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Title: The Garotters

Author: William D. Howells

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Anna Karenina

by Leo Tolstoy

Translated by Constance Garnett




Part One
Chapter 1

Happy families are all alike;
every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

Everything was in confusion in the Oblonskys’
house.

The wife had discovered that the husband was carrying on an intrigue
with a French girl,
who had been a governess in their family,
and she had announced
to her husband that she could not go on living in the same house
with him.

This position of affairs had now lasted three days,
and not only the husband and wife themselves,
but all the members of their family and household,
were painfully conscious of it.

Every person in the house felt that there was so sense in their living together,
and that the stray people brought together by chance in any inn had more in common
with one another than they,
the members of the family and household of the Oblonskys.

The wife did not leave her own room,
the husband had not been at home
for three days.

The children ran wild all over the house;
the English governess quarreled
with the housekeeper,
and wrote
to a friend asking her
to look out
for a new situation
for her;
the man-cook had walked of the day before just at dinner-time;
the kitchen-maid,
and the coachman had given warning.

Three days after the quarrel,
Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch Oblonsky--Stiva,
as he was called in the fashionable world--woke up at his usual hour,
that is,
at eight o'clock in the morning,
not in his wife's bedroom,
but on the leather-covered sofa in his study.

He turned over his stout,
well-cared-for person on the springy sofa,
as though he would sink into a long sleep again;
he vigorously embraced the pillow on the other side and buried his face in it;
but all at once he jumped up,
sat up on the sofa,
and opened his eyes.

"Yes,
yes,
how was it now?”
he thought,
going over his dream.

"Now,
how was it?

To be sure! Alabin was giving a dinner at Darmstadt;
no,
not Darmstadt,
but something American.

Yes,
but then,
Darmstadt was in America.

Yes,
Alabin was giving a dinner on glass tables,
and the tables sang,
Il mio tesoro--not Il mio tesoro though,
but something better,
and there were some sort of little decanters on the table,
and they were women,
too,”
he remembered.

Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes twinkled gaily,
and he pondered
with a smile.

"Yes,
it was nice,
very nice.

There was a great deal more that was delightful,
only there's no putting it into words,
or even expressing it on one's thoughts awake.”

And noticing a gleam of light peeping in beside one of the serge curtains,
he cheerfully dropped his feet over the edge of the sofa,
and felt about
with them
for his slippers,
a present on his last birthday,
worked
for him by his wife on gold-colored morocco.

And,
as he had done every day
for the last nine years,
he stretched out his hand,
without getting up,
towards the place where his dressing-gown always hung in his bedroom.

And thereupon he suddenly remembered that he was not sleeping in his wife's room,
but in his study,
and why:

the smile vanished from his face,
he knitted his brows.

"Ah,
ah,
ah! Oo!...”

he muttered,
recalling everything that had happened.

And again every detail of his quarrel
with his wife was present
to his imagination,
all the hopelessness of his position,
and worst of all,
his own fault.

"Yes,
she won't forgive me,
and she can't forgive me.

And the most awful thing about it is that it's all my fault--all my fault,
though I'm not
to blame.

That's the point of the whole situation,”
he reflected.

"Oh,
oh,
oh!”
he kept repeating in despair,
as he remembered the acutely painful sensations caused him by this quarrel.

Most unpleasant of all was the first minute when,
on coming,
happy and good-humored,
from the theater,
with a huge pear in his hand
for his wife,
he had not found his wife in the drawing-room,
to his surprise had not found her in the study either,
and saw her at last in her bedroom
with the unlucky letter that revealed everything in her hand.

She,
his Dolly,
forever fussing and worrying over household details,
and limited in her ideas,
as he considered,
was sitting perfectly still
with the letter in her hand,
looking at him
with an expression of horror,
despair,
and indignation.

"What's this?

this?”
she asked,
pointing
to the letter.

And at this recollection,
Stepan Arkadyevitch,
as is so often the case,
was not so much annoyed at the fact itself as at the way in which he had met his wife's words.

There happened
to him at that instant what does happen
to people when they are unexpectedly caught in something very disgraceful.

He did not succeed in adapting his face
to the position in which he was placed towards his wife by the discovery of his fault.

Instead of being hurt,
denying,
defending himself,
begging forgiveness,
instead of remaining indifferent even--anything would have been better than what he did do--his face utterly involuntarily
(reflex spinal action,
reflected Stepan Arkadyevitch,
who was fond of physiology)--utterly involuntarily assumed its habitual,
good-humored,
and therefore idiotic smile.

This idiotic smile he could not forgive himself.

Catching sight of that smile,
Dolly shuddered as though at physical pain,
broke out
with her characteristic heat into a flood of cruel words,
and rushed out of the room.

Since then she had refused
to see her husband.

"It's that idiotic smile that's
to blame
for it all,”
though Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"But what's
to be done?

What's
to be done?”
he said
to himself in despair,
and found no answer.

Chapter 2 Stepan Arkadyevitch was a truthful man in his relations
with himself.

He was incapable of deceiving himself and persuading himself that he repented of his conduct.

He could not at this date repent of the fact that he,
a handsome,
susceptible man of thirty-four,
was not in love
with vhis wife,
the mother of five living and two dead children,
and only a year younger than himself.

All he repented of was that he had not succeeded better in hiding it from his wife.

But he felt all the difficulty of his position and was sorry
for his wife,
his children,
and himself.

Possibly he might have managed
to conceal his sins better from his wife if he had anticipated that the knowledge of them would have had such an effect on her.

He had never clearly thought out the subject,
but he had vaguely conceived that his wife must long ago have suspected him of being unfaithful
to her,
and shut her eyes
to the fact.

He had even supposed that she,
a worn-out woman no longer young or good-looking,
and in no way remarkable or interesting,
merely a good mother,
ought from a sense of fairness
to take an indulgent view.

It had turned out quite the other way.

"Oh,
it's awful! oh dear! awful!”
Stepan Arkadyevitch kept repeating
to himself,
and he could think of nothing
to be done.

"And how well things were going up till now! how well we got on! She was contented and happy in her children;
I never interfered
with her in anything;
I let her manage the children and the house just as she liked.

It's true it's bad HER having been a governess in our house.

That's bad! There's something common,
vulgar,
in flirting
with one's governess.

But what a governess!”
(He vividly recalled the roguish black eyes of Mlle.

Roland and her smile.)
“But after all,
while she was in the house,
I kept myself in hand.

And the worst of it all is that she's already...it seems as if ill-luck would have it so! Oh,
oh! But what,
what is
to be done?”
There was no solution,
but that universal solution which lives gives
to all questions,
even the most complex and insoluble.

That answer is:

one must live in the needs of the day--that is,
forget oneself.

To forget himself in sleep was impossible now,
at least till night-time;
he could not go back now
to the music sung they the decanter-women;
so he must forget himself in the dream of daily life.

"Then we shall see,”
Stepan Arkadyevitch said
to himself,
and getting up he put on a gray dressing-gown lined
with blue silk,
tied the tassels in a know,
and,
drawing a deep breath of air into his broad,
bare chest,
he walked
to the window
with his usual confident step,
turning out his feet that carried his full frame so easily.

He pulled up the blind and rang the bell loudly.

It was at once answered by the appearance of an old friend,
his valet,
Matvey,
carrying his clothes,
his boots,
and a telegram.

Matvey was followed by the barber
with all the necessaries
for shaving.

"Are there any papers form the office?”
asked Stepan Arkadyevitch,
taking the telegram and seating himself at the looking-glass.

"On the table,”
replied Matvey,
glancing
with inquiring sympathy at his master;
and,
after a short pause,
he added
with a sly smile,
"They've sent from the carriage-jobbers.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch made no reply,
he merely glanced at Matvey in the looking-glass.

In the glance,
in which their eyes met in the looking-glass,
it was clear that they understood one another.

Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes asked:

"Why do you tell me that?

don't you know?”
Matvey put his hands in his jacket pockets,
thrust out one leg,
and gazed silently,
good-humoredly,
with a faint smile,
at his master.

"I told them
to come on Sunday,
and till then not
to trouble you or themselves
for nothing,”
he said.

He had obviously prepared the sentence beforehand.

Stepan Arkadyevitch saw Matvey wanted
to make a joke and attract attention
to himself.

Tearing open the telegram,
he read it through,
guessing at the words,
misspelt as they always are in telegrams,
and his face brightened.

"Matvey,
my sister Anna Arkadyevna will be here to-morrow,”
he said,
checking
for a minuted the sleek,
plump hand of the barber,
cutting a pink path through his long,
curly whiskers.

"Thank God!”
said Matvey,
showing by this response that he,
like his master,
realized the significance of this arrival--that is,
that Anna Arkadyevna,
the sister he was so fond of,
might bring about a reconciliation between husband and wife.

"Alone,
or
with her husband?”
inquired Matvey.

Stepan Arkadyevitch could not answer,
as the barber was at work on his upper lip,
and he raised one finger.

Matvey nodded at the looking-glass.

"Alone.

Is the room
to be got ready up-stairs?”
"Inform Darya Alexandrovna:

where she orders.”

"Darya Alexandrovna?”
Matvey repeated,
as though in doubt.

"Yes,
inform her.

Here,
take the telegram;
give it
to her,
and then do what she tells you.”

"You want
to try it on,”
Matvey understood,
but he only said,
"Yes sir.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch was already washed and combed and ready
to be dressed,
when Matvey,
stepping deliberately in his creaky boots,
came back into the room
with the telegram in his hand.

The barber had gone.

"Darya Alexandrovna told me
to inform you that she is going away.

Let him do--that is you--as he likes,”
he said,
laughing only
with his eyes,
and putting his hands in his pockets,
he watched his master
with his head on one side.

Stepan Arkadyevitch was silent a minute.

Then a good-humored and rather pitiful smile showed itself on his handsome face.

"Eh,
Matvey?”
he said,
shaking his head.

"It's all right sir;
she will come round,”
said Matvey.

"Come round?”
"Yes,
sir.”

"Do you think so?

Who's there?”
asked Stepan Arkadyevitch,
hearing the rustle of a woman's dress at the door.

"It's I,”
said a firm,
pleasant,
woman's voice,
and the stern,
pock-marked face of Matrona Philimonovna,
the nurse,
was thrust in at the doorway.

"Well,
what is it,
Matrona?”
queried Stepan Arkadyevitch,
going up
to her at the door.

Although Stepan Arkadyevitch was completely in the wrong as regards his wife,
and was conscious of this himself,
almost every one in the house
(even the nurse,
Darya Alexandrovna's chief ally)
was on his side.

"Well,
what now?”
he asked disconsolately.

"Go
to her,
sir;
own your fault again.

Maybe God wil aid you.

She is suffering so,
it's sad
to hee her;
and besides,
everything in the house is topsy-turvy.

You must have pity,
sir,
on the children.

Beg her forgiveness,
sir.

There's no help
for it! One must take the consequences...”

"But she won't see me.”

"You do your part.

God is merciful;
pray
to God,
sir,
pray
to God.”

"Come,
that'll do,
you can go,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
blushing suddenly.

"Well now,
do dress me.”

He turned
to Matvey and threw off his dressing-gown decisively.

Matvey was already holding up the shirt like a horse's collar,
and,
blowing off some invisible speck,
he slipped it
with obvious pleasure over the well-groomed body of his master.

Chapter 3 When he was dressed,
Stepan Arkadyevitch sprinkled some scent on himself,
pulled down his shirt-cuffs,
distributed into his pockets his cigarettes,
pocketbook,
matches,
and watch
with its double chain and seals,
and shaking out his handkerchief,
feeling himself clean,
fragrant,
healthy,
and physically at ease,
in spite of his unhappiness,
he walked
with a slight swing on each leg into the dining-room,
where coffee was already waiting
for him,
and beside the coffee,
letters and papers from the office.

He read the letters.

One was very unpleasant,
from a merchant who was buying a forest on his wife's property.

To sell this forest was absolutely essential;
but at present,
until he was reconciled
with his wife,
the subject could not be discussed.

The most unpleasant thing of all was that his pecuniary interests should in this way enter into the questio of his recociliation
with his wife.

And the idea that he might be let on by his interests,
that he might seek a reconciliation
with his wife on account of the sale of the forest--that idea hurt him.

When he had finished his letters,
Stepan Arkadyevitch moved the office-papers close
to him,
rapidly looked through two pieces of business,
made a few notes
with a big pencil,
and pushing away the papers,
turned
to his coffee.

As he sipped his coffee,
he opened a still damp morning paper,
and began reading it.

Stepan Arkadyevitch took in and read a liberal paper,
not an extreme one,
but one advocating the views held by the majority.

And in spite of the fact that science,
art,
and plitics had no special interest
for him,
he firmly held those views on all these subjects which were held by the majority and by his paper,
and he only changed them when the majority changed them--or,
more strictly speaking,
he did not change them,
but they imperceptibly changed of themselves within him.

Stepan Arkadyevitch had not chosen his political opinions or his views;
these political poinions and views had come
to him of themselves,
just as he did not choose the shapes of his hat and coat,
but simply took those that were being worn.

And
for him,
living in a certain society--owing
to the need,
ordinarily developed at years of discretion,
for some degree of mental activity--to have views was just as indipensable as
to have a hat.

If there was a reason
for his perferring liberal
to conservative views,
which here held also by many of his circle,
it arose not from his considering liberalism more rational,
but from its being in closer accordance
with his manner of life.

The liberal party said that in Russia everything is wrong,
and certainly Stepan Arkadyevitch had many debts and was decidedly short of money.

The liberal party said that marriage is an institution quite out of date,
and that it needs reconstruction;
and family life certainly afforded Stepan Arkadyevitch little gratification,
and forced him into lying and hypocrisy,
which was so repulsive
to his nature.

The liberal party said,
or rather allowed it
to be understood,
that religion is only a curb
to keep in check the barbarous classes of the people;
and Stepan Arkadyevitch could not get through even a short service without his legs aching from standing up,
and could never make out what was the object of all the terrible and high-flown language about another world when life might be so very amusing in this world.

And
with all this,
Stepan Arkadyevitch,
who liked a joke,
was fond of puzzling a plain man by saying that if he prided himself on his origin,
he ought not
to stop at Rurik and disown the first founder of his family--the monkey.

And so Liberaism had become a habit of Stepan Arkadyevitch's,
and he liked his newspaper,
as he did his cigar after dinner,
for the slight fog it diffused in his brain.

He read the leading article,
in which it was maintained that it was quite senseless in our day
to raise an outcry that radicalism was threatening
to swallow up all conservative elements,
and that the government ought
to take measures
to crush the revolutionary hydra;
that,
on the contrary,
"in our opinion the danger lies not in that fastastic revolutionary hydra,
but in the obstinacy of traditionalism clogging progress,”
etc.,
etc.

He read another article,
too,
a finanacial one,
which alluded
to Bentham and Mill,
and dropped some innuendoes reflecting on the ministry.

With his characteristic quickwittedness he caught the drift of each innuendo,
divined whence it came,
at whom and on what ground it was aimed,
and that afforded him,
as it always did,
a certain satisfaction.

But to-day that satisfaction was embittered by Matrona Philimonovna's advice and the unsatisfactory state of the household.

He read,
too,
that Count Beist was rumored
to have left
for Wiesbaden,
and that one need have no more gray hair,
and of the sale of a light carriage,
and of a young person seeking asituatuon;
but these items of information did not give him,
as usual,
a quiet,
ironical gratification.

Having finished the papepr,
a second cup of coffee and a roll and butter,
he got up,
shaking the crumbs of the roll off his waistcoat;
and squaring his borad chest,
he smiled joyously:

not because there was anything particularly agreeable in his mind--the joyous smile was evoked by a good digestion.

But this joyous smile at once recalled everything
to him,
and he grew thoughtful.

Two childish voices
(Stepan Arkadyevitch recognized the voices of Grisha,
his youngest boy,
and Tanya,
his eldest girl)
were heard outside the door.

They were carrying something,
and dropped it.

"I told you not
to sit passengers on the roof,”
said the little girl in English;
"there,
pick them up!”
"Everything's in confusion,”
thought Stepan Arkadyevitch;
"there are the children running about by themselves.”

And going
to the door,
he called them.

They threw down the box,
that represented a train,
and came in
to their father.

The little girl,
her father's favorite,
ran up boldly,
embraced him,
and hung laughingly on his neck,
enjoying as she always did the smell of scent that came from his whiskers.

At last the little girl kissed his face,
which was flushed from his stooping posture and beaming
with tenderness,
loosed her hands,
and was about
to run away again;
but her father held her back.

"How is mamma?”
he asked,
passing his hand over his daughter's smooth,
soft little neck.

"Good-morning,”
he said,
smiling
to the boy,
who had come up
to greet him.

He was conscious that he loved the boy less,
and always tried
to be fair;
but the boy felt it,
and did not respond
with a smile
to his father's chilly smile.

"Mamma?

She is up,”
answered the girl.

Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed.

"That means that she's not slept again all night,”
he thought.

"Well,
is she cheerful?”
The little girl knew that there was a quarrel between her father and mother,
and that her mother could not be cheerful,
and that her father must be aware of this,
and that he was pretending when he asked about it so lightly.

And she blushed
for her father.

He at once perceived it,
and blushed too.

"I don't know,”
she said.

"She did not say we must do our lessons,
but she said we were
to go
for a walk
with Miss Hoole
to grandmamma's.”

"Well,
go,
Tanya,
my darling.

Oh,
wait a minute,
though,”
he said,
still holding her and stroking her soft little hand.

He took off the matelpiece,
where he had put it yesterday,
a little box of sweets,
and gave her two,
picking out her favorites,
a chocolate and a fondant.

"For Grisha?”
said the little girl,
pointing
to the chocolate.

"Yes,
yes.”

And still stroking her little shoulder,
he kissed her on the roots of here hair and neck,
and let her go.

"The carriage is ready,”
said Matvey;
"but there's some one
to see you
with a petition.”

"Been here long?”
asked Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"Half an hour.”

"How many times have I told you
to tell me at once?”
"One must let you drink your coffee in peace,
at least,”
said Matvey,
in the affectionately gruff tone
with which it was impossible
to be angry.

"Well,
show the person up at once,”
said Oblonsky,
frounding
with vexation.

The petitioner,
the widow of a staff captain Kalinin,
came
with a request impossible and unreasonable;
but Stepan Arkadyevitch,
as he generally did,
made her sit down,
heard her
to the end attentively without interrupting her,
and gave her detailed advice as
to how and
to whom
to apply,
and even wrote her,
in his large,
sprawling,
good and legible hand,
a confident and fluent little note
to a personage who might be of use
to her.

Having got rid of the staff captain's widow,
Stepan Arkadyevitch took his hat and stopped
to recollect whether he had forgotten anything.

It appeared that he had forgotten nothing except what he wanted
to forget--his wife.

"Ah,
yes!”
He bowed his head,
and his handsome face assumed a harassed expression.

"To go,
or not
to go!”
he said
to himself;
and an inner voice told him he must not go,
that nothing could come of it but falsity;
that
to amend,
to set right their relations was impossible,
because it was impossible
to make her attractive again and able
to insipire love,
or
to make him an old man,
not susceptible
to love.

Except deceit and lying nothing could come of it now;
and deceit and lying were opposed
to his nature.

"It must be some time,
though:

it can't go on like this,”
he said,
trying
to give himself courage.

He squared his chest,
took out a cigarette,
took two whiffs at it,
flung it into a mother-of-pearl ashtray,
and
with rapid steps walked through the drawing-room,
and opened the other door into his wife's bedroom.

Chapter 4 Darya Alexandrovna,
in a dressing jacket,
and
with her now scanty,
once luxuriant and beautiful hair fastened up
with hairpins on the hape of her neck,
with a sunken,
thin face and large,
startled eyes,
which looked prominent from the thinness of her face,
was standing among a litter of all sorts of things scattered all over the room,
before an open bureau,
from which she was taking something.

Hearing her husband's steps,
she stopped,
looking towards the door,
and trying assiduously
to give her features a severe and contemptuous expression.

She felt she was afraid of him,
and afraid of the coming interview.

She was just attempting
to do what she had attempted
to do ten times already in these last three days--to sort out the children's things and her own,
so as
to take them
to her mother's--and again she could not bring herself
to do this;
but now again,
as each time before,
she kept saying
to herself,
"that things cannot go on like this,
that she must take some step”
to punish him,
put him
to shame,
avenge on him some little part at least of the suffereing he had caused her.

She still continued
to tell herself that she should leave him,
but she was conscious that this was impossible;
it was impossible because she could not get out of the habit of regarding him as her husband and loving him.

Besides this,
she realized that if even here in her own house she could hardly manage
to look after her five children properly,
they would be still worse off where she was going
with them all.

As it was,
even in the course of these three days,
the youngest was unwell from being given unwholesome soup,
and the others had almost gone without their dinner the day before.

She was conscious that it was impossible
to go away;
but,
cheating herself,
she went on all the same sorting out her things nad pretending she was going.

Seeing her husband,
she dropped her hands into the drawer of the bureau as though looking
for something,
and only looked round at him when he had come quite up
to her.

But her face,
to which she tried
to give a severe and resolute expression,
betrayed bewilderment and suffering.

"Dolly!”
he said in a subdued and timid voice.

He bent his head towards his shoulder and tried
to look pitiful and humble,
but
for all that he was radiant
with freshness nad health.

In a rapid glance she scanned his figure that beamed
with health and freshness.

"Yes,
he is happy and content!”
she thought;
"while I...And that disgusting good nature,
which every one likes him
for and praises--I hate that good nature of his,”
she thought.

Her mouth stiffened,
the muscles of the cheek contracted on the right side of her pale,
nervous face.

"What do you want?”
she said in a rapid,
deep,
unnatural voice.

"Dolly!”
he repeated,
with a quiver in his voice.

"Anna is coming to-day.”

"Well,
what is that
to me?

I can't see her!”
she cried.

"But you must,
really,
Dolly...”

"Go away,
go away,
go away!”
she shrieked,
not looking at him,
as though this shriek were called up by physical pain.

Stepan Arkadyevitch could be calm when he thought of his wife,
he could hope that she would come round,
as Matvey expressed it,
and could quietly go on reading his paper and drinking his coffee;
but when he saw her tortured,
suffering face,
heard the tone of her voice,
submissive
to fate and full of despair,
there was a catch in his breath and a lump in his throat,
and his eyes began
to shine
with tears.

"My God! what have I done?

Dolly!
for God's sake!...You know...”

He could not go on;
there was a sob in his throat.

She shut the bureau
with a slam,
and glanced at him.

"Dolly,
what can I say?...One thng:

forgive...Remember,
cannot nine years of my life atone
for an instant...”

She dropped her eyes and listened,
expecting what he would say,
as it were beseeching him in some way or other
to make her believe differently.

"--instant of passion?”
he said,
and would have gone on,
but at that word,
as at a pang of physical pain,
her lips stiffened again,
and again the muscles of her right cheek worked.

"Go away,
go out of the room!”
she shrieked still more shrilly,
"and don't talk
to me of your passion and your loathsomeness.”

She tried
to go out,
but tottered,
and clung
to the back of a chair
to support herself.

His face relaxed,
his lips swelled,
his eyes were swimming
with tears.

"Dolly!”
he said,
sobbing now;
"for mercy's sake,
thing of the children;
they are not
to blame! I am
to blame,
and punish me,
make me expiate my fault.

Anything I can do,
I am ready
to do anything! I am
to blame,
no words can express how much I am
to blame! But,
Dolly,
forgive me!”
She sat down.

He listened
to her hard,
heavy breathing,
and he was unutterably sorry
for her.

She tried several times
to begin
to speak,
but could not.

He waited.

"You remember the children,
Stiva,
to play
with them;
but I remember them,
and know that this means their ruin,”
she said--obviously one of the phrases she had more than once repeated
to herself in the course of the last few days.

She had called him
“Stiva,”
and he glanced at her
with gratitude,
and moved
to take her hand,
but she drew back from him
with aversion.

"I think of the children,
and
for that reason I would do anything in the world
to save them,
but I don't myself know how
to save them.

by taking them away from their father,
or by leaving them
with a vicious father--yes,
a vicious father...Tell me,
after what...has happened,
can we live together?

Is that possible?

Tell me,
eh,
is it possible?”
she repeated,
raising her voice,
"after my husband,
the father of my children,
enters into a love-affair
with his own children's governess?”
"But what could I do?

what could I do?”
he kept saying in a pitiful voice,
not knowing what he was saying,
as his head sank lower and lower.

"You are loathsome
to me,
repulsive!”
she shrieked,
getting more and more heated.

"Your tears mean nothing! You have never loved me;
you have neither heart nor honorable feeling! You are hateful
to me,
disgusting,
a stranger--yes,
a complete stranger!”
With pain and wrath she uttered the word so terrible
to herself--stranger.

He looked at her,
and the fury expressed in her face alarmed and amazed him.

He did not understand how his pity
for her exasperated her.

She saw in him sympathy
for her,
but not love.

"No,
she hates me.

She will not forgive me,”
he thought.

"It is awful! awful!”
he said.

At that moment in the next room a child began
to cry;
probably it had fallen down.

Darya Alexandrovna listened,
and her face suddenly softened.

She seemed
to be pulling herself together
for a few seconds,
as though she did not know where she was,
and what she was doing,
and getting up rapidly,
she moved towards the door.

"Well,
she loves my child,”
he thought,
noticing the change of her face at the child's cry,
"my child:

how can she hate me?”
"Dolly,
one word more,”
he said,
following her.

"If you come near me,
I will call in the servants,
the children! They may all know you are a scoundrel! I am going away at once,
and you may live here
with your mistress!”
And she went out,
slamming the door.

Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed,
wiped his face,
and
with a subdued tread walked out of the room.

"Matvey says she will come round;
but how?

I don't see the least chance of it.

Ah,
oh,
how horrible it is! And how vulgarly she shouted,”
he said
to himself,
remembering her shriek and the words-"scoundrel”
and
“mistress.”

"And very likely the maids were listening! Horribly vulgar! horrible!”
Stepan Arkadyevitch stood a few seconds alone,
wiped his face,
squared his chest,
and walked out of the room.

It was Friday,
and in the dining-room the German watchmaker was winding up the clock.

Stepan Arkadyvitch remembered his joke about this puncutal,
bald watchmaker,
"that the German was wound up
for a whole lifetime himself,
to wind up watches,”
and he smiled.

Stepan Arkadyevitch was fond of a joke:

"And maybe she will come round! That's a good expression,
come round,'“
he thought.

"I must repeat that.”

"Matvey!”
he shouted.

"Arrange everything
with Darya in the sitting-room
for Anna Arkadyevna,”
he said
to Matvey when he came in.

"Yes,
sir.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch put on his fur coat and went out onto the steps.

"You won't dine at home?”
said Matvey,
seeing him off.

"That's as it happens.

But here's
for the housekeeping,”
he said,
taking ten roubles from his pocketbook.

"That'll be enough.”

"Enough or not enough,
we must make it do,”
said Matvey,
slamming the carriage door and stepping back onto the steps.

Darya Alexnadrovna meanwhile having pacified the child,
and knowing from the sound of the carriage that he had gone off,
went back again
to her bedroom.

It was her solitary refuge from the household cares which crowded upon her directly she went out from it.

Even now,
in the short time she had been in the nursery,
the English governess and Matrona Philimonovna had succeeded in putting several questions
to her,
which did not admit of delay,
and which only she could answer:

"What were the children
to put on
for their walk?

Should they have any milk?

Should not a new cook be sent for?”
"Ah,
let me alone,
let me alone!”
she said,
and going back
to her bedroom she sat down in the same place as she had sat when talking
to her husband,
clasping tightly her thin hands
with the rings that slipped down on her bony fingers,
and fell
to going over in her memory all the coversation.

"He has gone! but has he broken it off
with her?”
she thought.

"Can it be he sees her?

Why didn't I ask him! No,
no,
reconciliation is impossible.

Even if we remain in thesame house,
we are strangers-strangers forever! She repeated again
with special significance the word so dreadful
to her.

"And how I loved him! my God,
how I loved him!...How I loved him! And now don't I love him?

Don't I love him more than before?

The most horrible thing is,”
she began,
but did not finish her thought,
because Matrona Philimonovna put her head in at the door.

"Let us send
for my brother,”
she said;
"he can get a dinner anyway,
or we shall have the children getting nothing
to eat till six again,
like yesterday.”

"Very well,
I will come directly and see about it.

But did you send
for some new milk?”
And Darya Alexandrovna plunged into the duties of the day,
and drowned her grief in them
for a time.

Chapter 5 Stepan Arkadyevitch had learned easily at school,
thanks
to his excellent abilities,
but he had been idle and mischievous,
and therefore was one of the lowest in his class.

but in spite of his habitually dissipated mode of life,
his inferior grade in the service,
and his comparative youth,
he occupied the honorable and lucrative position of president of one of the government board at Moscow.

This post he had received through his sister Anna's husband,
Alexey Alexandrovitch Karenin,
who held one of the most important positions in the ministry
to whose department the Moscow office belonged.

But if Karenina had not got his brother-in-law this berth,
then through a hundred other personages--brothers,
sister,
cousins,
uncles,
and aunts--Stiva Oblonsky would have received this post,
or some other similar one,
together
with the salary of six thousand absolutely needful
for thim,
as his affairs,
in spite of his wife's considerably property,
were in an embarrassed condition.

Half Moscow and Petersburg were friends and relation of Stepan Arkadyevitch.

He was born in the midst of those who had been and are the powerful ones of this world.

One-third of the men in the government,
the older men,
had been friends of his father's,
and had known him in petticoats;
another third were his intimate chums,
and the remainder were friendly acquaintances.

Consequently the distributors of earthly blessings in the shape of places,
rents,
shares,
and such,
were all his friends,
and could not overlook one of their own set;
and Oblonsky had no need
to make any special exertion
to get a lucrative post.

He had only not
to refuse things,
not
to show jealousy,
not
to be quarrelsome or take offense,
all of which from his characterisitic good nature he never did.

It would have struck him as absurd if he had been told that he would not get a position
with the salary he required,
expecially as he expected nothing out of the way;
he only wanted what the men of his own ages and stading did get,
and he was no worse qualified
for performing duties of the kind than any other man.

Stepan Arkadyevitch was not merely liked by all who knew him
for his good-humor,
but
for his bright disposition,
and his unquestionable honesty.

In him,
in his handsome,
radiant figure,
his sparkling eyes,
black hair and eyebrows,
and the white and red of his face,
there was something which porduced a physical effect of kindliness and good-humor on the people who met him.

"Aha! Stiva! Oblonsky! Here he is!”
was almost always said
with a smile of delight on metting him.

Even though it happened at times that after a conversation
with him it seemed that nothing particularly delightful had happened,
the next day,
and the next,
every one was just as delighted at meeting him again.

After filling
for three years the post of president of one of the government boards at Moscow,
Stepan Arkadyevitch had wond the respect,
as well as the liking,
of his fellow-officials,
subordinates,
and superiors,
and all who had had business
with him.

The principal qualities in Stepan Arkadyevitch which had gained him this universal repect in the service consisted,
in the first place,
of his extreme indulgence
for others,
founded on a consciousness of his own shortcomings;
secondly,
of his perfect liberalism--not the liberalism he read of in the papers,
but the liberalism that was in his blood,
in virtue of which he treated all men perfectly equally and exactly the same,
whatever their fortune or calling might be;
and thirdly--the most important point--his complete indifference
to the business in which he was engaged,
in cosequence of which he was never carried away,
and never made mistakes.

On reaching the offices of the board,
Stepan Arkadyevitch,
escorted by a deferential porter
with a portfolio,
went into his little private room,
put on his uniform,
and went
to the board-room.

The clerks and copyists all rose,
greeting him
with good-humored deference.

Stepan Arkadyvitch moved quickly,
as ever,
to his place,
shook hands
with his colleagues,
and sat down.

He made a joke or two,
and talked just as much as was consistend
with due decroum,
and began work.

No one knew better than Stepan Arkadyevitch how
to hit on the exact line between freedom,
simplicity,
and official stiffness necessary
for the agreeable conduct of business.

A secretary,
with the good-humored deference common
to every one in Stepan Arkadyevitch's office,
cae up
with papers,
and began
to speak in the familiar and easy tone which had been introduced by Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"We have succeeded in getting the information from the government department of Penza.

Here,
would you care?...”

"You've got them at last?”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
laying his finger on the paper.

"Now,
gentlemen...”

And the sitting of the board began.

"If they knew,”
he thought,
bending his head
with a significant air as he listened
to the report,
"what a guilty little boy their president was half an hour ago.”

And his eyes were laughing during the reading of the report.

Till two o'clock there would go on without a break,
and at two o'clock there would be an interval and luncheon.

It was not yet two,
when the large glass doors of the boardroom suddenly opened and some one came in.

All the officials sitting on the further side under the portrait of the Tsar and the eagle,
delighted at any distraction,
looked round at the door;
but the doorkeeper standing at the door at once drove out the intruder,
and closed the glass door after him.

When the case had been read through,
Stepan Arkadyevitch got up and stretched,
and by way of tribute
to the liberaism of the times took out a cigarette in the board-room and went into his private room.

Two of the members of the board,
athe old veteran in the service,
Nikitin,
and the Kammerjunker Grinevitch,
went in
with him.

"We shall have time
to finish after lunch,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"To be sure we shall!”
said Nikitin.

"A pretty sharp fellow this Fomin must be,”
said Grinevitch of one of the persons taking part in the case they were examining.

Stepan Arkadyevitch frowned at Grinevitch's words,
giving him thereby
to understand that it was improper
to pass judgment prematurely,
and made him no reply.

"Who was that came in?”
he asked the doorkeeper.

"Some one,
your excellency,
crept in without permission directly my back was turned.

He was asking
for you.

I told him:

when the members come out,
then...”

"Where is he?”
"Maybe he's gone into the passage,
but here he comes anyway.

That is he,”
said the doorkeeper,
pointing
to a strongly build,
broadshouldered mand
with a curly beard,
who,
without taking off his sheepskin cap,
was running lightly and rapidly up the worn steps of the stone staircase.

One of the members going down--a lean official
with a portfolio--stood out of his way and looked disapprovingly at the legs of the stranger,
then glanced inquiringly at Oblonsky.

Stepan Arkadyevitch was staning at the top of the stairs.

His good-naturedly beaming face above the embroidered collar of his uniform beamed more than ever when he recogized the man coming up.

"Why,
it's actually you,
Levin,
at last!”
he said
with a friendly mocking smile,
scanning Levin as he approached.

"How is ti you have deigned
to look me up in this den?”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
and not content
with shaking hands,
he kissed his friend.

"Have you been here long?”
"I have just come,
and very much wanted
to see you,”
said Levin,
looking shyly and at the same time agrily and uneasily around.

"Well,
let's go into my room,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
who knew his friend's sensitive and irritable shyness,
and,
taking his arm,
he drew him along,
as though guiding him through dangers.

Stepan Arkadyevitch was on familiar terms
with almost all his acquaintances,
and called almost all of them by their Christian names:

old men of sixty,
boys of twenty,
actors,
ministers,
merchants,
and adjutant-generals,
so that many of his intimate chums were
to be found at the extreme ends of the social ladder,
and would have been very much surprised
to learn that they had,
trough the medium of Oblonsky,
something in common.

He was the familair friend of evry one
with whom he took a glass of champagne,
and he took a glass of champagne
with every one,
and when in consequence he met any of his disreputable chums,
as he used in joke
to call many of his friends,
in the presence of his subordinates,
he well knew how,
with his characteristic tact,
to diminish the disagreeable impression made on them.

Levin was not a disreputable chum,
but Oblonsky,
with his ready tact,
felt that Levin fancied he might not care
to show his intimacy
with him before his subordinates,
and so he made haste
to take him off into his room.

Levin was almost of the same age as Oblonshy;
their intimacy did not rest merely on champagne.

Levin had been the frined and companion of his early youth.

They were fond of one another in spite of the difference oftheir characters and tastes,
as frineds are fond of one another who have been together in early youth.

But in spit of this,
each of them--as is often the way
with men who have selected careers of different kinds--though in discussion he would even justify the other's career,
in his heart despised it.

It seemed
to each of them that the life he led himself was the only real life,
and the life led by his friend was a mere phanstasm.

Oblonsky could not restrain a slight mocking smile at the sight of Levin.

How often he had seen him come up
to Moscow from the country where he was doing something,
but what preceisely Stepan Arkadyevitch could never quite make out,
and indeed he took no interest in the matter.

Levin arrived in Moscow always excited and in a hurry,
rather ill at ease and irritated by his own want of ease,
and
for the most part
with a perfectly new,
unexpected view of things.

Stepan Arakadyevitch laughted at this,
and liked it.

In the same way Levin in his heart despised the town mode of life of his friend,
and his official duties,
which he laughed at,
and regarded as trifling.

