Anna Karenina
influence of the conversation with a friend he had not met since his
misfortune, he suddenly recalled _her_—that is, what was left of her
when he had run like one distraught into the cloak room of the railway
station—on the table, shamelessly sprawling out among strangers, the
bloodstained body so lately full of life; the head unhurt dropping back
with its weight of hair, and the curling tresses about the temples, and
the exquisite face, with red, half-opened mouth, the strange, fixed
expression, piteous on the lips and awful in the still open eyes, that
seemed to utter that fearful phrase—that he would be sorry for it—that
she had said when they were quarreling.
And he tried to think of her as she was when he met her the first time,
at a railway station too, mysterious, exquisite, loving, seeking and
giving happiness, and not cruelly revengeful as he remembered her on
that last moment. He tried to recall his best moments with her, but
those moments were poisoned forever. He could only think of her as
triumphant, successful in her menace of a wholly useless remorse never
to be effaced. He lost all consciousness of toothache, and his face
worked with sobs.
Passing twice up and down beside the baggage in silence and regaining
his self-possession, he addressed Sergey Ivanovitch calmly:
“You have had no telegrams since yesterday’s? Yes, driven back for a
third time, but a decisive engagement expected for tomorrow.”
And after talking a little more of King Milan’s proclamation, and the
immense effect it might have, they parted, going to their carriages on
hearing the second bell.
Chapter 6
Sergey Ivanovitch had not telegraphed to his brother to send to meet
him, as he did not know when he should be able to leave Moscow. Levin
was not at home when Katavasov and Sergey Ivanovitch in a fly hired at
the station drove up to the steps of the Pokrovskoe house, as black as
Moors from the dust of the road. Kitty, sitting on the balcony with her
father and sister, recognized her brother-in-law, and ran down to meet
him.
“What a shame not to have let us know,” she said, giving her hand to
Sergey Ivanovitch, and putting her forehead up for him to kiss.
“We drove here capitally, and have not put you out,” answered Sergey
Ivanovitch. “I’m so dirty. I’m afraid to touch you. I’ve been so busy,
I didn’t know when I should be able to tear myself away. And so you’re
still as ever enjoying your peaceful, quiet happiness,” he said,
smiling, “out of the reach of the current in your peaceful backwater.
Here’s our friend Fyodor Vassilievitch who has succeeded in getting
here at last.”
“But I’m not a negro, I shall look like a human being when I wash,”
said Katavasov in his jesting fashion, and he shook hands and smiled,
his teeth flashing white in his black face.
“Kostya will be delighted. He has gone to his settlement. It’s time he
should be home.”
“Busy as ever with his farming. It really is a peaceful backwater,”
said Katavasov; “while we in town think of nothing but the Servian war.
Well, how does our friend look at it? He’s sure not to think like other
people.”
“Oh, I don’t know, like everybody else,” Kitty answered, a little
embarrassed, looking round at Sergey Ivanovitch. “I’ll send to fetch
him. Papa’s staying with us. He’s only just come home from abroad.”
And making arrangements to send for Levin and for the guests to wash,
one in his room and the other in what had been Dolly’s, and giving
orders for their luncheon, Kitty ran out onto the balcony, enjoying the
freedom, and rapidity of movement, of which she had been deprived
during the months of her pregnancy.
“It’s Sergey Ivanovitch and Katavasov, a professor,” she said.
“Oh, that’s a bore in this heat,” said the prince.
“No, papa, he’s very nice, and Kostya’s very fond of him,” Kitty said,
with a deprecating smile, noticing the irony on her father’s face.
“Oh, I didn’t say anything.”
“You go to them, darling,” said Kitty to her sister, “and entertain
them. They saw Stiva at the station; he was quite well. And I must run
to Mitya. As ill-luck would have it, I haven’t fed him since tea. He’s
awake now, and sure to be screaming.” And feeling a rush of milk, she
hurried to the nursery.
This was not a mere guess; her connection with the child was still so
close, that she could gauge by the flow of her milk his need of food,
and knew for certain he was hungry.
She knew he was crying before she reached the nursery. And he was
indeed crying. She heard him and hastened. But the faster she went, the
louder he screamed. It was a fine healthy scream, hungry and impatient.
“Has he been screaming long, nurse, very long?” said Kitty hurriedly,
seating herself on a chair, and preparing to give the baby the breast.
“But give me him quickly. Oh, nurse, how tiresome you are! There, tie
the cap afterwards, do!”
The baby’s greedy scream was passing into sobs.
“But you can’t manage so, ma’am,” said Agafea Mihalovna, who was almost
always to be found in the nursery. “He must be put straight. A-oo!
a-oo!” she chanted over him, paying no attention to the mother.
The nurse brought the baby to his mother. Agafea Mihalovna followed him
with a face dissolving with tenderness.
“He knows me, he knows me. In God’s faith, Katerina Alexandrovna,
ma’am, he knew me!” Agafea Mihalovna cried above the baby’s screams.
But Kitty did not hear her words. Her impatience kept growing, like the
baby’s.
Their impatience hindered things for a while. The baby could not get
hold of the breast right, and was furious.
At last, after despairing, breathless screaming, and vain sucking,
things went right, and mother and child felt simultaneously soothed,
and both subsided into calm.
“But poor darling, he’s all in perspiration!” said Kitty in a whisper,
touching the baby.
“What makes you think he knows you?” she added, with a sidelong glance
at the baby’s eyes, that peered roguishly, as she fancied, from under
his cap, at his rhythmically puffing cheeks, and the little red-palmed
hand he was waving.
“Impossible! If he knew anyone, he would have known me,” said Kitty, in
response to Agafea Mihalovna’s statement, and she smiled.
She smiled because, though she said he could not know her, in her heart
she was sure that he knew not merely Agafea Mihalovna, but that he knew
and understood everything, and knew and understood a great deal too
that no one else knew, and that she, his mother, had learned and come
to understand only through him. To Agafea Mihalovna, to the nurse, to
his grandfather, to his father even, Mitya was a living being,
requiring only material care, but for his mother he had long been a
moral being, with whom there had been a whole series of spiritual
relations already.
“When he wakes up, please God, you shall see for yourself. Then when I
do like this, he simply beams on me, the darling! Simply beams like a
sunny day!” said Agafea Mihalovna.
“Well, well; then we shall see,” whispered Kitty. “But now go away,
he’s going to sleep.”
Chapter 7
Agafea Mihalovna went out on tiptoe; the nurse let down the blind,
chased a fly out from under the muslin canopy of the crib, and a
bumblebee struggling on the window-frame, and sat down waving a faded
branch of birch over the mother and the baby.
“How hot it is! if God would send a drop of rain,” she said.
“Yes, yes, sh—sh—sh——” was all Kitty answered, rocking a little, and
tenderly squeezing the plump little arm, with rolls of fat at the
wrist, which Mitya still waved feebly as he opened and shut his eyes.
That hand worried Kitty; she longed to kiss the little hand, but was
afraid to for fear of waking the baby. At last the little hand ceased
waving, and the eyes closed. Only from time to time, as he went on
sucking, the baby raised his long, curly eyelashes and peeped at his
mother with wet eyes, that looked black in the twilight. The nurse had
left off fanning, and was dozing. From above came the peals of the old
prince’s voice, and the chuckle of Katavasov.
“They have got into talk without me,” thought Kitty, “but still it’s
vexing that Kostya’s out. He’s sure to have gone to the bee-house
again. Though it’s a pity he’s there so often, still I’m glad. It
distracts his mind. He’s become altogether happier and better now than
in the spring. He used to be so gloomy and worried that I felt
frightened for him. And how absurd he is!” she whispered, smiling.
She knew what worried her husband. It was his unbelief. Although, if
she had been asked whether she supposed that in the future life, if he
did not believe, he would be damned, she would have had to admit that
he would be damned, his unbelief did not cause her unhappiness. And
she, confessing that for an unbeliever there can be no salvation, and
loving her husband’s soul more than anything in the world, thought with
a smile of his unbelief, and told herself that he was absurd.
“What does he keep reading philosophy of some sort for all this year?”
she wondered. “If it’s all written in those books, he can understand
them. If it’s all wrong, why does he read them? He says himself that he
would like to believe. Then why is it he doesn’t believe? Surely from
his thinking so much? And he thinks so much from being solitary. He’s
always alone, alone. He can’t talk about it all to us. I fancy he’ll be
glad of these visitors, especially Katavasov. He likes discussions with
them,” she thought, and passed instantly to the consideration of where
it would be more convenient to put Katavasov, to sleep alone or to
share Sergey Ivanovitch’s room. And then an idea suddenly struck her,
which made her shudder and even disturb Mitya, who glanced severely at
her. “I do believe the laundress hasn’t sent the washing yet, and all
the best sheets are in use. If I don’t see to it, Agafea Mihalovna will
give Sergey Ivanovitch the wrong sheets,” and at the very idea of this
the blood rushed to Kitty’s face.
“Yes, I will arrange it,” she decided, and going back to her former
thoughts, she remembered that some spiritual question of importance had
been interrupted, and she began to recall what. “Yes, Kostya, an
unbeliever,” she thought again with a smile.
“Well, an unbeliever then! Better let him always be one than like
Madame Stahl, or what I tried to be in those days abroad. No, he won’t
ever sham anything.”
And a recent instance of his goodness rose vividly to her mind. A
fortnight ago a penitent letter had come from Stepan Arkadyevitch to
Dolly. He besought her to save his honor, to sell her estate to pay his
debts. Dolly was in despair, she detested her husband, despised him,
pitied him, resolved on a separation, resolved to refuse, but ended by
agreeing to sell part of her property. After that, with an
irrepressible smile of tenderness, Kitty recalled her husband’s
shamefaced embarrassment, his repeated awkward efforts to approach the
subject, and how at last, having thought of the one means of helping
Dolly without wounding her pride, he had suggested to Kitty—what had
not occurred to her before—that she should give up her share of the
property.
“He an unbeliever indeed! With his heart, his dread of offending
anyone, even a child! Everything for others, nothing for himself.
Sergey Ivanovitch simply considers it as Kostya’s duty to be his
steward. And it’s the same with his sister. Now Dolly and her children
are under his guardianship; all these peasants who come to him every
day, as though he were bound to be at their service.”
“Yes, only be like your father, only like him,” she said, handing Mitya
over to the nurse, and putting her lips to his cheek.
Chapter 8
Ever since, by his beloved brother’s deathbed, Levin had first glanced
into the questions of life and death in the light of these new