Anna Karenina
talking of various trifling matters, and not daring to ask what he
wanted to know.
“How wonderfully they make this soap,” he said gazing at a piece of
soap he was handling, which Agafea Mihalovna had put ready for the
visitor but Oblonsky had not used. “Only look; why, it’s a work of
art.”
“Yes, everything’s brought to such a pitch of perfection nowadays,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a moist and blissful yawn. “The theater,
for instance, and the entertainments ... a—a—a!” he yawned. “The
electric light everywhere ... a—a—a!”
“Yes, the electric light,” said Levin. “Yes. Oh, and where’s Vronsky
now?” he asked suddenly, laying down the soap.
“Vronsky?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, checking his yawn; “he’s in
Petersburg. He left soon after you did, and he’s not once been in
Moscow since. And do you know, Kostya, I’ll tell you the truth,” he
went on, leaning his elbow on the table, and propping on his hand his
handsome ruddy face, in which his moist, good-natured, sleepy eyes
shone like stars. “It’s your own fault. You took fright at the sight of
your rival. But, as I told you at the time, I couldn’t say which had
the better chance. Why didn’t you fight it out? I told you at the time
that....” He yawned inwardly, without opening his mouth.
“Does he know, or doesn’t he, that I did make an offer?” Levin
wondered, gazing at him. “Yes, there’s something humbugging, diplomatic
in his face,” and feeling he was blushing, he looked Stepan
Arkadyevitch straight in the face without speaking.
“If there was anything on her side at the time, it was nothing but a
superficial attraction,” pursued Oblonsky. “His being such a perfect
aristocrat, don’t you know, and his future position in society, had an
influence not with her, but with her mother.”
Levin scowled. The humiliation of his rejection stung him to the heart,
as though it were a fresh wound he had only just received. But he was
at home, and the walls of home are a support.
“Stay, stay,” he began, interrupting Oblonsky. “You talk of his being
an aristocrat. But allow me to ask what it consists in, that
aristocracy of Vronsky or of anybody else, beside which I can be looked
down upon? You consider Vronsky an aristocrat, but I don’t. A man whose
father crawled up from nothing at all by intrigue, and whose mother—God
knows whom she wasn’t mixed up with.... No, excuse me, but I consider
myself aristocratic, and people like me, who can point back in the past
to three or four honorable generations of their family, of the highest
degree of breeding (talent and intellect, of course that’s another
matter), and have never curried favor with anyone, never depended on
anyone for anything, like my father and my grandfather. And I know many
such. You think it mean of me to count the trees in my forest, while
you make Ryabinin a present of thirty thousand; but you get rents from
your lands and I don’t know what, while I don’t and so I prize what’s
come to me from my ancestors or been won by hard work.... We are
aristocrats, and not those who can only exist by favor of the powerful
of this world, and who can be bought for twopence halfpenny.”
“Well, but whom are you attacking? I agree with you,” said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, sincerely and genially; though he was aware that in the
class of those who could be bought for twopence halfpenny Levin was
reckoning him too. Levin’s warmth gave him genuine pleasure. “Whom are
you attacking? Though a good deal is not true that you say about
Vronsky, but I won’t talk about that. I tell you straight out, if I
were you, I should go back with me to Moscow, and....”
“No; I don’t know whether you know it or not, but I don’t care. And I
tell you—I did make an offer and was rejected, and Katerina
Alexandrovna is nothing now to me but a painful and humiliating
reminiscence.”
“What ever for? What nonsense!”
“But we won’t talk about it. Please forgive me, if I’ve been nasty,”
said Levin. Now that he had opened his heart, he became as he had been
in the morning. “You’re not angry with me, Stiva? Please don’t be
angry,” he said, and smiling, he took his hand.
“Of course not; not a bit, and no reason to be. I’m glad we’ve spoken
openly. And do you know, stand-shooting in the morning is unusually
good—why not go? I couldn’t sleep the night anyway, but I might go
straight from shooting to the station.”
“Capital.”
Chapter 18
Although all Vronsky’s inner life was absorbed in his passion, his
external life unalterably and inevitably followed along the old
accustomed lines of his social and regimental ties and interests. The
interests of his regiment took an important place in Vronsky’s life,
both because he was fond of the regiment, and because the regiment was
fond of him. They were not only fond of Vronsky in his regiment, they
respected him too, and were proud of him; proud that this man, with his
immense wealth, his brilliant education and abilities, and the path
open before him to every kind of success, distinction, and ambition,
had disregarded all that, and of all the interests of life had the
interests of his regiment and his comrades nearest to his heart.
Vronsky was aware of his comrades’ view of him, and in addition to his
liking for the life, he felt bound to keep up that reputation.
It need not be said that he did not speak of his love to any of his
comrades, nor did he betray his secret even in the wildest drinking
bouts (though indeed he was never so drunk as to lose all control of
himself). And he shut up any of his thoughtless comrades who attempted
to allude to his connection. But in spite of that, his love was known
to all the town; everyone guessed with more or less confidence at his
relations with Madame Karenina. The majority of the younger men envied
him for just what was the most irksome factor in his love—the exalted
position of Karenin, and the consequent publicity of their connection
in society.