But the difference was that Oblonsky,
as he was doing the same as every one did,
laughed complacently and good-humoredly,
while Levin laughed without complacency and sometimes angrily.

"We have long been expecting you,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
going into his room and letting Levin's hand go as though
to show that here all danger was over.

"I am very,
very glad
to see you,”
he went on.

"Well,
how are you?

Eh?

When did you come?”
Levin was silent,
looking at the unknown faces of Oblonsky's two companions,
and especially at the hand of the elegant Grinevitch,
which had such long white fingers,
such long yellow filbert-shaped nails,
and such huge shining studs on the shirt-cuff,
that apparently they absorbed all his attention,
and allowed him no freedom of thought.

Oblonsky noticed this at once,
and smiled.

"Ah,
to be sure,
let me introduce you,”
he said.

"My colleagues:

Philip Ivanitch Nikitin,
Mihail Stanislavitch Grinevitc"--and turning
to Levin--"a distric councilor,
a modern district council man,
a gymnast who lifts thirteen stone
with one hand,
a cattle-breeder and sportsman,
and my friend,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin,
the brother of Sergey Ivonovitch Kozhishev.”

"Delighted,”
said the veteran.

"I have the honor of knowing your brother,
Sergey Ivnovitch,”
said Grinevitch,
holding out his slender hand
with its long nails.

Levin frowned,
shook hands coldly,
and at once turned
to Oblonsky.

Though he had a great respect
for his half-brother,
an author well known
to all Russia,
he could not endure it when people treated him not as Konstantin Levin,
but as the brother of the celebrated Koznishev.

"No,
I am no longer a district councilor.

I have quarreled
with them all,
and don't go
to the meetings any more,”
he said,
turning
to Oblonsky.

"You've been quick about it1”
said Oblonsky
with a smile.

"But how?

why?”
"It's a long story.

I will tell you some time,”
said Levin,
but he began telling him at once.

"Well,
to put it shortly,
I was convinced that nothing was really done by the district councils,
or ever could be,”
he began,
as though some one had jsut insulted him.

"On one side its a plaything;
they play at being a parliament,
and I'm neither young enough nor old enough
to find amusement in playthings;
and on the other side”
(he stammered)
“it's a means
for the coterie of the district
to jake money.

Formerly they had wardships,
courts of justice,
now they have the district council--not in the form of bribes,
but in the form of unearned salary,”
he said,
as hotly as though some one of those present had opposed his opinion.

"Aha! You're in a new phse again,
I see--a conservative,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"However,
we can go into that later.”

"Yes,
later.

But I wanted
to see you,”
said Levin,
looking
with hatred at Grinevitch's hand.

Stepan Arkadyevitch gave a scarcely perceptible smile.

"How was it you used
to say you would never wear European dress again?”
he said,
scanning his newsuit,
obviously cut by a French tailor.

"Ah! I see:

a new phase.”

Levin suddenly blushed,
not as grown men blush,
slightly,
without being themselves aware of it,
but as boys blush,
feeling that they are ridiculous through their shyness,
and consequently ashamed of it and blushing still more,
almost
to the point of tears.

And it was so strange
to see this sensible,
manly face in such a childish plight,
that Oblonsky left off looking at him.

"Oh,
where shall we meet?

You know I want very much
to talk
to you,”
said Levin.

Oblonsky seemed
to ponder.

"I'll tell you what:

let's go
to Gurin's
to lunch,
and there we can talk.

I am free till three.”

"No,”
answered Levin,
after an instant's thought,
"I have got
to go on somewhere else.”

"All right,
then,
let's dine together.”

"Dine together?

But I have nothing very particular,
only a few words
to say,
and a question I want
to ask you,
and we can have a talk afterwards.”

"Well,
say the few words,
then,
at once,
and we'll gossip after dinner.”

"Well,
it's this,”
said Levin;
"but it's of no importance,
though.”

His face all at once took an exprerssion of anger from the effort he was making
to surmount his shyness.

"What are the Shtcherbatskys doing?

Everything as it used
to be?”
he said.

Stepan Arkadyevitch,
who had long known that Levin was in love
with his sister-in-law,
Kitty,
gave a hardly perceptible smile,
and his eyes sparkled merrily.

"You said a few words,
but I can't answer in a few words,
because...Excuse me a minute...”

A secretary came in,
with respectful familiarity and the modest consciousness,
characteristic of every secretary,
of superiority
to his chief in the knowledge of their business;
he went up
to Oblonsky
with some papers,
and began,
under pretense of asking a question,
to explain some objection.

Stepan Arkadyevitch,
without hearing him out laid his hand genially on the secretary's sleeve.

"No,
you do as I told you,”
he said,
softening his words
with a smile,
and
with a brief explanation of his view of the matter he turned away from the papers,
and said:

"So do it that way,
if you please,
Zahar Nikititch.”

The secretary retired in confusion.

During the consultation
with the secretary Levin had completely recovered from his embarrassment.

He was standing
with his elbows o the back of a chair,
and on his face was a look of ironical attention.

"I don't understand it,
I don't understand it,”
he said.

"What don't you understand?”
said Oblonsky,
smiling as brightly as ever,
and picking up a cigarette.

He expected some queer outburst from Levin.

"I don't understand what you are doing,”
said Levin,
shrugging his shoulders.

"How can you do it seriously?”
"Why not?”
"Why,
because there's nothing in it.”

"You think so,
but we're overwhelmed
with work.”

"On paper.

But,
there,
you've a gift
for it,”
added Levin.

"That's
to say,
you think there's a lack of something in me?”
"Pershaps so,”
said Levin.

"But all the same I admire your grandeur,
and am proud that I've a friend in such a great person.

You've not answered my questin,
though,”
he went on,
with a desperate effort looking Oblonsky straight in the face.

"Oh,
that's all very well.

You wait a bit,
and you'll come
to this yourself.

It's very nice
for you
to have over six thousand acres in the Karazinsky district,
and such muscles,
and the freshness of a girl of twelve;
still you'll be one of us one day.

Yes,
as
to your questin,
there is no change,
but it's a pity you've been away so long.”

"Oh,
why so?”
Levin queried,
panic-stricken.

"Oh,
nothing,”
responded Oblonsky.

"We'll talk it over.

But what's brought you up
to town?”
"Oh,
we'll talk about that,
too.

later on,”
said Levin,
reddening again up
to his ears.

"All right.

I see,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"I should ask you
to come
to us,
you know,
but my wife's not quite the thing.

But I tell you what;
if you want
to see them,
they're sure now
to be at the Zoological Gardens from four
to five.

Kitty skates.

You drive along there,
and I'll come and fetch you,
and we'll go and dine somewhere together.”

"Capital.

So good-bye till then.”

"Now mind,
you'll forget,
I know you,
or rush off home
to the country!”
Stepan Arkadyevitch called out laughing.

"No,
truly1”
And Levin went out of the room,
only when he was in the doorway remembering that he had forgotten
to take leave of Oblonsky's colleagues.

"That gentleman must be a man of great energy,”
said Grinevitch,
when Levin had gone away.

"Yes,
my dear boy,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
nodding his head,
"he's a lucky fellow! Over six thousand acres in the Karazinsky district;
everything before him;
and what youth and vigor! Not like some of us.”

"You have a great deal
to complain of,
haven't you,
Stepan Arkadyevitch?”
"Ah,
yes,
I'm in a poor way,
a bad way,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch
with a heavy sigh.

Chapter 6 When Oblonsky asked Levin what had brought him
to town,
Levin blushed,
and was furious
with himself
for blushing,
because he could not answer,
"I have come
to make your sister-in-law an offer,”
though that was precisely what he had come for.

The families of the Levins and the Shtcherbatskys were old,
noble Moscow families,
and had always been on intimate and friendly terMs. This intimacy had grown still closer during Levin's student days.

He had both prepared
for the university
with the young Prince Shtcherbatsky,
the brother of Kitty and Dolly,
and had entered at the same time
with him.

In those days Levin used often
to be in the Shtcherbatskys’
house,
and he was in love
with the Shtcherbatsky household.

Strange as it may appear,
it was
with the household,
the family,
that Konstantin Levin was in love,
especially
with the feminine half of the household.

Levin did not remembert his own mother,
and his only sister was older than he was,
so that it was in the Shtcherbatskys’
house that he saw
for the first time that inner life of an old,
noble,
cultivated,
and honorable family of which he had been deprived by the death of his father and mother.

All the members of that family,
especially the feminine half,
were pictured by thim,
as it were,
wrapped about
with a mysterious poetical veil,
and he not only percieve no defects whatever in them,
but under the poetical veil that shrouded them he assumed the existence of the loftiest sentiments and every possible perfectin.

Why it was the three yound ladies had one day
to speak French,
and the next English;
why it was that at certain hours they played by turns on the piano,
the sounds of which were audible in their brother's room above,
where the students used
to work;
why they were visited by those professors of French literature,
of music,
of drawing,
of dancing;
why at certain hours all the three young ladies,
with Mademoiselle Linon,
drove in the coach
to the Tversky boulevard,
dressed in their satin cloaks,
Dolly in a long one,
Natalia in a half-long one,
and Kitty in one so short that her shapely legs in thghtly-drawn red stockings were visible
to all beholders;
why it wasthey had
to walk about the Tversky boulevard escorted by a footman
with a gold cockade in his hat--all this and much more that was done in their mysterious world he did not understand,
but he was sure that everything that was done there was very good,
and he was in love precisely
with hte mystery of the proceedings.

In his student days he had all but been in love
with the eldest,
Dolly,
but she was soon married
to Oblonsky.

Then he began being in love
with the second.

He felt,
as it were,
that he had
to be in love
with one of the sisters,
only he could not quite make out which.

But Natalia,
too,
had hardly made her appearance in the world when she married the diplomate Lvov.

Litty was still a child when Levin left the university.

Young Shtcherbatsky went into the navy,
was drowned in the Baltic,
and Levin's relations
with the Shtcherbatskys,
in spite of his friendship
with Oblonsky,
became less intimate.

But when early in the winter of this year Levin came
to Moscow,
after a year in the country,
and saw the Shtcherbatskys,
he realized which of the three sisters he as indeed destined
to love.

One would have thought that nothing could be simpler than
for him,
a man of good family,
rather rich than poor,
and thirty-two years old,
to make the young Princess Shtcherbatskaya an offer of marriage;
in all likelihood he would at once have been looked upon as a good match.

but Levin wasin love,
and so it seemed
to him that Kitty was so perfect in every respect that she was a creature far above everything earthly;
and that he was a creature so low and so earthly that it could not even be conceived that other people and she herself could regard him as worthy of her.

After spending two months in Moscow in a state of enchantment,
seeing Kitty almost every day in society,
into which he went so as
to meet her,
he abruptly decided that it could not be,
and went back
to the country.

Levin's conviction that it could not be was founded on the idea that in the eyes of her family he was a disadvantageous and worthless match
for the charming Kitty,
and that Kitty herself could not love him.

In her family's eyes he had no ordinary,
definite career and position in society,
while his contermoraries by this time,
when he was thirty-two,
were already,
one a colonel,
and another a professor,
another dirctor of a bank and railways,
or president of a board like Oblonsky.

But he
(he knew very well how he must appear
to others)
was a country gentleman,
occupied in breeding cattle,
shooting game,
and building barns;
in other words,
a fellow of no ability,
who had not turned out well,
and who was doing just what,
according
to the ideas of the world,
is done by people fit
for nothing else.

The mysterious,
enchanting Kitty herself could not love such an ugly person as he conceived himself
to be,
and,
above all,
such an ordinary,
in no way striking person.

Moreover,
his attitude
to Kitty in the past--the attitude of a grown-up person
to a child,
arising from his friendship
with her brother--seemed
to him yet another obstacle
to love.

An ugly,
good-natured man,
as he considered himself,
might,
he supposed,
be liked as a friend;
but
to be loved
with such a love as that
with which he loved Kitty,
one would need
to be a handsome and,
still more,
a distinguished man.

He had heard that women often did care
for ugly and ordinary men,
but he did not believe it,
for he judged by himself,
and he could not himself have loved any but beautiful,
mysterious,
and exceptional women.

But after spending two months alone in the country,
he was convinced that this was not one of those passions of which he had had experience in his early youth;
that this feeling gavehim not an instant's rest;
that he could not live without deciding the questiion,
whould she or would she not be his wife,
and that his despair had arisen only from his own imaginings,
that he had no sort of proof that he would be rejected.

And he had now come
to Moscow
with a firm determination
to make an offer,
and get married if he were accepted.

Or...he could not conceive what would become of him if he were rejected.

Chapter 7 On arriving in Moscow by a morning train,
Levin had put up at the house of his elder half-brother,
Koznishev.

After changing his clothes he went down
to his brother's study,
intending
to talk
to him at once about the object of his visit,
and
to ask his advice;
but his brother was not alone.

With him there was a well-known professor of philosophy,
who had come from Harkov expressly
to clear up a difference that had arisen between them on a very important philosophical question.

The professor was carrying on a hot crusade against materialists.

Sergey Koznishev had been following this crusade
with interest,
and after reading the professor's last article,
he had written him a letter stating his objections.

He accused the professor of making too great concessions
to the materialists.

And the professor had promptly appeared
to argue the matter out.

The point in discussion was the question then in vogue:

Is there a line
to be drawn between psychological and physiological phenomena in man?

and if so,
where?

Sergey Ivanovitch met his brother
with the smile of chilly friendliness he always had
for every one,
and introducing him
to the professor,
went on
with the conversation.

A little man in spectacles,
with a narrow forehead,
tore himself from the discussion
for an instant
to greet Levin,
and then went on talking without paying any further attention
to him.

Levin sat down
to wait till the professor should go,
but he soon began
to get interested in the subject under discussion.

Levin had come across the magazine articles about which they were disputing,
and had read them,
interested in them as a development of the first principles of science,
familiar
to him as a natural sceince studen at the university.

But he had never connected these scientific deductions as
to the origin of man as an animal,
as
to reflex action,
biology,
and sociology,
with those questions as
to the meaning of life and death
to himself,
which had of late been more nad more often in his mind.

As he listened
to his brother's argument
with the professor,
he noticed that they connected these scientific questions
with those spiritual problems,
that at times they almost touched on the latter;
but every time they were close upon what seemed
to him the chief point,
they promptly beat a hasty retreat,
and plunged again into a sea of subtle distinctions,
reservations,
quotations,
allusions,
and appeals
to authorities,
and it was
with difficulty that he understood what they were talking about.

"I cannot admit it,”
said Sergey Ivanovitch,
with his habitual clearness,
precision of expression,
and elegance of phrase.

"I cannot in any case agree
with Keiss that my whole conception of the external world has been derived from perceptions.

The most fundamental idea,
the idea of existence,
has not been received by me through sensation;
indeed,
there is no special sense-organ
for the transmission of such an idea.”

"Yes,
but they--Wurt,
and Knaust,
and Pripasov--would answer that your conscousness of existence is derived from the conjunction of all your sensations,
that that consciousness of existence is the result of your sensations.

Wurt,
indeed,
says plainly that,
assuming there are no sensations,
it follows that there is no idea of existence.”

"I maintain the contrary,”
began Sergey Ivanovitch.

But here it seemed
to Levin that just as they were close upon the real point of the matter,
they were again retreating,
and he made up his mind
to put a question
to the professor.

"According
to that,
if my senses are annihilated,
if my body is dead,
I can have no existence of any sort?”
he queried.

The professor,
in annoyance,
and,
as it were,
mental suffereing at the interruption,
looked round at the strange inquirer,
more like a bargeman than a philosopher,
and turned his eyes upon Sergey Ivanovitch,
as though
to ask:

What's one
to say
to him?

But Sergey Ivanovitch,
who had been talking
with far less heat and one-sidedness than the professor,
and who had sufficient breadth of mind
to answer the professor,
and at the same time
to comprehend the simple and natural point of view from which the question was put,
smiled and said:

"That question we have no right
to answer as yet.”

"We have not the requisit data,”
chimed in the professor,
and he went back
to his argument.

"No,”
he said;
"I would point out the fact that if,
as Pripasov directly asserts,
perception is based on sensation,
then we are bound
to distinguish sharply between these two conceptions.”

Levin listened no more,
and simply waited
for the professor
to go.

Chapter 8 When the professor had gone,
Sergey Ivanovitch turned
to his brother.

"Delighted that you've come.

For some time,
is it?

How's your farming getting on?”
Levin knew that his elder brother took little interest in farming,
and only put the question in deference
to him,
and so he only told him about the sale of his wheat and money matters.

Levin had meant
to tell his brother of his determination
to get married,
and
to ask his advice;
he had indeed firmly resolved
to do so.

But after seeing his brother,
listening
to his conversation
with the professor,
hearing afterwards the unconsciously patronizing tone in which his brother questioned him about agricultural matters
(their mother's property had not been divided,
and Levin took charge of both their shares),
Levin felt that he could not
for some reason begin
to talk
to him of his intention of marrying.

He felt that hs brother would not look at it as he would have wished him to.

"Well,
how is your district council doing?”
asked Sergey Ivanovitch,
who was greatly interested in these local boards and attached great importance
to them.

"I really don't know.”

"What! Why,
surely you're a member of the board?”
"No,
I'm not a member now;
I've resigned,”
answered Levin,
"and i no longer attend the meetings.”

"What a pity!”
commented Sergey Ivanovitch,
frowning.

Levin in self-defense began
to describe what took place in the meetings in his district.

"That's how it always is!”
Sergey Ivanovitch interrupted him.

"We Russians are always like that.

Perhaps it's our strong point,
really,
the faculty of seeing our own shortcomings;
but we overdo it,
we comfort ourselves
with irony which we always have on the tip of our tongues.

All I say is,
give such rights as our local self-government
to any other European people--why,
the Germans or the English would have worked their way
to freedom from them,
while we simply turn them into ridicule.”

"But how can it be helped?”
said Levin penitenly.

"It was my last effort.

And I did try
with all my soul.

I can't.

I'm no good at it.”

"It's not that you're no good at it,”
said Sergey Ivanovitch;
"it is that you don't look at it as you should.”

"Perhaps not,”
Levin answered dejectedly.

"Oh! do you know brother Nikolay's turned up again?”
This brother Nikolay was the elder brother of Konstantin Levin,
and half-brother of Sergey Ivanovitch;
a man utterly ruined,
who had dissipated the greater part of his fortune,
was living in the strangest and lowest company,
and had quarreled
with his brothers.

"What did you say?”
Levin cried
with horror.

"How do you know?”
"Prokofy saw him in the street.”

"Here in Moscow?

Where is he?

Do you know?”
Levin got up from his chair,
as though on the point of starting off at once.

"I am sorry I told you,”
said Sergey Ivanovitch,
shaking his head at his younger brother's excitement.

"I sent
to find out where he is living,
and sent him his IOU
to Trubin,
which I paid.

This is the answer he sent me.”

And Sergey Ivanovitch took a note from under a paper-weight and handed it
to his brother.

Levin read in the queer,
familiar handwriting:

"I humbly get you
to leave me in peace.

That's the only favor I ask of my gracious brothers.--Nikolay Levin.”

Levin read it,
and without raising his head stood
with the note in his hands opposite Sergey Ivanovitch.

There was a struggle in his heart between the desire
to forget his unhappy brother
for the time,
and the consciousness that it would be base
to do so.

"He obviously wants
to offend me,”
pursued Sergey Ivanovitch;
"but he cannot offend me,
and I should have wished
with all my heart
to assist him,
but I know it's impossible
to do that.”

"Yes,
yes,”
repeated Levin.

"I understand and appreciate your attitude
to him;
but I shall go and see him.”

"If you want to,
do;
but I shouldn't advise it,”
said Sergey Ivanovitch.

"As regards myself,
I have no fear of your doing so;
he will not make you quarrel
with me;
but
for your own sake,
I should say you would do better not
to go.

You can't do him any good;
still,
do as you please.”

"Very likely I an't do any good,
but I feel--especially at such a moment--but that's another thing--I feel I could not be at peace.”

"Well,
that I don't understand,”
said Sergey Ivanovitch.

"One thing I do understand,”
he added;
"it's a lesson in humility.

I have come
to look very differently and more charitably on what is called infamous since brother Nikolay has become what he is...you know what he did...”

"Oh,
it's awful,
awful!”
repeated Levin.

After obtaining his brother's address from Sergey Ivanovitch's footman,
Levin was on the point of setting off at once
to see him,
but on second thought he decided
to put off his visit till the evening.

The first thing
to do
to set his heart at rest was
to accomplish what he had come
to Moscow for.

From his brother's Levin went
to Oblonsky's office,
and on getting news of the Shtcherbatskys from him,
he drove
to the place where he had been told he might find Kitty.

Chapter 9 At four o'clock,
conscious of his throbbing heart,
Levin stepped out of a hired sledge at the Zoological Gardens,
and turned along the path
to hte frozen mounds and the skating ground,
knowing that he would certainly find her there,
as he had seen the Shtcherbatskys’
carriage at the entrance.

It was a bright,
frosty day.

Rows of carriages,
sledges,
drivers,
and policemen were standing in the approach.

Crowds of well-dressed people,
with hats bright in the sun,
swarmed about the entrance and along the well-swept little paths between the little houses adorned
with carving in the Russian style.

The old curly birches of the gardens,
all their twigs laden
with snow,
looked as though freshly decked in sacred vestments.

He walked along the path towards the skating-ground,
and kept saying
to himself
“You mustn't be excited,
you must be calm.

What's the matter
with you?

What do you want?

Be quiet,
stupit,”
he conjured his heart.

And the more he tried
to compose himself,
the more breathless he found himself.

An acquaintance met him and called him by his name,
but Levin did not even recognize him.

He went towards the mounds,
whence came the clank of the chains of sledges as they slipped down or were dragged up,
the rumble of the sliding sledges,
and the sounds of merry voices.

He walked on a few steps,
and the skating-ground lay open before his eyes,
and at once,
amidst all the skaters,
he knew her.

He knw she was there by the rapture and the terror that seized on his heart.

She was standing talking
to a lady at the opposite end of the ground.

There was apparently nothing striking either in her dress or her attitude.

But
for Levin she was as easy
to find in that crowd as a rose among nettles.

Everything was made bright by her.

She was the smile that shed light on all round her.

"Is it possible I can go over there in the ice,
go up
to her?”
he thought.

The place where she stood seemed
to him a holy shrine,
unapproachable,
and there was one moment when he as almost retreating,
so overwhelmed was he
with terror.

He had
to make an effort
to master himself,
and
to remind himself that people of all sorts were moving about her,
and that he too might come there
to skate.

He walked down,
for a long while avoiding looking at her as at the sun,
but seeing her,
as one does the sun,
without looking.

On that day of the week and at that time of day people of one set,
all acquainted
with one another,
used
to meet on the ice.

There were crack skaters there,
showing off their skill,
and learners clinging
to chairs
with timid,
awkward movements,
boys,
and elderly people skating
with hygienic motives.

They seemed
to Levin an elect band of blissful beings because they were here,
near her.

All the skaters,
it seemed,
with perfect self-possession,
skated towards her,
skated by her,
even spoke
to her,
and were happy,
quite apart from her,
enjoying the capital ice and the fine weather.

Nikolay Shtcherbatsky,
Kitty's cousin,
in a short jacket and tight trousers,
was sitting on a garden seat
with his skates on.

Seein Levin,
he shouted
to him:

"Ah,
the first skater in Russia! Been here long?

First-rate ice--do put your skates on.”

"I haven't got my skates,”
Levin answered,
maveling at this boldness and ease in her presence,
and not fro one second losing sight of her,
though he did not look at her.

He felt as though the sun were coming near him.

She was in a corner,
and turnign out her slender feet in their high boots
with obvious timidity,
she skated towards him.

A boy in Russian dress,
desperately waving his arms and bowed down
to the ground,
overtook her.

She skated a little uncertainly;
taking her hands out of the little muff that hung on a cord,
she held them ready
for emergency,
and looking towards Levin,
whom she had recognized,
she smiled at him and at her own fears.

Shen she had got round the turn,
she gave herself a push off
with one foot,
and skated straight up
to Shtcherbatsky.

Clutching at his arm,
she nodded smiling
to Levin.

She was more splendid that he had imagined her.

When he thought of her,
he could call up a vivid picture of her
to himself,
especially the charm of that little fair head,
so freely set on the shapely girlish shoulders,
and so full of childish brightness nad good-humor.

The childishness of her expression,
together
with the delicate beauty of her figure,
made up her special charm,
and that he fully realized.

But what always struck him in her as something unlooked for,
was the expression of her eyes,
soft,
serene,
and truthful,
and above all,
her smile,
which always transported Levin
to an enchanted world,
where he felt himself softened and tender,
as he remembered himself in some days of his early childhood.

"Have you been here long?”
she said,
giving him her hand.

"Thank you,”
she added,
as he picked up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff.

"I?

I've not long...yesterday...I mean today...I arrived,”
answered Levin,
in his emotion not at once understanding her question.

"I was meaning
to come and see you,”
he said;
and then,
recollecting
with what intention he was trying
to see her,
he was promptly overcome
with confusion and blushed.

"I didn't know you could skate,
and skate so well.”

She looked at him earnestly,
as though wishing
to make out the cause of his confusion.

"Your praise is worth having.

The tradition is kept up here that you are the best of skaters,”
she said,
with her little black-gloved hand brushing a grain of harfrost off her muff.

"Yes,
I used once
to skate
with passion;
I wanted
to reach perfection.”

"You do everything
with passion,
I think,’
she said smiling.

"I should so like
to see how you skate.

Put on skates,
and let us skate together.”

"Skate together! Can that be possible?”
thought Levin,
gazing at her.

"I'll put them on directly,”
he said.

And he went off
to get skates.

"It's a long while since we've seen you here,
sir,”
said the attendant,
supporting his foot,
and screwing on the heel of the skate.

"Except you,
there's none of the gentlemen first-rate skaters.

Will that be all right?”
said he,
tightening the strap.

"Oh,
yes,
yes;
make haste,
please,”
answered Levin,
with difficulty restraining the smile of rapture which would overspread his face.

"Yes,”
he thought,
"this now is life,
this is happiness! Together,
she said;
let us skate together! Speak
to her now?

But that's just why I'm afraid
to speak--because I'm happy now,
happy in hope,
anyway...And then?...But I must! I must! I must! Away
with weakness!”
Levin rose
to his feet,
took off his overcoat,
and scurrying over the rough ice round the hut,
came out on the smooth ice and skated without effort,
as it were,
by simple exercise of will,
increasing and slackening speed and turning his course.

He approached
with timidity,
but again her smile reassured him.

She gave him her hand,
and they set off side by side,
going faster and faster,
and the more rapidly they moved the more tightly she grasped his hand.

"With you I sould soon learn;
I somehow feel confidence in you,”
she said
to him.

"And I have confidence in myself when you are leaning on me,”
he said,
but was at once panic-stricken at what he had said,
and blushed.

And indeed,
no sooner had he uttered these words,
when all at once,
like the sun going behind a cloud,
her face lost all its friendliness,
and Levin detected the familiar change in her expression that denoted the working of thought;
a crease showed on her smooth brow.

"Is there anything troubling you?--though I've no right
to ask such a question,”
he added hurriedly.

"Oh,
why so?...No,
I have nothing
to trouble me,”
she responded coldly;
and she added immediately:

"You haven't seen Mlle.

Linon,
have you?”
"Not yet.”

"Go and speak
to her,
she likes you so much.”

"What's wrong?

I have offended her.

Lord help me!”
thought Levin,
and he flew towards the old Frenchwoman
with the gray ringlets,
who was sitting on a bench.

Smiling and showing her false teeth,
she greeted him as an old friend.

"Yes,
you see we're growing up,”
she said
to him,
glancing towards Kitty,
"and growing old.

Tiny bear has grown big now!”
pursued the Frenchwoman,
laughing,
and she reminded him of his joke about the three young ladies whom he had compared
to the three bears in the English nursery tale.

"Do you remember that's what you used
to call them?”
He remembered absolutely nothing,
but she had been laughing at the joke
for ten years now,
and was fond of it.

"Now,
go and skate,
go and skate.

Our Kitty has learned
to skate nicely,
hasn't she?”
When Levin darted up
to Kitty her face was no longer stern;
her eyes looked at him
with hte same sincerity and friendliness,
but Levin fancied that in her friendliness there was a certain note of deliberate composure.

And he felt drpressed.

After talking a little of her old governess and her peculiarities,
she questioned him about his life.

"Surely you must be dull in the country in the winter,
aren't you?”
she said.

"No,
I'm not dull,
I am very busy,”
he said,
feeling that she was holding him in check by her composed tone,
which he would not have the force
to break through,
just as it had been at the beginning of the winter.

"Are you going
to stay in town long?”
Kitty questioned him.

"I don't know,”
he answered,
not thinking of what he was saying.

The thought that if he were held in check by her tone of quiet friendliness he would end by going back again without deciding anything came ito his mind,
and he resolved
to make a struggle against it.

"How is it you don't know?”
"I don't know.

It depends upon you,”
he said,
and was immediatly horror-stricken at his own words.

Whether it was that she had heard his words,
or that she did not want
to hear them,
she made a sort of stumble,
twice struck out,
and hurriedly skated away from him.

She skated up
to Mlle.

Linon,
said something
to her,
and went towards the pavilion where the ladies took off their skates.

"My God! what have I done! Merciful God! help me,
guide me,”
said Levin,
praying inwardly,
and at the same time,
feeling a need of violent exercise,
he skated about describing inner and outer circles.

At that moment one of the young ment,
the best of the skaters of the day,
came out of the coffee-house in his skates,
with a ciagarette in his mouth.

Taking a run,
he dashed down the steps in his skates,
crashing and bounding up and down.

He flew down,
and without even changing the position of his hands,
staked away over the ice.

"Ah,
that's a new trick!”
said Levin,
and he promptly ran up
to the top
to do this new trick.

"Don't break you neck! it needs practice!”
Nikolay Shtcherbatsky shouted after him.

Levin went
to the steps,
took a run from above as best he cold,
and dashed down,
preserving his balnce in this unwonted movement
with his hands.

On the last step he stumbled,
but barely touching the ice
with his hand,
with a violent effort recovered himself,
and skated off,
laughing.

"How splendid,
how nice he is!”
Kitty was thinking at that time,
as she came out of the pavilion
with Mlle.

Linon,
and looked towards him
with a smile of quiet affection,
as though he were a favorite brother.

"And can it be my fault,
can I have done anything wrong?

They talk of flirtation.

I know it's not he that I love;
but still I am happy
with him,
and he's so jolly.

Only,
why did he say that?...”

she mused.

Catching sight of Kitty going away,
and her mother meeting her at the steps,
Lving,
flushed from his rapid exercise,
stood still and pondered a minute.

He took off his skates,
and overtook the mother and daughter at the entrance of the gardens.

"Delighted
to see you,”
said Princess Shtcherbatskaya.

"On Thursdays we are home,
as always.”

"Today,
then?”
"We shall be pleased
to see you,”
the princess said stiffly.

This stiffness hurt Kitty,
and she could not resist the desire
to smooth over her mother's coldness.

She turned her head,
and
with a smile said:

"Good-bye till this evening.”

At that moment Stepan Arkadyevitch,
his hat cocked on one side,
with beaming face and eyes,
strode into the garden like a conquering hero.

But as he approached his mother-in-law,
he responded in a mournful and restfallen tone
to her inquiries about Dolly's health.

After a little dubdued and dejected conversation
with his mother-in-law,
he threw out his chest again,
and put his arm in Levin's.

"Well,
shall we set off?”
he asked.

"I've been thinking about you all this time,
and I'm very,
very glad you've come,”
he said,
looking him in the face
with a significant air.

"Yes,
come along,”
answered Levin in ecstasy,
hearing unceasingly the sound of that voice saying,
"Good-bye till this evening,”
and seeing the smile
with which it was said.

"To the England or the Hermitage?”
"I don't mind which.”

"All right,
then,
the England,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
selecting that restaurant because he woed more there than at the Hermitage,
and consequently considered it mean
to avoid it.

"Have you got a sledge?

That's first-rate,
for I sent my carriage home.”

The friends hadly spoke all the way.

Levin was wondering what that change in Kitty's expression had meant,
and alternately assuring himself that there was hope,
and alling into despair,
seeing clearly that his hopes were insane,
and yet all the while he flet himself quite another man,
utterly unlike what he had been before her smile and those words,
"Good-bye till this evening.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch was abosorbed during the drive in composing the menu of the dinner.

"You like trout,
don't you?”
he said
to Levin as they were arriving.

"Eh?”
responded Levin.

"Turbot?

Yes,
I'm AWFULLY fond of turbot.”

Chapter 10 When Levin went into the restaurant
with Oblonsky,
he could not help noticing a certain peculiarity of expression,
as it were,
a restrained radiance,
about the face and whole figure of Stepan Arkadyevitch.

Oblonsky took off his overcoat,
aqnd
with his hat over one ear walked into the dining room,
giving directions
to the Tatar waiters,
who were clustered about him in evening coats,
bearing napkins.

Bowing
to right and left
to the people he met,
and here as everywhere joyously greeting acquaintances,
he went up
to thesideboard
for a preliminary appetizer of fixh and vbodka,
and said
to the painted Frenchwoman decked in ribbons,
lace,
and ringlets,
behind the counter,
something so amusing that even that Frenchwoman was moved
to guinine laughter.

Levin
for his part refrained from taking any vodka simply because he felt such a loathing of that Frenchwoman,
all made up,
it seemed,
of false hair,
poudre de riz,
and vinaigre de toilette.

He made haste
to move away from her,
as from a dirty place.

His whole sould was filled
with memories of Kitty,
and there was a smile of triumph and happiness shining in his eyes.

"This way,
your excellency,
please.

Your excellency won't be disturbed here,”
said a particularly pertinacious,
white-headed old Tatar
with immense hips and coattails gaping widely behind.

"Walk in,
your excellency,”
he said
to Levin;
by way of showing his respect
to Stepan Arkadyevitch,
being attentive
to his guest as well.

Instantly flinging a fresh cloth over the round table under the bronze chandelier,
though it already had a table cloth on it,
he pushed up velvet chairs,
and came
to a standstill before Stepan Arkadyevitch
with a napkin and a bill of fare in his hands,
awaiting his commands.

"If you prefer it,
your excellency,
a private room will be free directly;
Prince Golistin
with a lady.

Fresh oysters have come in.”

"Ah! oysters.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch became thoughtful.

"How if we were
to change our program,
Levin?”
he said keeping his finger on the bill of fare.

And his face expressed serious hesitation.

"Are the oysters good?

Mind now.”

"They're Flensburg,
your excellency.

We've no Ostend.”

"Flensburg will do,
but are they fresh?”
"Only arrived yesterday.”

"Well,
then,
how if we were
to begin
with oysters,
and so change the whole program?

Eh?”
"It's all the same
to me.

I should like cabbage soup and porridge better than anything;
but of course there's nothing like that here.”

"Porridge a la Russe,
your honor would like?”
said the Tatar,
bending down
to Levin,
like a nurse speaking
to a child.

"No,
joking apart,
whatever you choose is sure
to be good.

I've been skating,
and I'm hungry.

And don't imagine,”
he added,
detecting a look of dissatisfaction on Oblonsky's face,
"that I shan't appreciate your choice.

I am fond of good things.”

"I should hope so! After all,
it's one of the pleasures of life,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"Well,
then,
my friend,
you give us two--or better say three--dozen oysters,
clear soup
with vegetables...”

"Printaniere,”
prompted the Tatar.

But Stepan Arkadyevitch apparently did not care
to allow him the satisfaction of giving the French names of the dishes.

"With vegetables in it,
you know.

Then turbot
with thick sauce,
then...roast beef;
and mind it's good.

Yes,
and capons,
perhaps,
and then sweets.”

The Tatar,
recollecting that it was Stepan Arkadyevitch's way not
to call the dishes by the names in the French bill of fare,
did not repeat them after him,
but could not resist rehearsing the whole menus
to himself according
to hte bill:--"Soupe printaniere,
turbot,
sauce Beaumarchais,
poulard a l'estragon,
macedoine de fruits...etc.,”
and then instantly,
as though worked by springs,
laying down one bound bill of fare,
he took up another,
the list of wines,
and submitted it
to Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"What shall we drink?”
"What you like,
only not too much.

Champagne,”
said Levin.

"What!
to start with?

You're right though,
I dare say.

Do you like the white seal?”
"Cachet blanc,”
prompted the Tatar.

"Very well,
then,
give us that brand
with the oysters,
and then we'll see.”

"Yes,
sir.

And what table wine?”
"You can give us Nuits.

Oh,
no,
better the classi Chablis.”

"Yes,
sir.

And YOUR cheese,
your excellency?”
"Oh,
yes,
Parmesan.

Or would you like another?”
"No,
it's all the same
to me,”
said Levin,
unable
to suppress a smile.

