ANNA KARENINA
PART 11
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 theatre, 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 favourite comrade Petritsky.
Petritsky
was a young lieutenant, not particularly well-connected, and not merely not
wealthy, but always hopelessly in debt. Towards evening he was always drunk,
and he had often been locked up after all sorts of ludicrous and disgraceful
scandals, but he was a favourite both of his comrades and his superior
officers. On arriving at twelve o’clock from the station at his flat, Vronsky
saw, at the outer door, a hired carriage familiar to him. While still outside
his own door, as he rang, he heard masculine laughter, the lisp of a feminine
voice, and Petritsky’s voice. “If that’s one of the villains, don’t let him
in!” Vronsky told the servant not to announce him, and slipped quietly into the
first room. Baroness Shilton, a friend of Petritsky’s, with a rosy little face
and flaxen hair, resplendent in a lilac satin gown, and filling the whole room,
like a canary, with her Parisian chatter, sat at the round table making coffee.
Petritsky, in his overcoat, and the cavalry captain Kamerovsky, in full uniform,
probably just come from duty, were sitting each side of her.
“Bravo!
Vronsky!” shouted Petritsky, jumping up, scraping his chair. “Our host himself!
Baroness, some coffee for him out of the new coffee pot. Why, we didn’t expect
you! Hope you’re satisfied with the ornament of your study,” he said,
indicating the baroness. “You know each other, of course?”
“I should
think so,” said Vronsky, with a bright smile, pressing the baroness’s little
hand. “What next! I’m an old friend.”
“You’re
home after a journey,” said the baroness, “so I’m flying. Oh, I’ll be off this
minute, if I’m in the way.”
“You’re
home, wherever you are, baroness,” said Vronsky. “How do you do, Kamerovsky?”
he added, coldly shaking hands with Kamerovsky.
“There,
you never know how to say such pretty things,” said the baroness, turning to
Petritsky.
“No;
what’s that for? After dinner I say things quite as good.”
“After
dinner there’s no credit in them? Well, then, I’ll make you some coffee, so go
and wash and get ready,” said the baroness, sitting down again, and anxiously
turning the screw in the new coffee pot. “Pierre, give me the coffee,” she
said, addressing Petritsky, whom she called Pierre as a contraction of his
surname, making no secret of her relations with him. “I’ll put it in.”
“You’ll
spoil it!”
“No, I
won’t spoil it! Well, and your wife?” said the baroness suddenly, interrupting
Vronsky’s conversation with his comrade. “We’ve been marrying you here. Have
you brought your wife?”
“No,
baroness. I was born a Bohemian, and a Bohemian I shall die.”
“So much
the better, so much the better. Shake hands on it.”
And the
baroness, detaining Vronsky, began telling him, with many jokes, about her last
new plans of life, asking his advice.
“He persists
in refusing to give me a divorce! Well, what am I to do?” (He was her
husband.) “Now I want to begin a suit against him. What do you advise?
Kamerovsky, look after the coffee; it’s boiling over. You see, I’m engrossed
with business! I want a lawsuit, because I must have my property. Do you
understand the folly of it, that on the pretext of my being unfaithful to him,”
she said contemptuously, “he wants to get the benefit of my fortune.”
Vronsky
heard with pleasure this light-hearted prattle of a pretty woman, agreed with
her, gave her half-joking counsel, and altogether dropped at once into the tone
habitual to him in talking to such women. In his Petersburg world all people
were divided into utterly opposed classes. One, the lower class, vulgar, stupid,
and, above all, ridiculous people, who believe that one husband ought to live
with the one wife whom he has lawfully married; that a girl should be innocent,
a woman modest, and a man manly, self-controlled, and strong; that one ought to
bring up one’s children, earn one’s bread, and pay one’s debts; and various
similar absurdities. This was the class of old-fashioned and ridiculous people.
But there was another class of people, the real people. To this class they all
belonged, and in it the great thing was to be elegant, generous, plucky, gay,
to abandon oneself without a blush to every passion, and to laugh at everything
else.
