Anna Karenina
Among others he met Count Bol, whom he had utterly forgotten to call
upon.
“Well, go at once then,” Madame Lvova said, when he told her; “perhaps
they’ll not be at home, and then you can come to the meeting to fetch
me. You’ll find me still there.”
Chapter 6
“Perhaps they’re not at home?” said Levin, as he went into the hall of
Countess Bola’s house.
“At home; please walk in,” said the porter, resolutely removing his
overcoat.
“How annoying!” thought Levin with a sigh, taking off one glove and
stroking his hat. “What did I come for? What have I to say to them?”
As he passed through the first drawing-room Levin met in the doorway
Countess Bola, giving some order to a servant with a care-worn and
severe face. On seeing Levin she smiled, and asked him to come into the
little drawing-room, where he heard voices. In this room there were
sitting in armchairs the two daughters of the countess, and a Moscow
colonel, whom Levin knew. Levin went up, greeted them, and sat down
beside the sofa with his hat on his knees.
“How is your wife? Have you been at the concert? We couldn’t go. Mamma
had to be at the funeral service.”
“Yes, I heard.... What a sudden death!” said Levin.
The countess came in, sat down on the sofa, and she too asked after his
wife and inquired about the concert.
Levin answered, and repeated an inquiry about Madame Apraksina’s sudden
death.
“But she was always in weak health.”
“Were you at the opera yesterday?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Lucca was very good.”
“Yes, very good,” he said, and as it was utterly of no consequence to
him what they thought of him, he began repeating what they had heard a
hundred times about the characteristics of the singer’s talent.
Countess Bola pretended to be listening. Then, when he had said enough
and paused, the colonel, who had been silent till then, began to talk.
The colonel too talked of the opera, and about culture. At last, after
speaking of the proposed _folle journée_ at Turin’s, the colonel
laughed, got up noisily, and went away. Levin too rose, but he saw by
the face of the countess that it was not yet time for him to go. He
must stay two minutes longer. He sat down.
But as he was thinking all the while how stupid it was, he could not
find a subject for conversation, and sat silent.
“You are not going to the public meeting? They say it will be very
interesting,” began the countess.
“No, I promised my _belle-sœur_ to fetch her from it,” said Levin.
A silence followed. The mother once more exchanged glances with a
daughter.
“Well, now I think the time has come,” thought Levin, and he got up.
The ladies shook hands with him, and begged him to say _mille choses_
to his wife for them.
The porter asked him, as he gave him his coat, “Where is your honor
staying?” and immediately wrote down his address in a big handsomely
bound book.
“Of course I don’t care, but still I feel ashamed and awfully stupid,”
thought Levin, consoling himself with the reflection that everyone does
it. He drove to the public meeting, where he was to find his
sister-in-law, so as to drive home with her.
At the public meeting of the committee there were a great many people,
and almost all the highest society. Levin was in time for the report
which, as everyone said, was very interesting. When the reading of the
report was over, people moved about, and Levin met Sviazhsky, who
invited him very pressingly to come that evening to a meeting of the
Society of Agriculture, where a celebrated lecture was to be delivered,
and Stepan Arkadyevitch, who had only just come from the races, and
many other acquaintances; and Levin heard and uttered various
criticisms on the meeting, on the new fantasia, and on a public trial.
But, probably from the mental fatigue he was beginning to feel, he made
a blunder in speaking of the trial, and this blunder he recalled
several times with vexation. Speaking of the sentence upon a foreigner
who had been condemned in Russia, and of how unfair it would be to
punish him by exile abroad, Levin repeated what he had heard the day
before in conversation from an acquaintance.
“I think sending him abroad is much the same as punishing a carp by
putting it into the water,” said Levin. Then he recollected that this
idea, which he had heard from an acquaintance and uttered as his own,
came from a fable of Krilov’s, and that the acquaintance had picked it
up from a newspaper article.
After driving home with his sister-in-law, and finding Kitty in good
spirits and quite well, Levin drove to the club.
Chapter 7
Levin reached the club just at the right time. Members and visitors
were driving up as he arrived. Levin had not been at the club for a
very long while—not since he lived in Moscow, when he was leaving the
university and going into society. He remembered the club, the external
details of its arrangement, but he had completely forgotten the
impression it had made on him in old days. But as soon as, driving into
the wide semicircular court and getting out of the sledge, he mounted
the steps, and the hall-porter, adorned with a crossway scarf,
noiselessly opened the door to him with a bow; as soon as he saw in the
porter’s room the cloaks and galoshes of members who thought it less
trouble to take them off downstairs; as soon as he heard the mysterious
ringing bell that preceded him as he ascended the easy, carpeted
staircase, and saw the statue on the landing, and the third porter at
the top doors, a familiar figure grown older, in the club livery,
opening the door without haste or delay, and scanning the visitors as
they passed in—Levin felt the old impression of the club come back in a
rush, an impression of repose, comfort, and propriety.
“Your hat, please,” the porter said to Levin, who forgot the club rule
to leave his hat in the porter’s room. “Long time since you’ve been.
The prince put your name down yesterday. Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch is
not here yet.”
The porter did not only know Levin, but also all his ties and
relationships, and so immediately mentioned his intimate friends.
