levin, furious, made a gesture of dissatisfaction, and went 
to examine his oats in the granary: then he went to the 
stables. The oats were not yet spoiled, but the workmen 
were stirring them up with shovels instead of simply letting 
it down from one story to the other. Levin took away two 
hands to send to the clover-field. Little by little his spirit 
calmed down in regard to his prikashchik. It was such a 
lovely day that one could not keep angry. ‘‘ Ignat,’’ he 
cried to his coachman, who, with upturned sleeves, was 
washing the carriage near the pump, ‘‘ saddle me a _horse.”’ 

‘¢ Which one? ”’ 

“¢ Nu! Kolpik.’’ 

*¢] will obey.’’ 

While the saddle was being adjusted, Levin called the 
prikashchik, who was busying himself in his vicinity, hoping 
to be restored to favor. He spoke with him about the work 
that he wanted done during the spring, and about his plans 
for carrying on the estate ; he wanted the compost spread as 
soon as possible, so as to have this work done before the first 
mowing; then he wanted the farthest field ploughed, so that 
it might be left fallow. All the fields — not half of them — 
should be attended with the laborers. 

The prikashchik listened attentively, doing his best evi- 
dently to approve of his master’s plans. But his face was 
so long and melancholy, that he always seemed to say, 
‘*This is all very well and good, but as God shall give.” 

This tone vexed and almost discouraged Levin, but it was 
fommon to all the prikashchiks that had ever been in his ser- 
vice. They all received his projects with a dejected air; and 
so he had made up his mind not to get vexed about it, and 
he did his best to struggle against this unhappy ‘‘ As God 
shall give,’’ which he looked upon as a sort of elementary 
obstacle fated to oppose him everywhere. 

*¢ Tf we have time, Konstantin Dmitritch.”’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 167 


*¢ Why shall we not have time? ”’ 

‘s We shall have to hire fifteen more workmen, but we 
can’t get them. One came to-day who asked seventy rubles 
for the summer.”’ 

Levin did not speak. Always the same stumbling-block. 
He knew that however he might exert himself, he never 
could hire more than thirty-seven or thirty-eight laborers at 
a reasonable price: once or twice he had succeeded in get- 
ting forty, never more; but he wanted to try it again. 

‘¢Send to Suri, to Chefirovka: if they don’t come, we 
must go for them.’’ 

‘‘I’m going to go,’’ said Vasili Fedorovitch gloomily. 
‘¢ Da vot! The horses are very feeble.’’ 

‘¢Buy some more: da! but I know,’’ he added with a 
laugh, ‘‘ that you will do as little and as badly as you can. 
However, I warn you that I will not let you do as you please 
this year. I shall take the reins in my own hands.’’ 

‘* Da! but you sleep too much, it seems to me. We are 
very happy to be under our master’s eyes ’’? — 

‘¢ Now, have the clover put in on the Berezof land, and I 
shall come myself to inspect it,’’ said he, mounting his little 
horse, Kolpik, which the coachman brought up. 

‘¢ Don’t go across the brooks, Konstantin Dmitritch,”’ 
cried the coachman. 

‘* Nu! By the woods.”’ 

And on his little, easy-going ambler, which whinneyed as 
it came to the pools, and which pulled on the bridle in the 
joy of quitting the stable, Levin rode out of the muddy 
court-yard, and picked his way across the open fields. 

The joyous feeling that he had experienced at the house 
and the barn-yard increased all the time. The loping of his 
excellent, gentle ambler swung his body gently to and fro. 
He drank in great draughts of warm air, slightly freshened 
by the chill snow which still lay on the ground in spots. 
Every one of his trees, with greening moss, and buds ready to 
burst, filled his heart with pleasure. As he came out on the 
enormous stretch of the fields, they seemed like an immense 
carpet of velvet where there was not a bare spot or a marsh, 
but here and there patches of snow. The sight of a peas- 
ant’s mare and colt treading down his fields did not anger 
him, but he ordered a passing muzhik to drive them out. 
With the same gentleness he received the sarcastic and 
impudent answer of a peasant. He said, ‘‘ Ipat, shall we 


168 ANNA KARENINA. 


put in the seed before very long?’’ And Ipat replied, ‘*‘ We 
must, plough first, Konstantin Dmitritch.’’ The farther he 
went, the more his good-humor increased, and the more his 
plans for improving his estate developed, each seeming to 
surpass the other in wisdom, —to protect the fields on the 
south by lines of trees which would keep the snow from 
staying too long; to divide his arable fields into nine parts, 
six of which should be well dressed, and the other three 
devoted to fodder; to build a cow-yard in the farthest cor- 
ner of the estate, and have a pond dug; to have portable 
enclosures for the cattle, so as to utilize the manure; and 
thus to cultivate three hundred desyatins of wheat, a hun- 
dred desyatins of potatoes, and one hundred and fifty of 
clover, without exhausting the soil. 

Full of these reflections, he picked his way carefully along 
so as not to harm his fields: he at last reached the place 
where the laborers were sowing the clover. The telyéga 
loaded with seed, instead of being hauled on the road,-had 
been driven out into the middle of the field, leaving heavy 
wheel-tracks over his winter wheat, which the horse was 
trampling down with his feet. The two laborers, sitting by 
the roadside, were smoking their pipes. The clover-seed, 
instead of having been sifted, was thrown into the telyéga 
mixed with hard and dry lumps of dirt. 

Seeing the master coming, the laborer Vasili started towards 
the telyéga, and Mishka began to sow. This was all wrong, 
but Levin rarely got angry with his muzhiks. When he 
reached Vasili, he ordered him to take the horse out of the 
telyéga, and lead him to the roadside. 

*¢ It won’t do any harm, sir: it will spring up again.’’ 

‘¢ Obey me, without discussing,’’ replied Levin. 

‘*¢]T will obey,’’ said Vasili, taking the horse by the head. 
‘* What splendid seed, Konstantin Dimtritch,’’ he added, to 
regain favor. ‘‘I never saw any better. But it is slow 
work. ‘The soil is so heavy, that you seem to drag a pud 
on each foot.”’ 

‘¢ Why wasn’t the field harrowed?’’ demanded Levin. 

‘+ Oh! it'll come out all right,’ replied Vasili, taking up a 
handful of seed, and rubbing it between his fingers. 

It was not Vasili’s fault that the field had not been har- 
rowed, or the seed sifted; but Levin was not less provoked. 
He dismounted, and, taking the seed-cod from Vasili, began 
to sow the clover. 


ANNA KARENINA. 169 


*¢ Where did you stop? ”’ 

Vasili touched the spot with his foot, and Levin went on 
with the work as best he could; but it was as hard as wading 
through a marsh, and after a little he stopped all in a sweat, 
and returned the seed-cod to the muzhik. 

*¢ Nu! Barin [Lord], I don’t like to do slack work,”’ said 
Vasili in his muzhik dialect. ‘* What is good for the master 
is good for us. And look yonder at that field: the sight of 
it delights my heart.’’ 

‘¢ It, is a fine spring.”’ 

*¢ Da! it is such a spring as our forbears never saw. I 
was at our village, and our sturik [elder] has already put in 
his Turkish wheat, as he says he can hardly tell it from rye.”’ 

‘** But how long have you been sowing Turkish wheat? ”’ 

‘¢ It was you yourself who taught us how to sow it. You 
gave us two measures last year.”’ 

‘* Nu! look here,’’ said Levin, as he started to mount his 
ambler, ‘* look at Mishka; and if the seed comes up well, 
you shall have fifty kopeks a desyatin’’ [40 cents for 2.7 
acres |. 

‘¢ We thank you humbly: we should be content even with- 
out that.”’ 

Levin mounted his horse, and rode off to visit his last-year’s 
clover-field, and then to the field which was already ploughed 
ready for the summer wheat. Levin rode back by way of the 
brooks, hoping to find the water lower: in fact, he found that 
he could get across ; and, as he waded through, he scared up 
a couple of wild ducks. 

‘¢ There ought to be snipe,’’ he thought; and a forester, 
whom he met on his way to the house, confirmed his suppo- 
sition. 

He immediately spurred up his horse, so as to get back in 
time for dinner, and to prepare his gun for the evening. 


XIV. 


Just as Levin reached home, in the best humor in the 
worid, he heard the jingling of bells at the side entrance. 

‘¢ Da! some one from the railroad station,’’ was his first 
thought: ‘it’s time for the Moscow train.— Who can 
have come? brother Nikolai? Did he not say, that instead 
of going abroad he might perhaps come to see me?”’ 


170 ANNA KARENINA. 


For a moment it occurred to him that this visit might spoil 
his plans for the spring; but, disgusted at the selfishness of 
this thought, his mind instantly received his brother with 
open arms, so to speak, and he began to hope, with affec- 
tionate joy, that it was really he whom the bell announced. 

He quickened his horse, and as he came out from behind 
a hedge of acacias, which hid the house from his sight, he 
saw a traveller, dressed in a shuba, sitting in a hired trotka 
[three-span]. It was not his brother. 

‘¢T only hope it is some one whom I can talk with,’’ he 
thought. 

‘‘ Ah!’’ he eried, as he recognized Stepan Arkadyevitch, 
‘‘here is the most delectable of guests. Ach! how glad I 
am to see you! — _ I shall certainly learn from him if Kitty 
is married,’’ he added, to himself. 

Not even the memory of Kitty pained him this splendid 
spring morning. 

‘¢ You scarcely expected me, I suppose,’’ said Stepan 
Arkadyevitch, leaping out of the sledge, his face spotted 
with mud, but radiant with health and pleasure. ‘‘I am 
come, first, to see you; secondly, to fire off a gun or two; 
and thirdly, to sell my wood at Yergushovo.”’ 

‘¢ Perfect, isn’t it? What'do you think of this spring? 
But how could you have got here in a sledge? ”’ 

*¢ Sledge is better than telyéga, Konstantin Dmitritch,”’ 
replied the driver, who was an old acquaintance. 

‘¢ Nu! Indeed, I am delighted to see you again,’ 
Levin, with a smile of boyish joy. 

He conducted his guest to the room which was always 
kept in readiness for visitors, and instantly had the traps 
brought up, —a gripsack, a gun in its case, and a box of 
cigars. Levin, leaving him to wash and dress himself, went: 
out to see the prikashchik, and deliver his mind about the 
clover and the ploughing. 

Agafya Mikhailovna, who had very much at heart the 
honor of the mansion, stopped him on his way through the 
entry, and asked him a few questions about dinner. ‘* Do 
just as you please,’’ replied Levin, as he went out, ‘‘ only 
make haste about it.’’ 

When he returned, Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling after his 
toilet, was just coming out of his room, and together they 
went up-stairs. 

‘¢ Nu! I am very happy to have got out to your house at 


’ 


said 


ANNA KARENINA. 171 


last. I shall now learn the mystery of your existence. 
Truly, 1 envy you. What a house! How convenient 
every thing is! how bright and delightful!’’ said Stepan 
Arkadyevitch, forgetting that bright days and the spring- 
time were not always there. ‘* And your old nurse, — what 
a charming old soul! All that’s lacking is a pretty little 
chambermaid,— but that does not fall in with your severe 
and monastic style ; but this is very good.’’ 

Among other interesting news, Stepan Arkadyevitch told 
his host that Sergéi Ivanovitch expected to come into the 
country this summer; but he did not say a word about the 
Shcherbatskys, and he simply transmitted his wife’s cordial 
greeting. Levin appreciated this delicacy. As usual, he had 
stored up during his hours of solitude a throng of ideas and 
impressions which he could not share with any of his domes- 
tics, and which he poured out into Oblonsky’s ears: every 
thing passed under review, — his spring joys, his plans and 
farming projects, and all the criticisms on the books about 
agriculture which he had read, and above all the skeleton of 
a work which he himself proposed to write, on the subject 
of the rural commune. Stepan Arkadyevitch, amiable, and 
always ready to grasp a point, showed unusual cordiality ; 
and Levin even thought that he noticed a certain flattering 
consideration and an undertone of tenderness in his bearing. 

The united efforts of Agafya Mikhailovna and the cook 
resulted in the two friends, who were half starved, betaking 
themselves to the zakuska [lunch-table] before the soup was 
served, and devouring bread and butter, cold chicken and 
salted mushrooms, and finally in Levin calling for the soup 
before the little pasties, prepared by the cook in the hope of 
dazzling the guest, were done.» But Stepan Arkadyevitch, 
though he was used to different kinds of dinners, found 
every thing exactly to his mind: the home-brewed liquors, 
the bread, the butter, and especially the cold chicken, the 
mushrooms, the shchi [cabbage-soup], the fowl with white 
sauce, and the Krimean wine, were delicious. 

‘¢ Perfect! perfect!’’ he cried, as he lit a big cigarette 
after the second course. ‘‘I feel as if I had escaped the 
shocks and noise of a ship, and had landed on a peaceful 
shore. And so you say that the element represented by the 
workingman ought to be studied above all others, and be 
taken as a guide in the choice of economic expedients. I 
am a profanus in these questions, but it seems to me that 


172 ANNA KARENINA. 


this theory and its applications would have an inft ence on 
the workingman ’’ — 

‘‘Yes; but hold on: I am not speaking of political 
economy, but of rural economy, considered as a science. 
You must study the premises, the phenomena, just the same 
as in the natural sciences; and the workingman, trom the 
economical and ethnographical point of view ’’ — 

But here Agafya Mikhailovna entered with the dessert of 
preserves. 

*¢ Nu! accept my compliments, Agafya Mikhailovna,”’’ said 
Stepan Arkadyevitch, kissing the ends of his hairy fingers. 
‘¢ What nice pickles! What delicious beer! Well, Kostia, 
isn’t it time to go?’”’ he added. 

Levin looked out of the window towards the sux, which 
was sinking behind the tree-tops, still bare and leafless. 

‘*Tt is time. Kuzma, have the horses hitched up,’’ he 
cried, as he went down-stairs. Stepan Arkadyevnch fol- 
lowed him, and set to work carefully to remove tis gun 
from the case: it was a gun of the newest pattern, and very 
expensive. 

Kuzma, who foresaw a generous fee, gave him assiduous 
attention, and helped him put on his stockings and his hunt- 
ing-boots ; and Stepan Arkadyevitch accepted his aid com- 
placently. 

‘* Tf the merchant Rabinin comes while we are gone, Kos- 
tia, do me the favor to have him kept till we get back.’’ 

‘*¢ Are you going to sell your wood to Rabinin?’”’ 

‘Yes. Do you know him? ”’ 

‘¢Oh! certainly I know him. I have done business with 
him, positively and finally.’’ 

Stepan Arkadyevitch burst into a laugh. ‘* Positively and 
finally’? were the favorite words of the merchant. 

‘Yes: he is very droll in his speech!— She knows 
where her master is going,’’ he added, patting Laska, who 
was jumping and barking around Levin, licking now his 
hand, now his boots and gun. 

A dolgusha (hunting-wagon) was waiting at the steps as 
they came out. 

‘¢]T had the horses put in, although we have but a little 
distance to go,’’ said Levin; ‘* but if you would rather walk, 
we can.’’ 

‘¢ No, I would just as lief ride,’’ replied Stepan Arkadye- 
Vitch, as he mounted the dolgusha. He sat down, tucking 


ANNA KARENINA. 173 


round his legs a striped plaid, and lit a cigar. ‘* How can 
you get along without smoking, Kostia? A cigar —it is not 
only a pleasure, it 1s the very crown and sign of delight. 
This is life indeed. How delicious! Vot-bui, I should like 
to live like this.’’ 

‘¢ What’s to prevent?’’ asked Levin, with a smile. 

** Yes; but you are a happy man, for you have every thing 
that you like. You like horses, you have them; dogs, you 
have them; hunting, here it is; an estate, here it is! ”’ 

‘¢ Perhaps it is because I enjoy what I have, and don’t 
covet what I have not,’’ replied Levin, with Kitty in his 
mind. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch understood, and looked at him with- 
out speaking. 

Levin was grateful because Oblonsky had not yet men- 
tioned the Shcherbatskys, and had understood, with his usual 
tact, that it was a subject which he dreaded; but now he 
felt anxious to find out how matters stood, but he did not 
like to inquire. 

‘* Nu! how go your affairs?’’ he asked at last, blaming 
himself for thinking only of his selfish interests. 

Oblonsky’s eyes glistened with gayety. 

*¢ You will not admit that one can want hot rolls when he 
has his monthly rations ; in your eyes, it is a crime: but for 
me, I cannot admit the possibility of living without love,’’ 
he replied, construing Levin’s question in his own fashion. 
‘* What is to be done about it? I am so constituted, and I 
can’t see the harm that it does.”’ 

‘* What! is there somebody else? ’’ Levin demanded. 

** There is, brother! You know the type of the women 
in Ossian ?— these women that one sees only in dreams? But 
they really exist, and are terrible. Woman, you see, is an 
inexhaustible theme: you can nev er cease studying it, and it 
always presents some new phase.”’ 

*¢So much the better not to study it, then.”’ 

** Not at all. Some matimatik said that happiness con- 
sisted in searching for truth, and never finding it.”’ 

Levin listened, and said no more; but it was idle for him 
to enter into his friend’s soul, and understand the charm 
which he took in studies of this sort. 


174 ANNA KARENINA. 


XV. 


Tue place where Levin took Oblonsky was not far away, 
by a shallow stream, flowing through an aspen-grove: he 
posted him in a mossy nook, somewhat marshy where the 
snow had just melted. He himself went to the opposite 
side, near a double birch, rested his gun on one of the lower 
brauches, took off his kaftan, clasped a belt about his waist, 
and moved his arms to see that nothing bound him. — 

Old Laska, following him step by step, sat down cau- 
tiously in front of him, and pricked up her ears. The sun 
was setting behind the great forest, and against the eastern 
sky the young birches and aspens stood out distinctly, with 
their bending branches and their swelling buds. 

In the forest, where the snow still lay, the sound of run- 
ning waters could be heard: little birds were chirping, and 
flying from tree to tree. Sometimes the silence seemed 
broken only by the rustling of the dry leaves, moved by the 
thawing earth or the pushing herbs. 

‘¢ Why, one really can hear the grass grow!”’ said Levin 
to himself, as he saw a moist and slate-colored aspen-leaf 
raised by the blade of a young herb starting from the sod. 
He was on his feet, listening and looking, now at the moss- 
covered ground, now at the watchful Laska, now at the bare 
tree-tops of the forest, which swept like a sea to the foot of 
the hill, and now at the darkening sky, where floated bits of 
little white clouds. A vulture flew aloft, slowly flapping his 
broad wings above the forest: another took the same direc- 
tion aid disappeared. In the thicket the birds were chirping 
louder and gayer than ever. An owl, in the distance, lifted 
his voice. Laska pricked up her ears again, took two or 
three cautious steps, and bent her head to listen. On the 
other side of the stream a cuckoo twice uttered its feeble 
notes, and then ceased hoarsely and timidly. 

‘¢ Why! the cuckoo has come!’ said Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch, leaving his place. 

‘¢' Yes, I hear,’’ said Levin, disgusted that the silence of 
the forest was broken, by the sound even of his own voice. 

‘¢ Stepan Arkadyevitch returned to his place behind his 
thicket, and nothing more was seen of him except the flash 
of a match and the red glow of his cigarette and a light 
bluish smoke. : 


ANNA KARENINA. 175 


** Tchik! tchik!’* Stepan Arkadyevitch cocked his gun. 

‘¢ What was that making that noise?’’ he demanded of his 
companion, attracting his attention to a strange sound, like 
a child imitating the neighing of a horse. 

** Don’t you know what that is? That is the male rabbit. 
Da! don’t speak any more,’’ cried Levin, in turn cocking 
his gun. <A whistle was heard in the distance, with that 
rhythmic regularity which the huntsman knows so well: then 
a moment or two later it was repeated nearer, and suddenly 
changed intoa hoarse little cry. Levin turned his eyes to the 
right, to the left, and finally saw, just above his head, against 
the fading blue of the sky, above the gently waving aspens, 
a bird flying towards him: its ery, like the noise made by 
tearing cloth, rang in his ears ; then he distinguished the long 
beak and the long neck of the snipe, but hardly had he caught 
sight'of it when a red flash shone out from behind Oblon- 
sky’s bush. The bird fluttered in the air, as though struck, 
and turned to fly up again; but again the light flashed; and 
the bird, vainly striving to rise, flapped its wings for a sec- 
ond, and fell heavily to earth. 

‘¢Did I miss?’’ asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, who could 
see nothing through the smoke. 

‘¢ Here she is,’’ cried Levin, pointing to Laska, who with 
one ear erect, and with slightly w wagging tail, slowly, as 
though to lengthen out the pleasure, came back with the bird 
in her mouth, seeming almost to smile as she laid the game 
down at her master’s feet. 

‘¢ Nu! Iam glad you hit,’’ said Levin, though he felt a 
slight sensation of envy. 

‘¢ The left barrel missed: beastly gun!’’ replied Stepan 
Arkadyevitch. ‘* Sh! Here’s another.’’ 

In fact, the whistles came thicker and thicker, rapid and | 
sharp. Two snipe flew over the hunters, chasing each other ; 
four shots rang out; and the snipe, turning on their track 
like swallows, disappeared from sight. 


The sport was excellent. Stepan Arkadyevitch killed two 
others, and Levin also two, one of which was lost. It grew 
darker and darker. Venus, with silvery light, shone out in 
the west ; and in the east, Arcturus gleamed, with his sombre, 
reddish fire. At intervals, Levin saw the Great Bear. No 
more snipe appeared ; but Levin resolved to wait until Venus, 
which was visible through the branches of his birch-tree, rose 


176 ANNA KARENINA. 


clear above the hills on the horizon, and till the Great Bear 
was entirely visible. The star had passed beyond the birch- 
trees, and the wain of the Bear was shining out clear in the 
sky, and he was still waiting. 

‘¢TIsn’t it getting late?’’ asked Stepan Arkadyevitch. 

All was calm in the forest: not a bird moved. 

*¢ Let us wait a little,’ replied Levin. 

‘¢ Just as you please.”’ 

At this moment they were not fifteen steps apart. 

‘¢ Stiva,’’ cried Levin suddenly, ‘*‘ you have not told me 
whether your sister-in-law is married yet, or whether she 
is to be married soon.’’ He felt so calm, his mind was so 
thoroughly made up, that nothing, he thought, could move 
him. But he did not expect Stepan Arkadyevitch’s answer. 

‘¢ She is not married, and she is not thinking of marriage. 
She is very ill, and the doctors have sent her abroad. They 
even fear for her life.”’ 

‘¢ What did you say?’’ cried Levin. ‘‘Ill? What is the 
matter? How did she’? — 

While they were talking thus, Laska, with ears erect, was 
gazing at the sky above her head, and looking at them 
reproachfully. 

‘¢Tt is not the time to talk,’’ thought Laska. ‘ Ah! 
Here comes one — there he goes: they will miss him.”’ 

At the same instant a sharp whistle pierced the ears of the 
two huntsmen, and both, levelling their guns, shot at once: 
the two reports, the two flashes, were simultaneous. The 
snipe flapped his wings, drew up his delicate legs, and fell 
into the thicket. 

** Excellent! both together!’’ cried Levin, running with 
Laska in search of the game. ‘‘ Ach! Da! What was it that 
hurt me so just now? Ah, yes! Kitty is ill,’’ he remem- 
bered. ‘* What is to be done about it? It is very sad. 
Ah! I have found it. Good dog,”’ said he, taking the bird — 
from Laska’s mouth, to put it into his overflowing game-bag. 


XVI. 


WHEN he reached home, Levin questioned his friend about 
Kitty’s illness and the plans of the Shcherbatskys. It was 
not without pleasure, though it was with some conscientious 
scruples, that he heard how she who had caused him so much 


ANNA KARENINA. 177 


suffering, was suffering herself. But when Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch spoke of the reason of Kitty’s illness, and pronounced 
the name of Vronsky, he interrupted him. 

‘* T have no right to know these family matters, since I am 
not concerned.” 

Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled imperceptibly as he noticed 
the sudden change in Levin, who, in an instant, had passed 
from gayety to sadness. 

‘¢ Have you succeeded in your transaction with Rabinin 
about the wood?” he asked. 

*¢ Yes: I have made the bargain. He gives me an excel- 
lent price, — thirty-eight thousand rubles, eight in advance, 
and the rest in six years. I had been long about it: no one 
offered me any more.” 

‘* You are selling your wood for a song, 
frowning. 

‘¢ Why so?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a good- 
humored smile, having known that Levin would totally disap- 
prove of it. 

‘¢ Because your wood is worth at least five hundred rubles 
a desyatin.” 

*¢ Ach! You rural economists!” replied Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch. ‘* What atone of scorn to us, your urban brother! 
And yet, when it comes to business matters, we come out of 
it better than you do. Believe me, I have made a careful 
calculation. ‘The wood is sold under very favorable condi- 
tions ; and I fear only one thing, and that is lest the mer- 
chant will regret it. It is wretched wood,” he went on, 
accenting the word wretched, so as to convince Levin of the 
unfairness of his criticism, ‘‘and nothing but firewood. 
There will not be more than thirty sazhens [forty-nine square 
feet] to the desyatin, and he pays me at the rate of two hun- 
dred rubles.” 

Levin smiled scornfully. 

‘*T know these city people,” he thought, ‘‘ who, for the 
once in ten years that they come into the country, and the 
two or three words of the country dialect, plume themselves 
on knowing the subject thoroughly. ‘ Wretched! only thirty 
sazhens!’ he speaks without knowing a word of what he is 
talking about.” 

‘‘T do not allow myself to criticise what you put on paper 
in your administrative functions,” he said, ‘‘ and, if I needed, 
{ would even ask your advice. But you, — you imagine that 


99 


said Levin, 


178 ANNA KARENINA. 


you understand this document about the wood. It is bad. 
Have you counted the trees? ”’ 

‘¢ What? Count my trees?’’ asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, 
with a laugh, and still trying to get his friend out of his ill- 
humor. ‘* Count the sand on the seashore, count the rays 
of the planets — though a lofty genius might ?’— 

‘¢ Nu! da! I teli you the lofty genius of Rabinin succeeded. 
Never does a merchant purchase without counting, — unless, 
indeed, the wood is given away for nothing, as you have done. 
I know your wood ; I go hunting there every year ; it is worth 
five hundred rubles a desyatin, cash down; while he gives 
you only two hundred, and on a long term. ‘That means you 
give him thirty thousand.’’ 

‘¢ Nu! enough of imaginary receipts,’’ said Stepan Arkad- 
yevitch plaintively. ‘: Why didn’t some one offer me this 
price? ’’ 

‘¢ Because the merchants connive with each other. I have 
had to do with all of them: I knowthem. They are not mer- 
chants, but speculators. None of them is satisfied with a 
profit less than ten or fifteen per cent. They wait till they 
can buy for twenty kopeks what is worth a ruble.”’ 

*¢ Nu! enough: you are blue.’’ 

‘* Not at all,’’ said Levin sadly, just as they were ap- 
proaching the house. 

A strong telyéga, drawn by a well-fed horse, was standing 
before the door; in the telyéga sat Rabinin’s fat prikashchik, 
holding the reins; and Rabinin himself was already in the 
house, and met the two friends at the vestibule-door. The 
merchant was a man of middle age, tall and thin, wearing a 
mustache, but his prominent chin was well shaven. His eyes 
were protuberant and muddy. He was clad in a dark blue 
coat with buttons, set low behind; and he wore high boots, 
and over his boots huge goloshes. Wiping his face with his 
handkerchief, and wrapping his overcoat closely around him, 
though it was not necessary, he came out with a smile, to 
meet the gentlemen as they entered. He gave one hand to 
Stepan Arkadyevitch, as though he wanted to grasp some- 
thing. 

*¢ Ah! Here you are,’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, shak- 
ing hands. ‘‘ Very good.’’ 

‘¢] should not have ventured to disobey your excellency’s 
_ orders, though the roads are very bad. Fact, I came all the 
way on foot, but I am here on time. A greeting to you, 


ANNA KARENINA. 179 


Konstantin Dmitritch,’’ said he, turning to Levin, intending 
to seize his hand also; but Levin affected not to notice the 
motion, and calmly relieved his game-bag of the snipe. 

‘¢ You have been enjoying a hunt? What kind of a bird 
is that?’’ asked Rabinin, looking at the snipe disdainfully. 
‘¢ What does it taste like?’’ And he tossed his head disap- 
provingly, as though he felt doubtful if such a fowl were 
edible. 

‘¢ Won’t you go into the library?’’ asked Levin in French. 
‘¢ Go into the library, and discuss your business there.”’ 

*¢ Just as you please,’’ replied the merchant, in a tone of 
disdainful superiority, wishing it to be understood, that, if 
others could find difficulties in transacting business, he was 
not of the number. 

In the library, Rabinin’s eyes mechanically sought the | 
holy image ; but, when he caught sight of it, he did not make 
the sign of the cross. He glanced at the bookcases and the 
shelves lined with books, and manifested the same air of 
doubt and disdain that the snipe had caused. 

‘*¢ Well, did you bring the money?’’ asked Stepan Arkad- 
yevitch. 

‘¢'The money will come all in good time, but I came to 
have a talk.’’ 

** What have we to talk about? However, sit down.’’ 

‘** May as well sit down,’’ said Rabinin, taking a chair, and 
leaning back in it in the most uncomfortable attitude. ‘+ You 
must give in a trifle, prince: it would be sinful not to do it. 
As to the money, it is all ready, even to the last kopek: on 
this side, there will be no delay.’’ 

Levin, who had been putting his gun away in the armory, 
and was just leaving the room, stopped as he heard the last 
words. 

‘* You bought the wood at a miserable price,’’ said he. 
‘* He came to visit me too late: I would have engaged to 
get much more for it.”’ 

Rabinin arose and contemplated Levin from head to foot 
with a smile, but said nothing. 

‘* Konstantin Levin is very sharp,’’ said he at length, 
turning to Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘*One never succeeds in 
arranging a bargain finally with him. I have bought wheat, 
and paid good prices.’’ 

‘* Why should I make you a present of my property? I 
did not find it nor steal it.’’ 


’ 


180 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘** Excuse me: at the present day it is absolutely impos. 
sible to be a thief. every thing is done, in the present day, 
honestly and openly. Who could steal, then? We have 
spoken honestly and honorably. The wood is too dear: I 
shall not make the two ends meet. I beg you to yield a 
little.”’ 

‘* But is your bargain made, or is it not? If it is made, 
there is no need of haggling: if it is not, I am going to 
buy the wood.’’ 

The smile disappeared from Rabinin’s lips. A rapacious 
and cruel expression, like that of a bird of prey, came in its 
place. With his bony hands he tore open his overcoat, 
bringing into sight his shirt, his vest with its copper buttons, 
and his watch-chain; and from his breast-pocket he pulled 
out a huge well-worn wallet. 

‘¢ Excuse me: the wood is mine.’’ And making a rapid 
sign of the cross, he extended his hand. ‘* Take my 
money, I take your wood. ‘This is how Rabinin ends his 
transactions finally and positively. He does not reckon his 
kopeks,’’ said he, waving his wallet eagerly. 

‘¢ Tf I were in your place, I would not be in haste,’’ said 
Levin. 

‘¢ But I have given my word,’’ said Oblonsky, astonished. 

Levin dashed out of the room, slamming the door. The 
merchant watched him as he went, and lifted his head. 

*¢ Merely the effect of youth; definitely, pure childishness. 
Believe me, I buy this, so to speak, for the sake of glory, be- 
cause I wish people to say, ‘It’s Rabinin, and not some one 
else, who has bought Oblonsky’s forest.” ’ And God knows 
how I shall come out of it! Piease sign’ 

An hour later the merchant went home in his telyéga, well 
wrapped up in his furs, with the agreement in his pocket. 

‘¢ Och! these gentlemen!’’ he said to his prikashchik: 
*¢ always the same story.”’ 

‘¢So it is,’’ replied the prikashchik, giving up the reins, 
so as to arrange the leather boot. ‘*A-s/ and your little pur- 
chase, Mikhail Ignatitch?’’ 

‘© Nul nul”? 

_ XVII. 


STEPAN ARKADYEVITCH went down-stairs, his pockets filled 
with ‘* promises to pay,’’ due in three months, which the 
merchant had given him. The sale was concluded; he had 


ANNA KARENINA. 181 


money in his pocket; sport had been good; hence he was 
perfectly happy and contented, and would gladly have dis- 
pelled the sadness which possessed him: a day beginning so 
well should end the same. 

But Levin, however desirous he was of seeming amiable 
and thoughtful toward his guest, could not drive away his 
ill-humor: the species of intoxication which he felt in learn- 
ing that Kitty was not married, was of short duration. Not 
married, and ill! Ill, perhaps, from love of him who had 
jilted her. It was almost like a personal insult. Had not 
Vronsky, in a certain sense, gained the right to despise him, 
since he had put to shame her who had rejected him? He 
was therefore his enemy. He could not reason away this 
impression, but he felt wounded, hurt, and discontented at 
every thing, and especially at this ridiculous sale of the forest, 
which had taken place under his roof, without his being able 
to keep Oblonsky from being cheated. 

‘* Nu! is it finished?’’ he asked, as he met Stepan Arkad- 
yevitch. ‘* Will you have some supper? ”’ 

*¢ Yes: I won’t refuse. What an appetite I feel in the 
country! It’s wonderful! why didn’t you offer a bite to 
Rabinin ?”’ 

** Ah! the Devil take him! ”’ 

‘*Do you know, your behavior to him seemed astonishing 
tome? You didn’t even offer him your hand! Why didn’t 
you offer him your hand?”’ 

** Because I don’t shake hands with my lackey, and my 
lackey is worth a hundred of him.’’ 

‘* What a retrograd you are! And how about the fusion 
of classes?’”’ 

‘** Let those who like it enjoy it! It is disgusting.”’ 

** You, I see, are a retrograd.’’ 

**To tell the truth, I never asked myself whoI was. I 
am Konstantin, — nothing more.”’ 

‘* And Konstantin Levin in a very bad humor,’’ said 
Oblonsky, smiling. 

*¢ Da! I am in bad humor, and do you know why? Because 
of this idiotic bargain; excuse the express ’? — 

Stepan Arkadyevitch put on an air of injured innocence, 
and replied with an amusing grimace. 

** Nu! that’ll do!’”’ he said. ‘* After any one has sold 
any thing, they come saying, ‘ You might have sold this at a 
higher price;’ but no one thinks of offering this fine price 


182 | ANNA KARENINA. 


before the sale. No: I see you have a grudge against this 
unfortunate Rabinin.’’ 

‘¢ Maybe Ihave. Andshall I tell youwhy? You will call 
me retrograd or some worse name, but I cannot help feeling 
bad to see the nobility [dvorianstvo] — the nobility, to which 
I am happy to say I belong, and belong in spite of your fu- 
sion of classes, always getting poorer and poorer. If this 
growing poverty was caused by spendthrift ways, by too high 
living, I wouldn’t say any thing. To live like lords is proper 
for the nobles: the nobles [dvoriane] only can do this. Now 
the muzhiks are buying up our lands, but I am not concerned : 
the proprietor [barin] does nothing, the muzhik is industri- 
ous, and it is just that the workingman should take the place 
of the lazy. So it ought to be. And I am glad for the 
muzhik. But what vexes me, and stirs my soul, is to see 
the proprietor robbed by— I don’t know how to express it— 
by his own innocence. Here is a Polish tenant, who has 
bought, at half price, a superb estate of a baruina [titled lady | 
who lives at Nice. Yonder is a merchant who has got a 
farm for a tenth of its value. And this very day you have 
given this rascal a present of thirty thousand rubles.’’ 

‘** But what could I do? Count my trees one by one?”’ 

‘*Certainly: if you have not counted them, be sure that 
the merchant has counted them for you; and his children 
will have the means whereby to live and get an education, 
whereas yours perhaps will not.”’ 

‘‘Nu! In my opinion, it is ridiculous to go into such 
minute calculations. We have our ways of doing things, 
and they have theirs; and let them get the good of it. Nul 
Moreover, it is done, and that’s the last of it.— And here 
is my favorite omelette coming in; and then Agafya Mik- 
hailovna will certainly give us a glass of her delicious travni- 
chok’’ [herb brandy }. 

Stepan Arkadyevitch sat down at the table in excellent 
spirits, and rallied Agafya Mikhailovna, and assured her 
that he had not eaten such a dinner and such a supper for 
an age. 

** You can give fine speeches, at least. But Konstantin 
Dmitritch, if she found only a crust of bread, would eat it 
and go away.’ 

_ Levin, in spite of his efforts to rule his melancholy and 
gloomy mood, still felt out of sorts. There was a question 
which he could not make up his mind to put, finding neither 


ANNA KARENINA. 183 


the opportunity to ask it, nor a suitable form in which to 
eouch it. Stepan Arkadyevitch had gone to his room, and, 
after a bath, had gone to bed clad in a beautiful frilled 
nightgown. Levin still dallied in the room, talking about a 
hundred trifles, but not having the courage to ask what he 
had at heart. 

‘¢ How well this is arranged!’’ said he, taking from its 
wrapper a piece of perfumed soap, —an attention on the 
part of Agafya Mikhailovna which had not attracted Ob- 
lonsky’s attention. ‘‘Just look: isn’t it truly a work of 
arte”? 

‘¢Yes: every thing is getting perfect nowadays,’’ said 
Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a beatific yawn. ‘* The theatres, 
for example, and — a— a—a’’— yawning again — ‘ these 
amusing — a—a— a—electric lights —a—a’’ — 

‘* Yes, the electric lights,’’ repeated Levin. ‘‘ And that 
Vronsky : where is he now?”’ he suddenly asked, putting 
down the soap. 

‘** Vronsky?’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, ceasing to yawn. 
‘* He is at Petersburg. He went away shortly after you did, 
and did not return to Moscow. Do you know, Kostia,’’ he 
continued, leaning his elbow on a little table placed near the 
head of the bed, and leaning his head on his hand, while two 
good-natured and rather sleepy eyes looked out like twin 
stars, ‘‘ I will tell you the truth. You are in part to blame 
for all this story: you were afraid of a rival. And I will re- 
mind you of what I said: I don’t know which of you had the 
best chances. Why didn’t you go ahead? I told you then 
that ’’’— and he yawned again, trying not to open his mouth. 

** Does he, or doesn’t he, know of the step I took?’’ 
thought Levin, looking at him.» ‘‘ Da! there is something 
subtle, something diplomatic, in his face ;’’ and, feeling that 
he was blushing, he said nothing, but looked at Oblonsky. 

‘*If on her part there was any feeling for him, it was 
merely a slight drawing, a fascination, such as a lofty aris- 
tocracy and a high position is likely to have on a young girl, 
and particularly on her mother.”’ 

Levin frowned. The pain of his rejection came back te 
him like a recent wound in his heart. Fortunately, he was 
at home; and at home the shadows sustain one. 

‘Wait! wait:’’ he interrupted: ‘‘ your aristocracy! But 
I want to tell you what this aristocracy of Vronsky’s means, 
r any other kind that could look down upon me. You con- 


? 


184 ANNA KARENINA. 


sider him an aristocrat. I don’t. A man whose father 
sprang from the dust, by means of intrigue, whose mother 
nas — Oh,no! Aristocrats, in my eyes, are men who can 
show in the past three or four generations of excellent fam- 
ilies, belonging to tue most cultivated classes, — talents and 
intellect are another matter, — who never abased themselves 
before anybody, and were self-reliant, — like my father and 
mother. And I know many families of the same kind. It 
seems incredible to you that I can count my trees; but you, 
you give thirty thousand rubles to Rabinin: but you receive 
a salary, and other things ; and that I never expect to receive, 
and therefore I appreciate what my father left me, and what 
my labor gives me; and therefore I say it is we who are 
aristocrats, and not those who live at the expense of the 
powers of this world, and who can be bought for twenty 
kopeks.”’ 

‘¢ Da! whom are you so angry with? I agree with you,”’ 
replied Oblonsky gayly, and amused at his friend’s tirade, 
even though he knew that it was directed against himself. 
‘* You are not fair to Vronsky, but this has nothing to do with 
him. I will tell you frankly: if I were in your place, I would 
start for Moscow, and’’ — 

‘*No! I don’t know if you are aware of what passed, — 
but it’s over for me. I will tell you. I proposed to Kate- 
rina Aleksandrovna, and was rejected; so that now the mem- 
ory of it is painful and humiliating.’’ 

‘¢ Why so? What nonsense! ”’ 

.*¢ But let us not speak of it. Forgive me if I have been 
rude to you,’’ said Levin. ‘* Now all is explained. You 
will not be angry with me, Stiva?’’ said he, resuming his 
usual manner. ‘‘I beg of you, don’t lay up any thing against 
me.’’ And he took his hand. 

‘¢ Da! I will not think any thing more about it. I am very 
glad, though, that we have spoken frankly to one another. 
And, do you know, sport will be capital to-morrow? Sup- 
pose we try it again. I would not even sleep, but go straight 
to the station.”’ 

‘¢ Excellent! ”’ 

XVIII. 


Vronsky, though absorbed by his passion, changed in no 
way the outward course of his life. He kept up all his social 
and military relations. His regiment filled an important part 


ANNA KARENINA. 185 


in his life, in the first place because he loved it, and, still 
more, because he was extremely popular. He was not only 
admired, he was respected ; and it was a matter to be proud 
of, that a man of his rank and intellectual capacity was seen 
to place the interests of his regiment and his comrades 
above the vainglorious or egotistical success which were his 
right. Vronsky kept account of the feeling which he in- 
spired, and felt called upon, in a certain degree, to sustain 
his character. 

Of course he spoke to no one of his passion. Never did 
an imprudent word escape him, even when he joined his com- 
rades in some drinking-bout,—he drank, however, very 
moderately, —and he was wise enough to keep his mouth 
shut in the presence of those gossiping meddlers who made 
the least allusion to the affairs of his heart. His passion, 
however, was a matter of notoriety throughout the city ; and 
the young men envied him on account of the very thing that 
was the greatest drawback to his love, — Karénin’s high sta- 
tion, which made the matter more conspicuous. 

The majority of young ladies, jealous of Anna, whom they 
were weary of hearing always called the just, were not sorry 
to have their predictions verified, and were waiting only for 
the sanction of public opinion, to overwhelm her with their 
scorn: they had stored away, ready for use, the mud which 
should be thrown at her when the time came. People of ex- 
perience, and those of high rank, were displeased at the 
prospect of a disgraceful scandal in society. 

Vronsky’s mother at first felt a sort of pleasure at her 
son’s infatuation; in her opinion, nothing was better for 
forming a young man than to fall in love with some great 
society lady ; and, moreover, she»was not sorry to find that 
this Madame Karénina, who seemed so entirely devoted to 
her boy, was, after all, only like any other handsome and 
elegant woman. But this way of looking at it changed when 
she learned that her son had refused an important promotion, 
so that he might not be obliged to leave his regiment, and 
this Madame Karénin’s vicinity. Moreover, instead of being 
a brilliant and fashionable flirtation, such as she approved, 
it was turning out, as she learned, to be a tragedy, after the 
style of Werther, and she was afraid lest her son should 
allow himself to commit some folly. Since his unheralded 
departure from Moscow she had not seen him, but she sent 
word to him, through his brother, that she desired him to 


186 ANNA KARENINA. 


come to her. His older brother was even more dissatisfied, 
not because he felt anxious to know whether this love-affair 
was to be deep or ephemeral, calm or passionate, innocent 
or guilty, —he himself, though a married man and the 
father of a family, had shown by his own conduct that he 
had no right to be severe, — but because he knew that this 
love-affair was displeasing in quarters where it was better to 
be on good terms; and therefore he blamed his brother. 

Vronsky, besides his society relations and his military 
duties, had yet another absorbing passion, — horses. The 
officers’ races were to take place this summer. He became a 
subscriber, and purchased a pure-blood English trotter: in 
spite of his love-affair, he was extremely interested in the 
results of the races. These two passions easily existed side 
by side, and he needed some outside interest to offset the 
violent emotions which stirred him in his relations with 
Anna. 


XIX. 


On the day of the Krasno-Selo races, Vronsky came earlier 
than usual to eat a beefsteak in the officers’ great common 
dining-hall. He was not at all constrained to limit himself, 
since his weight satisfied the forty pud conditions of the 
service ; but he did not want to get fat, and so he refrained 
from sugar and farinaceous foods. He sat down at the 
table. His coat was unbuttoned, and displayed his white 
vest, and he opened a French novel: with both elbows rest- 
ing on the table he seemed absorbed in his book, but he 
took this attitude so as not to talk with the officers as they 
went and came, but to think. 

He was thinking about the meeting with Anna, which was 
to take place after the races. He had not seen her for three 
days ; and he was wondering if she would be able to keep 
her promise, as her husband had just returned to Petersburg 
from a journey abroad, and he was wondering how he could 
find out. They had met for the last time at his cousin 
Betsy’s villa. For he went to the Karénins’ house as little 
as possible, and now he was asking himself if he would best 
go there. 

‘¢]T will simply say that I am charged by Betsy to find 
whether she expects to attend the races, — yes, certainly, 
I will go,’’ he said, raising his head from his book. And his 


ANNA KARENINA. 1387 


face shone with the joy caused by his imagination of the 
forthcoming interview. 

‘¢ Send word that I wish my troika harnessed,’’ said he to 
the waiter who was bringing his beefsteak on a silver platter. 
He took his plate, and began his meal. 

In the adjoining billiard-room the clicking of balls was 
heard, and two voices talking and laughing. Then two 
officers appeared in the door: one of them was a young man 
with delicate, refined features, who had just graduated from 
the Corps of Pages, and joined the reziment; the other was 
old and fat, with little, moist eyes, and wore a bracelet on 
his wrist. 

Vronsky glanced at them and frowned, and went on eating 
and reading at the same time, as though he had not seen 
them. 

‘* Getting ready for work, are you?’’ asked the fat officer, 
sitting down near him. 

** You see I am,’’ replied Vronsky, wiping his lips, and 
frowning again, without looking up. 

‘¢ But aren’t you afraid of getting fat?’’ continued the 
elderly officer, pulling up a chair for his junior. 

‘¢ What!’ cried Vronsky, showing his teeth to express 
his disgust and aversion. 

‘* Aren’t you afraid of getting fat?’’ 

‘¢ Waiter, sherry!’’ cried Vronsky, without deigning to 
reply * and he changed his book to the other side of his 
plate, and continued to read. 

The fat officer took the wine-list, and passed it over to the 
young officer. 

‘* See what we'll have to drink.’’ 

‘* Rhine wine, if you please,’’ replied the latter, trying to 
twist his imaginary mustache, and looking timidly at Vronsky 
out of the corner of his eye. 

When he saw that Vronsky did not move, the young officer 
got up, and said, ‘* Come into the billiard-room.”’ 

The fat officer also arose, and the two went out of the 
door. At the same time a cavalry captain came in, a tall, 
handsome young man, named Yashvin. He gave the two 
officers a slight, disdainful salute, and went towards Vronsky. 

** Ah! here he is,’’ he cried, laying his heavy hand ot. 
Vronsky’s shoulder. Vronsky turned round angrily, but in 
an instant a pleasant, friendly expression came into his face. 

** Well, Alosha!’’ said the cavalry captain, in his big 


188 ANNA KARENINA. 


baritone. ‘* Have some more dinner, and drink a glass with 
me.”’ 

*¢ No: I don’t want any dinner.”’ 

‘¢ Those are inseparables,’’ said Yashvin, looking with an 
expression of disdain at the two officers as they disap- 
peared. Then he sat down, doubling up under the chair, 
which was too short for him, his long legs dressed in tight, 
uniform trousers. ‘* Why weren’t you at the theatre last 
evening? Numerova was truly not bad at all. Where were 
you?”’ 

‘*¢ T staid too late at the Tverskois’,’’ said Vronsky. 

ate a 

Yashvin was Vronsky’s best friend in the regiment, though 
he was not only a gambler, but a debauchee. It could not be 
said of him that he entirely lacked principles. He had prin- 
ciples, but they were immoral ones. Vronsky liked him, and 
admired his exceptional physical vigor, which allowed him to 
drink like a hogshead and not feel it, and to do absolutely 
without sleep if it were necessary. He had no less admira- 
tion for his great social ability, which made him a power, not 
only with his superiors, but with his comrades. At the Eng- 
lish Club, he had the notoriety of being the most daring of 
gamblers, because, while never ceasing to drink, he risked 
large sums with imperturbable presence of mind. 

If Vronsky felt friendship and some consideration for 
Yashvin, it was because he knew that his fortune or his social 
position counted for nothing in his friendship that the latter 
showed him. He was liked on his own account. Moreover, 
Yashvin was the only man to whom Vronsky would have 
been willing to speak of his love; because he felt, that, in 
spite of his affected scorn for all kinds of sentiment, he alone 
could appreciate the serious passion which now absorbed his 
whole life. Besides, he knew that he was incapable of in- 
dulging in tittle-tattle and scandal. Thus, taken all in all, 
his presence was always agreeable to him. 

Vronsky had not yet spoken about his love, but he knew 
that Yashvin knew it — looked upon it in its true light; and 
it was a pleasure to read this in his eyes. 

‘¢ Ah, da!’’ said the cavalry captain, when he heard the 
name of the Tverskois; and he bit his mustache, and looked 
at him with his brilliant black eyes. 

‘* Nu! and what did you do last evening? Did you gain?” 
asked Vronsky. 


ANNA KARENINA. 189 


*‘Kight thousand rubles, but three thousand possibly are 
no good.”’ 

‘¢ Nu! Then you can lose on me,’’ said Vronsky, laugh- 
ing: his comrade had laid a large wager on him. 

‘* But I shall not lose. Makhotin is the only one to be 
afraid of.’’ 

And the conversation went off in regard to the races, which 
was the only subject which was of any moment now. 

‘¢Come on: I am through,’’ said Vronsky, getting up. 
Yashvin also arose, and stretched his long legs. 

‘¢ I can’t dine so early, but I will take something to drink. 
I will follow you. Here, wine!’’ he cried, in his heavy 
voice, which made the windows rattle, and was the wonder 
of the regiment. ‘‘ No, no matter!’ he cried again: ‘if 
you are going home, I’ll join you.”’ 


XX. 


Vronsky was lodging in a great Finnish izba [hut], very 
neatly arranged, and divided in two by a partition. Petritsky 
was his chum, not only in Petersburg, but here also in camp. 
He was asleep when Vronsky and Yashvin entered. 

‘“Get up! you’ve slept long enough,’’ said Yashvin, going 
behind the partition, and shaking the sleeper’s shoulder, as 
he lay with his nose buried in the pillow. 

Petritsky got upon his knees, and looked all about him. 

‘* Your brother has been here,’’ said he to Vronsky. ‘‘He 
woke me up, confound him! and he said that he would come 
again.”’ 

Then he threw himself back on the pillow again, and 
pulled up the bedclothes. 

‘* Let up, Yashvin,’’ he cried angrily, as his comrade 
amused himself by twitching off his quilt. Then turning 
towards him, and opening his eyes, he said, ‘* You would do 
much better to tell me what I ought to drink to take this bad 
taste out of my mouth.”’ 

‘+ Vodka is betterthan any thing,”’ said Yashvin. ‘‘ Teresh- 
chenko! Bring the barin some vodka and cucumbers,”’ he 
ordered of the servant, seeming to delight in the thunder of 
his voice. 

*¢ You advise vodka? ha!’’ demanded Petritsky, rubbing 
bis eyes, with a grimace. ‘' Will you take some too? If 


190 . ANNA KARENINA. 


you'll join, all right! Vronsky, will you have a drink?” 
And leaving his bed, he came out wrapped up in a striped 
quilt, waving his arms in the air, and singing in French, 
‘¢¢'There was a king in Thu-u-le.’ ”’ 

‘¢ Vronsky, will you have a drink? ’”’ 

‘‘Go away,’’ replied the latter, who was putting on an 
overcoat brought him by his valet. 

‘¢ Where are you going?’’ asked Yashvin, seeing a car- 
riage drawn by three horses. ‘‘ Here’s the trotka.”’ 

‘‘To the stables, then to Briansky’s to see about some 
horses,’’ replied Vronsky. 

He had, indeed, promised to bring some money to Brian- 
sky, who lived about six versts from Peterhof ; but his friends 
immediately knew that he was going in another direction. 

Petritsky winked, and raised his eyebrows as though he 
would say, ‘* We know who this Briansky means.”’ 

‘¢ See here, don’t be late,’’ said Yashvin; and changing 
the subject, ‘‘ And my roan, does she suit you?’’ he asked, 
referring to the middle horse of the team which he had sold. 

Just as Vronsky left the room, Petritsky called out to him, 
‘¢ Hold on! your brother left a note and a letter. Hold on! 
where did I put them? ”’ 

Vronsky waited impatiently. 

Nu! Where are they? ’’ 

‘¢ Where are they indeed? That’s the question,’’ declaimed 
Petritsky, putting his forefinger above his nose. 

‘¢ Speak quick! no nonsense!’’ said Vronsky good- 
naturedly. 

‘¢T have not had any fire in the fireplace: where can I 
have put them? ”’ 

‘¢ Nu! that’s enough talk! where’s the note?’’ 

‘¢T swear I have forgotten: perhaps I dreamed about it. 
Wait, wait! don’t get angry. If you had drunk four bottles, 
as I did yesterday, you wouldn’t even know where you went 
to bed. Hold on, I’ll think in a minute.’’ 

Petritsky went behind his screen again, and got into bed. 

‘‘Hold on! I was lying here. He stood there. Da- 
da-da-da! Ah! Here itis!’’ And he pulled the letter out 
from under the mattress, where he had put it. 