And the Tatar ran off
with flying coattails,
and in five minutes darted in
with a dish of opened oysters on mother-of-pearl shells,
and a bottle between his fingers.

Stepan Arkadyevitch crushed the starchy napkin,
tucked it into his waistcoat,
and settling his arms comfortably,
started on the oysters.

"Not bad,”
he said,
stripping the oysters from the pearly shell
with a silver fork,
and swalloing them one after another.

"Not bad,”
he repeated,
turning his dewy,
brilliant eyes from Levin
to the Tatar.

Levin ate the oysters indeed,
though white bread and cheese would have pleased him better.

But he was admiring Oblonsky.

Even the Tatar,
uncorking the bottle and pouring the sparkling wine into the delicate glasses,
glanced at Stepan Arkadyevitch,
and settled his white cravat
with a perceptable smile of satisfaction.

"You don't care much
for oysters,
do you?”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
emptying his wine glass,
"or you're worried about soemthing.

Eh?”
He wanted Levin
to be in good spirits.

But it was not that Levin was not in good spirits;
he was ill at ease.

With what he had in his soul,
he felt sore and uncomfortable in the restaurant,
in the midst of private rooms where men were dining
with ladies,
in all this fuss and bustle;
the surroundings of bronzes,
looking glasses,
gas,
and waiters--all of it was offensive
to him.

He was afraid of sullying what his sould was brimful of.

"I?

Yes,
I am;
but besides,
all this bothers me,”
he said.

"You can't conceive how queer it all seems
to a country person like me,
as queer as that gentleman's nails I saw at your place...”

"Yes,
I saw how much interested you were in poor Grinevitch's nails,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
laughing.

"It's too mcuh
for me,”
responded Levin.

"Do try,
now,
and put yourself in my place,
take the point of view of a country person.

We in the country try
to bring our hands into such a state as will be most convenient
for working with.

So we cut our nails;
sometimes we turn up our sleeves.

And here people purposely let their nails grow as long as they will,
and link on small saucers by way of studs,
so that they can do nothing
with their hands.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled gaily.

"Oh,
yes,
that's just a sign that he has no need
to do coarse work.

His work is
with the mind...”

"Maybe.

But still it's queer
to me,
just as at this moment it seems queer
to me that we country folks try
to get our meals over as soon as we can,
so as
to be ready
for our work,
while here are we trying
to drag out our meal as long as possible,
and
with that object eating oysters...”

"Why,
of course,”
objected Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"But that's just the aim of civilization--to make everything a source of enjoyment.”

"Well,
if that's its aim,
I'd rather be a savage.”

"And so you are a savage.

All you Levins are savages.”

Levin sighed.

He remembered his brother Nikolay,
and felt ashamed and sore,
and he scowled;
but Oblonsky began speaking of a subject which at once drew his attention.

"Oh,
I say,
are you going tonight
to our people,
the Shtcherbatskys',
I mean?”
he said,
his eyes sparkling significantly as he pushed away the empty rough shells,
and drew the cheese towards him.

"Yes,
I shall certainly go,”
replied Levin;
"though I fancied the princess was not very warm in her invitation.”

"What nonsense! That's her manner...Come,
boy,
the soup!...That's her manner--grande dame,”
said Stepan Arkadyevtich.

"I'm coming,
too,
but I have
to go
to the Countess Bonina's rehearsal.

Come,
isn't it true that you're a savage?

How do you explain the sudden way in hwich you vanished from Moscow?

The Shtcherbatskys were continually asking me about you,
as though I ought
to know.

The only thing I know is that you always do what no one else does.”

"Yes,”
said Levin,
slowly and
with emotion,
"you're right.

I am a savage.

Only,
my savageness is not in having gone away,
but in coming now.

Now I have come...”

"Oh,
what a lucky fellow you are!”
broke in Stepan Arkadyevitch,
looking into Levin's eyes.

"Why?”
"I know a gallant steed by tokens sure,
And by his eyes I know a youth in love,”
declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"Everything is before you.”

"Why,
is it over
for you already?”
"No;
not over exactly,
but the future is yours,
and the present is mine,
and the present--well,
it's not all that it might be.”

"How so?”
"Oh,
things go wrong.

But I don't want
to talk of myself,
and besides I can't explain it all,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"Well,
why have you come
to Moscow,
then?...Hi! take away!”
he called
to the Tatar.

"You guess?”
responded Levin,
his eyes like deep wells of light fixed on Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"I guess,
but I can't be the first
to talk about it.

You can see by that whether I guess right or wrong,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
gazing at Levin
with a subtle smile.

"Well,
and what have ou
to say
to me?”
said Levin in a quivering voice,
feeling that all the muscles of his face were quivering too.

"How do you look at the question?”
Stepan Arkadyevitch slowly emptied his glass of Chablis,
never taking his eyes off Levin.

"I?”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
"there's nothing I desire so much as that--nothing! It would be the best thing that could be.”

"But you're not making a mistake?

You know what we're speaking of?”
said Levin,
piercing him
with his eyes.

"You think it's possible?”
"I think it's possible.

Why not possible?”
"No! do you really think it's possible?

No,
tell me all you think! Oh,
but if...if refusal's in store
for me!...Indeed I feel sure...”

"Why should you think that?”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling at his excitement.

"It seems so
to me sometimes.

That will be awful
for me,
and
for her too.”

"Oh,
well,
anyway there's nothing awful in it
for a girl.

Every girl's proud of an offer.”

"Yes,
every girl,
but not she.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled.

he so well knew that feeling of Levin's,
that
for him all the girls in the world were divided into two classes:

one class--all the girls in the world except her,
and those girls
with all sorts of human weaknesses,
and very ordinary girls:

the other class--she alone,
having no weaknesses of any sort and higher than all humanity.

"Stay,
take some sauce,”
he said,
holding back Levin's hand as it pushed away the sauce.

Levin obediently helped himself
to sauce,
but would not let Stepan Arkadyevitch go on
with his dinner.

"No,
stop a minute,
stop a minute,”
he said.

"You must understand that it's a question of life and death
for me.

I have never spoken
to any one of this.

And there's no one I could speak of it to,
except you.

You know we're utterly unlike each other,
different tastes and views and everything;
but I know you're fond of me and understand me,
and that's why I like you awfully.

But
for God's sake,
be quite straightforward
with me.”

"I tell yo what I think,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling.

"But I'll say more:

my wife is a wonderful woman...”

Stepan Arkadyevtich sighed,
remembering his position
with his wife,
and,
after a moment's silence,
resumed--"She has a gift of forseeing things.

She sees right through people;
but that's not all;
she knows what will come
to pass,
especially in the way of marriages.

She foretold,
for instance,
that Princess Shahovskaya would marry Brenteln.

No one would believe it,
but it came
to pass.

And she's on your side.”

"How do you mean?”
"It's not only that she likes you--she says that Kitty is certain
to be your wife.”

At these words Levin's face suddenly lighted up
with a smile,
a smile not far from tears of emotion.

"She says that!”
cried Levin.

"I always said she was exquisite,
your wife.

There,
that's enoght,
enough said about it,”
he said,
getting up from his seat.

"All right,
but do sit down.”

But Levin could not sit down.

He walked
with his firm tread twice up and down the little cage of a room,
blinked his eyelids that his tears might not fall,
and only then sat down
to the table.

"You must understand,”
said he,
"it's not love.

I've been in love,
but it's not that.

It's not my feeling,
but a sort of force outside me has taken possession of me.

I went away,
you see,
because I made up my mind that it could never be,
you understand,
as a happiness that does not come on earth;
but I've struggled
with myself,
I see there's no living without it.

And it must be settled.”

"What did you go away for?”
"Ah,
stop a minute! Ah,
the thoughts that come crowding on one! The questions one must ask oneself! Listen.

You can't imagine what you've done
for me by what you said.

I'm so happy that I've become positively hateful;
I've forgotten everything.

I heard today that my brother Nikolay...you know,
he'e here...I had even forgotten him.

It seems
to me that he's happy too.

It's a sort of madness.

But one thing's awful...Here,
you've been married,
you know the feeling...it's awful that we--old--with a past...not of love,
but of sins...are brought all at once so near
to a creature pure and innocent;
it's loathsome,
and that's why one can't help feeling oneself unworthy.”

"Oh,
well,
you've not many sins on your conscience.”

"Alas! all the same,”
said Levin,
"when
with loathing I go over my life,
I shudder and curse and bitterly regret it...Yes.”

"What would you have?

The world's made so,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"The one comfort is like that prayer,
which I always liked:

Forgive me not according
to my unworthiness,
but according
to Thy lovingkindness.’

That's the only way she can forgive me.”

Chapter 11 Levin empited his glass,
and they were silent
for a while.

"There's one other thing I ought
to tell you.

Do you know Vronsky?”
Stepan Arkadyevitch asked Levin.

"No,
I don't.

Why do you ask?”
"Give us another bottle,”
Stepan Arkadyevitch directed the Tatar,
who was filling up their glasses and fidgeting round them just when he was not wanted.

"Why you ought
to know Vronsky is that he's one of your rivals.”

"Who's Vronsky?”
said Levin,
and his face was suddenly transformed from the look of childlike ecstasy which Oblonsky had jsut been admiring
to an angry and unpleasant expression.

"Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirill Ivanovitch Vronsky,
and one of the finest specimens of the gilded youth of Petersburg.

I made his acquaintance in Tver when I was there on official business,
and he came there
for the levy of recruits.

Fearfully rich,
handsome,
great connections,
an aide-de-camp,
and
with all that a very nice,
good-natured fellow.

But he's more than simply a good-natured fellow,
as I've found out here--he's a cultivated man,
too,
and very intelligent;
he a man who'll make his mark.”

Levin scowled and was dumb.

"Well,
he turned up here soon after you'd gone,
and as I can see,
he's over head and ears in love
with Kitty,
and you know that her mother...”

"Excuse me,
but I know nothing,”
said Levin,
frowning gloomily.

And immediately he recollected his brother Nikolay and how hateful he was
to have been able
to forget him.

"You wait a bit,
wait a bit,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling and touching his hand.

"I've told you what I know,
and I repeat that in this delicate and tender matter,
as far as one can conjecture,
I believe the chances are in your favor.”

Levin dropped back in his chair;
his face was pale.

"But I would advise you
to settle the thing as soon as may be,”
pursued Oblonsky,
filling up his glass.

"No,
thanks,
I can't drink any more,”
said Levin,
pushing away his glass.

"I shall be drunk...Come,
tell me how are you getting on?”
he went on,
obviously anxious
to change the coversation.

"One word more:

in any case I advise you
to settle the questions soon.

Tonight I don't advise you
to speak,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"Go round tomorrow morning,
make an offer in due form,
and God bless you...”

"Oh,
do you still think of coming
to me
for some shooting?

Come next spring,
do,”
said Levin.

Now his whole sould was full of remorse that he had begun this coversation
with Stepan Arkadyevitch.

A feeling such as his was profaced by talk of the rivalry of some Petersburg officer,
of the suppositions and the counsels of Stepan Arkadyevitch.

Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled.

He knew what was passing in Levin's soul.

"I'll come some day,”
he said.

"But women,
my boy,
they're the pivot everything turns upon.

Things are in a bad way
with me,
very bad.

And it's all through women.

Tell me frankly now,”
he pursued,
picking up a cigar and keeping one hand on his glass;
"give me your advice.”

"Why,
what is it?”
"I'll tell you.

Suppose you're married,
you love your wife,
but you're fascinated by another woman...”

"Excuse me,
but I'm absolutely unable
to comprehend how...just as I can't comprehend how I could now,
after my dinner,
go straight
to a baker's shop and steal a roll.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes sparkled more than usual.

"Why not?

A roll will sometimes smell so good one can't resist it.”

"Himmlisch ist's,
wenn ich bezwungen Meine irdische Begier;
Aber doch wenn's nich gelungen Hatt’
ich auch recht huebsch Plaisir!”
As he said this,
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled subtly.

Levin,
too,
could not help smiling.

"Yes,
but joking apart,”
resumed Stepan Arkadyevitch,
"you must understand that the woman is a sweet,
gentle loving creature,
poor and lonely,
and has sacrificed everything.

Now,
when the thing's done,
don't you see,
can oe possibly cast her off?

Even supposing one parts from her,
so as not
to break up one's family life,
still,
can one help feeling
for her,
setting her on her feet,
softeneing her lot?”
"Well,
you must excuse me there.

You know
to me all women are divided into two classes...at least no...truer
to say:

there are women and there are...I've never seen exquisite fallen beings,
and I never shall see them,
but such creatures as that painted Frenchwoman at the counter
with the ringlets are vermin
to my mind,
and all fallen women are the same.”

"But the Magdalen?”
"Ah,
drop that! Christ would never have said those words if He had known how they would be abused.

Of all the Gospel those words are the only ones remembered.

However,
I'm not saying so much what I think,
as what I feel.

I have a loathing
for fallen women.

You're afraid of spiders,
and I of these vermin.

Most likely you've not made a study of spiders and don't know their character;
and so it is
with me.”

"It's very well
for you
to talk like that;
it's very much like that gentleman in Dickens who used
to fling all difficult questions over his right shoulder.

BUt
to deny the facts is no answer.

What's
to be done--you tell me that,
what's
to be done?

Your wife gets older,
while you're full of life.

Before you've time
to look round,
you feel that you can't love your wife
with love,
however much you may esteem her.

And then all at once love turns up,
and you're done for,
done for,”
Stepan Arkadyevitch said
with weary despair.

Levin half smiled.

"Yes,
you're done for,”
resumed Oblonsky.

"But what's
to be done?”
"Don't steal rolls.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch laughed outright.

"Oh,
moralist! But you must understand,
there are two women;
one insists only on her rights,
and those rights are your love,
which you can't give her;
and the other sacrifices everything
for you and asks
for nothing.

What are you
to do?

How are you
to act?

There's a fearful tragedy in it.”

"If you care
for my profession of faith as regards that,
I'll tell you that I don't believe there was any tradedy about it.

And this is why.

To my mind,
love...both the sorts of love,
which you remember Plato defines in his Banquet,
served as the test of men.

Some men only understand one sort,
and some only the other.

And those who only know the non-platonic love have no need
to talk of tragedy.

In such love there can be no sort of tragedy.

I'm much obliged
for the gratification,
my humble respects'--that's all the tragedy.

And in plationic love there can be no tragedy,
because in that love all is clear and pure,
because...”

At that instant Levin recollected his own sins and the inner conflich he had lived through.

And he added unexpectedly:

"But perhaps you are right.

Very likely...I don't know,
I don't know.”

"It's this,
don't you see,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
"you're very much all of a piece.

That's your stong point and your failing.

You have a character that's all of a piece,
and you wnat the whole of life
to be of a piece too--but that's not how it is.

You despise public official work because you want the reality
to be invariably corresponding all the while
with the aim--and that's not how it is.

You want a man's work,
too,
always
to have a defined aim,
and love and family life always
to be undivided--and that's not how it is.

All the variety,
all the charm,
all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow.”

Levin sighed and made no reply.

He was thinking of his own affaris,
and did not hear Oblonsky.

And suddenly both of them felt that though they were friends,
though they had been dining and drinking together,
which should have drawn them closer,
yet each was thinking only of his own affairs,
and they had nothing
to do
with one another.

Oblonsky had more htan once experienced this extreme sense of aloofness,
instead of intimacy,
coming on after dinner,
and he knew what
to do in such cases.

"Bill!”
he called,
and he went into the next room where he promptly came across and aide-de-camp of his acquaintance and dropped into conversation
with him about an actress and her protector.

And at once in the conversation
with the aide-de-camp Oblonsky had a sense of relaxation and relief after the conversation
with Levin,
which always put him
to too great a mental and spiritual strain.

When the Tatar appeared
with a bill
for twenty-six roubles and odd kopecks,
besides a tip
for himself,
Levin,
who would another time have been horrified,
like any one from the cuntry,
at his share of fourteen roubles,
did not notice it,
paid,
and set off homewards
to dress and go
to the Shtcherbatskys’
there
to decide his fate.

Chapter 12 The young Princess Kitty Shtcherbatskaya was eighteen.

It was the first winter that she had been out in the world.

Her success in society had been greater than that of either of her elder sisters,
and greater even than her mother had anticipated.

To say nothing of the yound men who danced at the Moscow balls being almost all in love
with Kitty,
two serious suitors had already this first winter made their appearance:

Levin,
and immediately after his departure,
Count Vronsky.

Levin's appearance at the beginning of the winter,
his frequent visits,
and evident love
for Kitty,
had led
to the first serious conversations between Kitty's parents as
to her future,
and
to disputes between them.

The prince was on Levin's side;
he said he wished
for nothing better
for Kitty.

The princess
for her part,
going round the question in the manner peculair
to women,
maintained that Kitty was too young,
that Levin had done nothing
to prove that he had serious intentions,
that Kitty felt no great attraction
to him,
and that she looked
for a better match
for her daughter,
and that Levin was not
to her liking,
and she did not understand him.

when Levin had abruptly departed,
the princess was delighted,
and said
to her husband triumpantly:

"You see I was right.”

When Vronsky appeared on the scene,
she was still more delighted,
confirmed in her opinion that Kitty was
to make not simply a good,
but a brilliant match.

In the mother's eyes there could be no comparison between Vronsky and Levin.

She disliked in Levin his strange and uncompromising opinions and his shyness in society,
founded,
as she supposed,
on his pride and his queer sort of life,
as she considered it,
absorbed in cattle and peasants.

She did not very much like it that he,
who was in love
with her daughter,
had kept coming
to the house
for six weeks,
as though he were waiting
for something,
inspecting,
as though he were afraid he might be doing them too great an honor by making an offer,
and did not realize that a man,
who continually visits at a house where there is a young unmarried girl,
is bound
to make his intentions clear.

And suddenly,
without doing so,
he disappeared.

"It's as well he's not attractive enough
for Kitty
to have fallen in love
with him,”
thought the mother.

Vronsky satisfied all the mother's desires.

Very wealthy,
clever,
of aristocratic family,
on the highroad
to a brilliant career in the army and at court,
and a fascinating man.

Nothing better could be wished for.

Vronsky openly flirted
with Kitty at balls,
danced
with her,
and came continually
to the house,
consequently there could be no doubt of the seriousness of his intentions.

But,
in spite of that,
the mother had spent the hwole of that winter in a state of terrible anxiety and agitation.

Princess Shtcherbatskaya had herself been married thirty years ago,
her aunt arranging the match.

Her husband,
about whom everything was well known before hand,
had come,
looked at his future bride,
and been looked at.

The match-making aunt had ascertained and communicated their mutual impression.

That impression had been favorable.

Afterwards,
on a day fixed beforehand,
the expected offer was made
to her parents,
and accepted.

All had passed very simply and easily.

So it seemed,
at least,
to the princess.

But over he own daughters she had felt how far from simple and easy is the business,
apparntly so commonplace,
of marrying off one's daughters.

The panics that had been lived through,
the thoughts that had been brooded over,
the money that had been wasted,
and the disputes
with her husband over marrying the two elder girls,
Darya and Natalia! Now,
since the youngest had come out,
she was going through the same terrors,
the same doubts,
and still more violent quarrels
with her husbant than she had over the elder girls.

The old prince,
like all fathers indeed,
was exceedingly punctilious on the score of the honor and reputation of his daughters.

He was irrationally jealous over his daoughters,
especially over Kitty,
who was his favorite.

At every turn he had scenes
with the princess
for compromising her daughter.

The princess had grown accustomed
to this already
with her other daughters,
but now she felt that there was more ground
for the prince's touchiness.

She saw that of late years much was changed in the manners of society,
that a mother's duties had become still more difficult.

She saw that girls of Kitty's age formed some sort of clubs,
went
to some sort of lectures,
mixed freely in men's society;
drove about the streets alone,
many of them did not curtsey,
and,
what was the most important thing,
all the girls were firmly convinced that
to choose their husbands was their own affair,
and not their parents'.

"Marriages aren't made nowadays as they used
to be,”
was thought and said by all these young girls,
and even by their elders.

But how marriages were made now,
the princess could not learn from any one.

The French fashion--of the parents arranging their children's future--was not accepted;
it was condemned.

The English fashion of the complete indepnendence of girls was also not accepted,
and not possible in Russian society.

The Russian fashion of match-making by the offices if intermediate persons was
for some reason considered unseemly;
it was ridiculed by every one,
and by the princess herself.

But how girls were
to be married,
and how parents were
to marry them,
no one knew.

Every one
with whom the princess had chanced
to discuss the matter said the same thing:

"Mercy on us,
it's high time in our day
to cast off all that old-fashioned business.

It's the houng people have
to marry;
nad not heir parents;
and so we ought
to leave the young people
to arrange it as they choose.”

It was very easy
for any one
to say that who had no daughters,
but the princess realized that in the process of getting
to know each other,
her daughter might fall in love,
and fall in love
with some one who did not care
to marry her or who was quite unfit
to be her husband.

And,
however much it was instilled into the princess that in our times young people ought
to arrange their lives
for themselves,
she was unable
to believe it,
just as she would have been unable
to believe that,
at any time whatever,
the most suitable playthings
for children five years old ought
to be loaded pistols.

And so the princess whas mor4e uneasy over Kitty than she had been over her elder sisters.

Now she was afraid that Vronsky might confine himself
to simply flirting
with her daughter.

She saw that her daughter was in love
with him,
but tried
to comfort herself
with the thought that he was an honorable man,
and would not do this.

But as the same time she knew how easy it is,
with the freedom of manners of today,
to turn a girl's head,
and how lightly men generally regard such a crime.

The week before,
Kitty had told her mother of a conversation she had
with Vronsky during a mazurka.

This conversation had partly reassured the princess;
but perfectly at ease she could not be.

Vronsky had told Kitty that both he and his brother were so used
to obeying their mother htat they never made up their minds
to any important undertaking without consulting her.

"And just now,
I am impatiently awaiting my mother's arrival from Petersburg,
as peculiarly fortunate,”
he told her.

Kitty had repeated this without attaching any significance
to the words.

But her mother saw them in a different light.

She knew that the old lady was expected from day
to day,
that she would be pleased at her son's choice,
and she felt it strange that he should not make his offer through fear of vexing his mother.

However,
she was so anxious
for the marriage itself,
and still more
for relief from her fears,
that she believed it was so.

Bitter as it was
for the princess
to see the unhappiness of her eldest daughter,
Dolly,
on the point of leaving her husband,
her anxiety over the decision of her youngest dauther's fate engrossed all her feelings.

Today,
with Levin's reappearance,
a fesh source of anxiedty arose.

She was afraid that her daughter,
who had at one time,
as she fancied,
a feeling
for Levin,
might,
from extreme sense of honor,
refuse Vronsky,
and that Levin's arrival might generally complicate and delay the affair so near being concluded.

"Why,
has be been here long?”
the princess asked about Levin,
as they returned home.

"He came today,
mamma.”

"There's one thing I want
to say...”

began the princess,
and from her serious and alert face,
Kitty guessed what it would be.

"Mamma,”
she said,
flushing hotly and turning quickly
to her,
"please,
please don't say anything about that.

I know,
I know all about it.”

She wished
for what her mother wished for,
but the motives of her mother's wishes wounded her.

"I only want
to say that
to raise hopes...”

"Mamma,
darling,
for goodness’
sake,
don't talk about it.

It's so horrible
to talk about it.”

"I won't,”
said her mother,
seeing the tears in her daughter's eyes;
"but one thing,
my love;
you promised me you would have not secrets from me.

You won't?”
"Never,
mamma,
none,”
answered Kitty,
flushing a little,
and looking her mother straight in the face,
"but there's no use in my telling you anything,
and I...I...if I wanted to,
I don't know what
to say or how...I don't know...”

"No,
she could not tell an untruth
with those eyes,”
thought the mother,
smiling at her agitation and happiness.

The princess smiles that what was taking place just now in her soul seemed
to the poor child so immense and so important.

Chapter 13 After dinner,
and till the beginning of the evening,
Kitty was feeling a sensation akin
to the sensation of a young man before a battle.

Her heat throbbed violently,
and her thoughts would not rest on anything.

She felt that this evening,
when they would both meet
for the first time,
would be a turning point in her life.

And she was continually picturing them
to herself,
at one moment each separately,
and then both together.

When she mused on the past,
she dwelt
with pleasure,
with tenderness,
on the memories of her relations
with Levin.

The memories of childhood and of Levin's friendship
with her dead brother gave a special poetic charm
to her relations
with him.

His love
for her,
of which she felt certain,
was flattering and delightful
to her;
and it was pleasant
for her
to think of Levin.

In her memories of Vronsky there always entered a certain element of awkwardness,
though he was in the highest degree well-bred and at ease,
as though there were some false note--not in Vronsky,
he was very simple and nice,
but in herself,
while
with Levin she felt perfectly simple and clear.

But,
on the other hand,
directly she thought of the future
with Vronsky,
there arose before her a persepctive of brilliant happiness;
with Levin the future seemed misty.

When she went upstairs
to dress,
and looked into the looking-glass,
she noticed
with joy that it was one of her good days,
and that she was in complete possession of all her forces,--she needed this so
for what lay before her:

she was conscious of external composure and free grace in her movements.

At half-past seven she had only just gone down into the drawing room,
when the footman announced,
"Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin.”

The princess was still in her room,
and the prince had not come in.

"So it is
to be,”
thought Kitty,
and all the blood seemed
to rush
to her heart.

She was horrified at her paleness,
as she glanced into the looking-glass.

At that moment she knew beyond doubt that he had come early on purpose
to find her alone and
to make her an offer.

And only then
for the first time the whole thing presented itself in a new,
different aspect;
only then she realized that the question did not affect her only--with whom she would be happy,
and whom she loved--but that she would have that moment
to wound a man whom she liked.

And
to wound him cruelly.

What for?

Because he,
dear fellow,
loved her,
was in love
with her.

But there was no help
for it,
so it must be,
so it would have
to be.

"My God! shall I myself really have
to say it
to him?”
she thought.

"Can I tell him I don't love him?

That will be a lie.

What am I
to say
to him?

That I love some one else?

No,
that's impossible.

I'm going away,
I'm going away.”

She had reached the door,
when she heard his step.

"No! it's not honest.

What have I
to be afraid of?

I have done nothing wrong.

What is
to be,
will be! I'll tell the truth.

And
with him one can't be ill at ease.

Here he is,”
she said
to herself,
seeing his powerful,
shy figure,
with his shining eyes fixed on her.

She looked straight into his face,
as thought imploring him
to spare her,
and gave her hand.

"It's not time yet;
I think I'm too early,”
he said glancing round the empty drawing-room.

When he saw that his expectations were realized,
that there was nothing
to prevent him from speaking,
his face became gloomy.

"Oh,
no,”
said Kitty,
and sat down at the table.

"But this was just what I wanted,
to find you alone,”
be began,
not sitting down,
and not looking at her,
so as not
to lose courage.

"Mamma will be down directly.

She was very much tired...Yesterday...”

She talked on,
not knowing what her lips were uttering,
and not taking her supplicating and caressing eyes off him.

He glanced at her;
she blushed,
and ceased speaking.

"I told you I did not know whether I should be here long...that it depended on you...”

She dropped her head lower and lower,
not knowing herself what answer she should make
to what was coming.

"That it depended on you,”
he repeated.

"I meant
to say...I meant
to say...I came
for this...to be my wife!”
he brought out,
not knowing what he was saying;
but feeling that the most terrible thing was said,
he stopped short and looked at her...

She was breathing heavily,
not looking at him.

She was feeling ecstasy.

Her sould was flooded
with happiness.

She had never anticipated that the utterance of love would produce such a powerful effect on her.

But it lasted only an instant.

She remembered Vronsky.

She lifted her clear,
truthful eyes,
and seeing his desperate face,
she answered hastily:

"That cannot be...forgive me.”

...

A moment ago,
and how close she had been
to him,
of what importance in his life! And how aloof and remote from him she had become now!
“It was bound
to be so,”
he said,
not looking at her.

He bowed,
and was meaning
to retreat.

Chapter 14 But at that very moment the princess came in.

There was a look of horror on her face when she saw them alone,
and their disturbed faces.

Levin bowed
to her,
and said nothing.

Kitty did not speak nor lift her eyes.

"Thank God,
she has refused him,”
thought the mother,
and her face lighted up
with the habitual smile
with which she greeted her guests on Thursdays.

She sat down and began questioning Levin about his life in the country.

He sat down again,
waiting
for other visitors
to arrive,
in order
to retreat unnoticed.

Five minutes later there came in a friend of Kitty's,
married the preceding winter,
Countess Nordston.

She was a thin,
sallow,
sickly,
and nervous woman,
with brilliant black eyes.

She was fond of Kitty,
and her affection
for her showed itself,
as the affection of married women
for girls always does,
in the desire
to make a match
for Kitty after her own ideal of married happiness;
she wanted her
to marry Vronsky.

Levin she had often met at the Shtcherbatskys’
early in the winter,
and she had always disliked him.

Her invariable and favorite pursuit,
when they met,
consisted in making fun of him.

"I do like it when he looks down at me from the height of his grandeur,
or breaks off his learned conversation
with me because I'm a fool,
or is condescending
to me.

I like that so;
to see him condescending! I am so glad he can't bear me,”
she used
to say of him.

She was right,
for Levin actually could not bear her,
and despised her
for what she was proud of and regarded as a fine characteristic--her nervousness,
her delicate contempt and indifference
for everything coarse and earthly.

The Countess Nordston and Levin got into that relatio
with one another not seldom seen in society,
when two persons,
who`remain externally on friendly terms,
despise each other
to such a degree that they cannot even take each other seriously,
and cannot even be offended by each other.

The Countess Nordston pounced upon Levin at once.

"Ah,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch! So you've come back
to our corrupt Babylon,”
she said,
giving him her tiny,
yellow hand,
and recalling what he had chanced
to say early in the winter,
that Moscow was a Babylon.

"Come,
is Babylon reformed,
or have you degenerated?”
she added,
glancing
with a simper at Kitty.

"It's very flattering
for me,
countess,
that you remember my words so well,”
responded Levin,
who had succeeded in recovering his composure,
and at once from habit dropped into his tone of joking hostility
to the Countess Nordston.

"They must certainly make a great impression on you.”

"Oh,
I should think so! I always not them all down.

Well,
Kitty,
have you been skating again?...

And she began talking
to Kitty.

Awkward as it was
for Levin
to withdraw now,
it would still have been easier
for him
to perpetrate this awkwardness than
to remain all the evening and see Kitty,
who glanced at him now and then and avoided his eyes.

He wason the point of getting up,
when the princess,
noticing that he was silent,
addressed him.

"Shall you be long in Moscow?

You're busy
with the district council,
though,
aren't you,
and can't be away
for long?”
"No,
princess,
I'm no longer a member of the council,”
he said.

"I have come up
for a few days.”

"There's something the matter
with him,”
thought Countess Nordston,
glancing at his stern,
serious face.

"He isn't in his old argumentative mood.

But I'll draw him out.

I do love making a foold of him before Kitty,
and I'll do it.”

"Konstantin Dmitrievitch,”
she said
to him,
"do explain
to me,
please,
what's the meaning of it.

You know all about such things.

At home in our village of Kaluga all the peasants and all the women have drunk up all they possessed,
and now they can't pay us any rent.

What's the meaning of that?

You always praise the peasants so.”

At that instant another lady came into the room,
and Levin got up.

"Excuse me,
countess,
but I really know nothing about it,
and can't tell you anything,”
he said,
and looked round at the officer who came in behind the lady.

"That must be Vronsky,”
thought Levin,
and,
to be sure of it,
glanced at Kitty.

She had already had time
to look at Vronsky,
and looked round at Levin.

And simply from the look in her eyes,
that grew unconsciously brighter,
Levin knew that she loved that man,
knew it as surely as if she had told him so in words.

But what sort of a man was he?

Now,
whether
for good or
for ill,
Levin could not choose but remain;
he must find out what the man was like whom she loved.

There are people who,
on meeting a successful rival,
no matter in what,
are at once disposed
to turn their backs on everything good in him,
and
to see only what is bad.

There are people,
on the other hand,
who desire above all
to find in that lucky rival the qualities by which he has outstripped them,
and seek
with a throbbing ache at heart only what is good.

Levin belonged
to the second class.

But he had no difficulty in finding what was good and attractive in Vronsky.

It was apparent at the first glance.

Vronsky was a squarely built,
dark man,
not very tall,
with a good-humored,
handsome,
and exceedingly calm and resolute face.

Everything about his face and figure,
from his short-cropped black hair and freshly shaven chin down
to his loosely fitting,
brand-new uniform,
was simple and at the same time elegant.

Making way
for the lady who had come in,
Vronsky went up
to the princess and then
to Kitty.

As he approached her,
his beautiful eyes shone
with a specially tender light,
and
with a faint,
happy,
and modestly triumpahnt smile
(so it seemed
to Levin),
bowing carefully and respectfully over her,
he held out his small broad hand
to her.

Greeting and saying a few words
to every one,
he sat down without once glancing at Levin,
who had never taken his eyes off him.

"Let me introduce you,”
said the princess,
indicating Levin.

"Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin,
Count Alexey Kirillovitch Vronsky.”

Vronsly got up and,
looking cordially at Levin,
shook hands
with him.

"I believe I was
to have dined
with you this winter,”
he said,
smiling his simple and open smile;
"but you had unexpectedly left
for the country.”

"Konstantin Dmitrievitch despises and hates town and us townspeople,”
said Countess Nordston.

"My words must make a deep impression on you,
since you remember them so well,”
said Levin,
and suddenly conscious that he had said just the same thing before,
he reddened.

Vronsky looked at Levin and Countess Nordston,
and smiled.

"Are you always in the country?”
he inquired.

"I should think it must be dull in the winter.”

"It's not dull if one has work
to do;
besides,
one's not dull by oneself,”
Levin replied abruptly.

"I am fond of the country,”
said Vronsky,
noticing,
and affecting not
to notice,
Levin's tone.

"But I hope,
count,
you would not consent
to live in the country always,”
said Countess Nordston.

"I don't know;
I have never tried
for long.

I experience a queer feeling once,”
he went on.

"I never longed so
for the country,
Russian country,
with bast shoes and peasants,
as when I was spending a winter
with my mother in Nice.

Nice itself is dull enought,
you know.

And indeed,
Naples and Sorrento are only pleasant
for a short time.

And it's just there that Russia comes back
to me most vividly,
and especially the country.

It's as though...”

He talked on,
addressing both Kitty and Levin,
turning his serene,
friendly eyes from one
to the other,
and saying obviously just what came into his head.

Noticing that Countess Nordstong wanted
to say somethng,
he stopped short without finishing what he had begun,
and listened attentively
to her.

The conversation did not flag
for an instant,
so that the princess,
who always kept in reserve,
in case a subject should be lacking,
two heavy guns--the relative advantages of classical and of modern education,
and universal military service--had not
to move out either of them,
while Countess Nordston had not a chance of chaffing Levin.

Levin wanted to,
and could not,
take part in the general conversation;
saying
to himself every instant,
"Now go,”
he still did not go,
as though waiting
for something.

The conversastion fell upon table-turning and spirits,
and Countess Nordston,
who believed in spiritualism,
began
to describe the marvels she had seen.

"Ah,
countess,
you really must take me,
for pity's sake do take me
to see them! I have never seen anything extraordinary,
though I am always on the lookout
for it everywhere,”
said Vronsky,
smiling.

"Very well,
next Saturday,”
answered Countess Nordston.

"But you,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch,
do you believe in it?”
she asked Levin.

"Why do you ask me?

You know what I shall say.”

"But I want
to hear yor opinion.”

"My opinion,”
answere Levin,
"is only that this table-turning simply proves that educated society--so called--is no higher than the peasants.

They believe in the evil eye,
and in witchcraft and omens,
while we...”

"Oh,
then you don't believe in it?”
"I can't believe in it,
countess.”

"But if I've seen it myself?”
"The peasant women too tell us they have seen goblins.”

"Then you think I tell a lie?”
And she laughed a mirthless laugh.

"Oh,
no,
Masha,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch said he could not believe in it,”
said Kitty,
blushing
for Levin,
and Levin saw this,
and,
still more exasperated,
would have answered,
but Vronsky
with his bright frank smile rushed
to the support of the conversation,
which was threatening ot become disagreeable.

"You do not admit the conceivability at all?”
he queried.

"But why not?

We admit the existence of electricity,
of which we know nothing.

Why should there not be some new force,
still unknown
to us,
which...”

"When electricity was discovered,”
Levin interrupted hurriedly,
"it was only the phenomenon that was discovered,
and it was unknown from what it proceeded and what were its effects,
and ages passed before its applications were conceived.

But the spiritualists have begun
with tables writing
for them,
and spirits appearing
to them,
and have only later started saying that it is an unknown force.”

Vronsky listened attentively
to Levin,
as he always did listen,
obviously interested in his words.