For the
first moment only, Vronsky was startled after the impression of a quite
different world that he had brought with him from Moscow. But immediately as
though slipping his feet into old slippers, he dropped back into the
light-hearted, pleasant world he had always lived in.
The coffee
was never really made, but spluttered over everyone, and boiled away, doing
just what was required of it—that is, providing much cause for much noise and
laughter, and spoiling a costly rug and the baroness’s gown.
“Well now,
good-bye, or you’ll never get washed, and I shall have on my conscience the
worst sin a gentleman can commit. So you would advise a knife to his throat?”
“To be
sure, and manage that your hand may not be far from his lips. He’ll kiss your
hand, and all will end satisfactorily,” answered Vronsky.
“So at the
Français!” and, with a rustle of her skirts, she vanished.
Kamerovsky
got up too, and Vronsky, not waiting for him to go, shook hands and went off to
his dressing-room.
While he
was washing, Petritsky described to him in brief outlines his position, as far
as it had changed since Vronsky had left Petersburg. No money at all. His
father said he wouldn’t give him any and pay his debts. His tailor was trying
to get him locked up, and another fellow, too, was threatening to get him
locked up. The colonel of the regiment had announced that if these scandals did
not cease he would have to leave. As for the baroness, he was sick to death of
her, especially since she’d taken to offering continually to lend him money.
But he had found a girl—he’d show her to Vronsky—a marvel, exquisite, in the
strict Oriental style, “genre of the slave Rebecca, don’t you know.” He’d had a
row, too, with Berkoshov, and was going to send seconds to him, but of course
it would come to nothing. Altogether everything was supremely amusing and
jolly. And, not letting his comrade enter into further details of his position,
Petritsky proceeded to tell him all the interesting news. As he listened to
Petritsky’s familiar stories in the familiar setting of the rooms he had spent
the last three years in, Vronsky felt a delightful sense of coming back to the
careless Petersburg life that he was used to.
“Impossible!”
he cried, letting down the pedal of the washing basin in which he had been
sousing his healthy red neck. “Impossible!” he cried, at the news that Laura
had flung over Fertinghof and had made up to Mileev. “And is he as stupid and
pleased as ever? Well, and how’s Buzulukov?”
“Oh, there
is a tale about Buzulukov—simply lovely!” cried Petritsky. “You know his
weakness for balls, and he never misses a single court ball. He went to a big
ball in a new helmet. Have you seen the new helmets? Very nice, lighter. Well,
so he’s standing.... No, I say, do listen.”
“I am
listening,” answered Vronsky, rubbing himself with a rough towel.
“Up comes
the Grand Duchess with some ambassador or other, and, as ill-luck would have
it, she begins talking to him about the new helmets. The Grand Duchess
positively wanted to show the new helmet to the ambassador. They see our friend
standing there.” (Petritsky mimicked how he was standing with the helmet.) “The
Grand Duchess asked him to give her the helmet; he doesn’t give it to her. What
do you think of that? Well, everyone’s winking at him, nodding, frowning—give
it to her, do! He doesn’t give it to her. He’s mute as a fish. Only picture
it!... Well, the ... what’s his name, whatever he was ... tries to take the
helmet from him ... he won’t give it up!... He pulls it from him, and hands it
to the Grand Duchess. ‘Here, your Highness,’ says he, ‘is the new helmet.’ She
turned the helmet the other side up, And—just picture it!—plop went a pear and
sweetmeats out of it, two pounds of sweetmeats!... He’d been storing them up,
the darling!”
Vronsky
burst into roars of laughter. And long afterwards, when he was talking of other
things, he broke out into his healthy laugh, showing his strong, close rows of
teeth, when he thought of the helmet.
Having
heard all the news, Vronsky, with the assistance of his valet, got into his
uniform, and went off to report himself. He intended, when he had done that, to
drive to his brother’s and to Betsy’s and to pay several visits with a view to
beginning to go into that society where he might meet Madame Karenina. As he
always did in Petersburg, he left home not meaning to return till late at
night.
To be continued