Vronsky took the letter and his brother’s note. It was 
exactly as he expected. His mother reproached him 
because he had not been to see her, and his brother said he 
had something to speak to him about. ‘* What concern is it 


ANNA KARENINA. 191 


of theirs?’’ he murmured; and, crumpling up the notes, he 
thrust them between his coat-buttons, intending to read them 
more carefully on the way. 

Just as he left the izba, he met two officers, each of whom 
belonged to different regiments. Vronsky’s quarters were 
always the headquarters of all the officers. 

‘¢ Whither away? ”’ 

‘¢ Must — to Peterhof.’’ 

‘¢ Has your horse come from Tsarskor? ”’ 

‘¢ Yes, but I have not seen her yet.”’ 

‘They say Makhotin’s ‘ Gladiator’ is lame.’’ 

‘Rubbish! But how could you trot in such mud?”’ 

‘¢ Here are my saviours,’’ cried Petritsky, as he saw the 
new-comers. The denshchik was standing before him with 
vodka and salted cucumbers on a platter. ‘* Yashvin, here, 
ordered me to drink, so as to be refreshed.’’ 

*¢ Nu! You were too much for us last night,’’ said one of 
the officers. ‘* We did not sleep all night.’’ 

*¢T must tell you how it ended,’’ began Petritsky. ‘‘ Vol- 
kof climbed up on the roof, and told us that he was blue. I 
sung out, ‘ Give us some music, —a funeral march.’ And he 
went to sleep on the roof to the music of the funeral march.”’ 

‘¢ Drink, drink your vodka by all means, and then take 
seltzer and a lot of lemon,’’ said Yashvin, encouraging Pe- 
tritsky as a mother encourages her child to swallow some 
medicine. 

‘* Now, this is sense. Hold on, Vronsky, and have a drink 
with us!”’ 

‘No. Good-by, gentlemen. I am not drinking to-day.’’ 

‘¢ Vronsky,’’ cried some one, after he had gone into the 
vestibule. 

‘6 What? ’’ 

** You'd better cut off your hair: it’s getting very long, 
especially on the bald spot.”’ 

Vronsky, in fact, was beginning to get a little bald. He 
laughed ga7ly, and, pulling his cap over his forehead where 
the hair was thin, he went out and got into his carriage. 

** To the stables,’’ he said. 

He started to take his letters for a second reading, but on 
second thought deferred them so that he might think of 
nothing else but his horse. 


192 ANNA KARENINA. 


XXI. 


A Temporary stable, made out of planks, had been buils 
near the race-course ; and hither Vronsky had to go to see 
his horse. Only the trainer had as yet mounted her; and 
Vronsky, who had not seen her, did not know in what con- 
dition he should find her. He was just getting out of his 
carriage when his konyukh [groom], a young fellow, saw 
him from a distance, and immediately called the trainer. 
He was an Englishman with withered face and tufted chin, 
and dressed in short jacket and top-boots. He came out 
towards Vronsky in the mincing step peculiar to jockeys, and 
with elbows sticking out. 

‘¢ Nu! how is Frou Frou?’’ said Vronsky in English. 

*¢ All right, sir,’’ said the Englishman, in a voice that came 
out of the bottom of his throat. ‘‘ Better not go in, sir,’’ he 
added, taking off his hat. ‘*I have put a muzzle on her, 
and that excites her. If any one comes near, it makes her 
nervous.’’ 

‘* No matter: I want to see her.’’ 

‘*Come on, then,’’ replied the Englishman testily; and 
without ever opening his mouth, and with his dandified 
step, he led the way to the stable. An active and alert 
stable-boy in a clean jacket, with whip in hand, was ready 
to receive them. Five horses were in the stable, each in its 
own stall. Vronsky knew that Makhotin’s Gladiator, — 
Vronsky’s most redoubtable rival, — a chestnut horse of five 
vershoks, was there, and he was more curious to see Gladiator 
than to see his own racer; but according to the rules of the 
races, he could not have him brought out, or even ask questions 
about him. As he passed along the walk, the groom opened 
the door of the second stall, and Vronsky saw a powerful 
chestnut with white feet. It was Gladiator: he recognized 
him, but he instantly turned towards Frou Frou, as though 
he had seen an open letter which was not addressed to him. 

‘* That horse belongs to Ma—k—mak,”’ said the Eng- 
lishman, struggling with the name, and pointing to Gladia- 
tor’s stall with fingers on which the nails were black with 
dirt. } 

‘¢ Makhotin’s? Yes: he is my only dangerous rival.’’ | 

‘Tf you would mount him, I would bet on you,”’ said the 
Englishman, 


a ee ee Oe 


ANNA KARENINA. 193 


‘¢Frou Frou is more nervous; this one stronger,’’ said 
Vronsky, smiling at the jockey’s praise. 

‘¢In hurdle-races, all depends on the mount, and on 
pluck.’’ 

Pluck, —that is, audacity and coolness, — Vronsky knew 
that he had in abundance ; and, what is more, he was firmly 
convinced that no one could have more than he. 

** You are sure that a good sweating was not necessary? ”’ 

*¢ Not at all,’’ replied the Englishman. ‘* Don’t speak so 
loud, I beg of you: the colt is restive,’’ he added, jerking 
his head towards the stall where the horse was heard stamp- 
ing on the ihe Ba 

He opened the door, and Vronsky entered a box-stall 
feebly lighted by a little window. A brown bay horse, 
muzzled, was nervously prancing up and down on the fresh 
straw. 

The somewhat imperfect shape of his favorite horse was 
instantly manifest to Vronsky’s eyes. Frou Frou was of 
medium size, with slender bones; her breast was narrow, 
though the breast-bone was prominent; the crupper was 
rather tapering; and the legs, particularly the hind-legs, 
considerably bowed. ‘The muscles of the legs were not large, 
but the flanks were very enormous on account of the training 
she had had, and the smallness of her belly. The bones of 
the legs below the knee seemed not thicker than a finger, seen 
from the front: they were extraordinarily large when seen 
sidewise. The whole steed seemed squeezed in and lengthened 
out. But she had one merit that outweighed all her faults: 
she had good blood, — was a thoroughbred, as the English 
say. Her muscles stood out under a network of veins, cov- 
ered with a skin as smooth and soft as satin: her slender 
head, with prominent eyes, bright and animated ; her delicate, 
mobile nostrils, which seemed suffused with blood, — all the 
points of this noble animal had something energetic, decided, 
and keen. It was one of those creatures such as never fail 
to fulfil their promise owing to defect in mechanical construc- 
tion. Vronsky felt that she understood him while he was 
looking at her. When he came in, she was taking long 
breaths, turning her head round, and showing the whites of 
her bloodshot eyes, and trying to shake off her muzzle, and 
dancing on her feet as though moved by springs. 

** You see how excited she is,’’ said the Englishman. 

** Whoa, my loveliest, whoa!’’ said Vronsky, approaching 


194 ANNA KARENINA. 


to calm her; but the nearer he came, the more nervous she 
grew; and only when he had caressed her head, did she 
become tranquil. He could feel her muscles strain and 
tremble under her delicate, smooth skin. Vronsky patted 
her beautiful neck, and put into place a bit of her mane 
that she had tossed on the other side; and then he put his 
face close to her nostrils, which swelled and dilated like 
the wings of a bat. She snorted, pricked up her ears, and 
stretched out her long black lips to seize his sleeve; but 
when she found herself prevented by her muzzle, she began 
to caper again. 

** Quiet, my beauty, quiet,’’ said Vronsky, calming her; 
and he left the stable with the re-assuring conviction that his 
horse was in perfect condition. 

But the nervousness of the steed had taken possession of 
her master. Vronsky felt the blood rush to his heart, and, 
like the horse, he wanted violent action: he felt like biting. 
It was a sensation at once strange and joyful. 

‘¢ Well, I count on you,’’ said he to the Englishman. ‘‘ Be 
on the grounds at half-past six.’’ 

‘* All shall be ready. But where are you going, my lord?”’ 
asked the Englishman, using the title of ‘‘lord,’’ which he 
never permitted. 

Astonished at this audacity, Vronsky raised his head, and 
looked at him as he well understood how to do, not into his 
eyes, but on his forehead. He instantly saw that the Eng- 
lishman had spoken to him, not as to his master, but as to 
a jockey; and he replied, — 

‘*T have got to see Briansky, and I shall be at home in an 
hour.”’ 

‘* How many times have I been asked that question to- 
day!’’ he said to himself; and he blushed, which was a rare 
occurrence with him. The Englishman looked at him closely. 
He also seemed to know where his master was going. 

‘* The main thing is to keep calm before the race. Don’t 
do any thing rash; don’t get bothered.”’ 

*¢ All right,’’ replied Vronsky ; and, jumping into his car- 
riage, he drove back to Peterhof. 

He had gone but a short distance before the sky, which 
had been overcast since morning, grew thicker, and it began 
to rain. 

**Too bad!’ thought Vronsky, raising the hood of his 
carriage. ‘* It has been muddy: now it will be a marsh.”’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 195 


Now that he was alone again, he bethought him of his 
mother’s letter and his brother’s note, and began to read 
them over. It was always the old story: both his mother 
and his brother took it upon them to meddle with his love- 
affairs. He was indignant and even angry, — a most unusual 
state for him. 

‘¢ How does this concern them? Why do they feel called 
upon to meddle with me, to bother me? Because there is 
something about this that they don’t understand. If it were 
a vulgar intrigue, they would leave me in peace; but they 
imagine that it isn’t a mere nothing, that this woman is not 
a mere toy, that she is dearer to me than life: that would 
seem incredible and vexatious to them. Whatever be our 
fate, we ourselves have made it, and we shall not regret it,’’ 
he said to himself, including Anna in the word ‘‘we.”’ ‘‘ But 
no, they want to teach us the meaning of life, — they, who 
have no idea of what happiness is. ‘They don’t know that, 
were it not for this love, there would be for me neither joy 
nor grief in this world: life itself would not exist.’’ 

In reality, what exasperated him most against his relatives 
was the fact that his conscience told him that they were right. 
His love for Anna was not a superficial impulse, destined, 
like so many social attachments, to disappear, and leave no 
trace beyond sweet or painful memories. He felt keenly all 
the torture of their situation, all its difficulties in the eyes 
of the world, from which they had to conceal it by means of 
ingenious subterfuges, deceptions, and lies ; and, while their 
mutual passion was so violent and absorbing that they knew 
of nothing else, yet they had to be always inventing a thou- 
sand stratagems to keep it from others. 

This constant need of dissimulation and deceit came to 
him urgently. Nothing was more contrary to his nature, 
and he recalled the feeling of shame which he had often sur- 
prised in Anna, when she also was driven to tell a lie. 4— 

Since this affair with her, he sometimes experienced a 
strange sensation of disgust and repulsion, which he could 
not define, nor could he tell for whom he felt it, — for Alekséi 
Aleksandrovitch or himself, for society or for the entire world. 
As far as possible he banished such thoughts. 

*¢ Yes, heretofore she has been unhappy, but proud and 
calm: now she cannot be so any longer, however she may 
seem to try to appear so.’’ 

And for the first time the thought of cutting short this life 


196 ANNA KARENINA. 


of dissimulation appeared to him clear and tangible: the 
sooner, the better. 

‘¢ We must leave every thing, she and I, and together, with 
our love, we must go and bury ourselves somewhere,’’ he 
said to himself. 


XXIT. 


Tue shower was of short duration; and when Vronsky 
reached Peterhof, his shaft-horse at full trot, and the other 
two galloping along in the mud, the sun was already out 
again, and was shining on the roofs of the villas and the drip- 
ping foliage of the old lindens in the neighboring gardens, 
whose shadows fell across the street. ‘The water was run- 
ning from the roofs, and the tree-tops seemed gayly to shake 
off the raindrops. He no longer thought of the harm that 
the shower might do the race-course: but he was full of 
joy as he remembered, that, thanks to the rain, she would be 
alone; for he knew that Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, who had 
just got back from a visit to the baths, would not leave Pe- 
tersburg for the country. 

Vronsky stopped his horses at some little distance from the 
house, and, in order to attract as little attention as possible, 
he entered the court on foot, instead of ringing the bell at 
the front entrance. 

‘¢ Has the barin come?’’ he demanded of a gardener. 

*¢ Not yet; but the baruina is at home. If you ring, they 
will open the door.’’ 

‘¢No: I will go in through the garden.”’ 

Knowing that she was alone, he wanted to surprise her; 
he had not sent word that he was coming, and on account of 
the races she would not be looking for him. Therefore he 
walked cautiously along the sandy paths, bordered with 
flowers, lifting up his sabre so that it should make no noise. 
In this way he reached the terrace which led from the house 
down to the garden. The anxieties which had possessed 
him on the way, the difficulties of their situation, were now 
forgotten: he thought only of the pleasure of shortly seeing 
her, — her in reality, in person, and not in imagination only. 
He was mounting the garden-steps as gently as possible, 
when he suddenly remembered the most painful feature of 
his relations with her, a feature that he was always forget- 
ting, — her son, a lad with a most inquisitive face. 


ANNA KARENINA. 197 


This child was the principal obstacle in the way of their in- 
terviews. In his presence Anna never allowed a word that the 
whole world might not hear, never a word that the child him- 
self could not comprehend. ‘There was no need of an agree- 
ment on that score. Both of them would have been ashamed 
to speak a single word to deceive the little lad: before him 
they talked as though they were mere acquaintances. But 
in spite of these precautions Vronsky often felt the lad’s 
scrutinizing and rather suspicious eyes fixed upon him. 
Sometimes he seemed timid, again affectionate, but never 
the same. The child seemed instinctively to feel, that, be- 
tween this man and his mother there was some strange bond 
of union, which was beyond his comprehension. 

The boy, indeed, made futile efforts to understand how he 
ought to behave before this gentleman: he had seen, with 
that quick intuition peculiar to childhood, that his father, his 
governess, and his nurse looked with the utmost disfavor on 
the man whom his mother treated as her best friend. 

‘¢ What does this mean? Whois he? Must I love him? 
and is it my fault, and am I a naughty or stupid child, if I 
don’t understand it at all?’’ thought the little fellow. 
Hence came his timidity, his questioning and distrustful 
manner, and this changeableness, which were so unpleasant 
to Vronsky. Besides, when the child was present, he always 
felt that apparently unreasonable repulsion, which for some 
time had pursued him. 

The presence of the child was to Anna and Vronsky like 
the compass to a ship-captain, which shows that he is drift- 
ing to leeward without the possibility of stopping on his 
course: every instant carries him farther and farther in the 
wrong direction, and the recognition of the movement that 
carries him from the right course is the recognition of the 
ruin that impends. 

The boy this day was not at home. Anna was entirely 
alone, and sitting on the terrace, waiting for her son’s re- 
turn, as the rain had overtaken him while out on his walk. 
She had sent a man and a maid to find him. Dressed in a 
white embroidered robe, she was sitting at one corner of the 
terrace, concealed by plants and flowers, and she did not 
hear Vronsky’s step. With bent head, she was pressing her 
heated brow against a cool watering-pot, standing on the 
balustrade. With her beautiful hands laden with rings, 
which he knew so well, she had pulled the watering-pot to- 


198 ANNA KARENINA.. 


wards her. Her lovely figure, her graceful head, with its 
dark, curling locks, her neck, her hands, all struck Vronsky 
every time that he saw her, and always caused a new feeling 
of surprise. He stopped and looked at her in ecstasy. 
She instinctively felt his approach, and he had hardly taken 
a step when she pushed away the watering-pot and turned to 
him her glowing face. 

‘¢ What is the matter? Are youill ?’’ said he, in French, 
as he advanced towards her. He felt a desire to run towards 
her, but in the fear of being seen, he looked around him and 
towards the door of the balcony with a feeling that filled 
him with shame, as though any thing should make him fear 
or be untruthful. 

‘‘ No: I am not well,’’ said Anna, rising, and pressing the _ 
hand that he offered her. ‘‘ I did not expect — you.”’ 

*¢ Bozhe mot! how cold your hands are! ”’ 

*¢ You startled me. Iam alone, waiting for Serozha, who 
went out for a walk: they will come back this way.’’ 

In spite of the calmness which she tried to show, her lips 
trembled. 

‘¢ Forgive me for coming, but I could not let the day go 
by without seeing you,’’ he continued, in French, thus avoid- 
ing the impossible vui [you] and the dangerous tui [thou] 
of the Russian. 

‘¢ What have I to forgive? I am too glad! ”’ 

‘¢ But you are ill, or sad?’’ said he, bending over her and 
still holding her hand. ‘* What were you thinking about?”’ 

‘¢ Always about one thing,’’ she replied, with a smile. 

She told the truth. Whenever, in the day, she was asked 
what she was thinking about, she would have made the in- 
variable reply, that she was thinking about her future and 
her misfortune. Just as he came, she was asking herself why 
some, like Betsy for example, whose love-affair with Tush- 
kiévitch she knew about, could treat so lightly what to her 
was so cruel. This thought had particularly tormented her 
to-day. She spoke with him about the races; and he, to 
divert her mind, told her about the preparation that had 
been made. His tone remained perfectly calm and natural. 

‘¢ Shall I, or shall I not, tell him?’’ she thought, as she 
looked at his calm, affectionate eyes. ‘tHe seems so happy, 
he is so interested in these races, that he will not compre- 
hend, probably, the importance of what I must tell him.’’ 

‘* But you have not told me of what you were thinking 


ANNA KARENINA. 199 


when I first came,’’ said he suddenly, interrupting the 
course of his narration. ‘‘ Tell me, I beg of you!”’ 

She did not reply ; but she lifted her head, and turned her 
beautiful eyes toward him; her look was full of questioning ; 
her fingers played with a fallen leaf. Vronsky’s face imme- 
diately showed the expression of humble adoration, of abso- 
lute devotion, which had first won her heart. 

‘*T feel that something has happened. Can I be easy 
for an instant when I know that you feel a grief that I do 
not share? In the name of Heaven, speak!’’ he insisted, in 
a tone of entreaty. . 

‘¢If he does not appreciate the importance of what I have 
to tell him, I know that I shall never forgive him; better be 
silent than put him to the proof,’’ she thought, continuing to 
look at him: her hand trembled. 

*¢ In the name of Heaven, what is it?’’ said he, taking her 
hand again. 

*¢ Shall I tell you? ’”’ 

*¢ Yes, yes, yes’? — 

‘6 Ya berémenna!’’ she whispered. 

The leaf which she held in her fingers trembled still more, 
but she did not take her eyes from his face, for she was try- 
ing to read there whether he understood her. 

He grew pale, tried to speak, then stopped short, and hung 
his head, dropping her hand which he was holding in both 
his. 

But she was mistaken in thinking that he felt as she did. 
The feeling of repulsion and horror which had been so famil- 
iar to him of late, now seized him more strongly than ever. 
Her husband was coming home, and it was important to ex- 
tricate themselves as soon as possible from the odious and 
miserable situation in which they were placed. Anna’s anx- 
iety seized Vronsky. He looked at her with humbly submis- 
sive eyes, kissed her hand, arose, and began to walk up and 
down the terrace without speaking. 

At last he approached her, and said in a tone of decis- 
ion, — 

*¢ Da!’ said he: ‘‘ neither you nor I have looked upon 
our love for each other as a fleeting joy; at last we must put 
an end to the false situation in which we live,’? —and he 
looked around him. 

‘¢Put an end? How put an end, Alekséi?’’ she asked 
gently. 


200 ANNA KARENINA. 


She was calm, and smiled upon him tenderly. 

‘*You must quit your husband, and unite your life with 
mine.’’ 

‘¢ But aren’t they already united? ’’ she asked in an under- 
tone. 

‘¢ Yes, but not completely, not absolutely 

‘* But how, Alekséi? tell me how,’’ said she, with a melan- 
choly irony, seeming to think that the situation was irretriev- 
able. ‘* Am I not the wife of my husband?”’ 

‘¢From any situation, however difficult, there is always 
some way of escape: here we must simply be decided. — 
Any thing is better than the life you are leading. How well 
I see how you torment yourself about your husband, your 
son, society, all!’ 

‘¢ Ach! only not my husband,’’ said she with a smile. 
‘¢T don’t know him, I don’t think about him! He Zs not.’’ 

*¢ You speak insincerely! I know you: you torment your- 
self on his account also.’’ 

‘¢ But he’’—then suddenly the tears came in her eyes. 
‘¢ Let us not speak: more of him.”’ 


1? 


XXII. 


Ir was not the first time that Vronsky had tried to bring 
clearly before her mind their position. He had always met 
the same superficial and almost ridiculous views. It seemed 
to him that she was under control of feelings which she was 
unwilling or unable to fathom, and she, the real Anna, dis- 
appeared, to give place to a strange and incomprehensible 
being, which he could not. understand, and which seemed 
almost repulsive to him. To-day he was bound to have an 
absolute explanation. ‘* Under any circumstances,’’ he said 
in a calm but authoritative voice, ‘* we cannot continue as 
we are.”’ 

‘¢ What, in your opinion, must we do about it?’’ she de- 
manded, in the same tone of ironical raillery. ‘Though she 
had been so keenly afraid that he would not receive her con- 
fidence with due appreciation, she was now vexed that he 
deduced from it the absolute necessity of energetic action. 

‘«'Tell him all, and leave him.’’ 

‘Very good! Suppose I do it. Do you know what the 
result would be? I wiil tell you;’’ and a wicked fire flashed 


ANNA KARENINA. 201 


from her eyes, which were just now so gentle. ‘**Oh! you 
love another, and your course with him has been criminal,’ ’’ 
said she, imitating her husband, and accenting the word 
criminal in exactly his manner. ‘‘ ‘I warned you of the con- 
sequences which would follow from the point of view of reli- 
gion, of society, and of the family. You did not listen to 
me: now I cannot allow my name to be dishonored, and 
my’’’ —she was going to say my son, but stopped, for she 
could not jest about him. ‘‘ In a word, he will tell me with 
the same manner and with the same perfect precision as he 
conducts the affairs of state, that he cannot set me free, but 
that he will take measures to avoid a scandal. And he will 
do exactly as he says. That is what will take place; for he 
is not a man, he is a machine, and, when he is stirred up, 
an ugly machine,’’ said she, remembering the most trifling 
details in her husband’s language and face, and felt ready to 
reproach him for all the ill that he found in her with all the 
less indulgence because she recognized her own fault. 

‘¢ But, Anna,’’ said Vronsky gently, hoping to convince 
her and calm her, ‘‘ you must tell him every thing, and then 
we will act accordingly as he proceeds.’’ 

‘¢ What! elope?’’ 

‘¢ Why not elope? I don’t see the possibility of living as 
we are any longer : it is not on my account, but I see you 
will suffer.’ 

‘* What! elope, and confess myself openly as your mis- 
tress?’’ said she bitterly. 

‘*Anna!’’ he cried, deeply wounded. 

*¢ Yes, as your mistress, and lose every thing!’’ She was 
going to say my son, but she could not pronounce the word. 

Vronsky could not understand how this strong, loyal nature 
could accept the false position in which she was placed, and 
not endeavor to escape from it. But he could not doubt 
that the principal obstacle was represented by this word son, 
which she was unable to pronounce. 

When Anna imagined this child’s existence with a father 
whom she had deserted, the horror of her sin appeared so 
great, that like a real woman she was not able to reason, but 
only endeavored to re-assure herself and persuade herself 
that all would go on as before: above all things, she must 
shut her eyes, and forget this odious thought, ‘what would 
become of her son. 

**T beg of you, I entreat you,’’ she said suddenly, speak- 


202 ANNA KARENINA. 


ing in a very different tone, a tone of tenderness and sincer 
ity, ‘‘ don’t ever speak to me of that again.”’ 

‘* But, Anna’’ — | 

‘¢ Never, never! Let me remain judge of the situation. 
I appreciate the depth of its misery, but it is not so easy as 
you imagine to decide. Have faith in me, and never speak 
to me again of that. Will you promise me? never, never? 
promise ! ”’ 

‘¢T promise all; but how can I be calm when you may 
be 99 SES 

.‘*1?”? she repeated. ‘‘It is true that I torment myself, 
but that will pass if you will not say any thing more about 
it.’’ | 

‘*¢ T don’t understand ’’ — 

‘*] know,’’ she interrupted, ‘‘how your honest nature 
abhors lying: I am sorry for you; and very often I tell my- 
self that you have sacrificed your life for me.’’ 

‘* That is exactly what I say about you. I was just this 
moment asking if you could immolate yourself for me. I 
cannot forgive myself for having made you unhappy.”’ 

‘¢T unhappy?’’ said she, coming up close to him, and 
looking at him with a smile full of love. ‘*I? I am like 
a man dying of hunger, to whom food has been given. May- 
be he is cold, and his raiment is rags, but he is not unhappy. 
I unhappy? No: here comes my joy’’ — 

The voice of her little boy was heard as he came in. 
Anna gave a hurried glance around her, swiftly arose, and, 
putting out her long hands covered with rings, she took 
Vronsky’s face between them: she looked at him a long 
moment, reached her face up to his, kissed his lips and his 
eyes, and left him. He kept her back a moment. 

‘¢ When?’’ he whispered, looking at her with ecstasy. 

‘¢ To-day at the right time,’’ she replied in a low voice, and 
then she ran to meet her son. Serozha had been caught by 
the rain in the park, and had taken refuge with his nurse in 
a pavilion. 

‘‘Nu! but good-by,’’ said she to Vronsky. ‘‘I must get 
ready for the races. Betsy has promised to come and get 
me.’’ 

Vronsky looked at his watch, and hurried away. 


ANNA KARENINA. 203 


XXIV. 


Wuen Vronsky looked at his watch on the Karénins’ bal- 
cony, he was so stirred and pre-occupied, that, though he saw 
the figures on the face, he did not know what time it was. 
He hurried out of the entrance, and, picking his way care- 
fully through the mud, he reached his carriage. He had 
been so absorbed by his conversation with Anna that he had 
forgotten entirely about his appointment with Briansky. 
His memory was scarcely more than instinctive, and only 
recalled to him that he had decided to do something. He 
found his coachman asleep on his box under the shade of the 
lindens; he noticed the swarms of flies buzzing around his 
sweaty horses ; and then, mechanically waking the coachman, 
he jumped into his carriage, and was driven to Briansky’s ; 
he had gone but six or seven versts when his presence of 
mind returned; it then came over him that he was late, and 
he looked at his watch again; it was half-past five. 

On this day there were to be several races: first the 
draught-horses, then the officers’ two-verst dash, then a 
second of four, and last that in which he was to take part. 
If he hurried, he could be on time by letting Briansky have 
the go-by ; otherwise he ran the risk of getting to the grounds 
after the Court had arrived, and this was not in good form. 
Unfortunately he had promised Briansky, therefore he kept 
on, commanding the coachman not to spare the troika. Five 
minutes with Briansky, and he was off again at full speed. 
He found that the rapid motion did him good. Little by 
little he forgot his anxieties, and felt only the excitement of 
the race, and imagined the brilliant society which would 
gather to-day at the course. And he got more and more into 
the atmosphere of the races as he met people coming from 
Petersburg and the surrounding country, on their way to the 
hippodrome. 

When he reached his quarters, no one was at home except 
his valet, who was waiting for him at the entrance. Every- 
body had gone to the races. While he was changing his 
clothes, his valet told him that the second race had already 
begun, that a number of people had been to inquire for him. 

Vronsky dressed without haste, — for it was his custom to 
keep calm, and not lose his self-command, — and then directed 
the coachman to take him to the stables. From there he saw 


204 ANNA KARENINA. 


a sea of carriages of all sorts, of pedestrians, soldiers, and 
of spectators, approaching the hippodrome. The second 
course was certainly run, for just at that moment he heard 
the sound of a bell. He noticed near the stable Makhotin’s 
white-footed chestnut Gladiator, which they were leading out, 
covered with a blue and orange caparison, and with huge ear- 
protectors. 

‘¢ Where is Cord?’’ he asked of the groom. 

‘¢ In the stable: he is fixing the saddle.’’ 

Frou Frou was all saddled in her box-stall, and now they 
came leading her out. 

‘¢T wasn’t late, was I?’’ 

‘* All right, all right,’’ said the Englishman. ‘‘ Don’t get 
excited.”’ 

Vronsky once more gave a quick glance at the excellent, 
favorable shape of his horse, as she stood trembling in every 
limb ; and, with a feeling of regret, he left her at the stable. 
He saw that it was a favorable chance to approach without 
attracting observation. The two-verst dash was just at an 
end, and all eyes were fixed on a kavalergard (cavalry guards- 
man), and a hussar just at his heels, whipping their horses 
furiously, and approaching the goal. The crowd flowed in 
from all sides, and a group of officers and guardsmen were 
hailing with shouts the triumph of their fellow-officer and 
friend. ; 

Vronsky joined the throng just as the bell announced the 
end of the race; while the victor dropped the reins, and 
slipped off from the saddle, and stood by his roan stallion, 
who was dripping with sweat, and heavily breathing. 

The stallion, with painfully heaving sides, with legs apart, 
stopped with difficulty his rapid course; and the officer, as 
though awakening from a dream, was looking about him with 
a gaze of wonder. <A throng of friends and curious stran- 
gers pressed about him. 

Vronsky, with intention, avoided the elegant people who 
were circulating about, engaged in gay and animated conver- 
sation. He had already caught sight of Anna, Betsy, and 
his brother’s wife. He did not, however, join them, so that 
he might not be disconcerted ; but at every step he met ac- 
quaintances who stopped him, and told him various items 
about the last race, or asked him why he was late. 

While they were distributing the prizes at the pavilion, 
and everybody was hurrying in this direction, Vronsky saw 


ANNA KARENINA. 205 


his elder brother, Aleksandr. Like Alekséi, he was a man 
of medium stature, and rather stubby; but he was hand- 
somer and ruddier. His nose was red, and his face was 
flushed with wine, and he had an evil expression. He wore 
a colonel’s uniform with epaulets. 

‘** Did you get my note?’’ he asked of his brother. ‘‘ You 
are never to be found.”’ 

Aleksandr Vronsky, in spite of his life of dissipation and 
his love for drink, was a thoroughly aristocratic man. Know- 
ing that many eyes were fixed on them, he preserved, while 
he talked with his brother on a very painful subject, the smil- 
ing face of a person who is jesting about some trifling matter. 

‘“* I got it,’’ said he, ‘‘ but I don’t really understand why 
you meddle with me.”’ 

**T meddle because I noticed your absence this morning, 
and because you were not at Peterhof Monday.”’ 

‘* There are matters which cannot be judged except by 
those who are directly interested, and the matter in which 
you concern yourself is such’? — 

‘* Yes; but when one is not in the service, he ’’ — 

**] beg you to mind your own business, and that is all.” 

Alekséi Vronsky grew pale, and his rather prominent lower 
jaw shook. He was a man of kindly heart, and rarely got 
angry ; but when he grew angry, and when his chin trembled, 
he became dangerous. Aleksandr Vronsky knew it, and 
with a gay laugh replied, — 

‘**T only wanted to give you mdtushka’s letter. Don’t get 
angry before the race. Bonne chance,’’ he added in French, 
and left him. 

He had scarcely turned away, when another friendly greet- 
ing surprised Vronsky. 

‘* Won’t you recognize your friends ? How are you, mon 
cher?’’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who, in the midst of the 
brilliant society of Petersburg, was no less gay and animated 
than at Moscow, and now appeared with rosy face and care- 
fully combed and pomaded whiskers. 

‘**T came down this morning, and am very glad to be pres- 
ent at your triumph. Where can we meet?’’ 

**Come to the mess, after the race is over,’’ said Vronsky ; 
and with an apology for leaving him, he squeezed his hand, 
and went towards the place where the horses were getting 
ready for the hurdle-race. 

The grooms were leading back the horses, wearied by the 


206 ANNA KARENINA. 


race which they had run; and one by one those intended 
for the next course appeared on the ground. They were, for 
the most part, English horses, in hoods, and well capari- 
soned, and looked for all the world like enormous strange 
birds. Frou Frou, beautiful, though she was so thin, came 
out stepping high, with her elastic and slender pasterns. 
And not far from her they were removing the trappings from 
the lop-eared Gladiator. The regular, solid, and superb form 
of the stallion, with his splendid crupper and his extraordi- 
narily large and well-balanced hoofs, attracted Vronsky’s 
admiration. He was just going up to Frou Frou when 
another acquaintance stopped him again on his way. 

‘Ha! there is Karénin: he is hunting for his wife. She 
is in the pavilion. Have you seen her? ”’ 

‘‘ No, I have not,’’ replied Vronsky ; and, without turning 
his head in the direction where his acquaintance told him 
that Madame Karénina was, he went to his horse. 

He had scarcely time to make some adjustment of the sad- 
dle, when those who were to compete in the hurdle-race were 
called to receive their numbers. With serious, stern, and 
almost solemn faces, they approached, seventeen men in all; 
and some of them were rather pale. Vronsky’s number was 
seven. 

‘¢ Mount !’’ was the cry. 

Vronsky, feeling that he, with his companions, was the 
focus toward which all eyes were turned, went up to his 
horse with the slow and deliberate motions which were usual 
to him when he was not entirely at his ease. 

Cord, in honor of the races, had put on his gala-day cos- 
tume: he wore a black coat, buttoned to the chin, and an 
enormously high shirt-collar, which made his cheeks puff out ; 
he had on Hessian boots and a round black cap. Calm, but 
full of importance, he stood by the mare’s head, holding the 
reins in his hand. Frou Frou shivered as though she had an 
attack of fever: her fiery eyes gazed askance at Vronsky. 
He passed his finger under the flap of the saddle. The 
mare jumped back, and pricked up her ears ; and the English- 
man puckered up his lips with a grin at the idea that there 
could be any doubt as to his skill in putting on a saddle. 
** Mount, and you won’t be so nervous,’’ said he. 

Vronsky cast a final glance on his rivals: he knew that he 
should not see them again until the race was over. Tur had 
already gone to the starting-point. Galtsuin, a friend of his, 


ANNA KARENINA. 207 


and one of the best of racers, was turning around and around 
his bay stallion, without being able to mount. A little hussar 
in tight cavalry trousers was off on a gallop, bent double over 
his horse, like a cat with the gripes, in imitation of the 
English fashion. Prince Kuzoflef, white as a sheet, was 
trying to mount a thoroughbred mare, which an Englishman 
held by the bridle. Vronsky and all his comrades knew 
Kuzoflef’s terrible self-conceit, and his feeble nerves. They 
knew that he was timid at every thing, especially timid of 
riding horseback ; but now, notwithstanding the fact that all 
this was horrible to him, because he knew that people broke 
their necks, and that at every hurdle stood a surgeon, an 
ambulance with its cross and sister of charity, still he had 
made up his mind to ride. 

They exchanged glances, and Vronsky gave him an en- 
couraging nod. One only he now failed to see: his most 
-redoubtable rival, Makhotin, on Gladiator, was not there. 

‘¢ Don’t be in haste,’’ said Cord to Vronsky, ‘‘ and don’t 
forget this one important point ; when you come to a hurdle, 
don’t pull back or spur on your horse; let her take it her 
own way.’’ 

‘* Very good,’’ replied Vronsky, taking the reins. 

‘* If possible, take the lead, but don’t be discouraged if 
for a few minutes you are behind.’’ 

The horse did not have time to stir before Vronsky, with 
supple and powerful movement, put his foot on the notched 
steel stirrup, and gracefully, firmly, took his seat on the 
squeaking leather saddle. Then he arranged the double 
reins between his fingers, and Cord let go the animal’s head. 
Frou Frou stretched out her neck, and pulled upon the reins 
as though she wanted to ask what sort of a gait would be re- 
quired of her ; and she started off at an easy, elastic pace, bal- 
ancing her rider on her strong, flexible back. Cord followed 
them with mighty strides. The mare, excited, jumped to 
right and left, trying to take her master off his guard; and 
Vronsky vainly endeavored to calm her with his voice and 
with his hand. 

They were approaching the river-bank, where the starting- 
post was placed. Vronsky, preceded by some, followed by 
others, suddenly heard on the muddy track the gallop of a 
horse ; and Gladiator, with Makhotin on his back, smiling, 
and showing his long teeth, dashed by. Vronsky looked at 
him angrily. He did not like Makhotin any too well, and 


208 ANNA KARENINA. 


now he was his most dangerous rival: so this fashion of gal- 
loping up behind him, and exciting his mare, displeased and 
angered him. 

Frou Frou kicked up her heels, and started off in a gallop, 
made two bounds, and then, feeling the restraint of the curb, 
changed her gait into a trot which shook up her rider. Cord, 
disgusted, ran almost as fast, and kept up by his master’s 
side. 


XXV. 


THE race-course was a great ellipse of four versts, extend- 
ing before the judges’ stand, and nine obstacles were placed 
upon it: the rekd [river] ; a great barrier, two arshins [4.66 
feet] high, in front of the pavilion; a dry ditch; a ditch 
filled with water; a steep ascent; an Irish banquette, which 
is the most difficult of all, composed of an embankment coy- 
ered with twigs, behind which is concealed a ditch, obliging 
the horseman to leap two obstacles at once, at the risk of 
his life; then three more ditches, two filled with water; and 
finally the goal opposite the pavilion again. The track did 
not begin in the circle itself, but about a hundred sdzhens 
(seven hundred feet) to one side; and in this space was the 
first obstacle, the brimming rekd, about three arshins (seven 
feet) in width, which they were free to leap or to ford. 

Three times the seventeen riders got into line, but each 
time some horse or other started before the signal, and the 
men had to be called back. Colonel Sestrin, the starter, was 
beginning to get impatient; but at last, for the fourth time, 
the signal was given, ‘‘Go!’’ and the riders spurred their 
horses. 

All eyes, all lorgnettes, were directed towards the racers. 

‘‘ There they go!’’ ‘* There they come!’’ was shouted 
on all sides. 

And in order to follow them, the spectators rushed, sin- 
ely or in groups, towards the places where they could get a 
better view. At the first moment the horsemen scattered 
a little as they, in threes and twos and singly, one after the 
other, approached the rekd. From a distance they seemed 
like an undistinguishable mass, but these fractions of sepa- 
ration had their own value. 

_ Frou Frou, excited and too nervous at first, lost ground, 
and several of the horses were ahead of her; but Vronsky, 


ANNA KARENINA. 209 


though he had not yet leaped the rekd, and was trying to 
calm her as she pulled on the bridle, soon easily outstripped 
the three who had won on him, and now had as competitors 
only Gladiator, who was a whole length ahead, and the 
pretty Diana, on whose back clung the unhappy Prince Ku- 
zoflef, not knowing whether he-was dead or alive. 

During these first few seconds Vronsky had no more con 
trol of himself than of his horse. 

Gladiator and Diana leaped the rekd at almost one and 
the same moment. Frou Frou lightly leaped behind them, as 
though she had wings. The instant that Vronsky was in 
the air, he caught a glimpse of Kuzoflef almost under the 
feet of his horse, wrestling with Diana on the other side of 
the rekd. Vronsky heard after the race, how Kuzoflef had 
loosened the reins after Diana jumped, and the horse had 
stumbled, throwing him on his head. But at this time he 
only saw that Frou Frou was going to land on Diana’s head. 
But Frou Frou, like a falling cat, making a desperate effort 
with back and legs as she leaped. landed beyond the fallen 
racer. 

**Q my beauty!’’ thought Vronsky. 

After the rekd he regained full control of his horse, and 
even held her back a little, meaning to leap the great hurdle 
behind Makhotin, whom he had no hopes of outstripping 
before they reached the long stretch of about two hundred 
sdzhens [fourteen hundred feet], which was free of obstacles. 

This great hurdle was built exactly in front of the Imperial - 
Pavilion: the Emperor, the court, and an immense throng, 
were watching as they drew near it. Vronsky felt all these 
eyes fixed on him from every side; but he saw only his 
horse’s ears, the ground flying under him, and Gladiator’s 
flanks, and white feet beating the ground in cadence, and 
always maintaining the same distance between them. Glad- 
iator flew at the hurdle, gave a whisk of his well-cropped 
tail, and, without having touched the hurdle, vanished from 
Vronsky’s eyes. 

‘* Bravo!’ cried a voice. 

At the same instant the planks of the hurdle flashed be- 
fore his eyes, his horse leaped without breaking, but he 
heard behind him aloud crash. Frou Frou, excited by the 
sight of Gladiator, had leaped too soon, and had struck the 
hurdle with the shoes on her hind feet: her gait was un- 
changed ; and Vronsky, his face splashed with mud, saw that 


910 ANNA KARENINA. 


the distance had not increased or diminished, as he caught a 
glimpse again of Gladiator’s crupper, his short tail, and his 
swift white feet. 

Frou Frou seemed to have the same thought as her master, 
for while not showing excitement, she sensibly increased her 
speed, and gained on Makhotin by trying to take the inside 
track. But Makhotin did not yield this advantage. ° Vron- 
sky was wondering if they could not pass on the farther side 
of the slope, when Frou Frou, as though divining his thought, 
changed of her own accord, and took this direction. Her 
shoulder, darkened with sweat, closed with Gladiator’s flanks, 
and for several seconds they flew almost side by side; but in 
order not to take the outside of the great circle, Vronsky 
urged Frou Frou on just as they passed the divide, and on 
the descent he managed to get the lead. As he drew by 
Makhotin he saw his mud-stained face, and it seemed to him 
that he smiled. ‘Though he was behind, he was still there, 
within a step; and Vronsky could hear the regular rhythm of 
his stallion’s feet, and the hurried, but far from winded, 
breathing. 

The next two obstacles, the ditch and the hurdle, were 
easily passed, but Gladiator’s gallop and puffing came nearer. 
Vronsky gave Frou Frou the spur, and perceived with a 
thrill of joy, that she easily accelerated her speed: the sound 
of Gladiator’s hoofs grew fainter. 

He now had the lead, as he had desired, and as Cord had 
recommended, and he felt sure of success. His emotion, his 
joy, his affection for Frou Frou, were all on the increase. He 
wanted to look back, but he did not dare to turn around, and 
he did his best to calm himself, so as not to excite his horse. 
A single serious obstacle now remained to be passed, — the 
Irish banquette, — which if cleared, and if he kept his head 
level, would give him the victory without the slightest doubt. 
He and Frou Frou at the same instant caught sight of the 
obstacle from afar, and both horse and man felt a moment 
of hesitation. Vronsky noticed the hesitation in his horse’s 
ears; and he was just lifting his whip when it occurred to 
him, just in time, that she knew what she had to do. The 
beautiful creature got her start, and, as he foresaw, seeming 
to take advantage of the impetus, rose from the ground, and 
cleared the ditch with energy that took her far beyond; then 
fell again into the measure of her pace without effort and 
without change. 


ANNA KARENINA. 211 
‘¢ Bravo, Vronsky!’’ cried the throng. He recognized his 
friends and his regiment, who were standing near the obsta- 
cle; and he distinguished Yashvin’s voice, though he did not 
see him. 

‘*Q my beauty!’’ said he to himself, thinking of Frou 
Frou, and yet listening to what was going on behind him. 
‘¢ He has cleared it,’’ he said, as he heard Gladiator’s gallop 
behind him. 

The last ditch, full of water, two arshins wide, now was 
left. Vronsky scarcely heeded it; but, anxious to come in 
far ahead of the others, he began to saw on the reins, and to 
urge on the horse by falling into her motion, and leaning far 
over her head. He felt that she was beginning to be ex- 
hausted ; her neck and her sides were wet; the sweat stood 
in drops on her throat, her head, and her ears; her breath” 
was short and gasping. Still, he was sure that she had force 
enough to cover the two hundred sdzhens that lay between 
him and the goal. Only because he felt himself so near the 
end, and by the extraordinary smoothness of her motion, did 
Vronsky realize how much she had increased her speed. The 
ditch was cleared, how, he did not know. She cleared it like 
a bird. But at this moment Vronsky felt to his horror, that, 
instead of taking the swing of his horse, he had made, through 
some inexplicable reason, a wretchedly and unpardonably 
wrong motion in falling back into the saddle. His position 
suddenly changed, and he felt that something horrible had 
happened. He could not give himself any clear idea of it; 
but there flashed by him a roan steed with white feet, and 
Makhotin was the winner. 

One of Vronsky’s feet touched the ground, and his horse 
stumbled. He had scarcely time to clear himself when the 
horse fell on her side, panting painfully, and making vain 
efforts with her delicate foam-covered neck to rise again. 
But she lay on the ground, and struggled like a wounded 
bird: by the movement that he had made in the saddle, he 
had broken her back. But he did not learn his fault till 
afterwards. Now he saw only one thing, that Gladiator was 
far ahead, and that he was there alone, standing on the wet 
ground before his defeated Frou Frou, who stretched her 
head towards him, and looked at him with her beautiful eyes. 
Still not realizing the trouble, he pulled on the reins. ‘The 
poor animal struggled like a fish, and tried to get up on her 
fore-legs; but, unable to move her hind-quarters, she fell 


912 ANNA KARENINA. 


back on the ground all of a tremble. Vronsky, his face pale, 
and distorted with rage, kicked her in the belly to force her 
to rise: she did not move, but gazed at her master with one 
of her speaking looks, and buried her nose in the sand. 

‘¢‘ A—h! what have I done?’’ cried Vronsky, taking her 
head in his hands. ‘* A—h! what have I done?’’ And the 
lost race, and his humiliating, unpardonable blunder, and 
the poor ruined horse! ‘* A—h! what have I done?”’ 

The surgeon and his assistant, his comrades, every one, ran 
to his aid; but to his great mortification, he found that he was 
safe and sound. The horse’s back was broken, and she had 
to be killed. Incapable of uttering a word, Vronsky answered 
nothing to all the questions which were put to him: he left 
the race-course without picking up his cap, or knowing 
whither he was going. He was in despair. For the first 
time in his life he was the victim of a misfortune for which 
there was no remedy, and for which he felt that he himself 
was the only one to blame. 

Yashvin hastened after him with his cap, and took him 
back to his quarters. At the end of half an hour he wag 
calm and self-possessed again, but this race was for a long 
time the most bitter and cruel remembrance of his life. 


XXVI. 


Tue relations of Alekséi Aleksandrovitch seemed to un- 
dergo no outward change. The only difference consisted 
in the extra amount of business which he took upon his 
shoulders. Early in the spring he went abroad, as he usually 
did, to rest himself at the water-cure after the fatigues of 
the winter. He returned in July, and resumed his duties with 
new energy. His wife had taken up her summer quarters as 
usual in the country, not far from Petersburg: he remained 
in the city. Since their conversation after the reception at 
the Princess Tverskaia’s, there had been nothing more said 
between them of jealousies or suspicions; but the tone of 
raillery habitual with Alekséi Aleksandrovitch was very use- 
ful to him in his present relations with his wife. His cool- 
ness increased, although he seemed to have felt only a slight 
ill will towards her after the conversation of that night. It 
was only a cloud, nothing more. He seemed to say, ‘* You 
have not been willing to have an understanding with me; so 


’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 913 


much the worse for you. Now you must make the first ad- 
vances, and I, in my turn, will not listen to you.’’ And he 
bore himself towards his wife, in thought at least, very much 
in the way of a man who, in his rage at not being able to put 
out a fire, should say, ‘‘ Burn, then! So much the worse for 
ou.”’ 

< This man, so keen and shrewd in matters of public con- 
cern, could not see the absurdity of his conduct, or, if he 
saw it, he shut his eyes to the wretchedness of his situation. 
He preferred to bury the affection which he felt for his wife 
and child deep in his heart, as in a box, sealed and secured. 
And he assumed towards the child a singularly cold man- 
ner, speaking to him always with, ‘‘ Ah, young man!’’ in 
the same ironical tone that he used towards Anna. 

Aleks¢i Aleksandrovitch thought and declared that he had 
never had so many important affairs as this year; but he did 
not confess that he had himself brought them about, in order 
to keep from opening his secret coffer which contained his 
sentiments towards his wife and his family, and his thoughts 
concerning them, and which grew more and more troublesome 
the longer he kept them out of sight. 

If any one had assumed the right to ask him what he 
thought about his wife’s conduct, this calm and pacific Alek- 
séi Aleksandrovitch would have flown into a rage, and refused 
to answer. And so his face always looked severe and stern 
whenever any one asked for news of Anna. Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch did not wish to think about his wife’s conduct, 
and therefore he did not think about her. 

The Karénins’ summer datcha was at Peterhof; and the 
Countess Lidia Ivanovna, who always spent her summers 
in the same neighborhood, kept up friendly relations with 
Anna. This year the countess had not cared to go to Peter- 
hof ; and as she was talking with Karénin one day, she made 
some allusion to the impropriety of Anna’s intimacy with 
Betsy and Vronsky. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch stopped her 
harshly, and declared that for him his wife was above sus- 
picion. From that day he avoided the countess, shutting his 
eyes to every thing he did not care to perceive ; and he did not 
perceive that many people in society were beginning to give 
Anna the cold shoulder; and he did not question the motives 
of her desire for going to Tsarskoe, where Betsy lived, not 
far from Vronsky’s camp. 

He did not allow himself to think about this, and he diu 


214 ANNA KARENINA. 


not think ; but in spite of all, without any proof to support 
him, he felt that he was deceived; he had no doubt about 
it, and he suffered deeply. How many times in the course of 
his eight years of married life had he not asked himself as 
he saw shattered homes, ‘‘ How did this ever happen? Why 
con’t they free themselves at any cost from such an absurd 
situation?’’ And now the evil was at his own door; but he 
not only did not dream of extricating himself from his own 
trouble, but he would not even admit it, because he was hor- 
rified at the terrible and unnatural consequences which would 
result. 

Since his return from abroad, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch had 
gone twice to visit his wife in the country, — once to dine with 
her, the other time to pass the evening with some guests, but 
without spending the night, as had been his custom in previous 
years. 

The day of the races was extremely engrossing for Alekséi 
Aleksandrovitch ; but when in the morning he made out the 
programme of the day, he decided to go to Peterhof after 
an early dinner, and thence to the hippodrome, where he 
expected to find the court, and where it was proper that he 
should be seen. For the sake of propriety also, he resolved 
to visit his wife every week. Moreover, it was the middle 
of the month, and it was his custom at this time to place in 
her hands the money for the household expenses. 

Using all his will power, he allowed his thoughts about his 
wife to take this direction; but beyond this point he would 
not permit them to pass. 

His morning had been extremely full of business. The 
evening before he had received a pamphlet, written by a tray- 
eller who had won great renown by his explorations in China, 
and a note from the Countess Lidia, begging him to receive 
this traveller, who seemed likely to be, on many accounts, 
a useful and interesting man. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch had 
not been able to get through the pamphlet in the evening, 
and he finished it after breakfast. Then came petitions, 
reports, visits, nominations, removals, the distribution of 
rewards, pensions, salaries, correspondence, all that ‘‘ work- 
a-day labor,’’ as Alekséi Aleksandrovitch called it, which 
consumes so much time. 

Then came his private business, a visit from his physician 
and a call from his steward. The latter was not very long: 
he only brought the money, and a brief report on the condi- 


ANNA KARENINA. 915 


tion of his affairs, which this year was not very brilliant; the 
expenses had been heavy, and there was a deficit. 

The doctor, on the other hand, a famous physician, and a 
good friend of Karénin’s, took considerable time. He had 
come without being summoned: and Alekséi Aleksandrovitch 
was astonished at his visit, and at the scrupulous care with 
which he plied him'with questions, and sounded his lungs ; 
he was not aware that his friend, the Countess Lidia, troubled 
by his abnormal condition, had begged the doctor to visit 
him, and give him a thorough examination. 

*¢ Do it for my sake,’’ the countess said. 

‘¢T will do it for the sake of Russia, countess,’’ replied 
the doctor. 

‘* Admirable man! ’’ cried the countess. 

The doctor was very much disturbed at Alekséi Aleksan- 
drovitch’s state. His liver was congested, his digestion was 
bad: the waters had done him no good. He ordered more 
physical exercise, less mental strain, and, above all, freedom 
from vexation of spirit; but this was as easy as not to 
breathe. . 

The doctor departed, leaving Alekséi Aleksandrovitch with 
the disagreeable impression that something was very wrong 
with him, and that there was no help for it. 

On the way out, the doctor met on Karénin’s steps his old 
acquaintance, Sliudin, who was Alekséi Aleksandrovitch’s 
chief secretary. They had been in the university together ; 
but, though they rarely met, they were still excellent friends. 
The doctor would scarcely have spoken to others with the 
same freedom that he used towards Sliudin. 

‘¢ How glad I am that you have been to see him! He is 
not well, and it seems t0 me— Nu! what is it?’’ 

*¢] will tell you,’’ said the doctor, beckoning to his coach- 
man to drive up to the door. ‘‘ This is what I say;’’ and, 
taking with his white hand the fingers of his dogskin gloves, 
he stretched it out: ‘‘ try to break a tough cord, and it’s 
hard work ; but keep it stretched out to its utmost tension, 
and touch it with your finger, it breaks. Now, with his 
too sedentary life, and his too conscientious labor, he is 
strained to the utmost limit; and besides, there is a violent 
pressure in another direction,’’ concluded the doctor, raising 
his eyebrows with a significant expression. ‘Shall you 
be at the races?’’ he added as he got into his carriage. 
_ “Yes, yes, certainly ; but it takes too much time,’’ he said 


916 ANNA KARENINA. 


in reply to something that Sliudin said, and which he did 
not catch. 

