by Anna Karenina (tr Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky) (Penguin Classics) (epub)
‘Why sloshers?’
‘See, you don’t even know the word. It’s our club term. You know, when you’re rolling hard–boiled eggs, an egg that’s been rolled a lot gets all cracked and turns into a slosher. It’s the same with our kind: we keep coming and coming to the club and turn into sloshers. Yes, you may laugh, but our kind have to watch out that we don’t wind up with the sloshers. You know Prince Chechensky?’ asked the prince, and Levin could see from his look that he was going to tell some funny story.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Well, really! I mean the famous Prince Chechensky. Well, it makes no difference. He’s always playing billiards. Some three years ago he was still a fine fellow and not one of the sloshers. He even called other men sloshers. Only one day he comes and our porter … you know Vassily? Well, that fat one. He’s a great wit. So Prince Chechensky asks him, "Well, Vassily, who’s here? Any sloshers?" And he says to him "You’re the third." Yes, brother, so it goes!’
Talking and greeting the acquaintances they met, Levin and the prince passed through all the rooms: the main one, where card tables were already set up and habitual partners were playing for small stakes; the sitting room, where people were playing chess and Sergei Ivanovich sat talking with someone; the billiard room, where, around the sofa in the curve of the room, a merry company, which included Gagin, had gathered with champagne; they also looked into the inferno, where many gamblers crowded round a single table at which Yashvin was already sitting. Trying not to make any noise, they went into the dim reading room where, under shaded lamps, a young man with an angry face sat flipping through one magazine after another and a bald–headed general was immersed in reading. They also went into a room which the prince called the ‘clever room’. In this room three gentlemen were hotly discussing the latest political news.
‘If you please, Prince, we’re ready,’ one of his partners said, finding him there, and the prince left. Levin sat and listened for a while, but, recalling all the conversations of that day, he suddenly felt terribly bored. He got up quickly and went to look for Oblonsky and Turovtsyn, with whom he felt merry.
Turovtsyn was sitting with a tankard of drink on a high–backed sofa in the billiard room, and Stepan Arkadyich was talking about something with Vronsky by the doorway in the far corner of the room.
‘It’s not that she’s bored, it’s the uncertainty, the undecidedness of the situation,’ Levin heard and was about to retreat hastily, but Stepan Arkadyich called to him.
‘Levin!’ said Stepan Arkadyich, and Levin noticed that his eyes, though not tearful, were moist, as always happened with him when he was drinking or very moved. This time it was both. ‘Levin, don’t go,’ he said and held him tightly by the elbow, obviously not wishing him to leave for anything.
‘This is my truest, maybe even my best friend,’ he said to Vronsky. ‘You, too, are even nearer and dearer to me. And I want you to be and know that you should be close friends, because you’re both good people.’
‘Well, all that’s left is for us to kiss,’ Vronsky said with good–natured humour, giving him his hand.
Levin quickly took the proffered hand and pressed it firmly.
‘I’m very, very glad,’ he said.
‘Waiter, a bottle of champagne,’ said Stepan Arkadyich.
‘I’m very glad, too,’ said Vronsky.
But, despite Stepan Arkadyich’s wishes, and their own wishes, they had nothing to talk about and they both felt it.
‘You know, he’s not acquainted with Anna?’ Stepan Arkadyich said to Vronsky. ‘And I absolutely want to take him to her. Let’s go, Levin!’
‘Really?’ said Vronsky. ‘She’ll be very glad. I’d go home now,’ he added, ‘but I’m worried about Yashvin and want to stay till he’s finished.’
‘What, is it bad?’
‘He keeps losing and I’m the only one who can hold him back.’
‘How about a little game of pyramids? Levin, will you play? Well, splendid!’ said Stepan Arkadyich. ‘Set it up for pyramids.’ He turned to the marker.
‘It’s been ready for a long time,’ replied the marker, who had set the balls into a triangle long ago and was knocking the red one around to amuse himself.
‘Let’s begin.’ After the game, Vronsky and Levin joined Gagin’s table and Levin, at Stepan Arkadyich’s suggestion, began betting on aces. Vronsky first sat by the table, surrounded by acquaintances who were constantly coming up to him, then went to the inferno to visit Yashvin. Levin experienced a pleasant rest from the mental fatigue of the morning. He was glad of the cessation of hostilities with Vronsky, and the feeling of peacefulness, propriety and contentment never left him.
When the game was over, Stepan Arkadyich took Levin under the arm.
‘Well, shall we go to Anna? Now? Eh? She’s at home. I’ve long been promising to bring you. Where were you going to spend the evening?’
‘Nowhere in particular. I promised Sviyazhsky I’d go to the Agricultural Society. But all right, let’s go,’ said Levin.
‘Excellent! Off we go! Find out if my carriage has arrived,’ Stepan Arkadyich turned to a footman.