"Yes,
but the spiritualists say we don't know at present what this force is,
but there is a force,
and these are the conditions in which it acts.

Let the scientific men find out what the force consists in.

Not,
I don't see why there should not be a new force,
if it...”

"Why,
because
with electricity,”
Levin interrupted again,
"every time you rub tar against wool,
a recognized phenomenon is manifested,
but in this case it does not happen every time,
and so it follows it is not a natural phenomenon.”

Feeling probably that the conversation was taking a tone too serious
for a drawing-room,
Vronsky made no rejoinder,
but by way of tring
to change the conversation,
he smiled brightly,
and turned
to the ladies.

"Do let us try at once,
countess,”
he said;
but Levin would finish saying what he thought.

"I think,”
he went on,
"that this attempt of the spiritualists
to explain their marvels as some sort of new natural force is most futile.

They boldly talk of spiritual force,
and then try
to subject it
to material experiment.”

Every one was waiting
for him
to finish,
and he felt it.

"And I think you would be a first-rate medium,”
said Countess Nordston;
"there's something enthusiastic in you.”

Levin opened his mouth,
was about
to say something,
reddened,
and said nothing.

"Do ket us try table-turning at once,
please,”
said Vronsky.

"Princess,
will you allow it?”
And Vronsky stood up,
looking
for a little table.

Kitty got up
to fetch a table,
and as she passed,
her eyes met Levin's.

She felt
for him
with her whole heart,
the more because she was pitying him
for suffering of which she was herself the cause.

"If you can forgive me,
forgive me,”
said her eyes,
"I am so happy.”

"I hate them all,
and you,
and myself,”
his eyes responded,
and he took up his hat.

But he was not destined
to escape.

Just as they were arranging themselves round the table,
and Levin was on the point of retiring,
the old prince came in,
and after greeting the ladies,
addressed Levin.

"Ah1”
he began joyously.

"Been here long,
my boy?

I didn't even know you were in town.

Very glad
to see you.”

The old prince embraced Levin,
and talking
to him did not observe Vronsky,
who had risen,
and was serenely waiting till the prince should turn
to him.

Kitty felt how distasteful her father's warmth was
to Levin after what had happened.

She saw,
too,
how coldly her father responded at last
to Vronsky's bow,
and how Vronsky looked
with amiable perplexity at her father,
as though trying and failing
to understand how and why any one could be hostilely disposed towards him,
and she flushed.

"Prince,
let us have Konstantin Dmitrievitch,”
said Countess Nordston;
"we wnat
to try an experiment.”

"What experiment?

Table-turning?

Well,
you must excuse me,
ladies and gentlemen,
but
to my mind it is better fun
to play the ring game,”
said the old prince,
looking at Vronsky,
and guessing that it had been his suggestion.

"There's some sense in that,
anyway.”

Vronsky looked wonderingly at the prince
with his resolute eyes,
and,
with a faint smile,
began immediatley talking
to Countess Nordston of the great ball that was
to come off next week.

"I hope you will be there?”
he said
to Kitty.

As soon as the old prince turned away from him,
Levin went out unnoticed,
and the last impression he carried away
with him of that evening was the smiling,
happy face of Kitty answering Vronsky's inquiry about the ball.

Chapter 15 At the end of the evening Kitty told her mother of her conversatiion
with Levin,
and in spite of all thepity she felt
for Levin,
she was glad at the thought that she had recdieve an OFFER.

She had no doubt that she had acted rightly.

But after she had gone
to bed,
for a long while she could not sleep.

One impression pursued her relentlessly.

It was Levin's face,
with his scowling brows,
and his kind eyes looking out in dark dejection below them,
as he stood listening
to her father,
and glancing at her and at Vronsky.

And she felt so sorry
for him that tears came into her eyes.

But immediately she thought of the man
for whom whe had given nim up.

She vividly recalled his manly,
resolute face,
his noble self-possession,
and the good-nature conspicuous in everything towards every one.

She remembered the love
for her of the man she loved,
and once more all was gadness in her soul,
and she lay on the pillow,
smiling
with happiness.

"I'm sorry,
I'm sorry;
but what could I do?

It's not my fault,”
she said
to herfelf;
but an inner voice told her something else.

Whether she felt remorse at having won Levin's love,
or at having refused him,
she did not know.

But her happiness was poisoned by doubts.

"Lord,
have pity on us;
Lord,
have pity on us;
Lord,
have pity on us!”
she repeated
to herself,
till she fell asleep.

Meanwhile there took place below,
in the prince's little library,
one of the scenes so often repeated between the parents on account of their favorite daughter.

"What?

I'll tell you what!”
shouted the prince,
waving his arms,
and at once wrapping his squirrel-lined dressing-gown round him again.

"That you've no pride,
no dignity;
that you're disgracing,
ruining your daughter by this vulgar,
stupid match-making1”
"But,
really,
for mercy's sake,
prince,
what have I done?”
said the princess,
almost crying.

She,
pleased and happy after her conversation
with her duaghter,
had gone
to the prince
to say good-night as usual,
and thought she had no intention of telling him of Levin's offer and Kitty's refusal,
still she hinted
to her husband that she fancied things were practically settled
with Vronsky,
and that he would decalre himself so soon as his mother arrived.

And thereupon,
at those words,
the prince had all at once flown into a passion,
and began
to use unseemly language.

"What have you done?

I'll tell you what.

First of all,
you're trying
to catch an eligible gentleman,
and all Moscow will be talking of it,
and
with good reason.

If you have evening parties,
invite every one,
don't pick out the possible suitors.

Invite all the young bucks.

Engage a piano-player,
and let them dance,
and not as you do things nowadays,
hunting up good matches.

It makes me sick,
sick
to see it,
and you've gone on till you've turned the poor wench's head.

Levin's a thousand times the better man.

As
for this little Petersburg swell,
they're turned out by machinery,
all in one pattern,
and all precious rubbish.

But if he were a prince of the blood,
my daughter need not run after any one.”

"But what have I done?”
"Why,
you've..”

The prince was crying wrathfully.

"I know if one were
to listen
to you,”
interrupted the princess,
"we should never marry our daughter.

It it's
to be so,
we'd better go into the country.”

"Well,
and we had better.”

"But do wait a minute.

Do I try and catch them?

I don't try
to catch them in the least.

A young man,
and a very nice one,
has fallen in love
with her,
and she,
I fancy...”

"Oh,
yes,
you fancy! And how if she really is in love,
and he's no more thinking of marriage than I am!...Oh,
that I should live imagining that he was mimicking his wife,
made a micing curtsey at each word.

"And this is how we're preparing wretchedness
for Kitty;
and she's really got the notion into her head...”

"But what makes you suppose so?”
"I don't suppose;
I know.

We have eyes
for such things,
though women-folk haven't.

I see a man who has serious intentions,
that's Levin:

and I see a peacock,
like this feather-head,
hwo's only amusing himself.”

"Oh,
well,
when once you get an idea into your head!...”

"Well,
you'll remember my words,
but too late,
jsut as
with Dolly.”

"Well,
well,
we won't talk of it,”
the princess stopped him,
recollecting her unlucky Dolly.

"By all means,
and good night!”
And signing each other
with the cross,
the husband and wife parted
with a kiss,
feeling that they each remained of their own opinion.

The princess had at first been quite certain that that evening had settled Kitty's future,
and theat there culd be no doubt of Vronsky's intentions,
but her husband's words had disturbed her.

And returning
to her own room,
in terror before the unknown future,
she,
too,
like Kitty,
repeated several times in her heart,
"Lord,
have pity;
Lord,
have pity;
Lord,
have pity.”

Chapter 16 Vronsky had never had a real home life.

His mother had been in her youth a brilliant society woman,
who had had during her mairried life,
and still maore afterwards,
many love affairs notorious in the whole fashionable world.

His father he scarcely remembered,
and he had been educated in the Corps of Pages.

Leaving the school very young as a brilliant officer,
he had at once got into the circle of wealthy Petersburg army men.

Although he did go more or less into Petersburg society,
his love affairs had always hitherto been outside it.

In Moscow he had
for the first time felt,
after his luxurious and coarse life at Petersburg,
all the charm of intimacy
with a sweet and innocent girl of his own rank,
who cared
for him.

It never even entered his head that there could be any harm in his relations
with Kitty.

At balls he danced principally
with her.

He was a constant visitor at their house.

He talked
to her as people commonly do talk in society--all sorts of nonsense,
but nonsense
to which he culd not help attaching a special meaning in her case.

Although he said nothing
to her that he could not have said before everybody,
he felt that she was becoming more and more dependent upon him,
and the more he felt this,
the better he liked it,
and the tenderer was his feeling
for her.

He did not know that his mode of behavior in relation
to Kitty had a definite character,
that it is courting young girls
with no intention of marriage,
and that such courting is one of the evil actions common among brilliant young men such as he was.

It seemed
to him that he was the first who had discovered the pleasure,
and he was enjoying his discovery.

If he could have heard what her parents were saying that evening,
if he could have put himself at the point ov view of the family and have heard that Kitty would be unhappy if he did not marry her,
he would have been greatly astonished,
and would not have believed it.

He could not believe that what gave such great and delicate pleasure
to him,
and above all
to her,
could be wrong.

Still less could he have believed that he ought
to marry.

Marriage had never presented itself
to him as a possibility.

He not only disliked family life,
but a family,
and especially a husband was,
in accordance
with the veiws general in the bachelor world in which he lived,
concieved as something alien,
repellant,
and,
above all,
ridiculous.

But though Vronsky had not the least suspicion what the parents were saying,
he felt on coming away from the Shtcherbatskys’
that the secret spiritual bond which existed between him and Kitty had grown so much stronger that evening that some step must be taken.

But what step could and ought
to be taken he could not imagine.

"What is so exquisite,”
he thought,
as he returned from the Shtcherbatskys',
carrying away
with him,
as he always did,
a delicious feeling of purity and freshness,
arising partly from the fact that he had not been smoking
for a whole evening,
and
with it a new feeling of tenderness at her love
for him--"what is so exquisite is that not a word has been said by me or by her,
but we understand each other so well in this unseen language of looks and tones,
that this evening more clearly than ever she told me she loves me.

And how secretly,
simply,
and most of all,
how trustfully! I feel myself better,
purer.

I feel that I have a heart,
and that there is a great deal of good in me.

Those sweet,
loving eyes! When she said:

Indeed I do...’
“Well,
what then?

Oh,
nothing.

It's good
for me,
and good
for her.”

And he began wondering where
to finish the evening.

He passed in review of the places he might go to.

"Club?

a game of bezique,
champagne
with Ignatov?

No,
I'm not going.

Chateau des Fleurs;
there I shall find Oblonsky,
songs,
the cancan.

No,
I'm sick of it.

That's why I like the Shtcherbatskys',
that I'm growing better.

I'll go home.”

He went straight
to his room at Dussot's Hotel,
ordered supper,
and then undressed,
and as soon as his head touched the pillow,
fell into a sound sleep.

Chapter 17 Next day at eleven o'clock in the morning Vronsky drove
to the station of the Petersburg railway
to meet his mother,
and the first person he came across on the great flight of steps was Oblonsky,
who was expecting his sister by the same train.

"Ah! your excellency!”
cried Oblonsky,
"whom are you meeting?”
"My mother,”
Vronsky responded,
smiling,
as every one did who met Oblonsky.

He shook hands
with him,
and together they ascended the steps.

"She is
to be here from Petersburg today.”

"I was looking out
for you till two o'clock last night.

Where did you go after the Shtcherbatskys'?”
"Home,”
answered Vronsky.

"I must own I felt so well content yesterday after the Shtcherbatskys’
that I didn't care
to go anywhere.”

"I know a gallant steed by tokens sure,
And by his eyes I know a youth in love,”
declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch,
just as he had done before
to Levin.

Vronsky smiled
with a look that seemed
to say that he did not deny it,
but he promptly changed the subject.

"And whom are you meetin?”
he asked.

"I?

I've come
to meet a pretty woman,”
said Oblonsky.

"You don't say so!”
"Honi soit qui mal y pense! My sister Anna.”

"Ah! that's Madame Karenina,”
said Vronsky.

"You know her,
no doubt?”
"I think I do.

Or perhaps not...I really am not sure,”
Vronsky answered heedlessly,
with a vague recollection of something stiff and tedious evoked by the name Karenina.

"But Alexey Alexandrovitch,
my celebrated brother-in-law,
you surely must know.

All the world knows him.”

"I know him by reputation and by sight.

I know that he's clever,
learned,
religious somewhat...But you know that's not ...not in my line,”
said Vronsky in English.

"Yes,
he's a very remarkable man;
rather a conservative,
but a splendid man,”
observed Stepan Arkadyevitch,
"a splendid man.”

"Oh,
well,
so much the better
for him,”
said Vronsky smiling.

"Oh,
you've come,”
he said,
addressing a tall old footman of his mother's,
standing at the door;
"come here.”

Besides the charm Oblonsky had in general
for every one,
Vronsky had felt of late specially drawn
to him by the fact that in his imagination he was associated
with Kitty.

"Well,
what do you say?

Shall we give a suppy on Sunday
for the diva?”
he said
to him
with a smile,
taking his arm.

"Of course.

I'm collecting subscriptions.

Oh,
did yo make the acquaintance of my friend Levin?”
asked Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"Yes;
but he left rather early.”

"He's a capital fellow,”
pursued Oblsonsky.

"Isn't he?”
"I don't know why it is,”
responded Vronsky,
"in all Moscow people--present company of course excepted,”
he put in jestingly,
"there's something uncompromising.

They are all on the defensive,
lose their tempers,
as though they all want
to make one feel something...”

"Yes,
that's true,
it is so,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
laughing good-humoredly.

"Will the train soon be in?”
Vronsky asked a railway official.

"The train's signaled,”
answered the man.

The approach of the train was more and more evident by the preparatory bustle in the station,
the rush of porters,
the movement of policemen and attendants,
and people meeting the rain.

Through the frosty vapor could be seen workmen in short sheepskins and soft felt boots crossing the rails of the curving line.

The his of the boiler could be heard on the distnat rails,
and the rumble of something heavy.

"No,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
who felt a great inclination
to tell Vronsky of Levin's intentions in regard
to Kitty.

"No,
you've not got a true impression of Levin.

He's a very nervous man,
and is sometimes out of himor,
it's true,
but then he is often very nice.

He's such a true,
honest nature,
and a heart of gold.

But yesterday there were special reasons,”
pursued Stepan Arkadyevitch,
with a meaning smile,
totally oblivious of the genuine sympathy he had felt the day bvefore
for this friend,
and feeling the same sympathy now,
only
for Vronsky.

"Yes,
there were reasons why he could not help being either particularly happy or particularly unhappy.”

Vronsky stood still and asked directly:

"How so?

Do you mean he made your belle-soeur an offer yesterday?”
"Maybe,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"I fancied something of the sort yesterday.

Yes,
if he went away early,
and was out of humor too,
it must mean it...He's been so long in love,
and I'm very sorry
for him.”

"So that's it!...I should imagine,
though,
she might reckon on a better match,”
said Vronsky,
drawing himself up and walking about again,
"thought I don't know him,
of course,”
he added.

"Yes,
that is a hateful position! That's why most fellows prefer
to have
to do
with Klaras.

If you don't succeed
with them it only proves that you've not enough cash,
but in this case one's dignity's at stake.

But here's the train.”

The engine had already whistled in the distance.

A few instants later the platform was quivering,
and
with puffs of steam hanging low in the air from the frost,
the engien rolled up,
with the lever of the middle wheel rhythmically moving up and down,
and the stooping figure of the engine-driver covered
with frost.

Behind the tender,
setting the platform more and more slowly swaying,
came the luggage van
with a dog whining in it.

At last the passenger carriages rolled in,
oscillating before coming
to a standstill.

A smart guard jumped out,
giving a whistle,
and after him one by one the impatient passengers began
to het down:

an officer of the guards,
holding himself erect,
and looking severely about him;
a nimble little merchant
with a satchel,
smiling gaily;
a peasant
with a sack over his shoulder.

Vronsky,
stanking beside Oblonsky,
watched the carriages and the passengers,
totally oblivious of this mother.

What he had just heard about Kitty excited and delighted him.

Unconsciously he arched his chest,
and his eyes flashed.

He felt himself a conqueror.

"Countess Vronskaya is in that compartment,”
said the smart guard,
going up
to Vronsky.

The guard's words roused him,
and forced him
to think of his mother and his approaching meeting
with her.

He did not in his heard respect his mother,
and without acknowledging it
to himself,
he did not lover her,
though in accordance
with the ideas of the set in which he lived,
and
with his own education,
he coudl not have conceived of any behavior
to his mother not in the highest degree respectful and obedient,
and the more externally obedient and respectful his behavior,
the less in his heart he respected and loved her.

Chapter 18 Vronsky followed the guard
to the carriage,
and at the door of the compartment he stopped short
to make room
for a lady who was getting out.

With the insight of a man of the world,
from one glance at this lady's appearance Vronsky classified her as belonging
to the best society.

He begged pardon,
and was getting ito the carriage,
hbut felt he must glance at her once more;
not that she was very beautiful,
not on account of the elegance and modest grace which were apparent in her whole figure,
but because in the expression of ther charming face,
as she passed close by him,
there was something peculairly caressing and soft.

As he looked round,
she too turned her head.

Her shining gray eyes,
that looked dark from the thick lashes,
rested
with friendly attentio on ;this face,
as though she were recognizing him,
and then promplty turned away
to the passing crowd,
as thogh seeking some one.

In that brief look Vronsky had time
to notice the suppressed eagerness which played over her face,
and flitted between the brilliant eyes and the faint smile that curved her red lips.

It was as though her nature were so brimming voer
with something that against her will it showed itself now in the flash of her eyes,
and now in her smile.

Deliberately she shrouded the light in her eyes,
but it shone against her will in the faintly perceptible smile.

Vronsky stepped into the carriage.

His mother,
a dried-up old lady
with black eyes and ringlets,
screwed up her eyes,
scanning her son,
and smiled slightly
with her thin lips.

Getting up from the seat and handing her maid a bag,
she gave her little wrinkled hand
to her son
to kiss,
and lifting his head from her hand,
kissed him on the cheek.

"You got my telegram?

Quite well?

Thank God.”

"You had a good journey?”
said her son,
sitting down beside her,
and involuntarily listening
to a woman's voice outside the door.

He knew it was the voice ofthe lady he had met at the door.

"All the same I don't agree
with you,”
said the lady's voice.

"It's the Petersburg view,
madame.”

"Not Petersburg,
but simply feminine,”
she responded.

"Well,
well,
allow me
to kiss your hand.”

"Good-bye,
Ivan Petrovitch.

And yould yo usee if my brother is here,
and send him
to me?”
said the lady in the doorway,
and stepped back again into the compartment.

"Well,
have you found your brother?”
said Countess Vronskaya,
addressing the lady.

Vronsky understood now that this was Madame Kanrenina.

"Your brother is here,”
he said,
standing up.

"Excuse me,
I did not know you,
and,
indeed,
our acquaintance was so slight,”
said Vronsky,
bowing,
"that no doubt you do not remember me.”

"Oh,
no,”
said she,
"I should have known you because your mother and I have been talking,
I think,
of nothing but you all the way.”

As she spoke she let the eagerness that would insist of coming out show itself in her smile.

"And still no sign of my brother.”

"Do call him,
Alexey,”
said the old countess.

Vronsky stepped out onto the platform and shouted:

"Oblonsky! Here!”
Madame Karenina,
however,
did not wait
for her brother,
but catching sight of him she stepped out
with her light,
resolute step.

And as soon as her brother had erached her,
with a gesture that struck Vronsky by its decision and its grace,
she flung her left arm around his neck,
drew him rapidly
to her,
and kissed him warmly.

Vronsky gazed,
never taking his eyes from her,
and smiled,
he culd not have said why.

But recollecting that his mother was waiting
for him,
he went back again into the carriage.

"She's very sweet,
isn't she?”
said the countess of Madame Karenina.

"Her husband put her
with me,
and I was delighted
to have her.

We've been talking all the way.

And so you,
I hear...vous filez le parfait amour.

Tant mieux,
mon cher,
tant mieux.”

"I don't know what you are referring to,
maman,”
he answered coldly.

"Come,
maman,
let us go.”

Madame Karenina entered the carriage again
to say good-bye
to the countess.

"Well,
countess,
you have met your son,
and I my brother,”
she said.

"And all my gossip is exhausted.

I shuld have nothing more
to tell you.”

"Oh,
no,”
said the countess,
taking her hand.

"I could go all around the world
with you and never be dull.

You are one of those delightful women in whose company it's sweet
to be silent as well as
to talk.

Now please don't fret over your son;
you can't expect never
to be parted.”

Madame Karenina stood quite still,
holding herself very erect,
and her eyes were smiling.

"Anna Arkadyevna,”
the countess said in explanation
to her son,
"has a little son eight years old,
I believe,
and she has never been parted from him before,
and she keeps fretting over leaving him.”

"Yes,
the countess and I have been talking all the time,
I of my son and she of hers,”
said Madame Karenina,
and again a smile lighted up her face,
a caressing smile intended
for him.

"I am afraid that you must have been dreadfully bored,”
he said,
promptly catching the ball of coquetry she had flung him.

But apparently she did not care
to pursue the conversation in that strain,
and she turned
to the old countess.

"Thank you so much.

The time has passed so quickly.

Good-bye,
countess.”

"Good-bye,
my love,”
answered the countess.

"Let me have a kiss of your pretty face.

I speak plainly,
at my age,
and I tell you simply that I've lost my heart ot you.”

Stereotyped as the phrase was,
Madame Karenina obviously believed it and was delighted by it.

She flushed,
bent down slightly,
and put her cheek
to the countess's lips,
dres herself up again,
and
with the same smile fluttering between her lips and her eyes,
she gave her hand
to Vronsky.

He pressed the little hand she gave him,
and was dleighted,
as thogh at something special,
by the energetic squeeze
with whhich she freely and vigorously shook his hand.

She went out
with the rapid step which bore her rather fully-developed figure
with such strange lightness.

"Very charming,”
said the countess.

That was just what her son was thinking.

His eyes followed her till her graceful figure was out of sight,
and then the smile remained on his face.

He saw out of the window how she went up
to her brother,
put he arm in his,
and began telling him something eagerly,
obviously something that had nothing
to do
with him,
Vronsky,
and at that he felt annoyed.

"Well,
maman,
are you perfectly well?”
he repeated,
turning
to his mother.

"Everything has been delightful.

Alexander has been very good,
and Marie has grown very pretty.

She's very interesting.”

And she began telling him again of what interested her most--the christening of her grandso,
for which she had been staying in Petersburg,
and the special favor shown her elder son by the Tsar.

"Here's Lavrenty,”
said Vronsky,
looking out of the window;
"now we can go,
if you like.”

The old butler who had traveled
with the countess,
came
to the carriage
to announce that everything was ready,
and the countess got up
to go.

"Come;
there's not such a crowd now,”
said Vronsky.

The maid took a handbag and the lap dog,
the butler and a porter the other baggage.

Vronsky gave his mother his arm;
but just as they were getting out of the carriage several men ran suddenly by
with panic-stricken faces.

The station-master,
too,
ran by in his extraordinary colored cap.

Obviously something unusual had happened.

The crowd who had left the train were running back again.

"What?...What?...Where?...Flung himself!...Crushed!...”

was heard among the crowd.

Stepan Arkadyevitch,
with his sister on his arm,
turned back.

THey too looked scared,
and stopped at the carriage door
to avoid the crowd.

The ladies go in,
while Vronsky and Stepan Arkadyevitch followed the crowd
to find out details of the disaster.

A guard,
either dunk or too much muffled up in the bitter frost,
had not heard the train moving back,
and had been crushed.

Before Vronsky and Oblonsky came back the ladies heard the facts from the butler.

Oblonsky and Vronsky had both seen the mutilated corpse.

Oblonsky was evidently upset.

He frowned and seemed ready
to cry.

"Ah,
how awful! Ah,
Anna,
if you had seen it! Ah,
how awful!”
he said.

Vronsky did not speak;
his handsome face was serious,
but perfectly composed.

"Oh,
if you had seen it,
countess,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"And his wife was there...It was awful
to hee her!...She flung herfelf on the body.

They say he was the only support of an immense family.

How awful!”
"Couldn't one do anything
for her?”
said Madame Karenina in an agitated whisper.

Vronsky glanced at her,
and immediately got out of the carriage.

"I'll be back directly,
maman,”
he remarked,
turning round in the doorway.

When he came back a few minutes later,
Stepan Arkadyevitch was already in conversatin
with the countess about the new singer,
while the countess was impatiently looking towards the door,
waiting
for her son.

"Now let us be off,”
said Vronsky,
coming in.

They went out together.

Vronsky was in front
with his mother.

Behind walked Madame Karenina
with her brother.

Just as they were going out of the station the station-master overtook Vronsky.

"You gave my assistant two hundred roubles.

Would yo kindly expalin
for whose benefit you intend them?”
"For the widow,”
said Vronsky,
shrugging his shoulders.

"I should have thought there was no need
to ask.”

"You gave that?”
cried Oblonsky,
behind,
and,
pressing his sister's hand,
he added:

"Very nice,
very nice! Isn't he a splendid fellow?

Good-bye,
countess.”

And he and his sister stood still,
looking
for her maid.

When they went out the Vronsky's carriage had already driven away.

People coming in were still talking of what happened.

"What a horrible death!”
said a gentleman,
passing by.

"They say he was cut in two pieces.”

"On the contrary,
I think it's the easiest--instantaneous,”
observed another.

"How is it they don't take proper precautions?”
said a third.

Madame Karenina seated herself in the carriage,
and Stepan Arkadyevitch saw
with surprise that her lips were quivering,
and she was
with difficulty restraining her tears.

"What is it,
Anna?”
he asked,
when they had driven a few hundred yards.

"It's an omen of evil,”
she said.

"What nonsense!”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"You've come,
that's the chief thing.

You can't conceive how I'm resting my hopes on you.”

"Have you known Vronsky long?”
she asked.

"Yes.

You know we're hoping he will marry Kitty.”

"Yes?”
said Anna softly.

"Come now,
let us talk of you,”
she added,
tossing her head,
as though she would physically shake off something superfluous oppressing her.

"Let us talk of your affairs.

I got your letter,
and here I am.”

"Yes,
all my hopes are in you,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"Well,
tell me all about it.”

And Stepan Arkadyevitch began
to tell his story.

On reaching home Oblonsky helped his sister out,
sighed,
pressed her hand,
and set off
to his office.

Chapter 19 When Anna went into the room,
Dolly was sitting in the little drawing-room
with a white-headed fat little boy,
already like his father,
giving him a lesson in French reading.

As the boy read,
he kept twisting and trying
to tear off a button that was nearly off his jacket.

His mother had several times taken his hand from it,
but the fat little hand went back
to the button again.

His mother pulled the button off and put it in her pocket.

"Keep your hands still,
Grisha,”
she said,
and she took up her work,
a coverlet she had long been making.

She always set
to work on it at depressed moments,
and now she knitted at it nervously,
twitching her fingers and counting the stitches.

Though she had sent word the day before
to her husband that it was nothing
to her whether his sister came or not,
she had made everything ready
for her arrival,
and was expecting her sister-in-law
with emotion.

Dolly was crushed by her sorrow,
utterly swallowed up by it.

Still she did not forget that Anna,
her sister-in-law,
was the wife of one of the most important personages in Petersburg,
and was a Petersburg grande dame.

And,
thanks
to this circumstance,
she did not carry out her threat
to her husband--that is
to day,
she remembered that her sister-in-law was coming.

"And,
after all,
Anna is in no wise
to blame,”
thought Dolly.

"I know nothing of her except the very best,
and I have seen nothing but kindness and affection from her towards myself.”

It was true that as far as she could recall her impression at Petersburg at the Karenins',
she did not like their household itself;
there was something artificial in the whole framework of their family life.

"But why should I not receive her?

If only she doesn't take it into her head
to console me!”
thought Dolly.

"All consolation and counsel and Christian forgiveness,
all that I have thought over a thousand times,
and it's all no use.”

All these days Dolly had been alone
with her children.

She did not want
to talk of her sorrow,
but
with that sorrow in her heart she could not talk of outside matters.

She knew that in one way or another she would tell Anna everything,
and she was alternately glad at the thought of speaking freely,
and angry at the necessity of speaking of her humiliation
with her,
his sister,
and of hearing her ready-made phrases of good advice and comfort.

She had been on the lookout
for her,
glancing at her watch every minute,
and,
as so often happens,
let slip just that minute when her visitor arrived,
so that she did not hear the bell.

Catching a sound of skirts and light steps at the door,
she looked round,
and her care-worn face unconsciously expressed not gladness,
but wonder.

She got up and embraced her sister-in-law.

"What,
here already?”
she said as she kissed her.

"Dolly,
how glad I am
to see you!”
"I am glad,
too,”
said Dolly,
faintly smiling,
and trying by the expression of Anna's face
to find out whether she knew.

"Most likely she knows,”
she thought,
noticing the sympathy in Anna's face.

"Well,
come along,
I'll take you
to your room,”
she went on,
trying
to defer as long as possible the moment of confidences.

"Is this Grisha?

Heavens,
how he's grown!”
said Anna;
and kissing him,
never taking her eyes off Dolly,
she stood still and flushed a little.

"No,
please,
let us stay here.”

She took off her kerchief and her hat,
and catching it in a lock of her black hair,
which was a mass of curls,
she tossed her head and shook her hair down.

"You are radiant
with health and happiness!”
said Dolly,
almost
with envy.

"I?...Yes,”
said Anna.

"Merciful heavens,
Tanya! You're the same age as my Seryozha,”
she added,
addressing the little girl as she ran in.

She took her in her arms and kissed her.

"Delightful child,
delightful! Show me them all.”

She mentioned them,
not only remembering the names,
but the years,
months,
characters,
illnesses of all the children,
and Dolly could not but appreciate that.

"Very well,
we will go
to them,”
she said.

"It's a pity Vassya's asleep.”

After seeing the children,
they sat down,
alone now,
in the drawing room,
to coffee.

Anna took the tray,
and then pushed it away from her.

"Dolly,”
she said,
"he has told me.”

Dolly looked coldly at Anna;
she was waiting now
for phrases of conventional sympathy,
but Anna said nothing of the sort.

"Dolly,
dear,”
she said,
"I don't want
to speak
for him
to you,
nor
to try
to comfort you;
that's impossible.

But,
darling,
I'm simply sorry,
sorry from my heart
for you!”
Under the thick lashes of her shining eyes tears suddenly glittered.

She moved nearer
to her sister-in-law and took her hand in her vigorous little hand.

Dolly did not shrink away,
but her face did not lose its frigid expression.

She said:

"To comfort me's impossible.

Everything's lost after what has happened,
everything's over!”
And directly she had said this,
her face suddenly softened.

Anna lifted the wasted,
thin hand of Dolly,
kissed it and said:

"But,
Dolly,
what's
to be doen,
what's
to be done?

How is it best
to act in this awful position--that's what you must think of.”

"All's over,
and there's nothing more,”
said Dolly.

"And the worst of all is,
you see,
that I can't cast him off:

there are the children,
I am tied.

And I can't live
with him! it's a torture
to me
to see him.”

"Dolly,
darling,
he has spoken
to me,
but I want
to hear it from you:

tell me about it.”

Dolly looked at her inquiringly.

Sympathy and love unfeigned were visible on Anna's face.

"Very well,”
she said all at once.

"But I will tell you it from the beginning.

You know how I was married.

With the education mamma gave us I was more than innocent,
I was stupid.

I knew nothing.

I know they say men tell their wives of their former lives,
but Stiva"--she corrected herself--"Stepan Arkadyevitch told me nothing.

You'll hardly believe it,
but till now I imagined that I was the only woman he had known.

So I lived eight years.

You must understand that I was so far from suspecting infidelity,
I regarded it as impossible,
and then--try
to imagine it--with such ideas,
to find out suddenly all the horror,
all the loathsomeness...You must try and understand me.

To be fully convinced of one's happiness,
and all at once...”

continued Dolly,
holding back her sobs,
"to het a letter...his letter
to his mistress,
my governess.

No,
it's too awful!”
She hastily pulled out her handkerchief and hid her face in it.

"I can understand being carried away by feeling,”
she went on after a brief silence,
"but deliberately,
slyly deceiving me...and
with whom?...To go on being my husband together
with her...it's awful! You can't understand...”

"Oh,
yes,
I understand1 I understand! Dolly,
dearest,
I do understand,”
said Anna,
pressing her hand.

"And do you imagine he realizes all the awfulness of my position?”
Dolly resumed.

"Not the slightest! He's happy and contented.”

"Oh,
no!”
Anna interposed quickly.

"He's
to be pitied,
he weighed down by remorse...”

"Is he capable of remorse?”
Dolly interrupted,
gazing intenely into her sister-in-law's face.

"Yes.

I know him.

I could not look at him without feeling sorry
for him.

We both know him.

He's good-hearted,
but he's proud,
and now he's so humiliated.

What touched me most...”

(and here Anna guessed what woud touch Dolly most)
“he's tortured by two things:

that he's ashamed
for the children's sake,
and that,
loving you--yes,
yes,
loving you beyond everything on earth,”
she hurriedly interrupted Dolly,
who would have answered
“he has hurt you,
pierced you
to the heart.

No,
no,
she cannot forgive me,’
he keeps saying.”

Dolly looked dreamily away beyond her sister-in-law as she listened
to her words.

"Yes,
I can see that his position is awful;
it's worse
for the guilty than the innocent,”
she said,
"if he feels that all the misery comes from his fault.

But how am I
to forgive him,
how am I
to be his wife again after her.

For me
to live
with him now would be torture,
just because I love my past love
for him...”

And sobs cut short her word.

But as though of set design,
each time she was softened she began
to speak again of what exasperated her.

"She's young,
you see,
she's pretty,”
she went on.

"Do you know,
Anna,
my youth and my beauty are gone,
taken by whom?

By him and his children.

I have worked
for him,
and all I had has gone in his service,
and now of course any fresh,
vulgar creature has moe charm
for him.

No doubt they talked of me together,
or,
worse still,
they were silent.

Do you understand?”
Again her eyes glowed
with hatred.

"And after that he will tell me...What! can I believe him?

Never! No,
everything is over,
everything that once make by comfort,
the reward of my work,
and my sufferings...Would you believe it,
I was teaching Grisha just now:

once this was a joy
to me,
now it is a torture.

What have I
to strive and toil for?

Why are the children here?

What's so awful is that all at once my heart's turned,
and instead of love nad tenderness,
I have nothing but hatred
for him;
yes,
hatred.

I could kill him.”

"Darling Dolly,
I understand,
but don't torture yourself.

You are so distressed,
so overwrought,
that you look at many things mistakenly.”

Dolly grew calmer,
and
for two minutes both were silent.

"What's
to be done?

Think
for me,
Anna,
help me.

I have thought over everything,
and I see nothing.”

Anna could think of nothing,
but her heart responded instantly
to each word,
to each change of expression of her sister-in-law.

"One thing I would say,”
began Anna.

"I am his sister,
I know his character,
that faculty of forgetting everyting,
everything”
(she waved her hand before her forehead),
"that faculty ofr being completely carried away,
but
for completing repenting too.

He cannot believe it,
he cannot comprehend now how he can have acted as he did.”

"No;
he understands,
he understood!”
Dolly broke in.

"But I...you are forgetting me...does it make it easier
for me?”
"Wait a minute.

When he told me,
I will won I did not realize all the awfulness of your position.

I saw nothing but him ,and that the family was broken up.

I felt sorry
for him,
but after talking
to you,
I see it,
as a woman,
quite differently.

I see your agony,
and I can't tell you how sorry I am
for you! But,
Dolly,
darling,
I fuly realize your sufferings,
only there is one thng I don't know;
I don't know...I don't know how much love there is still in your heart
for him.

That you know--whether there is enough
for you
to be able
to forgive him.

If there is,
forgive him!”
"No,”
Dolly was beginning,
but Anna cut her short,
kissing her hand once more.

"I know more of the world than you do,”
she said.

"I know how met like Stiva look at it.

You speak of his talking of you
with her.

That never happened.

Such men are unfaithful,
but their home and wife are sacred
to them.

Somehow or other these women are still looked on
with contempt by them,
and do not touch on their feeling
for their family.

They draw a sort of line that can't be crossed between them and their families.

I don't understand it,
but it is so.”

"Yes,
but he has kissed her...”

"Dolly,
hush,
darling.

I saw Stiva when he was in love
with you.

I remember the time when he came
to me and cried,
talking of you,
and all the poetry and loftiness of his feeling
for you,
and I know that the longer he has lived
with you the loftier you have been in his eyes.

You know we have sometimes laughed at him
for putting in at every word:

Dolly's a marvelous woman.’

You have always been a divinity
for him,
and you are that still,
and this has not been an infidelity of the heart...”