Immediately after the doctor had gone, the celebrated 
traveller came; and Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, aided by the 
pamphlet which he had just read, and by some previous in- 
formation which he had on the subject, astonished his visitor 
by the extent of his knowledge and the breadth of his views. 
At the same time the Imperial Predvoditel (marshal) was 
announced, who had come to Petersburg on business, and 
wanted to talk with him. Then he was obliged to settle the 
routine business with his chief secretary, and finally to make 
an important and necessary call upon an official. 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch had only time to get back to his 
five o’clock dinner with Sliudin, whom he invited to join him 
in his visit to the country and to the races. 

Without knowing exactly why, he always endeavored lately 
to have a third person present when he had an interview with 
his wife. 


XXVII. 


ANNA was in her room, standing before a mirror, and fas- 
tening a final bow to her dress, with Annushka’s aid, when 
the noise of wheels on the gravel driveway was heard. 

‘¢ It is too early for Betsy,’’ she thought; and, looking out 
of the window, she saw a carriage, and in the carriage the 
black hat and well-known ears of Alekséi Aleksandrovitch. 

‘¢ How provoking! Can he have come for the night? ’’ 
she thought ; and without taking time for a moment of re- 
flection, and under the control of the spirit of falsehood, 
which now ruled her, she went down-stairs, radiant with gay- 
ety, to receive her husband, and spoke with him, not knowing 
what she said. 

‘¢ Ah! how good of you!’ said she, extending her hand 
to Karénin, while she smiled upon Sliudin as a household 
friend. 

‘¢'You’ve come for the night, I hope?’’ were her first 
words, inspired by the demon of untruth; ‘‘and now we 
will go to the races together. But how sorry I am! I am 
engaged to go with Betsy, who is coming for me.’’ 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch frowned slightly at the name of 
Betsy. 

‘¢Oh! I will not separate the inseparables,’’ said he, in his 


ANNA KARENINA. 217 


light, jesting tone. ‘I will walk with Mikhail Vasilyévitch. 
The doctor advised me to take exercise: I will join the pe- 
destrians, and imagine I am still at the Spa.” 

‘¢ There is no hurry,’’ said Anna. ‘‘ Will you have some 
tea?’’ 

She rang. 

‘¢ Serve the tea, and tell Serozha that Alekséi Aleksandro- 
vitch has come. — Nw! how is your health? Mikhail Vas- 
ilyévitch, you have not been out to see us before: look! how 
beautifully I have arranged the balcony !”’ said she, looking 
now at her husband, now at her guest. 

She spoke very simply and naturally, but too fast and too 
fluently. She herself felt that it was so, especially when 
she caught Mikhail Vasilyévitch looking at her with curiosity. 
He got up and went out on the terrace, and she sat down 
beside her husband. 

‘¢ You do not look at all well,’’ said she. 

**Oh, yes! The doctor came this morning, and wasted an 
hour of my time. I am convinced that some one of my 
friends sent him. How precious my health ’’ — 

‘¢ No, what did he say? ’’ 

And she questioned him about his health and his labors, 
advising him to take rest, and to come out into the country, 
where she was. It was all said with gayety and animation, 
and with brilliant light in her eyes, but Alekséi Aleksandro- 
vitch attached no special importance to her manner: he 
heard only her words, and took them in their literal signi- 
fication, replying simply, though rather ironically. The con- 
versation had no special weight, yet Anna afterwards could 
not remember it without genuine pain. 

Serozha came in, accompanied by his governess. If Alek- 
séi Aleksandrovitch had allowed himself to notice, he would 
have been struck by the timid manner in which the lad looked 
at his parents, —at his father first, and then at his mother. 
But he was unwilling to see any thing, and he saw nothing. 

** Ah, young man! He has grown. Indeed, he is getting 
to be a great fellow! Good-morning, young man!”’ 

And he stretched out his hand to the puzzled child. Se- 
rozha had always been a little afraid of his father; but now, 
since his father had begun to call him young man, and since 
he had begun to rack his brains to discover whether Vronsky 
were a friend or an enemy, he was becoming more timid than 
ever. He turned towards his mother, as though for pro 


918 ANNA KARENINA. 


tection: he felt at ease only when with her. Meantime 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, 
and asked his governess about him; but the child was so 
scared that Anna saw he was going to cry. She jumped up, 
raised Alekséi Aleksandrovitch’s hand to let the boy go, and 
kissed him, and took him out on the terrace. Then she came 
back to her husband again. 

‘‘It is getting late,’’ she said, consulting her watch. 
*¢ Why doesn’t Betsy come? ’’ 

‘¢ Da!’’ said Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, getting up, and 
cracking the joints of his fingers. ‘‘I came also to bring 
you some money, for nightingales don’t live on songs,’’ said 
he. ‘* You need it, I have no doubt.”’ 

‘¢ No, I don’t need it — yes —I do,’’ said she, not looking 
at him. ‘* Da! you will come back after the races? ”’ 

‘¢Oh, yes!’’ replied Alekséi Aleksandrovitch. ‘* But here 
is the glory of Peterhof, the Princess Tverskaia,’’ he added, 
looking through the window, and seeing a magnificent Eng- 
lish carriage drawing up to the entrance: ‘‘ what elegance! 
splendid! nu/ let us go too!”’ 

The princess did not leave her carriage: her tiger, in top- 
boots and livery, and wearing a tall hat, leaped to the steps. 

‘¢*T am going: good-by,’’ said Anna, kissing her son, and 
giving her hand to Alekséi Aleksandrovitch. ‘‘ It was very 
kind of you to come.”’ 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch kissed her hand. 

‘* Nu! till we meet again! You will come back to tea? 
Excellent! ’’ she said, as she went down the steps, seeming 
radiant and happy. But hardly had she passed from his 
sight before she shivered with repugnance as she felt on her 
hand the place where his lips had kissed it. 


XXVIII. 


Wuen Alekséi Aleksandrovitch reached the race-course, 
Anna was already in her place beside Betsy, in the grand 
pavilion, where the high society was gathered in a orilliant 
throng. She saw her husband from a distance, and invol- 
untarily followed him as he came along. She saw him 
approach the pavilion, replying with rather haughty conde- 
scension to the salutations, which were meant to draw his 
attention; exchanging careless greetings with his equals; 


ANNA KARENINA. 219 


watching to catch the glances of the great ones of the earth, 
to whom he paid his respects by removing his large, round 
hat, which came down to the top of his ears. Anna knew 
all these mannerisms of salutation, and they were all equally 
distasteful to her. ‘* Nothing but ambition; craze for suc- 
cess ; it is all that his heart contains,’’ she thought: ‘‘ as to 
his lofty views, his love for civilization, his religion, they 
are only means whereby to gain an end; that is all.’’ 

It was evident, from the glances that Karénin cast on the 
pavilion, that he was seeking vainly for his wife in the sea 
of muslin, ribbons, feathers, flowers, and sunshades. Anna 
knew that he was looking for her, but she pretended not to 
see him. 

*¢ Alekséi Aleksandrovitch,’’ cried the Princess Betsy, 
‘¢ don’t you see your wife? here she is!”’ 

He looked up with his icy smile. ‘* Every thing is so 
brilliant here, that it blinds the eyes,’’ he replied, as he 
came up the pavilion. 

He smiled at Anna, as it is a husband’s duty to do when 
he has only just left his wife, bowed to Betsy and his other 
acquaintances, showing himself gallant towards the ladies, 
polite towards the men. 

A general, famous for his wit and his knowledge, was near 
by; and Alekséi Aleksandrovitch joined him, and engaged in 
conversation. It was between the two races: the general 
attacked such kinds of amusement, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch 
defended them. 

Anna heard his slow, shrill voice, and lost none of the 
words which her husband spoke, and which rang unpleasantly 
in herear. When the hurdle-race began, she leaned forward, 
not letting Vronsky out of her sight for an instant. She saw 
him appreech his horse, then mount it: her husband’s voice 
kept floating up to her, and was odious to her. She felt for 
Vronsky; but she suffered painfully at the sound of this 
voice, every intonation of which she knew. 

‘*T am a wicked woman, a lost woman,’’ she thought; 
‘¢ but I hate falsehood, I cannot endure lies; but he [meaning 
her husband] lives by them —liar! He knows all, he sees 
every thing: how much feeling has he, if he can go on 
speaking with such calmness? I should have some respect 
tor him if he killed me, if he killed Vronsky. But no! 
what he prefers above every thing is falsehood and conven 
tionality.”’ 


920 ANNA KARENINA. 


Anna did not exactly know what she would have liked her 
husband to be, and she did not understand that the very 
volubility of Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, which irritated her so, 
was only the expression of his interior agitation: he felt the 
need of making some intellectual exertion, just as a child 
stretches its limbs when it suffers with pain. He wanted te 
become oblivious to the thoughts that arose in his mind at 
the sight of Anna and Vronsky, whose name he heard on 
all sides. He disguised his mental disturbance by talking. 
‘* Danger,’’ he said, ‘‘is an indispensable condition in these 
races of cavalry officers. If Engiand can show in her history 
glorious deeds of arms performed by her cavalry, she owes it 
solely to the historic development of vigor in her people and 
her horses. Sport, in my opinion, has a deep significance ; 
and, as usual, we take it only in its superficial aspect.’’ 

‘* Not superficial,’ said the Princess Tverskaia: ‘‘ they 
say that one of the officers has broken two ribs.”’ 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch smiled on the speaker with a 
cold expression, which showed only his teeth. . 

‘¢T admit, princess, that in this case it is not superficial, 
but serious. But that is not the point ;’’ and he turned again 
to the general, and resumed his dignified discourse. 

‘¢ You must not forget that those who take part are mili- 
tary men; that this career is their choice, and that every 
vocation has its reverse side of the medal. This belongs to 
the calling of war. Such sport as boxing-matches and 
Spanish bull-fights are indications of barbarism, but special- 
ized sport is a sign of development.”’ 

‘¢ No, I won’t come another time,’’ the Princess Betsey 
was saying: ‘‘ it is too exciting for me; don’t you think so, 
Anna?”’ 

‘¢ Tt is exciting, but it is fascinating,’’ said another lady: 
‘if I had been a Roman, I should never have left the 
circus.”’ 

Anna did not speak, but was gazing intently through her 
glass. 

At this moment a tall general came across the pavilion. 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, breaking off his discourse abruptly, 
arose with dignity, and made a low bow. 

‘¢ Aren’t you racing ?’’ asked the general jestingly. 

‘¢My race is a far more difficult one,’’ replied Aleksé¢i 
Aleksandrovitch respectfully ; and though this answer was 
not remarkable for its sense, the military man seemed to 


ANNA KARENINA. 221 


think that he had received a witty repartee from a witty man, 
and appreciated la pointe de la sauce. 

‘There are two sides to the question,’’ Alekséi Aleksan- 
drovitch said, resuming, —‘‘ that of the spectator, and that of 
the participant ; and I confess that a love for such spectacles 
is a genuine sign of inferiority in the people, but ’’ — 

*¢ Princess, a wager,’’ cried the voice of Stepan Arkadye- 
vitch from below, addressing Betsy. “ Which side will you 
take? ’’ 

*¢ Anna and I bet on Prince Kuzoflef,’’ replied Betsy. 

‘¢T am for Vronsky. A pair of gloves.’’ 

** Good! ”’ 

‘¢ How jolly! isn’t it?’’ 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch stopped speaking while this con- 
versation was going on around him, and then he began anew. 

*¢T confess, manly games ’’ — 

At this instant the signal of departure was heard, and all 
conversation ceased. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch also ceased 
speaking ; but while every one stood up so as to look at the 
rekd, he, not feeling interested in the race, instead of 
watching the riders, looked around the assembly with weary 
eyes. His gaze fell upon his wife. 

Her face was pale and stern. Nothing existed for her 
beyond the one person whom she was watching. Her hands 
convulsively clutched her fan: she held her breath. Karénin 
looked around at the faces of other women. 

**There is another lady very much moved, and _ still 
another just the same: it is very natural,’’ said Alekséi 
Aleksandrovitch to himself. He did not wish to look at her: 
but his gaze was irresistibly drawn to her face, whereon he 
read only too plainly, and with feelings of horror, all that 
he had tried to ignore. 

When Kuzoflef fell, the excitement was general; but Alek- 
séi Aleksanurovitch saw clearly by Anna’s pale, triumphant 
face, that he who fell was not the one on whom her gaze was 
riveted. When, after Makhotin’ and Vronsky crossed the 
great hurdle, another officer was thrown head first, and was 
picked up for dead, a shudder of horror ran through the 
assembly, but Alekséi Aleksandrovitch perceived that Anna 
noticed nothing, and did not know what the people were 
talking about. The more he studied her face, the greater 
became his shame. Absorbed as she was in her interest in 
Vronsky’s course, Anna was conscious that her husband’s 


222 ANNA KARENINA. 


cold eyes were on her; and she turned around towards hiya 
for an instant questioningly, and witha slightfrown. ‘* Achs 
I don’t care,’’ she seemed to say, as she turned her glass to 
the race. She did not look at him again. 

The race was disastrous: out of the seventeen riders, more 
than half were thrown. Towards the end, the excitement 
became intense, the more because the Emperor showed dis- 
satisfaction. 


XXIX. 


ALL were expressing their dissatisfaction, and the phrase 
was going the rounds, ‘‘ Now only the lions are left in the 
arena;’’ and the terror caused by Vronsky’s fall was so 
universal, that Anna’s cry of horror caused no astonishment. 
But, unfortunately, her face continued to show more lively 
symptoms of her anxiety than was proper. She lost her 
presence of mind. She tried to escape, like a bird caught in 
asnare. She struggled to arise, and to get away; and she 
cried to Betsy, ‘* Come, let us go, let us go! ”’ 

But Betsy did not hear her. She was leaning over, en- 
gaged in lively conversation with a general who had just 
entered the pavilion. 


Alekséi Aleksandrovitch hastened to his wife, and offered | 


her his arm. 

‘¢ Come, if it is your wish to go,”’ said he in French; but 
Anna did not heed him. She was listening eagerly to the 
general’s words. 

‘¢ He has broken his leg, they say; but this is not at all 
likely,’’ said the general. 

Anna did not look at her husband ; but, taking her glass, 
she gazed at the place where Vronsky had fallen. It was so 
distant, and the crowd was so dense, that she could not make 
any thing out of it. She dropped her lorgnette, and was try- 
ing to go when an officer came galloping up to make some 
report to the Emperor. Anna leaned forward, and listened. 

‘¢ Stiva! Stiva!’’ she cried to her brother. 

He did not hear her. 

She again made an effort to leave the pavilion. 

‘¢T again offer you my arm, if you wish to go,’’ repeated 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, touching her hand. 

Anna drew back from him with aversion, and replied with- 
out looking at him, ‘‘ No, no: leave me; I am going to stay.” 


es 

















HE RACE. 


T 


ANNA KARENINA. 223 


At this moment she saw an officer riding at ful! speed across 
the race-course from the place of the accident towards the 
pavilion. Betsy beckoned to him with her handkerchief ; and 
the officer came up, and said that the rider was uninjured, but 
the horse had broken his back. 

At this news, Anna quickly sat down, and hid her face be: 
hind her fan. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch noticed not only that 
she was weeping, but that she could not restrain the sobs 
that heaved her bosom. He stepped in front of her to shield 
her from the public gaze, and give her a chance to regain her 
self-command. 

‘¢ For the third time, I offer you my arm,”’ said he, turn- 
ing to her at the end of a few moments. 

Anna looked at him, not knowing what to say. Betsy came 
to her aid. 

‘No, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch. I brought Anna, and I 
will be responsible for bringing her home.’’ 

‘¢ Excuse me, princess,’’ he replied politely, and looking 
her full in the face; ‘‘ but I see that she is not well here, and 
I wish her to go home with me.’’ 

Anna obeyed in terror, and, rising hastily, took her hus- 
band’s arm. 

‘*¢ T will send to inquire for him, and let you know,”’ whis- 
' pered Betsy. 

As Alekséi Aleksandrovitch left the pavilion with his wife, 
he spoke in his ordinary manner to all whom he met, and 
Anna was forced to listen and to reply as usual; but she was 
not herself, and as in a dream she passed along on her hus- 
band’s arm. 

‘Ts he killed, or not? Can it be true? Will he come? 
Shall I see him to-day?’’ she asked herself. 

In silence she got into the carriage, and she sat in silence 
while they left the throng of vehicles. In spite of all that 
he had seen, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch did not allow himself 
to think of his wife’s present attitude. He saw only the 
external signs. He saw that her deportment had been im- 
proper, and he felt obliged to speak to her about it. But it 
was very difficult to say this only, and not go farther. He 
opened his mouth to speak; but, against his will, he said 
something absolutely different. 

‘¢ How strange that we all like to see these cruel specta- 
cles! I notice ’’ — 

‘*What? Idid not understand you,’’ said Anna scornfully. 


994 ANNA KARENINA. 


He was wounded, and instantly began to say what was on 
his mind : — 

‘¢T am obliged to tell you,’’ he began — 

‘¢ Now,’’ thought Anna, ‘‘comes the explanktaen! ;°’ and 
she was frightened. 

‘¢T am obliged to tell you, that your conduct to-day has 
been extremely improper,’’ said he in French. 

‘¢ Wherein has my conduct been improper? ’’ she demanded 
angrily, raising her head quickly, and looking him straight 
in the eyes, no longer hiding her feelings under a mask of 
gayety, but putting on a bold front, which, with difficulty, 
she maintained under her fears. 

‘¢ Be careful,’’ said he, pointing to the open window be- 
hind the coachman’s back. 

He leaned forward to raise it. 

‘¢ What impropriety did you remark?’’ she demanded. 

‘¢The despair which you took no pains to conceal when 
one of the riders was thrown.’’ 

He awaited her answer; but she said nothing, and looked 
straight ahead. 

“T have already requested you so to behave when in so- 
ciety that evil tongues. cannot find any thing to say against 
you. There was atime when I spoke of your inner feelings : 
I now say nothing about them. NowI speak only of out- 
ward appearances. You have behaved improperly, and I 
would ask you not to let this happen again.’’ 

She heard only half of his words; she felt overwhelmed 
with fear; and she thought only of Vronsky, and whether he 
was killed. Was it he who was meant when they said the 
rider was safe, but the horse had broken his back? 

When Alekséi Aleksandrovitch ceased speaking, she looked 
at him with an ironical smile, and answered not a word, be- 
cause she had not noticed what he said. At first he had 
spoken boldly ; but as he saw clearly what he was speaking 
about, the terror which possessed her seized him. At first 
her smile led him into a strange mistake. ‘‘ She is amused at 
my suspicions! She is going to tell me now that they are 
groundless ; that this is absurd.’’ 

Such an answer he longed to hear: he was so afraid that 
his suspicions would be confirmed, that he was ready to be- 
lieve any thing that she might say. But the expression of 
her gloomy and frightened face now allowed him no further 
chance of falsehood. 


ANNA KARENINA. 225 


*¢ Possibly I am mistaken,’’ said he: ‘‘in that case, I beg 
you to forgive me.’’ 

*¢ No, you are not mistaken,’’ she replied, with measured 
words, casting a look of despair on her husband’s icy face. 
*¢ You are not mistaken: I was in despair, and I could not 
help being. I hear you, but I am thinking only of him. I 
love him, I have been false to you. I cannot endure you, I 
fear you, I hate you! Do with me what you please!’’ And, 
throwing herself into the bottom of the carriage, she cov- 
ered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch did not move, or turn his face; 
but the solemn expression of his features suddenly assumed 
a deathlike rigidity, which remained unchanged throughout 
the drive home. As they reached the house, he turned his 
head to her, and said, — . 

**So! but I insist upon the preservation of appearances 
from this time forth until I decide upon the measures which 
I shall take, ’’—and here his voice trembled, —‘‘ and which 
will be communicated to you; and this I demand for the 
sake of preserving my honor.’’ 

He stepped out of the carriage, and assisted Anna out. 
Then, in presence of the domestics, he shook hands with 
her, re-entered the carriage, and returned to Petersburg. 

He had just gone, when a messenger from Betsy brought 
a note to Anna: — 

‘*T sent to Alekséi Vronsky to learn about his health. 
He writes me that he is safe and sound, but in despair.”’ 

‘**'Then he will come,’’ she thought. ‘* How well I did to 
tell him all!”’ 

She looked at her watch: scarcely three hours had passed 
since she saw him, but the memory of their interview made 
her heart beat. 

‘* Bozhe mot! how light it is! It is terrible! but I love to 
see his face, and I love this fantastic light. . . . My hus- 
band ! Ach! da! ... nw! and thank God it is all over with 
him !’? 


XXX. 


As in all places where human beings congregate, so in the 
little German village where the Shcherbatskys went to take 
the waters, there is formed a sort of social crystallization 
_ which puts every one in exact and unchangeable place. Just 


926 ANNA KARENINA. 


as a drop of water exposed to the cold always and invaria- 
bly takes a certain crystalline form, so each new individual 
coming to the Spa finds himself invariably fixed in the social 
scale. 

‘¢ Furst Schtschbatzky, sammt Gemahlin und Tochter’’ 
(Prince Shcherbatsky, wife and daughter), both by the apart- 
ments that they occupied, and by their name and the acquaint- 
ances that they made, immediately crystallized into the exact 
place that was predestined to receive them. 

The business of stratification was much more energetic 
this year than usual, from the fact that a genuine German 
Fiirstin (princess) honored the waters with her presence. 
The princess felt called upon to present her daughter, and 
the ceremony took place two days after their arrival. Kitty, 
dressed in a very simple toilet, that is to say, a very elegant 
Parisian costume, made a deep and graceful courtesy. The 
Fiirstin said, — 

‘*¢ T hope that the roses will soon bloom again in this pretty 
little face.’’ 

And immediately the Shcherbatsky family found them- 
selves in the fixed and definite walk in life from which it 
was impossible to descend. ‘They made the acquaintance of 
an English Lady, of a German G‘réjfin, and her son who had 
been wounded in the late war, of a scientific man from Swe- 
den, and of a M. Canut and his sister. 

But for the most part, the Shcherbatskys spontaneously 
formed social relations among the people from Moscow, 
among them Marya Evgenyevna Rtishchevaia and her daugh- 
ter, whom Kitty did not like because she likewise was ill on 
account of a love-affair going wrong ; and a colonel whom she 
always had seen in society, and known by his uniform and his 
epaulets, and who now with his little eyes, and his bare neck 
and flowery cravats, seemed to Kitty supremely ridiculous, 
and the more unendurable because she could not get rid of 
him. When they were all established, it became very tire- 
some to Kitty, the more as her father had gone to Carlsbad, 
and she was left alone with her mother. She could not inter- 
est herself in her old acquaintances, because she knew that 
she should not find any thing novel in them; and so her prin- 
cipal amusement was in studying the people whom she had 
never seen before. It was in accordance with Kitty’s nature 
to see the best side of people, especially of strangers; and 
now her remarks on the characters and scenes that she 


ANNA KARENINA. 927 


amused herself in studying, were colored with a good-na- 
tured exaggeration of their peculiarities. 

Of all these people, there was one in whom she took a 
most lively interest: it was a young girl who had come to 
the baths with a Russian lady named Madame Stahl. Madame 
Stahl, it was said, belonged to the high nobility ; but she was 
unable to walk, and was seen only occasionally going in a 
wheeled-chair to take the baths. But it was rather from 
pride than illness, as the princess judged, that she failed to 
make any acquaintances among the Russians. The young 
girl was her nurse; and, as Kitty discovered, she frequently 
went to those who were seriously ill, — and there were many 
at the baths, —and with the same natural, unaffected zeal, 
took care of them. 

This young Russian girl, Kitty discovered, was no relation 
to Madame Stahl, nor even a hired companion. Madame 
Stahl called her simply Varenka, but her friends called her 
** Mademoiselle Varenka.’’ Kitty not only found it ex- 
tremely interesting to study the relations between this young 
girl and Madame Stahl, and other unknown persons, but an 
irresistible sympathy drew her towards Mademoiselle Varenka ; 
and, when their eyes met, she imagined that it pleased her 
also. 

Mademoiselle Varenka, though still quite young, seemed to 
lack youthfulness: her age might be guessed as either nine- 
teen or thirty. In spite of the lack of color in her face, 
she was rather good-looking: if, on analysis, her head had 
not .been rather large, and her figure too slight, she would 
bave been considered handsome; but she was not one to 
please men; she made one think of a beautiful flower, 
which, though still preserving its petals, was faded and 
without perfume. 

Varenka seemed always absorbed in some important duty, 
and never at leisure to amuse herself with idle nothings ; 
and the example of this busy life made Kitty feel that per- 
haps if she imitated her she would find what she was seeking 
with so much trouble, —an interest in life, a sentiment of 
the dignity of life which would never have any thing in com- 
mon with the social relationship of young women to young 
men, which now seemed to Kitty like an ignominious ex- 
posure of merchandise to be taken by the highest bidder. 
The more she studied her unknown friend, the more she 
longed to become acquainted with her, feeling that she was 


228 ANNA KARENINA. 


a creature of such perfection, that she would like to take her 
as an example for herself. 

The young girls passed each other many times every day ; 
and Kitty’s eyes seemed always to say, ‘‘ Who are you? 
What are you? Are you not, in truth, the charming person 
that I imagine you to be? But for Heaven’s sake,’’ the look 
seemed to add, ‘‘ don’t think that I would be indiscreet 
enough to demand your acquaintance! it is sufficient for me 
to admire you, and to love you.’’ 

‘¢T also love you, and you are very, very charming; and 
I would love you still better, if I had time,’’ replied the look 
of the stranger: and indeed she was always busy. Now it 
was the children of a Russian family whom she was taking 
home from the baths, now an invalid who had to be wrapped 
in his plaid, or another whom she was trying to amuse, or 
getting confections for some sick person, or bringing an- 
other his coffee and cream. 

One morning, soon after the arrival of the Shcherbatskys, 
a couple appeared who immediately became the object of 
rather unfriendly criticism: a tall, stooping man, with enor- 
mous hands, black eyes, at once innocent and terrifying, 
and wearing an old, ill-fitting, short coat. The woman was 
no less outré in her costume : her face was marked with small- 
pox, but was kindly in expression. 

Kitty instantly recognized that they were Russians; and 
her imagination was at work constructing a touching romance, 
of which they were the principal characters, when the princess 
learned, by consulting the kurliste (list of arrivals), that this 
was Nikolai Levin and Marya Nikolayevna; and she put an 
end to Kitty’s romance by telling her what a bad man this 
Levin was. 

The fact that he was Konstantin Levin’s brother, even 
more than her mother’s words, made these two people par- 
ticularly repulsive to Kitty. This man with the strange 
motion of his head became odious to her; and she imagined 
that she could read in his great, wild eyes, as they persist- 
ently followed her, sentiments of irony and ill will: as far 
as possible, she avoided meeting him. 


ANNA KARENINA. 229 


XXXT, & XXXII. 


Ir was a stormy day: the rain fell all the morning, and 
the invalids with umbrellas thronged in the galleries. 

Kitty and her mother, accompanied by the Muscovite 
colonel playing the elegant in his European overcoat, bought 
ready made in Frankfort, were walking on one side of 
the gallery, in order to avoid Nikolai Levin, who was on the 
other. Varenka in her sombre dress, and a black hat with 
the brim turned down, was acting as guide to a blind old 
French woman: each time that she and Kitty met, they ex- 
changed friendly glances. 

‘¢ Mamma, can I speak with her?’’ asked Kitty, seeing her 
unknown friend approaching the spring, and judging that it 
was a favorable time for them to meet. 

‘¢ Yes, if you are very anxious. I will inquire about her, 
and make her acquaintance first,’’? said her mother. ‘* But 
why do you wish to know her? She is only a ladies’ com- 
panion. If you like, I can speak to Madame Stahl. I knew 
her belle-sceur,’’ added the princess, raising her head with 
dignity. 

Kitty knew that her mother was vexed at the attitude of 
Madame Stahl, who seemed to avoid her; and she did not 
press the point. 

‘‘ How charming she is!’’ said she, as she saw Varenka 
give the blind French lady a glass. ‘* See how lovely and 
gentle every thing is that she does.’’ 

‘‘ You amuse me with your engouements’’ [infatuations], 
replied the princess. ‘‘ No, let us not go farther,’’ she 
added, as she saw Levin approaching with Marya and a 
German doctor, with whom he was speaking in a sharp and 
angry tone. 

As they turned to go back, suddenly they heard the sound 
of angry voices and a cry. Levin had stopped, and was 
shrieking with excited gestures. The doctor was also angry. 
A crowd was gathering around them in a ring. The princess 
and Kitty hurried away, but the colonel joined the throng to 
find out what the trouble was. After a few moments he 
came back to them. 

‘¢ What was it?’’ asked the princess. 

‘‘It is a shame and a disgrace,’’ replied the colonel. 
‘* Nothing worse than to meet these Russians abroad. This 


930 ANNA KARENINA. 


huge gentleman quarrelled with his doctor, heaped indignities 
upon him for not attending to him as he wished, and finally 
he raised his cane. It is disgraceful.’’ 

*¢ Ach! how unpleasant! how unpleasant !’’ said the prin- 
cess. ‘* Nu! how did it end?”’ é 

‘*¢ Fortunately, this — this girl with a hat like a toadstool 
interfered. A Russian, it seems,’’ said the colonel. 

*¢ Mademoiselle Varenka? ”’ 

*¢'Yes, yes! She went quicker than any one else, and took 
the angry: gentleman by the arm, and led him off.’’ 

‘¢ There, mamma!’’ said Kitty, ‘‘and you wonder at my 
enthusiasm for Varenka!”’ 

The next morning Kitty noticed that Varenka was taking 
up with Levin and Marya just the same as with her other 
protegés: she was talking with them, and acting as inter- 
preter to the woman, who did not know any language besides ° 
her own. 

Kitty again begged her mother even more urgently to let 
her become acquainted with Varenka; and though it was un- 
pleasant to the princess to seem to be making advances to 
the haughty and exclusive Madame Stahl, she satisfied her- 
self that all was perfectly proper in the proposed acquaint- 
ance. She chose a moment when Kitty was at the spring, 
and addressed Varenka. 

‘¢ Allow me to introduce myself,’’ said she, with a con- 
descending smile. ‘‘ My daughter has taken a great fancy 
to you. But perhaps you do not know me. I’’— 

‘¢It is more than reciprocal, princess,’’ replied Varenka 
quickly. 

‘¢ What a good thing you did yesterday towards our sad 
fellow-countryman,’’ said the princess. 

‘* I don’t know,’’ she replied. — ‘‘ I do not remember of 
having done any thing.”’ 

‘¢ Yes, indeed! you saved this Levin from an unpleasant 
affair.’’ 

‘¢ Ah, yes! sa compagne called me, and I tried to calm 
him: he is very sick, and very much put out with his doctor. 
I am quite used to this kind of invalids.”’ 

‘¢ Da! I believe you live at Mentone with your aunt, 
Madame Stahl. I used to know her belle-sceur.’’ 

‘¢ No, Madame Stahl is not my aunt. I call her maman, 
but I am no relation to her. I was brought up by her,” 
replied Varenka. 


ANNA KARENINA. 931 


All this was said with perfect simplicity ; and the expres- 
sion of her pleasing face was so frank and sincere, that the 
princess began to understand why Kitty was so charmed by 
her. 

*¢ Nu! what is this Levin going to do?’’ she asked. 

** He is going away.’’ . 

At this moment, Kitty, radiant with pleasure because her 
mother was talking with her friend, came in from the spring. 

** Nu, vot! Kitty, your ardent desire to know Mademoi- 
selle ’? — 

‘*¢ Varenka,’’ said the young girl. ‘‘ Everybody calls me 
so.”’ 

Kitty was delighted, and without speaking pressed her 
new friend’s hand a long time, but without any response. 
Varenka’s face, however, was lighted with a happy expression 
tinged with melancholy ; and when she laughed, she showed 
her large but handsome teeth. 

‘¢T have been longing to know you,’ 
you are so busy ’’? — 

*¢ Ach! on the contrary, I haven’t any thing to do,”’ replied 
Varenka; but at the same instant two little Russian girls, the 
daughters of an invalid, ran towards her, and said, — 

‘¢ Varenka, mamma is calling.”’ 

And Varenka followed them. 

When the princess set out to find about Varenka’s past 
life, and her relations with Madame Stahl, she learned the 
following particulars : — 

Madame Stahl had always been a sickly and excitable 
woman, who was said by some to have tormented the life 
out of her husband, and by others to have been made un- 
happy by his unreasonable behavior. After she was divorced 
from her husband, she gave birth to her first child, who did 
not live. Madame Stahl’s family, knowing her sensitiveness, 
and fearing that the shock would kill her, substituted for 
the dead child the daughter of Court, a cook, born on the 
same night, and in the same house at Petersburg. It was 
Varenka. Madame Stahl afterwards learned that the child 
was not her own, but continued to take charge of it, the 
more willingly as the true parents shortly after died, leaving 
it without relatives. 

For more than ten years Madame Stahl lived abroad, in 
the South, scarcely ever leaving her bed. Some said that 
she had made a public show of her piety and good works: 


? 


she said. ‘* But 


932 ANNA KARENINA. 


others saw in her a superior being of real moral elevation, 
and asserted that she lived only for the sake of her charities ; 
in a word, that she was really what she seemed to be. No 
one knew whether she was Catholic, Protestant, or orthodox ; 
one thing alone was certain, — that she had friendly relations 
with the high dignitaries of all the Churches and of all com- 
munions. 

Varenka always lived with Madame Stahl; and all who 
knew Madame Stahl knew Mile. Varenka also, and loved her. 

Kitty became more and more attached to her friend, and 
each day discovered some new charm in her. The princess, 
seeing that Varenka’s manners were excellent, and that she 
was well educated, speaking French and English perfectly, 
did not discourage the friendship, and, having discovered 
that she sang, invited her to come and spend an evening with 
them. 

*¢ Kitty plays, and we have a piano; and, though the instru- 
ment is bad, we shall be delighted to hear you,”’ said the 
princess with a forced politeness that was displeasing to 
Kitty, especially as she knew that Varenka did not want to 
sing. She came, however, that same evening, and brought 
her music. The princess invited Marya Evgenyevna and her 
daughter, and the colonel. Varenka seemed not to mind 
the presence of these people, who were strangers to her, but 
sat down to the piano without being urged: she could not 
accompany herself, but she read the notes perfectly. Kitty 
played very well, and accompanied her. 

‘* You have a remarkable talent,’’ said the princess after 
the first song, which Varenka sang beautifully. 

Marya Evgenyevna and her daughter added their compli- 
ments and their thanks. 

*¢See,’’ said the colonel, looking out of the window, 
‘what an audience you have attracted.’’ In fact, a large 
number of people had gathered in front of the house. 

‘¢T am very glad to have given you pleasure,’’ said V4- 
renka without affectation. ; 

Kitty looked at her friend proudly: she admired her art 
and her voice and her face, and, more than all, her bearing. 
It was evident that Varenka made no boast of her singing, 
and was indifferent to compliments. She simply seemed to 
say, ‘‘ Shall I sing some more, or is that enough? ”’ 

‘Tf I were in her place, how proud I should be! 
How happy I should be to see that crowd under the 





ANNA KARENINA. 233 


window! But she seems perfectly unconscious of it. All 
that she seemed to want was to please maman. What is 
there about her? What is it that gives her this power of in- 
difference, this calmness and independence? How I should 
like to learn of her!’’ thought Kitty, as she looked into her 
peaceful face. 

The princess asked for a second song; and Varenka sang 
this as well as the first, with the.same care and the same per- 
fection, standing erect near the piano, and beating time with 
her little brown hand. 

The next piece in her music-roll was an Italian aria. 
Kitty played the introduction, and turned towards Varenka. 

‘*¢ Let us skip that,’’ said she, blushing. 

Kitty, in surprise and wonder, fixed her eyes on Varenka’s 
face. 

‘¢ Nu! another one,’’ she said, hastily turning the pages, 
and somehow feeling an intuition that the Italian song 
brought back to her friend some painful association. 

‘¢ No,’’ replied Varenka, putting her hand on the notes. 
‘¢ Let us sing this.’? And she sang as calmly and coolly as 
before. 

After the singing was over, they all thanked her again, 
and went out into the dining-room to drink tea. Kitty and 
Varenka went down into the little garden next the house. 

*¢ You had some association with that song, did you not?”’ 
asked Kitty. ‘* You need not tell me about it: simply say, 
‘Yes, I have.’ ”’ 

** Why should I not tell you about it? Yes, there is an 
association,’’ said Varenka calmly, ‘‘ and it is a painful one. 
I once loved a man, and used to sing that piece to him.’’ 

Kitty with wide-open eyes looked at Varenka meekly, but 
did not speak. 

‘¢ T loved him, and he loved me also; but his mother was 
unwilling, and he married some one else. He does not live 
very far from us now, and I sometimes see him. You didn’t 
think that I also had my romance, did you?’’ And her face 
lighted up with a rare beauty, and a fire such as Kitty 
imagined might have been habitual in other days. 

*¢ Why shouldn’t I have thought so? If I were a man I 
could never have loved any one else after knowing you,’’ 
said Kitty. ‘* What I cannot conceive is, that he was able to 
forget you, and make you unhappy for the sake of obeying 
his mother. He couldn’t have had any heart.’’ 


934 ANNA KARENINA. 


**On the contrary, he was an excellent man: and I, I am 
not unhappy; I am very happy—znu! Shall we sing any 
more this evening?’’ she added, turning towards the house. 

‘* How good you are! how good you are!’’ cried Kitty, 
stopping to kiss her. ‘‘If I could only be a bit like- 

ou!’? 

‘* Why should you resemble any one else besides yourself? 
Stay the good girl that you are,’’ said Varenka, with her 
sweet and melancholy smile. | 

‘*No, Iam not good at all. Nu! tell me. —Stay, stay; 
let us sit down a little while,’’ said Kitty, drawing her down 
toa settee near by. ‘‘ Tell me how it can be other than a pain 
to think of a man who has scorned ycur love, who has 
jilted you.’”’ | 

‘¢ Da! he did not scorn it at all: I am sure that he loved 
me. But he was a dutiful son, and’? — 

** And suppose it had not been for the sake of his mother, — 
of his own free will,’’ said Kitty, feeling that she was be- 
traying her secret by her face as well as by her words. 

‘*Then he would not have behaved honorably, and I 
should not mourn for him,’’ replied Varenka, perceiving that 
the supposition concerned, not herself, but Kitty. 

‘¢ But the insult !’’ cried Kitty. ‘‘ Can one forget the in- 
sult? It is impossible,’’ said she, remembering her own 
look when the music stopped at the last ball. 

‘¢ Whose insult? You didn’t do any thing wrong?’’ 

‘¢ Worse than wrong, — shameful! ”’ 

Varenka shook her head, and laid her hand on Kitty’s. 

‘¢ Da! but why shameful?’’ she asked. ‘‘ You surely did 
not tell a man who showed indifference to you that you loved 
him? ”’ 

‘*Certainly not: I never uttered a word. But he knew it. 
There are looks, ways—no, no! not if I lived a hundred 
years should I ever forget it.’’ 

‘* Now, what is it? I don’t understand you. The ques- 
tion is solely this: do you love him now, or not?’’ said Va- 
renka, who liked to call things by their right names. 

‘¢T hate him. I cannot forgive myself.’’ 

*¢ But what for? ’”’ 

‘¢ The shame, the insult.’’ 

‘¢ Ach! if every one were as sensitive as you! There is 
never a young girl who does not sometimes feel the same way. 
It is all such a trifling thing! ”’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 235 


‘¢ But what, then, is important?’’ asked Kitty, looking at 
Varenka with astonishment and curiosity. 

‘* Ach! many things are important,’’ replied Varenka, 
with a smile. 

‘¢ Da! but what? ’’ 

*¢ Ach! there are many things more important,’’ replied 
Varenka, net knowing what to say; but at that moment the 
princess shouted from the window, — 

** Kitty, itis getting cool; put on your shawl, or come in.”’ 

‘*It is time to go,’”’ said Varenka, getting up. ‘‘I must 
go and see Madame Berthe: she asked me to come.”’ 

Kitty held her by the hand, and asked her, with a look full 
of passionate, almost supplicating, curiosity, — 

*¢ What is it that is so important? What can give calm? 
You know: tell me.’’ 

But Varenka did not understand the meaning of Kitty’s 
look. She remembered only that she had still to go to see 
Madame Berthe, and to get home at midnight for tea with 
maman. She went back to the room, picked up her music, 
and, having said good-night to all, she was going to take her 
departure. 

*¢ Allow me: I will escort you,’’ said the colonel. 

‘* Certainly,’’ said the princess. ‘* How could you go home 
alone at night? I was going to send Parasha with you.’’ 

Kitty saw that Varenka could hardly keep from smiling at 
the idea that she needed any one to go home with her. 

‘¢ No, I always go home alone, and nothing ever happens 
to me,’’ said she, taking her hat, and leaving Kitty again, 
though she did not tell her ‘‘ the one important thing.’’ She 
hurried away with firm steps, her music-roll under her arm, 
and disappeared in the semi-darkness of a summer night, 
carrying with her the secret of her dignity and her enviable 
calmness. 


XXXII. 


Kirry made Madame Stahl’s acquaintance, and her rela- 
tions with this lady and Varenka had a calming influence 
upon her. 

She learned, through this friendship, that there existed an 
entirely new world, which hitherto had been hidden from her, 
—a beautiful, supernal world, which would enable her to look 
calmly on her past. This world, which was entirely apart 


236 ANNA KARENINA. 


from the instinctive life which hitherto she had led, was the 
spiritual life. This life was reached by religion, —not the 
religion to which Kitty had been accustomed since infancy, 
a religion which consisted of going to morning and evening 
service, and to the House of Widows, where she met her ac- 
quaintances, or of learning by heart Slavonic texts with the 
parish priest, but a lofty, mystic religion, united with the 
purest thoughts and feelings, and believed in not through 
duty, but through love. 

Kitty learned all this, but not by words. Madame Stahl 
spoke to her as to a lonely child whom she loved as the 
type of her own youth, and only once did she make any 
allusion to the consolation brought by faith and love for 
human sorrows, and to the compassion of Christ, who looked 
upon no sorrows as insignificant; and she immediately 
changed the subject. But in all this lady’s motions, in her 
words, in her heavenly looks, as Kitty called them, and, 
above all, in the story of her life, which she knew through 
Varenka, Kitty discovered ‘‘ the important thing” which till 
now had been but a sealed book to her. 

But, lofty as Madame Stahl’s character was, touching as 
was her history, Kitty could not help noticing certain peculi- 
arities, which troubled her. One day, for example, when 
her relatives were mentioned, Madame Stahl smiled disdain- 
fully: it was contrary to Christian charity. Another time 
Kitty noticed, when she met a Roman-Catholic dignitary call- 
ing upon her, that Madame Stahl kept her face carefully 
shaded by the curtain, and had a strange look in her face. 
These two incidents, though of slight importance, gave her 
some pain, and caused her to doubt Madame Stahl’s sin- 
cerity. Varenka, on the other hand, alone in the world, 
without family connections, without friends, hoping for 
naught, harboring no ill will after her bitter disappointment, 
seemed to her absolute perfection. It was through Varenka 
that she learned how to forget herself, and to love her neigh- 
bor, if she wanted to be happy, calm, and good. And, when 
once she learned this, Kitty was no longer willing simply to 
admire, but she gave herself up with her whole heart to the 
new life which opened before her. After the stories which 
Varenka told her of Madame Stahl and others whom she 
named, Kitty drew up a plan for her coming life. She de- 
cided, that, following the example of Aline, Madame Stahl’s 
niece, whom Varenka often told her about, she would visit 


ANNA KARENINA. 237 


the poor, no matter where she found them, and that she 
would aid them to the best of her ability; that she would 
distribute the gospel, read the New Testament to the sick, 
to the dying, to criminals: this last idea especially appealed 
to her. But she indulged in these dreams secretly, without 
telling her mother of them, or even her friend. 

However, while she was waiting to be able to carry out 
her schemes on a wider scale, it was not difficult for Kitty 
to put her new principles in practice: at the waters the sick 
and the unhappy are easily found, and she did as Varenka 
did. 

The princess quickly noticed how completely Kitty had 
fallen under the influence of her engowement, as she called 
Madame Stahl, and particularly Varenka. She saw that 
Kitty imitated Varenka, not only in her deeds of charity, but 
even in her gait, in her speech, in her ways of shutting her 
eyes. Later she discovered that her daughter was passing 
through a sort of crisis of the soul quite independent of the 
influence of her friends. 

One evening the princess saw Kitty reading the Gospels 
in a French Testament loaned her by Madame Stahl, — an 
unusual custom with her. She also noticed that she avoided 
all the gayeties of life, and gave her time to the sick under 
Varenka’s care, and particularly to a family of a poor sick 
painter named Petrof. 

The young girl seemed proud to fill, in this household, the 
functions of a sister of charity. All this was very good; 
and the princess had no fault to find with it, and opposed it 
all the less from the fact that Petrof’s wife was a woman of 
good family, and that one day the Fiirstin, noticing Kitty’s 
beauty, had praised her, and called her the ‘‘ ministering 
angel.’’ All would have been very good if the princess had 
not feared the exaggeration into which her daughter might 
easily be led. 

*¢ Ti ne faut rien outrer’’ [**One must never go to ex- 
tremes ’’], she said to her in French. 

The young girl did not answer ; but she questioned from the 
bottom of her heart whether one could ever go to extremes 
in a religion which bids you offer your left cheek when the 
right has been struck, and to give your cloak to your neigh- 
bor. But what pained the princess even more than this 
tendency to exaggeration, was to feel that Kitty was unwill- 
ing to open her heart to her mother. In point of fact, Kitty 


238 ANNA KARENINA. 


made a secret of these new feelings, not because she lacked 
affection or respect for her mother, but simply because she 
was her mother, and it would have been easier to confess 
them to a stranger than to her mother. 

‘¢Tt is a long time since Anna Pavlovna has been to see 
us,’’ said the princess one day, speaking of Madame Petrova. 
‘* T invited her to come, but she seems offended.’’ 

‘No, I don’t think so, maman,’’ replied Kitty with a 
guilty look. 

‘¢ You have not been with her lately, have you? ”’ 

*¢'We planned a walk on the mountain for to-morrow,’’ 
said Kitty. 

‘¢T see no objection,’’ replied the princess, noticing her 
daughter’s confusion, and trying to fathom the reason. 

Varenka came the same day, and announced that Anna 
Pavlovna had given up the proposed expedition. The prin- 
cess noticed that Kitty looked still more confused. 

*¢ Kitty, there has not been any thing unpleasant between 
you and the Petrofs, has there?’’ she asked, as soon as 
they were alone. ‘‘ Why have they ceased to send their 
children, or to come themselves? ’’ 

Kitty replied that nothing had happened, and that she did 
not understand why Anna Pavlovna seemed to be angry with 
her; and she told the truth. But, if she did not know the 
reasons for the change in Madame Petrova, she guessed 
them, and also thus guessed a thing that she did not dare 
to confess, even to herself, still less to her mother, so 
humiliating and painful it would have been had she been 
mistaken. 

All the memories of her relations with this family came 
back to her, one after the other. She remembered the joy 
which shone on Anna Pavlovna’s honest round face when 
they first met; their secret discussions to find means to dis- 
tract the invalid, and keep him from the forbidden work, and 
to get him out of doors; the attachment of the youngest 
child, who called her Moya Kiti, and would not go to bed 
without her. How beautiful every thing was at that time! 
Then she remembered Petrof’s thin face, his long neck 
stretching out from his brown coat; his thin curly hair; 
his blue eyes, with their questioning look, which she had 
feared at first ; his feeble efforts to seem lively and energetic 
when she was near; the trouble that she had to overcome ; 
the repugnance which he, as well as all consumptives, caused 


eS ee Oe ee 


ee eee 


ANNA KARENINA. 239 


her to feel; and the trouble which she had in finding some- 
thing to talk with him about. 

She remembered the sick man’s humble and timid looks 
when he saw her, and the strange feeling of compassion and 
awkwardness which came over her at first, followed by the 
pleasant consciousness of her charitable deeds. How lovely 
it all had been! but it lasted only for a brief moment. 
Now and for several days there had been a sudden change. 
Anna Pavlovna received Kitty with scant friendliness, and 
did not cease to watch her husband. 

Could it be that the invalid’s affecting joy at the sight of 
her was the cause of Anna Pavlovna’s coolness? ‘‘ Yes,’’ 
she said to herself, ‘‘ there was something unnatural and quite 
different from her ordinary sweet temper when she said to 
me, day before yesterday, sharply, ‘ Vot/ he will not do any 
thing without you; he would not even take his coffee, though 
he was very faint.’ ’’ 

‘‘ Da! perhaps it was not agreeable to her when I gave 
him his plaid. It was such a simpie little thing to do; but 
he seemed so strange, and thanked me so warmly, that I felt 
ill at ease. And then that portrait of me which he painted 
so well; but, above all, his gentle and melancholy look. 
Yes, yes, it must be so,’’ Kitty repeated with horror. ‘‘ No, 
it cannot be, it must not be! He is to be pitied so!’’ she 
added in her secret heart. 

This suspicion poisoned the pleasure of her new life. 


XXXIV. 


Just before their season at, the Spa was over, Prince 
Shcherbatsky rejoined them. He had been to Carlsbad, to 
Baden, and to Kissingen, with Russian friends, — ‘‘ to get a 
breath of Russian air,”’ as he expressed it. 

The prince and princess had conflicting ideas in regard to 
living abroad. The princess thought that every thing was 
lovely ; and, notwithstanding her assured position ‘in Russian 
society, she put on the airs of a European lady while she 
was abroad, which was not becoming, for she was in every 
way a genuine Russian baruina. The prince, on the other 
hand, considered every thing abroad detestable, and the 
European life unendurable; and he even exaggerated his 
Russian characteristics, and tried to be less of a European 
than he really was. 


240 ANNA KARENINA. 


He came back emaciated and with hollows under his eyes, 
but in his ordinary happy spirits ; and he felt still more gay 
when he found that Kitty was on the road to health. 

The accounts that he heard of Kitty’s intimacy with 
Madame Stahl and Varenka, and the princess’s description 
of the moral transformation through which his daughter was 
passing, rather vexed the prince, awaking in him that feel- 
ing of jealousy which he always had in regard to every thing 
that might draw Kitty away from under his influence. He 
was afraid that she might ascend to regions unattainable to 
him. But these disagreeable presentiments were swallowed 
up in the sea of gayety and good humor which he always 
carried with him, and which his sojourn at Carlsbad had 
increased. 

The day after his arrival, the prince, in his long ulster, and 
with his Russian wrinkles and his puffy cheeks standing out 
above his stiffly starched collar, went in the very best of 
spirits with Kitty to the spring. 

The morning was beautiful. The neat, gay houses, with 
their little gardens, the sight of the German servants, with 
their red faces and red arms, happily working, the brilliant 
sun, —every thing filled the heart with pleasure. But as 
they came nearer to the spring they met more and more 
invalids, whose lamentable appearance contrasted painfully 
with the trim and beneficent Germanic surroundings. 

For Kitty the bright sunlight, the vivid green of the trees, 
the sounds of the music, all formed a natural framework for 
these well-known faces, whose changes for better or worse 
she had been watching. But for the prince there was some- 
thing cruel in the contrast between this bright June morning, 
the orchestra playing the latest waltz, and especially the 
sight of these healthy-looking servants, and the miserable 
invalids, from all the corners of Europe, dragging themselves 
painfully along. 

In spite of the return of his youth which the prince ex- 
perienced, and the pride that he felt in having his favorite 
daughter on his arm, he confessed to a sense of shame and 
awkwardness in walking along with his firm step and his vig- 
orous limbs. 

‘¢ Introduce me, introduce me to your new friends,”’ said he 
to his daughter, pressing her arm with his elbow. ‘‘I am be- 
ginning to like your abominable Soden for the good which it 
has done you. Only it is melancholy for you. Who is this?”’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 941 


Kitty told the names of the acquaintances and strangers 
that they met on their way. At the very entrance of the 
garden they met Madame Berthe and her companion, and 
the prince was pleased to see the expression of joy on the 
old woman’s face at the sound of Kitty’s voice. With true 
French exaggeration she overwhelmed the prince with com- 
pliments, and congratulated him on having such a charming 
daughter, whose merits she praised to the skies, declaring 
that she was a treasure, a pearl, a ministering angel. 

‘¢ Nu! she must be angel number two,”’’ said the prince 
gallantly, ‘‘ for she assures me that Mademoiselle Varenka 
is angel number one.”’ 

‘¢Oh! Mademoiselle Varenka is truly an angel. Allez,’’ 
said Madame Berthe vivaciously. 

They soon met Varenka herself in the gallery. She has- 
tened up to them, carrying an elegant red bag in her hand. 

‘¢ Here is papa,’’ said Kitty. 

Varenka made the prince a simple and natural salutation, 
almost like a courtesy, and without any false modesty entered 
into conversation with him. 

‘¢Of course I know you, — know you very well already,”’ 
said the prince, with a pleasant expression that made Kitty 
see that her father liked her friend. ‘* Where were you 
going so fast?’’ 

‘¢ Maman is here,’’ she replied, turning to Kitty. ‘‘ She 
did not sleep all night, and the doctor advised her to take 
the air. I have brought her work.”’ 

‘¢So that is angel number one?’’ said the prince when 
Varenka had gone. Kitty saw that he had intended to rally 
her about her friend, but had refrained because her friend 
had pleased him. 

‘¢ Nu! let us go and see them all,’’ said he, —‘‘ all your 
friends, even Madame Stahl if she will deign to remember 
me.”’ 

