by Anna Karenina (tr Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky) (Penguin Classics) (epub)
But the look that flashed in his eyes as he spoke those tender words was not only the cold, angry look of a persecuted and embittered man.
She saw that look and correctly guessed its meaning.
‘If it is like this, it is a disaster!’ said the look. It was a momentary impression, but she never forgot it.
Anna wrote a letter to her husband asking him for a divorce, and at the end of November, having parted with Princess Varvara, who had to go to Petersburg, she moved to Moscow with Vronsky. Expecting a reply from Alexei Aiexandrovich any day, to be followed by a divorce, they now settled together like a married couple.
Part Seven
* * *
I
The Levins were already living for the third month in Moscow. The term was long past when, by the surest calculations of people who knew about such things, Kitty ought to have given birth; and yet she was still expecting, and there was no indication that the time was nearer now than two months ago. The doctor, the midwife, Dolly, her mother, and Levin especially, who could not think of the approaching event without horror, were beginning to feel impatient and anxious; Kitty alone was perfectly calm and happy.
She was now clearly aware of the new feeling of love being born in her for the future child who, for her, was already partly present, and she delighted in attending to this feeling. It was no longer wholly a part of her now, but sometimes lived its own life independent of her. It often caused her pain, but at the same time made her want to laugh with a strange new joy.
Everyone she loved was with her, and everyone was so kind to her, took such care of her, she saw so much of sheer pleasantness in all that was offered to her, that if she had not known and felt that it must soon end, she could not even have wished for a better or more pleasant life. The one thing that spoiled the charm of that life for her was that her husband was not the way she loved him and the way he used to be in the country.
She loved his calm, gentle, and hospitable tone in the country. But in the city he was constantly anxious and wary, as if fearing someone might offend him and, above all, her. There, in the country, obviously knowing he was where he belonged, he did not hurry anywhere and was never unoccupied. Here in the city he was constantly in a hurry, as though he might miss something, and he had nothing to do. And she pitied him.
To others, she knew, he did not look pitiful; on the contrary, when Kitty watched him in company, as one sometimes watches a person one loves, trying to see him as a stranger, to define the impression he makes on others, she saw, even with fear of her own jealousy, that he was not only not pitiful but very attractive in his decency, his rather old–fashioned, bashful politeness with women, his powerful figure, and his – as it seemed to her – particularly expressive face. But she saw him not from the outside but from inside; she saw that here he was not his real self; there was no other way she could define his condition. Sometimes she reproached him in her heart for not knowing how to live in the city; sometimes she also admitted that it was truly difficult for him to arrange his life here in a satisfying way.
Indeed, what was there for him to do? He did not like to play cards. He did not go to the club. To keep company with merry men like Oblonsky – she now knew what that meant… it meant drinking and going somewhere afterwards. She could not think without horror of where men went on such occasions. To go out in society? But for that she knew that one had to take pleasure in meeting young women, and she could not wish for that. To sit at home with her and her mother and sister? But however pleasant and enjoyable she found those ever identical conversations – ‘Alines and Nadines’, as the old prince called these conversations between sisters – she knew they had to be boring for him. What was left for him to do? To go on writing his book? He did try to do that, and in the beginning went to the library to take notes and references; but, as he told her, the longer he did nothing, the less time he had left. And besides, he complained to her that he had talked too much about his book here, and as a result all his thoughts about it had become confused and he had lost interest in them.
One advantage of this city life was that here in the city they never had any quarrels. Either because city conditions were different, or because they had both become more prudent and sensible in that respect, in Moscow they had no quarrels because of jealousy, something they had been very much afraid of when they moved to the city.
There even occurred an event that was very important for them both – namely, Kitty’s meeting with Vronsky.
The old princess Marya Borisovna, Kitty’s godmother, who had always loved her, wanted to see her without fail. Kitty, who in her condition never went anywhere, did go with her father to see the venerable old woman, and there met Vronsky.
The only thing Kitty could reproach herself with in that meeting was that, when she recognized that once so familiar figure in his civilian clothes, her breath was taken away, the blood rushed to her heart, and bright colour (she could feel it) came to her face. But that lasted only a few seconds. Before her father, who purposely addressed Vronsky in a loud voice, had finished what he was saying, she was fully prepared to look at him, to talk with him, if necessary, just as she talked with Princess Marya Borisovna, and, above all, so that everything to the very last intonation and smile could have been approved of by her husband, whose invisible presence she seemed to feel above her at that moment.