Levin went to the table, paid the forty roubles he had lost betting on aces, paid his club expenses, known in some mysterious way to the little old footman who stood by the door, and, with a special swing of the arms, walked through all the rooms to the exit.
IX
‘The Oblonsky carriage!’ shouted the porter in a gruff bass. The carriage pulled up and they got in. Only at the beginning, while the carriage was driving through the gates of the club, did Levin continue to feel the impression of the club’s peace, contentment, and the unquestionable propriety of the surroundings; but as soon as the carriage drove out to the street and he felt it jolting over the uneven road, heard the angry shout of a driver going the other way, saw in the dim light the red signs over a pot–house and a shop, that impression was destroyed, and he began to reflect on his actions, asking himself if he was doing the right thing by going to Anna. What would Kitty say? But Stepan Arkadyich did not let him ponder and, as if guessing his doubts, dispersed them.
‘I’m so glad,’ he said, ‘that you’ll get to know her. You know, Dolly has long been wanting it. And Lvov has called on her and keeps dropping in. Though she’s my sister,’ Stepan Arkadyich went on, ‘I can boldly say that she’s a remarkable woman. You’ll see. Her situation is very trying, especially now.’
‘Why especially now?’
‘We’re discussing a divorce with her husband. And he consents. But there’s a difficulty here about her son, and the matter, which should have been concluded long ago, has been dragging on for three months. As soon as she gets the divorce, she’ll marry Vronsky. It’s so stupid, this old custom of marching in a circle, "Rejoice, O Isaiah,"[16] which nobody believes in and which hinders people’s happiness!’ Stepan Arkadyich added. ‘Well, and then her situation will be as definite as mine, as yours.’
‘What’s the difficulty?’ said Levin.
‘Ah, it’s a long and boring story! It’s all so indefinite in this country. But the point is that, while waiting for the divorce, she’s been living here in Moscow for three months, where everybody knows them both. She doesn’t go anywhere, doesn’t see any women except Dolly, because, you understand, she doesn’t want them to come to her out of kindness. That fool, Princess Varvara – even she found it improper and left. And so, in that situation another woman wouldn’t be able to find resources in herself. She, though, you’ll see how she’s arranged her life, how calm and dignified she is. To the left, into the lane, across from the church!’ Stepan Arkadyich shouted, leaning out of the window of the carriage. ‘Pah, what heat!’ he said, opening his already unbuttoned coat still more, though it was twelve degrees below zero.
‘But she has a daughter; mustn’t she keep her busy?’ said Levin.
‘You seem to picture every woman as a mere female, une couveuse,’ * said Stepan Arkadyich. ‘If she’s busy, it must be wit
h children. No, she’s bringing her up splendidly, it seems, but we don’t hear about her. She’s busy, first of all, with writing. I can already see you smiling ironically, but you shouldn’t. She’s writing a book for children and doesn’t tell anybody about it, but she read it to me, and I gave the manuscript to Vorkuev … you know, that publisher… a writer himself, it seems. He’s a good judge, and he says it’s a remarkable thing. But you’ll think she’s a woman author? Not a bit of it. Before all she’s a woman with heart, you’ll see that. Now she has a little English girl and a whole family that she’s occupied with.’
‘What is it, some sort of philanthropy?’
‘See, you keep looking at once for something bad. It’s not philanthropy,
* A broody hen.
it’s heartfelt. They had – that is, Vronsky had – an English trainer, a master of his trade, but a drunkard. He’s drunk himself up completely, delirium tremens, and the family’s abandoned. She saw them, helped them, got involved, and now the whole family’s on her hands; and not patronizingly, not with money, but she herself is helping the boys with Russian in preparation for school, and she’s taken the girl to live with her. You’ll see her there.’
The carriage drove into the courtyard, and Stepan Arkadyich loudly rang the bell at the entrance, where a sleigh was standing.
And, without asking the servant who opened the door whether anyone was at home, Stepan Arkadyich went into the front hall. Levin followed him, more and more doubtful whether what he was doing was good or bad.
Looking in the mirror, Levin noticed that he was flushed; but he was sure that he was not drunk, and he walked up the carpeted stairway behind Stepan Arkadyich. Upstairs Stepan Arkadyich asked the footman, who bowed to him as a familiar of the house, who was with Anna, and received the answer that it was Mr Vorkuev.
‘Where are they?’
‘In the study.’