"But if it is repeated?”
"It cannot be,
as I understand it...”

"Yes,
but could you forgive it?”
"I don't know,
I can't judge...Yes,
I can,”
said anna,
thinking a moment;
and grasping the position in her thought and weighing it in her inner balance,
she added:

"Yes,
I can,
I can,
I can.

Yes,
I could forgive it.

I could not be the same,
no;
but I could forgive it,
and forgive it as though it had never been,
never been at all...”

"Oh,
of course,”
Dolly interposed quickly,
as though saying what she had more than once thought,
"else it would not be forgiveness.

If one forgives,
it must be completely,
completely.

Come,
let us go;
I'll take you
to your room,”
she said,
getting up,
and on the way she embraced Anna.

"My dear,
how glad I am you came.

It has made things better,
ever so much better.”

Chapter 20 The whole of that day Anna spent at home,
that's
to say at the Oblonskys',
and received no one,
though some of her acquaintances had already heard of her arrival,
and came
to call ;the same day.

Anna spent the whole morning
with Dolly and the children.

She merely sent a brief note
to her brother
to tell him that he must not fail
to dine at home.

"Come,
God is merciful,”
she wrote.

Oblonsky did nine at home:

the conversation was general,
and his wife,
speaking
to him,
addressed him as
“Stiva,”
as she had not done before.

In the relations of the husband and wife the same estrangement still remained,
but there was no talk now of separation,
and Stepan Arkadyevitch saw the possibility of explanation and reconciliation.

Immediately after dinner Kitty came in.

She knew Anna Arkadyevna,
but only very slightly,
and she came now
to her sister's
with some trepidation,
at the prospect of meeting this fashionable Petersburg lady,
whom everyone spoke so highly of.

But she made a favorable impression on Anna Arkadyevna--she saw that at once.

Anna was unmistakably admiring her loveliness and her youth:

before Kitty knew where she was she found herself not merely under Anna's sway,
but in love
with her,
as young girls do fall in love
with older and married women.

Anna was not like a fashionable lady,
nor the mother of a boy of eight years old.

IN the elasticity of her movements,
the freshness and the unflagging eagerness which persisted in her face,
and broke out in her smile and her glance,
she would rather have passed
for a girl of twenty,
had it not been
for a serious and at times mournful look in her eyes,
which struck and attracted Kitty.

Kitty felt that Anna was perfeclty simple and was concealing nothing,
but that she had another higher world of interests inaccessible
to her,
complex and poetic.

After dinner,
when Dolly went away
to her won room,
Anna rose quickly and went up
to her brother,
who was just lighting a cigar.

"Stiva,”
she said
to him,
winking gaily,
crossing him and glancing towards the door,
"go,
and God help you.”

He threw down the cigar,
understanding her,
and departed through the doorway.

When Stepan Arkadyevitch had disappeared,
she went back
to the sofa where she had been sitting,
surrounded by the children.

Either because the children saw that their mother was fond of this aunt,
or that they felt a special charm in her htemselves,
the two elder ones,
and the younger following their lead,
as children so often do,
had clung about their new anunt since before dinner,
and would not leave her side.

And it had become a sort of game among them
to sit a close as possible
to their aunt,
to touch her,
hold her little hand,
kiss it,
play
with her ring,
or even touch the flounce of her skirt.

"Come,
come,
as we were sitting before,”
said Anna Arkadyevna,
sitting down in her place.

And again Grisha poked his little face under her arm,
and nestled
with his head on her gown,
beaming
with pride and happiness.

"And when is your next ball?”
she asked Kitty.

"Next week,
and a splendid ball.

One of those balls where one always enjoys oneself.”

"Why,
are there balls where one always enjoys oneself?”
Anna said,
with tender irony.

"It's strange,
but there are.

At the Bobrishtchevs’
one always enjoys oneself,
and atthe Nikitins’
too,
while at the Mezhkovs’
it's always dull.

Haven't you noticed it?”
"No,
my dear,
for me there are no balls now where one enjoys oneself,”
said Anna,
and Kitty detected in her eyes that mysterious world which was not open
to her.

"For me there are some less dull and tiresome.”

"How can YOU be dull at a ball?”
"Why should not I be dull at a ball?”
inquired Anna.

Kitty perceived that Anna knew what anwer would follow.

"Because you always look nicer than anyone.”

Anna had the faculty of blushing.

She blushed a little,
and said:

"In the first place it's never so;
and secondly,
if it were,
what difference would it make
to me?”
"Are you coming
to this ball?”
asked Kitty.

"I imagine it won't be possible
to avoid going.

Here,
take it.”

she said
to Tanya,
who was bulling the loosely-fitting ring off her white,
slender-tipped finger.

"I shall be so glad if yo go.

I should so like
to see you at a ball.”

"Anyway,
if I do go,
I shall comfort myself
with the thought that it's a pleasure
to you...Grisha,
don't pull my hair.

It's untidy enough without that,”
she said,
putting up a straying lock,
which Grisha had been playing with.

"I imagine you at the ball in lilac.”

"And why in lilac precisely?”
asked Anna,
smiling.

"Now,
children,
run along,
run along.

Do you hear?

Miss Hoole is calling you
to tea,”
she said,
tearing the children form her,
and sending them off
to the dining room.

"I know why you press me
to come
to the ball.

You expect a great deal of this ball,
and you want everyone
to be there
to take part in it.”

"How do you know?

Yes.”

"Oh! what a happy time you are at,”
pursued Anna.

"I remember,
and I know that blue haze like the mist on the mountains in Switzerland.

That mist which covers everything in that blissful time when childhood is just ending,
and out of that vast circle,
happy and gay,
there is a path growing narrower and narrower,
and it is delightful and alarming
to enter the ballroom,
bright and splendid as it is...Who has not been through it?”
Kitty smiled without speaking.

"But how did she go through it?

How I should like
to know all her love story!”
thought Kitty,
recalling the unromantic appearance of Alexey Alexandrovitch,
her husband.

"I know something.

Stiva told me,
and I congratulate you.

I liked him so much,”
Anna continued.

"I met Vronsky at the railway station.”

"Oh,
was he there?”
asked Kitty,
blushing.

"What was it Stiva told you?”
"Stiva gossiped about it all.

And I should be so glad...I traveled yesterday
with Vronsky's mother,”
she went on;
"and his mother talked without a pause of him,
he's her favorite.

I know mothers are partial,
but...”

"What did his mother tell you?”
"Oh,
a great deal! And I know that he's her favorite;
still one can see how chivalrous he is...Well,
for instance,
she told me that he had wanted
to give up all his property
to his brother,
that he had done something extraordinary when he was quite a child,
saved a woman out of the water.

He's a hero,
in fact,”
said Anna,
smiling and recollecting the two hundred roubles he had given at the station.

But she did not tell Kitty about the two hundred roubles.

For some reason it was disagreeable
to her
to think of it.

She felt that there was something that had
to do
with her in it,
and something that ought not
to have been.

"She pressed me very much
to go and see her,”
Anna went on;
"and I shall be glad
to go
to see her tomorrow.

Stiva is staying a long while in Dolly's room,
thank God,”
Anna added,
changing the subject,
and getting up,
Kitty fancied,
displeased
with something.

"No,
I'm first! No,
I!”
screamed the children,
who had finished tea,
running up
to their Aunt Anna.

"All together,”
said Anna,
and she ran laughing
to meet them,
and embraced and swung round all the throng of swarming children,
shrieking
with delight.

Chapter 21 Dolly came out of her room
to the tea of the grown-up people.

Stepan Arkadyevitch did nto come out.

He must have left his wife's room by the other door.

"I am afraid you'll be cold upstairs,”
observed Dolly,
addressing Anna;
"I want
to move you downstairs,
and we shall be nearer.”

"Oh,
please,
don't trouble about me,”
answered Anna,
looking intently into Dolly's face,
trying
to make out whether there had been a reconciliation or not.

"It will be lighter
for you here,”
answered her sister-in-law.

"I assure you that I sleep evrywhere,
and always like a marmot.”

"What's the question?”
inquired Stepan Arkadyevitch,
coming out of his room and addressing his wife.

From his tone both Kitty and Anny knew that a reconciliation had taken place.

"I want
to move Anna downstairs,
but we must hand up blinds.

No one knows how
to do it;
I must see
to it myself,”
answered Dolly adressing him.

"God knows whether they are fully reconciled,”
thought Anna,
hearing her tone,
cold and composed.

"Oh,
nonsense,
Dolly,
always making difficulties,”
answered her husband.

"Come,
I'll do it all,
if you like...”

"Yes,
they must be reconciled,”
thought Anna.

"I know how you do everything,”
answered Dolly.

"You tell Matvey
to do what can't be doe,
and go away yourself,
leaving him
to make a muddle of everything,”
and her habitual,
mocking smile curved the corners of Dolly's lips as she spoke.

"Full,
full reconciliation,
full,”
thought Anna;
"thank God!”
and rejoicing that she was the cause of it,
she went up
to Dolly and kissed her.

"Not at all.

Why do you always look down on me and Matvey?”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling hardly preceptibly,
and addressing his wife.

The whole eveningg Dolly was,
as always,
a little mocking in her tone
to her husband,
while Stepan Arkadyevitch was happy and cheerful,
but not so as
to seem as though,
having been forgiven,
he had forgotten his offense.

At half-pase nine o'clock a particularly joyful and pleasant family conversation over the tea-table at the Oblonskys’
was broken up by an apparently simple incident.

But this simple incident
for some reason struck everyone as strange.

Talking about common acquaintances in Petersburg,
Anna got up quickly.

"She is in my album,”
she said;
"and,
by the way,
I'll show you by Seryozha,”
she added,
with a mother's smile of pride.

Towards ten o'clock,
when she usually said good-night
to her son,
and often before going
to a ball put him
to bed herself,
she felt depressed at being so far from him;
and whatever she was taling about,
she kept coing back in thought
to her curly-headed Seryozha.

She longed
to look at his photograph and talk of him.

Seizing the first pretext,
she got up,
and
with her light,
resolute step went
for her album.

The stairs up
to her room cane out on the landing of the great warm main staircase.

Just as she was leaving the drawing room,
a ring was heard in the hall.

"Who can that be?”
said Dolly
“It's early
for me
to be fetched,
and
for anyone else it's late,”
observed Kitty.

"Sure
to be someone
with papers
for me,”
put in Stepan Arkadyevitch.

When Anna was passing the top of the staircase,
a servant was running up
to announce the visitor,
while the visitor himself was standing under a lamp.

Anna glancing down at once recognized Vronsky,
and a strange feeling of pleasure and at the same time of dread of something stirred in her heart.

He was standing still,
not taking off his coat,
pulling something out of his pocket.

At the instant when she was just facing the stairs,
he raised his eyes,
caught sight of her,
and into the expression of his face there passed a shade of emparrassment and dismay.

With a slight inclination of her head she passed,
hearing behind her Stepan Arkadyevitch's loud voice calling him
to come up,
and the quiet,
soft,
nad composed voice of Vronsky refusing.

When Anna returned
with the album,
he was already gone,
and Stepan Arkadyevitch was telling them that he had called
to inquire about the dinner they were giving next day
to a celebrity who had just arrived.

"And nothing would induce him
to come up.

What a queer fellow he is!”
added Stepan Arkadyevitch.

Kitty blushed.

She thought that she was the only person who knew why he had come,
and why he would not come up.

"He has been at home,”
she thought,
"and didn't find me,
and thought I should be here,
but he did not come up because he thought it late,
and Anna's here.”

All of them looked at each other,
saying nothing,
and began
to look at Anna's album.

There was nothing either exceptional or strange in a man's calling at half-past nine on a friend
to inquire details of a proposed dinner party and not coming in,
but it seemed strange
to all ofthem.

Above all,
it seemed strange and not right
to Anna.

Chapter 22 The ball was only just beginning as Kitty and her mother walked up the grat staircase,
flooded
with light,
and lined
with flowers and footmen in powder and red coats.

From the rooms came a constant,
steady hum,
as from a hive,
and the restle of movement;
and while on the landing between trees they gave last touches
to their hair and dresses before the mirror,
they heard from the ballroom the careful,
distinct notes of the fiddles of the orchestra beginning the first waltz.

A little old man in civilian dress,
arranging his gray curls before another mirror,
and diffusing an odor of scent,
stumbled against them on the stairs,
and stood aside,
evidently admiring Kitty,
whom he did not know.

A beardless youth,
one of those society youths whom the old Prince Shtcherbatsky called
“young bucks,”
in an exceedingly open waistcoat,
straighteneing his white tie as he went,
bowed
to them,
and after running by,
came back
to ask Kitty
for a quadrille.

As the first quadrille had already been given
to Vronsky,
she had
to pronise this youth the second.

An officer,
buttoning his glove,
stood aside in thedoorway,
and stroking his mustache,
admired rosy Kitty.

Although her dress,
her coiffure,
and all the preparations
for the ball had cost Kitty great trouble and consideration,
at this moment she walked into the ballroom in her elaborate tulle dress over a pink slip as easily and simply as though all the rosettes and lace,
all the minute details of her attire,
had not cost her or her family a moment's attention,
as though she had been born in that tulle and lace,
with her hair done up high on her head,
and a rose and two leaves on the top of it.

When,
just before entering the ballroom,
the princess,
her mother,
tried
to turn right side out othe ribbon of her sash,
Kitty had drawn back a little.

She felt that everything must be right of itself,
and graceful,
and nothing could need setting straight.

It was one of Kitty's best days.

Aher dress was not uncomfortable anywhere;
her lace berthe did not droop anywhere;
her rosettes were not crushed nor torn off;
;her pink slippers
with high hollowed-out heels did not pinch,
but gladdened her feet;
and the thick rolls of fair chignon kept up on her head as if they were her own hair.

All the three buttons buttoned up without tearing on the long glove that covered her hand without concealing its lines.

The black velvet of her locket nestles
with special softness round her neck.

That velvet was delicious;
at home,
looking at the neck in the looking glass,
Kitty had felt that that velvet was speaking.

About all the rest there might be a doubt,
but the velvet was delicious.

Kitty smiled here too,
at the ball,
when she glanced at it in the glass.

Her bare shoulders and arms gave Kitty a sense of chill marble,
a feeling she particularly liked.

Her eyes sparkled,
and her rosy lips could not keep from smiling from the consciousness of her own attractiveness.

She had scarcely entered the ballroom and reached the throng of ladies,
all tulle,
ribbons,
lace,
and flowers,
waiting
to be asked
to dance--Kitty was never one of that throng--when she was asked
for a waltz,
and asked by the best partner,
the first star in the heirarchy of the ballroom,
a renowned director of dances,
a married man,
handsome and well-built,
Yegorushka Korsunsky.

He had only just left the Countess Bonina,
with whom he had danced the first half of the waltz,
and,
scanning his kingdom--that is
to say,
a few couples who had started dancing--he caught sight of Kitty,
entering,
and flew up
to her
with that peculiar,
easy amble which is confined
to directors of balls.

Without even asking her if she cared
to dance,
he put out his arm
to encircle her slender waist.

She looked round
for someone
to give her fan to,
and their hostess,
smiling
to her,
took it.

"How nice you've come in good time,”
he said
to her,
embracing her waist;
"such a bad habit
to be late.”

Bending her left hand,
she laid it o his shoulder,
and her little feet in their pink slipprs began swiftly lightly,
and rhythmically moving over the slippery floor in time
to the music.

"It's a rest
to waltz
with you,”
he said
to her,
as they fell into the first slow steps of the waltz.

"It's exquisite--such lightness,
precision.”

He said
to her the same thing he said
to almost ll his partners whom he knew well.

She smiled at his praise,
and continued
to look about the room over his shoulder.

She was not like a girl at her first ball,
for whom all faces in the ballroom melt into one visio of fairyland.

And she was not a girld who had gone the stale round of balls till every face in the ballroom was familiar and tiresome.

But she was in the middle stage between these two;
she was excited,
and at the same time she had sufficient self-possession
to be able
to observe.

In the left corner of the ballroom she saw the cream of society gathered together.

There--incredibley naked--was the beauty Lidi,
Korsunsky's wife;
there was the lady of the house;
there shone the bald head of Krivin,
always
to be found where the best people were.

In that direction gazed the young men,
not venturing
to approach.

There,
too,
she descried Stiva,
and there she saw the exquisite figure and head of Anna in a black velvet gown.

And HE was there.

Kitty had not heen him since the evening she refused Levin.

With her long-sighted eyes,
she knew him at once,
and was even aware that he was looking at her.

"Another turn,
eh?

You're not tired?”
said Korsunsky,
a little out of breath.

"No,
thank you!”
"Where shall I take you?”
"Madame Karenina's here,
I think...take me
to her.”

"Wherever you command.”

And Korsunsky began waltzing
with measured steps straight towards the group in the left corner,
continually saying,
"Pardon,
mesdames,
pardso,
pardon,
mesdames";
and steering his course through the sea of leace,
tulle,
and ribbon,
and not diarranging a feather,
he turned his partner sharply round,
so that her slim ankles,
in light transparent stockings,
were exposed
to view,
and her train floated out in fan shape and covered Krivin's knees.

Korsunky bowed,
set stright his open shirt front,
and gave her his arm
to conduct her
to Anna Arkadyevna.

Kitty,
flushed,
took her train from Krivin's knees,
and,
a little giddy,
looked round,
seeking Anna.

Anna was not in lilac,
as Kitty had so urgenly wished,
but in a black,
low-cut,
velvet gown,
showing her full throat and shulders,
that looked as though carved in old ivory,
and her rounded arms,
with tiny,
slender wrists.

The whole gown was trimmed
with Venetial guipure.

On her head,
among her black hair--her own,
with no false additions--was a little wreath of pansies,
and a bouquet of the same in the black ribbon of her sash among white lace.

Her coiffure was not striking.

All that was noticeable was the little wilful tendrils of her curly hair that would always break free about her neck and temples.

Round her well-cut,
strong nect was a thread of pearls.

Kitty had been seeing Anna every day;
she adored her,
and had pictured her invariable in lilac.

But now seeing her in black,
she felt that she had not fully seen her charm.

She saw her now as someone quite new and surprising
to her.

Now she understood that Anna could not have been in lilac,
and that her charm was just that she always stood out against her attire,
that her dress could never be noticeable on her.

And her black dress,
with its sumptuous lace,
was not noticeable on her;
it was only the frame,
and all that was seen was she--simple natural,
elegant,
and at the same time gay and eager.

She was standing holding herself,
as always,
very erect,
and when Kitty drew near the group she was speaking
to the master of the house,
her head slightly turned towards him.

"No,
I don't throw stones,”
she was saying,
in answer
to something,
"though I can't understand it,”
she went on,
shrugging her soulders,
and she turned at once
with a soft smile of protection towards Kitty.

With a flying,
feminine glance she scanned her attire,
and made a movement of her head,
hardly perceptible,
but understood by Kitty,
signifying approval of her dress and her looks.

"You came into the room dancing,”
she added.

"This is one of my most faithful supporters,”
said Korsunsky,
bowing
to Anna Arkadyevna,
whom he had not yet seen.

"The princess helps
to make balls happy and successful.

Anna Arkadyevna,
a waltz?”
he said,
bending down
to her.

"Why,
have yo met?”
inquired their host.

"Is there anyone we have not met?

My wife and I are like white wolves--everyone knows us,”
answered Korsunsky.

"A waltz,
Anna Arkadyevna?”
"I don't dance when it's possible not
to dance,”
she said.

"But tonight it's impossible,”
answered Korsunsky.

At that instant Vronsky came up.

"Well,
since it's impossible tonight,
let us start,”
she said,
not noticing Vronsky's bow,
and she hastily put her hand on Korsunsky's shoulder.

"What is she vexed
with him about?”
thought Kitty,
discerning that Anna had intentionally not responded
to Vronsky's bow.

Vronsky went up
to Kitty reminding her of the first quadrille,
and expressing his regret that he had not seen her all this time.

Kitty gazed in admiration at Anna waltzing,
and listened
to him.

She expected him
to ask her
for a waltz,
but he did not,
and she glanced wonderingly at him.

He flushed slightly,
and hurriedly asked her
to waltz,
but he had only just put his arm round her waist and taken the first step when the music suddenly stopped.

Kitty looked into his face,
which was so close
to her own,
and long afterwards--for several years after--that look,
ful of love,
to which he made no response,
cut her
to the heart
with an agony of shame.

"Pardon! pardon! Waltz! waltz!”
shouted Korsunsky from the other side of the room,
and seizing the first young lady he came across he began dancing himself.

Chapter 23 Vronsky and Kitty waltzed several times round the room.

After the first waltz Kitty went
to her mother,
and she had hardly time
to say a few words
to Countess Nordston when Vronsky came up again
for the first quadrille.

During the quadrille nothing of any significance was said:

there was disjointed talk between them of the Korsunskys,
husband and wife,
whom he described very amusingly,
as delightful children at forty,
and of the future town theater;
and only once the conversation touched her
to the quick,
when he asker her about Levin,
whether he was here,
and added that he liked him so much.

But Kitty did not expect much from the quadrille.

She looked forward
with a thrill at her heard
to the mazurka.

She fancied that in the mazurka everything must be decided.

The fact that he did not during the quadrille ask her
for the mazurka did not trouble her.

She felt sure she would dance the mazurka
with him as she had done at former balls,
and refused five young men,
saying she was engaged
for the mazurka.

The whole ball up
to the last quadrille was
for Kitty an enchanted vision of delightful colcors,
sounds,
and motions.

She only sat down when she felt too tired and begged
for a rest.

But as she was dancing the last quadrille
with one of the tiresome young men whom she coud not refuse,
she chanced
to be vis-a-vis
with Vronsky and Anna.

She had not been near Anna again since the beginning of the evening,
and now again she saw her suddenly quite new and surp4rising.

SHe saw in her the signs of that excitement of success she knew so well in herself;
she saw that she was intoxicated
with the delighted admiration she was exciting.

She knew that feeling and knew its signs,
and saw them in Anna;
saw the quivering,
flashing light in her eyes,
and the smile of happiness and excitement uncionsciously playing on her lips,
and the deliberate grace,
precision,
and lightness of her movements.

"Who?”
she asked herself.

"All or one?”
And not assisting the harassed young man she was dancing
with in the conversation,
the thread of which he had lost and could not pick up again,
she obeyed
with external liveliness the peremptory shouts of Korsunsky starting them all into the grand rond,
and then into the chaine,
and at the same time she kept watch
with a growing pang at her heart.

"No,
it's not the admiration of the crowd has intoxicated her,
but the adoration of one.

And that one?

can it be he?”
Every time he spoke
to Anna the joyous light flashed into her eyes,
and the smile of happiness curved her red lips.

She seemed
to make an effort
to control herself,
to try not
to show these signs of delight,
but they came out on her face ofthemselves.

"But what of him?”
Kitty looked at him and was filled
with terror.

What was pictured so clearly
to Kitty in the mirror of Anna's face she saw in him.

What had become of his always self-possessed resolute manner,
and the carelessly serene expression of his face?

Now every time he turned
to her,
he pend his head,
as though he would have fallen at her feet,
and in his eyes there was nothing but humble submission and dread.

"I would not offend you,”
his eyes seemed every time
to be saying,
"but I want
to save myself,
and I don't know how.”

On his face was a look such as Kitty have never seen before.

They were speaking of common acquaintances,
keeping up the most trivial conversatin,
but
to Kitty it seemed that every word they said was determining their fate and hers.

And strange it was that they were actually talking of how absurd Ivan Ivanovitch was
with his French,
and how the eletsky girl might have made a better match,
yet these words had all the while consequence
for them,
and they were feeling just as Kitty did.

The whole ball,
the whole world,
everything seemed lost in fog in Kitty's soul.

Nothing but the stern discipline of her bringing-up supported her and forced her
to do what was expected of her,
that is,
to dance,
to answer questions,
to talk,
even
to smile.

But before the mazurka,
when they were beginning
to rearrange the chairs and a few couples moved out of the smaller rooms into the big room,
a moment of despair and horror came
for Kitty.

She had refused five partners,
and now she was not dancing the mazurka.

She had not even a hope of being asked
for it,
because she was so successful in society that the idea would never occur
to any one that she had remained disengaged till now.

She would have
to tell her mother she felt ill and go home,
but she had not the strength
to do this.

She felt curshed.

She went
to the furthest end of the little drawing room and sank into a low chair.

Her light,
transparent skirts rose like a cloud about her slender waist;
one bare,
thin,
soft,girlish arm,
hanging listlessly,
was lost in the folds of her pink tunic;
in the other she held her fan,
and
with rapid,
short strokes fanned her burning face.

But while she looked like a butterfly,
clinging
to a blade of grass,
and just about
to open its rainbow wings
for fresh flight,
her heart ached
with a horrible despair.

"But perhaps I am wrong,
perhaps it was not so?”
And again she recalled all she had seen.

"Kitty,
what is it?”
said Countess Nordston,
stepping noiselessly over the carpet towards her.

"I don't understand it.”

Kitty's lower lip began
to quiver;
she got up quickly.

"Kitty,
you're not dancing the mazurka?”
"No,
no,”
said Kitty in a voice shaking
with tears.

"He asked her
for the mazurka before me,”
said Countess Nordston,
knowing Kitty would understand who were
“he”
and
“her.”

"She said:

Why,
aren't you going
to dance it
with Princess Shtcherbatskaya?”
"Oh,
I don't care!”
answered Kitty.

No one but she herself understood her position;
no one knew that she had just refused the man whom perhaps she loved,
and refused him because she had put her faith in another.

Countess Nordston found Korsunsky,
with whom she was
to dance the mazurka,
and told him
to ask Kitty.

Kitty danced in the first couple,
and luckily
for her she had not
to talk,
because Korsunsky was all the time running about directing the figure.

Vronsky and Anna sat almost opposite her.

She saw them
with her long-sighted eyes,
and saw them,
too,
close by,
when they met in the figures,
and the more she saw of them the more convinced was she that her unhappiness was coplete.

She saw that they felt themselves alone in that crowded room.

And on Vronsky's face,
always so firm and independent,
she saw that look that had struck her,
of bewilderment and humble submissiveness,
like the expression of an intelligent dog when it had done wrong.

Anna smiles,
and her smile was reflected by him.

She grew thoughtful,
and he bacame serious.

Some supernatural force drew Kitty's eyes
to Anna's face.

She was fascinating in her simple black dress,
fascinating were her round arms
with their bracelets,
fascinating was her firm nect
with its thread of pearls,
fascinating the straying curls of her loose hair,
fascinating the graceful.

light movements of her little feet and hands,
fascinating was that lovely face in its eagerness,
but there was something terrible and cruel in her fascination.

Kitty admired her more than ever,
and more and more acute was her fuffering.

Kitty felt overwhelmed,
and her face showed it.

When Vronsky saw her,
coming across her in the mazurka,
he did not at once recognize her,
she was so changed.

"Delightful ball1”
he said
to her,
for the sake of saying something.

"Yes,”
she answered.

In the middle of the mazurka,
repeating a complicated figure,
newly invented by Korsunsky,
Anna came forward into the center of the circle,
chose two gentlemen,
and summoned a lady and Kitty.

Kitty gazed at her in dismay as she went up.

Anna looked at her
with drooping eyelids,
and smiled,
pressing her had.

But,
noticing that Kitty only responded
to her smile by a look of despair and amazement,
she turned away from her,
and began gaily talking
to the other lady.

"Yes,
there is something uncanny,
devilish and fascinating in her,”
Kitty said
to herself.

Anna did not mean
to stay
to supper,
but the master of the house began
to press her
to do so.

"Nonsense,
Anna Arkadyevna,”
said Korsunsky,
drawing her bare arm under the sleeve of his dress coat,
"I've such an idea
for a cotillon! Un bijou!”
And he moved gradually on,
trying
to draw her along
with him.

Their hose smiled approvingly.

"No,
I am not going
to stay,”
answered Anna,
smiling,
but in spite ofher smile,
both Korsunsky and the master of the house saw from her resolute tone that she would not stay.

"No;
why,
as it is,
I have danced mor at your ball in Moscow that I have all the winter in Petersburg,”
said Anna,
looking round at Vronsky,
who stood near her.

"I must rest a little before my journey.”

"Are you certainly going tomorrow then?”
asked Vronsky.

"Yes,
I suppose so,”
answered Anna,
as it were wondering at the boldness of his question;
but the irrepressible,
quivering brilliance of her eyes and her smile set him on fire as she said it.

Anna Arkadyevna did nto stay
to supper,
but went home.

Chapter 24
“Yes,
there is something in be hatful,
repulsive,”
thought Levin,
as he came away from the Shtcherbatskys',
and walked in the direction of his brother's lodgings.

"And I don't get on
with other people.

Pride,
they say.

No,
I have no pride.

If I had any pride,
I should not have put myslef in such a position.”

And he pictured
to himself Vronsky,
happy,
good-natured,
clever,
and self-possessed,
certainly never placed in the awful position in which he had been that evening.

"Yes,
she was bound
to choose him.

So it had
to be,
and I cannot complain of any one or anything.

I am myself
to blame.

What right had I
to imagine whe would care
to join her life
to mine?

Whom am I and what am I?

A nobody,
not wanted by any one,
nor of use
to anybody.”

And he recalled his brother Nikolay,
and dwelt
with pleasure on the thought of him.

"Isn't he right that everytthing in the world is base and loathsome?

And are we fair in our judgment of brother Nikolay?

Of course,
from the point of view of Prokofy,
seeing him in a forn cloak and tipsy,
he's a despicable person.

But I know him differently.

I know his soul,
and know that we are like him.

And I,
instead of going
to seek him out,
went out
to dinner,
and came here.”

Levin walked up
to a lamppost,
read his brother's address,
which was in his pocketbook,
and called a sledge.

All the long way
to his brother's,
Levin vividly recalled all the facts familair
to him of his brother Nikolay's life.

He remembered how his brother,
while at the university,
and
for a year afterwards,
had,
in spite of the jeers of his companions,
lived like a monk,
strictly observing all religious rites,
services,
and fasts,
and avoiding every sort of pleasure,
especially women.

And afterwards,
how he had all at once broken out:

he had associated
with the most horrible people,
and rushed into the most senseless debauchery.

He remembered later the scandal over a boy,
howm he had taken from the country
to bring up,
and,
in a fit of rage,
ahd so violently beaten that proceedings were brought aginst him
for unlawfully wounding.

Then he recalled the scandal
with a sharper,
to whom he ad lost money,
and given a promissory note,
and against whom he had himself lodged a complaint,
asserting that he had cheated him.

(This was the money Sergey Ivanovitch had paid.)
Then he remembered how he had spent a night in the lockup
for disorderly conduct in the street.

He remembered the shameful proceedings he had tried
to get up against his brother Sergey Ivanovitch,
accusing him of not having paid him his share of his mothers fortune,
and the last scandal.

when he had gone
to a western province in an official capacity,
and there had got into trouble
for assaulting a village elder...It was all horribly disgusting,
yet
to Levin ti appeared not at all in the same disgusting light as it inevitably would
to those who did not know Nikolay,
did not know all his story,
did not know his heart.

Levin remembered that when Nikolay had been in the devout stage,
the period of fasts and monks and church services,
when he was seeking in religion a support and a curb
for his passinate temperament,
every one,
far from encouraging him,
had jeered at him,
and he,
too,
with the others.

They had teased him,
called him Noah and Monk;
and,
when he had broken out,
no one had helped him,
but every one had turned away from thim
with horror and disgust.

Levin felt that,
in spite of all the ugliness of his life,
his brother Nikolay,
in his sould,
in the very deptsh of his soul,
was no more in the wrong thant the people who despised him.

He was not
to blame
for having been born
with his unbridled temperament and his somehow limited intelligence.

But he had always wanted
to be good.

"I will tell him everything,
without reserve,
and I will make him speak without reserve,
too,
and I'll show him that I love him,
and so understand him,”
Levin resolved
to himself,
as,
towards eleven o'clock,
he reached the hotel of which he had the address.

"At the top,
12 and 13,”
the porter answered Levin's inquiry.

"At home?”
"Sure
to be at home.”

The door of No.

12 was half open,
and there came out into the streak of light htick fumes of cheap,
poor tobacco,
and the sound of a voice,
unknown
to Levin;
but he knw at once that his brother was there;
he heard his cough.

As he went in the door,
the unknown voice was saying:

"It all depends
with how much judgment and knowledge the thing's done.”

Konstantin Levin looked in at the door,
and saw that the speaker was a young man
with an immense shock of hair,
wearing a Russian jerkin,
and that a pockmarked woman in a woolen gown,
without collar or cuffs,
was sitting on the sofa.

His brother was not
to be seen.

Konstantin felt a sharp pang at his heart at the thought of the strange company in which his brother spent his life.

No one had heard him,
and Konstantin,
taking off his goloshes,
listened
to what the gentleman in the jerkin was saying.

He was speaking of some enterprise.

"Well,
the devil flay them,
the privileged classes,”
his brother's voice responded,
with a cough.

"Masha! get us some supper and some wine if there's any left;
or else go and get some.”

The wonan rose,
came out from behind the screen,
and saw Konstantin.

"There's some gentleman,
Nikolay Dmitrievtich,”
she said.

"Whom do you want?”
said the voice of Nikolay Levin,
angrily.

"It's I,”
answered Konstantin Levin,
coming forward into the light.

"Who's I?”
Nikolay's voice said again,
still more angrily.

He could be heard getting up hurriedly,
stumbling against somehting,
and Levin saw,
facing him i the doorway,
the big,
scared eyes,
and the huge,
thin,
stooping figure of his brother,
so familair,
and yet astonishing in it weirdness and sickliness.

He was even thinner than three years before,
when Konstantin Levin had seen him last.

He was wearing a short coat,
and his hands and big bones seemed huger htan ever.

His hair had grown thinner,
the same traight mustaches hid his lips,
the same eyes gazed strangely and naively at his visitor.

"Ah,
Kostya!”
he exclaimed suddenly,
recognizing his brother,
and his eyes lit up
with joy.

But the same second he looked round at the young man,
and gave the vervous jerk of his head and neck that Konstantin knew so well,
as if his neckband hurt him;
and a quite different expressiion,
wild,
suffering,
and cruel,
rested on his emaciated fact.

"I wrote
to you nad Sergey Ivanovitch botyh that I don't know you and don't want
to know you.

What is it you want?”
He was not at all the same as Konstantin had been fancying him.

The worst and most tiresome part of his character,
what made all relation
with him so difficult,
had been forgotten by Konstantin Levin when he thought of him,
and now,
when he saw his face,
and especially that nervous twitching of his head,
he remembered it all.

"I didn't want
to see you
for anythng,”
he answered timidly.

"I've simply come
to see you.”

His brother's timidity obviously softened Nikolay.

His lips twitched.

"Oh,
so that's it?”
he said.

"Well,
come in;
sit down.

Like some supper?

Masha,
bring supper
for three.

No.

stop a minute.

Do you know who this is?”
he said,
addressing his brither,
and indicating the gentleman in the jerkin:

"This is Mr. Kritsky,
my friend from Kiev,
a very remarkable man.

He's persecuted by the police,
of course,
because he's not a scoundrel.”

And he looked round in the way he always did at every one in the room.

Seeing that the woman standing in the doorway was moving
to go,
he shouted
to her,
"Wait a minute,
I said.”

And
with the inability
to express himself,
the incoherence that Konstantin knew so well,
he began,
with another look round at every one,
to tell his brother Kritsky's story:

how he had been expelled from the university
for starting a benefit society
for the poor students and Sunday schools;
and how he had afterwards been a teacher in a peasant school,
and how he had been driven out of that too,
and had afterwards been condemned
for something.

"You're of the Kiev university?”
said Konstantin Levin
to Kritsky,
to break the awkward silence that followed.

"Yes,
I was of Kiev,”
Kritsky replied angrily,
his face darkening.

"And this woman,”
Nikolay Levin interrupted him,
pointing
to her,
"is the partner of my life,
Marya Nikolaevna.

I took her out of a bad house,”
and he jerked his neck saying this;
"but I love her and respect her,
and any one who wants
to know me,”
he added,
raising his voice and knitting his brows,
"I beg
to love her and respec her.

She's just the same as my wife,
just the same.

So now you know whom you've
to to do with.

And if you think you're lowering ourself,
well,
here's the foor,
there's the door.”

And again his eyes traveled inquiringly over all of them.

"Why I should be lowering myself,
I don't understand.”

"Then,
Masha,
tell them
to bring supper;
three portions,
spirits and wine...No,
wait a minute...No,
it doesn't matter...Go along.”

Chapter 25
“So you see,”
pursued Nikolay Levin,
painfully wrinkling his forhead and twitching.

It was obviously difficult
for him
to think of what
to say and do.

"Here,
do you see?”
...He pointed
to some sort of iron bars,
fastened togethr
with strings,
lying in a corner of the room.

"Do you see that?