‘¢But did you ever know her, papa?’’ asked Kitty with 
fear, as she saw an ironical flash in her father’s eyes as he 
mentioned Madame Stahl. 

‘*T knew her husband, and I knew her a little before she 
joined the Pietists.’’ 

‘* What are these Pietists, papa? ”? asked Kitty, troubled 
because such a nickname was given to what in Madame 
Stahl she valued so highly. 

**] myself do not know much about them. I only know 


949 ANNA KARENINA. 


this, that she thanks God for all her tribulations, and, above 
all, because her husband is dead. Nw! and that is comical, 
because they did not live happily together. But who is that? 
What a melancholy face!’’ he added, seeing an invalid in 
a brown coat, with white pantaloons making strange folds 
around emaciated legs. This gentleman had raised his straw 
hat, and bared his sparse curly hair and high forehead, on 
which showed the red line made by the brim. 

‘*That is Petrof, a painter,’’ replied Kitty, with a blush; 
‘¢ and there is his wife,’’ she added, pointing to Anna Pay- 
lovna, who, at their approach, had risen to run after one of 
their children playing in the street. , 

‘* Poor fellow! and what a good face he has! ”’ said the 
prince. ‘‘ But why did you not go to him? He seemed 
anxious to speak to you.”’ 

‘¢ Nu! let us go back to him,”’ said Kitty, resolutely turn- 
ing about.— ‘* How do you feel to-day? ’’ she asked. 

Petrof arose, leaning on his cane, and looked timidly at 
the prince. 

‘¢ This is my daughter,’’ said the prince: ‘‘ allow me to 
make your acquaintance.’’ 

The painter bowed and smiled, showing teeth of strangely 
dazzling whiteness. 

‘‘ We expected you yesterday, princess,’’ said he to 
Kitty. 

He staggered as he spoke; and to conceal the fact that it 
was involuntary, he repeated the motion. 

‘*T expected to come, but Vdrenka told me that Anna 
Pavlovna sent word that you were not going.’’ 

‘*'That we weren’t going?’’ said Petrof, troubled, and 
beginning to cough. Then looking towards his wife, he called 
hoarsely, ‘* Annetta! Annetta!’’ while the great veins on 
his thin white neck stood out like cords. 

Anna Pavlovna drew near. 

‘* How did you send word to the princess that you were 
not going?’’ he demanded angrily, in a whisper. 

‘* Good-morning, princess,’’ said Anna Pavlovna, in a 
constrained manner, totally different from her former effu- 
siveness. ‘‘ Very glad to make your acquaintance,’’ she 
added, addressing the prince. ‘* You have been long ex- 
pected, prince.”’ 

‘* How could you have sent word to the princess that we 
were not going?’’ again demanded the painter in his hoarse 


ANNA KARENINA. 943 


whisper, and still more irritated because he could not express 
himself as he wished. 

‘¢ Ach! Bozhe moi! I thought that we were not going,’’ 
said his wife testily. 

‘¢ How ?— when? ’’ — but a coughing-fit attacked him, and 
he made a gesture of despair with his hand. 

The prince raised his hat, and went away with his daughter. 

‘Oh! Ach!’’ he sighed. ‘* Oh these poor creatures ! ”’ 

‘¢ Yes, papa,’’ said Kitty; ‘‘and you must know that 
they have three children, and no servant, and no means at 
all. He receives a pittance from the Academy,”’’ she con- 
tinued eagerly, so as to conceal the emotion caused by the 
change in Anna Pavlovna and her unfriendly reception. 
*¢ Ah, vot! there is Madame Stahl!’’ said Kitty, directing 
his attention to a wheeled-chair, in which was lying a human 
form, wrapped in gray and blue, propped up by pillows, and 
shaded by an umbrella. A solemn and sturdy German laborer 
was pushing her chair. Beside her walked a blond Swedish 
count, whom Kitty knew by sight. Several people had 
stopped near the wheeled-chair, and were gazing at this 
lady as though she were some curiosity. 

The prince approached her. Kitty instantly noticed in 
her father’s eyes that ironical glance which had troubled her 
before. He addressed Madame Stahl in that excellent French 
which so few Russians nowadays are able to speak, and was 
extremely polite and friendly. 

*¢*T do not know whether you still recollect me, but it is 
my duty to bring myself to your remembrance, in order that 
I may thank you for kindness to my daughter,’’ said he, 
taking off his hat, and holding it in his hand. 

‘¢ Le prince Alexandre Cherbatsky !’’ said Madame Stahl, 
looking at him with her heavenly eyes, in which Kitty 
thought she saw a shade of dissatisfaction. ‘I am en- 
chanted to see you: I am very fond of your daughter.”’ 

‘*¢ Your health is not always good?”’ 

‘¢Oh! I am pretty well used to it now,’’ replied Madame 
Stahl; and she presented the Swedish count. 

‘* You have changed very little during the ten or twelve 
years since I had the honor of seeing you.”’ 

‘¢'Yes. God, who gives the cross, gives also the power to 
carry it. I often ask myself why my life is so prolonged. — 
Not like that,’’ said she crossly, to Varenka, who was trying, 
without success, to wrap her in her plaid. 


244 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘*For doing good, without doubt,’’ said the prince, with 
laughing eyes. 

‘¢It is not for us to judge,’’ replied Madame Stahl, who 
had not failed to observe the gleam of irony in the prince’s 
face. 

‘J pray you send me that book, dear count. I thank you 
a thousand times in advance,”’ said she, turning to the young 
Swede. 

‘* Ah!” cried the prince, who had just caught sight of the 
Muscovite colonel; and bowing to Madame Stahl, he went 
away with his daughter, to join him. 

‘¢ This is our aristocracy, prince!’’ said the colonel, with 
sarcastic intent, for he also was piqued because Madame 
Stahl refused to be friendly. 

‘¢ Always the same,”’ replied the prince. 

*¢ Did you know her before her illness, prince, — that is, 
before she became an invalid? ’’ 

‘¢’'Yes: she became an invalid when I knew her.’’ 

‘¢ They say that she has not walked for ten years.”’ 

‘¢ She does not walk, because one leg is shorter than the 
other. She is very badly put together’? — 

‘¢ Papa, it is impossible,’’ cried Kitty. 

‘*¢ Evil tongues say so, my dear; and your friend Varenka 
ought to see her as she is. Och! these invalid ladies! ”’ 

‘¢ Oh, no, papa! I assure you, Varenka adores her,’’ cried 
Kitty eagerly ; ‘‘ and besides, she isn’t deformed. Ask any 
one you please: Aline Stahl knows her thoroughly.’’ 

‘¢ Maybe,’’ replied her father, pressing her arm gently; 
‘¢ but it would be better for people to be a little less con- 
spicuous in making their charities.’’ 

Kitty was silent, not because she could not have replied, 
but because, even to her father, she was unwilling to reveal 
her inmost thoughts. There was one strange thing, how- 
ever: decided though she was, not to unbosom herself to her 
father, not to let him penetrate into the sanctuary of her 
reflections, she nevertheless was conscious that her ideal of 
holiness, as seen in Madame Stahl, which she had for a whole 
month carried in her soul, had irrevocably disappeared, as a 
face, seen in a garment thrown down by chance, disappears 
when one really sees how the garment islying. She retained 
only the image of a lame woman who staid in bed to conceal 
her deformity, and who tormented poor Varenka because 
her plaid was not arranged to suit her. And it became im- 


ANNA KARENINA. 945 


possible for her imagination to bring back to her the remem- 
brance of the former Madame Stahl. 


XXXYV. 


Tue prince’s gayety and good-humor were contagious, and 
none of his household and acquaintances, not even their 
German landlord, escaped it. When he came in with Kitty, 
from his walk, the prince invited the colonel, Marya Evgen- 
yevna and her daughter, and Varenka, to lunch, and had 
the table spread under the horse-chestnuts, in the garden. 
The landlord and his domestics were filled with zeal under 
the influence of his good spirits. They also knew his gene- 
rosity ; and within half an hour the jollity of these hearty Rus- 
- sians, sitting under the horse-chestnuts, was filling with envy 
the heart of a sick Hamburg doctor, who occupied the first 
floor, and sighed as he looked upon the happy group under 
the shady trees. 

The princess, in a bonnet trimmed with lilac ribbons, 
presided over the table, which was spread with an exceedingly 
white cloth, whereon were placed the coffee-service, the 
bread, butter, cheese, and cold game; she was distributing 
cups and tarts: while the prince, at the other end of the 
table, was eating with good appetite, and talking with great 
animation. He had spread out in front of him all his pur- 
chases, — wood-carvings, paper-cutters, ivory toys of every 
kind, which he had brought back from all the places where 
he had been; and he was amusing himself by giving them 
around to all his guests, not even forgetting Lieschen the 
maid, or the master of the house. He made long and comi- 
cal speeches to the latter, in his bad German, and assured 
him that it was not the waters that had cured Kitty, but his 
excellent cuisine, and particularly his prune soup. The prin- 
cess rallied her husband on his Russian peculiarities ; but 
never, since she had been at the Spa, had she been so gay and 
lively. The colonel, as always, was amused at the prince’s 
sallies of wit; but he agreed with the princess on the Euro- 
pean question, which he imagined that he understood 
thoroughly. The good Marya Evgenyevna laughed till the 
tears ran down her cheeks; and even Varenka, to Kitty’s 
great astonishment, was awakened from her ordinary quiet 
melancholy by the prince’s jests. 


246 ANNA KARENINA. 


All this delighted Kitty, but she could not free herself 
from mental agitation: she could not resolve the problem 
which her father had unintentionally given her when he spoke 
in his jesting, humorous way of her friends, and the life which | 
offered her so many attractions. Moreover, she could not 
help puzzling herself with the reasons for the change in her 
relations with the Petrofs, which had struck her this very 
day more plainly and disagreeably than ever. Her agitation 
increased as she saw the gayety of the others: her feelings 
were the same as when she was a very little girl, and, having 
been punished for some offence, she heard from her room her 
sisters enjoying themselves, and could not take part. 

‘¢ Nu! why did you purchase this heap of things?’’ asked 
the princess, offering her husband a cup of coffee. 

‘¢ You go out for a walk, nw / and you come to a shop, and 
they address you, and say, ‘EHvrlaucht, Excellenz, Durch- 
laucht!’ Nu! when they get to Durchlaucht [highness], I 
cannot resist any longer, and my ten thalers vanish.’’ 

‘¢ It was merely because of irksomeness! ’’ 

‘¢ Certainly it was,— such irksomeness that one does not 
know how to escape from it.’’ 

‘¢But how can you be bored? There are so many inter- 
esting things to see in Germany now,”’ said Marya Evgen- 
yevna. 

‘¢ Da! I know all that is interesting just at the present 
time. I know soup with prunes, I know pea-pudding, I 
know every thing.’’ 

‘¢ Tt is idle to resist, princess: their institutions are inter- 
esting.”’ 

‘¢ Da! but how are they interesting? They are as con- 
tented as new shillings [lit. groshi, twenty kopeks]. They 
have whipped the world! Nu/ why should I find any thing 
to content me here? I never conquered anybody; but I 
have to take off my boots myself, and, what is worse, put 
them out myself in the corridor. In the morning I get up, 
and have to dress myself, and go down to the dining-room, 
and drink execrable tea. ’Tisn’t like that at home. There 
you can get up when you please: if you are out of sorts, 
you can be out of sorts; you have all the time you want, 
and you can do whatever you please without hurrying.’’ 

‘¢ But time is money: don’t forget that,’’ said the colonel. 

‘¢ That depends. ‘There are whole months that you would 
sell for fifty Kopeks, and quarter-hours that you would not 


ANNA KARENINA. 247 


take any amount of money for. Isn’t that so, Katenka? 
But why are you so solemn? ”’ 

‘¢T am not, papa.”’ 

‘* Where are you going? Stay a little longer,’’ said the 
prince to Varenka. 

‘¢ But I must go home,’’ said Varenka, rising, and laugh- 
ing gayly again. When she was calmed, she took leave of 
her friends, and went to get her hat. 

Kitty followed her. Even Varenka seemed to her friend 
changed. She was not less good, but she was different from 
what she had imagined her to be. 

*¢ Ach! it is a long time since I have laughed so much,”’ 
said Varenka, as she was getting her parasol and her satchel. 
‘¢ How charming your papa is! ”’ 

Kitty did not answer. 

*¢ When shall I see you again?’’ asked Varenka. : 

‘¢ Maman wanted to go to the Petrofs’. Will you be 
there?’’ asked Kitty, trying to read Varenka. 

*¢] will be there,’’ she replied. ‘‘ They expect to go, and 
I am going to help them pack.”’ 

‘¢ Nu! Then I will go with you.’’ 

*¢ No: why should you? ”’ 

‘* Why? why? why?” asked Kitty, holding Varenka by 
her sunshade, and opening her eyes very wide. ‘* Wait a 
moment, and tell me why.”’ 

*¢* Why?’ Because your papa has come, and because they 
are vexed at you.’’ 

‘* No: tell me honestly why you don’t like to have me go 
to the Petrofs’. You don’t like it: why is it?’’ 

‘*¢T didn’t say so,’’ replied Varenka calmly. 

**T beg you to tell me.’’ 

*¢ Must I tell you all? ”’ 

*¢ All, all,’’ replied Kitty. 

‘* Da! At bottom there is nothing very serious: only 
Mikhail Alekséyevitch — that was Petrof’s name — was will- 
ing to leave at any time, and now he does not want to go,”’ 
replied Varenka, smiling. 

** Nu! Nu!’’ cried Kitty, looking at Varenka with a 
gloomy expression. 

** Nu! Anna Pavlovna imagines that he does not want to 
go because you are here. Of course this was unfortunate ; 
but you have been the cause of a family quarrel, and you 
know how irritable these invalids are.’’ 


248 ANNA KARENINA. 


Kitty grew still more melancholy, and kept silent: and 
Varenka went on speaking, trying to pacify her, and 
put things in a better light, though she foresaw that the 
result would be either tears or reproaches; she knew 
not which. 

‘*So it is better not to go there, you see; and you will 
not be angry ’’— 

‘* But I deserved it, I deserved it,’’ said Kitty, speaking 
rapidly, and still holding Varenka’s parasol, and not looking 
at her. 

Varenka was amused at her friend’s childish anger, but 
she was afraid of offending her. 

‘* How deserve it? I don’t understand!’ 

‘¢T deserve it because this was all pretence, it was all 
hypocrisy, and because it did not come from the heart. 
What business had I to meddle with the affairs of a stranger? 
And so I have been the cause of a quarrel, and simply be- 
cause it was all hypocrisy, hypocrisy,’’ said she, mechani- 
cally opening and shutting the sunshade. 

‘* But why do you call it hypocrisy?’’ asked Varenka 

ently. 

‘* Ach! How stupid, how wretched! It was none of my 
business. Hypocrisy! hypocrisy !”’ 

‘*¢ But why hypocrisy ?’”’ 

‘¢ Because I did it to seem better to others, to myself, to 
God, —to deceive everybody. No, I will not fall so low 
again. I would rather be wicked, and not lie, and not 
deceive. 

‘¢ Da! But who is a liar?’’ asked Varenka, in a reproach- 
ful tone. ‘* You speak as if ’’ — 

But Kitty was thoroughly angry, and did not let her 
finish. 

‘*T was not speaking of you, not of you at all. You are 
perfection. Yes, yes: I know that you are all perfection. 
What can be done? I am wicked: this would not have 
occurred, if I had not been wicked. So much the worse. I 


will be what I am, and I will not be deceitful. What have _ 


I to do with Anna Pavlovna? Let them live as they want to, 
and I will do the same. I can’t be somebody else. Besides, 
it is not that at all’’ — 

‘* Da! What isn’t ‘that’?’’ asked Varenka, in astonish- 
ment. 

‘* Every thing! I can only live by my heart, but you live 


ANNA KARENINA. 249 


by your principles. I like you all; but you have had in view 
only to save me, to convert me.”’ 

‘* You are not fair,’’ said Varenka. 

** Da! I am not speaking about the rest of you. I only 
speak for myself.’’ 

*¢ Kitty !’’ cried her mother’s voice, ‘* come here, and show 
papa your corals.’’ 

Kitty took the box with the corals from the table, carried 
it to her mother with a dignified air, but she did not become 
reconciled with her friend. 

‘¢ What is the matter? why are you so red?’”’ asked her 
father and mother with one voice. 

** Nothing: I am coming right back;’’ and she hurried 
to the house. 

** She is still there,’’ she thought: ‘‘ what shall I tell her? 
Bozhe moi! what have I done? what have I said? Why did 
I hurt her feelings? What have I done? what did I say te 
her?’’ she asked herself as she hurried to the door. 

Varenka, with her hat on, was sitting by the table, exam- 
ining the remains of her parasol, which Kitty had broken. 
She raised her head. 

‘** Varenka, forgive me,’’ whispered Kitty, coming up to 
her. ‘‘I did not know what I was saying. I’’ — 

‘* Truly, I did not mean to cause you pain,’’ said Varenka, 
smiling. 

Peace was made. But her father’s coming had changed 
for Kitty the world in which she lived. Without giving up 
what she had learned, she confessed that she had been under 
an illusion by believing that she was what she had dreamed 
of being. It was like a dream. She found that she could 
not, without hypocrisy, stay on such an elevation: she felt, 
moreover, still more vividly, the weight of the misfortunes, 
the ills, the agonies, of those who surrounded her, and she 
felt that it was cruel to prolong the efforts which she had 
made to interest herself in them. She began to long to 
breathe the purer, healthier atmosphere of Russia at Yer- 
gushovo, where Dolly and the children had preceded her, as 
she learned from a letter that had just come. 

But her love for Vérenka had not diminished. When she 
went away, she begged her to come and visit them in Russia. 

** I will come when you are married,’’ said she. 

**T shall never marry.’’ 

** Nu! then I shall never come.’’ 


? 


250 ANNA KARENINA. 


*¢ Nu! In that case, I shall get married only for your sake. 
Don’t forget your promise,’’ said Kitty. 

The doctor’s prophecies were realized. Kitty came home te 
Russia perfectly well: possibly she was not as gay and care- 
less as before, but her calmness was restored. The pains of 
the past were only a memory. 


ANNA KARENINA. 251 


PART III. 


I. 


Serekr Ivanovitcu Koznutsuer liked to rest after his in- 
tellectual labors; and instead of going abroad, as usual, he 
came, towards the end of May, to visit his brother in the 
country. In his opinion, country life was the best of all, and 
he came now to enjoy it at Pokrovsky. Konstantin Levin 
was very glad to welcome him, the more because he did not 
expect his brother Nikolai this summer. But in spite of his 
love and respect for Sergéi Ivanovitch, Konstantin was not 
altogether at his ease with him in the country. It was ex- 
asperating and unpleasant for him to see his brother’s be- 
havior. For Konstantin the country was the place for 
life, —for pleasures, sorrows, labor. For Sergéi Ivano- 
vitch the country, on the contrary, offered rest from labor, 
and a profitable antidote against the corruption which he 
found in the pleasures and acquaintances of his life. For 
Konstantin Levin the country was the more beautiful because 
it offered an end fox works of incontestable utility. For 
Sergéi Ivanovitch the country was vastly more delightful 
because he could not, and need not, do any thing at all. 
Their ways of looking at the peasantry were likewise ex- 
actly diametrically opposite to each other. Sergéi Ivano- 
vitch said that he loved and knew the people; and he will- 
ingly talked with the muzhiks, and discovered, in his inter- 
views with them, traits of character honorable to the people, 
so that he felt convinced that he knew them thoroughly. 
Such superficial views vexed Konstantin Levin. For him 
the peasantry was only the chief factor in associated labor ; 
and though he respected the muzhik, and, as he himself said, 
drew in with the milk of the woman who nursed him a gen- 
uine love for them, still their vices exasperated him as often 
as their virtues struck him. For him the people represented 


252 ANNA KARENINA. 


the principal partner in a labor association, and, as such, he 
saw no need of making a distinction between the qualities, 
the faults, and the interests of this associate and those of 
the rest of men. He lived among them, and he knew them 
thoroughly : he was their landlord, their mediator, and, what 
was more, their adviser; for the muzhiks had faith in him, 
and came to him from forty versts around to ask his opinions. 
But to say that he knew the peasantry, would have meant, in 
his opinion, the same as to say, that he knew people. 

In the discussions which arose between the brothers in 
consequence of their divergence of views, the victory always 
remained with Sergéi Ivanovitch, because his opinions, formed 
by his methodical studies, remained unshaken; while Kon- 
stantin, ceaselessly modifying his, was easily convicted of 
contradicting himself. Sergéi Ivanovitch .looked upon his 
brother as an excellent fellow, whose heart was bien placé, 
as he expressed it in French, but whose mind, though quick 
and active, was full of non sequiturs. Often, with the con- 
descension of an elder brother, he tried to make him see the 
real meaning of things; but he could not take genuine pleas- 
ure in discussing with him, because his opponent was so easy 
to vanquish. 

Konstantin Levin, on his side, looked upon his brother as 
aman of vast intelligence and learning, endowed with ex- 
traordinary faculties, most advantageous to the community 
at large; but as he advanced in life, and learned to know 
him better, he sometimes asked himself, in the secret cham- 
bers of his heart, if this devotion to the general interests, 
which he himself seemed to lack, was really a good quality, 
or rather a vice; not through the powerlessness of good-na- 
tured, upright, benevolent wishes and motives, but the pow- 
erlessness of a strong man pushing his own way through the 
multitudes of paths which life offers to men, and resolved 
at all odds to delight in this, and to follow it alone. 

Levin felt also another sort of constraint in his relations 
with his brother when he was spending the summer with 
him. The days seemed to him too short for him to accom- 
plish all that he wanted to do and to superintend, while his 
brother cared to do nothing but take his ease. ‘Though Ser- 
géi Ivanovitch was not writing, his mind was too active for 
him not to need some one to whom he might express in logi- 
cal and elegant form the ideas which occupied him. Kon 
stantin was his habitual and favorite auditor. 


ee ae 


ANNA KARENINA. 253 


It was his favorite habit to lie lazily on the grass, stretched 
out at full length in the sun, and to talk. 

‘*You can’t imagine,’’ he would say, ‘‘ how I enjoy this 
idleness. I have not an idea in my head: it is empty as a 
shell.’’ 

But Konstantin quickly wearied of sitting down and talk- 
ing about trifles. He knew that in his absence they were 
spreading the manure on the wrong fields, and were up to 
God knows what mischief, and he felt anxious to be super- 
intending this work: he knew that they would be taking off 
the irons from his English ploughs, so as to be able to say 
that they were not as good as the primitive arrangements still 
used by his neighbor So-and-so. 

** Don’t you ever get weary trotting about so in this 
heat?’’ asked Sergéi Ivanovitch. 

‘* No. Excuse me for a minute: I must run over to the 
office,’’ said Levin; and he hurried across the field. 


(32 


Earzy in June, Agafya Mikhailoyna, the old nurse and 
ekonomka Rusbdickoener’. in going down cellar with a pot 
of pickled mushrooms, slipped on the staircase, and dislo- 
cated her wrist. ‘The district doctor, a loquacious young 
medical student who had just taken his degree, came and 
examined the arm, declared that it was not out of joint, and 
applied compresses: and during dinner, proud of finding him- 
self in the society of the distinguished Koznuishef, he began 
to relate all the petty gossip of the neighborhood ; and, in 
order that he might have occasion to introduce his enlight- 
ened ideas, 2e began to complain of the bad state of things 
in general. 

Sergéi Ivanovitch listened attentively. Animated by the 
presence of a new hearer, he talked, and made keen and 
shrewd observations, which were received by the young phy- 
sician with respectful appreciation. After his departure 
Koznuishef was left in that rather over-excited frame of 
mind which, as his brother knew, was liable in his case to 
follow a lively and brilliant conversation. Immediately after, 
he took a fish-line and went to the river. He was very fond 
of fishing: he seemed to take a little pride in showing that 
he could amuse himself with such a puerile amusement. 


954 ANNA KARENINA. 


Konstantin was intending to make a tour of inspection across 
the fields, and he offered to take his brother in his gig as far 
as the river. 

It was the time of the year when, the summer having suffi- 
ciently gone, the amount of the crops can be judged, and the 
thoughts of the coming summer begin to take root. The ears 
of corn, now full and still green, swing lightly in the breeze ; 
the oats peep irregularly from the late-sown fields ; the wheat 
already is up, and hides the soil; the odor of the manure, 
heaped in little hillocks over the fields, mingles with the per- 
fume of the herbs, which, scattered with little bunches of 
wild sorrel, stretch out like a sea. This period of the sum- 
mer is the lull before the harvest, that great event which the 
muzhik expects each year with eagerness. ‘The crops prom- 
ised to be superb; and long, bright days were followed by 
short nights, when the dew lay heavy on the grass. 

To reach the fields, it was necessary to cross the woodland. 
Sergéi Ivanovitch liked this dense forest. He pointed out 
to his brother, as they rode along, an old linden almost in 
flower ; but Konstantin, who did not himself care to speak 
about the beauties of nature, did not care to have others 
speak of them. Words, he thought, spoiled the beauty of 
the thing that they saw. He assented to what his brother 
said, but allowed his mind to concern itself with other things. 
After they left the wood, his attention was drawn to a fallow 
field, where some places were growing yellow, where in others 
the crop was being gathered and garnered. The telyégas were 
thronging up toward the field. Levin counted them, and 
was satisfied with the work which was going on. His 
thoughts were diverted, by the sight of the fields, to the seri- 
ous question of fertilizers, which he always had particularly 
at heart. He stopped his horse when they reached the 
meadow. The high, thick grass was still damp with dew. 
Sergéi Ivanovitch begged his brother, in order that he might 
not wet his feet, to drive him as far as a clump of laburnums 
near which perch were to be caught. Though he disliked 
to trample down his grass, he drove over through the field. 
The tall grass clung round the horse’s legs, and the seed was 
dusted on the wheels of the little gig. 

Sergéi sat down under the laburnums, and cast his line. 
Though he caught nothing, he was undisturbed in spirits, and 
the time that his brother was away conversing with Famitch 
and the other workmen did not seem irksome to him. When 


ANNA KARENINA. 255 


his brother returned, anxious to get back to the house to give 
some orders, Sergéi was sitting calmly looking at the water 
and the sky and the fields. 

‘¢' These fields,’’ he said, ‘‘are heavenly. They always 
remind me of an enigma, do you know? —‘ The grass says to 
the river’’’ — 

‘¢T don’t know any such riddle,’’ interrupted Konstantin 


in a melancholy tone. 
III. 


‘‘Do you know, I was thinking about you,’’ said Sergéi 
Ivanovitch. ‘It is not well at all, what is going on in your 
district, if that doctor tells the truth: he is not a stupid fel- 
low. And I have told you all along, and I say to-day, you 
are wrong in not going to the assembly meetings, to know 
what they are doing. If men of standing don’t take an in- 
terest in affairs, God knows how things will turn out. The 
taxes we pay will be spent in salaries, and not for schools, 
or hospitals, or midwives, or pharmacies, or any thing.”’ 

‘** But I have tried it,’’ replied Levin faintly and unwill- 
ingly. ‘*I can’t do any thing. What is to be done about 
it?’’ 

*¢ Da! why can’t you do any thing? I confess I don’t un- 
derstand it. I cannot admit that it is incapacity or lack of 
intelligence: isn’t it simply laziness? ”’ 

‘¢ It is not that, or the first or the second. I have tried it, 
and I am sure that I cannot do any thing.”’ 

Levin was not paying great heed to what his brother said, 
but was looking intently across the fields on the other side of 
the river. He saw something black, but he could not make 
out whether it was only a horse, or his prikashchik on horse- 
back. 

‘¢ Why can’t you do any thing? You make an experiment, 
and it does not turn out to your satisfaction, and you give 
up. Why not have a little pride about you?”’ 

‘*Pride?’’ said Levin, touched to the quick by his brother’s 
reproach. ‘‘I don’t see what that has to do with it. If at 
the university they had told me that others understood the 
integral calculus, but I did not, that would have touched my 
pride ; but here I have first to believe in the value of these 
new institutions.’’ 

‘* What! do you mean to say that they are not valuable? *’ 


956 ANNA KARENINA. 


asked Sergéi Ivanovitch, piqued hecause his brother seemed 
to attach so little importance to his words, and gave him 
such poor attention. 

‘‘ It seems to me that they are useless, and I cannot feel 

interested in what you wish me to do,’ replied Levin, who 
now saw that the black speck was the prikashchik, and that 
the prikashchik was probably taking some muzhiks from their 
work. They were carrying home the ploughs. _‘‘ Can they 
have finished ploughing?’’ he asked himself. 
_ * Nu, listen! one thing,’’ said his brother, his handsome, 
intellectual face growing a shade darker. ‘‘ There are limits 
to every thing.’ It is very fine to be an original and out- 
spoken man, and to hate falsehood, — all that I know; but 
the fact’is, that what you say has no sense at all, or has a 
very bad sense. Do you really think it idle that these peo- 
ple, whom you love, as you assert’? — 

‘¢T never asserted any such thing,’ 
Levin. 

‘¢' That these people should perish without aid? Coarse 
babki [peasant-women] act as midwives, and the people re- 
main in ignorance, and are at the mercy of every letter- 
writer. But it is within your power to remedy all this; and 
you don’t assist them, because, in your eyes, it is not worth 
while.”’ 

And Sergéi Ivanovitch offered him the following dilem- 
ma :— 

‘¢ Kither you are not developed sufficiently to do all that 
you might do, or you do not care to give up your love of 
idleness, or your vanity: I don’t know which.”’ 

Konstantin Levin felt, that, if he did not wish to be con 
victed of indifference for the public weal, he would have 
to make a defence; and this was vexatious and offensive to 
him. 

‘* That is another thing,’’ he said testily. ‘‘ I do not see 
how it is possible ’’ — 

‘¢ What! impossible to give medical aid if the funds were 
watched more closely? ’”’ 

‘‘ Impossible it seems to me. In the four thousand square 
versts of our district, with our floods, snow-storms, and busy 
seasons, I don’t see the possibility of giving public medical 
aid. Besides, I don’t much believe in medicine, anyway ’’— 

‘¢ Nu! nonsense! you are unjust. I could name you a 
thousand cases — and schools.”’ 


replied. Konstantin 


ANNA KARENINA. 257 


*¢ Why schools? ’’ 

‘¢ What do you say? Can you doubt the advantages of 
education? If it is good for you, why not for others? ”’ 

Konstantin Levin felt that he was pushed to the wall; and, 
in his irritation, against his will he revealed his real reason 
for his indifference. 

‘¢ Maybe it is a good thing; but why should I put myself 
out, — have medical dispensaries located which I never 
make use of, or schools where I should never send my chil- 
dren, and where the peasants won’t send their children, and 
where I am not sure that it is wise to send them, anyway ?’’ 

Sergéi Ivanovitch for a moment was disconcerted by this 
sally ; and, while carefully pulling his line from the water, 
he developed another line of attack. 

‘¢ Nu! that is absurd,’’ said he with a smile. ‘‘In the 
first place, the dispensary is necessary. Vot/ we ourselves 
sent for the zemski doktor for Agafya Mikhailovna.’’ 

** Nu! I believe that her wrist was out of joint, in spite 
of what he said.”’ 

‘¢That remains to be proved. In the next place, the 
muzhik who can read is a better workman, and more useful 
to you.”’ 

**Oh, no!’’ replied Konstantin Levin bluntly. ‘‘ Ask any 
one you please, they will tell you that the educated muzhik 
is less valuable as a laborer. He will not repair the roads; 
and, when they build bridges, he will only steal the planks.”’ 

*¢ Now, this is not the point,’’ said Sergéi, vexed. because 
he detested contradiction, and this way of leaping from one 
subject to another, and bringing up arguments without any 
apparent connection. ‘* The question is this: Do you admit 
that education is good for the peasantry? ’”’ 

**T do,’’ said Levin, without realizing that he was not 
speaking the thought in his mind. Instantly he perceived, 
that, by making this admission, it would be easy to convict 
him of speaking nonsense. How it would be brought up 
against him he did not know; but he knew that he would 
surely be shown his logical inconsequence, and he awaited the 
demonstration. It came much sooner than he expected. 

‘‘Tf you admit its value,’’ said Sergéi, ‘‘then, as an 
honest man, you cannot refuse to delight in this work, and 
give it your hearty co-operation.’’ 

‘** But I still do not admit that it is good,’’ said Konstantin 
Levin, in confusion. 


958 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ What? But you just said’? — 

‘¢' That is, I don’t say that it is bad, but that it is not ad. 
visable.”’ 

‘¢ But you can’t know this, since you have not made any 
effort to try it.’’ 

‘¢ Nu! I admit that the education of the people is advanta- 
geous,’’ said Konstantin, but without the least conviction, 
‘¢ but I don’t see why I should bother myself with it.’’ 

‘¢ Why not?” 

‘¢ Nu! if we are going to discuss the question, then explain 
it to me from your philosophical point of view.’’ 

‘¢T don’t see what philosophy has to do here,’’ retorted 
Sergéi Ivanovitch in a tone which seemed to cast some 
doubt on his brother’s right to discuss philosophy ; and this 
nettled him. 

‘¢ That is why,’’ said he warmly, ‘‘ I think that the motive- 
power in all our actions is forever personal interest. Now, 
I see nothing in our provincial institutions that contributes 
to my well-being. The roads are not better, and cannot be 
made so. My horses carry me, even on bad roads. The 
doctor and the dispensary are no use to me. The justice 
of the peace does me no good: I never went to him, and 
never expect to. The schools seem to me not only useless, 
but, as I have said, are even harmful; and these provincial 
institutions oblige me to pay eighteen kopeks a desyatin, to 
go to the city, to be eaten by bugs, and to hear all sorts of 
vulgar and obscene talk, and yet do not in any way affect my 
personal interests.’’ 

‘¢ Nonsense !'’’ said Sergéi Ivanovitch with a smile. ‘* Our 
personal interests did not compel us to work for the emanci- 
pation of the serfs, and yet we accomplished it.’’ 

‘¢ No,’’ replied Konstantin with still more animation : ‘‘ the 
emancipation was quite another affair. It was for personal 
interest. We wanted to shake off this yoke that hung upon 
the necks of all of us decent people. But to be a member of 
the town council; to discuss what only concerns smiths, and 
how to lay sewer-pipes in streets where one does not live; 
to be a juryman, and sit in judgment on a muzhik who 
has stolen a ham; to listen for six hours to all sorts of rub- 
bish which the defendant and the prosecutor may utter, and, 
as presiding officer, to ask my old friend, the half-idiotie 
Aloshka, ‘Do you plead guilty, Mr. Accused, of having 
stolen this ham?’ ’’ — 


ANNA KARENINA. 259 


And Konstantin, carried away by his subject, enacted the 
scene between the president and the half-idiotic Aloshka. 
It seemed to him that this was in the line of the argument. 

But Sergéi Ivanovitch shrugged his shoulders. 

‘¢ Nu! what do you mean by this? ”’ 

*¢ T only mean that I will always defend with all my powers 
those rights which touch me,—my interests; that when 
the policemen came to search us students, and read our let- 
ters, I was ready to defend these rights with all my might, 
to defend my rights to instruction, to liberty. I am inter- 
ested in the required service which concerns the fate of my 
children, of my brothers, and of myself. I am willing to 
discuss this because it touches me; but to deliberate on the 
employment of forty thousand rubles of district money, or 
to judge the crack-brained Aloshka, I won’t do it, and I 
can’t.”’ 

Konstantin Levin discoursed as though the fountains of his 
speech were unloosed. His brother was quietly amused. 

‘¢ Supposing to-morrow you were arrested: would you pre- 
fer to be tried by the old ‘ criminal court’? ”’ 

‘¢ But I shall not be arrested. I am not a murderer, and 
this is no use tome. Nu, uzh!’’ he continued, again jump- 
ing to a matter entirely foreign to their subject, ‘‘ our pro- 
vincial institutions, and all that, remind me of the little twigs 
which on Trinity day we stick into the ground, to imitate a 
forest. The forest has grown of itself in Europe; but I can- 
not on my soul have any faith in our birch sprouts, or water 
them.’’ 

Sergéi Ivanovitch only shrugged his shoulders again, as a 
sign of astonishment that birch twigs should be mingled in 
their discussion, although he understood perfectly what his 
brother meant. 

‘* Nonsense!’’ said he. ‘‘ That is no way to reason.”’ 

But Konstantin, in order to explain his self-confessed lack 
of interest in matters of public concern, continued, — 

‘*¢] think that there can be no durable activity if it is not 
founded in individual interest: this is a general, a philo- 
sophical truth,’’ said he, laying special emphasis on the word 
*¢ philosophical,’’ as though he wished to show that he also 
had the right, as well as any one else, to speak of philosophy. 

Again Sergéi Ivanovitch smiled. ‘* He also,’’ thought he, 
‘**has his own special philosophy for the benefit of his incli- 
nations.”’ 


260 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ Nu! be quit of philosophy,’’ he said. ‘‘Its chief aim 
has been in all times to grasp the indispensable bond which 
exists between the individual and the public interest. But 
I think I can make your comparison valid. The little birch 
twigs have not been merely stuck in, but have been sowed, 
planted, and it is necessary to watch them carefully. The 
only nations which can have a future, the only nations 
which deserve the name of historic, are those which feel 
the importance and the value of their institutions, and prize 
them.’’ 

And Sergéi Ivanovitch, the better to show his brother what 
a mistake he had made, began to discuss the question from 
an historico-philosophical point of view, which Konstantin 
was by no means able to appreciate. 

‘* As to your distaste for affairs, excuse me if I refer it 
to our Russian indolence and gentility [barstvo, Russian 
rank]; and I trust that this temporary error will pass 
away.’ 

Konstantin was silent. He felt himself routed on every 
side, but he felt also that his brother had not understood 
what he wished to say. He did not know exactly whether 
it was because he did not know how to express himself 
clearly, or because his brother did not wish to understand 
him, or whether he could not understand him. He did not 
try to fathom this question; but, without replying to his 
brother, he became absorbed in entirely different thoughts, 
connected with his own work. Sergéi Ivanovitch reeled in 
his lines, unhitched the horse, and they drove away. 


IV. 


Tue thought which absorbed Levin at the time of his dis- 
cussion with his brother was this: the year before, he had 
fallen into a passion with his overseer one day when they 
were mowing, and to calm himself he had taken the scythe 
from a muzhik, and begun to mow. He enjoyed the work 
so much that he had tried it again and again. He mowed 
the lawn in front of his house, and promised himself that 
the next year he would follow the same plan, and spend 
whole days mowing with the muzhiks. 

Since his brother’s arrival he had asked himself the ques- 
tion, Should he mow, or not? He had scruples about leay- 


ANNA KARENINA. 261 


ing his brother alone for an entire day, and he was afraid 
of his pleasantries on the subject. but as they crossed the 
field, and saw the mowing already begun, he decided that 
he would mow. After his vexatious discussion with his 
brother, he remembered his project. 

‘* T must have some physical exercise, or my character will 
absolutely spoil,’’ he thought, and made up his mind to mow, 
no matter what his brother or his servants should say. 

That very evening Levin went to the office, gave some 
directions about the work to be done, and sent to the village 
to hire some mowers for the morrow, so as to attack his field 
at Kalinovo, which was the largest and best. 

‘¢ Da! send my scythe over to Sef, and have him put it 
in order; perhaps I will come and mow too,”’ said he, trying 
to hide his confusion. 

The prikashchik laughed, and said, ‘‘ I will obey you.”’ 

Later, at the tea-table, Levin said to his brother, ‘‘ It seems 
like settled weather. To-morrow I am going to mow.’’ 

**] like to see this work,’’ said Sergéi Ivanovitch. 

‘¢] like it extremely,’’ said Levin. ‘* Last year I myself 
mowed with the muzhiks, and to-morrow I am going to spend 
all day at it.”’ 

Sergéi Ivanovitch raised his head, and gazed with aston- 
ishment at his brother. 

‘¢ What did you say? Like the muzhiks, all day long?’’ 

‘*¢ Certainly: it is very enjoyable.’’ 

‘** It is excellent as physical exercise, but can you stand 
such work?’’ asked Sergéi, without meaning to say any 
thing ironical. 

‘¢ T have tried it. At first it is hard work, but afterwards 
you get used to it. I think I shall not leave off ’’ — 

‘¢ Vot kak! but tell me, how do the muzhiks look at it? 
Naturally they make sport because the barin is queer, don’t 
they ?’’ 

** No, I don’t think so; but this is such pleasant and at 
the same time hard work, that they don’t think about it.’’ 

*¢ But how do you do about your dinner? They could 
hardly bring you there a bottle of Lafitte and a roast 
turkey.”’ 

‘* No: I come home while the workmen have their noon- 
ing.’’ 

The next morning Konstantin Levin got up earlier than 
usual; but his duties about the house detained him, and when 


962 ANNA KARENINA. 


he came to the mowing-field he found the men already at. 
work. 

The field, still in the shade, extended to the foot of a high 
hill, and a part was already mowed; and Levin, as he drew 
near, could see the long wind-rows, and the little black heaps 
of kaftans thrown down by the men when they went by the 
first time. He saw also the band of muzhiks, some in their 
kuftans, some in their shirt-sleeves, moving in a long line, 
and swinging their scythes in unison. He counted forty-two 
men of them. They were advancing slowly over the uneven 
bottom-land of the field, where there was an old ditch. 
Many of them Levin knew. The old round-shouldered 
Yermil was there in a very clean white shirt, wielding the 
scythe; there was the young small Vaska, who used to be 
Levin’s driver; there was Sef, a little thin old muzhitchok, 
who had taught him how to mow. He was cutting a wide 
swath without stooping, and easily handling his scythe. 

Levin dismounted from his horse, tied her near the road, 
and went across to Sef, who immediately got a second scythe 
from a clump of bushes. 

‘* All ready, barin; ’tis like a razor, —cuts of itself,’’ said 
Sef with a smile, taking off his shapka, and handing him the 
scythe. 

Levin took it, and began to try it. The haymakers, having 
finished their line, were returning one after the other on their 
track, covered with sweat, but gay and lively. They all 
stopped, and saluted the barin. No one ventured to speak ; 
but at last a wrinkled old man, without a beard, and dressed 
in a sheepskin jacket, thus addressed him : — 

‘* Look here, barin, if you put your hand to the work, 
you must not quit it,’’ said he; and Levin heard the sound 
of stifled laughter among the workmen. 

‘*] will try not to be left behind,’’ he said as he took his 
place behind Sef, and waited for the signal to begin. 

‘¢*Tention!’’ cried the starik. 

Sef made the way, and Levin followed in his steps. The 
grass was short and tough; and Levin, who had not mowed 
in a long time, and was constrained by the watchful eyes of 
the nien, at first made very bad work of it, though he swung 
the scythe energetically. Voices were heard behind him :— 

‘* He does not hold his scythe right: the sned is too high. 
See how he stoops,’’ said one. 

‘¢ Bears his hand on too much,’’ said another. 


ANNA KARENINA. 263. 


‘¢ Tt won’t do at all: it’s not well,’’ said the starik. ‘* Look, 
he goes like this; swings too wide. He’ll get played out. 
The master is trying it for himself as hard as he can, but 
look at his row! For such work my brother was beaten 
once.’’ 

The grass became less tough; and Levin, listening to the 
remarks without replying, and doing his best to learn, fol- 
lowed in Sef’s footsteps. Thus they went a hundred steps. 
Sef kept on without any intermission, and without showing 
the least fatigue ; but Levin began to fear that he could not 
keep it up, he was so tired. 

He was just thinking that he should have to ask Sef to rest, 
when the muzhik of his own accord halted, bent over, and, 
taking a handful of grass, began to wipe his scythe, and to 
turn around. Levin straightened himself up, and with a sigh 
of relief looked about him. Just behind was a peasant, and 
he was evidently tired and had also stopped. Sef whetted his 
own scythe and Levin’s, and started again. 

At the second attempt it was just the same. Sef ad- 
vanced a step at every swing of the scythe. Levin followed 
him, striving not to fall behind; but each moment it came 
harder and harder. But, as before, just as he believed him- 
self at the end of his forces, Sef stopped and rested. 

Thus they went over the first swath. And this long stretch 
was very hard for Levin ; but afterwards, when the work began 
again, Levin had no other thought, no other desire, than to 
reach the other end as soon as the others. He heard nothing 
but the swish of the scythes behind him, saw nothing but 
Sef’s straight back plodding on in front of him, and the 
semicircle described in the grass, which fell over slowly, 
carrying with it the delicate heads of flowers. 

Suddenly he felt a pleasant sensation of coolness on his 
shoulders. He looked up at the sky while Sef was plying the 
whetstone, and he saw a heavy black cloud. A shower had 
come, and a heavy rain was falling. Some of the muzhiks 
were putting on their kaftans: others, like Levin himself, 
were glad to feel the rain upon their shoulders. 

The work went on and on. Levin absolutely lost all idea 
of time, and did not know whether it was early or late. Though 
the sweat stood on his face, and dropped from his nose, and 
all his back was wet as though he had been plunged in water, 
still he felt very good. His work now seemed to him full of 
pleasure. It was a state of unconsciousness: he did not know 


264 ANNA KARENINA. 


what he was doing, or how much he was doing, or how the 
hours and moments were flying, but only felt that at this time 
his work was good, and equal to that done by Sef. 

After they had gone over the field one more time, he 
started to turn back again; but Sef halted, and, going to the 
starik, whispered something to him. ‘Then the two studied 
the sun. ‘* What are they talking about? and why don’t they 
keep on?’’ thought Levin, without considering that the 
muzhiks had been mowing for more than four hours, and it 
was time for them to eat their lunch. 

‘¢ Breakfast, barin,’’ said the starik. 

*¢So late already? Nw breakfast, then.’’ 

Levin gave his scythe to Sef, and together with the muzhiks, 
who were going to their kaftans for their bread, he crossed 
the wide stretch of field, where the mown grass lay lightly 
moistened by the shower, and went to his horse. Then only 
he perceived that he had made a false prediction about the 
weather, and that the rain would wet his hay. 

‘¢ The hay will be spoiled,’’ he said. 

‘¢No harm done, barin: mow in the rain, rake in the 
sun,’’ said the starik. 

Levin unhitched his horse and went home to take coffee 
with his brother. Sergéi Ivanovitch had just got up; before 
he was dressed and down in the dining-room, Konstantin was 
back to the field again. 


1 


Arter breakfast, Levin, in returning to his work, took his 
place between the quizzical starik, who asked him to be his 
neighbor, and a young muzhik who had only lately been 
married, and was now mowing for the first time. The starik 
mowed straight on, with long, regular strides ; and the swing- 
ing of the scythe seemed no more like labor than the swinging 
of arms when walking. His well-whetted scythe cut, as it 
were, of its own energy through the succulent grass. 

Behind Levin came the young Mishka. His pleasant, 
youthful face under a wreath of green leaves, which bound 
his curls, worked with the energy that employed the rest of 
his body. But when any one looked at him, he would 
smile. He would rather die than confess that he found the 
labor hard. 

The labor seemed lighter to Levin during the heat of the 


ANNA KARENINA. 265 


day. The sweat in which he was bathed refreshed him; and 
the sun, burning his back, his head, and his arms bared to 
the elbow, gave him force and energy. The moments of 
oblivion, of unconsciousness of what he was doing, came 
back to him more and more frequently: the scythe seemed 
to go of itself. These were happy moments. Then, still 
more gladsome were the moments when, coming to the river- 
side, the starik, wiping his scythe with the moist, thick grass, 
rinsed the steel in the river, then, dipping up a ladleful of 
the water, gave it to Levin. 

‘* Nu-ka,my kvas! Ah, good!’’ he exclaimed, winking. 

And, indeed, it seemed to Levin that he had never tasted 
any liquor more refreshing than this pure, lukewarm water, 
in which grass floated, and tasting of the rusty tin cup. 
Then came the glorious slow promenade, when, with scythe 
on the arm, there was time to wipe the heated brow, fill the 
lungs full, and glance round at the long line of hay-makers, 
and the busy life in field and forest. 

The longer Levin mowed, the more frequently he felt the 
moments of oblivion, when his hands did not wield the 
scythe, but the scythe seemed to have a self-conscious body, 
full of life, and ‘carrying on, as it were by enchantment, a 
regular and systematic work. These were indeed joyful 
moments. It was hard only when he was obliged to inter- 
rupt this unconscious activity to remove a clod or a clump 
of wild sorrel. The starvik found it mere sport. When he 
came to a clod, he pushed it aside with repeated taps of his 
scythe, or with his hand tossed it out of the way. And 
while doing this he noticed every thing and examined every 
thing that was to be seen. Now he picked a strawberry, and 
ate it himself or gave it to Levin; now he discovered a nest 
of quail from which the cock was scurrying away, or caught 
a snake on the end of his scythe, and, having shown it to 
Levin, flung it out of the way. 

But for Levin and the young fellow behind him these 
repeated observations were difficult. When once they got 
into the swing of work, they could not easily change their 
movements, and turn their attention to what was before them. 

Levin did not realize how the time was flying. If he had 
been asked how long he had been mowing, he would have 
answered, ‘*‘ A quarter of an hour;’’ and here it was almost 
dinner-time. The starik drew his attention to the girls and 
boys, half concealed by the tall grass, who were coming from 


266 ANNA KARENINA. 


all sides, bringing to the hay-makers their bread and jugs of 
kvas, which seemed too heavy for their little arms. 

‘¢See! here come the midgets’’ [kozyavki, lady bugs], 
said he, pointing to them ; and, shading his eyes, he looked at 
the sun. 

Twice more they went across the field, and then the starik 
stopped. 

‘* Nu, barin! dinner,’’ said he in a decided tone. 

' Then the mowers, walking along the river-side, went back 
to their kaftans, where the children were waiting with the din- 
ners. Some clustered around the telyégas; others sat in the 
shade of a laburnum, where the mown grass was heaped up. 

Levin sat down near them: he had no wish to leave them. 
All constraint in the presence of the barin had disappeared. 
The muzhiks prepared to take their dinner. They washed 
themselves, took their bread, emptied their jugs of kvas, and 
some found places to nap in, while the children went in 
swimming. 

The starik crumbed his bread into his porringer, mashed it 
with his spoon, poured water on from his tin basin, and, cut- 
ting off still more bread, he salted the whole plentifully ; and, 
turning to the east, he said his prayer. Then he invited 
Levin : — 

‘¢ Nu-ka, barin, my tiurki!’’! said he, kneeling down . 
before his porringer. 

Levin found the tiurka so palatable that he decided not to 
go home to dinner. He dined with the starvik, and their con- 
versation turned on his domestic affairs, in which the barin 
took a lively interest, and in his turn told the old man about 
such of his plans and projects as would interest him. He 
felt as though the starik were more nearly related to him 
than his brother, and he could not help smiling at the feeling 
of sympathy which this simple-hearted man inspired. 

When dinner was over, the starik offered another prayer, 
and arranged a pillow of fresh-mown grass, and composed 
himself for a nap. Levin did the same; and, in spite of the 
flies and insects tickling his heated face, he immediately 
went off to sleep, and did not wake until the sun came out 
on the other side of the laburnum bush, and shone brightly 
above his head. The starik was awake, but was sitting 
down cutting the children’s hair. 


1 Tiura, diminutive en a bread-crumb soaked in kvas, or beer. The starik 
used water instead of kva 


ANNA KARENINA. 267 


Levin looked around him, and did not know where he was. 
Every thing seemed changed. The mown field stretched 
away into immensity with its wind-rows of sweet-smelling hay, 
lighted and glorified in a new fashion by the oblique rays of 
the sun. The bushes had been cut down by the river: and 
the river itself, before invisible, but now. shining like steel 
with its windings ; and the busy peasantry ; and the high wall 
of grass, where the field was not yet mowed; and the young 
vultures flying high above the field, — all this was absolutely 
new to him. 

Levin calculated what his workmen had done, and what 
still remained to do. The work accomplished by the forty- 
two men was considerable. ‘The whole field, which in the 
time of serfdom used to take thirty-two men two days, was 
now almost mowed: only a few corners with short rows were 
left. But he wanted to do still more: in his opinion, the sun 
was sinking too early. He felt no fatigue: he only wanted 
to do more rapid, and if possible better, work. 

‘*¢ Do you think we shall get Mashkin Hill mowed to-day ?”’ 
he demanded of the starik. 

‘¢ If God allows: the sun is still high. Will there be little 
sips of vodka for the boys?”’ 

At supper-time, when the men rested again, and some of 
them were lighting their pipes, the starik announced to the 
boys, ‘*‘ Mow Mashkin Hill — extra vodka !’’ 

‘‘ Hka! Come on, Sef! Let’s tackle it lively. We'll 
eat after dark. Come on!’’ cried several voices; and, even 
_ while still munching their bread, they got to work again. 

‘¢ Nu! Oh, keep up good hearts, boys!’’ said Sef, set- 
ting off almost on the run. 

‘¢*Come, come!”’ cried the starik, hastening after them. 
‘¢T am first. Look out! ”’ 

Old and young took hold in rivalry ; and yet with all their 
haste, they did not spoil their work, but the wind-rows lay in 
neat and regular lines. 

The triangle was finished in five minutes. The last mowers 
had just finished their line, when the first, throwing their ka/- 
tans over their shoulders, started down the road to the hill. 

The sun was just going behind the forest, when, with rat- 
tling cans, they came to the little wooded ravine of Mashkin 
Verkh. The grass here was as high as a man’s waist, 
tender, succulent, thick, and variegated with the flower 
called Ivan-da-Marya. 


268 - ANNA KARENINA 


After a short parley, to decide whether to take it across, 
or lengthwise, an experienced mower, Prokhor Yermilin, a 
huge, black-bearded muzhik, went over it first. He took it 
lengthwise, and came back in his track; and then all fol- 
lowed him, going along the hill above the hollow, and skirt- 
ing the wood. The sun was setting. ‘The dew was already 
falling. Only the mowers on the ridge could see the sun; 
but down in the hollow, where the mist was beginning to rise, 
and behind the slope, they went in fresh, dewy shade. The 
work went on. The grass fell in high heaps: the mowers 
came close together as the rows converged, rattling their 
drinking-cups, sometimes hitting their scythes together, 
working with joyful shouts, rallying each other. 

Levin still kept his place between his two companions. 
The starik, with sheepskin vest loosened, was gay, jocose, 
free in his movements. 

In the woods, mushrooms were found lurking under the 
leaves. Instead of cutting them off with his scythe, as the 
others did, he bent down whenever he saw one, and, picking 
it, put it in his breast. ‘*‘ Still another little present for my 
old woman.’’ 

The tender and soft grass was easy to mow, but it was 
hard to climb and descend the steep sides of the ravine. 
But the starik did not let this appear. Always lightly swing- 
ing his scythe, he climbed with short, firm steps, though he 
trembled all over with the exercise. He let nothing escape 
him, not an herb or a mushroom; and he never ceased to 
joke with Levin and the muzhiks. Levin behind him felt 
that he would drop at every instant, and told himself that he 
should never climb, scythe in hand, this steep hillside, where 
even unencumbered it would be hard to go. But he perse- 
vered all the same, and succeeded. He felt as though some 
interior force sustained him. 


VI. 


Tuey had finished mowing the Mashkin Verkh: the last 
rows were done, and the men had taken their kaftans, and 
were gayly going home. Levin mounted his horse, and re- 
gretfully took leave of his companions. On the hill-top he 
turned round to take a last look; but the evening’s mist, 
rising from the bottoms, hid them from sight ; but he could 


- 


ANNA KARENINA. 269 


hear their hearty, happy voices, as they laughed and talked, 
and the sound of their clinking scythes. 

Sergéi Ivanovitch had long done his dinner, and, sitting in 
his room, was taking iced lemonade, and reading the papers 
and reviews, which had just come from the post, when Levin, 
with matted and disordered hair, and full of lively talk, 
joined him. 

‘¢ Well! we mowed the whole field. Ach! How good, 
how delightful! And how has the day passed with you?’’ 
he asked, completely forgetting the unpleasant conversation 
of the evening before. 

‘¢ Bdtiushki!’’ exclaimed Sergéi Ivanovitch, looking at 
first not over-pleasantly at his brother. ‘‘How you look! 
Da! Shut the door, shut the door!’’ he cried. ‘* You’ve 
let in more than a dozen! ”’ 

Sergéi Ivanovitch could not endure flies; and he never 
opened his bedroom windows before evening, and he made 
it a point to keep his doors always shut. | 

‘¢ Indeed, not a one! If you knew what a day I’ve had! 
And how has it gone with you?”’ 

‘¢ First rate. But you don’t mean to say that you have 
been mowing all day? You must be hungry as a wolf. 
Kuzma has your dinner all ready for you.’’ 

‘*No: Iam not hungry. I ate yonder. But I’m going to 
have a bath.”’ 

‘‘Nu! go ahead, and I’ll join you,”’ said Sergéi Ivanovitch, 
lifting his head, and gazing at his brother. ‘* Hurry up,’’ 
he said, arranging his papers, and getting ready to follow: 
he also felt enlivened, and unwilling to be away from his 
brother. ‘*Nu/ but where were you during the shower?’’ 

‘¢ What shower? Only a drop or two fell. Ill be right 
back. And did the day go pleasantly with you? Nu! that’s 
capital!’’? And Levin went to dress. 

About five minutes afterwards the brothers met in the 
dining-room. Levin imagined that he was not hungry, and 
he sat down only so as not to hurt Kuzma’s feelings; but 
when he once got to eating, he found it excellent. His 
brother looked at him with a smile. 

‘‘Ach, da! there’s a letter for you,’’ he said. ‘* Kuzma, 
go and get it. Da! see that you shut the door.’’ 

The letter was from Oblonsky. Levin read it aloud. It 
was dated from Petersburg : — 

**T have just heard from Dolly; she is at Yergushovo; 


270 ANNA KARENINA. 


every thing is going wrong with her. Please go and see her, 
and give her your advice, — you who know every thing. She 
will be so glad to see you! She is all alone, wretched. 
Mother-in-law is abroad with the family.’’ 

‘¢ Certainly I will go to see her,’’ said Levin. ‘* Let us 
go together. She is a glorious woman: don’t you think 
so?”’ 

*¢ And they live near you?”’ 

‘¢ About thirty versts, possibly forty. But there’s a good 
road. We can make good time.’’ 

‘¢ Like to very much,”’ gaid Sergéi I[vanovitch enthusias- 
tically. The sight of his brother irresistibly filled him with 
happiness. ‘‘Nu/ what an appetite you have! ’’ he added, 
as he saw his tanned, sunburned, glowing face and neck, as 
he bent over his plate. 

‘¢ Excellent! You can’t imagine how this sort of thing 
drives all foolish thoughts out of one’s head. I am going to 
enrich medicine with a new term, arbeitskur’’ [labor-cure]. 

‘¢ Nu! you don’t seem to need it much, it seems to me.’’ 

‘¢ Yes: it is a sovereign specific against nervous troubles.’’ 

‘¢ Tt must be looked into. I was coming to see you mow, 
but the heat was so insupportable that I did not go farther 
than the wood. I rested a while, and then I went to the vil- 
lage. I met your nurse there, and asked her what the mu- 
zhiks thought about you. As I understand it, they don’t 
approve of you. She said, ‘It ain’t the gentry’s work.’ 
I think that, as a general thing, the peasantry form very 
definite ideas about what is becoming for the gentry to do, 
and they don’t like to have them go outside of certain fixed 
limits.”’ 

‘¢ Maybe; but I never enjoyed any thing more in all my 
life,’’ he said ; ‘‘ and I did not do anybody any harm, did i? 
And suppose it doesn’t please them, what is to be done? 
Whose business is it?’”’ 

‘¢ Well, I see you are well satisfied with your day,’’ replied 
Sergéi Ivanovitch. 

‘¢ Very well satisfied. We finished the whole field; and I 
got so well acquainted with the starik! you can’t imagine 
how he pleased me.”’ 

‘‘Nu/ you are satisfied with your day! So am I with 
mine. In the first place, I solved two chess problems, 
and one was a beauty. Ill showit to you. And then — 
I thought of our last evening’s discussion.”’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 271 


‘¢What? Our last evening’s discussion?’’ said Levin, 
half closing his eyes, with a sensation of comfort and ease 
after his dinner, and entirely.unable to recollect the subject 
of their discussion. 

‘¢ T come to the conclusion that you are partly in the right. 
The discrepancy in our views lies in the fact that you assume 
personal interest as the moving power of our actions, while 
I claim that every man who has reached a certain stage of 
intellectual development must have for his motive the public 
interest. But you are probably right in saying that personal 
action, material activity, is concerned in these matters. Your 
nature is, as the French say, primesautiére [off-hand]. You 
want strong, energetic activity, or nothing.’’ 

Levin listened to his brother; but he did not understand 
him at all, and did not try to understand. He feared, how- 
ever, that his brother would ask him some question by which 
it would become evident that he was not listening. 

‘¢ How is this, druzhok?’’ [little friend], asked Sergéi 
Ivanovitch, taking him by the shoulder. 

‘* Da! of course. But, then, I don’t set much store on 
my own opinions,’’ replied Levin, smiling like a child, con- 
scious of naughtiness. His thought was, ‘‘ What was our 
discussion about? Of course; and I am right, and he is 
right, and all is charming. But I must go to the office, and 
give my orders.’’ He arose and stretched himself. 

‘‘Tf you want to go out, let’s go together,’’ he said: ‘‘ if 
you must go to the office, I’ll go with you.”’ 

‘¢ Ach, bdtiushki!’’ exclaimed Levin so bruskly, that his 
brother was startled. 

‘¢ What’s the matter?”’ 

‘‘ Agafya Mikhailovna’s hand,’’ said Levin, striking his 
forehead. ‘‘I had forgotten all about her.’’ 

*¢ She is much better.”’ 

‘¢ Nu! still, I must go to her. I’ll be back before you get 
on your hat.’’ 

And he started to run down-stairs, his heels clattering or 
the steps. 


VII. 
Wuite Stepan Arkadyevitch was off to Petersburg, to fulfil 


the duty so natural and unquestionable to functionaries, how- 
ever other people may look upon it, of reporting to the min- 


272 ANNA KARENINA. 


istry, and at the same time, being well supplied with money, 
was ready to enjoy himself at the races, and his friends’ 
datchas, Dolly, with the children, was on her way to the 
country, in order to reduce the expenses as much as possible. 
She was going to their country-place at Yergushovo, an es- 
tate which had been a part of herdowry. It was where the 
wood had been sold in the spring, and was situated about 
fifty versts from Levin’s Pokrovsky. 

The old seignorial mansion of Yergushovo had long been 
in ruins, and the prince had contented himself with enlarging 
and repairing one of the L’s. Twenty years before, when 
Dolly was a little girl, this L was spacious and comfortable, 
though, in the manner of all L’s, it was built across the ave- 
nue, and towards the south. But now it was old, and out 
of repair. When Stepan Arkadyevitch went in the spring 
to sell the wood, his wife begged him to give a glance at the 
house, and have it made habitable. Stepan Arkadyevitch, 
like the guilty husband that he was, feeling desirous of mak- 
ing his wife’s material existence as comfortable as possible, 
made haste to have the furniture covered with cretonne, to 
hang curtains, to clear up the garden, to plant flowers, and 
to build a bridge across the pond; but he had overlooked 
many more essential matters, and Darya Aleksandrovna was 
not slow to complain about it. 

Although Stepan was a solicitous husband and a father, 
he was constantly forgetting that he had a wife and children, 
and his tastes remained those of a bachelor. When he got 
back to Moscow he took great pride in assuring his wife that 
every thing was in prime order, that he had arranged the 
house to perfection, and he advised her strongly to go there 
immediately. This emigration suited him in many ways: 
the children would enjoy the country, expenses would be 
lessened, and last, and most essential, he would be freer. 

Darya Aleksandrovna, on her part, felt that it would be a 
good thing to take the children away after the scarlatina, 
for the youngest little girl gained very slowly. Moreover, 
she would be freed from the importunities of the butcher, the 
fish-dealer, and the baker, which troubled her. And finally 
the happy thought occurred, to invite her sister Kitty, who 
was coming home from abroad about the middle of the sum- 
mer, and had been advised to take some cold baths. Kitty 
wrote her that nothing would delight her so much as to spend 
the rest of the summer with her at Yergushovo, that place 


ANNA KARENINA. 273 


that was so full of happy childhood memories for both of 
them. 

The first part of the time the country life was very tire- 
some to Dolly. She had lived there when she was a child. 
Viewed in the light of early recollections, she had expected 
it to be a refuge from all the trials of city life, and if it was 
not very gay or elegant, — and she hardly expected to find it 
so, — at least, it would be comfortable and inexpensive, and 
the children would be happy. But now, when she came there 
as mistress of the house, she found things contrary to her 
expectations. \ 

On the morning after their arrival, it began to rain in tor- 
rents. The roof was leaking; and the water dripped in the 
corridor and the nursery, and the little beds had to be 
brought down into the parlor. It was impossible to find a 
cook. Among the nine cows in the barn, according to the 
dairy-woman’s report, some were going to calve, and the 
rest were either too young or too old, and consequently they 
could not have butter, or-even milk for the children. Not an 
egg was to be had. It was impossible to find a hen. They 
had for roasting or broiling, only tough old purple roosters. 
No babui were to be found to do the washing — all were at 
work in the fields. They could not drive, because one of the 
horses was balky, and wouldn’t be harnessed. They had to 
give up bathing, because the bank of the river had been trod- 
den into a quagmire by the cattle, and, moreover, it was too 
conspicuous. Walking near the house was not pleasant, be- 
cause the tumble-down fences let the cattle into the garden, 
and there was in the herd a terrible bull which bellowed, and 
was reported to be ugly. In the house, there was not a 
clothes-press. The closet-doors either would not shut, or 
flew open when any one passed. In the kitchen, there were 
no pots or kettles. In the laundry, there were no tubs, or 
even any scrubbing-boards for the girls. 

At first, therefore, Darya Aleksandrovna, not finding the 
rest and peace which she expected, fell into despair. Real- 
izing her helplessness in such a terrible situation, she could 
_ not keep back her tears. The overseer, formerly a sergeant 
[vakhmistr], who, on account of his fine presence, had been 
promoted by Stepan Arkadyevitch from his place as Swiss, 
made no account of Darya Aleksandrovna’s tribulations, but 
simply said in his respectful way, ‘‘Can’t find anybody, the 
peasantry are so beastly!’’ and would not stir. 


274 ANNA KARENINA. 


The situation seemed hopeless ; but in the Oblonsky house- 
hold, as in all well-regulated homes, there was one humble. 
but still important and useful, member, Matriona Filimon- 
ovna. She calmed the baruina, telling her that all would 
come out right, — that was her favorite expression, and 
Matvé had borrowed it from her,—and she went to work 
without fuss and without bother. 

She had made the acquaintance of the prikashchik’s wife, 
and on the very day of their arrival went to take tea with 
her under the acacias, and discussed with her the ways and 
means of the household. A sort of club, composed of 
Matriona Filimonovna, together with the prikashchik’s wife, 
the stdrosta [bailiff], and the book-keeper, was formed un- 
der the trees ; and through their deliberations, the difficulties, 
one by one, disappeared, and every thing, as Matriona said, 
‘¢came out all right.”” The roof was patched up; a cook 
was found in a friend of the starosta’s wife; chickens were 
bought; the cows began to give milk; the garden-fence was 
repaired ; the carpenter drove in hooks, and put latches on the 
closets, so that they would not keep flying open ; the laundry 
was set to rights; and the ironing-board, covered with sol- 
diers’ cloth, was extended from the dresser across the back 
of a chair, and the smell of the ironing came up from below. 

‘‘Nu, vot!’’ said Matriona Filimonovna, pointing to the 
ironing-board. ‘‘ There is no need of worrying.”’ 

They even went so far as to build a board bath-house on 
the river-bank, so that Lili could bathe. Darya Aleksan- 
drovna’s hope of a comfortable, if not a peaceful, country 
life became almost realized. Peaceful life was impossible 
to her with six children. If one had an ill turn, another was 
sure to follow suit, and something would happen to a third, 
and the fourth would show signs of a bad character, and so 
it always was. Rarely, rarely came even short periods of 
rest. But these very anxieties and troubles were the only 
chances of happiness that Darya Aleksandrovna had. If 
she had been shut off from this resource, she would have 
been a prey to her thoughts about a husband who no longer 
loved her. Besides, these same children, who worried her 
with their little illnesses and faults, drove away her sorrows 
by their pleasures and enjoyments. Her joys were so small, 
that they were almost invisible, like gold in sand; and in 
trying hours she saw only the sorrows, the sand: but there 
were also happy moments, when she saw only the joys, the 


ANNA KARENINA. 975 


gold. In the quiet of the country, her joys became more and 
more frequent. Often,as she looked upon her little flock, 
she accused herself of a mother’s partiality, but she could 
not help admiring them; she could not keep from saying 
to herself, that it was rare to meet such beautiful children, 
all six charming in their own ways; and she rejoiced in 
them, and was proud of them. 


VII. 


Towarps the end of May, when every thing was beginning 
to improve, she received her husband’s reply to her com- 
plaints about her domestic tribulations. He wrote, asking 
pardon because he had not remembered every thing, and 
promised to come just as soon as he could. This had not 
yet come to pass; and at the end of June, Darya Aleksan- 
drovna was still living alone in the country. 

On Sunday, during the fast of St. Peter, Darya Aleksan- 
droyna took all her children to the holy communion. In her 
intimate philosophical discussions with her sister, her mother, 
or her friends, she sometimes surprised them by the breadth 
of her views on religious subjects. She had gone through 
strange religious metempsychoses, and had come out into a 
faith which had very little in common with ecclesiastical 
dogmas; yet Dolly herself conformed strictly to all the 
obligations of the church, and obliged her family to do the 
same. She not only wished to let her example tell, but she 
felt it as a need of her soul. And now she was blaming 
herself because her children had not been to communion 
since the beginning of the year, and she resolved to ac- 
complish this duty. 

For several days she had been deciding what the children 
should wear: and now their dresses were arranged, all clean 
and in order; flutings and flounces were added, new buttons 
were put on, and ribbons were gathered in knots. Only Tania’s 
dress, which had been intrusted to the English governess, was 
a source of anger to Dolly: the English governess, sewing it 
over again, put the seams across the shoulders in the wrong 
place, made the sleeves too short, and spoiled the whole gar- 
ment. Tania was a sight to see, so badly did the dress fit 
her. Fortunately, it occurred to Matriona Filimonoyna to 
set gores into the waist, and to put ona collar. The harm 


276 ANNA KARENINA. 


was repaired, but they narrowly escaped a quarrel with the 
English governess. 

All was now in readiness; and about ten o’clock in the 
morning, — for that was the hour that the priest had set for 
the communion, — the children, radiant with joy, were gath 
ered on the steps before the two-seated drozhky waiting for 
their mother. Thanks to Matriona Filimonovna’s watchful 
care, in place of the restive horse, the prikashchik’s stallion 
had been harnessed to the drozhky. Darya Aleksandrovna 
appeared in a white muslin, and got into the carriage. 

She had taken considerable pains with her toilet, and had 
dressed with care and emotion. In former times she had 
liked to dress well for the sake of being handsome and at- 
tractive; but as she got along in life, she lost her taste for 
affairs of the toilet, because it made her realize how her 
beauty had faded. But to-day she once more took especial 
pains to improve her personal appearance. But she did not 
dress for her own sake, or to enhance her beauty, but so 
that, as mother of these lovely children, she might not spoil 
the impression of the whole scene. And as she cast a final 
glance at the mirror, she was satisfied with herself. She was 
beautiful, — not beautiful in the same way as once she liked 
to be at the ball, but by reason of the purpose which inspired 
her. 

There was no one at church except the muzhiks and the 
household servants ; but she noticed, or thought she noticed, 
the attention that she and her children attracted as they went 
along. The children were handsome in their nicely trimmed 
dresses, and still more charming in their behavior. Little 
Alosha, to be sure, was not absolutely satisfactory: he kept 
turning round, and trying to look at the tails of his little coat, 
but nevertheless he was wonderfully pretty. Tania behaved 
like a little lady, and looked after the younger ones. But 
Lili, the smallest, was fascinating in her naive delight at 
every thing that she saw; and it was hard not to smile when, 
after she had received the communion, she cried out, ‘* Please, 
some more !”’ 

After they got home, the children felt the consciousness 
that something solemn had taken place, and were very quiet 
and subdued. All went well in the house, till at lunch 
Grisha began to whistle, and, what was worse than all, re- 
fused to obey the English governess ; and he was sent away 
without any tart. Darya Aleksandrovna would not have al- 


ANNA KARENINA. 277 


lowed any punishment on such a day if she had been there ; 
but she was obliged to uphold the governess, and confirm her 
in depriving Grisha of the tart. This was a cloud on the 
general happiness. _ 

Grisha began to ery, saying that Nikolinka also had 
whistled, but they did not punish him; and that he was not 
crying about the tart, — that was no account, — but because 
they had not been fair to him. This was very disagreeable ; 
and Darya Aleksandrovna, after a consultation with the Eng- 
lish governess, decided to reason with Grisha, and went to 
get him. But then, as she went through the hall, she saw a 
scene that brought such joy to her heart, that the tears came 
to her eyes, and she herself forgave the culprit. 

The little fellow was sitting in the drawing-room by the 
bay-window: near him stood Tania with a plate. Under 
the pretext of wanting some dessert for her dolls, she had 
asked the English governess to let her take her portion of 
the pie to the nursery ; but instead of this, she had taken it 
to her brother. Grisha, still sobbing over the unfairness of 
his punishment, was eating the pie, and saying to his sister 
in the midst of his tears, ‘‘ Take some too: we will eat to 
— together.”’ 

Tania, full of sympathy for her brother, and with the sym- 
pathy of having done a generous action, was eating her part 
with tears in her eyes. When they saw their mother, they 
were scared, but they felt assured by the expression of her 
face, that they were doing right: they ran to her with their 
mouths still full of pie, began to kiss her hands with their 
laughing lips, and their shining faces were stained with tears 
and jam. 

**Mdtiushki! my new white dress! Tania! Grisha!”’ 
exclaimed the mother, endeavoring to save her dress, but 
at the same time smiling at them with a happy, beatific 
smile. 

Afterwards the new dresses were taken off, and the girls 
put on their frocks, and the boys their old jackets; and the 
linéika [two-seated drozhky] was brought out again, to the 
wrath of the prikashchik, whose stallion was put at the pole ; 
and they started with joyful cries and shouts out after mush- 
rooms, and to have a bath. 

They soon filled a basket with mushrooms: even Lili found 
one. Always before Miss Hull had been obliged to find them 
for her; but now she herself found a huge birch shliupik, and 


278 . ANNA KARENINA. 


there was a universal cry of enthusiasm, ‘‘ Lili has found a 
shliwptk !’’ 

Afterwards they came to the river, fastened the horses to 
the birch-trees, and had their bath. The coachman, Terenti, 
leaving the animals to switch away the flies with their tails, 
stretched himself out on the grass in the shade of the birches, 
and lighted his pipe, and listened to the shouts and laughter 
of the children in the bath-house. 

Although it was rather embarrassing to look after all these 
children, and to keep them from mischief ; though it was hard 
to remember, and not mix up all these stockings, shoes, and 
trousers for so many different legs, and to untie, unbutton, 
and then fasten again, so many strings and buttons, — still 
Darya Aleksandrovna always took a lively interest in the 
bathing, looking upon it as advantageous for the children, 
and never feeling happier than when engaged in this occupa- 
tion. To fit the stockings on these plump little legs; to take 
them by the hand, and dip their naked little bodies into the 
water; to hear their cries, now joyful, now terrified; to see 
these eyes shining with joy and excitement, these splashing 
cherubimtchiks, — was to her a perfect delight. 

When the children were about half dressed,*the peasant- 
women, in Sunday attire, came along, and stopped timidly 
at the bath-house. Matriona Filimonovna hailed one of 
them, in order to give her some of the shirts to dry that had 
fallen into the river; and Darya Aleksandrovna talked with 
the babui. At first they laughed behind their hoods, and 
did not understand her questions; but little by little their 
courage returned, and they quite won Darya Aleksandroyna’s 
heart by their sincere admiration of the children. 

‘* Ish tui! ain’t she lovely, now? White as sugar!’’ said 
one, pointing to Tania, and nodding her head. ‘‘ But thin’? — 

‘¢ Yes: been sick.’’ 

‘*¢ Look you,’’ said still another, pointing to the youngest. 

*¢'You don’t take him in?’’ 

‘* No,’’ said Darya Aleksandrovna proudly. ‘‘ He is only 
three months old.’’ 

‘*You don’t say!’’ [‘*Ish tui!’?] 

** And have you children? ”’ 

‘*Had four; two alive, boy and girl. I weaned the last 
before Lent. 

** How old is he?’’ 

** Da! Second year.” 


ANNA KARENINA. 279 


*¢ And do you nurse him so long?”’ 

‘¢ It’s our way: three springs.”’ 

And then the baba asked Darya Aleksandrovna about her 
children and their illness; where was her husband? would 
she see him often? 

Darya Aleksandrovna found the conversation with the 
babui so interesting, that she did not want to say good-by 
to them. And it was pleasant to her, to see how evidently 
all these women looked with admiration, because she had so 
many and such lovely children. ‘The babui made Darya 
Aleksandrovna laugh, and piqued Miss Hull because she was 
evidently the cause of their unaccountable laughter. One of 
the young women gazed with all her eyes at Miss Hull, who 
was dressing last; and, when she put on the third petticoat, 
she could not restrain herself any longer, but burst out 
laughing. ‘‘ Jsh tui! she put on one, and then she put on 
another, and she hasn’t got them all on yet!’’ and they all 
broke into loud ha-has. 


IX. 


Darya ALEKSANDROVNA, with a platok on her head, and 
surrounded by all her little flock of bathers, was just drawing 
near the house when the coachman called out, ‘‘ Here comes 
some barin, — Pokrovsky, it looks like! ”’ 

To her great joy, Darya Aleksandrovna saw that it was 
indeed Levin’s well-known form in gray hat and gray over- 
coat. She was always glad to see him; but now she was 
particularly delighted, because he saw her in all her glory, 
and no one could appreciate her triumph better than Levin. 

When he caught sight of her, it seemed to him that he saw 
the personification of the family happiness of his dreams. 

*¢ You are like a brooding-hen, Darya Aleksandrovna.”’ 

‘¢ Ach! how glad Iam!”’ said she, extending her hand. 

**Glad! But you did not let me know. My brother is 
staying with me; and I had a little note from Stiva, telling 
me you were here.’’ 

‘* From Stiva?’’ repeated Dolly, astonished. 

‘*Yes. He wrote me that you were in the country, and 
thought that you would allow me to be of some use to you,”’ 
said Levin; and suddenly, even while speaking, he became 
confused, and walked in silence by the linéika, pulling off, 
and biting, linden-twigs as he went. It had occurred to him 


280 ANNA KARENINA. 


that Darya Aleksandrovna would doubtless find it painful te 
have a neighbor offer her the assistance which her husband 
should have given. In fact, Darya Aleksandrovna was dis- 
pleased at the way in which Stepan Arkadyevitch had thrust 
his domestic difficulties upon a stranger. She perceived that 
Levin felt this, and she felt grateful to him for his tact and 
delicacy. 

‘¢Of course, I understood that it was a plesastt way of 
telling me that you would be glad to see me; and I was glad. 
Of course, I imagine that you, a city dame, find it savage 
here; and, if I can be of the least use to you, I am wholly 
at your service.”’ 

‘¢Oh, no!’’ said Dolly. ‘* At first it was rather hard, 
but now every thing is running beautifully. I owe it all to 
my old nurse,’’ she added, pointing to Matriona Filimonoyvna, 
who, perceiving that they were speaking of her, gave Levin 
a pleasant, friendly smile. She knew him, and knew that 
he would make a splendid husband for the baruishna, as she 
called Kitty, and thus felt an interest in him. 

‘¢ Will you get in? We will squeeze up a little,’’ said she. 

‘¢ No, I will walk. — Children, which of you will run with 
me to get ahead of the horses?’’ 

The children were very slightly acquainted with Levin, and 
did not remember where they had seen him; but they had 
none of that strange feeling of timidity and aversion which 
children are often blamed for showing in the presence of 
their elders. The most shrewd and experienced man may 
easily become the dupe of dissimulation ; but even the most 
innocent child seems to know it by intuition or instinct, though 
it be most carefully hidden. Whatever faults Levin had, he 
could not be accused of lack of sincerity ; and, moreover, 
the children felt well inclined to him on account of the ex- 
pressions of good will that they had seen on their mother’s 
face. The two eldest instantly accepted his invitation, and 
ran with him as they would have gone with their nurse, or 
Miss Hull, or their mother. Lili also wanted to go with him: 
so he set her on his shoulder, and began to run. 

** Don’t be frightened, don’ t be frightened, Darya Alek- 
sandrovna,”’’ he said, laughing gayly, *¢T won’t hurt her, or 
let her fall.’’ 

And when she saw his strong, agile’ and at the same time 
prudent and careful, movements, Dollyfelt re-assured, and 
followed his course with pleasure. 


ANNA KARENINA. 281 


There in the country, with the children and with Darya 
Aleksandrovna, with whom he felt thoroughly in sympathy, 
Levin entered into that boylike, happy frame of mind whick 
was not unusual with him, and which Darya Aleksandrovna 
especially admired in him. He played with the children, and 
taught them gymnastic exercises; he jested with Miss Hull 
in his broken English; and he told Darya Aleksandrovna of 
his undertakings in the country. 

After dinner, Darya Aleksandrovna, sitting alone with him 
on the balcony, began to speak of Kitty. 

‘‘ Did you know? Kitty is coming here to spend the sum- 
mer with me! ”’ 

‘¢Indeed!’’ replied Levin, confused; and instantly, in 
order to change the subject, he added, — 

‘¢ Then I shall send you two cows, shall I? And if you 
insist on paying, and have no scruples, then you may give 
me five rubles a month.’’ 

‘¢ No, excuse me. We shall get along.”’ 

‘¢ Nu! Then I am going to look at your cows; and, with 
your permission, I will give directions about feeding them. 
All depends on that.’’ 

And Levin, in order not to hear any thing more about 
Kitty, of whom more than any thing else he wes anxious to 
hear, explained to Darya Aleksandrovna the whole theory of 
the proper management of cows, so systematized that cows 
became mere machines for the conversion of so much fodder 
into milk, and so on. He was afraid that his peace of mind, 
so painfully won, might be destroyed. 

‘¢Yes: but, in order to do all this, there must be some 
one to superintend it; and who is there?’’ asked Darya 
Aleksandrovna, not quite convineed. 

Now that her domestic régime was satisfactory, through 
Matriona Filimonovna, she had no desire to make any 
changes: moreover, she had no faith in Levin’s knowledge 
about rustic management. His reasonings about a cow 
being merely a machine to produce milk were suspicious. 
It seemed to her that such theories would throw house- 
keeping into discord: it even seemed to her that they 
might be dangerous. And that it was sufficient to do as 
Matriona Filimonovna did,—to give the two cows more 
fodder, and to prevent the cook from carrying dish-water 
from the kitchen to the dairy,—this was clear. But the 
theories about meal and ensilage for fodder were not clear, 


282 ANNA KARENINA. 


but dubious; and the principal point was, that she wanted 
to talk about Kitty. 


x 


‘¢ Kitty writes me that she is longing for solitude and 
repose,’’ began Dolly after a moment’s silence. 

‘¢ Ts her health better?’’ asked Levin with feeling. 

‘¢ Thank the Lord, she is entirely well! I never believed 
that she had any lung-trouble.”’ 

‘¢ Ach! I am very glad,’’ said Levin; and Dolly thought 
that she could read on his face the touching expression of 
inconsolable grief as he said it, and then looked at her in 
silence. 

‘¢ Tell me, Konstantin Levin,’’ said Darya Aleksandrovna 
with a friendly, and at the same time a rather mischievous, 
smile, ‘* why are you angry with Kitty? ”’ 

‘¢T? Jam not angry with her,’’ said Levin. 

‘¢ Yes, you are. Why didn’t you come to see any of us 
the last time you were in Moscow? ”’ 

‘¢ Darya Aleksandrovna,’’ he exclaimed, blushing to the 
roots of his hair, ‘‘I beg of you, with your kindness of 
heart, not to think of such a thing! How can you not have 
pity on me when you know ’’ — 

‘¢ What do I know? ’’ 

‘¢'You know that I offered myself, and was rejected.’’ 
And as he said this, all the tender feelings that Kitty’s name 
had caused vanished at the memory of this injury. 

‘¢ How could you suppose that I knew? ’’ 

‘¢ Because everybody knows it.’’ 

‘¢ There is where you are mistaken. I suspected it, but I 
knew nothing positive.’’ 

*¢ Ah, nu! and so you know now!”’ 

‘¢ All that I know is that she was keenly tortured by a mem- 
ory to which she permitted no reference made. If she has 
made no confidences to me, then she has not to any one else. 
Now, what have you against her? Tell me! ”’ 

‘¢ J just told you all that there was.’’ 

‘¢ When was it?’’ 

‘¢ When I was at your house the last time.” 

‘¢But do you know? I will tell you,’’ said Darya Alek- 
sandrovna — ‘‘ I am sorry for Kitty, very sorry. You suffer 
only in your pride’’ — 


ANNA KARENINA. 283 


‘© Perhaps so,’’ said Levin, ‘‘ but ’? — 

She interrupted him. 

‘* But she, poor little one, I am very, very sorry for her. 
Now I understand all! ”’ 

‘¢ Nu, Darya Aleksandrovna, excuse me,’’ said he, rising. 
‘¢ Proshchaite [good-by |, Darya Aleksandrovna, till we meet 
again.’’ 

ve No! wait!’’ she cried, holding him by the sleeve: 
** wait! sit down! ”’ 

‘*I beg of you, I begof you, let us not speak of this any 
-more,’’ said Levin, sitting down again; while a ray of that 
hope which he believed forever vanished, flashed into his 
heart. 

‘¢ Tf I did not like you,” said Dolly, her eyes full of tears, 
‘¢if I did not know you as I do’’— 

The hope which he thought was dead, filled Levin’s heart 
more and more. | 

*¢ Yes, I understand all now,’ said Dolly: ‘‘ you cannot 
understand this, you men, who are free in your choice; it is 
perfectly clear whom you love: while a young girl, with that 
feminine, maidenly modesty imposed on her, must see you 
men, but must wait till the word is spoken — and the young 
girl will be, must be, so timid that she will not know what to 
say.’’ 

‘¢ Yes, if her heart does not speak ’’ — : 

‘**No; her heart speaks, but think for a moment: you men 
decide upon some girl, you visit her home, you watch, observe, 
and you make up your minds whether you are in love or not, 
and then, when you have come te the conclusion that you love 
her, you offer yourselves.’’ 

‘* Nu! we don’t always do that.’’ 

‘¢ All the same, you don’t propose until your love is fully 
ripe, or when you have made up your mind between two 
possible choices. But the young girl cannot make a choice. 
They pretend that she can choose, but she cannot: she can 
only answer yes or no.”’ 

‘*Da! the choice was between me and Vronsky,’’ thought 
Levin; and the resuscitated dead love in his soul seemed to 
die for a second, giving his heart an additional pang. 

‘* Darya Aleksandrovna,’’ said he, ‘‘ thus one chooses a 
dress or any trifling merchandise, but not love. Besides, the 
choice has been made, and so much the better; and it can- 
not be done again,”’ 


284 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ Ach! pride, pride!’’ said Dolly, as though she would 
express her scorn for the degradation of his sentiments 
compared with those which only women are able to compre- 
hend. 

‘¢ When you offered yourself to Kitty, she was in just that 
situation where she could not give an answer. She was in 
doubt: the choice was you or Vronsky. She saw him every 
day: you she had not seen for a long time. If she had been 
older, it would have been different: if I, for example, had 
been in her place, I should not have hesitated. He has 
always been distasteful to me, and so that is the end of if.’’ 

Levin remembered Kitty’s reply: ‘‘ No, this cannot be.”’ 

‘¢ Darya Aleksandrovna,” said he dryly, ‘‘ I am touched 
by your confidence in me; but I think you are mistaken. 
Right or wrong, this vanity which you so despise makes it 
impossible for me ever to think about Katerina Aleksan- 
drovna; you understand? utterly impossible.”’ 

‘s T will say only one thing more. You must know that I 
am speaking to you of my sister, whom I love as my own 
children. I don’t say that she loves you, but I only wish to 
say that her reply at that moment amounted to nothing at 
all.’’ 

‘*¢] don’t know,”’ said Levin, leaping suddenly to his feet. 
‘¢If you only realized the pain that you cause me! It is 
just the same as if you had lost a child, and they came to 
you and said, ‘ He would have been like this, like this, and 
he might have lived, and you would have had so much joy 
in him— But he is dead, dead, dead’ ’’ — 

‘* How absurd you are!’ said Darya Aleksandrovna, with 
a melancholy smile at the sight of Levin’s emotion. ‘+ Da! 
I understand better and better,’’ she continued pensively. 
‘¢Then you won’t come to see us when Kitty is here? ”’ 

‘* No, I will not. Of course I will not avoid Katerina 
Aleksandrovna ; but, when it is possible, I shall endeavor to 
spare her the affliction of my presence.’’ 

‘* You are very, very absurd,’’ said Darya Aleksandrovna, 
looking at him affectionately. ‘* Nu! let it be as though we 
had not said a word about it.— What do you want, Tania?’’ 
said shé in French to her little girl, who came running in. 

‘¢ Where is my little shovel, mamma? ’”’ 

**T speak French to you, and you must answer in French.”’ 

The child tried to speak, but could not recall the French 
word for shovel. Her mother whispered it to her, and then 


ANNA KARENINA. 285 


told her, still in French, where she should go to find it. This 
made Levin feel unpleasantly. 

Every thing now seemed changed in Darya Aleksandrovna’s 
household ; even the children were not nearly so attractive 
as before. 

‘¢ And why does she speak French to the children?’’ he 
thought. ‘‘ How false and unnatural! Even the children 
feel it. Teach them French, and spoil their sincerity,’’ he 
said to himself, not knowing that Darya Aleksandrovna had 
twenty times asked the same question, and yet, in spite of 
the harm that it did their simplicity, had come to the conclu- 
sion that this was the right way to teach them. 

‘¢ But why are youina hurry? Sit a little while longer.’’ 

Levin staid to tea; but all his gayety was gone, and he 
felt bored. 


After tea he went out to give orders about harnessing tse 
horses ; and when he came in he found Darya Aleksandrovna 
in great disturbance, with flushed face, and tears in her eyes. 
During his short absence all the pleasure and pride that she 
took in her children had been ruthlessly destroyed. Grisha 
and Tania had quarrelled about a ball. Darya Aleksan- 
drovna, hearing their cries, ran to them, and found them in a 
frightful state. Tania was pulling her brother’s hair; and 
he, with angry face, was pounding his sister with all his 
might. When Darya Aleksandrovna saw it, something 
seemed to snap in her heart. A black cloud, as it were, 
-eame down on her life. She saw that these children of hers, 
of whom she was so proud, were not only ill trained, but 
were even bad, and inclined to the most evil and tempestuous 
passions. 

This thought troubled her so that she could not speak or 
think, or even explain her sorrow to Levin. Levin saw that 
she was unhappy, and he did his best to comfort her, saying 
that this was not so very terrible, after all, and that all chil- 
dren got into fights; but in his heart he said, ‘‘ No, I will 
not bother myself to speak French with my children. I 
shall not have such children. -There is no need of spoiling 
them, and making them unnatural; and they will be charm- 
ing. Da! my children shall not be like these.’’ 

He took his leave, and rode away; and she did not try to 
keep him longer. 


286 ANNA KARENINA. 


XI. 


Towarps the middle of July, Levin received a visit from 
the stdrosta of his sister’s estate, situated about twenty versts 
from Pokrovsky. He brought the report about the progress 
of affairs, and about the hay-making. The chief income from 
this estate came from the prairies inundated in the spring. 
In former years the muzhiks rented these hayfields at the 
rate of twenty rubles a desyatin. But when Levin under- 
took the management of this estate, and examined the hay- 
crops, he came to the conclusion that the rent was too low, 
and he raised it to the rate of twenty-five rubles a desyatin. 
The muzhiks refused to pay this, and, as Levin suspected, 
drove away other lessees. Then Levin himself went there, 
and arranged to have the prairies mowed partly by day la- 
borers, partly on shares. His muzhiks were greatly discon- 
tented with this new plan, and did their best to block it; but 
it succeeded, and even the very first year the yield from the 
prairies was doubled. For the second and the third sum- 
mers the peasantry still resisted, but the harvesting went on 
in good order, and the present year they proposed to mow the 
prairies on thirds; and now the starosta came to announce 
that the work was done, and that he, fearing lest it should 
rain, had asked the accountant to make the division, and turn 
over to the proprietor the eighteen hay-cocks which were his 
share. By the unsatisfactory answer to his question why 
the hay had been mowed only on the largest prairie, by the 
stdrosta’s haste in declaring the division without orders, by 
the muzhik’s whole manner, Levin was led to think that in 
this matter there was something crooked, and he concluded 
that it would be wise to go and look into it. 

Levin reached the estate just at dinner-time ; and, leaving 
his horse at the house of his brother’s nurse, he went to find 
the old man at the apiary, hoping to obtain from him some 
light on the question of the hay-crop. 

The loquacious, friendly old man, whose name was Par- 
menvitch, was delighted to see Levin, told him all about his 
husbandry, and gave him a long account of his bees, and 
how they swarmed this year; but when Levin asked him 
about the hay, he gave vague and unsatisfactory answers. 
And thus Levin’s suspicions were more than ever strength- 
ened. Thence he went to the prairie and examined the hay- 


ANNA KARENINA. 287 


ricks, and found that they could not contain fifty loads each, 
as the muzhiks said. So he had one of the carts which they 
had used as a measure to be brought, and ordered all the 
hay from one of the ricks to be carried into the shed. The 
hay-rick was found to contain only thirty-two loads. Not- 
withstanding the starosta’s protestations that the hay was 
measured right, and that it must have got pressed down in 
the cart; notwithstanding the fact that he called God to 
witness that it was all done in the most righteous manner, — 
Levin replied, that, as the division had been made without 
his orders, he would not accept the hay-ricks as equivalent to 
fifty loads each. After long parleys, it was decided that the 
muzhiks should take eleven of these hay-ricks for their share, 
but that the master’s should be measured over again. The 
colloquy did not come to an end until it was after the lunch- 
hour. When the division was going on, Levin, confiding the 
care of the work to the book-keeper, sat down on one of the 
hay-ricks which was marked by a laburnum stake, and 
enjoyed the spectacle of the prairie alive with the busy 
peasantry. 

Before him lay the bend of the river, and on the banks he 
saw the peasant women, and heard their ringing voices as 
they gossipped, and moved in parti-cclored groups, raking 
the scattered hay over the beautiful green-growing aftermath, 
into long wavering brown ramparts. Behind the dabui came 
the muzhiks with pitchforks, who turned the windrows into 
huge high-crested hay-cocks. On one side in the corner of 
the prairie, all cleared of hay, came the creaking telyégas in 
a long line.. One by one they were loaded with the share 
belonging to the muzhiks, and their places were taken by the 
horse-wagons heavy with the loads of fragrant hay. 

‘¢ Splendid hay weather! Soon’ll be all in,’’ said the 
starik, sitting down near Levin. ‘‘ Tea-leaves, not hay. 
Scatter it just like seeds for the chickens.’’ ‘Then, pointing 
to a hay-rick which the men were demolishing, the starik 
went on: ‘‘ Since dinner, pitched up a good half of it. — Is 
that the last?’’ he shouted to a young fellow who, standing 
on the thills of a telyéga, and shaking his hempen reins, was 
driving by. : 

‘¢ The last, bdtiushka,’’ shouted back the young fellow, 
hauling in his horse. Then he looked down with a smile up- 
on a happy-looking, rosy-faced baba who was sitting on the 
hay in the telyéga, and whipped up his steed again. 


288 fy ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ Who is that? your son?’’ asked Levin. 

‘¢ My youngest,’’ said the starik with an expression of 
pride. 

‘* What a fine fellow! ’’ 

*¢ Not bad.’’ 

‘¢ Married yet? ’”’ 

‘¢ Yes, three years come next Filipovok’’ [St. Philip’s 
Day, Nov. 14]. 

‘¢So? And are there children? ’’ | 

‘¢ How? children? No, more’s the pity. Nu! the hay, 
just tea-leaves,’’ he added, wishing to change the subject. 

Levin looked with interest at Vanka Parmenof and his 
young wife. Vanka was standing on the wagon, arranging, 
storing. and pressing down the fragrant hay which the hand- 
some good-wife handed up to him. The young baba worked 
gayly, industriously, and skilfully. First she arranged it 
with her fork ; then, with elastic and agile motions, she exerted 
all her strength upon it; and, bending over, she lifted up the 
great armful, and standing straight, with full bosom under 
the white chemise gathered with a red girdle, she handed it 
to her husband. - Vanka, working as rapidly as he could, so 
as to relieve her of every moment of extra work, stretched 
out his arms wide, and caught up the load which she ex- 
tended, and trampled it down into the wagon. Then, raking 
up what was left, the baba shook off the hay that had got 
into her neck, and, tying a red handkerchief around her broad - 
white brow, she crept under the telyéga to fasten down the 
load. Vanka showed her how the ropes should be tied, and at 
some remark that she made burst into a roar of laughter. 
On the expressive faces of both could be seen the marks of 
strong young love newly awakened. 


XII. 


THE load was complete ; and Vanka, jumping down, took his 
gentle, fat horse by the bridle, and joined the file of telyégas 
going to the village. The baba threw her rake on the load, 
and with firm step joined the other women who ina group 
followed the carts. The babui, with rakes on their shoulders, 
and dressed in bright-colored petticoats, began to sing in 
loud, happy voices. One wild, untrained voice would intone 
the folk-song (pyésna), and then fifty other young, fresh, 


ANNA KARENINA. 289 


and powerful voices would take it up, and repeat it to the 
end. 

The babui, singing their pyésna, passed by Levin; and it 
seemed to him, as he sat comfortably on his hay-rick, that 
they were like a cloud, big with tumultuous joy, ready to 
overwhelm him and carry him off, together with his hay and 
the other hay-ricks and the wagons. As he heard the rhythm 
of this wild song, with its accompaniment of whistles and 
shrill cries, the prairie, the far-away fields, —all things seemed 
to him to be filled with a strange, weird life and animation. 
This gayety filled him with envy. He would have liked to 
take part; but he could not thus express his joy of living, 
and he was obliged to lie still and look and listen. When 
the throng had passed out of sight, he was seized with a 
sense of his loneliness, of his physical indolence, of the 
hostility which existed between him and this life that he 
saw. 

All of these muzhiks, even those who had quarrelled with 
him about the hay, or those whom he had injured if their 
intention was not to cheat him, saluted him gayly as they 
passed, and showed no anger for what he had done, or any 
remorse or even remembrance that they had tried to defraud 
him. All was swallowed up and forgotten in this sea of joy- 
ous, universal labor. God gave the day, God gave the 
strength; and the day and the strength consecrated the 
labor, and gave their own reward. For whom the work? 
Who would enjoy the work? ‘These questions were sec- 
ondary and of no account. 

Levin had often looked with interest at this life, had often 
been tempted to become one with the people, living their 
lives ; but to-day the impression of what he had seen in the 
bearing of Vanka Parmenof towards his young wife gave him 
for the first time a clear and definite desire to exchange the 
burdensome, idle, artificial, selfish existence which he led, 
for the laborious, simple, pure, and delightful life of the 
peasantry. 

The starik, who had been sitting with him, had already gone 
home; the people were scattered; the neighbors had gone 
home: but those who lived at a distance were preparing to 
spend the night on the prairie, and getting ready for supper. 

Levin, without being seen, still lay on the hay, looking, 
listening, and thinking. The peasantry gathered on the 
prairie scarcely slept throughout the short summer night. 


290 ANNA KARENINA. 


At first there were gay gossip and laughter while everybody 
was eating ; then followed songs and jests. 

All the long, laborious day had left no trace upon them, 
except of its happiness. Just before the dawn there was 
silence everywhere. Nothing could be heard but the noe- 
turnal sounds of the frogs croaking in the marsh, and the 
horses whinnying as they waited for the coming morning. 
Coming to himself, Levin stood up on the hay-rick, and, 
looking at the stars, saw that the night had gone. 

‘* Nu! what am I going to do? How am I going to de 
this?’’ he asked himself, trying to give a shape to the 
thoughts and feelings that had occupied him during this 
short night. 

These thoughts and feelings had run in three separate 
directions. First, it seemed to him that he must renounce 
his former way of living, which was useful neither to himself 
nor to anybody else, In comparison to it, the new life 
seemed to him simple and attractive. The second thought 
especially referred to the new life which he longed to lead. 
To renounce his useless intellectual culture was easy, espe- 
cially when the simplicity and purity of his future life was 
so likely, as he thought, to restore him to calmness and quie- 
tude of mind. The third line of thought brought him to the 
question how he should effect the transition from the old life 
to the new, and in this regard there was nothing clear that 
presented itself to his mind. ‘*I must havea wife. I must 
engage in work, and not solitary work. Shall I sell Pok- 
rovsky? buy land? join the commune? marry a_ peasant 
woman? How can I do all this?’’ he asked himself, and 
no answer came. ‘* However,’’ he went on in his self-com- 
munings, ‘I have not slept all night, and my ideas are not 
very clear. I shall reduce them to order by and by. One 
thing is certain: this night has settled my fate. All my 
former dreams of family existence were rubbish, but this — 
all this is vastly simpler and better. 

‘¢ How lovely!’ he thought as he gazed at the delicate 
rosy clouds, colored like mother-of-pearl, which floated in 
the sky above him. ‘* How charming every thing has been 
this lovely night! And when did that shell have time to 
form? I have been looking this long time at the sky, and 
only two white streaks were to be seen. Da! thus, without 
my knowing it, my views about life have been changed.’’ 

He left the prairie, and walked along the highway towards 


ANNA KARENINA. 291 


the village. A cool breeze began to blow. At this moment, 
just before the dawn, every thing took on a gray and melan- 
choly tint, as if to bring out into stronger relief the perfect 
triumph of light over the darkness. 

Levin shivered with the chill. He walked fast, looking 
at the ground. ‘* Who is that coming?’’ he asked himself, 
hearing the sound of bells. He raised his head. About 
forty steps from him he saw, coming towards him on the 
highway, a travelling-carriage, drawn by four horses. The 
horses, to avoid the ruts, pressed close against the pole; 
but the skilful yamshchik [driver], seated on one side of the 
box, drove so well that the wheels kept only on the smooth 
surface of the road. 

Levin was so interested in this that he looked only at the 
carriage, and forgot about the occupants. 

In one corner of the carriage an elderly lady was asleep ; 
and by the window sat a young girl, only just awake, holding 
with both hands the ribbons of her white bonnet. Serene 
and thoughtful, filled with a lofty, complex life which Levip 
could not understand, she was gazing beyond him at the 
glow of the morning sky. 

At the very instant that this vision flashed by him he 
caught a glimpse of her frank eyes. He recognized her, and 
a gleam of joy, mingled with wonder, shone upon his face.? 

He could not be mistaken. Only she in all the world 
could have such eyes. In all the world there was but one 
being who could condense for him all the light and meaning 
of life. It was she: it was Kitty. He judged that she was 
on her way from the railway station to Yergushovo. And all 
the thoughts that had occupied Levin through his sleepless 
night, all the resolutions that he had made, vanished in a 
twinkling. Horror seized him as he remembered his resolution 
of marrying a krestianka. In that carriage which flashed 
by him on the other side of the road, and disappeared, was 
the only possible answer to his life’s enigma which had tor- 
mented and puzzled him so long. She was now out of sight; 
the rumble of the wheels had ceased, and scarcely could he 
hear the bells. The barking of the dogs told him that the 
carriage was passing through the village. And now there 
remained only the lonely prairies, the distant village, and 

1 In the original it says that she recognized Levin, and the joy shone upon her 


face. But it is evident, from the conversation in chap. xi. book iii., that it could not 
‘ve been so. 


292 ANNA KARENINA. 


himself, an alien and a stranger to every thing, walking soli- 
tary on the deserted highway. 

He looked at the sky, hoping to find there still the sea-shell 
cloud which he had admired, and which personified for him 
the movement of his thoughts and feelings during the night. 
But he could find nothing that resembled the pearl-like hues. 
There, at immeasurable heights, that mysterious change had 
already taken place. ‘There was no sign of the sea-shell, 
but in its place there extended over the whole level extent of 
the heavens a tapestry of cirrhous clouds sweeping on and 
sweeping on. ‘The sky was growing blue and luminous, and 
with tenderness and less of mystery it answered his ques- 
tioning look. 

‘¢ No,’’ he said to himself, ‘‘ however good this simple 
and laborious life may be, I cannot bring myself to it. I 
love her.’’ 


XIII. 


No one except Alekséi Aleksandrovitch’s most intimate 
friends suspected that this apparently cold and rational man 
had one weakness absolutely contradictory to the general 
consistency of his character. He could not look on with indif- 
ference when a child or a woman was weeping. ‘The sight 
of tears caused him to lose his self-control, and destroyed for 
him his reasoning-faculties. His subordinates understood 
this, and warned women who came to present petitions not to 
allow their feelings to overcome them unless they wanted 
to injure their prospects. ‘* He will fly into a passion, and 
will not listen to you,’’ they said. And it was a fact that 
the trouble which the sight of weeping caused Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch was expressed by hasty irritation. ‘‘I cannot, 
I cannot, do any thing for you. Please leave me,’’ he would 
cry, as a general thing, in such cases. 

When, on their way back from the races, Anna confessed 
her love for Vronsky, and, covering her face with her hands, 
burst into tears, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, in spite of his 
anger against his wife, was conscious at the same time of 
this feeling of deep, soul-felt emotion which the sight of weep- 
ing always caused him. Knowing this, and knowing that any 
expression of it would be incompatible with the situation, he 
endeavored to restrain every sign of life, and therefore he 
did not move and did not look at her: hence arose that 


ANNA KARENINA. 293 


strange appearance of deathlike rigidity in his face which 
so impressed Anna. 

When they reached home, he helped her from the carriage ; 
and, having made a great effort, he left her with ordinary 
politeness, saying those words which would not oblige him 
vo follow any course. He simply said that: to-morrow he 
would let her know his decision. 

Anna’s words, confirming his worst suspicions, caused a 
keen pain in his heart; and this pain was made still keener 
by the strange sensation of physical pity for her, caused 
by the sight of her tears. Yet, as he sat alone in his car- 
riage, Aleksandrovitch felt, to his surprise and pleasure, 
as if an immense weight had been taken from his mind. It 
seemed to him that he was now freed from his doubts, his 
jealousy, and his pity. 

He appreciated the feelings of a man who has been suffer- 
ing long from the toothache, and at iast has the tooth drawn. 
The pain is terrible, frightful, that sensation of an enormous 
body, greater than the head itself, which the forceps tears 
away; and the patient can hardly believe in his good fortune 
when the pain that has poisoned his life so long has suddenly 
ceased, and he can live, think, and interest himself in some- 
thing besides his aching tooth. Such was Alekséi Aleksan- 
drovitch’s feeling. The pain had been strange and terrible, 
but now it was over. He felt that he could live again and 
think of something besides his wife. 

*¢ Without honor, without heart, without religion, a lost 
woman! This I always knew, although out of pity for 
her, I tried to blind myself,’’ he said to himself. And he 
was perfectly sincere in his conviction that: he had always 
been so perspicacious. He recalled many details of their 
past lives; and things which once seemed innocent in his 
eyes, now clearly came up as proofs that she had always been 
corrupt. 

‘*] made a mistake when I joined my life to hers; but my 
mistake was not my fault, and I ought not to be unhappy. 
The guilty one,’’ he said, ‘‘is not I, but she. But I have 
nothing more to do with her. She does not exist for me.’’ 

He ceased to think of the misfortunes that would befali 
her, as well as his son, for whom also his feelings underwent 
a similar change. The one essential thing was the question, 
how to make his escape from this wretched crisis in a fashion 
at once wise, correct, and honorable for himself, and having 


294 ANNA KARENINA. 


cleared himseif satisfactorily from the mud which she had 
spattered him withal, owing to her evil conduct, henceforth 
pursue his own path of honorable, active, and useful life. 

‘*Must I make myself wretched because a despicable 
woman has committed a sin? All I want, is to find a way 
out from the situation in which she has brought me. And I 
will find it,’’ he added, getting more and more determined. 
‘*T am not the first, nor the second.’’ And not speaking of 
the historical examples, beginning with ‘* La Belle Héléne”’ 
of Menelaus, which had recently been brought to all their 
memories, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch went over in his mind a 
whole series of contemporary episodes, where husbands of 
the highest position had been obliged to mourn the faithless- 
ness of their wives. 

*¢ Darialof, Poltavsky, Prince Karibanof, Count Paskudin, 
Dramm (yes, even Dramm, honorable, industrious man as 
he is), Semenof, Tchagin, Sigonin. Suppose we apply the 
unjust epithet ridicule to these people; but I never saw any 
thing in this except their misfortune, and I always pitied 
them,’’ thought Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, although this also 
was absolutely false, and he had never felt any pity of this 
sort, and had only plumed himself the more as he had heard 
of wives deceiving their husbands. 

‘¢ This disgrace is liable to strike any one, and now it has 
struck me. The main thing is, to know how to find a practi- 
cal way of settling the difficulty.”’ And he called to mind 
the different ways in which all the men had behaved. 

‘* Darialof fought a duel’’ — 

Duelling had often been a subject of consideration to 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch when he was a young man, and for 
the reason that he was a timid man, and he knew it. He 
could not think without a shudder of having a pistol levelled 
at him, and never in his life had he made any practice with 
fire-arms. This instinctive horror caused him to think many 
times about duelling, and he tried to accustom himself to the 
thought that he might be obliged some time to expose his 
life to this danger. Afterwards, when he reached a high 
social position, these impressions faded away ; but his habit 
of distrusting his courage was so strong, that, at this time, 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch long deliberated about the matter, 
turning it over on all sides, and questioning the expediency 
of a duel, although he knew perfectly well that in any case 
he should not fight. 


ANNA KARENINA. 295 


‘¢The state of our society is still so savage, * he said, — 
* though it is not so in England, — that very many ’’ — 

And in these many, to whom such a solution was satisfac- 
tory, there were some for whose opinions Alekséi Aleksan- 
drovitch had the very highest regard. ‘* Looking at the duel 
on all sides, to what result does it lead? Let us suppose 
that I challenge!’’ And here Alekséi Aleksandrovitch drew 
a vivid picture of the night that he would spend after the 
challenge; and he imagined the pistol drawn upon him, and 
he shuddered, and made up his mind that he could never do 
such a thing. ‘* Let us suppose that I challenge him, that I 
learn how to shoot,’’ he forced himself to think, ‘‘ that I am 
standing, that I pull the trigger,’’ he said to himself, shut- 
ting his eyes, ‘‘ and suppose I kill him;’’ and he shook his 
head, to drive away these absurd notions. ‘* What sense 
would there be in causing a man’s death, in order to re- 
establish relations with a sinful woman and her son? Would 
the question be settled in any such way? But suppose—and 
this is vastly more likely to happen—that I am the one 
killed or wounded. I, an innocent man, the victim, killed 
or wounded? Still: more unreasonable, worse than that, the 
challenge to a duel on my part would be absurd, and not 
an honorable action: besides, don’t I know beforehand that 
my friends would never allow me to fight a due!? would never 
permit the life of a government official, who is so indispen- 
sable to Russia, to be exposed to danger? What would hap- 
pen? I should seem to people to be anxious to win notoriety 
by a challenge that could lead to no result. It would be 
dishonorable, it would be false, it would be an act of decep- 
- tion towards others and towards myself. A duel is not to be 
thought of, and no one expects it of me. My sole aim should 
be to preserve my reputation, and not to suffer any unneces- 
sary interruption of my activity.’’ The service of the state, 
always important in the eyes of Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, 
now appeared to him of extraordinary importance. 

Having decided against the duel, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch 
began to discuss the question of divorce —a second expe- 
dient which had been employed by several of the men whom 
he had in mind. Examples of divorces in high life were 
well known to him, but he could not name a single case 
where the aim of the divorce had been such as he proposed. 
The husband in each case had sold or given up the faith- 
less wife; and the guilty party, who had no right to a second 


296 ANNA KARENINA. 


marriage, had entered into relations, imagined to be sane- 
tioned, with a new husband. As to legal divorce, which 
proposed as its end the punishment of the faithless woman, 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch came to the conclusion, as he rea- 
soned about it, that it was impossible.. The coarse, brutal 
proofs demanded by the law would be, in the complex con- 
ditions of his life, out of the question for him to furnish: 
even had they existed, and he could make public use of 
them, the scandal that would ensue would cause him to fall 
lower in public opinion than the guilty wife. 

Divorce, moreover, broke off absolutely all dealings be- — 
tween wife and husband, and united her to her paramour. 
But in Alekséi Aleksandrovitch’s heart, in spite of the indif- 
ference and scorn which he affected to feel towards his wife, 
there still remained one very keen sentiment, and that was 
his unwillingness for her to unite her lot absolutely with 
Vronsky, so that her fault would turn out to her advantage. 
This thought was so painful to Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, that 
he almost groaned aloud with mental pain; and he got up 
from his seat, changed his place, and with stern countenance 
deliberately wrapped his woolly plaid around his thin and 
chilly legs. 

_ Besides formal divorce, there could still be separation, as 

in the case of Karibanof, Paskudin and that gentle Dramm, 
but this measure had almost the same disadvantages as the 
other: it was practically to throw his wife into Vronsky’s 
arms. ‘* No: it is impossible — impossible,’’ he muttered, 
again trying to wrap himself up. ‘+I cannot be unhappy, 
but neither ought she or he to be happy.’’ 

The sensation of jealousy which had pained him while he 
was still ignorant, came back to him at this moment as he 
thought of his wife’s words; but it was followed by a differ- 
ent one,— the desire not only that she should not triumph, 
but that she should receive the reward for her sins. He did 
not express it, but in the depths of his soul he desired that 
she should be punished for the way in which she had de- 
stroyed his peace and honor. 

After passing in review the disadvantages of the duel, the 
divorce, and the separation, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch came to 
the conclusion that there was only one way to escape from his 
trouble, and that was to keep his wife under his protection, 
shielding his misfortune from the eyes of the world, employ- 
ing all possible means to break off the illicit relationship, 


ANNA KARENINA. 297 


and~—-what he did not avow to himself, though it was the 
principal point— punishing his wife’s fault. 

‘* T must let her know, that, in the situation into which she 
has brought our family, I have come to the conclusion that 
the statu quo is the only way that seems advisable on all 
sides ; and that I will agree to preserve, under the strenuous 
condition that she fulfil my will, and absolutely break off all 
relations with her paramour.”’ 

Having made this resolution, Alekséi Aleksandrovitch 
‘brought up arguments which sanctioned it in his eyes. 
‘Only by acting in this manner, do I conform absolutely 
with the law of religion,’’ he said to himself; ‘* only by this 
reasoning, do I refuse to send away the adulterous woman ; 
and I give her the chance of amending her ways, and like- 
wise, — painful as it will be to me, —I consecrate, as it were, 
my powers to her regeneration and salvation.’’ 

Though Alekséi Aleksandrovitch knew that he could have 
no influence over his wife, and that the attempts which he 
should make to convert his wife would be illusory, still, dur- 
ing the sad moments that he had been passing through, he 
had not for an instant thought of finding a foot-hold in 
religion, until now, when he felt that his determination was 
in accordance with religion: then this religious sanction 
gave him full comfort and satisfaction. He was consoled 
with the thought that no one would have the right to blame 
him for having, in such a trying period of his life, acted in 
opposition to the religion whose banner he bore aloft in the 
midst of universal indifference. 

He even went so far at last as to see no reason why his 
relations with his wife should not remain as they had always 
been. Of course, it would be impossible for him to feel 
great confidence in her; but he saw no reason why he should 
ruin his whole life, and suffer personally, because she was a 
‘bad and faithless wife. | 

‘* Da! the time will come,”’ he thought, ‘‘ the time that 
solves all problems ; and our relations will be brought into the 
old order, so that I shall not feel the disorder that has broken 
up the current of my life. She must be unhappy, but I 
do not see why it is necessary for me to be unhappy too.”’ 


298 ANNA KARENINA. 


XIV. 


AEeKsét ALEKSANDROVITCH on his way back to Petersburg 
not oniy fully decided on the line of conduct which he should 
adopt, but even composed in his head a letter to be sent to 
his wife. When he reached his house, he glanced at the 
official papers and letters left in charge of the Swiss, and 
ordered them to be brought into the library. ‘*Shut the 
door, and let no one in,’’ said he in reply to a question of 
the Swiss, emphasizing the last order with some satisfaction, 
which was an evident sign that he was in a better state of 
mind. 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch walked up and down the library 
once or twice, cracking his knuckles; and then coming to his 
huge writing-table, on which his valet-de-chambre, before he 
went out, had placed six lighted candles, he sat down, and 
began to examine his writing-materials. Then, leaning his 
elbow on the table, he bent his head to one side, and after a 
moment of reflection he began to write. He wrote in French 
without addressing her by name, employing the pronoun vous 
[you], which seemed to him to have less coldness and indif- 
ference than the corresponding character in Russian. 


** At our last interview, I expressed the intention of communicating 
to you my resolution concerning the subject of our conversation. 
After mature deliberation, I propose to fulfil my promise. This is my 
decision: however improper your conduct may have been, I do not 
acknowledge that I have the right to break the bonds which a power 
Supreme has consecrated. The family cannot be at the mercy of a 
caprice, of an arbitrary act, even of the crime of one of the parties; 
and our lives must remain unchanged. ‘This must be so for my sake, 
for your sake, for the sake of our son. I am persuaded that you have 
been penitent, that you still are penitent, for the fact that obliges me 
to write you; that you will aid me to destroy, root and branch, the cause 
of our estrangement, and to forget the past. In the opposite case, 
you must comprehend what awaits you, you and yourson. I hope te 
have a complete understanding with you at our coming interview. As 
the summer season is nearly over, you would oblige me by returnin 
to the city as soon as possible, certainly not later than Tuesday. Al 
the necessary measures for your transportation will be taken. I beg 
you to take notice that I attach a very particular importance to your 
attention to my demand. w 

“A. KARENIN. 


“PS. I enclose in this letter money, which you may need at this 
particular time.” 


ANNA KARENINA. 299 


He re-read his letter, and was satisfied. The sending of 
the money seemed to him a specially happy thought. There 
was not an angry word, not a reproach, neither was there 
any weakness, in it. The essential thing was the golden 
bridge for their reconciliation. He folded his letter, pressed 
‘t with a huge paper-cutter of massive ivory, enclosed it in 
an envelope together with the money, and rang the bell, 
feeling that sensation of satisfaction which the perfect work- 
ing of his epistolary arrangements always gave him. 

‘‘Give this letter to the courier for delivery to Anna 
Arkadyevna to-morrow.’’ 

‘¢ T will obey your excellency. Will you have tea here in 
the library? ”’ 

Alekséi Aleksandrovitch decided to have his tea brought 
to him in the library ; and then, still playing with the paper- 
cutter, he went towards his arm-chair, near which was a 
shaded lamp, and a French work on cuneiform inscriptions 
which he had begun. Above the chair, in an oval gilt frame, 
hung a portrait of Anna, the excellent work of a distinguished 
painter. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch looked at it. Two eyes, 
impenetrable to him as they had been on the evening of their 
attempted explanation, returned his gaze ironically and in- 
solently. Every thing about this remarkable portrait seemed 
to Alekséi Aleksandrovitch insupportably insolent and pro- 
voking, from the black lace on her head and her dark hair, 
to the white, beautiful hands and the slender fingers coy- 
ered with rings. After gazing at this portrait for a moment, 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch shuddered, his lips trembled, and 
with a ‘‘drr’’ he turned away. Sitting down, he opened his 
book. He tried to read, but he could not regain the keen in- 
terest which he had felt before in the cuneiform inscriptions. 
His eyes looked at the book, but his thoughts were elsewhere. 
He was thinking, not of his wife, but of a complication which 
had recently arisen in important matters connected with his 
official business, and which at present formed the chief inter- 
est of his service. He felt that he was more than ever mas- 
ter of this question, and that he could without self-conceit 
claim that the conception which had taken root in his mind 
in regard to the causes of this complication, furnished the 
method of freeing it from all difficulties, confirmed him in 
his official career, put down his enemies, and thus enabled 
him to do a signal service to the state. As soon as his ser- 
vant had brought his tea, and left the room, Alekséi Aleksan- 


300 ANNA KARENINA. 


drovitch got up, and went to his writing-table. He took the 
portfolio which contained his business papers, seized a pencil, 
and, with a faintly sarcastic smile of self-satisfaction, buried 
himself in the perusal of the documents relative to the diffi- 
culty under consideration. The distinguishing trait of Alekséi 
Aleksandrovitch as a government official, — the one charac- 
teristic trait which separated him from all other government 
employés, and which had contributed to his success no less 
than his moderation, his uprightness, and his self-confidence, 
—was his thorough-going detestation of ‘‘ red tape,’’ and his 
sincere desire to avoid, so far as he could, unnecessary writ- 
ing, and to go straight on in accomplishing needful business 
with all expedition and economy. It happened, that, in the 
famous Commission of the 2d of June, the question was raised 
in regard to the flooding of the fields in the Government of 
Zarai, which formed a part of Alekséi Aleksandrovitch’s 
jurisdiction ; and this question offered a striking example 
of the few results obtained by official correspondence and 
expenditure. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch knew that it was a 
worthy object. The matter had come to him by inheritance 
from his predecessor in the ministry, and, in fact, had already 
cost much money, and brought no results. When he first 
took his place in the ministry, he had wished immediately to 
put his hand to this work, but ‘he did not feel as yet strong 
enough ; and he perceived that it touched too many interests, 
and was imprudent: then afterwards, having become involved 
in other matters, he entirely forgot about it. The fertiliza- 
tion of the Zarai fields, like all things, went in its own way 
by force of inertia. Many peopie got their living through it, 
and one family in particular, a very agreeable and musical 
family: two of the daughters played on stringed instruments. 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch knew this family, and had been 
nuptial godfather! when one of the elder daughters was 
married. 

The opposition to this affair, raised by his enemies in 
. another branch of the ministry, was unjust, in the opinion of 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, because in every ministry there 
are such cases of impropriety which no one ever thinks of 
bothering with. But since they had thrown down the gaunt- 
let, he had boldly accepted the challenge by demanding the 
appointment of a special Commission for examining and 


1 Posazhonnui otéis, —a man who takes the father’s place in the Russian wedding _ 


ceremony. 


ANNA KARENINA. 301 


verifying the labors of the Commissioners on the fertilization 
of the Zarai fields; and that he might give no respite to 
these gentlemen, he also demanded a special Commission 
for investigating the status and organization of the foreign 
populations. This last question had likewise been raised by 
the Committee of the 2d of June, and was energetically sup- 
ported by Alekséi Aleksandrovitch, on the ground that no 
delay should be allowed in relieving the deplorable situation 
of these alien tribes. The most lively discussion arose 
among the ministries. The ministry, hostile to Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch, proved that the position of the foreign popula- 
tions was flourishing ; that to meddle with them would be to 
injure their well-being ; and that, if any fault could be found 
in regard to the matter, it was due to the neglect of Alekséi 
Aleksandrovitch and his ministry, in not carrying out the 
measures prescribed by law. In order to avenge himself, 
Alekséi Aleksandrovitch demanded, first, the appointment of 
a Committee, whose duty should be to study on the spot the 
condition of the foreign populations. Secondly, in case their 
condition should be found such as the official data in the 
hands of the Committee represented, that a new scientific 
Commission should be sent to study into the causes of this 
sad state of things, with the aim of settling it from the (a) 
political, (0) administrative, (c) economical, (d) ethnograph- 
ical, (e) physical, and (f) religious point of view. Thirdly, 
that the hostile ministry should be required to furnish the 
particulars in regard to the measures taken during the last 
ten years, to relieve the wretched situation in which these 
tribes were placed. And fourthly and finally, to explain 
the fact that they had acted in absolute contradiction to the 
fundamental and organic law, Volume T, page 18, with 
reference to Article 86, as was proved by an act of the 
Committee under numbers 17,015 and 18,308 of the 5th of 
December, 1863, aud the 7th of June, 1864. 

A flush of animation covered Alekséi Aleksandrovitch’s 
face as he rapidly wrote down for his own use a digest of 
these thoughts. After he had covered a sheet of paper, he 
rang a bell, and sent a messenger to the Chancellor of State, 
asking for a few data which were missing. ‘Then he got up, 
and began to walk up and down the room, looking again at 
the portrait with a frown and a scornful smile. ‘Then he 
resumed his book about the cuneiform inscriptions, and 
found that his interest of the evening before had come back 


802 ANNA KARENINA. 


to him. He went to bed about eleven o’clock; and as he 
lay, still awake, he passed in review the events of the day, 
and they no longer appeared to him in the same gloomy 
aspect. 


XV. 


TxHoucu Anna obstinately and angrily contradicted Vron- 
sky when he told her that her position was impossible, yet 
in the bottom of her heart she felt that it was false and dis- 
honorable, and she longed with all her soul to escape from 
it. When, in a moment of agitation, she avowed all to her 
husband as they were returning from the races, notwithstand- 
ing the pain which it cost her, she felt glad. After Aleks¢i 
Aleksandrovitch left her, she kept repeating to herself, that, 
at least, all was now explained, and that henceforth there 
would be no more need of falsehood and deception. This 
new state of things might be bad, but it would be definite, 
and at least not equivocal. The pain which her words had 
cost her husband and herself would have its compensation 
in this new state of affairs. That very evening Vronsky 
came to see her, but she did not tell him what had taken 
place between her husband and herself, although it was 
needful to tell him, in order that the affair might be definitely 
settled. 

The next morning when she awoke, her first memory was 
of the words that she had spoken to her husband ; and they 
seemed to her so odious, that she could not imagine now how 
she could have brought herself to say such brutal things, and 
she could not conceive what the result of them would be. 
But the words were irrevocable, and Alekséi Aleksandrovitch 
had departed without replying. ‘I have seen Vronsky since, 
and I did not tell him. Even at the moment that he went 
away, I wanted to hold him back, and to speak; but I did 
not, because I felt how strange it was that I did not tell him 
at the first moment. Why did I have the desire, and yet not 
speak?’’ And in reply to this question, she felt her face 
burn, and she realized that it was shame that kept her from 
speaking. Her position, which in the evening seemed to her 
so clear, suddenly presented itself in its true color, and more 
inextricable than ever. She began to fear the dishonor 
about which she had not thought before. When she con- 
sidered what her husband might do to her, the most terrible 


ANNA KARENINA. 303 


ideas came to her mind. It occurred to her that at any 
instant the sheriff’ might appear to drive her out of house 
and home, that her shame would be proclaimed to all the 
world. She asked herself where she could go if they drove 
her from home, and there was no reply. 

When she thought of Vronsky, she imagined that he did 
not love her, and that he was already beginning to tire of 
her, and that she could not impose herself upon him, and 
she felt angry with him. It seemed to her that the words 
which she spoke to her husband, and which she incessantly 
repeated to herself, were spoken so that everybody could 
hear them, and had heard them. She could not bring her- 
self to look in the faces of those with whom she lived. . She 
could not bring herself to ring for her maid, and still less to 
go down and meet her son and his governess. 

The maid came, and stood long at the door, listening: 
finally she decided to go to her without a summons. Anna 
looked at her questioningly, and a look of fear came into her 
face. The maid apologized, saying that she had come be- 
cause she thought she heard the bell. She brought a dress 
and a note. ‘The note was from Betsy, and said that Liza 
Merkalova and the Baroness Stolz with their adorers, Kaluzh- 
sky and the old man Stremof, were coming to her house to- 
day for a game of croquet. ‘‘ Come and look on, please, as 
a study of manners. I shall expect you,’’ was the conclusion 
of the note. 

Anna read the letter, and sighed profoundly. 

‘¢ Nothing, nothing, I need nothing,’’ said she to An- 
nushka, who was arranging the toilet-articles on her dressing- 
table. ‘*Go away. I will dress myself immediately, and 
come down. I need nothing.’’ 

Annushka went out: yet Anna did not begin to dress, but 
sat in the same attitude, with bent head and folded hands; 
and occasionally she would shiver, and begin to make some 
gesture, to say something, and then fall back into listlessness 
again. She kept saying, ‘*‘ Bozhe moi! Bozhe moi!’’ but the 
words had no meaning inher mind. The thought of seeking 
a refuge from her situation in religion, although she never 
doubted the faith in which she had been trained, seemed 
to her as strange as to go and ask help of Alekséi Aleksan- 
drovitch himself. She knew beforehand that the refuge 
offered by religion was possible only by the absolute renun- 


1 Upraviyaiushchy, — literally director, steward. 


304 ANNA KARENINA. 


ciation of all that represented to her the reason for living. 
She suffered, and was frightened besides, by a sensation that 
was new to her experiences hitherto, and which seemed to her 
to take possession of her inmost soul. She seemed to feel 
double, just as sometimes eyes, when weary, see double. She 
knew not whether she feared the future, or desired the past ; 
and what she desired, she did not know. 

‘¢ Ach! what am I doing?’’ she cried, suddenly feeling a 
pain in both temples; and she discovered that she had taken 
her hair in her two hands, and was pulling it. She got up, 
and began to walk the floor. 

‘* The coffee is served, and Mamzel and Serozha are 
waiting,’’ said Annushka, coming in again, and finding her 
mistress still undressed. 

‘¢Serozha? what is Serozha doing,’’ suddenly asked Anna, 
remembering, for the first time this morning, the existence of 
her son. 

*¢ He is naughty, I think,’’ said Annushka. 

‘¢How naughty? ’’ 

‘¢ He took one of the peaches from the corner cupboard, 
and ate it all by himself, as it seems.”” — 

The thought of her son suddenly called Anna from the 
impassive state in which she had been sunk. The sincere, 
though somewhat exaggerated, rdle of devoted mother, which 
she had taken upon herself for a number of years, came back 
to her mind, and she felt that in this relationship she had a 
stand-point independent of her relation to her husband and 
Vronsky. This stand-point was—her son. In whatever 
situation she might be placed, they would not deprive her of 
him. Her husband might drive her from him, and put her to 
shame ; Vronsky might turn his back upon her, and resume his 
former independent life, — and here again she felt the feeling 
of bitter reproach, — but she could not leave her son. She had 
an aim in life ; and she must act, act at once, and take every 
measure to preserve her relation towards him, so that they 
could not take him from her. She must take her son, and 
go off. She must calm herself, and get away from this tor- 
menting situation. The very thought of an action having 
reference to her son, and of going away with him, no one 
knows where, already gave her consolation. 

She dressed in haste, went down-stairs with firm steps, and 
entered the parlor, where, as usual, she found lunch ready, 
and Serozha and the governess waiting for her. Serozha, 


ANNA KARENINA. 805 


all in white, was standing with bended head near a table 
under the window, with the expression of concentrated atten- 
tion which she knew so well, and in which he resembled his 
father. Bending over, he was busy with some flowers that 
he had brought in. 

The governess put on a very stern expression. Serozha, 
as soon as he saw his mother, uttered a sharp cry, which was a 
frequent custom of his,—‘‘Ah, mamma!’’ Then he stopped, 
undecided whether to run to his mother, and let the flowers 
go, or to finish his bouquet, and to go with them. 

The governess bowed, and began a long and circumstantial 
account of the naughtiness that Serozha had committed ; but 
‘Anna did not hear her. She was thinking whether she should 
take her with them. ‘‘ No, I will not. I will go alone with 
my son.’’ 

‘‘Yes, he is very naughty,’ said Anna; and, taking the 
boy by the shoulder, she looked at him with a gentle, not 
angry, face, and kissed him. ‘‘ Leave him with me,’’ said she 
to the wondering governess ; and, not letting go his arm, she 
sat down to the table where the coffee was waiting. 

‘¢ Mamma — I—I—didn’t,’’ stammered Serozha, trying 
to judge by his mother’s expression what fate was in store 
for him after the peach. 

‘¢Serozha,’’ she said as soon as the governess had left the 
room, ‘‘ this was naughty. You will not do it again, will you? 
Do you love me?”’ 

She felt that the tears were standing in her eyes. ‘‘Can I 
not love him?’’ she asked herself, touched by the boy’s 
happy and radiant face. ‘‘ And can he join with his father to 
punish me? Will he not have pity on me?” The tears 
began to course down her face ;_and, in order to hide them, 
she got up quickly, and hastened, almost running, to the ter- 
race. 

Clear, cool weather had succeeded the stormy rains of the 
last few days. 

In spite of the warm sun which shone on the thick foliage 
of the trees, it was cool in the shade. 

She shivered both from the coolness and from the senti- 
ment of fear which seized her with new force. 

‘‘Go, go and find Mariette,’’ said she to Serozha, who 
had followed her; and then she began to walk up and down 
on the straw carpet which covered the terrace. She stopped 
and looked at the tops of the aspens, washed bright by the 


306 ANNA KARENINA. 


rain, which were gleaming in the warm sun. It seemed to 
her that every thing, this sky and this foliage, was without 
pity for her. And again, as before breakfast, she felt that 
mysterious sense in her inmost soul that she was in a dual 
state. 

‘*T must not, must not think,’’ she said to herself. ‘‘I 
must have courage. Where shall I go? When? Whom 
shall I take? Da! to Moscow by the evening train, with 
Annushka and Serozha and only the most necessary things 
But first I must write to them both.’’ And she hurried 
back into the house to her Hbrary sat down at the table, and 
wrote her husband, — 

‘¢ After what has passed, I cannot longer remain in your 
house. I am going away, and I shall take my son. I do not 
know the laws, and so I do not know with which of us the 
child should remain; but I take him with me, because with- 
out him I cannot live. Be generous: let me have him.”’ 

Till this moment she wrote rapidly and naturally ; but this 
appeal to a generosity which she had never seen in him, 
and the need of ending her letter with something affecting, 
brought her to a halt. 

sage | cannot speak of my fault and my repentance, be- 
cause’’— Again she stopped, unable to find the right words. 
‘¢No,”’ she said, ‘*I can say nothing ;’’ and, tearing up this 
letter, she began another, in which she excluded a any appeal 
to his generosity. 

She had to write a second letter, to Vronsky. ‘‘I have 
confessed to my husband,’’ she began; and she sat long in 
thought, without being able to write more. This was so 
coarse, so unfeminine! ‘‘And then, what can I write to 
him?’’ Again she felt her face burn as she remembered 
how calm he was, and she felt so vexed with him that she 
tore the note into little bits. ‘* I cannot write,’’ she said to 
herself: and, closing her desk, she went up-stairs to tell the 
governess and the domestics that she was going to Moscow 
that evening ; and she began to make her preparations. ; 


XVI. 


Iw al! the rooms of the datcha, the dvorniks, the gardeners, 
the valets, were packing up the things. Cupboards and com- 
modes were cleared of their contents. Twice they had gone 


ANNA KARENINA. 807 


to the shop for packing-cord ; half the things were wrapped 
up in newspapers. ‘Two trunks, travelling-bags, and a bun- 
dle of plaids, were standing in the hall. <A carriage and two 
izvoshchiks were waiting in front of the house. Anna, who in 
the haste of departure had somewhat forgotten her torment, 
was standing by her library-table, and packing her bag, 
when Annushka called her attention to the rumble of a car- 
riage approaching the house. Anna looked out of the win- 
dow, and saw on the steps Alekséi Aleksandrovitch’s courier 
ringing the front-door bell. 

‘¢Go and see who it is,’’ said she, and then sat down in 
her chair; and, folding her hands on her knees, she waited 
with calm resignation. A lackey brought her a fat packet 
directed in the handwriting of Alekséi Aleksandrovitch. 

‘¢ The courier was ordered to wait an answer,’’ said he. 

*¢ Very well,’’ she replied ; and as soon as he left the room 
she opened the packet with trembling fingers. A roll of 
fresh, new bank-notes, in a wrapper, fell out first. But she 
unfolded the letter and read it, beginning at the end. ‘‘ All 
the necessary measures for your transportation will be taken. 
. . . Ll attach a very particular importance to your attention 
to my demand,’’ she read. She took it up a second time, 
read it all through, and once and again she read it from 
beginning to end. When she was through, she felt chilled, and 
had the consciousness that some terrible and unexpected 
weight was crushing her which she could not throw off. 

That very morning she regretted her confession, and would 
gladly have taken back her words. But this letter treated 
her words as though they had not been spoken, — gave her 
what she desired. And yet it seemed to her more cruel than 
‘ any thing that she could have imagined. 

‘* Right, he is right!’’ she mtrmured. ‘‘ Of course he is 
always right: he is a Christian, he is magnanimous! Nu! 
the low, vile man! No one understands, no one knows, him 
but me; and I cannot explain it. People say, ‘He is a 
religious, moral, upright, honorable, intellectual man.’ But 
they have not seen what I have seen; they don’t know how 
for eight years he has crushed my life, crushed every thing 
that was vital in me; how he has never once thought of me 
as a living woman who must love. They don’t know how at 
every step he has insulted me, and was all the more self-sat- 
isfied. Have I not striven. with all my powers to lead a use- 
ful life? Have I not done my best to love him, to love his 


808 ANNA KARENINA. 


son when I could not love my husband? But the,time came 
when I could no longer deceive myself. I find that I am a 
living being; that I am not to blame; that God has made 
me so; that I must love and live. And now what? He 
might kill me, he might kill him, and I could understand, I 
could forgive it. But no, he — 

*¢ Why should I not have foreseen what he would do? He 
does exactly in accordance with his despicable character : 
he stands upon his rights. But I, poor unfortunate, am 
sunk lower and more irreclaimably than ever towards ruin. 
‘ You must comprehend what awaits you, you and your son,’ ”’ 
she repeated to herself, remembering a sentence in his letter. 
‘*It is a threat that he means to rob me of my son, and 
doubtless their wretched laws allow it. But, indeed, I do 
not see why he said that. He has no belief in my love for 
my son; or else he is deriding —as he always does, in his 
sarcastic manner— is deriding this feeling of mine, for he 
knows that I will not abandon my son—I cannot abandon 
him ; that without my son, life would be unsupportable, even 
with him whom I love; and that to abandon my son, and 
leave him, I should fall, like the worst of women. ‘This he 
knows, and knows that I should: never have the power to do 
so. ‘QOur lives must remain unchanged,’ ’’ she continued, 
remembering another sentence in the letter. ‘* This life was 
a torture before; but as time went on, it became worse than 
ever. What will it be now? And he knows all this, — 
knows that I Cannot repent because I breathe, because I 
love; he knows that nothing except falsehood and deceit can 
result from this: but he must needs prolong my torture. I 
know him, and I know that he swims in perjury like a fish in 
water. But no: I will not give him this pleasure. I will 
break this network of lies in which he wants to enwrap me. 
Come what may, any thing is better than lies. 

‘*But how? Bozhe moi! Bozhemov.! Was there ever 
woman so unhappy as I? 

‘* No, I will break it! I will break it!’’ she cried, striv- 
ing to keep back the tears that would come. And she went 
to her writing-table to begin another letter. But in the low- 
est depths of her soul she felt that she had not the power to 
break the network of circumstances, — that she had not the 
power to escape from the situation in which she was placed, 
false and dishonorable though it was. 

She sat down at the table ; but, instead of writing, she 


ANNA KARENINA. 309 


folded her arms on the table, and bowed her head upon 
them, and began to weep like a child, with heaving breast 
and convulsive sobs. She wept because her visions about 
the new order of things had vanished forever. She knew 
that now all things would go on as before, and even worse 
than before. She felt that her position in society, which she 
had slighted, and but a short time before counted as dross, 
was dear to her; that she should never have the strength to 
abandon it for the shameful position of a woman who has 
deserted her husband and son, and joined her lover. She 
felt that she should never be stronger than herself and her 
prejudices. She never would know what freedom to love 
meant, but would be always a guilty woman, constantly 
threatened by surprise, deceiving her husband for the dis- 
graceful society of an independent stranger, with whose life 
she could never join hers. She knew that this would be so, and 
yet at the same time it was so terrible that she could not ac- 
knowledge, even to herself, how it wouldend. And she wept, 
pouring out her heart as a child sobs who has been punished. 

The steps of a lackey approaching made her tremble ; and, 
hiding from him her face, she pretended to be writing. 

‘¢ The courier would like his answer,’’ said the lackey. 

‘‘ His answer? Oh, yes!’’ said Anna. ‘‘ Let him wait. 
I will ring. 

‘¢ What can I write?’’ she asked herself. ‘‘ How decide 
by myself alone? What do I know? What do I want? 
Whom do I love?’’ Again it seemed to her that in her soul 
she felt the dual nature. She drove this thought away, and 
seized upon the first duty that lay at hand, so that, by forget- 
ting herself, she might not think of this dual nature, which 
terrified her. 

‘*T must see Alekséi’’ (thus in thought she called 
Vronsky): ‘‘ he alone can tell me what I must do. I will 
go to Betsy’s. Perhaps I shall find him there.’’ She 
completely forgot that on the evening before, when she told 
him that she was not going to the Princess Tverskaia’s, he 
said that he had no wish to go there either. 

She went to the table again, and wrote her husband, — 


**T have received your letter. As 


She rang, and gave it to the lackey. 
‘*We are not going,’’ said she to Annushka, who was 
{ust coming in. 


310 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ Not going at all?”’ 
‘¢ No, but don’t unpack before to-morrow; and have the 

carriage wait. Iam going to the princess’s.’’ 
*¢ What dress shall you wear? ”’ 


XVII. 


THE company which was to meet at the Princess Tver- 
skaia’s, where Anna was invited, was made up of two ladies 
and their adorers. These two ladies were the leading repre- 
sentatives of a new and exclusive coterie in Petersburg, and 
called, in imitation of an imitation, les sept merveilles du monde 
[the seven wonders of the world]. Both of them belonged 
to the highest society, but to a circle absolutely hostile to 
that in which Anna moved. The old Stremof, one of the 
influential men of the city, and Liza Merkalova’s lover, 
belonged to the faction hostile to Alekséi Aleksandrovitch. 
Anna, on account of this hostility, did not care to go to 
Betsy’s, and therefore declined her invitation; but now she 
decided to go, hoping to find Vronsky there. 

She reached the Princess Tverskaia’s before the other 
guests. 

The moment that she arrived, Vronsky’s valet, who with 
his curly whiskers might have been taken for a kammer- 
junker, was at the door, and, raising his cap, he stepped aside 
to let her pass. When she saw him she remembered that 
Vronsky had told her that he was not coming, and judged 
that he had sent his excuses. As she was taking off her 
wraps in the hall, she heard the valet, who rolled his r’s like 
a kammer-junker, say, ‘‘ From the count to the princess.’’ 
It occurred to her to ask him where his barin was. It oc- 
curred to her to go back and write him a note, asking him 
to come to her, or to go and find him herself. But she could 
not follow out any of these plans, for the bell had already 
announced her presence, and ane of the princess’s lackeys 
was waiting at the door to usher her into the rooms beyond. 

‘¢'The princess is in the garden. Word has been sent to 
her,’’ said a second lackey in the second room. 

Her position of uncertainty, of darkness, was just the same 
as at home. It was worse rather, because she could not 
make any decision, she could not see Vronsky, and she was 
obliged to remain in the midst of strange and lively society, 


ANNA KARENINA. 311 


diametrically opposed to her. But she wore a toilet which 
she knew was very becoming. She was not alone: she was 
surrounded by that solemn atmosphere of indolence so famil- 
iar ; and, on the whole, it was better to be there than at home. 
She would not be obliged to think what she would do. 
Things would arrange themselves. 

Betsy came to meet her in a white toilet of the most ex- 
quisite elegance ; and she greeted her, as usual, with a smile. 
The Princess Tverskaia was accompanied by Tushkiévitch, 
and a young relative who, to the great delight of the provin- 
cial family to which she belonged, was spending the summer 
with the famous princess. 

Apparently there was something unnatural in Anna’s ap- 
pearance, for Betsy immediately remarked upon it. 

‘‘T did not sleep well,’’ replied Anna, looking furtively 
at the lackey, who was coming, as she supposed, to bring the 
princess Vronsky’s note. 

*¢ How glad Iam that youcame!”’ said Betsy. ‘‘ Iam just 
up, and I should like to have a cup of tea before the others 
come. And you,’’ she said, addressing Tushkiévitch, ‘‘ had 
better go with Maska and try the kroket-gro-und, which has 
just been clipped. We will have time to talk a little while 
taking our tea. We'll have a cosey chat, won’t we?’’ she 
added in English, addressing Anna with a smile, and taking 
her hand. 

*¢ All the more willingly, because I can’t stay long. I 
must call on old Vrede: I have been promising for a hundred 
years to come and see her,’’ said Anna, to whom the lie, 
though contrary to her nature, seemed not only simple and 
easy, but even pleasurable. Why she said a thing that she 
forgot the second after, she herself could not have told; 
she said it at haphazard, so that, in case Vronsky were not 
coming, she might have a way of escape, and find him else- 
where: and why she happened to select the name of old 
Fréilina Vrede rather than any other of her acquaintances 
was likewise inexplicable. But, as events proved, out of all 
the possible schemes for meeting Vronsky, this was the 
best. 

** No, I shall not let you go,’’ replied Betsy, scrutinizing 
Anna’s face. ‘‘ Indeed, if I were not so fond of you, I 
should be tempted to be vexed with you: anybody would 
think that you were afraid of my compromising you. — Tea 
in the little salon, if you please,’’ said she to the lackey, 


312 ANNA KARENINA. 


with a snap of the eyes such as was habitual with her; and, 
taking the letter, she began to read it. 

‘¢ Alekséi disappoints us (Alexis nous fait faux bond). 
He writes that he cannot come,’’ said she in French, and 
in a tone as simple and unaffected as though it had never 
entered her mind that Vronsky was of any more interest to 
Anna than as a possible partner in a game of croquet. 
Anna knew that Betsy knew all; but, as she heard Betsy 
speak of him now, she almost brought herself to believe for 
a moment that she did not know. 

‘*Ah!”’ she said simply, as though it was a detail that 
did not interest her. ‘* How,’’ she continued, still smiling, 
** could your society compromise me?”’ 

This manner of hiding a secret, this playing with words, 
had for Anna, as it has for all women, a great charm. And 
it was not the necessity of secrecy, or the reason for secrecy, 
but the process itself, that gave the pleasure. 

‘¢T cannot be more Catholic than the Pope,’’ she said. 
‘¢ Stremof and Liza Merkalova, they are the cream of the 
cream of society. They are received everywhere. But I’’— 
she laid special stress on the J— ‘‘ I have never been severe 
and intolerant. I simply have not had time.”’ 

‘¢ No. But perhaps you prefer not to meet Stremof ? 
Let him break lances with Alekséi Aleksandrovitch in com- 
mittee-meetings: that does not concern us. But in society 
he is as lovely a man as I know, and a terrible hand at 
croquet. But you shall see him. And you must see how 
well he plays the absurd part of old lover to Liza. He is 
very charming. Don’t you know Safo Stoltz? She — is the 
latest, absolutely the latest style.”’ 

While Betsy was saying these words, Anna perceived, by 
her joyous, intelligent eyes, that she saw her embarrassment, 
and was trying to put her at her ease. ‘They had gone into 
the little library. 

‘¢T must write a word to Alekséi.’’ And Betsy sat down 
at her writing-table, and hastily penned a few lines. Then 
she took out an envelope. ‘‘I wrote him to come to dinner. 
One of my ladies has no partner. See if I am imperative 
enough. Excuse me if I leave youa moment. Please seal 
it and direct it: I have some arrangements to make.’’ 
~ Without a moment’s hesitation, Anna took Betsy’s seat at 
the table, and added these words to her note: ‘‘I must see 
you without fail. Come to the Vrede Garden. I will be 


ANNA KARENINA. 313 


there at six o’clock.’’ She sealed the letter; and Betsy, 
coming a moment later, despatched it at once. 

The two ladies took their tea in the cool little salon, and 
had indeed a cosey chat. They talked about the coming 
guests, and expressed their judgments upon them, beginning 
with Liza Merkdlova. 

‘¢ She is very charming, and I have always liked her,’’ 
said Anna. 

‘* You ought to like her. She adores you. Yesterday 
evening, after the races, she came to see me, and was in 
despair not to find you. She says that you are a genuine 
heroine of a romance, and that if she were a man, she would 
commit a thousand follies for your sake. Stremof told her 
she did that, even as she was.’’ 

‘¢ But explain to me one thing that I never understood,”’ 
said Anna, after a moment of silence, and in a tone that 
clearly showed that she did not ask an idle question, but that 
what she wanted explained was more serious than would ap- 
pear. ‘* Explain to me, what are the relations between her 
and Prince Kaluzhsky, the man that they call Mishka. I 
have rarely seen them together. What is their relation? ’’ 

A look of amusement came into Betsy’s eyes, and she 
looked keenly at Anna. 

‘¢Tt’s a new kind,’’ she replied. ‘‘ All these ladies have 
adopted it.’ , 

‘* Yes, but what are her relations with Kaluzhsky?”’ 

Betsy, to Anna’s surprise, broke into a gale of irresistible 
laughter. 

‘* But you are trespassing on the Princess Miagkaia’s prov- 
ince: it is the question of an enfant terrible,’’ said Betsy, try- 
ing in vain to restrain her gayety, but again breaking out into 
that contagious laughter which is the peculiarity of people 
who rarely laugh. ‘* But you must ask them,’’ she at length 
managed to say, with the tears running down her cheeks. 

‘¢ Nu! you laugh,”’ said Anna, in spite of herself joining 
in her friend’s amusement; ‘‘ but I have never been able to 
understand it at all, and I don’t understand what 7rédle the 
husband plays.”’ 

‘¢The husband? Liza Merkalova’s husband carries her 
plaid, and is always at her beck and call. But the real 
meaning of the affair no one cares to know.’’ 

‘*Are you going to Rolandaki’s frazdnik?’’ [festival], 
said Anna, wishing to change the conversation. 


814 ANNA KARENINA. 


*¢ 1 don’t think so,”’ replied Betsy ; and not looking at hei 
companion, she carefully poured the fragrant tea into little 
transparent cups. Then, having handed one to Anna, she 
rolled a cigarette, and putting it into a silver holder she 
began to smoke. 

‘* You see, my position is the best,’’ she began seriously, 
holding her cup in her hand. ‘‘I understand you, and I un. 
derstand Liza. Liza is one of these naive, childlike natures, 
who cannot distinguish between ill and good, — at least, she 
was so when she was young, and now she knows that this 
simplicity is becoming to her. Now perhaps she is naive on 
purpose,’’ said Betsy with a cunning smile. ‘‘ But all the 
same, it becomes her. You see, some people look on life from 
its tragic side, and make themselves miserable; and others | 
look on it simply, and even gayly. Possibly you are inclined 
to look or things too tragically.’’ 

‘¢ How I should like to know others as well as I know 
myself !’’ said Anna with a serious and pensive look. ‘* Am 
I worse than others, or better? Worse, I think.’’ 

‘* You are like a child, an enfant terrible,’’ was Betsy’s 
comment. ‘* But here they are!”’ 


XVIII. 


Steps were heard, and a man’s voice, then a woman’s 
voice and laughter, and immediately after the expected 
guests came in, —Safo Stoltz, and a young man called Vaska 
for short, whose face shone with exuberant health. It was 
evident that truffles, burgundy, and rich blood-making viands 
had accomplished their perfect work. Vaska bowed to the 
two ladies as he came in, but the glance which he vouchsafed 
them lasted only a second. He followed Safo into the draw- 
ing-room, and he followed her through the drawing-room, as 
though he had been tied to her, and he kept his brilliant 
eyes fastened upon her as though he wished to devour her. ~ 
Safo Stoltz was a blonde with black eyes. She wore shoes 
with enormously high heels, and she came in with slow, vig- 
orous steps, and shook hands energetically, like a man. 

Anna had never before met with this new celebrity, and 
was struck, not only by her beauty, but by the extravagance 
of her toilet and the boldness of her manners. On her 
head was a veritable scaffolding of false and natural hair of 


ANNA KARENINA. 315 


a lovely golden hue, and of a height corresponding to the 
mighty proportions of her protuberant and very visible 
bosom. Her dress was so tightly pulled back, that at every 
movement it outlined the shape of her limbs; and involun- 
tarily the question arose, where under this enormous, totter- 
ing mountain, did her neat little body, so exposed above, 
and so tightly laced below, really end? 

Betsy made haste to present her to Anna. 

‘¢Can you imagine it? We almost ran over two soldiers,”’ 
she began instantly, winking, smiling, and kicking back her 
train. ‘*I was coming with Vaska— Ach,da! You are 
not acquainted.’’ And she introduced the young man by 
his family name, laughing at her mistake in calling him 
Vaska before strangers. Vaska bowed a second time to 
Anna, but said nothing to her. He turned to Safo. ‘‘ The 
wager is lost. We came first,’’ said he. ‘* You must pay.”’ 

Safo laughed still more. 

*¢ Not now, though.’’ 

‘¢ All right: I'll take it by and by.’’ 

‘¢ Very well, very well! Ach, da!’’ she suddenly cried 
out to the khozydika (the hostess). ‘*‘I1—I forgot — stupid 
that I was! I bring you a guest: here he is.”’ 

The young guest whom Safo presented, after having for- 
gotten him, was a guest of such importance, that, notwith- 
standing his youth, all the ladies rose to receive him. 

This was Safo’s new adorer; and, just as Vaska did, he 
followed her every step. 

Immediately after came Prince Kaluzhsky and Liza Mer- 
kdlova with Stremof. Liza was a rather thin brunette, with 
an Oriental, indolent type of countenance, and with ravish- 
ing, and as everybody said, impenetrable, eyes. The style 
of her dark dress was absolutely in keeping with her beauty. 
Anna noticed it, and approved. Liza was as quiet and un- 
pretentious as Safo was loud and obstreperous. 

But Liza, for Anna’s taste, was vastly more attractive. 
Betsy, in speaking of her to Anna, ridiculed her affectation 
of the manner of an innocent child ; but when Anna saw her, 
she felt that this was not fair. Liza was really an innocent, 
gentle, and sweet-tempered woman, a little spoiled. To be 
sure, her morals were the same as Safo’s. She also had in 
her train two adorers, one young, the other old, who de- 
voured her with their eyes. But there was something about 
her better than her surroundings: she was like a diamond of 


316 ANNA KARENINA. 


the purest water surrounded by glass. The brilliancy shone 
out of her lovely, enigmatical eyes. The wearied and yet 
passionate look of her eyes, surrounded by dark circles, 
struck one by its absolute sincerity. Any one looking into 
their depths would seem to know her completely; and to 
know her, was to love her. At the sight of Anna, her face 
suddenly lighted up with a happy smile. 

‘¢ Ach! How glad I am to see you!”’ she said, as she went 
up to her. ‘‘ Yesterday afternoon at the races I wanted to 
get to you, but you had just gone. I was so anxious to see 
you yesterday especially! Too bad, wasn’t it?’’ said she, 
gazing at Anna with a look which seemed to disclose her 
whole soul. 

‘‘ Da! I never would have believed that any thing could 
be so exciting,’’ replied Anna with some color. 

The company now began to get ready to go to the lawn. 

‘*T am not going,’’ said Liza, sitting down near Anna. 
‘*You aren’t going, are you? What pleasure can any one 
find in croquet? ’”’ 

‘¢ But I am very fond of it,’’ said Anna. 

‘* Yot! how is it that you don’t get ennuyée? To look at 
you isa joy. You live, but I vegetate.’’ 

‘¢How vegetate? Da! they say you have the gayest 
society in Petersburg,’ said Anna. 

‘¢Perhaps those who are not of our circle are still more 
ennuyée. But we, it seems to me, are not happy, but are 
bored, terribly bored.’’ 

Safo lighted a cigarette, and went to the lawn with the two 
young people. Betsy and Stremof staid at the tea-table. 

‘*How bored?’’ asked Betsy. ‘‘Safo says she had a 
delightful evening with you yesterday.”’ 

‘‘Ach! how unendurable it was!’’ said Liza. ‘* They all 
came to my house after the races, and it was all so utterly 
monotonous. They sat on sofas the whole evening. Hew 
could that be delightful? No; but what do you do to keep 
from being bored?’’ she asked again of Anna. ‘It is 
enough to look at you! You are evidently a woman who 
can be happy or unhappy, but never ennuyée. Now explain 
what you do.’”’ ae 

‘**T don’t do any thing,’’ said Anna, confused by these per- 
sistent questions. 

‘¢ That is the best way,’’ said Stremof, joining the conver- 
sation. 


ANNA KARENINA. 817 


Stremof was a man fifty years old, rather gray, but well 
preserved, very ugly, but with a face full of character and 
intelligence. Liza Merkalova was his wife’s niece, and he 
spent with her all his leisure time. Though an enemy of 
Aleks¢éi Aleksandrovitch in politics, he endeavored, now that 
he met Anna in society, to act the man of the world, and be 
exceedingly amiable to his enemy’s wife. 

‘¢'The very best way is to do nothing,”’ he continued with 
his wise smile. ‘‘ I have been telling you this long time, that, 
if you dvn’t want to be bored, you must not think that it is 
possible to be bored; just as one must not be afraid of not 
sleeping if he is troubled with insomnia. ‘This is just what 
Anna Arkadyevna told you.’’ 

‘¢] should be very glad if I had said so,”’ said Anna, ‘‘ be- 
cause it is not only witty, it is true.’’ 

‘¢ But will you tell me why it is not hard to go to sleep, 
and not hard to be free from ennui?’’ 

‘¢To sleep, you must work; and to be happy, you must 
also work.’’ | 

‘¢ But how can I work when my labor is useful to no one? 
But to make believe, I neither can nor will.’’ 

*¢ You are incorrigible,’’ said he, not looking at her, but 
turning to Anna again. He rarely met her, and could not 
well speak to her except in the way of small talk; but he 
understood how to say light things gracefully, and he asked 
her when she was going back to Petersburg, and whether she 
liked the Ceuntess Lidia Ivanovna. And he asked these 
questions with that manner that showed his desire to be her 
friend, and to express his consideration and respect. 

*¢ No, don’t go, I beg of you,” said Liza, when she found 
that Anna was not intending toystay. Stremof added his 
persuasions. 

‘*'Too great a contrast,’’ said he, ‘‘ between our society 
and old Vrede’s ; and then, you will be for her only an object 
for slander, while here you will only awaken very different 
sentiments, quite the opposite of slander and ill-feeling.’’ 

Anna remained for a moment in uncertainty. This witty 
man’s flattering words, the childlike and naive sympathy 
shown her by Liza Merkalova, and all this agreeable social 
atmosphere, so opposed to what she expected elsewhere, 
caused her a moment of hesitation. Could she not postpone 
the terrible moment of explanation? But remembering what 
she had suffered alone at home when trying to decide, re- 


818 ANNA KARENINA. 


membering the pain that she had felt when she pulled her 
hair with both hands, not knowing what she did, so great was 
her mental anguish, she took leave, and went. 


XIX. 


Vronsky, in spite of his worldly life and his apparent friv- 
olity, was a man who detested confusion. Once, when still a 
lad in the School of Pages, he found himself short of money, 
and met with a refusal when he tried to borrow. He vowed 
that thenceforth he would not expose himself to such a 
humiliation again, and he kept his word. Therefore, in 
order to keep his affairs in order, he made, more or less 
often, according to circumstances, but at least five times 
a year, an examination of his affairs. He called this 
‘¢ straightening his affairs,’’ or, in French, faire sa lessive. 

The morning after the races, Vronsky woke late, and 
without stopping to shave, or take his bath, put on his kitel 
[soldier’s linen frock], and, placing his money and bills and 
paper on the table, proceeded to the work of settling his 
accounts. Petritsky, knowing that his comrade was likely 
to be irritable when engaged in such occupation, quietly got 
up, and slipped out without disturbing him. 

Every man whose existence is complicated readily believes 
that the complications and tribulations of his life are a per- 
sonal and private grievance peculiar to himself, and never 
thinks that others are subjected to the same troubles that he 
himself is. Thus it seemed to Vronsky. And not without 
inward pride, and not without reason, he felt that, until the 
present time, he had done well in avoiding the embarrass- 
ments to which every one else would have succumbed. But 
he felt that now it was necessary for him to examine into his 
affairs, so as not to be embarrassed. 

First, because it was the easiest to settle, Vronsky inves- 
tigated his pecuniary status. He wrote in his fluent, deli- 
cate hand, a schedule of all his debts, and found that the 
total amounted to seventeen thousand rubles, and some odd 
hundreds, which he let go for the sake of clearness. Count- 
ing up his available money, he had only eighteen hundred 
rubles, with no hope of more until the new year. Vronsky 
next made a classification of his debts, and put them into 
three categories: first, the urgent debts, or, in other words, 


ANNA KARENINA. 319 


tnose that required ready money, so that, in case of requisi- 
tion, there might not be a moment of delay. These amounted 
to four thousand rubles, — fifteen hundred for his horse, 
and twenty-five hundred as a guaranty for his young com- 
rade, Venevsky, who had, in Vronsky’s company, lost this 
amount in playing with a shuler [one who cheats at cards]. 

Vronsky, at the time, did not want to hand over the money, 
though he had it with him; but Venevsky and Yashvin in- 
sisted on paying it, rather than Vronsky, who had not been 
playing. ‘This was all very well; but Vronsky knew that in 
this disgraceful affair, in which his only share was to be 
guaranty for Venevsky, it was necessary to have these 
twenty-five hundred rubles ready to throw at the rascal’s 
head, and not to have any words with him. Thus, he had to 
reckon the category of urgent debts as four thousand rubles. 

In the second category, were eight thousand rubles of 
debts, and these were less imperative. ‘These were what he 
owed on his stable account, for oats and hay, to.his English 
trainer, and other incidentals. At a pinch, two thousand 
would suffice. The remaining debts were to his tailor, and 
other furnishers; and they could wait. In conclusion, he 
found that he needed for immediate use, six thousand rubles, 
and he had only eighteen hundred. 

For a man with an income of a hundred thousand rubles, 
—as people supposed Vronsky to have, — these debts would 
be a mere bagatelle; but the fact was, that he had not an 
income of a hundred thousand rubles. The large paternal 
estate, realizing two hundred thousand rubles a year, had 
been divided between the two brothers. But when the elder 
brother, laden with debts, married the Princess Varia Tchir- 
kovaia, the daughter of a Dekabrist,’ who brought him no 
fortune, Alekséi yielded him his share of the inheritance, 
reserving only an income of twenty-five thousand rubles. 
He told his brother that this would be sufficient for him until 
he married, which he thought would never happen. His 
brother, the colonel of one of the most expensive regiments 
in the service, could not refuse this gift. His mother, who 
possessed an independent fortune, gave her younger son a 
yearly allowance of twenty thousand rubles; and Alekséi 
spent the whole. Afterwards the countess, angry with him 
on account of his departure from Moscow, and his disgrace- 


1 The Dekabrists were the revolutionists of December, 1825, the time of the acces. 
sion of the Emperor Nicholas. 


$20 ANNA KARENINA. 


ful amour, ceased to remit to him his allowance. So that 
Vronsky, living on a forty-five-thousand-ruble footing, now 
found himself reduced to only twenty-five thousand. He 
could not apply to his mother to help him out of his difficulty, 
for the letter which he had just received from her angered him 
by the allusions which it contained : she was ready, it said, to 
help him along in society, or to advance him in his career, 
but not in this present life which was scandalizing all the 
best people. His mother’s attempt to bribe him wounded 
him in the tenderest spot in his heart, and he felt more cold- 
ly towards her than ever. He could not retract his magnani- 
mous promise given to his brother; although he felt now, in 
view of his rather uncertain relationship with Madame Ka- 
rénina, that his magnanimous promise had been given too 
hastily, and that, even though he were not married, the 
hundred thousand rubles might stand him in good stead. 
He was prevented from retracting his promise only by the 
memory of his brother’s wife, the gentle, excellent Varia, 
who always made him understand that she should not forget 
his generosity, and never cease to appreciate it. It would 
be as impossible as to strike a woman, to steal, or to lie. 
There was only one possible and practicable thing, and Vron- 
sky adopted it without a moment’s hesitation,—to borrow 
ten thousand rubles of a usurer, which would offer no dif- 
ficulties, to reduce his expenses, and to sell his race-horses. 
Having decided upon this, he wrote a letter to Rolandaki, 
who had many times offered to buy his stud. ‘Then he sent 
for his English trainer and the usurer, and devoted the 
money which he had on hand to various accounts. Having 
tinished this labor, he wrote a cold and sharp note to his 
mother; and then taking from his portfolio Anna’s last three 
\etters, he re-read them, burned them, and, remembering his 
last conversation with her, fell into deep meditation. 


XX. 


Vronsky’s life was especially happy, because he had 
formed a speciai code of rules, which never failed to regulate 
what he ought to do, and what he ought not to do. 

This code applied to a very small circle of duties, but they 
were strictly determined; and as Vronsky never had occa- . 
sion to go outside of this circle, he had never been obliged 


ANNA KARENINA. $21 


to hesitate about his course of action. This code prescribed 
unfailingly, that it was necessary to pay gambling-debts, but 
not his tailor’s bills; that it was not possible to tell lies, ex- 
cept to women; that the only persons legitimately open to 
deceit were husbands; that insults could be committed, but 
“never pardoned. 

All these precepts might be wrong and illogical, but they 
were indispensable ; and, while fulfilling them, Vronsky felt 
that he was calm, and had the right to hold his head high. 
Since his intimacy with Anna, however, Vronsky began to 
perceive that his code was not complete on all sides ; and, as 
the condition of his life had changed, he no longer found 
any reply to his doubts, and even began to hesitate about the 
future. 

Until the present time his relations with Anna and her 
husband had been, on his part, simple and clear: they were 
in harmony with the code which guided him. She was an 
honorable woman, who had given him her love, and he loved 
her, and therefore she had every imaginable right to his 
respect, even more than if she had been his legal wife. He 
would have given his right hand sooner than permit himself 
a word or an allusion that might wound her, or any thing 
that could seem derogatory to the esteem and respect upon 
which, as a woman, she ought to count. 

His relations with society were not less clearly defined. 
All might know or suspect his relations with her, but no 
one should dare to speak of it. At the first hint, he was pre- 
pared to cause the speaker to hold his peace, and to respect 
the imaginary honor of the woman whom he loved. 

Still more clear were his relations to the husband: from 
the first moment when Anna gave him her love he prescribed 
to her his own law, without fear of contradiction. The hus- 
band was merely a useless, disagreeable person. Without 
doubt, he was in an awkward position; but what could be 
done about it? The only right that was left him was to seek 
satisfaction with arms in their hands, and for this Vronsky 
was wholly willing. 

These last few days, however, had brought new compli- 
cations, and Vronsky was not prepared to settle them. Only 
the evening before, Anna had confessed that she was in 
trouble ; and he knew that she expected him to make some 
move, but the ruling principles of his life gave him no clew 
as to what he ought to do. At the first moment, when she 


8322 ANNA KARENINA. 


told him her situation, his heart bade him elope with her. 
He said this, but now on reflection he saw clearly that it 
would be better not to do so; but at the same time he was 
alarmed and perplexed. 

‘¢Tf I urge her to leave her husband, it would mean, — 
unite her life with mine. Am I ready for that? How can I 
elope with her when I have not any money? Let us admit 
that I can get it; but how can I take her away while I 
am connected with the service? If I should decide upon 
this, I should have to get money, and throw up my com- 
mission.”’ 

And he fell into thought. The question of resigning, or 
not, brought him face to face with another interest of his 
life known only to himself, though it formed the principal 
spur to his action. 

Ambition had been the dream of his childhood and youth, 
a dream which he did not confess to himself, but which was 
nevertheless so strong that it fought with his love. His first 
advances in society, and in his military career, had been 
brilliant, but two years before he had made a serious blun- 
der. Wishing to show his independence, and to cause a 
sensation, he refused a promotion offered him, imagining 
that his refusal would put a still higher value upon him. 
But it seemed that he was too confident, and since then he 
had been neglected. He found himself reduced nolens volens 
to the position of an independent man, who asked for noth- 
‘ ing, and could not take it amiss if he were left in peace to 
amuse himself as he pleased. In reality, as the year went 
on, and since his return from Moscow, his independence 
weighed upon him. He felt that many people were begin- 
ning to think that he was incapable of doing any thing, in- 
stead of a good, honorable fellow, capable of doing any thing, 
but not caring to. 

His relations with Madame Karénina, by attracting atten- 
tion to him, for a time calmed the gnawings of the worm of 
ambition, but lately this worm had begun to gnaw with re- 
newed energy. Serpukhovskoi—the friend of his childhood, 
belonging to his own circle, a chum of his in the School of 
Pages, who had graduated with him, who had been his rival 
in the class-room and in gymnasium, in his pranks and in 
his ambitions — had just returned from Central Asia, where 
he had advanced two steps (two tchins) on the ladder of 
promotion, and won honors rarely given to such a young 


ANNA KARENINA. 323 


general. He was now in Petersburg, and people spoke of 
him as a new rising star of the first magnitude. 

Just Vronsky’s age, and his intimate friend, he was a 
general, and was expecting an appointment which would give 
him great influence in the affairs of the country ; while Vron- 
sky, though he was independent and brilliant, and loved by 
a lovely woman, was only a cavalry captain, whom they 
allowed to remain as he was, and do as he pleased. 

‘*Of course,’’ he said to himself, ‘‘I am not envious of 
Serpukhovskoi ; but his promotion proves that a man like me 
only needs to bide his time in order to make a rapid rise in 
his profession. It is scarcely three years ago that he was 
in the same position as I am now. If I left the service, I 
should burn my ships. If I stay in the service, I lose noth- 
ing: did she not herself tell me that she did not want to 
change her position? And can I, sure of her love, be envi- 
ous of Serpukhovskoi?’’ 

And, slowly twisting his mustache, he arose from the 
table, and began to walk up and down the room. His eyes 
shone with extraordinary brilliancy ; and he was conscious of 
that calm, even, and joyous state of mind that he always felt 
after regulating his accounts. All was now clear and orderly 
as ever. He shaved, took a cold-water bath, dressed, and 
prepared to go out. 

XXI. 

‘TI was coming for you,’’ said Petritsky, entering the 
room. ‘** Your accounts took along time to-day, didn’t they? 
Are you through?’”’ 

*¢ All through,’’ said Vronsky, smiling only with his eyes, 
and continuing to twist the ends of his mustache deliberately, 
as though, after this work of regulation were accomplished, 
any rash and quick motion might destroy it. 

‘¢ You always come out of this operation as from a bath,”’ 
said Petritsky. ‘‘I come from Gritska’s. They are waiting 
for you.’’ 

Their colonel’s name was Demin, but they all called him 
Gritska, the diminutive of Grigorie. 

Vronsky looked at his comrade without replying: his 
thoughts were elsewhere. 

‘* Da! then that music is at his house?’’ he remarked, hear- 
ing the well-knowa sounds of waltzes and polkas, played by 


324 ANNA KARENINA. 


a military band at some distance. ‘‘ What is the celebra- 
tion?”’ 

‘¢ Serpukhovskoi has come.”’ 

‘¢ Ah!’’ said Vronsky, ‘‘ I did not know it.’” The smile in 
his eyes was brighter than ever. He had himself elected tu 
sacrifice his ambition to his love, and again he argued that 
he was happy in his choice. He therefore could feel neither 
envy at Serpukhovskoi, nor vexation because he, returning to 
the regiment, had not come first to see him. 

‘¢ Ah! I am very glad.’’ 

Colonel Demin lived in a vast seignorial mansion. When . 
Vronsky arrived, he found all the company assembled on the 
lower front balcony. What first struck his eyes as he 
reached the door were the singers of the regiment, in summer 
kitels, grouped around a keg of vodka, and the healthy, 
jovial face of the colonel surrounded by his officers. He 
was standing on the front step of the balcony, screaming 
louder than the music, which was playing one of Offenbach’s 
quadrilles. He was giving some orders and gesticulating to 
a group of soldiers on one side. A group of soldiers, the 
vdkhmistr [sergeant], and a few non-commissioned officers, 
reached the balcony at the same instant with Vronsky. The 
colonel, who had been to the table, returned with a glass of 
champagne to the front steps, and proposed the toast, — 

‘¢To our old comrade, the brave general Prince Serpu- 
khovskoi. Hurrah!’’ 

Behind the colonel came Serpukhovskoi, smiling, with a 
glass in his hand. 

‘¢You are always young, Bondarenko,’’ said he to the 
vdkhmistr, a ruddy-cheeked soldier lad, who stood directly in 
front of him, in the front row. 

Vronsky had not seen Serpukhovskoi for three years. He 
had grown older, and wore whiskers, but his regular and 
handsome features were not more striking than the nobility 
and gentleness of his whole bearing. The only change that 
Vronsky noted in him was the slight but constant radiance 
which can generally be seen in the faces of people who have 
succeeded, and made everybody else believe in their success. 
Vronsky had seen it in other people, and now he detected it 
in Serpukhovskoi. 

As he descended the steps he caught sight of Vronsky, and 
a smile of joy irradiated his face. He nodded to hin, lifting 
his wine-cup as a greeting, and at the same time to signify 


ANNA KARENINA. 325 


that first he must drink with the vdkhmistr, who, standing 
perfectly straight, had puckered his lips for the kiss. 

‘¢ Nu! here he is!’’ cried the colonel; ‘‘ but Yashvin was 
telling me that you were in one of your bad humors.’’ 

Serpukhovskoi, having kissed the vdkhmistr’s moist, fresh 
lips, wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, and came to 
Vronsky. ‘*Nu/ how glad I am!’’ he said, shaking hands, 
and drawing him to one side. 

‘¢ Bring him along,’’ cried the colonel to Yashvin, point- 
ing to Vronsky, and descending to join the soldiers. 

*¢ Why didn’t you come to the races yesterday? I expect- 
ed to see you,’’ said Vronsky to Serpukhovskoi, studying his 
face. 

‘*T did come, but too late. Excuse me,’’ he said; and, 
turning to his adjutant, ‘* Please have this distributed with 
my thanks: only have it get to the men.”’ 

And he hurriedly took out of his pocket-book three hun- 
dred-ruble notes, and handed them to him. 

‘¢ Vronsky, will you have something to eat or drink?”’ 
asked Yashvin. ‘‘ Hey! bring something to the count here. 
There, now, drink this.’’ 

The feasting at the colonel’s lasted a long time. They 
drank a great deal. They toasted Serpukhovskoi, and car- 
ried him on their shoulders. Then the colonel and Petritsky 
danced a Russian dance, while the regimental singers made 
the music; and when he was tired, he sat down on a bench 
near the door, and tried to prove to Yashvin, Russia’s superi- 
ority over Prussia, especially in cavalry-charges; and the 
gayety calmed down for a moment. Serpukhovskoi went 
into the house to wash his hands, and found Vronsky in the 
lavatory. Vronsky was pouring on the water. He had taken 
off his kitel, and was sousing his head and his handsome neck 
under the faucet, and rubbing them with his hands. When 
he had finished his ablutions, he sat down by Serpukhovskoi 
on a divantchik [a small sofa], and a conversation very in- 
teresting to both parties arose between them. 

‘¢T have learned all about you through my wife,’’ said 
Serpukhovskoi. ‘I am glad that you see her so often.”’ 

*¢ She is a friend of Varia’s, and they are the only women 
in Petersburg that I care to see,’’ said Vronsky with a smile. 
He smiled because he foresaw on what subject the conversa- 
tion would turn, and it was not displeasing to him. 

*¢ The only ones? *’ repeated Serpukhovskoi, also smiling 


826 . ANNA KARENINA. 


‘‘Yes; and I, too, know all about you, but net through 
your wife only,’’ said Vronsky, cutting short, by the sud- 
denly stern expression of his face, the allusion; ‘‘ and I am 
very glad at your success, but not the least surprised. I 
expected even more.’’ 

Serpukhovskoi smiled again. This flattering opinion of 
him pleased him, and he saw no reason to hide it. 

‘¢T on the contrary, I confess frankly, expected less. But 
I am glad, very glad. I am ambitious: it is my weakness, 
and I confess it.’’ 

‘¢ Perhaps you wouldn’t confess it if you weren’t success- 
ful,’’ suggested Vronsky. 

‘¢ J think so,’”’ replied Serpukhovskoi. ‘‘I will not say that 
life would not be worth living without it, but it would be 
tiresome. Of course I may deceive myself, but it seems to 
me that I possess the qualifications necessary to the sphere of 
activity which I have chosen, and that in my hands power 
of any sort soever would be better placed than in the hands of 
many whom I know,”’ said Serpukhovskoi, with the radiant 
expression of success; ‘‘ and therefore, the nearer I am to 
power, the more contented I feel.’’ 

‘¢ Perhaps this is true for you, but not for everybody. I 
used to think so, and yet I live, and no longer find that am- 
bition is the only aim of existence.”’ 

‘¢ Yot ono! vot ono!’’ cried Serpukhovskoi, laughing. ‘*‘ I 
began by saying that I heard about you, about your refusal 
—of course I approved of you. There is a way for every 
thing ; and I think that your action itself was well, but you 
did not do it in the right way.”’ 

‘¢ What is done, is done; and you know I never go back on 
what I have done. Besides, I am very well fixed.’’ 

‘¢ Very well—for atime. But you will not be contented 
so forever. Ido not refer to your brother. He—a very 
good fellow — just like this host of ours. Hark! hear that?’ 
he added, hearing the shouts and hurrahs. ‘‘ He may be 
happy, but this will not satisfy you.”’ 

‘¢] don’t say that I am satisfied.’’ 

*¢ Da! and not this alone. Such men as you are neces- 
sary! ’’ 

*¢'To whom? ”’ 

‘¢To whom? to society; to Russia. Russia needs mep ; 
she needs a party ; otherwise all is going, and will go, to the 
dogs.”’ 


ANNA KARENINA. 327 


‘¢ What do you mean? — Bertenef’s party against the Rus- 
sian communists? ”’ 

‘¢ No,’’ said Serpukhovskoi, with a grimace of vexation 
that he should be accused of any such nonsense. ‘*‘ Tout ¢a est 
une blague! [All that is fudge]. This always has been, and 
always will be. ‘There aren’t any communists. But in- 
triguing people must needs invent some malignant dangerous 
party. It’s an old joke. No, a powerful party is needed, of 
independent men, like you and me.”’ 

‘* But why ’’ — Vronsky named several influential men — 
‘¢ but why aren’t they among the independents? ”’ 

‘¢ Simply because they had not, through birth, an independ- 
ent position, or a name, and have not lived near the sun, as 
we have. They can be bought by money or honors. And to 
maintain themselves, they must invent a direction ; and they 
must follow this direction, to which they do not attach any 
meaning, or which may even be bad. And all this direction 
is only a means for providing them a home at the expense of 
the crown and certain salaries. Cela n’est pas plus jin que 
ga [That is all that it amounts to] when you look at their 
cards. Maybe I am worse or more foolish than they, though 
I don’t see why I ought to be worse than they. But I have, 
and you have, the one inestimable advantage, that it is harder 
to buy us. And men of this stamp are more than ever neces- 
sary.” 

Vronsky listened attentively, not only because of the 
meaning of his words, but because of their connection with 
Serpukhovskoi’s own case, who was about to engage in the 
struggle, and was entering into that official world, with its 
sympathies and antipathies, while he was occupied only with 
the interests of his squadron. Wronsky perceived how strong 
Serpukhovskoi might. be, with his unfailing aptitude for in- 
vention, his quickness of comprehension, his intellect, and 
fluent speech, so rarely met with in the circle in which he 
lived. And, shameful as it was, he felt a twinge of envy. 

*¢ All that I need for this, is the one essential thing,’’ said 
he, — ‘‘ the desire for power. I had it, but it is gone.”’ 

‘¢ Excuse me: I don’t believe you,’’ said Serpukovskoi, 
smiling. 

‘* No: it is true, true—now—to speak sincerely,’’ per- 
sisted Vronsky. 

‘* Yes; true now, — that is another affair; this now will 
not last forever.”’ 


328 ANNA KARENINA. 


*¢ Perhaps.’’ : 

‘¢' You say perhaps; and I tell you certainly not,’’ contin. 
ued Serpukhovskoi, as though he divined his thought 
‘¢ And that is why I wanted to see you. You declined, as 
you felt was necessary. I understand that; but it is not 
necessary for you to stick to it [perseverirovat]. All I ask 
of you is carte blanche for the future. I am not your patron ; 
and yet why should I not take you under my protection? 
Have you not often done as much for me? _ I hope that 
our friendship stands above that. Da/’’ said he, smiling at 
him tenderly, like awoman. ‘‘ Give me carte blanche. Come 
out of your regiment, and I will push you so that it won’t be 
known.’ 

‘¢ But understand that I want nothing except that all 
should be as it has been.’ 

Serpukhovskoi arose, and stood facing him. ‘* You say 
that all must be as it has been. I understand you; but 
listen to me. We are of the same age: maybe you have 
known more women than I[.’’ His smile and his gesture 
told Vronsky that he would touch gently and delicately on 
the tender spot. ‘‘ But I am married; and, in faith, as some 
one or other wrote, he who knows only his wife, and loves 
her, understands all women better than if he had known 
a thousand.’’ 

‘Coming directly,’’ cried Vronsky to an officer who 
looked in at the room, and said he was sent by the colonel. 

Vronsky now felt curious to hear and to know what Ser- 
pukhovskoi would say to him. 

‘¢ And this is my idea: Women are the principal stum- 
bling-block in the way of a man’s activity. It is hard to love 
a woman, and to doany thing else. There is only one way 
to love with comfort, and without hinderance ; and that is, to 
marry. And how to explain to you what I mean,’’ con- 
tinued Serpukhovskoi, who was fond of metaphors, — ‘‘ da! 
suppose you had to carry a fardeau [burden]: your hands 
are of no good until they fasten the fardeau on your back. 
And so it is with marriage. And I found this out when 
I got married. My hands suddenly became free. But to 
carry this furdeawu without marriage, your hands will be so 
full that you can’t do any thing. Look at Mazankof, 
Krupof. They ruined their careers through women.’ 

‘¢ But what women!’’ said Vronsky, remembering the 
French woman and the actress on whom these two men had 
thrown themselves away.. 


ANNA KARENINA. 329 


‘¢ The higher the woman is in the social scale, the greater 
the difficulty. It is just the same as—not to carry your 
furdeau in your hands, but to tear it from some other man.’’ 

‘¢*You have never loved,’? murmured Vronsky, looking 
straight ahead, and thinking of Anna. 

‘¢ Perhaps; but you think of what I have told you. And 
one thing more: women are all more material than men. 
We make something immense out of love, but they are all 
terre-d-terre’’ [of the earth, earthy]. 

‘‘ Right away, right away!’’ he cried to the lackey, who 
was coming into the room. But the lackey was not a mes- 
senger for him, as he supposed. The lackey brought Vronsky 
a note. 

‘* A man brought this from the Princess Tverskaia.” 

Vronsky hastily read the note, and grew red.in the face. 

**T have a headache. I am going home,” said he to 
Serpukhovskoi. 

‘¢ Nu, proshchai! will you give me carte blanche?’’ 

‘We will talk about it by and by. I will meet you in 
Petersburg.’’ 


XXIT. 


Ir was already six o’clock; and in order not to miss his . 
appointment, or to go with his own horses, which everybody 
knew, Vronsky engaged Yashvin’s hired carriage, and told 
the izvoshchik to drive with all speed. It was a spacious old 
carriage, with room for four. He sat in one corner, stretched 
his legs out on the empty seat, and began to think. 

The confused consciousness of the order in which he had 
regulated his affairs ; the confused recollection of the friend- 
ship and flattery of Serpukhofskoi, who assured him that he 
was an indispensable man; and most of all, the expectation 
of the coming interview, — conspired to give him a keen sense 
of the joy of living. This impression was so powerful that 
he could not restrain his joy. He stretched his legs, threw 
one knee over the other, felt for the contusion that his fall 
had given him the evening before, and drew several long 
breaths with full lungs. 

‘** Good, very good,”’ said he to himself. Oftentimes be- 
fore he had felt a pleasure in the possession of his body, but 
never had he so loved it, or loved himself, as now. It was 
even pleasurable to feel the slight soreness in his leg, pleas- 


330 ANNA KARENINA. 


urable was the mouse-like sensation of motion on his breast 
when he breathed. 

This same bright, cool, August day, which so painfully im- 
pressed Anna, stimulated, vitalized him, and refreshed his 
face and neck, which still burned from the re-action after his 
bath. The odor of brilliantine from his whiskers seemed 
pleasant to him in this fresh atmosphere. Every thing that he 
saw from the carriage-window seemed to him in this cool, pure 
air, in this pale light of the dying day, fresh, joyous, and 
healthful, like himself. And the house-tops shining in the 
rays of the setting sun, the outlines of the fences and the 
edifices along the ways, and the shapes of occasional pedes- 
trians and carriages hurrying hither and thither, and the 
motionless leaves, and the lawns, and the fields with their 
straight-cut rows of potato-hills, and the oblique shadows 
cast by the houses and the trees, and even by the potato-hills, 
—all was as beautiful as an exquisite landscape just from 
the master’s hand, and freshly varnished. 

‘Make haste, make haste!’’ he shouted, pushing up 
through the window a three-ruble note to the driver, who 
turned round, and looked down towards him. 

The izvoshchik’s hand arranged something about the lan- 
tern, then he applied the knout to his horses, and the carriage 
whirled rapidly over the even pavement. 

‘¢T need nothing, nothing, but this pleasure,’’ he thought, 
as his eyes rested on the knob of the bell, fastened between 
the windows, and he imagined Anna as she seemed when last 
he saw her. ‘The farther I go, the more I love her.— Ah! 
here is the garden of the Vrede datcha. Where shall I find 
her? How? Why did she make this appointment? and why 
did she write on Betsy’s note?’’ This struck him for the 
first time, but he had no time to think about it. He stopped 
the driver before they reached the drive-way, and, getting 
out of the carriage, he went up the walk which led to the 
house. ‘There was no one on the avenue; but going a little 
farther, and looking straight ahead, he saw her. Her face was 
covered with a thick veil; but with a joyful glance, he recog- 
nized her immediately, by her graceful motion as she walked, 
by the slope of her shoulders, and the pose of her head, and 
he felt as though an electric shock had passed through him, 
With new strength he felt the joy of life and of action, even 
from the movements of his limbs to the easy motion of res- 
piration. When they neared each other, she eagerly seized 
his hand. 


ANNA KARENINA. 331 


‘¢- You are not angry because I asked you to come? I ab- 
solutely needed to see you,’’ she said; and the serious and 
stern closing of the lips, which he saw under the veil, quickly 
put an end to his jubilant spirits. 

‘¢T angry? but why did you come? when?’”’ 

‘¢ No matter about that,’’ said she, taking Vronsky’s arm. 
‘¢Come: I must have a talk with you.’’ 

He perceived that something had happened, and that their 
interview would not be joyful. While with her, he could not 
control his will. Though he did not know what her agitation 
portended, yet he felt that it had taken pcessession of him 
also. 

‘¢ What is it? What is the matter?’’ he asked, pressing 
her arm, and trying to read her thoughts by her face. 

She went a few steps in silence, so as to get her breath; 
then she suddenly halted. 

‘¢T did not tell you last evening,’’ she began, breathing 
fast and painfully, ‘‘ that, coming home with Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch, I confessed to him every thing —I said that I 
could not be his wife — and I told him all.”’ 

He listened, leaning towards her, as though he wished to 
lighten for her the difficulty of this confidence ; but as soon 
as she finished speaking, he suddenly drew himself up, and 
his face assumed a haughty and stern expression. 

‘¢ Da! da! that was better, a thousand times better,’’ he 
said. But she did not heed his words, she read his thoughts 
on his expressive face. She could not know that the expres- 
sion of his face arose from the first thought that came into 
his mind, —the thought that the duel must now be fought. 
Never had the thought of a duel entered her head, and the 
interpretation which she gave to the sudden change in his 
appearance was quite different. 

Since the arrival of her husband’s letter, she felt in the 
bottom of her heart that all would remain as before; that 
she should not have the strength to sacrifice her position in 
the world, to abandon her son, and join her lover. The 
morning spent with the Princess Tverskaia confirmed her in 
this. But the interview with Vronsky seemed to be of vital 
importance. She hoped that it might change their relations 
and save her. If, when they first met, he had said decidedly, 
passionately, without a moment’s hesitation, ‘‘ Leave all, and 
come with me,’’ she would have even abandoned her son, 
and gone with him. But their meeting had been the opposite 


>? 


332 ANNA KARENINA. 


of what she expected: he seemed, if any thing, vexed and 
angry. 

‘¢ It was not hard for me at all. It came of its own ac- 
cord,’’ she said, with a touch of irritation; ‘‘ and here’?’— 
she drew her husband’s letter from her glove. 

‘¢T understand, I understand,’’ interrupted Vronsky, tak- 
ing the letter, but not reading it, and trying to calm Anna. 
‘¢'The one thing I wanted, the one thing I prayed for —to 
put an end to this ot so that I could devote my whole 
life to your happiness.’’ 

‘¢ Why-do you say that tome?” she asked. ‘Can I doubt 
it? If I doubted ’’— 

‘¢ Who are those?’’ asked Vronsky abruptly, seeing two 
ladies coming in their direction. ‘* Perhaps they know us.”’ 
And he hastily drew Anna with him down a side alley. 

‘¢ Ach! it is all the same to me,’’ she said. Her lips 
trembled, and it seemed to Vronsky that her eyes looked at 
him from under her veil with strange hatred. 

‘¢ As I said, in all this affair, I cannot doubt you. But 
here is what he wrote me. Readit.’? And again she halted. 
Again, as when he first learned of Anna’s rupture with her 
husband, Vronsky, beginning to read this letter, involunta- 
rily abandoned himself to the impression awakened in him 
by the thought of his relations to the deceived husband. 
Now that he had the letter in his hand, he imagined the 
challenge which he would receive the next day, and the duel 
itself, at the moment when, with the same cool and haughty 
expression which now set his face, he would stand in front of 
his adversary, and, having discharged his weapon in the air, 
would wait the outraged husband’s shot. And Serpukhoy- 
skoi’s words flashed through his mind, ‘* Better not tie your- 
self down ;’’ and he felt the impossibility of explaining them 
to her. 

After he read the note, he raised his eyes to her, and there 
was indecision in his look. She instantly perceived that he 
had thought this matter over before. She knew that what- 
ever he said to her, he would not say all that he thought. 
And her last hope vanished. This was not what she had 
desired. 

‘¢ You see what sort of a man he is,’’ said she with fal- 
tering voice. ‘‘He’’— 

‘¢ Excuse me, but I am glad of this,’’ said Vronsky, inter- 
rupting. ‘‘ For Heaven’s sake, let me speak,’’ he quickly 


ANNA KARENINA. 333 


added, begging her with his look to give him time to finish 
what he began to say. ‘‘ I am glad, because this cannot, 
and never could, go on as he imagines.”’ 

‘*Why can’t it?’’ demanded Anna, holding back her 
tears, and not attaching any importance to what he said, 
for she felt that her fate was already settled. 

It was in Vronsky’s mind to say, that after the duel, which 
he felt was inevitable, this situation must be changed ; but 
he said something quite different. 

*¢ Tt cannot go on so. I hope that now you will leave him. 
I hope’’ —he stumbled and grew red—‘‘ that you will allow 
me to take charge of our lives, and regulate them. To- 
morrow ’’ — 

She did not allow him to finish. » 

‘¢ And my son!’’ she cried. ‘*Do you see what he 
writes? I must leave him; but I cannot, and I will not. 
do that.”’ 

‘*¢ But which is better, —to leave your son, or to continue 
this humiliating situation ? ’’ 

‘¢ For whom is it a humiliating situation? ”’ 

*¢ For all of us, and especially for you.”’ 

‘You say humiliating! Don’t say that. For me that 
word has no meaning,’’ said she with trembling voice. She 
could not bear now to have him tell her a falsehood. Her 
love for him was trembling in the balance, and she wished to 
love him. ‘‘ You must know that for me, on that day when I 
first loved you, every thing was transformed. For me there 
was one thing, and only one thing,—your love. If it is 
mine, then I feel myself so high, so firm, that nothing can 
be humiliating to me. I am proud of my position, because 
—proud that—proud’’— Shedid not say why she was 
proud. Tears of shame and despair choked her utterance. 
She stopped, and began to sob. 

He also felt that something rose in his throat. For the 
first time in his life he felt ready to cry. He could not have 
said what affected him so. He was sorry for her, and he 
felt that he could not help her; and, more than all, he knew 
that he was the cause of her unhappiness, that he had done 
something abominable. 

‘*'Then a divorce is impossible?’’ he asked gently. She 
shook her head without replying. ‘‘ Then, could you not 
take your son, and leave him? ’”’ 

** Yes; but all this depends on him now. Now I must go 


334 ANNA KARENINA. 


to him,’’ she said dryly. Her presentiment that all would 
be as before was verified. 

‘*T shall be in Petersburg Tuesday, and every thing will 
be decided.”’ 

‘* Yes,’’ she repeated. ‘‘ But we shall not speak any more 
about that.” 

Anna’s carriage, which she sent away with the order to 
come back for her at the railing of the Vrede Garden, was 
approaching. Anna took leave of Vronsky, and went home. 


XXIII. 


Tue Commission of the 2d of June, as a general thing, 
held its sittings on Monday. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch entered 
the committee- -room, bowed to the members and the president 
as usual, and took his place, laying his hand on the papers 
made ready for him. Among the number were the data 
which he needed, and the notes on the proposition that he 
intended to submit to the Commission. These notes, however, 
were not necessary. His grasp of the subject was complete, 
and he did not need to refresh his memory as to what he was 
going to say. He knew that when the time came, and he 
was face to face with his adversary, vainly endeavoring to 
put on an expression of indifference, his speech would come of 
itself in better shape than he could now Getermine. He felt 
that the meaning of his speech was so great that every word 
would have its importance. Meantime, as he listened to the 
reading of the report, he put on a most innocent and inoffen- 
sive expression. No one seeing his white hands, with their 
swollen veins, his delicate, long fingers doubling up the two 
ends of the sheet of white paper lying before him, and his 
expression of weariness, as he sat with head on one side, 
would have believed it possible, that, in a few moments, from 
his lips would proceed a speech which would raise a real 
tempest, cause the members of the Commission to outdo 
each other in screaming, and oblige the president to call them 
to order. When the report was finished, Alekséi Aleksan- 
drovitch, in his weak, shrill voice, said that he had a few 
observations to make in regard to the situation of the foreign 
tribes. Attention was concentrated upon him. Alekséi Alek- 
sandrovitch cleared his throat, and not looking at his adver- 
sary, but, as he always did at the beginning of his speeches, 


ANNA KARENINA. 835 


addressing the person who sat nearest in front of him, who 
happened to be a little, insignificant old man, without the 
slightest importance in the Commission, began to deliver his 
views. When he reached the matter of the fundamental and 
organic law, his adversary leaped to his feet, and began to 
reply. Stremof, who was also a member of the Commission, 
and also touched to the quick, arose to defend himself; and 
the session proved to be excessively stormy. But Alekséi 
Aleksandrovitch triumphed, and his proposition was ac- 
cepted. The three new commissions were appointed, and 
the next day in certain Petersburg circles this session formed 
the staple topic of conversation. Alekséi Aleksandrovitch’s 
success far outstripped his anticipations. 

The next morning, which was Tuesday, Karénin, on 
awaking, recalled with pleasure his success of the day 
before; and he could not repress a smile, although he 
wanted to appear indifferent, when his chief secretary, in 
order to be agreeable, told him of the rumors which had 
reached his ears in regard to the proceedings of the com- 
mission. 

Occupied as he was with the secretary, Alekséi Aleksan- 
drovitch absolutely forgot that the day was Tuesday, the 
day set for Anna Arkadyeyna’s return; and he was sur- 
prised and disagreeably impressed when a domestic came 
to announce that she had come. 

Anna reached Petersburg early in the morning. A car- 
riage had been sent for her in response to her telegram, and 
so Alekséi Aleksandrovitch might have known of her com- 
ing. But when she came, he did not go to receive her. 
She was told that he had not come down yet, but was 
busy with his secretary. She bade the servant announce 
her arrival, and then went to her boudoir, and began to 
unpack her things, expecting that he would come to her. 
But an hour passed, and he did not appear. She went to 
the dining-room, under the pretext of giving some orders, 
and spoke unusually loud, thinking that he would join her 
there. But still he did not come, though she heard him go 
out from the library, and take leave of the secretary. She 
knew that he generally went out after his conference ; and so 
she wanted to see him, so that their plan of action might be 
decided. 

She went into the hall, and finally decided to go to him. 
She stepped into the library. Dressed in his uniform, ap 


336 ANNA KARENINA. 


parently ready to take his departure, he was sitting at a little 
table, on which his elbows rested. He was wrapped in 
melancholy thought. She saw him before he noticed her, 
and she knew that he was thinking of her. 

When he caught sight of her, he started to get up, re- 
flected, and then, for the first time since Anna had known 
him, he blushed. Then quickly rising, he advanced towards 
her, not looking at her face, but at her forehead and hair. 
He came to her, took her by the hand, and invited her to 
sit down. 

‘¢T am very glad that you have come,’’ he stammered, sit- 
ting down near her, and evidently desiring to talk with her. 
Several times he began to speak, but hesitated. 

Although she was prepared for this interview, and had 
made up her mind to defend herself, and accuse him, she did 
not know what to say, and pitied him. And so the silence 
lasted some little time. 

‘¢ Serozha well?’’ at length he asked; and, without wait- 
ing for an answer, he added, ‘‘I shall not dine at home to- 
day: I have to go right away.”’ 

‘¢ T intended to start for Moscow,’’ said Anna. 

‘¢ No: you did very, very well to come home,”’ he replied, 
and again was silent. 

Seeing that it was beyond his strength to begin the con- 
versation, she herself began : — 

*¢ Alekséi Aleksandrovitch,’’ said she, looking at him, and 
not dropping her eyes under his gaze, which was still con- 
centrated on her head-dress, ‘‘I am a guilty woman; I am 
a wicked woman; but I am what I have been, — what I told 
you I was,—and I have come to tell you that I cannot 
change.’’ 

‘¢ 1 do not ask for that,’’ he replied instantly, in a decided 
voice, and looking with an expression of hate straight into 
her eyes. ‘‘I presupposed that.’’ Under the influence of 
anger, he apparently regained control of all his faculties. 
‘* But as I told you then, and wrote you’”’ (he spoke in a 
sharp, shrill voice), ‘‘ I now repeat, that I am not obliged to 
have it thrust into my face. I ignore it. Not all women 
are so good as you are, to hasten to give their husbands 
such very pleasant news.’’ He laid a special stress on the 
word ‘‘pleasant’’ [priatnoe]. ‘*I will ignore it for the 
present, so long as the world does not know, —so long as 
my name is not dishonored. I, therefore, only warn you 


ANNA KARENINA. 337 


that our relations must remain as they always have been, 
and that only in case of your compromising yourself, shall I 
be forced to take measures to protect my honor.’’ 

‘But our relations cannot remain as they have been,”’ 
she said with timid accents, looking at him in terror. 

As she once more saw his undemonstrative gestures, heard 
his mocking voice with its sharp, childish tones, all the pity 
that she had begun to feel for him was driven away by the 
aversion that he inspired, and she had only a feeling of fear, 
which arose from the fact that she did not see any light in 
regard to their relations. 

*¢T cannot be your wife, when I’? — she began. 

He laughed with a cold and wicked laugh. 

‘¢ Tt must needs be that the manner of life which you have 
chosen is reflected in your ideas. I have too much esteem 
or contempt, or rather I esteem your past, and despise your. 
present, too much for me to accept the interpretation which 
you put upon my words.”’ 

Anna sighed, and bowed her head. 

‘¢ Besides, I do not understand how you, having so much 
independence,’’ he continued, getting rather excited, ‘‘ and 
telling your husband up and down of your infidelity, and not 
finding any thing blameworthy in it, as it seems, how you can 
find any thing blameworthy either in the fulfilment of a wife’s 
duties to her husband.”’ 

‘*¢ Alekséi Aleksandrovitch ! What do you require of me? ”’ 

‘¢T require that I may never meet this man here, and that 
you comport yourself so that neither the world nor our ser- 
vants can accuse you — that you do not see him. It seems 
to me, that this is little. And in doing this, you will enjoy 
the rights and fulfil the obligations of an honorable wife. 
This is all that I have to say to you. Now it is time for me 
to go. I shall not dine at home.’’ 

He got up, and went to the door. Anna also arose. He 
silently bowed, and allowed her to pass. 


XXIV. 


Tue night spent by Levin on the hay-rick was not without 
its reward. The way in which he administered his estate 
aroused against him all sorts of interests. Notwithstanding 
the excellent crops, never, or at least it seemed to him 


$38 ANNA KARENINA. 


that never, had there been such failure, and such unfriendly 
relations between him and the muzhiks, as this year; and 
now the reasons for this failure, and this animosity, were 
especially clear to him. The pleasure which he found in 
work itself, the resulting acquaintance with the muzhiks, the 
envy which seized him when he saw them and their lives, 
the desire to lead such a life himself, which on that night 
had been not visionary but real, the details necessary to 
carry out his desire, — all this taken together had so changed 
his views in regard to the management of his estate, that he 
could not take the same interest as before, and he could not 
help seeing how these unpleasant relations with the laborers 
met him at every new undertaking. The herd of improved 
cows, like Pava; all the fertilized and ploughed lands ; nine 
equal fields well planted; the ninety desyatins, covered with 
oderiferous dressing ; the deep-drills and other improvements, 
— all was excellent so far as it only concerned himself and the 
people who were in sympathy with him. But now he clearly 
saw — and his study of the books on rural economy, in which 
the principal element was found to be the laborer, may have 
helped him to this conclusion —that this present manner of 
carrying on his estate was only a cruel and wicked struggle 
between him and the laborers, in which on one side, on his 
side, was a constant effort to carry out his aspirations for the 
accomplishment of better models, and on the other side, the 
natural order of things. In this struggle, he saw that on his 
side, there were effort and lofty purpose, and on the other, no 
effort or purpose, and that the result was that the estate went 
from bad to worse: beautiful tools were destroyed, beautiful 
cattle and lands ruined. The principal objection was the 
energy absolutely wasted in this matter; but he could not 
help thinking now, when his thought was laid bare, that the 
aim of his energies was itself unworthy. In reality, where 
lay this quarrel? He defended every penny of his own, —and 
he could not help defending them, because he was obliged to 
use his energies to the utmost, otherwise he would not have 
wherewithal to pay his laborers,— and they defended their 
right to work lazily and comfortably, in other words, as they 
had always done. It was for his interests that every laborer 
should do his very best; above all, should strive not to break 
the winnowing-machines, the horse-rakes, so that he might 
‘ accomplish what he was doing. But the laborer wanted to do 
his work as easily as possible, with long breathing-spaces for 


ANNA KARENINA. $39 


doing nothing and napping and meditating. The present 
year, Levin found this at every step. He sent to mow the 
clover for fodder, meaning the bad desyatins, where there 
promised to be bare spaces mixed with grass, and not fit 
_ for seed; and they would cut his best desyatins, reserved for 
seed, and allege as excuse that it was the prikashchik’s 
orders; and they vexed him the more because the fodder 
was perfectly easy to distinguish, but he knew that they 
took this because on these desyatins it was easier work. 
He sent the winnowing-machine out, and they broke it on 
the first trial, because some muzhik found it disagreeable to 
sit on the trestle while the vans were flying over his head. 
And they told him, ‘‘ Don’t vex yourself about it: the 
babui will soon winnow it.’’ They had to give up using 
the new-fangled ploughs, because the laborer could not get it 
through his head to let down the shares; or else bore down 
so that he tired the horses out, and spoiled the land. The 
horses got into the wheat-field, because not one muzhik was 
willing to be night-watchman: and notwithstanding the 
express commands to the contrary, the laborers took turns 
on the night-guard; and Vanka, who had been working all 
day, fell asleep, and acknowledging his mistake, said, ‘* Volya 
vasha’’ [Do with us as you please]. Three of the best 
heifers were lost because they were let into the clover-patch 
without water, and no one would believe that the clover 
would hurt them ; but they told him for his consolation, that 
one hundred and twelve head had died in the neighborhood 
in three days. 

All this was done, not because there was enmity against 
Levin or his estate. On the contrary, he knew that they 
loved him, called him by a title which meant in their lips the 
highest praise [ prostot barin]. But they did these things 
simply because they liked to work gayly and idly; and his 
interests seemed not only strange and incomprehensible, but 
also fatally opposed to their own true interests. For a long 
time Levin had been feeling discontented with his situation. 
He saw that his canoe was leaking, but he could not find the 
leaks; and he did not hunt for them, perhaps on purpose 
to deceive himself. Nothing would have been left him if 
he had allowed his illusions to perish. But now he could not 
longer deceive himself. His farming was not only no longer 
interesting, but was disgusting to him, and he could not put 
his heart in it any more. 


340 ANNA KARENINA. 


To this was added the fact that Kitty Shcherbatskaia was 
not more than thirty versts away, and he wanted to see her, 
and could not. 

Darya Aleksandrovna Oblonskaia, when he called upon 
her, invited him to come, — to come with the express purpose ~ 
of renewing his offer to her sister, who, as she pretended to 
think, now cared for him. Levin himself, after he caught 
the glimpse of Kitty Shcherbatskaia, felt that he had not 
ceased to love her; but he could not go to the Oblonskys’, 
because he knew that she was there. The fact that he had 
offered himself, and she had refused him, put an impassable 
bar between them. ‘‘I cannot.ask her to be my wife, because 
she could not be the wife of the man whom she wanted,’’ he 
said to himself. The thought of this made him cold and 
hostile towards her. ‘‘I have not the strength to go and 
talk with her without a sense of reproach, to look at her with- 
out angry feelings; and she would feel the same towards me, 
only more so. And besides, how can I go there now, after 
what Darya Aleksandrovna told me? How can I help show- 
ing that I know what she told me? That I go with mag- 
nanimity, — to pardon her, to be reconciled to her! I, in 
her presence, play the réle of a pardoning and honor-confer- 
ring lover to her!— Why did Darya Aleksandrovna tell me 
that? I might meet her accidentally, and then all would go 
of itself; but now it is impossible, impossible ! ”’ 

Darya Aleksandrovna sent him a note, asking the loan of 
a side-saddle for Kitty. ‘‘ They tell me you have a saddle,’’ 
she wrote: ‘‘ I hope that you will bring it yourself.”’ 

This was too much for him. How could a sensible woman 
of any delicacy so lower her sister? He wrote ten notes, 
and tore them all up, and then sent the saddle without any 
reply. To write that he would come was impossible, because 
he could not come: to write that he could not come because 
he was busy, or was going away somewhere, was still worse. 
So he sent the saddle without any reply; and, with the con- 
sciousness that he was doing something disgraceful, on the 
next day, leaving the now disagreeable charge of the estate 
to the prikashchik, he set off to a distant district to see his 
friend Sviazhsky, who lived surrounded by a beautiful hunt- 
ing-ground, and who had lately invited him to fulfil an old 
project of making him a visit. The woodcock-marshes in the 
district of Surof had long attracted Levin, but on account 
of bis farm-work he had always put off this visit. Now he 


ANNA KARENINA. 341 


was glad to go from the neighborhood of the Shcherbatskys, 
and especially from his estate, and to hunt, which for all his 
tribulations was always a sovereign remedy. , 


XXV. 


In the district of Surof there are neither railways nor post- 
roads; and Levin took his own horses, and went in a tarantds 
[ travelling-carriage |. 

When he was half way, he stopped to get a meal at the 
house of a rich muzhik. The host, who was a bald, ro- 
bust old man, with a great red beard, growing gray on the 
cheeks, opened the gate, crowding up against the post to let 
the troika enter. Pointing the coachman to a place under 
the shed in his large, neat, and orderly new court-yard, the 
starik invited Levin to enter the room. A neatly clad young 
girl, with goloshes on her bare feet, was washing up the floor 
of the new tabernacle. When she saw Levin’s dog, she was 
startled, and screamed, but was re-assured when she found 
that the dog would not bite. With her bare arm she pointed 
Levin to the guest-room, then, bending over again, she hid her 
handsome face, and kept on with her serubbing. 

_** Want the samovar?’’ she asked. 

** Yes, please.”’ 

The guest-room was large, with a Dutch stove and a par- 
tition. Under the sacred images stood a table ornamented 
with different designs, a bench, and two chairs. At the en- 
trance was a cupboard with dishes. The window-shutters 
were closed; there were few flies; and it was so neat that 
Levin took care that Laska, who had been flying over the 
road, and was covered with splashes of mud, should not soil 
the floor, and bade her lie down in the corner near the door. 
Levin went to the back of the house. A good-looking girl 
in goloshes, swinging her empty pails on the yoke, ran to get - 
him water from the well. 

*¢ Lively there,’’ gayly shouted the starik to her; and then 
he turned to Levin. ‘‘So, sudar [sir], you are going to see 
Nikolai Ivanovitch Sviazhsky? He often stops with us,’’ 
he began to say in his garrulous style, as he leaned on the 
balustrade of the steps. But just as he was in the midst of 
telling about his acquaintance with Sviazhsky, again the gate 
creaked on its hinges, and the workmen came in from the 


342 ANNA KARENINA. 


fields with their ploughs and horses. The roan horses at. 
tached to the sokhas were fat and in good condition. The 
laborers evidently belonged to the family: two were young 
fellows, and wore cotton chintz shirts [rubdkha], and caps. 
The other two were hired men, and wore sheepskins: one was 
an old man, the other middle-aged. 

The starik left Levin standing on the porch, and began to 
help unhitch the horses. 

‘¢ What have you been ploughing? ”’ 

‘¢ The potato-fields. We’ve done one lot. — You, Fiodot, 
don’t bring the gelding, but leave him at the trough: we’ll 
hitch up another.’’ 

‘¢ Say, bdtiushka, shall I tell ’em to take out the plough- 
shares, or to bring ’em?’’ asked a big-framed, healthy-look- 
ing lad, evidently the starik’s son. 

‘*¢ Put ’em in the drags,’’ replied the starik, coiling up the 
reins, and throwing them on the ground. 

The handsome girl in goloshes came back to the house 
with her brimming pails swinging from her shoulders. Other 
babut appeared from different quarters, some young and 
comely, others old and ugly, with children and without chil- 
dren. 

The samovar began to sing on the stove. The workmen 
and the men of family, having taken out their horses, came 
in to dinner. Levin, sending for his provisions from the 
tarantds, begged the starik to take tea with him. 

‘¢ Da tchté! already drunk my tea,’’ said the starik, evi- 
dently flattered by the invitation. ‘* However, for company’s 
sake ’? — 

At tea Levin learned the whole history of the starik’s do- 
mestic economy. ‘Ten years before, the starik had rented of 
a lady one hundred and twenty desyatins, and the year before 
had bought them ; and he had rented three hundred more of a 
neighboring land-owner. A small portion of this land, and 
that the poorest, he sublet; but four hundred desyatins he 
himself worked, with the help of his sons and two hired men. 
The starik complained that all was going bad; but Levin saw 
that he complained only for form’s sake, and that his affairs 
were flourishing. If they were bad he would not have 
bought land for five hundred rubles, or married off his three 
sons and his nephew, or built twice after his izba was 
burned, and each time better. Notwithstanding the startk’s 
complaints, it was evident that he felt pride in his prosperity, 


ANNA KARENINA. 843 


pride in his sons, in his nephew, his daughters, his horses, 
his cows, and especially in the fact that he owned all this do- 
main. _ From his conversation with the starik Levin learned 
that he believed in modern improvements. He planted many 
potatoes ; and his potatoes, which Levin saw in the storehouse, 
he had already dug and brought in, while on Levin’s estate 
they had only begun to dig them. He used the plough on the 
potato-fields, as he had ploughs which he got from the propri- 
etor. He sowed wheat. The little detail that the starik 
sowed rye, and fed his horses with it, especially struck Levin. 
Levin had seen this beautiful fodder going to ruin, and had 
wished to harvest it; but he found it impossible to accom. 
plish it. The muzhik used it, and could not find sufficient 
praise for it. 

*¢ How do the women [babionki] do it?”’ 

‘¢Oh! they pile it up on one side, and then the telyéga 
comes to it.” 

‘¢ But with us proprietors every thing goes wrong witn the 
hired men,”’ said Levin as he filled his teacup and offered 
to him. 

‘*'Thank you,’’ replied the starik, taking the cup, but re- 
fusing the sugar, pointing to the lumps which lay in frony 
of him. 

‘How to get along with workmen?’’ said he. ‘‘ One 
way. Here’s Sviazhsky, forexample. We know what splen- 
did land — but they don’t get decent crops. All comes from 
lack of care.’’ . 

*¢ Da! but how do you do with your workmen? ”’ 

‘¢ Tt’s all among ourselves. We watch everything. Lazy- 
bones, off they go! We work with our own hands.’’ 

*¢ Bdtiushka, Finogen wants you to give him the tar- 
water,’’ said a baba in goloshes, looking in through the door. 