She said a few words to him, even smiled calmly at his joke about the elections, which he called ‘our parliaments’. (She had to smile to show that she understood the joke.) But she immediately turned away to Princess Marya Borisovna and never once glanced at him until he got up to leave; then she looked at him, but obviously only because it was impolite not to look at a man when he was bowing to you.
She was grateful to her father for not saying anything about meeting Vronsky; but by his special tenderness after the visit, during their usual walk, she saw that he was pleased with her. She was pleased with herself. She had never expected that she would have the strength to hold down somewhere deep in her heart all memories of her former feeling for Vronsky, and not only to seem but to be quite indifferent and calm towards him.
Levin flushed much more than she did when she told him she had met Vronsky at Princess Marya Borisovna’s. It was very hard for her to tell him about it, and still harder for her to go on talking about the details of the meeting, since he did not ask but only looked frowning at her.
‘It’s too bad you weren’t there,’ she said. ‘That is, not that you weren’t in the room … I wouldn’t have been so natural with you there… Now I’m blushing much more, much, much more,’ she said, blushing to tears. ‘But that you couldn’t have looked through a crack.’
Her truthful eyes told Levin that she was pleased with herself, and, despite her blushing, he calmed down at once and began asking questions, which was just what she wanted. When he had learned everything, even to the detail that she could not help flushing in the first second, but after that had felt as simple and easy as with anybody at all, Levin cheered up completely and said he was very glad of it and that now he would not behave as stupidly as he had at the elections, but would try at the very first meeting with Vronsky to be as friendly as possible. ‘It’s so tormenting to think that there’s a man who is almost an enemy, whom it’s painful to meet,’ said Levin. ‘I’m very, very glad.’
II
‘So please call on the Bohls,’ Kitty said to her husband, when he came to see her at eleven o’clock, before going out. ‘I know you’re dining at the club, papa signed you up. And what are you doing in the morning?’
‘I’m just going to visit Katavasov,’ answered Levin.
‘Why so early?’
‘He promised to introduce me to Metrov. I’d like to discuss my work with him. He’s a well–known Petersburg scholar,’ said Levin.
‘Yes, wasn’t it his article that you praised so much? Well, and then?’ said Kitty.
‘I may also go to the court on my sister’s business.’
‘As if I’d go alone!’
‘No, do go. They perform these new things… You were so interested. I wouldn’t miss it.’
‘Well, in any case I’ll call in at home before dinner,’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘Put on your frock coat, so that you can call on Countess Bohl on the way.’
‘But is it absolutely necessary?’
‘Oh, absolutely! He called on us. Well, what will it cost you? You’ll go, talk about the weather for five minutes, get up and leave.’
‘Well, you won’t believe it, but I’m so unaccustomed to these things that it makes me ashamed. How is it? A stranger comes, sits down, stays for no reason, bothers them, upsets himself, and then leaves.’
Kitty laughed.
‘You paid calls when you were a bachelor, didn’t you?’ she said.
‘I did, but I was always ashamed, and now I’m so unaccustomed to it that, by God, I’d rather go two days without dinner than pay this call. Such shame! I keep thinking they’ll be offended and say: "Why come for no reason?’"
‘No, they won’t be offended. I can answer for that,’ said Kitty, looking into his face and laughing. She took his hand. ‘Well, good–bye… Please
go–’
He was just about to kiss her hand and leave when she stopped him.
‘Kostya, you know, I only have fifty roubles left.’
‘Well, then I’ll go and get some from the bank. How much?’ he said, with an expression of displeasure familiar to her.
‘No, wait.’ She held on to his hand. ‘Let’s talk, this bothers me. I don’t think I spend on anything unnecessary, but the money just goes. We’re doing something wrong.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, clearing his throat and looking at her from under his eyebrows.
She knew that clearing of his throat. It was a sign that he was strongly displeased, not with her, but with himself. He was indeed displeased, not that a lot of money had been spent, but that he was reminded of something which he, knowing that things were not right, had wished to forget.
‘I’ve told Sokolov to sell the wheat and take money in advance for the mill. In any case, we’ll have money.’
‘No, but I’m afraid it’s generally too much …’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ he repeated. ‘Well, good–bye, darling.’
‘No, really, I’m sometimes so sorry I listened to mama. It was so good in the country! And here I’ve worn you all out, and we’re spending money…’
‘Not at all, not at all. Not once since I’ve been married have I said it would have been better otherwise than it is …’
‘Truly?’ she said, looking into his eyes.