That's the beginning of a new thing we're going into.

It's a productive association...”

Konstantin scarcely heard him.

He looked into his sickly,
consumptive face,
and he was more and more sorry
for him,
and he could not force himself
to listen
to what his brother was telling him about the association.

He saw that this association was a mere anchor
to save him from self-copntempt.

Nikolay Levin went on talking.

"You know that capital oppresses the laborer.

The laborers
with us,
the peasants,
bear all the burden of labor,
and are so placed that however much they work they can't escapte from their position of beasts of burden.

All the profits of labor,
on which they might improve their position,
and gain leisure
for themselves,
and after that education,
all the surplus values are taken from them by the capitalists.

And society's so constituted that the harder they work,
the greater the profit of the merchants and landowners,
while they stay beasts of burden
to the end.

And that state of things must be changed,”
he finished up,
and he looked questioningly at his brother.

"Yes,
of course,”
said Konstantin,
looking at the patch of red that had come out on his brother's projecting cheek bones.

"And so we're founding a locksmiths’
association,
where all the production and profit and the chief instruments of production will be in common.”

"Where is the association
to be?”
asked Konstantin Levin.

"In the village of Vozdrem,
Kazan government.”

"But why in a village?

In the villages,
I think,
there is plenty of work as it is.

Why a locksmiths’
association in a village?”
"Why?

Because the peasants are just as much slaves as they ever were,
and that's why you and Sergey Ivanovitch don't like people
to try and get them out of their slavery,”
said Nikolay Levin,
exasperated by the objection.

Konstantin Levin sighed,
looking meanwhile about the cheerless and dirty room.

This sigh seemed
to exasperate Nikolay still more.

"I know your and Sergey Ivanovitch's aristocratic views.

I know that he applies all the power of his intellect
to justify existing evils.”

"No;
and what do you talk of Sergey Ivanovitch for?”
said Levin,
smiling.

"Sergey Ivanovitch?

I'll tell you what for!”
Nikolay Levin shrieked suddenly at the name of Sergey Ivanovitch.

"I'll tell you what for...But what's the use of talking?

There's only one thing...What did you come
to me for?

You look down on this,
and you're welcome to,--and go away,
in God's name go away!”
he shrieked,
getting up from his chair.

"And go away,
and go away!”
"I don't look down on it at all,”
said Konstantin Levin timidly.

"I don't even dispute it.”

At that instnat Marya Nikolaevna came back Nikolay Levin looked round angrily at her.

She went quickly
to him,
and whispered something.

"I'm not well;
I've grown irritable,”
said Nikolay Levin,
getting calmer and breathing painfuly;
"and then you talk
to me of Sergey Ivanovitch and his article.

It's such rubbish,
such lying,
such self-deception.

What can a man write of justic who knows nothing of it?

Have you read his article?”
he asked Kritsky,
sitting down again at the table,
and moving back off half of it the scattered cigarettes,
so as
to clear a space.

"I've not read it,”
Kritsky responded gloomily,
obviously not desiring
to enter into the conversation.

"Why not?”
said Nikolay Levin,
now turning
with exasperation upon Kritsky.

"Because I didn't see the use of wasting my time over it.”

"Oh,
but excuse me,
how did you know it would be wasting your time?

That article's too deep
for many people--that's
to say it's over their heads.

But
with me,
it's another thing;
I see through his ideas,
and I know where its weakness lies.”

Every one was mute.

Kritsky got up deliberately and reached his cap.

"Won't you have supper?

All right,
good-bye! Come round tomorrow
with the locksmith.”

Kritsky had hardly gone out when Nikolay Levin smiled and winked.

"He's no good either,”
he said.

"I see,
of course...”

But at that instant Kritsky,
at the door,
called him...

"What do you want now?”
he said,
and went out
to him in the passage.

Left alone
with Marya Nikolaevna,
Levin turned
to her.

"Have you been long
with my brother?”
he said
to her.

"Yes,
more than a year.

Nikolay Dmitrievitch's health has become very poor.

Nikolay Dmitrievitch drinks a great deal,”
she said.

"That is...how does he drink?”
"Drinks vodka,
and it's bad
for him.”

"And a great deal?”
whispered Levin.

"Yes,”
she said,
looking timidly towards the doorway,
where Nikolay Levin had reappeared.

"What were you talking about?”
he said,
knitting his brows,
and turning his scarred eyes from one
to the other.

"What was it?”
"Oh,
nothing,”
Konstantin answered in confusion.

"Oh,
if you don't want
to say,
don't.

Only it's no good your talking
to her.

She's a wench,
and you're a gentleman,”
he said
with a jerk of the neck.

"You understand everythng,
I see,
and have taken stock of everything,
and look
with commiseration on my shortcomings,”
he began again,
raising his voice.

"Nikolay Dmitrievitch,
Nikolay Dmitirevitch,”
whispered Marya Nikolaevna,
again going up
to him.

"Oh,
very well,
very well!...But where's the supper?

Ah,
here it is,”
he said,
seeing a waiter
with a tray.

"Here,
set it here,”
he added angrily,
and promptly seizing the vodka,
he poured out a glassful and drank it greedily.

"Like a drink?”
he turned
to his brother,
and at once became better humored.

"Well,
enough of Sergey Ivanovitch.

I'm glad
to see you,
anyway.

After all's said and done,
we're not strangers.

Come,
have a drink.

Tell me what you're doing,”
he wnt on,
greedily muching a piece of bread,
and pouring out another glassful.

"How are you living?”
"I live alone in the country,
as I used to.

I'm busy looking after the land,”
answered Konstantin,
watching
with horror the greediness
with which his brother ate and drank,
and trying
to conceal that he noticed it.

Why don't you get married?”
"It hasn't happened so,”
Konstantin answered,
reddening a little.

"Why not?

For me now...everything's at an end! I've made a mess of my life.

But this I've said,
and I say still,
that if my share had been givben me when I needed it,
my whole life would have been different.”

Konstantin made haste
to change the conversation.

"Do you know your little Vanya's
with me,
a clerk in the countinghouse at Pokrovskoe.”

Nikolay jerked his neck,
and sank into thought.

"Yes,
tell me what's going on at Pokrovskoe.

Is the house standing still,
and the birch trees,
and our schoolroom?

And Philip the gardener,
is he living?

How I remember the arbor and the seat! Now mind and don't alter anything in the house,
but make haste and get married,
and make everything as it used
to be agains.

Then I'll come and see you,
if your wife is nice.”

"But come
to me now,”
said Levin.

"How nicely we would arrange it!”
I'd come and see you if I were sure I should not find Sergey Ivanovitch.”

"You wouldn't find him there.

I live quite independently of him.”

"Yes,
but say what you like,
you will have
to choose between me and him,”
he said,
looking timidly into his brother's face.

This timidity touch Konstantin.

"If you want
to hear my confession of faith on the subject,
I tell you that in your quarrel
with Sergey Ivanovitch I take neither side.

You're both wrong.

You're more wrong externally,
and he inwardly.”

"Ah,
ah! You see that,
you see that!”
Nikolay shouted joyfully.

"But I personally value friendly relations
with you more because...”

"Why,
why?”
Konstantin could not say that he valued it more because Nikolay was unhappy,
and needed affection.

But Nikolay knew that this was just what he meant
to say,
and scowling he took up the vodka again.

"Enough,
Nikolay Dmitrievitch!”
said Marya Nikolaevna,
stretching out her plump,
bare arm towards the decanter.

"Let it be! Don't insist! I'll beat you!”
he shouted.

Marya Nikolaevna smiled a sweet and good-humored smile,
which was at once reflected on Nikolay's face,
and she took the bottle.

"And do you suppose she understands nothing?”
said Nikolay.

"She understands it all better than any of us.

Isn't it true there's something good and sweet in her?”
"Were you never before in Moscow?”
Konstantin said
to her,
for the sade of saying something.

"Only you mustn't be polite and stiff
with her.

It frightens her.

No one ever spoke
to her so but the justices of the peace who tried her
for trying
to get out of a house of ill-fame.

Mercy on us,
the senselessness in the world!”
he cried suddenly.

"These new institutions,
these justices of the peace,
rural councils,
what hideiousness it all is!”
And he began
to enlarge on his encounters
with the new institutions.

Konstantin Levin heard him,
and the disbielief in the sense of all public institutions,
which he shared
with him,
and often expressed,
was distasteful
to him now from his brother's lips.

"In another world we shall understand it all,”
he said lightly.

"In another world! Ah,
I don't like that other world! I don't like it,”
he said,
letting his scared eyes rest on his brother's eyes.

"Here one would think that
to get out of all the baseness and the mess,
one's own and other people's,
would be a good thing,
and yet I'm afraid of death,
awfully afraid of death.”

He shuddered.

"But do drink something.

Would you like some champagne?

Or shall be go somewhere?

Let's go
to the Gypsies! Do you know I have got so fond of the Gypsies and Russian songs.”

His speech had bugun
to falter,
and he passed abruptly from one subject
to another.

Konstantin
with the help of Masha persuaded him not
to go out anywhere,
and got him
to bed hopelessly drunk.

Masha promised
to write
to Konstantin in case of need,
and
to persuade Nikolay Levin
to go and stay
with his brother.

Chapter 26 In the morning Konstantin Levin left Moscow,
and towards evening he reached home.

On the journey in the train he talked
to his neighbors about politics and the new railways,
and,
just as in Moscow,
he was overcome by a sense of confusion of ideas,
dissatisfaction
with himself,
shame of somethng or other.

But when he got out at hi won station,
when he saw his one-eyes coachman,
Ignat,
with the collar of his coat turned up;
when,
in the dim light reflected by thestation fires,
he saw his own sledge,
his own horses
with their tails tied up,
in their harness trimmed
with rings and tassels;
when the coachman Ignat,
as he put in his luggage,
told him the village news,
that the contractor had arrived,
and that Pava had calved,--he felt that little by little the confusion was clearing up,
and the shame and self-dissatisfaction were passing away.

He felt this at the mere sight of Ignat and the horses;
but when he had ut on the sheepskin brought
for him,
had sat down wrapped in the sledge,
and had driven off pondering on the work that lay before him in the village,
and staring at the side-horse,
that had been his saddle-horse,
past his prime now,
but a spirited beast from the Don,
he began
to see what had happened
to him in quite a different light.

He felt himself,
and did not want
to be any one else.

All he wanted now was
to be better than before.

In the first place he resolved that from that day he would give up hoping
for any extraordinary happiness,
such as marriage must have given him,
and consequently he wuld not so disdain what he really had.

Secondly,
he would never again let himself give way
to low passion,
the memory of which had so tortured him when he had been making up his mind
to make an offer.

Then remembering his brother Nikolay,
he resolved
to himself that he would never allow himself
to forget him,
that he would follow him up,
and not lose sight of him,
so as
to be ready
to help when things should go ill
with him.

And that would be soon,
he felt.

Then,
too,
his brother's talk of communism,
which he had treated so lightly at the time,
now made him think.

He considered a revolution in econimic conditions nonsense.

But he always felt the injustice of his own abundance in comparison
with the poverty of the peasants,
and now he determined thqat so as
to feel quite in the right,
though he had worked hard and lived by no means luxuriously before,
he would now work still harder,
and would allow himself even less luxury.

And all this seemed
to him so easy a conquest over himself that he spent the whle drive in the pleasantest daydreaMs. With a resolute feeling of hope in a new,
better life,
he reached home before nine o'clock at night.

The snow of the little quadrangle before the house was lit up by a light in the bedroom windows of his old nurse,
Agafea Mihalovna,
who performed the duties of housekeeper in his huse.

She was not yet asleep.

Kouzma,
waked up by her,
came sidling sleepily out onto the steps.

A setter bitch,
Laska,
ran out too,
almost upsetting Kouzma,
and whining,
turned round about Levin's knees,
jumping up and longing,
but not daring,
to put her forpaws on his chest.

"You're soon back again,
sir,”
said Agafea Mihalovna.

"I got tired of it,
Agafea Mihalovna.

With firends,
one is well;
but at home,
one is better,”
he answered,
and went into his study.

The study was slowly lit up as the candle was brought in.

The familiar details came out:

the stag's horns,
the bookshelves,
the looking-glass,
the stove
with its ventilator,
which had long wanted mending,
his father's sofa,
a large table,
on the table an open book,
a broken ash tray,
a manuscript book
with his handwriting.

As he saw all this,
there came over him
for an instant a doubt of the possibilty of arranging the new life,
of which he had been dreaming on the road.

All these traces of his life seemed
to clutch him,
andto say
to him:

"No,
you're not going
to get away from us,
and you're not going
to be different,
but you're going
to be the same as you've always been;
with doubts,
everlasting dissatisfaction
with yourself,
vain efforts
to amend,
and falls,
and everlasting expectation,
of a happiness which you won't get,
and which isn't possible
for you.”

This the tings said
to him,
but another voice in his heart was telling him that he must not fall under the sway of the past,
and that one can do anything
with oneself.

And hearing that voice,
he went into the corner where stood his two heavy dumbbells,
and began brandishing them like a gymnast,
trying
to restore his confident temper.

There was a creak of steps atthe door.

He hastily put down the dumbbells.

The bailiff came in,
and said everything,
thank God,
was doing well;
but informed him that the buchwheat in the new drying machine had been a little scorched.

This piece of news irritated Levin.

The new drying machine had been constructed and partly invented by Levin.

The bailiff had always been against the drying machine,
and now it was
with suppressed triumph that he announced that the buchwheat had been scorched.

Levin was firmly convinced that if the buchwheat had been scorched,
ti was only because the precautions had not been taken,
for which he had hundreds of times given orders.

He was annoyed,
and reprimanded the bailiff.

But there had been an important and joyful event:

Pava,
his best cow,
and expensive best,
bought at a show,
had calved.

"Kouzma,
give me my sheepshin.

And you tell them
to take a lantern.

I'll come and look at her,”
he said
to the bailiff.

The cowhouse
for the more valuable cows was just behind the house.

Walking across the yard,
passing a snowdrift by the lilac tree,
he went into the cowhouse.

There was the warm,
steamy smell of dung when the frozen door was oopened,
and the cows,
astonished at the unfamiliar light of the lantern,
stirred on the fresh straw.

He caught a glimpse of the groad,
smooth,
black and piebald back of Hollandka.

Berkoot,
the bull,
was lying down
with his ring in his lip,
and seemed about
to get up,
but thought better of it,
and only gave two snorts as they passed by him.

Pava,
a perfect beauty,
huge as a hippopotamus,
with her back turned
to them,
prevented their seeing the calf,
as she sniffer her all over.

Levin went into the pen,
looked Pava over,
and lifted the red and spotted calf onto her long,
tottering legs.

Pava,
uneasy,
began lowing,
but when Levin put the calf close
to her she was soothed,
and,
sighing heavily,
began licking her
with her rough tongue.

The calf,
fumbling,
poked her nose under her mother's udder,
nad stiffened her tail out straight.

"Here,
bring the light,
Fyodor,
this way,”
said Levin,
examining the calf.

"Like the mother! though the color takes after the father;
but that's nothing.

Very good.

Long and broad in the haunch.

Vassily Fedorovitch,
isn't she splendid?”
he said
to the bailiff,
quite forgiving him
for the buckwheat under the influence of his delight in the calf.

"How could she fail
to be?

Oh,
Semyon the contractor came the day after you left.

You must settle
with him,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch,”
said the bailiff.

"I did inform you about the machine.”

This question was enough
to take Levin back
to all the details of his work on the estate,
which was on a large scale,
and complicated.

He went straight from the cowhouse
to the counting house,
and after a little conversation
with the bailiff and Semyon the contractor,
he went back
to the house and straight upstairs
to the drawing room.

Chapter 27 The house was big and old-fashioned,
and Levin,
though he lived alone,
had the whole house heated and used.

He knew that this was stupid,
he knew that it was positively not right,
and contrary
to his present new plans,
but this house was a whole world
to Levin.

It was the world in which his father and mother had lived and died.

They had lived just the life that
to Levin seemed the ideal of perfection,
and that he had dreamed of beginning
with his wife,
his family.

Levin scarcely remembered hs mother.

His conception of her was
for him a sacred memory,
and his future wife was bound
to be in his imagination a repetition of that exquisite,
holy ideal of a woman that his mother had been.

He was so far from conceiving of love
for woman apart from marriage that he positively pictured
to himself first the family,
and only secondarily the woman who woud give him a family.

His ideas of marriage were,
consequently,
quite unlike those of the great majority of his acquaintances,
for whom getting married was one of the numerous facts of social life.

For Levin it was the chief affair of life,
on which its whole happiness turned.

And now he had
to give up that.

When he had gone into the little drawing room,
where he always had tea,
and had settled himself in his srmchair
with a book ,
and Agafea Mihalovna had brought him tea,
and
with her usual,
"Well,
I'll stay a while,
sir,”
had taken a chair in the window,
he felt that,
however strange it might be,
he had not parted from his daydreams,
and that he could not live without them.

Whether
with her,
or
with another,
still it would be.

He was reading a book,
and thinking of what he was reading,
and stopping
to listen
to Agafea Mihalovna,
who gossiped away without flagging,
and yet
with ll that,
all sorts of pictures of family life and work in the future rose disconnectedly before his imagination.

He felt that in the dpeth of his soul something had been put in its place,
settled down,
and laid
to rest.

He heard Anafea Mihalovna talking of how Prohor had forgotten his duty
to God,
and
with the money Levin had given him
to buy a horse,
had been drinking without stopping,
and had beaten his wife till he'd half killed her.

He listened,
and read his book,
and recalled the whole train of ideas suggested by his reading.

It was Tyndall's Treatise on Heat.

He recalled his own criticisms of Tyndall ofr his complacent satisfaction in the cleverness of his experiments,
and
for his lack of philosophic insight.

And suddenly there floated into his mind the joyful thoght:

"In two years’
time I shall have two Dutch cows;
Pava herself will perhaps still be alive,
a dozen young daughters of Berkood and the three others--how lovely!”
He took up his book again.

"Very good,
electricity and heat are the same thing;
but is it possible
to substitute the one quantity
for the onther in the equation
for the solution of any problem?

No.

Well,
then what of it?

The connection between all the forces of nature is felt instictively...It's particulary nice if Pava's daughter should be a red-spotted cow,
and all the herd will take after her,
and the other three,
too! Splendid!
to go out
with my wife and visitors
to meet the herd...My wife says,
Kostya and I looked after that calf like a child.’

How can it interest you so much?’
says a visitor.

Everything that interests him,
interests me.’

But who will she be?”
And he rememberd what had happened at Moscow...”

Well,
there's nothing
to be done...It's not my fault.

But now everything shall go on in a new way.

It's nonsense
to pretend that life won't let one,
that the past won't let one.

One must struggle
to live better,
much better.”

...He raised his head,
and fell
to dreaming.

Old Laska,
who had not yet fully digested her delight at his return,
and crept up
to him,
bringing in the scent of fresh air,
put her head under his hand,
and whined plaintively,
asking
to be stroked.

"There,
who'd have thought it?”
said Agafea Mihalovna.

"The dog now...why,
she understands that her master's come home,
and that he's low-spirited.”

"Why low-spirited?”
"Do you suppose I don't see it,
sir?

It's high time I should know the genty.

Why,
I've grown up from a little thing
with them.

It's nothing,
sir,
so long as there's health and a clear conscience.”

Levin looked intenely at her,
surprised at how well she knew his thoght.

"Shall I fetch you another cup?”
said she,
and taking his cup she went out.

Laska kept poking her head under his hand.

He stroked her,
and she promptly curled up at his feet,
laying her head on a hindpaw.

And in token of all now being well and satisfactory,
she opened her mouth a little,
smacked her lips,
and settling her sticky lips more comfortably about her old teeth,
she sand into blissful repose.

Levin watched all her movements attentively.

"That's what I'll do,”
he said
to himself;
"that's what I'll do! Nothing's amiss...All's well.”

Chapter 28 After the ball,
early next morning,
Anna Arkadyevna sent her husband a telegram that she was leaving Moscow the same day.

"No,
I must go,
I must go";
she explained
to her sister-in-law the change in her plans in a tone that suggested that she had
to remember so many thngs that there was no enumerating them:

"no,
it had really better be today!”
Stepan Arkadyevitch was not dining at hime,
but he promised
to come and see his sister off at seven o'clock.

Kitty,
too,
did not come,
sending a note that she had a headache.

Dolly and Anna dined alone iwth the children and the English governess.

Whether it was that the children were fickle,
or that they had acute senses,
and felt that Anna was quite different that day from what she had been when they had taken such a fancy
to her,
that she was not now interested in them,--but they had abruptly droppedtheir play iwth their aunt,
and their love
for her,
and were quite indifferent that she was going away.

Anna was abosorbed the whole morning in preparations
for her epaurture.

She wrote notes
to her Moscow acquaintances,
put down her accounts,
and packed.

Altogether Dolly fancied she was not in a placid state of mind,
but in that worried mood,
which Dolly knew well
with herself,
and which does not come without cause,
and
for the most part covers dissatisfaction
with self.

After dinner,
Anna went up
to her room
to dress,
and Dolly followed her.

"How queer you are today!”
Dolly said
to her.

"I?

Do you think so?

I'm not queer,
but I'm nasty.

I am like that simetimes.

I keep feeling as if I could cry.

It's very stupid,
but it'll pass off,”
said Anna quickly,
and she bent her flushed facde over a tiny bag in which she was packing a nightcap and some cambric handkerchiefs.

Her eyes were particulary bright,
and were continually swimming
with tears.

"In the same way I didn't want
to leave Petersburg,
and now I don't want
to go away from here.”

"You came here and did a good deed,”
said Dolly,
looking intently at her.

Anna looked at her
with eyes wet
with tears.

"Don't say that,
Dolly.

I've done nothing,
and could do nothing.

I often wonder why people are all in league
to spoil me.

What have I done,
and what cold I do?

In your heart there was found love enough
to forgive...”

"if it had not been
for you,
God knows what would have happened! How happy you are,
Anna!”
said Dolly.

"Everything is clear and good in your heart.”

"Every heart has its own skeletons,
as the English say.”

"You have no sort of skeleton,
have you?

Everything is so clear in you.”

"I have!”
said Anna suddenly,
and unexpectedly after her tears,
a sly,
ironical smile curved her lips.

"Come,
he's amusing,
anyway,
your skeleton,
and not depressing,”
said Dolly,
smiling.

"No,
he's depressing.

Do yo know why I'm going today instead of tomorrow?

It's a confession that weighs on me;
I want
to make it
to you,”
said Anna,
letting herself drop definitely into an armchair,
and looking straight into Dolly's face.

And
to her surprise Dolly saw that Anna was blushing up
to her ears,
up
to the curly black ringlets on her neck.

"Yes,”
Anna went on.

"Do you know why Kitty didn't come
to dinner?

She's jealous of me.

I have spoiled...I've been the cause of that ball being a torture
to her instead of a pleasure.

But truly,
truly,
it's not my fault,
or only my fault a little bit,”
she said,
daintily drawling the words
“a little bit.”

"Oh,
how like Stiva you said that1”
said dolly,
laughing.

Anna was hurt.

"Oh no,
oh no! I'm not Stiva,”
she said,
knitting her brows.

"That's why I'm telling you,
just because I could never let myself doubt myself
for an instant,”
said Anna.

But at the very moment she was uttering the words,
she felt that they were not true.

She was not merely doubting herself,
she felt emotion at the thought of Vronsky,
and was going away sooner than she had meant,
simply
to avoid meeting him.

"Yes,
Stiva told me you danced the mazurka
with him,
and that he...”

"You can't imagine how absurdly it all came about.

I only meant
to be matchmaking,
and all at once it turned out quite differently.

Possibly against my own will...”

She crimsoned and stopped.

"Oh,
they feel it directly?”
said Dolly.

"But I should be in despair if there were anything serious in it on his side,”
Anna interrupted her.

"And I am certain it will all be forgotten,
and Kitty will leave off hating me.”

"All the same,
Anna,
to tell you the truth,
I'm not very anxious
for this marriage
for Kitty.

And it's better it should come
to nothing,
if he,
Vronsky,
is capable of falling in love
with you in a single day.”

"Oh,
heavens,
that would be too silly!”
said Anna,
and again a deep flush of pleasure came out on her face,
when she heard the idea,
that absorbed her,
put into words.

"And so here I am going away,
having made an enemy of Kitty,
whom I liked so much! Ah,
how sweet she is! But you'll make it right,
Dolly?

Eh?”
Dolly could scarcely suppress a smile.

She loved Anna,
but she enjoyed seeing that she too had her weaknesses.

"An enemy?

That can't be.”

"I did so want you all
to care
for me,
as I do
for you,
and now I care
for you more than ever,”
said Anna,
with tears in her eyes.

"Ah,
how silly I am today!”
She passed her handkerchief over her face and began dressing.

At the very moment of starting Stepan Arkadyevitch arrived,
late,
rosy and good-humored,
smelling of wine and cigars.

Anna's emotionalism infected Dolly,
and when she embraced her sister-in-law
for the last time,
she whispered:

"Remember,
Anna,
what you've done
for me--I shall never forget.

And remember that I love you,
and shall always love you as my dearest friend!”
"I don't know why,”
said Anna,
kissing her and hiding her tears.

"You understood me,
and you understand.

Good-bye,
my darling!”
Chapter 29
“Come,
it's all over,
and thank God!”
was the first thought that came
to Anna Arkadyevna,
when she had said good-bye
for the last time
to her brother,
who had stood blocking up the entrance
to the carriage till the third bell rang.

She sat down on her lounge beside Annushka,
and looked about her in the twilight of the sleeping-carriage.

"Thank God! tomorrow I shall see Seryozha and Alexey Alexandrovitch,
and my life will go on in the old way,
all nice and as usual.”

Still in the same anxious frame of mind,
as she had been all that day,
Anna took pleasure in arranging herself
for the journey
with great care.

With her little deft hands she opened and shut her little red bag,
took out a cushion,
laid it on her knees,
and carefully wrapping up her feet,
settled herself comfortably.

An invalid lady had already lain down
to sleep.

Two other ladies began talking
to Anna,
and a stout elderly lady tucked up her feet,
and made obervations about the heating of the train.

Anna answered a few words,
but not forseeing any entertainment from the conversation,
she asked Annushka
to get a lamp,
hooked it ont the arm of her seat,
and took from her bag a paper knife and an English novel.

At first her reading made no progress.

The fuss and bustle were disturbing;
then when the train had started,
she could not help listeneing
to the noises;
then the snow beating on the left window and sticking
to the pane,
and the sight of the muffled guard passing by,
covered wit snow on oe side,
and the conversations about the terrible snowstorm raging outside,
distracted her attention.

Farther on,
it was continually the same again and again:

the same shaking and rattling,
the same snow on the window,
the same rapid transistions from steaming heat
to cold,
and back again
to heat,
the same passing glimpses of the same figures in the twilight,
and the same voices,
and Anna began
to read and
to understand what she read.

Annushka was already dozing,
the red bag on her lap,
clutched by her broad hands,
in gloves,
of which one was torn.

Anna Arkadyevna read and understood,
but it was distasteful
to her
to read,
that is,
to follow the reflection of other people's lives.

She had too great a desire
to live herself.

If she read that the heroine of the novel was nursing a sick man,
she longed
to move
with noiseless steps about the room of a sick man;
if she read of a member of Parliament making a speech,
she longed
to be delivering the speech;
if she read of how Lady Mary had ridden after the hounds,
and had provoked her sister-in-law,
and had surprised every one by her boldness,
she too wished
to be doing the same.

But there was no chance of doing anything;
and twisting the smooth paper knife in her little hands,
she forced herself
to read.

The hero of the novel was already almost reaching his English happiness,
a baronetcy and an estate,
and Anna was feeling a desire
to go
with him
to the estate,
when she suddenly felt that HE ought
to feel ashamed,
and that she was ashamed of the same thing.

But what had he
to be ashamed of?

"What have I
to be ashamed of?”
she asked herself in injured surprise.

She laid down the book and sank against the back of the chair,
tightly gripping the papter cutterin both hands.

There was nothing.

She went over all her Moscow recollections.

All were good,
pleasant.

She remembered the ball,
remebvered Vronsky and his face of slavish adoration,
remembered all her conduct
with him:

there was nothing shameful.

And
for all that,
at the same point in her memories,
the feeling of shame was intensified,
as though some inner voice,
just at the point when she thought of Vronsky,
were saying
to her,
"Warm,
very warm,
hot.”

"Well,
what is it?”
she said
to herself resolutely,
shifting her seat in the lounge.

"What does it mean?

Am I afraid
to look it straight in the face?

Why,
what is it?

Can it be that between me and this officer boy there exist,
or can exist,
any other relations than such as are common
with every acquaintance?”
She laughed compemptuously and took up her book again;
but now she was definitely unable
to follow what she read.

She passed the paper knife over the window pane,
then laid its smooth,
cool surface
to her cheek,
and almost laughed aloud at the feeling of elight thatall at once without cause came over her.

She felt as thogh her nevers were strings being strained tighter and tighter on some sort of screwing peg.

She felt her eyes opening wider and wider,
her fingers and toes twitching nervously,
something within oppressing her breathing,
while all shapes and sounds seemed in the uncertain half-light
to strike her iwth unaccustomed vividness.

Moments of doubt were contiually coming upon her,
when she was uncertain whether the train were going forwards or backwards,
or were standing still althogether;
whether it were Annushka at her side or a stranger.

"What's that on the arm of the cahir,
a fur cloak or some beast?

And what am I myself?

Myself or some other woman?”
She was afraid of giving way
to this delirium.

But something drew her towards it,
and she could yield
to it or resist it at will.

She got up
to rouse herself,
and slipped off her plaid and the came of her warm dress.

For a moment she regained her self-possession,
and realized that the thin peasant who had come in wearing a long overcoat,
with buttons missing from it,
was the stoveheater,
that he was looking at the thermometer,
that it was the wind and snow bursting in after him at the door;
but then everhthing grew blurred again...That peasant
with the long waist seemed
to be gnawing something on the wall,
the old lady began stretching her legs the whle length of the carriage,
and filling it
with a black cloud;
then there was a fearful shrieking and banging,
as though some one were being torn
to pieces;
then there was a blinding dazzle of red fire before her eyes anda wall seemed
to rise up and hide everythng.

Anna felt as though she were sinking down.

But it was not terrible,
but delightful.

The voice of a man muffled up and covered
with snow shouted something in her ear.

She got up and pulled herself together;
she realized that they had reached a station and that this was the guard.

She asked Annushka
to hand her the cape she had taken off and her shawl,
put them on and moved towards the door.

"Do you wish
to get out?”
asked Annushka.

"Yes,
I want a little air.

It's very hot in here.”

And she opened the door.

The driving snow and the wind rushed
to meet her and struggled
with her over the door.

But she enjoyed the struggle.

She opened the door and went out.

The wind seemed as though lying in wait
for her;
with gleeful whistle it tried
to snatch her up and bear her off,
but she clung
to the cold door post,
and holding her skirt got down onto the platform and under the shelter of the carriages.

The wind had been powerful on the steps,
but on the platform,
under the lee of the carriages,
there was a lull.

With enjoyment she drew deep breaths of the frozen,
snowy air,
and standing near the carriage looked about the platform and the lighted station.

Chapter 30 The raging tempest rushed whistling between the wheels of the carriages,
about the scaffolding,
and round the corner of the station.

The carriages,
posts,
people,
everything that was
to be seen was covered
with snow on one side,
and was getting more and more thickly covered.

For a moment there would come a lull in thestorm,
but then it would swoop down again
with such onslaughts that it seemed impossible
to stand against it.

Meanwhile men ran
to and fro,
talking merrily together,
their steps crackling o the platform as they continuyally opened and closed the big doors.

The bent shadow of a man glided by at her feet,
and she heard sounds of a hammer upon iron.

"Hand over that telegram1”
came an angry voice out of the stormy darkness on the other side.

"This way! No.

28!”
several different voices shouted again,
and muffled figures ran by covered
with snow.

Two gentleman
with lighted cigarettes passed by her.

She drew one more deep breath of the fresh air,
and had just put he hand out of her muff
to take hold of the door post and get back into the carriage,
when another man in a military overcoat,
quite close beside her,
stepped between her and the flickering light of the lamp post.

She looked round,
and the same instant recognized Vronsky's face.

Putting his hand
to the peak of his cap,
he bowed
to her and asked,
Was there anything she wanted?

Could he be of any service
to her?

She gazed rather a long while at thim without answering,
and,
in spite of the shadow in which he was standing,
she saw,
or fancied she saw,
both the expression of his face and his eyes.

It was again that expression of reverential ecstasy which had so worked upon her theday before.

More than once she had told herself during the past few days,
and again only a few moments before,
that Vronsky was
for her only one of the hundreds of young men,
forever exactly the same,
that are met everywhere,
that she would never allow herself
to bestow a thought upon him.

But now at the first instant of meeting him,
she was seized by a feeling of joyful pride.

She had o need
to ask why he had come.

She knew as certainly as if he had told her that he was here
to be where she was.

"I didn't know you were going.

What are you coming for?”
she said,
letting fall the hand
with which she had grasped the door post.

And irrepressible delight and eagerness shone in her face.

"What am I coming for?”
he repeated,
looking straight into her eyes.

"You know that I have come
to be where you are,”
he said;
"I can't help it.”

At that moment the wind,
as it were,
surmounting all obstacles,
sent the snow flying from the carriage roofs,
and clanked some shee of iron it had torn off,
while the hoarse whistle of the engine roared in front,
plaintively and gloomily.

All the awfulness of the storm seemed
to her more splendid now.

He had said what her soul longed
to hear,
though she feared it
with her reason.

She made no answer,
and in her face he saw conflict.

"Forgive me,
if you dislike what I said,”
he said humbly.

He had spoken courteously,
deferentially,
yet so firmly,
so stubbornly,
that
for a long hwile she could make no answer.

"It's wrong,
what you say,
and I beg you,
if you're a good man,
to forget what you've said,
as I forget it,”
she said at last.

"Not one word,
not one gesture of yours shall I,
could I,
ever forget...”

"Enough,
enough!”
she cried trying assiduously
to give a stern expression
to her face,
into which he was gazing greedily.

And clutching at the cold door post,
she clamberred up the steps and got rapidly into the corridor of the carriage.

But in the little corridor she paused,
going over in her imagination what had happened.

Though she could not recall her own words or his,
she realized instinctively that the momentary conversation had brought htem fearfully closer;
and she was panic-stricken and blissful at it.

After standing still a few seconds,
she went into the carriage and sat down in her place.

The overstrained condition which had tormented her before did not only come back,
but was intensified,
and reached such a pitch that she was a raid every minute thatsomething would snap within her from the excessive tension.

She did not sleep all night.

But in that nervous tension,
and in the vision that filled her imagination,
there was nothing diagreeable or gloomy:

on the contrary there was something blissful,
glowing,
and exhilerating.

Towards morning Anna sank into a doze,
sitting in her place,
and when she waked it was daylight and the train was near Petersburg.

At once thought of home,
of husband and of son,
and the details of that day and the following came upon her.

At Petersburg,
as soon as the train stopped andshe got out,
the first person that attracted her attention was her husband.

"Oh,
mercy! why do his ears look like that?”
she thought,
looking at his frigid and imposing figure,
and expecially the ears that struck her at the moment as propping up the brim of his round hat.

Catching sight of her,
he came
to meet her,
his lips falling into their habitual sarcastic smile,
and his big,
tired eyes looking straight at her.

An unpleasant sensation gripped at her heart when whe met his obstinate and weary glance,
as though she had expected
to see him different.

She was expecially struck by the feeling of dissatisfaction
with herself that she experienced on meeting him.

That feeling was an intimate,
familair feeling,
like a consciousness of hypocrisy,
which she experienced in her relations
with her husband.

But hitherto she had not taken note of the feeling,
now she was clearly and painfully aware of it.

"Yes,
as you see,
your tender spouse,
as devoted as the first year after marriage,
burned
with impatience
to see you,”
he said in his deliberate,
high-pitched voice,
and in that tone which he almost always took
with her,
a tone of jeering at any one who shold say in earnest what he said.

"Is Seryozha quite well?”
she asked.

"And is this all the reward,”
said he,
"for my ardor?

He's quite well...”

Chapter 31 Vronsky had not even tried
to sleep all that night.

He sat in his armchair,
looking straight before him or scanning the people who got in and out.

If he had indeed on previous occasions struck and impressed people who did not know him by his air of unhesitating composure,
he seemed now more haughty and self-possessed than ever.

He looked at people as if they were things.

A nervous young man,
a clerk in a law court,
sitting opposite him,
hated him
for that look.

The young man asked him
for a light,
and entered into conversation
with him,
and even pushed against him,
to make him feel that he was not a thing,
but a person.

But Vronsky gazed at him exactly as he did at the lamp,
and the young man made a wry face,
feeling that he was losing his self-possession under the oppression of this refusal
to recognize him as a person.

Vronsky saw nothing and no one.

He felt himself a king,
not because he believed that he had made an impression on Anna--he did not yet believe that,--but because the impression she had made on him gave him happiness and pride.

What would come if it all he did not know,
he did not even think.

He felt that all his forces,
hitherto dissipated,
wasted,
were centered on one thing,
and bent
with fearful energy on one blissful goal.

ANd he was ahppy at it.

He knew only that he had tld her the truth,
that he had come where she was,
that all the happiness of his life,
the only meaning in life
for him,
now lay in seeing and hearing her.

And when he got out of the carriage at Bologova
to get some seltzer water,
and caught sight of Anna,
involuntarily his first word had told her just what he thought.

And he was glad he had told her it,
that she knew it now and was thinking of it.

He did not sleep all night.

When he was back in the carriage,
he kept unceasingly going over evry position in which he had seen her,
every word she had uttered,
and before his fancy,
making his heart faint
with emotion,
floated pictures of a possible future.

When he got out of the train at Petersburg,
he felt after his sleepless night as keen and fresh as after a cold bath.

He puased near his compartment,
waiting
for her
to get out.

"Once more,”
he said
to himself,
smiling uncinsciously,
"once more I shall see her walk,
her face;
she will say something,
turn her head,
glance,
smile,
maybe.”

But before he caught sight of her,
he saw her husband,
whom the station-master was deferentially excorting through the crowd.

"Ah,
yes! The husband.”

Only now
for the first time did Vronsky realize clearly the fact that there was a person attached
to her,
a husband.

He knew that she had a husband,
but had hardly believed in his existence,
and only now fully believed in him,
with his head nad shoulders,
and his legs clad in black trousers;
especially when he saw this husband calmly take her arm
with a sense of property.

Seeing Alexey Alexandrovitch
with this Petersburg face and severely self-confident figure,
in his round hat,
with his rather prominent spine,
he believed in him,
and was aware of a diagreeable sensation,
such as a man might feel tortured by thirst,
who,
on reaching a spring,
should find a dog,
a sheep,
or a pig,
who has drund of it and muddied the water.

Alexey Alexandrovitch's manner of walking,
with a swing of the hips and flat feet,
particularly annoyed Vronsky.

He could recognize in no one but himself an indubitable right
to love her.

But she was still the same,
and the sight of her affected him the same way,
physically reviving him,
stirring him,
and filling his soul
with raputre.

He told his German valet,
who ran up
to him from the second class,
to take his thngs and go on,
and he himself went up
to her.

He saw the first meeting between the husband and wife,
and noted
with a lover's insight the signs of slight reserve
with which she spoke
to her husband.

"No,
she does not love him and cannot love him,”
he decided
to himself.

At the moment when he was approaching Anna Arkadyevna he noticed too
with joy that she was conscious of his being near,
and looked round,
and seeing him,
turned again
to her husband.

"Have you passed a good night?”
he asked,
bowing
to her and her husband together,
and leaving it up
to Alexey Alexandrovitch
to accept the bow on his own account,
and
to recognize it or not,
as he might see fit.

"Thank you,
very good,”
she answered.

Her face looked weary,
and there was not that play of eagerness in it,
peeping out in her smile and her eyes;
but
for a single instant as she glanced at him,
there was a flash of something in her eyes,
and although the flash died away at once,
he was happy
for that moment.

She glanced at her husband
to find out whether he knew Vronsky.

Alexey Alexandrovitch looked at Vronsky
with displeasure,
vaguely recalling who this was.

Vronsky's composure and self-confidence have struck,
like a scythe against a stone,
upon the cold self-confidence of Alexey Alexandrovitch.

"Count Vronsky,”
said Anna.

"Ah! We are acquainted,
I believe,”
said Alexey Alexandrovitch indifferently,
giving his hand.

"You set off
with the mother and you return
with the son,”
he said,
articulating each syllable,
as though each were a separate favor he was bestowing.

"You're back from leave,
I suppose?”
he said,
and without waiting
for a reply,
he turned
to his wife in his jesting tone:

"Well,
were a great many tears shed at Moscow at parting?”
By addressing his wife like this he gave Vronsky
to understand that he wished
to be left alone,
and,
turning slightly towards him,
he touched his hat;
but Vronsky turned
to Anna Arkadyevna.

"I hope I may have the honor of calling on you,”
he said.

Alexey Alexandrovitch glanced
with his weary eyes at Vronsky.

"Delighted,”
he said coldly.

"On Mondays we're at home.

Most fortunate,”
he said
to his wife,
dismissing Vronsky altogether,
"that I should just have half an hour
to meet you,
so that I can prove my devotion,”
he went on in the same jesting tone.

"You lay too much stress on your devotion
for me
to value it much,”
she responded in the same jesting tone,
involuntarily listening
to the sound of Vronsky's steps behind them.

"But what has it
to do
with me?”
she said
to herself,
and she began asking her husband how Seryozha had got on without her.

"Oh,
capitally! Mariette says he has been very good,
and...I must diappoint you...but he has not missed you as your husband has.

But once more merci,
my dear,
for giving me a day.

Our dear Samovar will be delighted.”

(He used
to call the Countess Lidia Ivanovna,
well known in society,
a smovar,
because she was always bubbling over
with excitement.)
“She has been continually asking after you.

And,
do you know,
if I may venture
to advise you,
you should go and see her today.

You know how she takes everything
to heart.

Just now,
with all her own cares,
she's anxious about the Oblonskys being brought together.”

The Countess Lidia Ivanovna was a friend of her husband's,
and the center of that one of the coteries of the Petersburg world
with which Anna was,
through her husband,
in the closest relations.

"But you know I wrote
to her?”
"Still she'll want
to hear details.

Go and see her,
if you're not too tired,
my dear.

Well,
Kondraty will take you in the carriage,
while I go
to my committee.

I shall not be alone at dinner again,”
Alexey Alexandrovitch went on,
no longer in a sarcastic tone.

"You wouldn't believe how I've missed...”

And
with a long pressure of her hand and a meaning smile,
he put her in her carriage.

Chapter 32 The first person
to meet Anna at home was her son.

He dashed down the stairs
to her,
in spite of the governess's call,
and
with desperate joy shrieked:

"Mother! mother!”
Running up
to her,
he hung on her neck.

"I told you it was mother1”
he shouted
to the governess.

"I knew!”
And her son,
like her husband,
aroused in Anna a feeling akin
to disappointment.

She had imagined him better than he was in reality.

She had
to let herself drop down
to the reality ot enjoy him as he really was.

But even as he was,
he was charming,
with his fair curls,
his blue eyes,
and his plump,
graceful little legs in tightly pulled-up stockings.

Anna experienced almost physical pleasure in the sensation of his nearness,
and his caresses,
and moral soothing,
when she met his simple,
confiding,
and loving glance,
and heard his naive questions.

Anna took out the presents Dolly's children had sent him,
and told her son what sort of little girl was Tanya at Moacow,
and how Tanya culd read,
and even taught the other children.

"Why,
am I not so nice as she?”
asked Seryozha.

To me you're nicer than any one 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 ti was all much less serious than we had supposed,”
answered Anna.

"My belle-soeur 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 fuitlessly championing the truth,
and sometimes I'm qquite 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-know 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 oing 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 dine apart from his parents)
and in putting her thngs 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,
butthat 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 no 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 cousing 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,
withdres,
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 wuld 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 hadnot goe out anywhere,
and had spent the evening so well.

She felt so light-hearted andserene,
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 any one 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 coud 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 gack 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 tld her of the ovations he had received in consequence of the act the had passed.

"I was very,
very glad.

It shows that at least a reasonable and steady view of tghe matter is becoming prevalent among us.”

Hanving drunk his second cup of tea
with cream,
and bread,
Alexey Alexandrovitch got up,
and was going towards hs study.

"And you've not been anywhere this eveining?

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 Likke,
Poesie 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 excorted 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 cosidered it his duty
to keep up
with everything of note that appeared in the inellectual world.

She knew,
too,
that he was really interested in books dealing
with politics,
philosophy,
and theology,
that art wqas 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 some one who had attaacked 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 room in Morskaia
to his friend and favorite 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 ludircrous and disgraceful scandals,
but he was a favorite 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.

"It 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 thebaroness.

"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 hime,
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 thebaroness,
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 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,
abouther last new plans oflife,
asking his advice.

"He persisits 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 befefit 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 who he has lawfully married;
that a girl should be innocent,
a woman modes,
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,
generouls,
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 every one,
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 Francais!”
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 wass sick
to death of her,
expecially since she'd taken
to offering continually
to lend him money.

But he had found a girl--he'd show hr
to Vronsky--a marvel,
exquisite,
in the strict Oriental style,
"genre of the slave Rebvecca,
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 itno further details ofhis position,
Petritsky proceeded
to tell him all the interesting news.

As he listened
to Petritsky's familair stories in the familair setting of the rooms he had spent the last three years in,
Vronsky felt a delightful sense of coming back
to the careless Petersurg 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.

How 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 hte ambassador.

They see our friend standing there.”

(Petritsky mimicked how he was standing
with thehelmet.)
“The Grand Duchess asked him
to give her the helmet;
he doesn't give it
to her.

What do you think ofthat?

Well,
every one'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!--plot went a pear and sweetmeats out ofit,
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 ofother things,
he broke out into his healthy laught,
showing hs strong,
close rows of teeth,
when he thought of the helmet.

Having heard all the news,
Vronsky,
with the assistance of 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 woth 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.

PART TWO Chapter 1 At the end of the winter,
in the Shtcherbatskys’
house,
a consultation was being held,
which wass
to pronounce on the state of Kitty's health and the measures
to be taken
to restore her failing strength.

She had been ill,
and as spring came on she grew worse.

The family doctor gave her cod liver oil,
then iron,
then nitrate of silver,
but as the first and the second and the thrid were alike in doing no good,
and as his advice when spring came was
to go abroad,
a celebrated physician was called in.

The celebrated physician,
a very handsome man,
still youngish,
asked
to examine thepatient.

He maintained,
with peculiar satifaction,
it seemed,
that maiden modesty is a mere relic of barbarism,
and that nothing could be more natural than
for a man still youngish
to handle a young girl naked.

He thought it natural because he did it every day,
and felt and thought,
as it seemed
to him,
no harm as he did it and consequently he considered modesty in the girl not merely as a relic of barbarism,
but also as an insult
to himself.

There was nothing
for it but
to submit,
since,
although all the doctors had studied in the same school,
had read the same books,
and learned the same science,
and though some pople said this celebrated doctor was a bad doctor,
in the princess's household and circle it was
for some reason accepted that this celebrated doctor alone had some special knowledge,
and that he alone could save Kitty.

After a careful examination and sounding of the bewildered patient,
dazed
with shame,
the celebrated doctor,
having scrupulously washed his hands,
was standing in the drawing room talking
to the prince.

The prince frowned and coughed,
listening
to the doctor.

As a man who had seen something of life,
and neither a fool nor an invalid,
he had no faith in medicine,
and in his heart was furious at the whole farce,
specially as he was perhaps the only one who fully comprehended the cause of Kitty's illness.

"Conceited blockhead!”
he thought,
as he listened
to the celebrated doctor's chatter about his daughter's symptoMs. The doctor was meantime
with difficulty restraining the expression of his contempt
for this old gentleman,
and
with difficulty consdescending
to the level of his intelligence.

He prceived that it was no good talking
to the old man,
and that the principal person in the house was the mother.

Before her he decided
to scatter his pearls.

At that instant the princess came into the drawing room
with the family doctor.

The prince withdrew,
trying not
to show how ridiculous he thought the whole performance.

The princess was distracted,
and did not know what
to do.

She felt she had sinned against Kitty.

"Well,
doctor,
decide our fate,”
said the princess.

"Tell me everything.”

"Is there hope?”
she meant
to say,
but her lips quivered,
and she could not utter the question.

"Well,
doctor?”
"Immediately,
princess.

I will talk it over
with my colleague,
and then I will have the honor of laying my opinion before you.”

"So we had better leave you?”
"As you please.”

The princess went out
with a sigh.

When the doctors were left alone,
the family doctor began timidly explaining his opinion,
that there was a commencement of tuberculous trouble,
but...and so on.

The celebrated doctor listened
to him,
and in the middle of his sentence lookedat his big gold watch.

"Yes,”
said he.

"But...”

The family doctor respectfully ceased in the middle of his observations.

"The commencement of the tuberculous process we are not,
as you are aware,
able
to define;
till there are cavities,
there is nothing definite.

But we may suspect it.

And there are indications;
malnutritrion,
nervous excitability,
and so on.

The question stands thus:

in presence of indicatios of tuberculous process,
what is
to be done
to maintain nutrition?”
"But,
you know,
there are always moral,
spiritual causes at the back in these cases,”
the family doctor permitted himself
to interpolate
with a subtle smile.

"Yes,
that's an understood thing,”
responded the celebrated physician,
again glancing at his watch.

"Beg pardon,
is the Yausky bridge done yet,
or shall I have
to drive around?”
he asked.

"Ah! it is.

Oh,
well,
then I can do it in twenty minutes.

So we were saying the problem may be put thus:

to maintain nutrition and
to give tone
to the nerves.

The one is in close connection
with the other,
one must attach both sides at once.”

"And how about a tour abroad?”
asked the family doctor.

"I've no liking
for foreign tours.

And take note:

if there is an early stabe of tuberculous process,
of which we cannot be certain,
a foreign tour will be of no use.

What is wanted is means of improving nutrition,
and not
for lowering it.”

And the celebrated doctor expounded his plan of treatment
with Soden waters,
a remedy obviously prescribed primarily on the gound that they could do no harm.

The family doctor listened attentively and respectfully.

"But in foavor of foreign travel I would urge the change of habits,
the removal from conditions calling up reminiscences.

And then the mother wishes it,”
he added.

"Ah! Well,
in that case,
to be sure,
let them go.

Only,
those German quacks are mischievous...They ought
to be persuaded...Well,
let them go then.”

He glanced once more at his watch.

"Oh! time's up already,”
and he went
to the door.

The celebrated doctor announced
to the princess
(a feeling of what was due from thim dictated his doing so)
that he oughtto see the patient once more.

"What! another examination!”
cried the mother,
with horror.

"Oh,
no,
only a few details,
princess.”

"Come this way.”

And the mother,
accompanied by the doctor,
went into the drawing room
to Kitty.

Wasted and flushed,
with a peculiar glitter in her eyes,
left there by the agony of shame she had been put through,
Kitty stood in the middle of the room.

When the doctor came in she flushed crimson,
and her eyes filled
with tears.

All her illness and treatment struck her as a thing so stupid,
ludricrous even! Doctoring her seemed
to her as absurd as putting together the pieces ofa broken vase.

Her heart was broken.

Why would they try
to cure her
with pills and powders?

But she could not grieve her mother,
expecially as her mother considered herself
to blame.

"May I trouble you
to sit down,
princess?”
the celebrated doctor said
to her.

He sat down
with a smile,
facing her,
felt her pulse,
and again began asker her tiresome questions.

She answered him,
and all at once got up,
furious.

"Excuse me,
doctor,
but there is really no object in this.

This is the third time you've asked me the same thing.”

The celebrated doctor did not take offense.

"Nervous irritability,”
he said
to the princess,
when Kitty had left the room.

"However,
I had finished...”

And the doctor began scientifically explaining
to the princess,
as an exceptionally intelligent woman,
the condition of the young princess,
and concluded by insisting on the drinking of thewaters,
which were certainly harmless.

At the question:

Should they go abroad?

the doctor plunged into deep meditation,
as though resolving a weighty problem.

Finally his decision was pronounced:

they were
to go abroad,
but
to put no faith in foreign quacks,
and
to apply
to him in any need.

It seemed as though some piece of good fortune had come
to pass after the doctor had gone.

The mother was much more cheerful when she went back
to her daughter,
and Kitty pretended
to be more cheerful.

She had often,
almost always,
to be pretending now.

"Really,
I'm quite well,
mamma.

But if you want
to go abroad,
let's go!”
she said,
and trying
to appear interested in the proposed tour,
she began talking of the preparations
for the journey.

Chapter 2 Soon after the doctor,
Dolly had arrived.

SHe knew that there was
to be a consultation that day,
and though she was only just up after her confinement
(she had another baby,
a little girl,
born at the end of the winter),
though she had trouble and anxiety enough of her own,
she had left her tiny baby and a sick child,
to come and hear Kitty's fate,
which was
to be decided that day.

"Well,
well?”
she said,
coming into the drawing room,
without taking off her hat.

"You're all in good spirits.

Good news,
then?”
They tried
to tell her what the doctor had said,
but it appeared that though the doctor had talked distinctly enough and at great length,
it was utterly impossible
to report what he had said.

The only point of interest was that it was settled they should go abroad.

Dolly could not help sighing.

Her dearest friend,
her sister,
was going away.

And her life was not a cheerful one.

Her relations
with Stepan Arkadyevitch after their reconciliation had become humiliating.

The union Anna had cemented turned out
to be of no solid character,
and family harmony was breaking down again at the same point.

There had been nothing definite,
but Stepan Arkadyevitch was hardly ever at home;
money,
too,
was hardly ever forthcoming,
and Dolly was cintinually tortured by suspicions of infidelity,
which she tried
to dismiss,
dreading the agonies of jealousy she had been through already.

The first onslaught of jealousy,
once lived through,
could never come back again,
and even the discovery of infidelities could never now affect her as it had the first time.

Such a discovery now would only mean breaking up family habits,
and she let herself be deceived,
despising him and still more herself,
for the weakness.

Besides this,
the care of her large family was a constant worry
to her:

first,
the nursing of her young baby did not go well,
then the nurse had gone away,
now one of the children had fallen ill.

"Well,
how are all of you?”
asked her mother.

"Ah,
mamma,
we have plenty of troubles of our own.

Lili is ill,
and I'm afraid it's scarlatina.

I have come here now
to hear about Kitty,
and then I shall shut myself up entirely,
if--God forbid--it should be scarlatina.”

The old prince too had come in from his study after the doctor's departure,
and after presenting his cheek
to Dolly,
and saying a few words
to her,
he turned
to his wife:

"How have you settled it?

you're going?

Well,
and what do you mean
to do
with me?”
"I suppose you had better stay here,
Alexander,”
said his wife.

"That's as you like.”

"Mamma,
why shouldn't father come
with us?”
said Kitty.

"It would be nicer
for him and
for us too.”

The old prince got up and stroked Kitty's hair.

She lifted her head and looked at thim
with a forced smile.

It always seemed
to her that he understood her better than any one in the family,
though he did not say much about her.

Being the youngest,
she was her father's favorite,
and she fancied that his love gave him insight.

When now her glance meet his blue kindly eyes looking intently at her,
it seem
to her that he saw right through her,
and understood all that was not good that was passing within her.

Reddening,
she stretched out towards him expecting a kiss,
but he only patted her hair and said:

"These stupid chignons! There's no getting at the real daughter.

One simply strokes the bristles of dead women.

Well,
Dolinka,”
he turned
to his elder daughter,
"what's your young buck about,
hey?”
"Nothing,
father,”
answered Dolly,
understanding thathe husband was meant.

"He's always out;
I scarcely ever see him,”
she could not resist adding
with a sarcastic smile.

"Why,
hasn't he gone into the country yet--to see about selling that forest?”
"No,
he's still getting ready
for the journey.”

"Oh,
that's it!”
said the prince.

"And so am I
to be getting ready
for a journey too?

At your service,”
he said
to his wife,
sitting down.

"And I tell you wat,
Katia,”
he went on
to his younger daughter,
"you must wake up one fine day and say
to yourself:

Why,
I'm quite well,
and merry,
and going out again
with father fro an early morning walk in the frost.

Hey?”
What her father said seemed simple enough,
yet at these words Kitty became confused and overcome like a detected criminal.

"Yes,
he sees it all,
he understands it all,
and in these words he's telling me that though I'm ashamed,
I must get over my shame.”

She coud not pluck up spirit
to make any answer.

She tried
to begin,
and all at once burst into tears,
and rushed out of the room.

"See what comes of your jokes!”
the princess pounced down on her hustand.

"You're always...”

she began a string of reproaches.

The prince listened
to the princess's scolding rather a long while without speaking,
but hs face was more and more frowning.

"She's so much
to be pitied,
poor child,
so much
to be pitied,
and you don't feel how it hurts her
to hear the slightest reference
to the cause of it.

Ah!
to be so mistaken in people!”
said the princess,
and by the change in her tone both Dolly and the prince knew she was speaking of Vronsky.

"I don't know why there aren't laws against such base,
dishonorable people.”

"Ah,
I can't bear
to hear you!”
said the prince gloomily,
getting up from his low chair,
and seeming anxious
to get away,
yet stopping in the doorway.

"There are laws,
madam,
and since you've challenged me
to it,
I'll tell you who's
to blame
for it all:

you and you,
you and nobody else.

Laws against such young gallants there have always been,
and there still are! Yes,
if there has been nothing that ought not
to have been,
old as I am,
I'd have called him out
to the barrier,
the young dandy.

Yes,
and now you physic her and call in these quacks.”

The prince apparently had plenty more
to say,
but as soon as the princess heard his tone she subsided at once,
and became penitent,
as she always did on serious occasions.

"Alexander,
Alexander,”
she whispered,
moving
to him and beginning
to weep.

As soon as she began
to cry the prince too calmed down.

He went up
to her.

"There,
that's enough,
that's enough! You're wretched too,
I know.

It can't be helped.

There's no great harm done.

God is merciful...thanks...”

he said,
not knowing what he was saying,
as he responded
to the tearful kiss of the princess that he felt on his hand.

And the prince went out of the room.

Before this,
as soon as Kitty went out of the room in tears,
Dolly,
with her motherly,
family instincts,
had promptly perceived that here a woman's work lay before her,
and she prepared
to do it.

She took of her hat,
and,
morally speaking,
tucked up her sleeves nad prerpared
for action.

While her mother was attacking her father,
she tried
to restrain her mother,
so far as filial reverence would allow.

During the prince's outburst she was silent;
she felt ashamed
for her mother,
and tender towards her father
for so quickly being kind again.

But when her father left htem she made ready forwhat was the chief thing needful--to go
to kitty and console her.

"I'd been meaning
to tell you something
for a long while,
mamma:

did you know that Levin meant
to make Kitty an offer when he was here the last time?

He told Stiva so.”

"Well,
what then?

I don't understand...”

"So did Kitty perhaps refuse him?...She didn't tell you so?”
"No,
she has said nothing
to me either of one or the other;
she's too proud.

But I know it's all on account of the other.”

"Yes,
but suppose she has refused Levin,
and she wouldn't have refused him if it hadn't been
for the other,
I know.

And then,
he has deceived her so horribly.”

It was too terrible
for the princess
to think how she had sinned against her daughter,
and she broke out angrily.

"Oh,
I really don't understand! Nowadays they will all go their own way,
and mothers haven't a word
to say in anything,
and then...”

"Mamma,
I'll go up
to her.”

"Well,
do.

Did I tell you not to?”
said her mother.

Chapter 3 When she went into Kitty's little room,
a pretty,
pink little room,
full of knick-knacks in vieux saxe,
as fresh,
and pink,
andwhite,
and gay as Kitty herself had been two months ago,
Dolly remembered how they had decorated the room the year before together,
with what love and gaiety.

Her heart turned cold when she saw Kitty sitting on a low chair near the door,
her eyes fixed immovably on a corner of the rug.

Kitty glanced at her sister,
and the cold,
rather ill-tempered expressio of her face did not change.

"I'm just going now,
and I shall have
to keep in and you won't be able
to come
to see me,”
said Dolly,
sitting down beside her.

"I want
to talk
to you.”

"What about?”
Kitty asked swiftly,
lifting her head in dismay.

"What should it be,
but your trouble?”
"I have no trouble.”

"Nonsense,
Kitty.

Do you suppose I could help knowing?

I know all about it.

And believe me,
it's of so little consequence...We've all been through it.”

Kitty did not speak,
and her face had a stern expression.

"He's not worth your grieving over him,”
pursued Darya Alexandrovna,
coming straight
to the point.

"No,
becuase he has treated me
with contempt,”
said Kitty,
in a breaking voice.

"Don't talk of it! Please,
don't talk of it!”
"But who can have told you so?

No one has said that.

I'm certain he was in love
with you,
and would still be in love
with you,
if it hadn't...

"Oh,
the most awful thing of all
for me is this sympathizing!”
shrieked Kitty,
suddenly flying into a possion.

She turned round on her chair,
flushed crimpson,
and rapidly moving her fingers,
pinched the clasp of her belf first
with one hand and then
with the other.

Dolly knew this trick her sister had of clenching her hands when she was much excited;
she knew,
too,
that in moments of excitement Kitty was capable of forgetting herself anad saying a great deal too much,
and Dooly would have soothed her,
but it was too late.

"What,
what is it yo want
to make me feel,
eh?”
said Kitty quickly.

That I've been in love
with a man who didn't care a straw
for me,
and that I'm dying of love
for him?

And this is said
to me by my own sister,
who imagines that...that...that she's sympathizing
with me!...I don't want these condolences and his humbug!”
"Kitty,
you're unjust.”

"Why are you tormenting me?”
"But I...quite the contrary...I see you're unhappy...”

But Kitty in her fury did not hear her.

"I've nothing
to grieve over and be comforted about.

I am too proud ever
to allow myself
to care
for a man who does not love me.”

"Yes,
I don't say so either...Only one thing.

Tell me the truth,”
said Darya Alexandrovna,
taking her by the hand:

"tell me,
did Levin speak
to you?...”

The mention of Levin's name seemed
to deprive Kitty of the last vestige of self-control.

She leaped up from her chair,
and flinging her clasp on the ground,
she gesticulated rapidly
with her hands and said:

"Why bring Levin in too?

I can't understand what you want
to torment me for.

I've told you,
and I say it again,
that I have some pride,
and never,
NEVER would I do as you're doing--go back
to a man who's deceived you,
who has cared
for another woman.

I can't understand it! You may,
but I can't!”
And saying these words she glanced at her sister,
and seeing that Dolly sat silent,
her head mournfully bowed,
Kitty,
instead of running out of the room as she had meant
to do,
sat down near the door,
and hid her face in her handkerchief.

the silence lasted
for two minutes:

Dolly was thinking of herself.

That humiliation of which she was always conscious came back
to her
with a peculiar bitterness when her sister reminder he of it.

She had not looked
for such cruelty in her sister,
and she was angry
with her.

But suddenly she heard the rustle of a skirt,
and
with it the sound of heart-erending,
smothered sobbing,
and felt arms about her neck.

Kitty was on her knees before her.

"Dolinka,
I am so,
so wretched!”
she whispered penitently.

And the sweet face covered
with tears hid itself in Darya Alexandrovna's skirt.

As though tears were the indispensible oil,
without which the machienry of mutual confidence could not run smoothly between the two sister,
the sisters after their tears talked,
not ofwhat was uppermost in their minds,
but,
though they talked of outside matters,
they understood each other.

Kitty knew that the words she had uttered in anger abouther husband's infidelity and her humiliating position had cut her poor sister
to the heart,
but shat she had forgiven her.

Dolly
for her part knew all she had wnated
to find out.

She felt certain thather surmises were correct;
that Kitty's misery,
her inconsolable misery,
was due precisely
to the fact thatLevin had made her an offer and she had refused him,
and Vronsky had deceived her,
and that she was fully prepared
to love Levin and
to detest Vronsky.

Kitty said nota word of that;
she talked of nothing but her spiritual condition.

"I have nothing
to make me miserable,”
she said,
getting calmer;
"but can you understand that everything has become hateful,
loathsome,
coarse
to me,
and I myself most of all?

You can't imagine what loathsome thoughts I have about everything.”

"Why,
whatever loathsome thoughts can you have?”
asked Dolly,
smiling.

"The most utterly loathsome and coarse:

I can't tell you.

It's not unhappiness,
or low spirits,
but much worse.

As though everything that was good in me was all hidden away,
and nothing was left but the most loathsome.

Come,
how am I
to tell you?”
she went on,
seeing the puzzled look in her sister's eyes.

"Father began saying something
to me just now...It seems
to me he thinks all I want is
to be married.

Mother takes me
to a ball:

it seems
to me she only takes me
to get me married off as soon as may be,
and be rid of me.

I know it's not the truth,
but I can't drive away such thoughts.

Eligible suitors,
as they call them - I can't bear
to see them.

It seems
to me they're taking stock of me and summing me up.

In old days
to go anywhere in a ball dress was a simple joy
to me,
I admired myself;
now I feel ashamed and awkward.

And then! The doctor...Then...”

Kitty hesitated;
she wanted
to say further that ever since this change had taken place in her,
Stepan Arkadyevitch had become insufferably repulsive
to her,
and that she could not see him without the grossest and most hideous conceptions rising before her imagination.

"Oh,
well,
everything presents itself
to me,
in the coarsest,
most loathsome light,”
she went on.

"That's my illness.

Perhaps it will pass off.”

"But you mustn't think about it.”

"I can't help it.

I'm never happy except
with thechildren at your house.”

"What a pity you can't be
with me!”
"Oh,
yes,
I'm coming.

I've had scarlatina,
and I'll persuade mamma
to let me.”

Kitty insisted on having her way,
and went
to stay at her sister's and nursed the children all through the scarlatina,
for scarlatina it turned out
to be.

The two sisters brought all the six children successfully through it,
but Kitty was no better in health,
andin Lent the Shtcherebatskys went abroad.

Chapter 4 The highest Petersburge society is essentially one:

in it every one knows every one else,
every one even visits every one else.

but this great set has its subdivisions.

Anna Arkadyevna Karenina had friends and close ties in three different circles of this highest society.

One circle was her husband's government official set,
consisting of his colleagues and subordinates,
brought together in the most various and capricious manner,
and belonging
to different social strata.

Anna found it difficult now
to recall the feeling of almost awe-stricken reverence which she had at first entertained
for these persons.

Now she knew all ofthem aspeople know one another in a country town;
she knew their habits and weaknesses,
and where the shoe pinched each one of them.

She knew their relatios
with one another and
with the head authorities,
knew who was
for whom,
and how each one maintained his position,
and where they agreed and disagreed.

But the circle of political,
masculine interests had never interested her,
in spite of countess Kidia Ivanovna's influence,
and she avoided it.

Another little set
with which Anna was in close relations was the one by means of which Alexey Alexandrovitch had made his career.

The center of this circle was the Countess Lidia Ivanovna.

It was a set made up of elderly,
ugly,
benevolent,
and godly women,
and clever,
learned,
and ambitious men.

ONe of the clever people belonging
to the set had called it
“the conscience of Petersburg society.”

Alexey Alexandrovitch had the highest esteem
for this circle,
and Anna
with her special gift
for getting on
with every one,
had in the early days of her life in Petersburg made friends in this circle also.

Now,
since her return from Moscow,
she had come
to feel this set insufferable.

It seemed
to her that both she and all of them wer insincere,
and she fell so bored and ill at ease in that world that she went
to see the Countess Lidia Ivanovna as little as possible.

The third circle
with which Anna had ties was preeminently the fashionable world--the world of balls,
of dinners,
of sumpuous dresses,
the world that hung on
to the court
with one hand,
so as
to avoid sinking
to the level of the demi-monde.

For the demi-monde the members ofthat fashionable world believed that they despised,
though their tastes were not merely similar,
but in fact identical.

Her connection
with this circle was kept up through Princess Betsy Tverskaya,
her cousin's wife,
who had an income of a hundred and twenty thousand roubles,
and who had taken a great fancy
to Anna ever since she first came out,
showed her much attention,
and drew herito her set,
making fun of Countess Kidia Ivanovna's coterie.

"When I'm old and ugly I'll be the same,”
Betsy used
to say;
"but
for a pretty young woman like you it's early days
for that house of charity.”

Anna had at first avoided as far as she could Princess Tverskaya's world,
because it necessitated an expenditure beyond her means,
and besides in her heart she preferred the first circle.

But since her visit
to Moscow she had done quite the contrary.

She avoided her serious-minded friends,
and went out into the fashionable world.

There she met Vronsky,
and experienced an agitating joy at those meetings.

She met Vronsky specially often at Betsy's
for Betsy was a Vronsky by birth and his cousin.

Vronsky was everywhere where he had any chance of metting Anna,
and speaking
to her,
when he could,
of his love.

She gave him no encouragement,
but every time she met him there surged up in her heart that same feeling of quickened life that had come upon her that day in the railway carriage when she saw him
for the first time.

She was conscious herself that her delight sparkled in her eyes and curved her lips into a smile,
and she could not quench the expression of this delight.

At first Anna sincerely believed that she was displeased
with him
for daring
to pursue her.

Soon after her return from Moscow,
on arriving at a soiree where she had expected
to meet him,
and not finding him there,
she realized distinctly from the rush of disappointment that she had been deceiving herself,
and that this pursuit was not merely not distasteful
to her,
but that it made the whole interest of her life.

A celebrated singer was singing
for the second time,
and all the fashionable world was in the theater.

Vronsky,
seeing his cousing from his stall in the front row,
did not wait till the entr'acte,
but went
to her box.

"Why didn't yo come
to dinner?”
she said
to him.

"I marvel at the second sight of lovers,”
she added
with a smile,
so thatno one but he could hear;
"SHE WASN'T THERE.

But come after the opera.”

Vronsky looked inquiringly at her.

She nodded.

He thanked her by a smile,
and sat down beside her.

"But how I remember yor jeers!”
continued Princess Betsy,
who took a peculair in following up this passion
to a successful issue.

"What's become of all that?

You're caught,
my dear boy.”

"That's my one desire,
to be caught,”
answered Vronsky,
with his serene,
good-humored smile.

"If I compain of naything it's only that I'm not caught enough,
to tell the truth.

I begin
to lose hope.”

"Why,
whatever hope can you have?”
said Betsy,
offended on behalf of her friend.

"Enendons nous...”

But in her eyes there were gleams of light that betrayed that she understood perfectly and precisely as he did what hope he might have.

"None whatever,”
said Vronsky,
laughing and showing his even rows of teeth.

"Excuse me,”
he addd,
taking an opera glass out ofher hand,
and proceeding
to scrutinize,
over her bare shoulder,
the row of boxes facing them.

"I'm afraid I'm becoming ridiculous.”

He was very well aware that he ran no risk of being ridiculous in the eyes of Betsy or any ohter fashionable people.

He was very well aware that in their eyes the position of an unsuccessful lover of a girl,
or of any woman free
to marry,
might be ridiculous.

But the position of a man pursuing a married woman,
and,
regardless of everything,
staking his life on drawing her into adultery,
has something fine and grand about it,
and can never be ridiculous;
and so it was ith a proud and gay smile under shi mustaches that he lowered the opera glass and looked at his cousin.

"But why was it you didn't come
to dinner?”
she said,
admiring him.

"I must tell you about that.

I was busily employed,
and doing what,
do you suppose?

I'll give you a hundred guesses,
a thousand...you'd never guess.

I've been reconciling a husband
with a man who'd insulted his wife.

Yes,
really!”
"Well,
did you succeed?”
"Almost.”

"You really must tell me about it,”
she said,
getting up.

"Come
to me in the next entr'acte.”

"I can't;
I'm going
to the French theater.”

"From Nilsson?”
Betsy queried in horror,
though she could not herself have distinguished Nilsson's voice from any chorus girl's.

"Can't help it.

I've an appointment there,
all
to do
with my mission of peace.”

“
Blessed are the peacemakers;
theirs is the kingdom of heaven,'“
said Betsy,
vaguely recollecitng she had heard some similar saying from someone.

"Very well,
then,
sit down,
and tell me what it's all about.

And she sat down again.

Chapter 5
“This is rather indiscreet,
but it's so good it's an awful temptation
to tell the story,”
said Vronsky,
looking at her
with his laughing eyes.

"I'm not going
to mention any names.”

"But I shall guess,
so much the better.”

"Well,
listen:

two festive young men were driving -”
"Officers of your regiment,
of course?”
"I didn't say thery were officers,--two young men who had been lunching.”

"In other words,
drinking.”

"Possibly.

They were driving on their way
to dinner
with a friend in the most festive state of mind.

And they beheld a pretty woman in a hired sledge;
she overtakes them,
looks round at them,
and,
so they fancy anyway,
nods
to them and laughs.

They,
of course,
follow her.

They gallop at full speed.

To their amazement,
the fair one alights at the entrance of the very house
to which they were going.

The fair one darts upstairs
to the top story.

They get a glimpse of red lips under a short veil,
and exquisite little feet.”

"You describe it
with such feeling that I fancy you must be one of the two.”

"And after what you said,
just now! Well,
the young men go in
to their comrade's;
he was giving a farewell dinner.

There they certainly did drink a little too much,
as one always does at farewell dinners.

And at dinner they inquire who lives at the top in that house.