**So it is, sudar,’’ said the starik, rising; and, having 
crossed himself many times before the ikons [sacred pic- 
tures], he once more thanked Levin, and left the room. 

When Levin went into the dark izba to give orders to his 
coachman, he found all the ‘‘ men-folks”’ sitting down to 
dinner. The dabui were on their feet helping. The healthy- 
looking young son, with his mouth full of kasha, got off some 
joke, and all broke into loud guffaws; and more hilariously 
than the others laughed the baba in goloshes, who was pour- 
ing shchi into a tureen. 

It well might be that the jolly face of the baba in the 


344 ANNA KARENINA. 


goloshes co-operated powerfully with the whole impression 
of orderliness which this peasant home produced on Levin: 
but the impression was so strong that Levin could never get 
rid of it; and all the way from the starik’s to Sviazhsky’s, 
again and again he thought of what he had seen at the farm- 
house, as something deserving special attention. 


XXVI. 


SviazHsky was marshal [predvoditel] in his district. He 
was five years older than Levin, and had been married some 
time. His sister-in-law was a very sympathetic young lady ; 
and Levin knew, as marriageable young men usually know 
such things, that her friends wanted her to find a husband. 
Although he dreamed of marriage, and was sure that this 
lovable young lady would make a charming wife, he would 
sooner have been able to fly to heaven than to marry her, 
even if he had not been in love with Kitty Shcherbatskaia. 
The fear of being looked upon as a suitor took the edge from 
his pleasure in his prospective visit, and made him hesitate 
about accepting his friend’s invitation. Sviazhsky’s domes- 
tic life was in the highest degree interesting, and Sviazhsky 
himself was an interesting type of the proprietor devoted to 
the affairs of the province. He was a thorough-going liberal; 
but there was great discrepancy between the opinions which 
he professed, and his manner of living and acting. He de- 
spised the nobility, whom he charged with hostility to eman- 
cipation ; and he regarded Russia as a rotten country, whose 
wretched government was scarcely better than Turkey; and 
yet he had accepted public office, and attended faithfully to 
his duties. He never even went out without donning his 
official cap, with its red border and cockade. He declared 
that human existence was endurable only abroad, where he 
was going to live at the first opportunity ; but at the same 
time he carried on in Russia a very complicated estate * in 
the most perfect style, and was interested in all that was 
going on in Russia, and was fully up with the times. The 
Russian muzhik, in his eyes, stood between man and monkey ; 
but, when the elections came, he gave his hand to the peas- 
ants by preference, and listened to them with the utmost 

1 Khozydistvo includes household economy, the outside interests, farming, bre 7 


—every thing connected with an estate. The master of an estate is called kho. 
the mistress khozydika, — terms often used for host and hostess, 


a 


ANNA KARENINA. 845 


attention. He believed neither in God nor the Devil; but 
he showed great ccncern in ameliorating the condition of the 
clergy, and saw that his village church was kept in repair. 
In regard to the emancipation of women, and especially their 
right to work, he held the most pronounced and radical 
ideas; but he lived in perfect harmony with his wife, and 
took entire direction of the family affairs, so that his wife 
did nothing, and could do nothing, except in co-operation 
with him, in order to pass the time as agreeably as possible. 

In spite of the contradictions in his character, Levin did 
his best to comprehend him, looking upon him as a living 
conundrum; and through their social relations he tried to 
enter this strange man’s inner consciousness. The hunting 
which Sviazhsky gave him was poor: the marshes were dry, 
and the woodeock scarce. Levin walked all day, and got 
only three birds; but the compensation was a ravenous ap- 
petite, capital spirits, and that intellectual excitement which 
violent physical exercise always gave him. 

In the evening, as they sat at the tea-table, Levin found 
himself next the khozydika, a lady of medium stature and 
light complexion, all radiant with smiles and dimples. Levin 
endeavored, through her, to unravel the enigma which ler 
husband’s character afforded him; but he could not get full 
control of his thoughts, because opposite him sat the pretty 
sister-in-law in a dress worn, as it seemed to him, for his 
especial benefit, with a square corsage cut rather low in front, 
and giving a glimpse of a very white bosom. He did his 
best not to look at her, but his eyes were constantly attracted 
_ to her; and he felt ill at ease, and his constraint was shared 

_by the young lady herself. But the khozydika seemed not 
to notice it, and kept up a lively conversation. 

‘‘ You say that my husband does not take an interest in 
Russian affairs?’’ she asked. ‘‘On the contrary, he was 
happy when he was abroad, but not so happy as he is here. 
Here he feels that he is in his sphere. He has so much to do, 
and he takes especial pains to interest himself in every thing. 
Ach! you have not been to see our school? ”’ 

‘¢ Yes, I have, — that little house covered with ivy? ’”’ 

‘* Yes: that is Nastia’s work,’’ said she, glancing at her 
sister. 

‘‘Do you yourself teach?’’ asked Levin, trying to look 
at Nastia’s face, but feeling, that, in spite of him, he would 
seem to be looking at the parted dress. 


346 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢'Yes, I teach, and intend to; but we have an excellent 
school-mistress.’’ 

‘¢ No, thank you, I will not take any more tea,’’ said 
Levin. He felt that he was committing a solecism; but he 
could not keep up the conversation, and he rose in confu- 
sion. ‘* I am very much interested in what they are saying.”’ 
And he went to the other end of the table, where the khoz- 
ydin was talking with two landed proprietors. Sviazhsky 
was sitting with his side towards the table, twirling his 
cup around with one hand, and with the other stroking his 
long beard. His bright black eyes were fixed with keen 
amusement on one of the proprietors, a man with a white 
mustache, who was complaining bitterly about the peasantry. 
Levin saw that Sviazhsky had an answer ready for the worthy 
gentleman’s comical complaints, and could reduce his argu- 
ments to powder if his official position did not compel him 
to respect the proprietor’s. 

The proprietor with the white mustache was evidently 
a narrow-minded country gentleman, an inveterate opponent 
of the emancipation, and an old-style farmer. Levin could 
see the signs of it in his old-fashioned shiny coat, in his 
keen, angry eyes, in his well-balanced Russian speech, in 
his authoritative, slow, and studied manner, and his imperi- 
ous gestures with his large, handsome hand ornamented with 
a single wedding-ring. 


XXVIII. 


‘‘Tr it only weren’t a pity to abandon what has been 
done, — cost so much labor, —it would be better to give 
up, sell out, go abroad, and hear ‘ La Belle Héléne,’ like 
Nikolai Ivanovitch,’’ the old proprietor was saying; while 
his intelligent face lighted up with a smile. 

‘¢Da vot! but still you don’t sell out,’’ said Nikolai 
Ivanovitch Sviazhsky: ‘‘so you must be well off, on the 
whole.”’ ; 

‘¢T am well off in one way, because I have a home of 
my own, and don’t hire or board. Besides, one always 
hopes that the peasantry will improve. But would you 
believe it,— this drunkenness, this laziness! Every thing goes 
to destruction. No horses, no cows. They starve to death. 
But try to help them,— take them for farm-hands: they 


ANNA KARENINA. 347 


manage to ruin you; yes, even before a justice of the 
peace! ’’? 

‘¢ But you, too, can complain to the justice of the peace,”’ 
said Sviazhsky. 

‘¢ What! I complain? Da! not for the world! All such 
talk shows that complaints are idle. Here, at the mill, they 
took their handsel, and went off. What did the justice of 
the peace do? Acquitted them. Your only chance is to go 
to the communal court,—to the starshind. The starshind 
will have the man thrashed for you. but for him, sell 
out, fly to the ends of the world! ”’ 

The proprietor was evidently trying to tease Sviazhsky ; 
but Sviazhsky not only did not lose his temper, but was 
much amused. 

‘¢ Da vot! we carry on our estates without these meas- 
—ures,’’ said he, smiling. ‘‘I, Levin, he.’’ 

He pointed to the other proprietor. 

‘¢ Yes; but ask Mikhail Petrovitch how his affairs are 
getting along. Is that a rational way [khozydistvo]?’’ 
demanded the proprietor, especially accenting the word 
‘¢ rational ’’ [ratsionalnoe]. 

‘* My way is very simple,’’ said Mikhail Petrovitch, 
‘‘thank the Lord! My whole business lies in seeing that 
the money is ready for the autumn taxes. The muzhiks 
come, and say, ‘ Bdtiushka, help us, father.’ Nu! all 
these muzhiks are neighbors: I pity ’em. Nu/ I advance 
’em the first third. Only I say, ‘ Remember, children, I 
help you; and you must help me when I need you, — 
sowing the oats, getting in the hay, harvesting.” Nu! I 
get along with them as with my own family. To be sure, 
there are some among them who haven’t any conscience.”’ 

Levin, who knew of old about these patriarchal traditions, 
exchanged glances with Sviazhsky ; and, interrupting Mikhai, 
Petrovitch, he said, ‘‘ How would you advise?’’ addressing 
the old proprietor with the gray mustache. ‘* How do you 
think one’s estate [Khozydistvo | ought to be managed? ”’ 

‘¢ Da! manage it just as Mikhail Petrovitch does, — either 
give half the land to the muzhiks, or go shares with them. 

1 In the Russian mi, or commune, the starshind, or elder, is the chief elected every 
three years. Before the emancipation of the serfs, in 1861, each commune had its 
district court [volostndi sud], the decisions of which were often very ridiculous. 
Among the reforms instituted by the Emperor Alexander II. was the so-called jus- 
tice of the peace, — more properly, judge of the peace [mirovdi sudyd], — an innova. 


tion which at first caused much 9 ramen among the peasantry. See Wallace’s 
* Russias” and Leroy Beaulieu’s “ L’Empire des Tsars,” 


348 ANNA KARENINA. 


That is possible ; but, all the same, the wealth of the country 
is growing less and less. Places on my lands which in the 
time of serfage, under good management [khozydistvo], pro- 
duced ninefold, now produce only threefold. Emancipation 
has ruined Russia.’’ 

Sviazhsky looked at Levin with scornful amusement in his 
eyes, and was just making a gesture to express his disdain: 
but Levin listened to the old proprietor’s words without any 
feeling of scorn; he understood them better than he under- 
stood Sviazhsky. Much that the old man said in his com. 
plaint, that Russia was ruined by the emancipation, seemed 
to him true, though his experience did not go so far back. 
The proprietor evidently expressed his honest thought, —a 
thought which arose, not from any desire to show an idle wit, 
but from the conditions of his life, which had been spent in 
the country, where he could see the question practically from 
every side. 

‘The fact is,’’ continued the old proprietor, who evidently 
wished to show that he was not an enemy of civilization, 
‘¢all progress is accomplished by force alone. Take the 
reforms of Peter, of Catharine, of Alexander; take European 
history itself, — and all the more for progress in agriculture. 
The potato, for instance, — to have potatoes introduced into 
Russia took force. We have not always ploughed with 
ploughs ; but to get them introduced into our domains took 
force. Now, in our day, we proprietors, who had seignorial 
rights, could conduct our affairs to perfection: drying-rooms 
~ and winnowing-machines and improved carts —all sorts of 
tools — we could introduce, because we had the power; and 
the muzhiks at first would oppose, and then would imitate us. 
But now, by the abrogation of serfage, they have taken away 
our authority; and so our estates [khozydistvo], now that 
every thing is reduced to the same level, iaust necessarily 
sink back to the condition of primitive barbarism. This is 
my view of it.”’ 

‘¢ Da! but why? If that were rational, then you could 
keep on with your improvements by hiring help,’’ said 
Sviazhsky. 

‘‘ Not without authority. How could I? allow me to 
ask.’’ 

‘¢ This — this is the working-force, the chief element in 
the problem before us,’’ thought Levin. 

*¢ With hired men.”’ 





‘ANNA KARENINA. “849 


‘¢ Hired men will not work well, or work with good tools. 
Our laborers know how to do only one thing, — to drink like 
pigs, and, when they are drunk, to spoil every thing that you 
let them have. They water your horses to death, tear your 
nice harnesses, take the tires off your wheels and sell them 
for drink, stick bolts into your winnowing-machines so as to 
make them useless. Every thing that is not done in their 
way makes them sick at the stomach. And thus the affairs 
of our estates go from bad to worse. The lands are neg- 
lected, and go to weeds, or else are given to the muzhiks. 
Instead of producing millions of tchetverts [5.775 English 
bushels] of wheat, you can raise only a few hundred thou- 
sand. ‘The public wealth is diminishing... If they were 
going to free the serfs, they should have done it gradually.’’ 

And he developed his own scheme, wherein all difficulties 
would have been avoided. This plan did not interest Levin, 
and he returned to his first question, with the hope of indu- 
cing Sviazhsky to tell what he seriously thought about it. 

*¢ Tt is very true that the level of our agriculture is grow- 
ing lower and lower, and that in our present relations with 
the peasantry, it is impossible to carry on our estates ration- 
ally,’’ he said. ! 

‘¢T am not of that opinion,’’ said Sviazhsky seriously. ‘‘ I 
deny that, since serfage was abolished, agriculture has de- 
cayed ; and I argue that in those days it was very wretched, 
and very low. We never had any machines, or good cattle, 
or decent supervision. We did not even know how to count. 
Ask a proprietor: he could not tell you what a thing cost, or 
what it would bring him.’’ 

*¢ Italian book-keeping!’’ said the old proprietor ironi- 
cally. ‘* Reckon all you please, and get things mixed as 
much as you please, there will be no profit in it.’’ 

*¢ Why get things mixed up? Your miserable flail, your 
Russian topchatchek, will break all to pieces: my steam- 
thresher will not break to pieces. Then your wretched nags ; 
how are they? A puny breed that you can pull by the tails, 
comes to nothing; but our percherons are vigorous horses, 
they amount to something. And so with every thing. Our 
agriculture [khozydistvo] always needed to be pushed.’’ 

‘¢ Da! but it would need some power, Nikolai Ivanuitch. 
Very well for you; but when one has one son at the uni- 
versity, and several others at school, as I have, he can’t 
afford to buy percherons. 


850 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ There are banks on purpose.”’ 

‘¢ To have my last goods and chattels sold under the ham- 
mer. No, thank you! ”’ 

*¢] don’t agree that it is necessary or possible to lift the 
level of agriculture much higher,’’ said Levin. ‘‘I am much 
interested in this question ; and I have the means, but I can- 
not do any thing. And as for banks, I don’t know whom 
they profit. And up to the present time, whatever I have 
spent on my estate, has resulted only in loss. Cattle — loss ; 
machines — loss.”’ 

‘¢ That is true,’’ said the old proprietor with the gray 
mustache, laughing with hearty satisfaction. | 


*¢ And I am not the only man,’’ Levin continued. ‘I eall_ 


to mind all those who have made experiments in the ‘ rational 
manner.’ All, with few exceptions, have come out of it with 
losses. Nu! you say that your estate [khozydistvo] is — 
profitable? ’’ he asked, seeing in Sviazhsky’s face that tran- 
sient expression of embarrassment which he noticed when 
he wanted to penetrate farther into the reception-room of 
Sviazhsky’s mind. 

However, this question was not entirely fair play on 
Levin’s part. The khozydika told him at tea that they had 
just had a German expert up from Moscow, who, for five hun- 
dred rubles’ fee, agreed to put the book-keeping of the estate 
in order; and he found that there had been a net loss of 
about three thousand rubles. 

The old proprietor smiled when he heard Levin’s ques- 
tion about the profits of Sviazhsky’s management. It was 
evident that he knew about the state of his neighbors’ 
finances. 

‘¢ May be unprofitable,’’ replied Sviazhsky. ‘‘ This only 
proves that either I am a poor economist [khozydin], or 
I sink my capital to increase the revenue.”’ 

*¢ Ach! revenue!’ cried Levin, with horror. ‘* Maybe 
there is such a thing as revenue in Europe, where the land is 
better for the labor spent upon it; but with us, the more 
labor spent on it, the worse it is— that is because it exhausts 
it — so there is no revenue.’’ 

‘* How, no revenue? Itis alaw?’’ 

-- Then we are exceptions to the law. The word revenue 
[renta] has no clearness for us, and explains nothing, but 
rather confuses. No; tell me how revenue ’’ — 

‘¢Won’t you have some curds?— Masha, send us some 





—— ee eee ae ee eee ee Se ae 


ANNA KARENINA. 351 
eurds or some raspherries,’’ said Sviazhsky to his wife. 
** Raspberries have lasted unusually late this year.’’ 

And, with his usual jovial disposition of soul, Sviazhsky 
got up and went out, evidently assuming that the discussion 
was ended, while for Levin it seemed that it had only just 
begun. | 

Levin was now left with the old proprietor, and continued 
to talk with him, endeavoring to prove that all the trouble 
arose from the fact that we did not try to understand our 
laborer’s habits and peculiarities. But the old proprietor, 
like all people accustomed to think alone and for himself, 
found it difficult to enter into the thought of another, and 
clung firmly to his own opinions. He declared that the 
Russian muzhik was a pig, and loved swinishness, and that 
it needed force to drive him out of his swinishness, or else a 
stick ; but we are such liberals that we have swapped off the 
thousand-year-old stick for these lawyers and jails, where 
the good-for-nothing, stinking muzhik gets fed on good soup, 
and has his pure air by the cubic foot. 

‘¢ Why,’’ asked Levin, wishing to get back to the ques- 
tion, ‘‘do you think that it is impossible to reach an equilib- 
rium which will utilize the forces of the laborer, and render 
them productive ?”’ 

‘¢'That will never come about with the Russian people: 
there is no authority,’’ replied the proprietor. 

‘¢ How could new conditions be found?’’ asked Sviazhsky, 
who had been eating his curds, and smoking a cigarette, and 
now approached the two disputants. ‘* All the needful forms 
are ready for use, and well learned. That relic of barbarism, 
the primitive commune where each member is responsible 
for all, is falling to pieces of its own weight; the seigno- 
rial right has been abolished; now there remains only free 
labor, and its forms are right at hand,—the day-laborer, 
the journeyman, the farmer, — and, now get rid of that if 
you can! ”’ 

‘* But Europe is weary of these forms.”’ 

‘* Yes, and perhaps will find new ones, and will progress 
probably.”’ 

‘¢ This is all I say about that,’’ said Levin. ‘* Why should 
we not seek for them on our side? ”’ 

‘* Because it is just the same as if we should try to find 
new ways of building railroads. They are all ready, they 
are thought out.”’ 


B52 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘¢ But if they do not suit us? if they are hurtful?’’ Levin 
Jemanded. 

And again he saw the frightened look in Sviazhsky’s eyes. 

‘¢ Da! this: we throw up our caps, we follow wherever 
Europe leads! All this I know; but tell me, are you ac- 
quainted with all this is doing in Europe about the labor 
question ? ’’ 

‘* No; very little.’ 

‘¢ This question is now‘occupying the best minds in Europe. 
Schulze Delitzsch and his school, then all this prodigious 
literature on the labor question, the tendencies of the ad- 
vanced liberal Lassalle, the organization of Milhausen, — 
this is all a fact, you must know.”’ 

**T have an idea of it, but it’s very vague.”’ 

** No, you only say so: you know all this as well as I do. 
I don’t set up to be a professor of social science, but these 
things interest me; and I assure you, if they interest you, 
you should go into them.”’ 

‘¢ But where do they lead you? ’’ — 

‘*¢ Beg pardon.”’ 

The two pomyéshchiks got up ; and Sviazhsky, again arrest- 
ing Levin just as he was about to carry out his intention of 
sounding the depths of his mind, went out with his guests. 


XXVIII. 


LevIN spent the evening with the ladies, and found it un- 
endurably stupid. His mind was stirred, as never before, at 
the thought of the disgust that he felt in the administration 
of his estate. It seemed to him not exclusively his own 
affair, but a public trust which concerned Russia, and that 
an organization of labor, in such a manner as he saw at the 
muzhik’s on the highway, was not an illusion, but a problem 
to be solved. And it seemed to him that he could settle this 
problem, and that he must attempt to do it. 

Levin bade the ladies good-night, promising to give them 
the next morning for a horseback ride to see some interest- 
ing slides in the Crown woods. Before going to bed he went 
to the library, to get some of the books on the labor question 
which Sviazhsky had recommended. Sviazhsky’s library 
was an enormous room, all lined with book-shelves, and 
having two tables, one a massive writing-table, standing in 





ANNA KARENINA. 3538 


the centre of the room, and the other round, and laden with 
recent numbers of journals and reviews, in various languages, 
arranged about the lamp. Near the writing-table was a 
cabinet [stoika], holding drawers with gilt lettering for the 
reception of all sorts of papers. 

Sviazhsky got the volumes, and sat down in a rocking- 
chair. 

‘‘ What is that you are looking at?’’ he asked of Levin, 
who was standing by the round table, and turning the leaves 
of areview. Levin held up the review. ‘‘ Oh, yes! there 
is a very interesting article there. ‘‘ It appears,’’ he added 
with gay animation, ‘‘ that the principal culprit in the parti- 
tion of Poland was not Frederic after all.. It appears ’’ — 
and he gave with that clearness which was characteristic of 
him, a digest of these new and important discoveries. Levin, 
who was now more interested in the labor question than in 
any thing, listened to his friend, and asked himself, ‘‘ What 
is he in reality? and why, why does the partition of Poland 
interest him?’’ When Sviazhsky was through, Levin could 
not help saying, ‘‘ Nu! and what of it?’’ But there was 
nothing to say. It was interesting simply from the fact that 
it ‘‘appeared.’’ But Sviazhsky did not explain, and did not 
care to explain, why it was interesting to him. 

** Da! but the irascible old proprietor interested me very 
much,’’ said Levin, sighing. ‘‘ He’s sensible, and a good 
deal of what he says is true.”’ 

** Ach! don’t speak of it! he is a confirmed slaveholder 
at heart, like all the rest of them.’’ 

*¢ With you at their head ’’ — 

*¢ Yes, only I am trying to lead them in the other direc- 
tion,’’ replied Sviazhsky, laughing. . 

‘¢His argument struck me very forcibly,’’ said Levin. 
‘*¢ He is right when he says that our affairs, that the ‘ rational 
management,’* cannot succeed ; that the only kind that can 
succeed is the money-lending kind of the other proprietor, or, 
in other words, the most simple. Who is to blame for it? ”’ 

‘¢ We ourselves, of course. Da! even then it is not true 
that it does not succeed. It succeeds with Vasiltchikof.’’ 

*¢ The mill’? — 

‘¢ But what is there surprising about it? The peasantry 
stand on such a low plane of development, both materially 
and morally, that it is evident that they must oppose all that 


1 Ratsiondlnoe khozydistvo. 


354 ANNA KARENINA. | 


is strange to them. In Europe the ‘ rational management’ 
succeeds because the people are civilized. In the first place, 
we must civilize our peasantry, — that’s the point.’’ 

‘¢ But how will you civilize them? ’’ 

‘‘To civilize the people, three things are necessary, — 
schools, schools, and schools.”’ 

‘¢ But you yourself say that the peasantry stand on a low 

plane of material development. What good will schools do 
in that respect? ”’ 
_ ‘Do you know, you remind me of a story of the advice 
given a sick man: ‘ You had better try a purgative.’ He 
tries it: grows worse. ‘ Apply leeches.’ He tries it: grows 
worse. ‘ Nu! then pray to God.’ He tries it: grows worse. 
So it is with you. I say political economy: you say you’re 
worse for it. I suggest socialism: worse still. Education: 
still worse.”’ 

‘¢ Da! But what can schools do?”’ 

‘¢ They will create other necessities.’’ 

‘¢ But this is just the very thing I could never under- 
stand,’’ replied Levin vehemently. ‘‘In what way will 
schools help the peasantry to better their material condition? 
You say that schools — education — will create new needs. 
So much the worse, because they will not have the ability to 
satisfy them; and I could never see how a knowledge of 
addition and subtraction and the catechism could help them 
to better themselves materially. Day before yesterday I met 
a baba with a baby at the breast, and I asked her where she 
had been. She said, ‘To the babka’s:* the child was dis- 
tressed, and I took him to be cured.’ — ‘ How did the babka 
cure the child?’ — ‘ She sat him on the hen-roost, and mut- 
tered something.’ ”’ 

‘¢ Nu, vot!’’ cried Sviazhsky, laughing heartily. ‘* You 
yourself confess it. In order to teach them that they can’t 
cure children by setting them on hen-roosts, you must ’’ — 

‘¢ Ach, no!’’ interrupted Levin, with some vexation. 
‘¢ Your remedy of schools for the people, I compared to the 
babka’s method of curing. The peasantry are wretched and 
uncivilized : this we see as plainly as the baba saw her child’s 
distress because he was crying. But that schools can raise 
them from their wretchedness is as inconceivable as the hen- 
roost cure for sick children. You must first remedy the 
cause of the misery.’’ 


1 Babka, diminutive of baba,—a peasant grandmother; popular name for the 
midwife. 








——_ ss) 


ANNA KARENINA. 855 


*¢ Nu! In this at least you agree with Spencer, whom you 
do not like. He says that civilization can result from in- 
creased happiness and comfort in life, from frequent ablu- 
tions, but not by learning to read and cipher’? — 

** Nu, vot! Iam very glad, or rather very sorry, if I am 
in accord with Spencer. But this I have felt for a long time: 
it can’t be done by schools ; only by economical organization, 
in which the peasantry will be richer, will have more leisure. 
Then schools will come.’’ 

‘* Nevertheless, schools are obligatory now all over 
Europe.”’ 

‘* But how would you harmonize this with Spencer’s 
ideas?’’ asked Levin. 

_ But into Sviazhsky’s eyes again came the troubled expres- 
sion ; and he said with a smile, ‘‘ No, this story of the baba 
was capital! Is it possible that you heard it yourself? ”’ 

Levin saw that there was no connection between this man’s 
life and his thoughts. Evidently it was of very little con- 
sequence to him where his conclusions led him. Only the 
process of reasoning was what appealed to him; and it was 
unpleasant when this process of reasoning led him into some 
stupid, blind alley. 

All the impressions of this day, beginning with the muzhik 
on the highway, which seemed somehow to give a new basis 
to his thoughts, filled Levin’s mind with commotion. Sviazh- 
sky and his inconsequential thoughts ; the testy old proprie- 
tor, perfectly right in his judicious views of life, but wrong 
in despising one entire class in Russia, and perhaps the best ; 
his own relations to his work, and the confused hope of 
setting things right at last, — all this caused him a sensation 
of trouble and alarmed expectation. 

Going to his room, lying under the feather-bed which 
exposed his arms and legs every time he moved, Levin 
could not get. to sleep. His conversation with Sviazhsky, 
though many good things were said, did not interest him ; 
but the old proprietor’s arguments pursued him. Levin in- 
voluntarily remembered every word that he said, and his 
imagination supplied the answer. 

‘¢' Yes, I ought to have said to him, ‘ You say that our 
management is not succeeding because the muzhik despises 
all improvements, and that force must be applied to them. 
But if our estates were not retrograding, even where these 
improvements are not found, you would be right; but they 


356 ANNA KARENINA. 


advance only where the work is carried on in consonance 
with the customs of the laborers, as at the house of the 
starik on the highway. Our failure to carry on our estates 
profitably, results either from our fault or that of the 
‘aborers.’ ”’ 

And thus he carried on a train of thought which led him 
to an examination of what plan would best suit both the 
laborer and the proprietor. The thought of co-operation 
came over him with all its force. Half the night he did not 
sleep, thinking of his new plans and schemes. He had not 
intended to leave so soon, but now he decided to go home 
on the morrow. Moreover, the memory of the young lady 
with the open dress came over him with a strange shame 
and disgust. But the main thing that decided him was his 
desire to establish his new project before the autumn harvests, 
so that the muzhiks might reap under the new conditions. 
He had decided entirely to reform his method of administra- 
tion. 


XXIX. 


THE carrying-out of Levin’s plan offered many difficulties ; 
but he persevered, though he recognized that the results 
obtained would not be in proportion to the labor involved. 
One of the principal obstacles which met him was the fact 
that his estate was already in running-order, and that it was 
impossible to come to a sudden stop and begin anew. He 
had to wind the machine up by degrees. 

When he reached home in the evening, he summoned his 
prikashchik, and explained to him his plans. The prikash- 
chik received with undisguised satisfaction all the details of 
this scheme so far as they showed that all that had been 
done hitherto was absurd and unproductive. The prikashchik 
declared that he had long ago told him so, but that his words 
had not been heard. But when Levin proposed to share 
the profits of the estate with the laborers, on the basis of 
an association, the prikashchik put on an expression of mel- 
ancholy, and immediately began to speak of the necessity of 
bringing in the last sheaves of wheat, and commencing the 
second ploughing ; and Levin felt that now was nota propitious 
time. On conversing with the muzhiks about his project of 
dividing with them the products of the earth, he quickly per- 
ceived that they were too much occupied with their daily 








ANNA KARENINA. 857 


tasks to comprehend the advantages and disadvantages of 
his enterprise. 

A keen muzhik, Ivan the skotnik, to whom Levin proposed 
to share in the profits of the cattle, seemed to comprehend 
and to approve ; but every time that Levin went on to speak of 
the advantages that would result, Ivan’s face grew troubled, 
and, without waiting to hear Levin out, he would hurry off to 
attend to some work that could not be postponed, — either 
to pitch the hay from the pens, or to draw water, or to clear 
away the manure. 

The chief obstacle consisted in the inveterate distrust of 
the peasants, who would not believe that a proprietor could 
have any other aim than to despoil them. Whatever rea- 
soning he might employ to convince them, they still held to 
their conviction that his real purpose was hidden. They, on 
their side, made many words; but they carefully guarded 
against telling what they intended to do. Levin remembered 
the angry proprietor when the peasants demanded, as the 
first and indispensable condition for their new arrangements, 
that they should never be bound to any of the new agricultural 
methods, or to use the improved tools. They agreed that the 
new-fashioned plough worked better, that the weed-extirpator 
was more successful; but they invented a thousand excuses 
not to make use of them. Whatever regret he felt at giving 
up processes, the advantages of which were self-evident, he 
let them have their way; and by autumn the new arrange- 
ment was in working-order, or at least seemed to be. 

At first Levin intended to give up his whole domain to the 
new association of workmen. But very soon he found that 
this was impracticable ; and he made up his mind to limit it 
to the cattle, the garden, the kitchen-garden, the hay-fields, 
and some lands, situated at some distance, which for eight 
years past had been lying fallow. Ivan, the keen skotn‘k, 
formed an association [artel] composed of members of his 
family, and took charge of the cattle-yard. The new field 
was taken by the shrewd carpenter Feodor Rézunof, who 
joined with him seven familles of muzhiks; and the muzhik 
Shuraef entered into the same arrangements for superin- 
tending the gardens. | 

It was true that matters were not carried on in the cattle- 
yard any better than before, and that Ivan was obstinate in 
his mistakes about feeding the cows and churning the butter, 
and found it impossible to comprehend or take any interest 


358 ANNA KARENINA. 


in the fact that henceforth his wages would be represented 
by a proportion of the profits of the association. It was 
true that Rézunof did not give the field a second ploughing, as 
he had been advised to do. It was true that the muzhiks of 
this company, although they had agreed to take this work 
under the new conditions, called this land, not common land, 
but shared-land, and that Rézunof did not complete the barn 
that he had agreed to build before winter. It was true that 
Shuraef tried to give away the products of the gardens to 
the other muzhiks, seeming to be under the impression that 
the land had been given to him. But, in spite of all these 
drawbacks, Levin still persevered, hoping to be able to show 
his associates at the end of the year that the new order of 
things could bring excellent results. 

All these changes in the administration of the estate, to- 
gether with his work in the library on his new book, so filled 
his time that he scarcely ever went out, even to hunt. 

Towards the end of August the Oblonskys returned ta 
Moscow, as he learned through the man that brought back 
the saddle. The memory of his rudeness in not answering 
Darya Aleksandroyna’s note, or going to call upon them. 
caused him a pang of shame; and he felt that his conduct 
toward Sviazhsky had not been much more gentlemanly : but 
he was too busy to have time to think of his remorse. His 
reading absorbed him. He finished the books which Sviazh- 
sky loaned him, and others on political economy and social- 
ism, which he sent for. Among the writers on_ political 
economy, Mill, which he studied first, interested him, but 
seemed to him to offer nothing applicable to the agrarian 
situation in Russia. Modern socialism did not satisfy him 
any more. Either they were beautiful but impracticable 
fancies, such as he dreamed when he was a student, or mod- 
ifications of that situation of things applicable to Europe, 
but offering no solution for the agrarian question in Russia. 
Political economy said that the laws in which the happiness - 
of Europe was developed and would develop were universal 
and fixed; socialistic teachings said that progress accord- 
ing to these laws would lead to destruction; but there was 
nothing that he could find that cast the light on the means 
of leading him and all the Russian muzhiks and agricultur- 
ists, with their millions of hands and of desyatins, to more 
successful methods of reaching prosperity. As he went on 
reading, it occurred to him that it would be an advantage to 








ANNA KARENINA. 859 


Yo abroad and study on the spot certain special questions, 
so as not to be always sent from one authority to another, — 
to Kaufman, to Le Bois, to Michelet. 

He saw clearly now that Kaufman and Michelet could not 
answer these questions for him. He knew what he wanted. 
He saw that Russia possessed an admirable soil and admi- 
rable workmen, and that in certain cases, as with the muzhik 
by the highway, the land and the workmen could produce 
abundantly, but that, when capital was spent upon them in 
the European manner, they produced scarcely any thing. 
This contrast could not be the result of chance. The Rus- 
sian people he thought destined to colonize these immense 
spaces, cling to their traditions and to their own ways and 
customs ; and who is to say that they are wrong? And he 
wanted to demonstrate this theory in his book, and put it 
into practice on his land. 


XXX. 


Towarps the end of September the lumber was. brought 
for the construction of a barn on the artel land, and the 
butter was sold, and showed a profit. The new adminis- 
tration, on the whole, worked admirably, or at least it 
seemed so to Levin. But in order to put the theories 
into a clear light, and to view all the different sides of 
political economy, he felt that it was necessary to go 
abroad, and to learn, from practical observation, all that 
might be of use to him in regard to the relations of the 
people to the soil. He was only waiting for the delivery 
of the wheat to get his money, and make the journey. But 
the autumn rains set in, and a part of the wheat and pota- 
toes were not as yet garnered. All work was at a stand- 
still, and it was impossible to deliver the wheat. The roads 
were impracticable, two mills were washed away, and the 
situation seemed to be growing worse and worse. 

But on the morning of the 30th of September the sun 
came out; and Levin, hoping for a change in the weather, 
sent the prikashchik to the merchant to negotiate for the 
sale of the wheat. 

He himself went out for a tour of inspection of the 
estate, in order to make the last remaining arrangements 
for his journey. Having accomplished all that he wished, 
he returned at nightfall, wet from the rivulets that trickled 


860 ANNA KARENINA. 


down his neck from his leather coat and inside his high 
boots, but in a happy and animated frame of mind. The 
storm towards evening had increased; but he put up with 
all the difficulties of the way, and, under his bashluik, he 
felt happy and comfortable. His talks with the peasants 
over the whole district convinced him that they were begin- 
ning to get used to his arrangements; and an old dvornik 
[hostler], at whose house he stopped to get dry, evidently 
approved of his plan, and wanted to join the association 
for the purchase of cattle. 

‘* All it requires is obstinate perseverance, and I shall 
come out of it all right,’’ thought Levin. ‘‘I am not 
working for myself alone; but the question concerns the 
good of all. The whole way of managing on estates, 
the condition of all the people, may be changed by it. In- 
stead of misery, universal well-being, contentment; instead 
of unfriendliness, agreement and union of interests: in a 
word, a bloodless revolution, but a mighty revolution, be- 
ginning in the little circuit of our district, then reaching 
the province, Russia, the whole world! The thought is 
so just that it cannot help being fruitful. Da! this 
goal is worth working for. And the fact that I, Kostia 
Levin, my own self, a man who went to a ball in a black 
necktie, and was rejected by a Shcherbatsky, a stupid and 
a good-for-nothing, that is neither here nor there.— I 
believe that Franklin felt that he was just such a good- 
for-nothing, and had just as little faith in himself, when 
he took himself into account. And, indeed, he had his 
Agafya Mikhailovna also, to whom he confided his secrets.’’ 

With such thoughts, Levin reached home in the dark. 
The prikashchik, who had been to the merchant, came and 
handed him the money from the sale of the wheat. The 
agreement with the dvornik was drawn up; and then the 
prikashchik told how he had seen wheat still standing in 
the field by the road, while his one hundred and sixty 
stacks, already brought in, were nothing in comparison to 
what others had. 

After supper Levin sat down in his chair, as usual, with 
a book; and as he read he began to think of his projected 
journey, especially in connection with his book. His mind 
was clear, and his ideas fell naturally into flowing periods, 
which expressed the essence of his thought. ‘‘ This must 
be written down,’’ he said to himself. He got up to go te 








ANNA KARENINA. 361 


his writing-table ; and Laska, who had been lying at his 
feet, also got up, and, stretching herself, looked at him, as 
though asking where he was going. But he had no time 
for writing; for the natchalniks came for their orders, and 
he had to go to meet them in the anteroom. 

After giving them their orders, or rather, having made ar- 
rangements for their morrow’s work, and having received all 
the muzhiks who came to consult with him, Levin went back 
to his library, and sat down to his work. Laska lay under 
the table: Agafya Mikhailovna, with her knitting, took her 
usual place. 

After writing some time, Levin suddenly arose, and began 
to walk up and down the room. The memory of Kitty and 
her refusal, and the recent glimpse of her, came before his 
imagination with extraordinary vividness. 

**Da! why trouble yourself?’’ asked Agafya Mikhailovna. 
*¢ Nu! why do you stay at home? You had better go to the 
warm springs if your mind is made up.’’ 

‘¢T am going day after to-morrow, Agafya Mikhailovna ; 
but I had to finish up my business.”’ 

*¢ Nu! your business, indeed! MHaven’t you given these 
muzhiks enough already? And they say, ‘ Our barin is 
after some favor from the Tsar;’ and strange it is. Why 
do you work so for the muzhiks?”’ 

‘¢T am not working for them: I am doing for myself.’’ 

Agafya Mikhailovna knew all the details of Levin’s plans, 
for he had explained them to her, and he had often had dis- 
cussions with her; but now she entirely misapprehended what 
he said to her. 

‘‘ For your own soul it is certainly important; to think 
of that is above every thing,’’ said she with a sigh. ‘‘ Here 
is Parfen Denisitch: although he could not read, yet may 
God give us all to die as he did! They confessed him and 
gave him extreme unction.”’ 

‘¢T did not mean that,’’ said he: ‘*I mean that I am 
working for my own profit. It would be more profitable to 
me if the muzhiks would work better.’’ 

*¢ Da! you will only have your labor for your pains. The 
lazy will be lazy. Where there’s a conscience, there’ll be 
work : if not, nothing will be done.’’ 

*“ Nu! da! But don’t you yourself say that Ivan is be- 
ginning to look out for the cows better? ’’ 

** T say this one thing,’’ replied Agafya Mikhailovna, evi- 


862 | ANNA KARENINA. 


dently following a thought that was not new to her: ‘* You 
must get married, that’s what.”’ 

Agafya Mikhailoyna’s observation about the very matter 
that pre-occupied him angered him and insulted him. He 
frowned, and, without replying, sat down to his work again. 
Occasionally he heard the clicking of Agafya Mikailovna’s 
needles ; and, remembering what he did not wish to remem- 
ber, he would frown. 

At nine o’clock the sound of bells was heard, and the 
heavy rumbling of a carriage on the muddy road. 

‘¢ Nu! here’s some visitors coming to see you: you won’t 
be bored any more,’’ said Agafya Mikhailovna, rising, and 
going to the door. But Levin stepped ahead of her. His 
work did not progress now, and he was glad to see any guest. 


XXXII. 


As Levin went down-stairs he heard the sound of a 
familiar cough; but the sound was somewhat mingled with 
the noise of footsteps, and he hoped that he was mistaken. 
Then he saw the tall but bony figure which he knew so well. 
But even now, when there seemed to be no possibility of 
deception, he hoped still that he was mistaken, and that this 
tall man who was divesting himself of his shuba, and cough- 
ing, was not his brother Nikolai. 

Levin loved his brother, but it was always extremely 
disagreeable to live with him. Now especially, when Levin 
was under the influence of the thoughts and suggestions 
awakened by Agafya Mikhailoyna, and was in a dull and 
melancholy humor, the presence of his brother was indeed an 
affliction. Instead of a gay, healthy visitor, some stranger, 
who, he hoped, would drive away his perplexities, he was 
obliged to receive his brother, who knew him through and 
through, who could read his most secret thoughts, and who 
would oblige him to share them with him. And this he dis- 
liked above all things. 

Angry with himself for his unworthy sentiments, Levin 
ran down into the vestibule; and, as soon as he saw his 
brother, the feeling of personal discomfort instantly dis- 
appeared, and was succeeded by a feeling of pity. His 
brother Nikolai was more feeble than he had ever seen 
him before. He was like a skeleton covered with skin. 








ANNA KARENINA. 363 


He was standing in the vestibule trying to unwind a 
scarf from his long, thin neck; and, when he saw Levin, 
he smiled with a strangly melancholy smile. When he saw 
his brother’s humble and pitiful smile, he felt a choking 
sensation. 

‘¢ Yot! Ihave come to you,’’ said Nikolai in a thick voice, 
and not for a second taking his eyes from his brother’s face. 
‘¢T have been wanting to come for a long time; da! I was 
so ill. Now I am very much better,’’ he added, rubbing his 
beard with his great bony hand. 

‘‘ Yes, yes,’’ replied Levin; and, as he touched his 
brother’s shrivelled cheeks with his lips, and saw the gleam 
of his great, strangely brilliant eyes, he felt a sensation of 
fear. 

Some time before this, Konstantin Levin had written his 
brother, that, having disposed of the small portion of their 
common inheritance, consisting of personal property, a sum 
of two thousand rubles was due as his share. 

Nikolai said that he had come to get. this money, and 
especially to see the old nest; to put his foot on the na- 
tal soil, so as to get renewed strength, like the heroes 
of ancient times. Nctwithstanding his tall, stooping form, 
notwithstanding his frightful -emaciation, his movements 
were, as they had always been, quick and impetuous. 
Levin took him to his room. 

Nikolai changed his dress, and took great pains with his 
toilet, which in former times he neglected. He brushed 
his coarse, thin hair, and went up-stairs radiant. He was 
in the same gay and happvy humor that Konstantin had 
seen when he was a child. He even spoke of Sergéi 
Ivanovitch without bitterness. When he saw Agafya Mi- 
khailovna, he jested with her, and questioned her about the 
old servants. The news of Parfen Denisitch made a deep 
impression upon him. A look of fear crossed his face, 
but he instantly recovered himself. 

‘* He was very old, was he not?’ he asked, and quickly 
changed the conversation. ‘‘ Da! I am going to stay a 
month or two with you, and then go back to Moscow. 
You see, Miagkof has promised me a place, and I shall 
enter the service. Now I have turned over a new leaf en- 
tirely,’’ he added. ‘* You see, I have sent away that 
woman.”’ 

*¢ Marya Nikolayevna? How? What for?’ 


364 ANNA KARENINA. 


*¢ Ach! she was a wretched woman! She caused all sorts 
of tribulations.’’ But he did not tell what the tribula- 
tions were. He could not say that he had sent Marya Niko- 
layevna away because she made his tea too weak, still less 
because she insisted on treating him as an invalid. 

‘¢ Then, besides, I wanted to begin an entirely new kind of 
life. I think, like everybody else, that I have committed 
follies: but the present, —I mean the last one,—I don’t 
regret it, provided only I get better; and better, thank the 
Lord! I feel already.’’ 

Levin listened, and tried, but. tried in vain, to find some- 
thing to say. Apparently Nikolai suspected something of 
the sort: he began to ask him about his affairs; and Kon- 
stantin, glad that he could speak, frankly related his plans 
and his experiments in reform. 

Nikolai listened, but did not show the least interest. 

These two men were so related to each other, and there 
was such a bond between them, that the slightest motion, the 
sound of their voices, spoke more clearly than all the words 
that they could say to each other. 

At this moment both were thinking the same thought, — 
Nikolai’s illness and approaching death ; and all else was idle 
words. Neither of them dared make the least allusion to it, 
and therefore all that was said was in reality untrue. Never 
before had Levin been so glad for an evening to end, for 
bed-time to come. Never, even when obliged to pay official 
visits, had he felt so false and unnatural as this evening. 
And the consciousness of this unnaturalness, and his regret, 
made him more unnatural still. His heart was breaking to 
see his beloved dying brother; but he was obliged to dis- 
semble, and to talk about what his brother was going to do. 

As at this time the house was damp, and only one room 
was warm, Levin offered to let his brother share his room. 

Nikolai went to bed, and slept the uneasy sleep of an 
invalid, turning restlessly from side to side. Sometimes. 
when it was hard for him to breathe, he would cry out, ‘* Ach / 
Bozhe moi!’’ Sometimes, when the dampness choked him, 
he would grow angry, and cry out, ‘* Ah, the Devil! ’’ Levin 
could not sleep as he listened to him. His thoughts were 
varied, but they always returned to one theme, — death. 

Death, the inevitable end of all, for the first time appeared 
to him with irresistible force. And death was here, with 
this beloved brother, who groaned in his sleep, and called 





ANNA KARENINA. : 365 


now upon God, now upon the Devil. It was with him also’ 
this he felt. Not to-day, but to-morrow ; not to-morrcw, but 
in thirty years: was it not all the same? And what this 
inevitable death was, — not only did he not know, not only 
had he never before thought about it, but he had not wished, 
had not dared, to think about it. 

‘¢ Here I am working, wanting to accomplish something, 
but I forgot that all must come to an end, — death.’’ 

He was lying in bed in the darkness, holding his knees, 
scarcely able to breathe, so great was the tension of his 
mind. The more he thought, the more clearly he saw that 
from his conception of life he had omitted nothing except 
this one little factor, death, which might come, and end all, 
and that there was no help against it — not the least. ‘‘ Da! 
this is terrible, but so it is! 

‘¢ Da! butI am still alive. Now, what can be done about 
it? what can be done? ’”’ he asked in despair. He lighted a 
candle, and softly arose, and went to the mirror, and began 
to look at his face and his hair. ‘‘ Da/’’ on the temples a 
few gray hairs were to be seen. He opened his mouth. His 
teeth showed signs of decay. He doubled up his muscular 
arms. ‘‘ Da! much strength. But this poor Nikolinka, who 
is breathing so painfully with the little that is left of his 
lungs, also had at one time a healthy body.’’ And suddenly 
he remembered how when they were children, and were put to 
bed, they would wait until Feodor Bogdanuitch got out of the 
door, and then begin a pillow-fight, and laugh, laugh so un- 
restrainedly, that not even the fear of Feodor Bogdanuitch 
could quench this exuberant gayety of life. ‘‘ But now there 
he lies in bed with his poor hollow chest — and I — ignorant 
why, and what will become of me’? — 

‘‘ Kha! kha! ah! what the Devil are you doing? Why 
don’t you go to sleep? ’’ demanded his brother’s voice. 

** 1 don’t know; insomnia, I guess.”’ 

‘¢ But I have been sleeping beautifully. I have not had 
any sweat at all. Just feel, — no sweat.’’ 

Levin felt of him, then he got into bed again, put out the 
candle, but it was long before he went to sleep. Still in his 
mind arose this new question, how to live so as to be ready 
for the inevitable death? 

‘¢ Nu! heis dying! Nw! he will die in the spring. Nu! 
how to aid him? What can I saytohim? What do I know 
about it? I had even forgotten that there was such a 
thing.”’ P 


366 ANNA KARENINA. - 


Levin had long been acquainted with the fact that often 
times the gentleness and excessive humility of some people 
are abruptly transformed into unreasonableness and peremp- 
toriness. He foresaw that this would be the case with his 
brother; and in fact, Nikolai’s sweet temper was not of long 
duration. On the very next morning he awoke in an ex- 
tremely irritable temper, and immediately began to stir up 
his brother by touching him in the most tender spot. 

Levin was conscious of his fault, but he could not be frank. 
He felt that if they had not dissimulated their thoughts, but 
had spoken from their very hearts, they would have looked 
into each other’s eyes, and he would have said only this: 
‘¢ You are going to die, you are going to die;’’ and Nikolai 
- would have answered only this: ‘‘ I know that I am dying, 
and I am afraid, afraid, afraid.’’? And they would have said 
more if they had spoken honestly from their hearts. But as 
this sincerity was not possible, Konstantin endeavored, always 
without success, to speak of indifferent subjects ; and he felt 
that his brother divined his insincerity, and was therefore 
irritated and angry, and found fault with all that he said. 

On the third day Nikolai began to discuss the question of 
his brother’s reforms, and to criticise them, and in a spirit 
of contrariety to confound his scheme with communism. 

‘* You have only taken your idea from some one else; 
and you distort it, and want to apply it to what is not 
suited to receive it.’’ 

‘‘Da! but I tell you that the two have nothing in com- 
mon. I have no thought of copying communism, which 
denies the right of property, of capital, of inheritance; but 
I do not disregard these stimuli.’’ Levin would have pre- 
ferred to use some other word, but at this time he found 
himself, in spite of him, compelled to use non-Russian 
words. ‘* All I want is, to regulate labor.’’ 

‘¢In other words, you borrow a foreign idea: you take 
away from it all that gives it force, and you pretend to 
make it pass as new,’’ said Nikolai, angrily twitching at 
his necktie. 

‘* Da! my idea has not the slightest resemblance ’’? — 

‘¢'This idea,’’ interrupted Nikolai, smiling ironically, and 
with an angry light in his eyes, — ‘‘ communism, — has at 
least one attractive feature,—and you might call it a geo- 
metrical one, —it has clearness and logical certainty. Maybe 
it is a Utopia. But let us agree that it can produce a new 





ANNA KARENINA. 367 


form of work by making a tabula rasa of the past, so that 
there shall not be property or family, but only freedom of 
labor. But you don’t accept this ’’ — 

‘¢ But why do you confound them? I never was a com- 
munist.’’ 

‘¢ But I have been: and I believe that if communism is 
premature, it is, at least, reasonable; and it is as sure to 
succeed as Christianity was in the early centuries.’’ 

‘¢ And I believe that labor is an elemental force, which 
must be studied from the same point of view as the natural 
sciences, to learn its constitution and ’’ — 

‘‘ Da! this is absolutely idle. This force goes of itself, 
and takes different forms, according to the degrees of its 
enlightenment. Everywhere this order has been followed, — 
slaves, then metayers, free labor, and, here in Russia, there 
is the farm, the arend [leased farms], manufactures. — 
What more do you want? ”’ 

Levin took fire at these last words, the more because he 
feared in his secret soul that his brother was right in blam- 
ing him for wanting to discover a balance between com- 
munism and the existing forms. 

‘¢T am trying to find a form of labor which will be prof: 
itable for all,—for me and the workingman,’’ he replied 
warmly. | 

‘¢That is not what you wish to do; it is simply this: 
you have, all your life long, sought to be original; and 
you want to prove that you are not exploiting the muzhik, 
but are working for a principle.’’ 

‘‘Nu! since you think so— let’s quit,’’ replied Konstantin, 
feeling the muscles of his right cheek twitch involuntarily. 

‘¢’'You never had any convictions, and you only wanted 
to flatter your conceit.”’ ; 

*¢ Nu! that is very well to say, — but let’s quit this.’’ 

*¢ Certainly I will stop. You go to the Devil! and I am 
very sorry that I came.’’ 

Levin tried in vain to calm him. Nikolai would not listen 
' to a word, and persisted in saying that they had better sepa- 
rate; and Konstantin saw that it was not possible to live 
with him. 

Nikolai had already made his preparations to depart, when 
Konstantin came to him, and begged him, in a way that was 
not entirely natural, for forgiveness, if he had offended him. 

** Ah, now! here’s magnanimity,’’ said Nikolai, smiling 


—- 868 ANNA KARENINA. 


‘‘Tf you are very anxious to be in the right, then let us agree 
that this is sensible. You are right, but I am going all the 
same.’’ 

At the last moment, however, as Nikolai kissed his brother, 
a strange look of seriousness came on him. ‘* Kostia,’’ he 
said, ‘don’t lay it up against me.’’ And his voice trem- 
bled. 

These were the only words which were spoken sincerely. 
Levin understood what they meant. ‘‘ You see and know 
that I am miserable, and we may not meet again.’’ And the 
tears came into his eyes. Once more he kissed his brother, 
but he could not find any thing to say. 

On the third day after his brother’s departure, Levin went 
abroad. At the railway station he met Shcherbatsky, Kitty’s 
cousin, and astonished him greatly by his melancholy. 

‘¢ What is the matter? ’’ asked Shcherbatsky. 

*¢ Da! nothing, except that there is little happiness in this 
world.”’ 

‘¢ Little happiness? Just come with me to Paris instead 
of going to some place like Mulhouse. I'll show you how 
gay it is.’” 

‘¢ No, Iam done for. I am ready to die.”’ 

‘¢ What a joke!’’ said Shcherbatsky, laughing. ‘*I am 
just learning how to begin.”’ 

‘¢T felt the same a little while ago, but now I know that 
my life will be short.’’ ‘Levin said what he honestly felt at 
this time. All that he saw before him was death. But still 
he was just as much interested as ever in his projects of 
reform. It was necessary to keep his life occupied till death 
should come. Darkness seemed to cover every thing ; but he 
felt that the only way for him to pass through the darkness 
was to occupy himself with his labors of reform, and he 
clung to them with all the force of his character. 





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pisteatasetitsesieey risittet iaieigies epareste: : 
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