The greater number of the young women, who envied Anna and had long
been weary of hearing her called _virtuous_, rejoiced at the
fulfillment of their predictions, and were only waiting for a decisive
turn in public opinion to fall upon her with all the weight of their
scorn. They were already making ready their handfuls of mud to fling at
her when the right moment arrived. The greater number of the
middle-aged people and certain great personages were displeased at the
prospect of the impending scandal in society.
Vronsky’s mother, on hearing of his connection, was at first pleased at
it, because nothing to her mind gave such a finishing touch to a
brilliant young man as a _liaison_ in the highest society; she was
pleased, too, that Madame Karenina, who had so taken her fancy, and had
talked so much of her son, was, after all, just like all other pretty
and well-bred women,—at least according to the Countess Vronskaya’s
ideas. But she had heard of late that her son had refused a position
offered him of great importance to his career, simply in order to
remain in the regiment, where he could be constantly seeing Madame
Karenina. She learned that great personages were displeased with him on
this account, and she changed her opinion. She was vexed, too, that
from all she could learn of this connection it was not that brilliant,
graceful, worldly _liaison_ which she would have welcomed, but a sort
of Wertherish, desperate passion, so she was told, which might well
lead him into imprudence. She had not seen him since his abrupt
departure from Moscow, and she sent her elder son to bid him come to
see her.
This elder son, too, was displeased with his younger brother. He did
not distinguish what sort of love his might be, big or little,
passionate or passionless, lasting or passing (he kept a ballet girl
himself, though he was the father of a family, so he was lenient in
these matters), but he knew that this love affair was viewed with
displeasure by those whom it was necessary to please, and therefore he
did not approve of his brother’s conduct.
Besides the service and society, Vronsky had another great
interest—horses; he was passionately fond of horses.
That year races and a steeplechase had been arranged for the officers.
Vronsky had put his name down, bought a thoroughbred English mare, and
in spite of his love affair, he was looking forward to the races with
intense, though reserved, excitement....
These two passions did not interfere with one another. On the contrary,
he needed occupation and distraction quite apart from his love, so as
to recruit and rest himself from the violent emotions that agitated
him.
Chapter 19
On the day of the races at Krasnoe Selo, Vronsky had come earlier than
usual to eat beefsteak in the common messroom of the regiment. He had
no need to be strict with himself, as he had very quickly been brought
down to the required light weight; but still he had to avoid gaining
flesh, and so he eschewed farinaceous and sweet dishes. He sat with his
coat unbuttoned over a white waistcoat, resting both elbows on the
table, and while waiting for the steak he had ordered he looked at a
French novel that lay open on his plate. He was only looking at the
book to avoid conversation with the officers coming in and out; he was
thinking.
He was thinking of Anna’s promise to see him that day after the races.
But he had not seen her for three days, and as her husband had just
returned from abroad, he did not know whether she would be able to meet
him today or not, and he did not know how to find out. He had had his
last interview with her at his cousin Betsy’s summer villa. He visited
the Karenins’ summer villa as rarely as possible. Now he wanted to go
there, and he pondered the question how to do it.
“Of course I shall say Betsy has sent me to ask whether she’s coming to
the races. Of course, I’ll go,” he decided, lifting his head from the
book. And as he vividly pictured the happiness of seeing her, his face
lighted up.
“Send to my house, and tell them to have out the carriage and three
horses as quick as they can,” he said to the servant, who handed him
the steak on a hot silver dish, and moving the dish up he began eating.
From the billiard room next door came the sound of balls knocking, of
talk and laughter. Two officers appeared at the entrance-door: one, a
young fellow, with a feeble, delicate face, who had lately joined the
regiment from the Corps of Pages; the other, a plump, elderly officer,
with a bracelet on his wrist, and little eyes, lost in fat.
Vronsky glanced at them, frowned, and looking down at his book as
though he had not noticed them, he proceeded to eat and read at the
same time.
“What? Fortifying yourself for your work?” said the plump officer,
sitting down beside him.
“As you see,” responded Vronsky, knitting his brows, wiping his mouth,
and not looking at the officer.
“So you’re not afraid of getting fat?” said the latter, turning a chair
round for the young officer.
“What?” said Vronsky angrily, making a wry face of disgust, and showing
his even teeth.
“You’re not afraid of getting fat?”
“Waiter, sherry!” said Vronsky, without replying, and moving the book
to the other side of him, he went on reading.
The plump officer took up the list of wines and turned to the young
officer.
“You choose what we’re to drink,” he said, handing him the card, and
looking at him.
“Rhine wine, please,” said the young officer, stealing a timid glance
at Vronsky, and trying to pull his scarcely visible mustache. Seeing
that Vronsky did not turn round, the young officer got up.
“Let’s go into the billiard room,” he said.
The plump officer rose submissively, and they moved towards the door.
At that moment there walked into the room the tall and well-built
Captain Yashvin. Nodding with an air of lofty contempt to the two