He had said it without thinking, just to comfort her. But when he glanced at her and saw those dear, truthful eyes fixed questioningly on him, he repeated the same thing from the bottom of his heart. ‘I’m decidedly forgetting her,’ he thought. And he remembered what so soon awaited them.
‘Soon now? How do you feel?’ he whispered, taking both her hands.
‘I’ve thought it so many times that now I don’t think or know anything.’
‘And you’re not afraid?’
She smiled scornfully.
‘Not a bit,’ she said.
‘So, if anything happens, I’m at Katavasov’s.’
‘No, nothing will happen, don’t even think of it. I’ll go for a stroll on the boulevard with papa. We’ll stop at Dolly’s. I’ll be expecting you before dinner. Ah, yes! Do you know that Dolly’s situation is becoming quite impossible? She’s in debt all around, and she has no money. Yesterday I talked with mama and Arseny’ (so she called Prince Lvov, her sister’s husband), ‘and we decided to set him and you on Stiva. This is quite impossible. One can’t talk to papa about it … But if you and he…’
‘But what can we do?’ asked Levin.
‘Still, while you’re at Arseny’s, talk to him; he’ll tell you what we decided.’
‘Well, with Arseny I’ll agree to everything beforehand. I’ll call on him. By the way, if I do go to the concert, I’ll go with Natalie. Well, good–bye.’
At the porch Kuzma, the old servant from his bachelor days, who was handling their town arrangements, stopped him.
‘Beau’ (this was the left shaft–horse, brought from the country) ‘has been re–shod, but he still limps,’ he said. ‘What are your orders?’
At the beginning of their life in Moscow, Levin had concerned himself with the horses he brought from the country. He had wanted to arrange that part as well and as cheaply as possible; but it turned out that keeping his own horses was more expensive than hiring, and they hired cabs anyway.
‘Send for the horse doctor, it may be a sore.’
‘Well, and for Katerina Alexandrovna?’ asked Kuzma.
Levin was no longer struck now, as he had been at the beginning of their life in Moscow, that to go from Vozdvizhenka to Sivtsev Vrazhek it was necessary to hitch a pair of strong horses to a heavy carriage, take that carriage less than a quarter of a mile through snowy mush, and let it stand there for four hours, having paid five roubles for it. Now it seemed natural to him.
‘Tell the cabby to bring a second pair for our carriage,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
And having solved so simply and easily, thanks to town conditions, a difficulty which in the country would have called for so much personal effort and attention, Levin went out on the porch, hailed a cab, got into it and drove to Nikitskaya. On the way he no longer thought about money, but reflected on how he was going to make the acquaintance of a Petersburg scholar, a specialist in sociology, and talk to him about his book.
Only during his very first days in Moscow had Levin been struck by those unproductive but inevitable expenses, so strange for a country–dweller, that were demanded of him on all sides. Now he had grown used to them. What had happened to him in this respect was what they say happens with drunkards: the first glass is a stake, the second a snake, and from the third on it’s all little birdies. When Levin changed the first hundred–rouble note to buy liveries for his footman and hall porter, he calculated that these liveries – totally useless but inevitable and necessary, judging by the princess’s and Kitty’s astonishment at his hint that they might be dispensed with – would cost as much as two summer workers, meaning about three hundred workdays from Easter to Advent, each one a day of hard work from early morning till late in the evening – and that hundred–rouble note still went down like a stake. But the next one, broken to buy provisions for a family dinner that had cost twenty–eight roubles, though it had called up in Levin the recollection that twenty–eight roubles meant about seventy–two bushels of oats which, with much sweating and groaning, had been mowed, bound, carted, threshed, winnowed, sifted and bagged – this next one all the same had gone a little more easily. And now the notes he broke had long ceased to call up such thoughts and flew off like little birdies. Whether the labour spent in acquiring money corresponded to the pleasure afforded by what was bought with it was a long–lost consideration. The economic consideration that there was a certain price below which a certain kind of grain could not be sold, was also forgotten. His rye, the price of which he had insisted on for such a long time, was sold at fifty kopecks less per measure than had been offered a month earlier. Even the consideration that with such expenses it would be impossible to get through the year without going into debt no longer had any significance. Only one thing was required: to have money in the bank, without asking where it came from, so as always to know how to pay for the next day’s beef. And so far he had observed that consideration: he had always had money in the bank. But now the money in the bank had come to an end and he did not quite know where to get more. It was this that upset him for a moment when Kitty reminded him about money; but he had no time to think of it. He drove on, thinking about Katavasov and the impending meeting with Metrov.