Passing through a small dining room with dark panelled walls, Stepan Arkadyich and Levin crossed a soft carpet to enter the semi–dark study, lit by one lamp under a big, dark shade. Another lamp, a reflector, burned on the wall, throwing its light on to a large, full–length portrait of a woman, to which Levin involuntarily turned his attention. This was the portrait of Anna painted in Italy by Mikhailov. While Stepan Arkadyich went behind a trellis–work screen and the male voice that had been speaking fell silent, Levin gazed at the portrait, stepping out of its frame in the brilliant light, and could not tear himself away from it. He even forgot where he was and, not listening to what was said around him, gazed without taking his eyes from the astonishing portrait. It was not a painting but a lovely living woman with dark, curly hair, bare shoulders and arms, and a pensive half smile on her lips, covered with tender down, looking at him triumphantly and tenderly with troubling eyes. Only, because she was not alive, she was more beautiful than a living woman can be.
‘I’m very glad,’ he suddenly heard a voice beside him, evidently addressing him, the voice of the same woman he was admiring in the portrait. Anna came to meet him from behind the trellis, and in the half light of the study Levin saw the woman of the portrait in a dark dress of various shades of blue, not in the same position, and not with the same expression, but at the same height of beauty that the artist had caught. She was less dazzling in reality, but in the living woman there was some new attractiveness that was not in the portrait.
X
She had risen to meet him, not concealing her joy at seeing him. And in the calmness with which she gave him her small and energetic hand, introduced him to Vorkuev and pointed to the pretty, red–haired girl who was sitting there over her work, referring to her as her ward, Levin saw the familiar and agreeable manners of a high–society woman, always calm and natural.
‘Very, very glad,’ she repeated, and on her lips these words for some reason acquired a special meaning for Levin. ‘I’ve long known of you and loved you, both for your friendship with Stiva and for your wife … I knew her for a very short time, but she left me with the impression of a lovely flower, precisely a flower. And now she’ll soon be a mother!’
She spoke freely and unhurriedly, shifting her eyes now and then from Levin to her brother, and Levin felt that the impression he made was good, and he at once found it light, simple and pleasant to be with her, as if he had known her since childhood.
‘Ivan Petrovich and I settled in Alexei’s study,’ she said, in answer to Stepan Arkadyich’s question whether he might smoke, ‘precisely in order to smoke.’ And with a glance at Levin, instead of asking if he smoked, she moved a tortoise–shell cigar case towards her and took out a cigarette.
‘How are you feeling today?’ her brother asked.
‘All right. Nerves, as usual.’
‘Remarkably well done, isn’t it?’ Stepan Arkadyich said, noticing that Levin kept glancing at the portrait.
‘I’ve never seen a better portrait.’
‘And isn’t it a remarkable likeness?’ said Vorkuev.
Levin glanced from the portrait to the original. A special glow lit up Anna’s face the moment she felt his eyes on her. Levin blushed and to hide his embarrassment was about to ask if it was long since she had seen Darya Alexandrovna, but just then Anna spoke: ‘Ivan Petrovich and I were just talking about Vashchenkov’s latest pictures. Have you seen them?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Levin replied.
‘But excuse me, I interrupted you, you were about to say …’
Levin asked if it was long since she had seen Dolly.
‘She came yesterday. She’s very angry with the school on account of Grisha. It seems the Latin teacher was unfair to him.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen the paintings. I didn’t much like them,’ Levin went back to the conversation she had begun.
Now Levin spoke not at all with that workaday attitude towards things with which he had spoken that morning. Each word of conversation with her acquired a special meaning. It was pleasant to talk to her and still more pleasant to listen to her.
Anna spoke not only naturally and intelligently, but intelligently and casually, without attaching any value to her own thoughts, yet giving great value to the thoughts of the one she was talking to.
The conversation turned to the new trend in art, to the new Bible illustrations by a French artist.[17] Vorkuev accused the artist of realism pushed to the point of coarseness. Levin said that the French employed conventions in art as no one else did, and therefore they saw particular merit in the return to realism. They saw poetry in the fact that they were no longer lying.
Never had anything intelligent that Levin had said given him so much pleasure as this. Anna’s face lit up when she suddenly saw his point. She laughed.
‘I’m laughing,’ she said, ‘as one laughs seeing a very faithful portrait. What you’ve said perfectly characterizes French art now, painting and even literature: Zola, Daudet.[18] But perhaps it always happens that people first build their conceptions out of invented, conventionalized figures, but then – once all the combinaisons are finished – the invented figures become boring, and they begin to devise more natural and correct figures.’
‘That’s quite right!’ said Vorkuev.
‘So you were at the club?’ She turned to her brother.
‘Yes, yes, what a woman!’ thought Levin, forgetting himself and gazing fixedly at her beautiful, mobile face, which now suddenly changed completely. Levin did not hear what she said as she leaned towards her brother, but he was struck by the change in her expression. So beautiful before in its calmness, her face suddenly showed a strange curiosity, wrath and pride. But that lasted only a moment. She narrowed her eyes as if remembering something.
‘Ah, yes, however, it’s not interesting for anyone,’ she said, and turned to the English girl: