Anna Karenina
son what sort of little girl was Tanya at Moscow, and how Tanya could
read, and even taught the other children.
“Why, am I not so nice as she?” asked Seryozha.
“To me you’re nicer than anyone in the world.”
“I know that,” said Seryozha, smiling.
Anna had not had time to drink her coffee when the Countess Lidia
Ivanovna was announced. The Countess Lidia Ivanovna was a tall, stout
woman, with an unhealthily sallow face and splendid, pensive black
eyes. Anna liked her, but today she seemed to be seeing her for the
first time with all her defects.
“Well, my dear, so you took the olive branch?” inquired Countess Lidia
Ivanovna, as soon as she came into the room.
“Yes, it’s all over, but it was all much less serious than we had
supposed,” answered Anna. “My _belle-sœur_ is in general too hasty.”
But Countess Lidia Ivanovna, though she was interested in everything
that did not concern her, had a habit of never listening to what
interested her; she interrupted Anna:
“Yes, there’s plenty of sorrow and evil in the world. I am so worried
today.”
“Oh, why?” asked Anna, trying to suppress a smile.
“I’m beginning to be weary of fruitlessly championing the truth, and
sometimes I’m quite unhinged by it. The Society of the Little Sisters”
(this was a religiously-patriotic, philanthropic institution) “was
going splendidly, but with these gentlemen it’s impossible to do
anything,” added Countess Lidia Ivanovna in a tone of ironical
submission to destiny. “They pounce on the idea, and distort it, and
then work it out so pettily and unworthily. Two or three people, your
husband among them, understand all the importance of the thing, but the
others simply drag it down. Yesterday Pravdin wrote to me....”
Pravdin was a well-known Panslavist abroad, and Countess Lidia Ivanovna
described the purport of his letter.
Then the countess told her of more disagreements and intrigues against
the work of the unification of the churches, and departed in haste, as
she had that day to be at the meeting of some society and also at the
Slavonic committee.
“It was all the same before, of course; but why was it I didn’t notice
it before?” Anna asked herself. “Or has she been very much irritated
today? It’s really ludicrous; her object is doing good; she a
Christian, yet she’s always angry; and she always has enemies, and
always enemies in the name of Christianity and doing good.”
After Countess Lidia Ivanovna another friend came, the wife of a chief
secretary, who told her all the news of the town. At three o’clock she
too went away, promising to come to dinner. Alexey Alexandrovitch was
at the ministry. Anna, left alone, spent the time till dinner in
assisting at her son’s dinner (he dined apart from his parents) and in
putting her things in order, and in reading and answering the notes and
letters which had accumulated on her table.
The feeling of causeless shame, which she had felt on the journey, and
her excitement, too, had completely vanished. In the habitual
conditions of her life she felt again resolute and irreproachable.
She recalled with wonder her state of mind on the previous day. “What
was it? Nothing. Vronsky said something silly, which it was easy to put
a stop to, and I answered as I ought to have done. To speak of it to my
husband would be unnecessary and out of the question. To speak of it
would be to attach importance to what has no importance.” She
remembered how she had told her husband of what was almost a
declaration made her at Petersburg by a young man, one of her husband’s
subordinates, and how Alexey Alexandrovitch had answered that every
woman living in the world was exposed to such incidents, but that he
had the fullest confidence in her tact, and could never lower her and
himself by jealousy. “So then there’s no reason to speak of it? And
indeed, thank God, there’s nothing to speak of,” she told herself.
Chapter 33
Alexey Alexandrovitch came back from the meeting of the ministers at
four o’clock, but as often happened, he had not time to come in to her.
He went into his study to see the people waiting for him with
petitions, and to sign some papers brought him by his chief secretary.
At dinner time (there were always a few people dining with the
Karenins) there arrived an old lady, a cousin of Alexey Alexandrovitch,
the chief secretary of the department and his wife, and a young man who
had been recommended to Alexey Alexandrovitch for the service. Anna
went into the drawing-room to receive these guests. Precisely at five
o’clock, before the bronze Peter the First clock had struck the fifth
stroke, Alexey Alexandrovitch came in, wearing a white tie and evening
coat with two stars, as he had to go out directly after dinner. Every
minute of Alexey Alexandrovitch’s life was portioned out and occupied.
And to make time to get through all that lay before him every day, he
adhered to the strictest punctuality. “Unhasting and unresting,” was
his motto. He came into the dining hall, greeted everyone, and
hurriedly sat down, smiling to his wife.
“Yes, my solitude is over. You wouldn’t believe how uncomfortable” (he
laid stress on the word _uncomfortable_) “it is to dine alone.”
At dinner he talked a little to his wife about Moscow matters, and,
with a sarcastic smile, asked her after Stepan Arkadyevitch; but the
conversation was for the most part general, dealing with Petersburg
official and public news. After dinner he spent half an hour with his
guests, and again, with a smile, pressed his wife’s hand, withdrew, and
drove off to the council. Anna did not go out that evening either to
the Princess Betsy Tverskaya, who, hearing of her return, had invited
her, nor to the theater, where she had a box for that evening. She did
not go out principally because the dress she had reckoned upon was not
ready. Altogether, Anna, on turning, after the departure of her guests,
to the consideration of her attire, was very much annoyed. She was
generally a mistress of the art of dressing well without great expense,
and before leaving Moscow she had given her dressmaker three dresses to
transform. The dresses had to be altered so that they could not be
recognized, and they ought to have been ready three days before. It
appeared that two dresses had not been done at all, while the other one
had not been altered as Anna had intended. The dressmaker came to
explain, declaring that it would be better as she had done it, and Anna
was so furious that she felt ashamed when she thought of it afterwards.
To regain her serenity completely she went into the nursery, and spent
the whole evening with her son, put him to bed herself, signed him with
the cross, and tucked him up. She was glad she had not gone out
anywhere, and had spent the evening so well. She felt so light-hearted
and serene, she saw so clearly that all that had seemed to her so
important on her railway journey was only one of the common trivial
incidents of fashionable life, and that she had no reason to feel
ashamed before anyone else or before herself. Anna sat down at the
hearth with an English novel and waited for her husband. Exactly at
half-past nine she heard his ring, and he came into the room.
“Here you are at last!” she observed, holding out her hand to him.
He kissed her hand and sat down beside her.
“Altogether then, I see your visit was a success,” he said to her.
“Oh, yes,” she said, and she began telling him about everything from
the beginning: her journey with Countess Vronskaya, her arrival, the
accident at the station. Then she described the pity she had felt,
first for her brother, and afterwards for Dolly.
“I imagine one cannot exonerate such a man from blame, though he is
your brother,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch severely.
Anna smiled. She knew that he said that simply to show that family
considerations could not prevent him from expressing his genuine
opinion. She knew that characteristic in her husband, and liked it.
“I am glad it has all ended so satisfactorily, and that you are back
again,” he went on. “Come, what do they say about the new act I have
got passed in the council?”
Anna had heard nothing of this act, and she felt conscience-stricken at
having been able so readily to forget what was to him of such
importance.
“Here, on the other hand, it has made a great sensation,” he said, with
a complacent smile.
She saw that Alexey Alexandrovitch wanted to tell her something
pleasant to him about it, and she brought him by questions to telling
it. With the same complacent smile he told her of the ovations he had
received in consequence of the act he had passed.
“I was very, very glad. It shows that at last a reasonable and steady
view of the matter is becoming prevalent among us.”
Having drunk his second cup of tea with cream, and bread, Alexey
Alexandrovitch got up, and was going towards his study.
“And you’ve not been anywhere this evening? You’ve been dull, I
expect?” he said.
“Oh, no!” she answered, getting up after him and accompanying him
across the room to his study. “What are you reading now?” she asked.
“Just now I’m reading Duc de Lille, _Poésie des Enfers,_” he answered.
“A very remarkable book.”
Anna smiled, as people smile at the weaknesses of those they love, and,
putting her hand under his, she escorted him to the door of the study.
She knew his habit, that had grown into a necessity, of reading in the
evening. She knew, too, that in spite of his official duties, which
swallowed up almost the whole of his time, he considered it his duty to
keep up with everything of note that appeared in the intellectual
world. She knew, too, that he was really interested in books dealing
with politics, philosophy, and theology, that art was utterly foreign
to his nature; but, in spite of this, or rather, in consequence of it,
Alexey Alexandrovitch never passed over anything in the world of art,
but made it his duty to read everything. She knew that in politics, in
philosophy, in theology, Alexey Alexandrovitch often had doubts, and
made investigations; but on questions of art and poetry, and, above
all, of music, of which he was totally devoid of understanding, he had
the most distinct and decided opinions. He was fond of talking about
Shakespeare, Raphael, Beethoven, of the significance of new schools of
poetry and music, all of which were classified by him with very
conspicuous consistency.
“Well, God be with you,” she said at the door of the study, where a
shaded candle and a decanter of water were already put by his armchair.
“And I’ll write to Moscow.”
He pressed her hand, and again kissed it.
“All the same he’s a good man; truthful, good-hearted, and remarkable
in his own line,” Anna said to herself going back to her room, as
though she were defending him to someone who had attacked him and said
that one could not love him. “But why is it his ears stick out so
strangely? Or has he had his hair cut?”
Precisely at twelve o’clock, when Anna was still sitting at her
writing-table, finishing a letter to Dolly, she heard the sound of
measured steps in slippers, and Alexey Alexandrovitch, freshly washed
and combed, with a book under his arm, came in to her.
“It’s time, it’s time,” said he, with a meaning smile, and he went into
their bedroom.
“And what right had he to look at him like that?” thought Anna,
recalling Vronsky’s glance at Alexey Alexandrovitch.
Undressing, she went into the bedroom; but her face had none of the
eagerness which, during her stay in Moscow, had fairly flashed from her
eyes and her smile; on the contrary, now the fire seemed quenched in
her, hidden somewhere far away.
Chapter 34
When Vronsky went to Moscow from Petersburg, he had left his large set
of rooms in Morskaia to his friend and favorite comrade Petritsky.