Passing through the outer hall, divided up by screens, and the room
partitioned on the right, where a man sits at the fruit buffet, Levin
overtook an old man walking slowly in, and entered the dining-room full
of noise and people.
He walked along the tables, almost all full, and looked at the
visitors. He saw people of all sorts, old and young; some he knew a
little, some intimate friends. There was not a single cross or
worried-looking face. All seemed to have left their cares and anxieties
in the porter’s room with their hats, and were all deliberately getting
ready to enjoy the material blessings of life. Sviazhsky was here and
Shtcherbatsky, Nevyedovsky and the old prince, and Vronsky and Sergey
Ivanovitch.
“Ah! why are you late?” the prince said smiling, and giving him his
hand over his own shoulder. “How’s Kitty?” he added, smoothing out the
napkin he had tucked in at his waistcoat buttons.
“All right; they are dining at home, all the three of them.”
“Ah, ‘Aline-Nadine,’ to be sure! There’s no room with us. Go to that
table, and make haste and take a seat,” said the prince, and turning
away he carefully took a plate of eel soup.
“Levin, this way!” a good-natured voice shouted a little farther on. It
was Turovtsin. He was sitting with a young officer, and beside them
were two chairs turned upside down. Levin gladly went up to them. He
had always liked the good-hearted rake, Turovtsin—he was associated in
his mind with memories of his courtship—and at that moment, after the
strain of intellectual conversation, the sight of Turovtsin’s
good-natured face was particularly welcome.
“For you and Oblonsky. He’ll be here directly.”
The young man, holding himself very erect, with eyes forever twinkling
with enjoyment, was an officer from Petersburg, Gagin. Turovtsin
introduced them.
“Oblonsky’s always late.”
“Ah, here he is!”
“Have you only just come?” said Oblonsky, coming quickly towards them.
“Good day. Had some vodka? Well, come along then.”
Levin got up and went with him to the big table spread with spirits and
appetizers of the most various kinds. One would have thought that out
of two dozen delicacies one might find something to one’s taste, but
Stepan Arkadyevitch asked for something special, and one of the
liveried waiters standing by immediately brought what was required.
They drank a wine-glassful and returned to their table.
At once, while they were still at the soup, Gagin was served with
champagne, and told the waiter to fill four glasses. Levin did not
refuse the wine, and asked for a second bottle. He was very hungry, and
ate and drank with great enjoyment, and with still greater enjoyment
took part in the lively and simple conversation of his companions.
Gagin, dropping his voice, told the last good story from Petersburg,
and the story, though improper and stupid, was so ludicrous that Levin
broke into roars of laughter so loud that those near looked round.
“That’s in the same style as, ‘that’s a thing I can’t endure!’ You know
the story?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch. “Ah, that’s exquisite! Another
bottle,” he said to the waiter, and he began to relate his good story.
“Pyotr Illyitch Vinovsky invites you to drink with him,” a little old
waiter interrupted Stepan Arkadyevitch, bringing two delicate glasses
of sparkling champagne, and addressing Stepan Arkadyevitch and Levin.
Stepan Arkadyevitch took the glass, and looking towards a bald man with
red mustaches at the other end of the table, he nodded to him, smiling.
“Who’s that?” asked Levin.
“You met him once at my place, don’t you remember? A good-natured
fellow.”
Levin did the same as Stepan Arkadyevitch and took the glass.
Stepan Arkadyevitch’s anecdote too was very amusing. Levin told his
story, and that too was successful. Then they talked of horses, of the
races, of what they had been doing that day, and of how smartly
Vronsky’s Atlas had won the first prize. Levin did not notice how the
time passed at dinner.
“Ah! and here they are!” Stepan Arkadyevitch said towards the end of
dinner, leaning over the back of his chair and holding out his hand to
Vronsky, who came up with a tall officer of the Guards. Vronsky’s face
too beamed with the look of good-humored enjoyment that was general in
the club. He propped his elbow playfully on Stepan Arkadyevitch’s
shoulder, whispering something to him, and he held out his hand to
Levin with the same good-humored smile.
“Very glad to meet you,” he said. “I looked out for you at the
election, but I was told you had gone away.”
“Yes, I left the same day. We’ve just been talking of your horse. I
congratulate you,” said Levin. “It was very rapidly run.”
“Yes; you’ve race horses too, haven’t you?”
“No, my father had; but I remember and know something about it.”
“Where have you dined?” asked Stepan Arkadyevitch.
“We were at the second table, behind the columns.”
“We’ve been celebrating his success,” said the tall colonel. “It’s his
second Imperial prize. I wish I might have the luck at cards he has
with horses. Well, why waste the precious time? I’m going to the
‘infernal regions,’” added the colonel, and he walked away.
“That’s Yashvin,” Vronsky said in answer to Turovtsin, and he sat down
in the vacated seat beside them. He drank the glass offered him, and
ordered a bottle of wine. Under the influence of the club atmosphere or
the wine he had drunk, Levin chatted away to Vronsky of the best breeds
of cattle, and was very glad not to feel the slightest hostility to
this man. He even told him, among other things, that he had heard from
his wife that she had met him at Princess Marya Borissovna’s.
“Ah, Princess Marya Borissovna, she’s exquisite!” said Stepan