No one knows;
only their host's valet,
in answer
to their inquiry whether any young ladies’
are living on the top floor,
answered that there were a great many ofthem about there.

After dinner the two young men go into their host's study,
and write a letter
to the unknown fair one.

They compose an ardent epistle,
a declaration in fact,
and they carry the letter upstairs themselves,
so as
to elucidate whatever might appear not perfectly intelligible in the letter.”

"Why are you telling me these horrible stories?

Well?”
"They ring.

A maidservant opens the door,
they hand her the letter,
and assure the maid that they're both so in love that they'll die on the spot at the door.

The maid,
stupefied,
carries in their messages.

All at once a gentleman appears
with whiskers like sausages,
as red as a lobster,
announdes that there is no one living in the flat except his wife,
and sends them both about their business.”

"How do you know he had whiskers like sausages,
as you say?”
"Ah,
you shall hear.

I've just been
to make peace between them.”

"Well,
and what then?”
"That's the most interesting part of the story.

It appears that it's a happy couple,
a government clerk and his lady.

The government clerk lodges a complaint,
and I became a mediator,
and such a mediator!...I assure you Talleyrand couldn't hold a candle
to me.”

"Why,
where was the difficulty?”
"Ah,
you shall hear...We apologize in due form:

we are in despair,
we entreat forgiveness
for the unfortunate misunderstanding.

The government clerk
with the sausages begins
to melt,
but he,
too,
desires
to express his sentiments,
and as soon as ever he begins
to express them,
he begins
to get hot and say nasty things,
andagain I'm obliges
to trot out all my diplomatic talents.

I allowed that their conduct was bad,
but I urged him
to take into consideration their heedlessness,
their youth;
then,
too,
the young men had only just been lunching together.

You understand.

They regret it deeply,
and beg you
to overlook their misbehavior.’

The government clerk was softened once more.

I consent,
count,
and am ready
to overlook it;
but you perceive that my wife--my wife's a respectable woman - his been exposed
to the persecution,
and insults,
and effrontery of young upstarts,
scoundrels...’

And you must understand,
the young upstarts are present all the while,
and I have
to keep the peace between them.

Again I call out all my diplomacy,
and agains as soon as the thing was about at an end,
our friend the government clerk gets hot and red,
and his sausages stand on end
with wrath,
and once more I launch out into diplomatic wiles.”

"Ah,
he must tell you this story!”
said Betsy,
laughing,
to a lady
to came ito her box.

"He has been making me laugh so.”

"Well,
bonne chance!”
she added,
giving Vronsky one finger of the hand in which she held her fan,
and
with a shrug of her shoulders she twitched down the bodice of her gown that had worded up,
so as
to be duly naked as she moved forward towards the footlights into the lgith of the gas,
and the sight of all eyes.

Vronsky drove
to the French theater,
where he really had
to see the colonel of his regiment,
who never missed a single performance there.

He wanted
to see him,
to report on the result of his mediation,
which had occupied and amused him
for the last three days.

Petritsky,
whom he liked,
was implicated in the affair,
and the other culprit was a capital fellow and first-rate comarade,
who had lately joined the regiment,
the young Prince Kedrov.

And what was most important,
the interests of the regiment were involved in it too.

Both the young men were in Vronsky's company.

The colonel of the regiment was waited uon the the government clerk,
Venden,
with a complaint against his officers,
who had insulted his wife.

His young wife,
so Venden told the story--he had been married half a year--was at church
with her mother,
and suddenly overcome by indisposition,
arising from her interesting condition,
she could not remain standing,
she drove home in the first sledge,
a smart-looking one,
she came across.

ON the spot the officers set off in pursuit of her;
she was alarmed,
and feeling still more unwell,
ran up the staircase home.

Venden himself,
on returning from his office,
heard a ring at their bell and voices,
went out,
and seeing the intoxicated officers
with a letter,
he had turned them out.

He asked
for exemplary punishment.

"Yes,
it's all very well,”
said the colonel
to Vronsky,
whom he had invited
to come and see him.

"Petritsky's becoming impossible.

Not a week goes by without some scandal.

This government clerk won't let it drop,
he'll go on
with the thing.”

Vronsky saw all the thanklessness of the business,
and that there could be no question of a duel in it,
that everything must be done
to soften the government clerk,
and hush the matter up.

The colonel had called in Vronsky just because he knew him
to be an honorable and intelligent man,
and,
more than all,
a man who cared
for the honor of the regiment.

They talked it over,
and decided that Petritsky and Kedrov must go
with Vronsky
to Venden's
to apologize.

The colonel and Vronsky were both fully aware that Vronsky's name and rank would besure
to contribute greatly
to softening of the injured husband's feelings.

And these two influences were not in fact without effect;
though the result remained,
as Vronsky had described,
uncertain.

On reaching the French theater,
Vronsky retired
to the foyer
with the colonel,
and reported
to him his success,
or non-success.

The colonel,
thinking it all over,
made up his mind not
to pursue the matter further,
but then
for his own satisfaction proceeded
to cross-examine Vronsky about his interview;
and it was a long while before he could restrain his laughter,
as Vronsky described how the government clerk,
after subsiding
for a while,
would suddenly flare up again,
as he recalled the details,
and how Vronsky,
at the last half word of conciliation,
skillfully maneuvered a retreat,
shoving Petritsky out before him.

"It's a disgraceful story,
but killing.

Kedrov really can't fight the gentleman! Was he so awfully hot?”
he commented,
laughing.

"But what do you say
to Claire today?

She's marvelous,”
he went on,
speaking of a new French actress.

"However often you see her,
every day she's different.

It's only the French who can
to that.”

Chapter 6 Princess Betsy drove home from the theater,
without waiting
for the end of the last act.

She had only just time
to go into her dressing room,
sprinkle her long,
pale face
with powder,
rub it,
set her dress
to rights,
and order tea in the big drawing room,
when one after another carriages drove up
to her huge house in Bolshaia Morskaia.

Her guests stepped out at the wide entrance,
and the stout porter,
who used
to read the newspapers in the mornings behind the glass door,
to the edification of the passers-by,
noiselessly opened the immense door,
letting the visitors pass by him into the house.

Almost at the same instant the hostess,
with freshly arranged coiffure and freshened face,
walked in at one door and her guests at the other door of the drawing room,
a large room
with dark walls,
downy rugs,
and a brightly lighted table,
gleaming
with the light of candles,
white cloth,
siver samovar,
and transparent china tea things.

The hostess sat down at the table and took off her gloves.

Chairs were set
with the aid of footmen,
moving almost imperceptibly about the room;
the party settled itself,
divided into two groups:

one round the samovar near the hostess,
the other at the opposite end of the drawing room,
round the handsome wife of an ambassador,
in black velvet,
with sharply defined black eyebrows.

In both groups conversation wavered,
as it always does,
fro the first few minutes,
broken up by mettings,
greetings,
offers of tea,
and as it were,
feeling about
for something
to rest upon.

"She's exceptionally good as an actress;
one can see she's studied Kaulbach,”
said a diplomatic attache in the group round the ambassador's wife.

"Did you notice how she fell down?...”

"Oh,
please ,don't let us talk about Nilsson! No one can possibly say anything new about her,”
said a fat,
red-faced,
flaxen-headed lady,
without eyebrows and chignon,
wearing an old silk dress.

This was Princess Myakaya,
noted
for her simplicity and the roughness of her manners,
and nicknamed enfant terrible.

Princess Myakaya,
sitting in the middle between the two groups,
and listening
to both,
took part in the conversation first of one and then of the other.

"Three people have used that very phrase about Kaulbach
to me today already,
just as though they had made a compact about it.

And I can't see why they liked that remark so.”

The conversation was cut short by this observation,
and a new subject had
to be thought of again.

"Do tell me something amusing but not spiteful,”
said the ambassador's wife,
a great proficient in the art of that elegant coversation called by the English,
small talk.

She addressed the attache,
who was at a loss now what
to begin upon.

"They say that that's a difficult task,
that nothing's amusing that isn't spiteful,”
he began
with a smile.

"But I'll try.

Get me a subject.

It all lies in the subject.

If a subject's given me,
it's easy
to spin something round it.

I often think that the celebrated talkers of the last century would have found it difficult
to talk cleverly now.

Everything clever is so stale...”

"That has been said long ago,”
the ambassador's wife interrupted him,
laughing.

The conversation began amiably,
but just because it was too amiable,
it came
to a stop again.

They had
to have recourse
to the sure,
never-failing topic--gossip.

"Don't you think there's something Louis Quinze about Tushkevitch?”
he said,
glancing towards a handsome,
fair-haired young man,
standing at the table.

"Oh,
yes! He's in thesame style as the drawing room and that's why it is he's so often here.”

This conversation was maintained,
since it rested on allusions
to what could not be talked on in that room--that is
to say,
of the relations of Tushkevitch
with their hostess.

Round the samovar and the hostess the conversation had been meanwhile vacillating in just the same way between three inevitable topics:

the latest piece of publick news,
the theater,
and scandal.

It,
too,
came finally
to rest on the last topic,
that is,
ill-natured gossib.

"Have you heard the Maltishtcheva woman--the mother,
not the daughter--has ordered a costurme in diable rose color?”
"Nonsense! No,
that's too lovely!”
"I wonder that
with her sense--for she's not a fool,
you know - that she doesn't see how funny she is.”

Everyone had something
to say in censure or ridicule of the luckless Madame Maltishtcheva,
and the conversation crackled merrily,
like a burning faggot-stack.

The husband of Princess Betsy,
a good-natured fat man,
an ardent collector of engravings,
hearing that his wife had visitors,
came into the drawing room before going
to his club.

Stepping noiselessly over the thick rugs,
he went up
to Princess Myakaya.

"How did you like Nilsson?”
he asked.

"Oh,
how can you steal upon anyone like that! How you startled me!”
she responded.

"Please don't talk
to me about the opera;
you know nothing about music.

I'd better meet you on your own ground,
and talk about yor majolica and engravings.

Come now,
what treasure have yo been buying lately at the old curiosity shops?”
"Would you like me
to show you?

But you don't understand such things.”

"Oh,
do show me! I've been learning about them at those--what's their names?...the bankers...they've some splendid engravings.

They showed them
to us.”

"Why,
have you been at the Schuetzburgs?”
asked the hostess from the samovar.

"Yes,
ma chere.

They asked my husband and me
to dinner,
and told us thesauce at that dinner cost a hundred pounds,”
Princess Myakaya said,
speaking loudly,
and conscious everyone was listening;
"and very nasty sauce it was,
some green mess.

We had
to ask them,
and I made them sauce
for eighteenpence,
and everybody was very much pleased
with it.

I can't run
to hundred-pound sauces.”

"She's unique!”
said the lady of the house.

"Marvelous!”
said someone.

The sensation produced by Princess Myakaya's speeches was always unique,
and the secret of the sensation she produced lay in the fact that though she spoke notalways ppropriately,
as now,
she said simple things
with some sense in them.

In thesociety in hwich she lived such plain statements produced the effect of the wittiest epigram.

Princess Myakaya could never see why it had that effect,
but she knew it had,
and took advantage of it.

As everyone had been listening while Princess Myakaya spoke,
and so the conversation around the ambassador's wife had dropped,
Princess Betsy tried
to bring the whole party toegether,
and truned
to the ambassador's wife.

"Will you really not have tea?

You should come over here by us.”

"No,
we're very happy here,”
the ambassador's wife responded
with a smile,
and she went on
with the conversation that had been begun.

"It was a very agreeable conversation.

Tehy were criticizing the Karenins,
husband and wife.

"Anna is quite changed since her stay in Moscow.

There's something strange about her,”
said her friend.

"The great change is that she brought back
with her the shadow of Alexey Vronsky,”
said the ambassador's wife.

"Well,
what of it?

There's a fable of Gromm's about a man without a shadow,
a man who's lost his shadow.

And that's his punishment
for something.

I never coud understand how it was a punishment.

But a woman must dislike being without a shadow.”

"Yes,
but women
with a shadow usually come
to a bad end,”
said Anna's friend.

"Bad luck
to your tongue!”
said Princess Myakaya suddenly.

"Madame Karenina's a splendid woman.

I don't like her husband,
but I like her very much.”

"Why don't you like her husband?

He's such a remarkable man,”
said the ambassador's wife.

"My husband says there are few statesmen like him in Europe.”

"And my husband tells me just the same,
but I don't believe it,”
said Princess Myakaya.

"If our husbands didn't talk
to us,
we should see the facts as they are.

Alexey Alexnadrovitch,
to my thinking,
is simply a fool.

I say it in a whisper...but doesn't it really make everything clear?

Before,
when I was told
to consider him clever,
I kept looking
for his ability,
and thought myself a fool
for not seeing it;
but directly I said,
he a fool,
though only in a whisper,
everything's explained,
isn't it?”
"How spiteful you are today!”
"Not a bit.

I'd no other way out of it.

One of the two had
to be a fool.

And,
well,
you know one can't say that of oneself.”

“
No one is satisfied
with his fortune,
and everyone is satisfied
with his wit.’
“
The attache repeated the French saying.

"That's just it,
just it,”
Princess Myakaya turned
to him.

"But the point is that I won't abandon Anna
to your mercies.

She's so nice,
so charming.

How can she help it if they're all in love
with her,
and follow her about like shadows?”
"Oh,
I had no idea of blaming her
for it,”
Anna's friend said in self-defense.

"If no one follows us about like a shadow,
that's no proof that we've any right
to blame her.”

And having duly disposed of Anna's friend,
the Princess Myakaya got up,
and together
with the ambassador's wife,
joined the group atthe table,
where the conversation was dealing
with the king of Prussia.

"What wicked gossip were you talking over there?”
asked Betsy.

"About the Karenins.

The princess gave us a sketch of Alexey Alexandrovitch,”
said the ambassodor's wife
with a smile,
as she sat down at the table.

"Pity we didn't hear it!”
said Princess Betsy,
glancing towards the door.

"Ah,
here you are at last!”
she said,
turning
with a smile
to Vronsky,
as he came in.

Vronsky was not merely acquainted
with all the persons whom he was meeting here;
he saw them all every day;
and so he came in wtih the quiet manner
with which oneenters a room full of people from whom one has only just parted.

"Where do I come from?”
he said,
in answer
to a questio from the ambassador's wife.

"Well,
there's no help
for it,
I must confess.

From the opera bouffe.

I do believe I've seen it a hundrerd times,
and always
with fresh enjoyment.

It's exquisite! I know it's disgraceful,
but I go
to sleep at the opera,
and I sit out the opera bouffe
to the last minute,
and enjoy it.

This evening...”

He mentioned a French actress,
and was going
to tell something about her;
but theambassoador's wife,
with playful horror,
cut him short.

"Please don't tell us about that horror.”

"All right,
I won't especially as everyone knows those horrors.”

"And we should all go
to see them if it were accepted as the correct thing,
like the opera,”
chimed in Princess Myakaya.

Chapter 7 Steps were heard at the door,
and Princess Betsy,
knowing it was Madame Karenina,
glanced at Vronsky.

He was looking towards the door,
and his face wore a strange new expression.

Joyfully,
intently,
and at the same time timidly,
he gazed at the approaching figure,
and slowly he rose
to his feet.

Anna walked into the drawing room.

Holding herself extremely erect,
as always,
looking straight before her,
and moving
with her swift,
resolute,
and light step,
that distinguished her from all other society women,
she crossed theshort space
to her hostess,
shook hands
with her,
smiled,
and withthe same smile looked around at Vronsky.

Vronsky bowed low and pushed a chair up
for her.

She acknowledged this only by a slight nod,
flushed a little,
and frowned.

But immediately,
while rapidly greeting her acquaintances,
and shaking the hands proffered
to her,
she addressed Princess Betsy:

"I have been at Countess Lidia's,
and meant
to have come here earlier,
but I stayed on.

Sir John was there.

He's very interesting.”

"Oh,
that's this missionary?”
"Yes;
he told us about the life in India,
most interesting things.”

The conversation,
interrupted by her coming in,
flickered up again like the light ofa lamp being blown out.

"Sir John! Yes,
Sir John;
I've seen him.

He speaks well.

The Vlassieva girl's quite in love
with him.”

"And is it true the younger Vlassieva girl's
to marry Topov?”
"Yes,
they say it's quite a settled thing.”

"I wonder at the parents! They say it's a marriage
for love.”

"For love?

What antediluvian notions you have! Can one talk of love in these days?”
said the ambassador's wife.

"What's
to be done?

It's a foolish old fashion that's kept up still,”
said Vronsky.

"So much the worse
for those who keep up the fashion.

The only happy marriages I know are marriages of prudence.”

"Yes,
but then how often the happiness of these prudent marriages flies away like dust just because that passion turns up that they have refused
to recognize,”
said Vronsky.

"But by marriages of prudence we mean those in which both parties have sown their wild oats already.

That's like scarlatina--one has
to go through it and get it over.”

"Then they ought
to find out how
to vaccinate
for love,
like smallpox.”

"I was in love in my young days
with a deacon,”
said the Princess Myakaya.

"I don't know that it did me any good.”

"No;
I imagine,
jokingapart,
that
to know love,
one must make mistakes and then correct them,”
said Princess Betsy.

"Even after marriage?”
aid the ambassador's wife plyfully.

“
It's never too late
to mend.’
“
The attache repeated the English proverb.

"Just so,”
Betsy agreed;
"one must make mistakes and correct them.

What do you think about it?”
She turned
to Anna,
who,
with a faintly perceptible resolute smile on her lips,
was listening in silence
to the conversation.

"I think,”
said Anna,
playing
with the glove she had taken off,
"I think...if so many men,
so many minds,
certainly so many hearts,
so many kinds of love.”

Vronsky was gazing at Anna,
and
with a fainting heart waiting
for what she whoud say.

He sighed as after a danger escaped when she uttered these words.

Anna suddenly turned
to him.

"Oh,
I have had a letter from Moscow.

They write me that Kitty Shtcherbatskaya's very ill.”

"Really?”
said Vronsky,
knitting his brows.

Anna looked sternly at him.

"That doesn't interest you?”
"On the contrary,
it does,
very much.

What was it exactly they told you,
if I may know?”
he questioned.

Anna got up and went
to Betsy.

"Give me a cup of tea,”
she said,
standing at her table.

While Betsy was pouring out the tea,
Vronsky went up
to Anna.

"What is it they write
to you?”
he repeated.

"I often think men have no understanding of what's not honorable though they're always talking of it,”
said Anna,
without answering him.

"I've wanted
to tell you so a long while,”
she added,
and moving a few steps away,
she sat down at a table in a corner covered
with albuMs. "I don't quite understand the meaning of your words,”
he said,
handing her the cup.

She glanced towards the sofa beside her,
and he instantly sat down.

"Yes,
I have been wanting
to tell you,”
she said,
not looking at him.

"You behaved wrongly,
very wrongly.”

"Do you suppose I don't know that I've acted wrongly?

But who was thecause of my doing so?”
"What do you say that
to me for?”
she said,
glancing severely at him.

"You know what for,”
he answered boldly and joyfully,
meeting her glance and not dropping his eyes.

Not he,
but she,
was confused.

"That only shows you have no heart,”
she said.

But her eyes said that she knew he had a heat,
and that was why she wasfaraid of him.

"What you spoke of just now was a mistake,
and not love.”

"Remember that I have forbidden you
to utter thatword,
that hateful word,”
said Anna,
with a shudder.

But at once she felt that by that very word
“forbidden”
she had shown that she acknowledged certain rights over him,
and by that very fact was encouraging him
to speak of love.

"I have long meant
to tell you this,”
she went on,
looking resolutely into his eyes,
and hot all over from the burning flush on her cheeks.

"I've come on purpose this evening,
knowing I should meet you.

I have come
to tell you that this must end.

I have never blushed before any one,
and you force me
to feel
to blame
for something.”

He looked at her and was struck by a new spiritual beauty in her face.

"What do you wish of me?”
he said simply and seriously.

"I want you
to go
to Moscow and ask
for Kitty's forgiveness,”
she said.

"You don't wish that?”
he said.

"He saw she was saying what she forced herself
to say,
notwhat she wanted
to say.

"If you love me,
as you say,”
she whispered,
“
do so that I may be at peace.”

His face grew radiant.

"Don't you know that you're all my life
to me?

But I know no peace,
and I can't give
to to you;
all myself--and love...yes.

I can't think of you and myself apart.

You and I are one
to me.

And I see no cance before us of peace
for me or
for you.

I see achance of despair,
of wretchedness...or I see a chance of bliss,
what bliss!...Can it be there's no chance of it?”
he murmured
with his lips;
but she heard.

She strained every effort of her mind
to say what ought
to be said.

But instead ofthat she let her eyes rest on him,
full of love,
and made no answer.

"It's come!”
he thought in ecstasy.

"When I was beginning
to despair,
and it seemed there would be no end--it's come! She loves me! She owns it!”
"Then do this
for me:

never say such things
to me,
and let us be friends,”
she said in words;
but her eyes spoke quite differently.

"Friends we shall never be,
you know that yourself.

Whether we shall be the happiest or the wretchedest of people--that's in your hands.”

She would have said something,
but he interrupted her.

"I ask one thing only:

I ask
for the right
to hope,
to suffer as I do.

But if even that cannot ber,
command me
to disappear,
and I disappear.

You shall not see me if my presence is distasteful
to you.”

"I don't want
to drive you away.”

"Only don't change anything,
leave everything as it is,”
he said in a shaky voice.

"Here's your husband.”

At that instant Alexey Alexandrovitch did in fact walk into the room
with his calm,
awkward gait.

Glancing at his wife and Vronsky,
he went up
to the lady of the house,
and sitting down
for a cup of tea,
began talking in his deliberate,
always audible voice,
in his habitual tone of banter,
ridiculing some one.

"Your Rambouillet is in full conclave,”
he said,
looking round at all the party;
"the graces and the muses.”

But Princess Betsy could not endure that tone of his -
“sneering,”
as she called it,
using the English word,
and like a skillful hostess she at once brought him into a serious conversation on the subject of universal conscription.

Alexey Alexandrovitch was immediately interested in the subject,
and began seriously defending the new imperial decree against Princess Betsy,
who had attacked it.

Vronsky and Anna still sat at the little table.

"This is getting indecorous,”
whispered one lady,
with an expressive glance at Madame Karenina,
Vronsky,
and her husband.

"What did I tell you?”
said Anna's friend.

But not only those ladies,
almost every one in the room,
even the Princess Myakaya and Betsy herself,
looked several times in the direction of the two who had withdrawn from the general circle,
as though that were a disturbing fact.

Alexey Alexandrovitch was the only person who did not once look in that direction,
and was notdiverted from the interesting discussion he had entered upon.

Noticing the disagreeable impressiion that was being made on every one,
Princess Betsy slipped some one else into her place
to listen
to Alexey Alexandrovitch,
and went up
to Anna.

"I'm always amazed at the clearness and precision of your husband's language,”
she said.

"The most transcendental ideas seem
to be within my grasp when he's speaking.”

"Oh,
yes!”
said Anna,
radiant
with a smile of happiness,
and not understanding a word ofwhat Betsy had said.

She crossed over
to the big table and took part in the general conversation.

Alexey Alexandrovitch,
after staying half an hour,
went up
to his wife and suggested that they shoudl go home together.

Butshe answered,
not looking at him,
that she was staying
to supper.

Alexey Alexandrovitch made his bows and withdrew.

The fat old Tatar,
Madame Karenina's coachman,
was
with difficulty holding one of her pair of grays,
chilled
with the cold and rearing at the entrance.

A footman stood opening the carriage door.

The hall porter stood holding open the great door of the house.

Anna Arkadyevna,
with her quick little hand,
was unfastening the lace of her sleeve,
caught in the hook of her fur cloak,
and
with bent head listening
to the words Vronsky murmured as he escordted her down.

"You've said nothing,
of course,
and I ask nothing,”
he was saying;
"but you know that friendship's not what I want:

that there's only one happiness in life
for me,
that word that you dislike so...yes,
love!...”

"Love,”
she repeated slowly,
in an inner voice,
and suddenly,
at the very instant she unhooked the lace,
she added,
"Why I don't like the word is that it means too much
to me,
far more than you can understand,”
and she glanced into his face.

"Au revoir!”
She gave him her hand,
and
with her rapid,
springy step she passed by the porter and vanished into the carriage.

Her glance,
the touch of her hand,
set him aflame.

He kissed the palm ofhis hand where she had toched it,
and went home,
happy in the sense that he had got hearer
to the attainment of his aims that evening than during the last two months.

Chapter 8 Alexey Alexandrovitch had seen nothing striking or improper in the fact that his wife was sitting
with Vronsky at a table apart,
in eager conversation
with him about something.

But he noticed that
to the rest of the party thisappeared something strikign and improper,
and
for that reason it seemed
to him too
to be improper.

He made up his mind that he must speak of it
to his wife.

On reaching home Alexey Alexandrovitch went
to his study,
as he usually did,
seated himself in his low chair,
opened a book on the Papacy at the place where he had laid the paper-knife in it,
and read till one o'clock,
just as he usually did.

But from time
to time he rubbed his high forehead and shook his head,
as thought
to drive away something.

At his usual time he got up and make his toilet
for the night.

Anna Arkadyevna had not yet come in.

With a book under his arm he went upstairs.

But this evening,
instead of his usual thought nad meditqations upon official details,
his thought were absorbed by his wife and something disagreeable connected
with her.

Contrary
to his usual habit,
he did not get into bed,
but fell
to walking up and down the rooms
with his hands clasped behind his back.

He could not go
to bed,
feeling that it was absolutely needful
for him first
to think thoroughly over the position that had just arisen.

When Alexey Alexandrovitch had made up his mind that he must talk
to his wife about it,
it had seemed a very easy and simple matter.

But now,
when he began
to thnk over the question that had just presented itself,
it seemed
to him very complicated and difficult.

Alexey Alexandrovitch was not jealous.

Jeaslousy according
to his notions was an insult
to one's wife,
and one ought
to have confidence in one's wife.

Why one ought
to have confidence - that is
to say,
complete conviction that his young wife would always love him--he did not ask himself.

But he had had no experience of lack of confidence,
because he had confidence in her,
and told himself that he ought
to have it.

Now,
though his conviction that healousy was a shameful feeling and that one ought
to feel confidence,
had not broken down,
he felt that he was standing face
to face
with something illogical and irrational,
and did not know what was
to be done.

Alexey Alexandrovitch was standing face
to face
with life,
with the possibility of his wife's loving some one other htan himself,
and this seemed
to him very irrational and imcoprehensible because it was life itself.

All his life Alexey Alexandrovitch had lived and worked in official spheres,
having
to do
with the reflection of life.

And every time he had stumbled against life itself he had shrunk away from it.

Now he experience a feeling akin
to that of a man who,
wile calmly crossing a precipice by a bridge,
should suddenly discover that the bridge is broken,
and that there is a chasm below.

That chasm was life itself,
the bridge that artificial life in which Alexey Alexandrovitch had lived.

For the first time the question presented itself
to him of the possibility of his wife's loving some one else,
and he was horrified at it.

He did not undress,
but walked up and down
with his regular tread over the resounding parquet of the dining room,
where one lamp was burning,
over the carpet of the dark drawing room,
in which the light was frflected on the big new protrait of himself handing over the sofa,
and across her boudoir,
where two candles burned,
lighting up the portraits of her parents and woman friends,
and the pretty knick-knacks of her writing table,
that he knew so well.

He walked across her boudoir
to the bedroom door,
and turned back again.

At each turn in his walk,
especially at the parquet of the lighted dining room,
he halted and said
to himself,
"Yes,
this I must decide and put a stop to;
I must express my view of it and my decision.”

And he turned back again.

"But express what--what decision?”
he said
to himself in the drawing room,
andhe found no reply.

"But after all,”
he asked himself before turning into the boudoir,
"what has occurred?

Nothing.

She was talking a long while
with him.

But what of that?

Surely women in society can talk
to whom they please.

And then,
jealousy means lowering both myself and her,”
he told himself as he went into her boudoir;
but this dictum,
which had always had such weight
with him before,
had now no weight and no meaning at all.

And from the bedroom door he turned back again;
but as he entered the dark drawing room some inner voice told him that it was not so,
and that if others noticed it that showed that there was something.

And he said
to himself again in the dining room,
"Yes,
I must decide and put a stop
to it,
and express my view of it...”

And again at the turn in the drawing room he asked himself,
"Decide how?”
And again he asked himself,
"What had occurred?”
and answered,
"Nothing,”
and recollected that jealousy was a feeling insulting
to his wife;
but again in the drawing room he was convinced that something had happened.

His thoughts,
like his body,
went round a complete circle,
without coming upon anything new.

He noticed this,
rubbed his forehead,
and sat down in her boudoir.

There,
looking at her table,
with the malachite blotting case lying at the top and an unfinished letter,
his thoughts suddenly changed.

He began
to think of her,
of what she was thinking and feeling.

For the first time he pictured vividly
to himself her personal life,
her ideas,
her desires,
and the idea that she could and should have a separate life ofher own seemed
to him so alarming that he made haste
to dispel it.

It was the chasm which he was afraid
to peep into.

To put himself in thought and feeling in another person's place was a spiritual exercise as a harmful and dangerous abuse of the fancy.

"And the worst of it all,”
thought he,
"is that just now,
at the very moment when my great work is approaching completion”
(he was thinking of the project he was bringing forward at the time),
"when I stand in need of all my mental peace and all my energies,
just now thi stupid worry should fall foul of me.

But what's
to be done?

I'm not one of those men who submit
to uneasiness and worry without having the force of character
to face them.”

"I must think it over,
come
to a decision,
and put it out of my mind,”
he said aloud.

"The question of her feelings ,of what has passed and may be passing in her soul,
that not my affair;
that's the affair of her conscience,
and falls under the head of religion,”
he said
to himself,
feeling consolation in the sense that he had found
to which division of regulating principles this new circimstances could be properly referred.

"And so,”
Alexey Alexandrovitch said
to himself,
"questions as
to her feelings,
and so on,
are questions
for her conscience,
with which I can have nothing
to do.

My duty is clearly defined.

As the head of the family,
I am a person bound in duty
to guide her,
and consequently,
in part the person responsible;
I am bound
to point out
to speak plainly
to her.”

And everything that he would say tonight
to his wife took clear shape in Alexey Alexandrovitch's head.

Thinking over what he would say,
he somewhat regretted that he should have
to use his time and mental powers
for domestic consumption,
with so little
to show
for it,
but,
in spite of that,
the form and contents of the speech before him shaped itself as clearly and distinctly in his head as a ministerial report.

"I must say and express fully the following points:

first,
exposition of the value
to be attached
to public opinion and
to decorum;
secondly,
exposition of religious significance of marriage;
thirdly,
if need be,
reference
to the calamity possibly ensuing
to our son;
fourthly,
reference
to the unhappiness likely
to result
to herself.”

And,
interlacing his fingers,
Alexey Alexandrovitch stretched htem,
and the joints of the fingers cracked.

This trick,
a bad habit,
the cracking of this fingers,
always soothed him,
and gave precision
to his thoughts,
so needful
to him at this juncture.

There was the sound of a carriage driving up
to the front door.

Alexey Alexandrovitch halted in the middle of the room.

A woman's step was heard mounting the stairs.

Alexey Alexandrovitch,
ready
for his speech,
stood compressing his crossed fingers,
waiting
to see if the crack would not come again.

One joint cracked.

Already,
from the sound oflight steps on the stairs,
he was aware that she was close,
and though he was satisfied
with his speech,
he felt frightened ofthe explanation confronting him...

Chapter 9 Anna came in
with handing head,
playing
with the tassels of her hood.

Her face was briliant and glowing;
but this glow was not one of brightness;
it suggested the fearful glow ofa conflagration in the midst of a dark night.

On seeing her husband,
Anna r4aised her head and smiled,
as though she had just waked up.

"You're not in bed?

What a wonder!”
she said,
letting fall her hood,
and without stopping,
she went on into the dressing room.

"It's late,
Alexey Alexnadrovitch,”
she said,
when she had gone through the doorway.

"Anna,
it's necessary
for me
to have a talk
with you.”

"With me?”
she said,
wonderingly.

She came out from behind the door of the dressing room,
and looked at him.

"Why,
what is it?

What about?”
she asked,
sitting down.

"Well,
let's talk,
if it's so necessary.

But it would be better
to get
to sleep.”

Anna said what came
to her lips,
and marveled,
hearing herself,
at her won capacity
for lying.

How simple and natural were her words,
and how likely that she was simply sleepy! She felt herself clad in an impenetrable armor of falsehood.

She felt that some unseen force had come
to her aid and was supporting her.

"Anna,
I must warn you,”
he began.

"Warn me?”
she said.

"Of what?”
She looked at him so simply,
so brightly,
that any one who did not know her as her husband knew her coudl not have noticed anything unnatural,
either in the sound or the sense of her words.

But
to him,
knowing her,
knowing that whenever he went
to bed fivbe minutes later than usual,
she noticed it,
and asked him the reason;
to him,
knowing that every joy,
every pleasure and pain that she felt she communicated
to him at once;
to him,
now
to see that she did not care
to notice his state of mind,
that she did not care
to say a word about herself,
meant a great deal.

He saw that the inmost recesses of her soul,
that had always hitherto lain open before him,
were closed against him.

More than that,
he saw from her tone that she was not even perturbed at that,
but as it were said straight out
to him:

"Yes,
it's shut up,
and so it must be,
and will be in future.”

Now he experienced a feeling such as a man might have,
returning home and finding his own house locked up.

"But perhaps the key may yet be found,”
thought Alexey Alexandrovitch.

"I want
to warn you,”
he said in a low voice,
"that through thoughtlessness and lack of caution you may cause yourself
to be talked about in society.

Your too animated conversation this evening
with Count Vronsky”
(he enunciated the name firmly and
with deliberate emphasis)
“attracted attention.”

He talked and looked at her laughing eyes,
which frightened him now
with their pmpenetrable look,
and,
as he talked,
he felt all the uselessness and idleness of his words.

"You're always like that,”
she answered as though completely misapprehending him,
and of all he had said only taking in the last phrase.

"One time you don't like my being dull,
and another time you don't like my being lively.

I wasn't dull.

Does that offend you?”
Alexey Alexandrovitch shivered,
and bent his hands
to make the joints crack.

"Oh,
please,
don't do that,
I do so dislike it,”
she said.

"Anna,
is this you?”
said Alexey Alexandrovitch,
quietly making an effort over himself,
and restraining the motion of his fingers.

"But what is it all about?”
she said,
with such genuine and droll wonder.

"What do you want of me?”
Alexey Alexandrovitch paused,
and rubbed his forehead and his eyes.

He saw that instead of doing as he had intended--that is
to say,
warning his wife against a mistake in the eyes of the world--he had unconsciously become agitated over what was the affair of her conscience,
and was struggling against the barrier he fancied between them.

"This is what I meant
to say
to you,”
he went on coldly and composedly,
"and I beg you
to listen
to it.

I consider jealousy,
as you know,
a humiliating and degrading feeling,
and I shall never allow myself
to be influenced by it;
but there are certain rules of decorum which cannot be disregarded
with impunity.

This evening it was not I observed it,
but judging by the impression made on the company,
every one observed that your conduct and deportment were not altogether what could be desired.”

"I positively don't understand,”
said Anna,
shrugging her shoulders--"He doesn't care,”
she thought.

"But other people noticed it,
and that's what upsets him.”

--"You're not well,
Alexey Alexandrovitch,”
she added,
and she got up,
and would have gone towards the door;
but he moved forward as though he would stop her.

His face was ugly and forbidding,
as Anna had never seen him.

She stopped,
and bending her head back and on one side,
began
with her rapid hand taking out her hairpins.

"Well,
I'm listening
to what's
to come,”
she said,
calmly and ironically;
"and indeed I listend
with interest,
for I should like
to understand what's the matter.”

She spoke,
and marveled at the confident,
calm,
and natural tone i which she was speaking,
and the choice ofthe words she used.

"To enter into all the details of your feelings I have no right,
and besides,
I regard that as useless and even harmful,”
began Alexey Alexandrovitch.

"Ferreting in one's soul.

one often ferrts out something that might have lain there unnoticed.

Your feelings are an affair of your own conscience;
but I am in duty bound
to you,
to myself,
and
to God,
to point out
to you your duties.

Our life has been joined,
not by man,
but by God.

That union can only be severed by a crime,
and a crime of that nature brings its own chastisement.”

"I don't understand a word.

And,
oh dear! how sleepy I am,
unluckily,”
she said,
rapidly passing her hand through her hair,
feeling
for the remaining hairpins.

"Anna,
for God's sake don't speak like that!”
he said gently.

"Perhaps I am mistaken,
but believe me,
what I say,
I say as much
for myself as
for you.

I am your husband,
and I love you.”

For an instant her face fell,
and the mocking gleam in her eyes died away;
but the word lvoe threw her into revolt again.

She thought:

"Love?

Can he love?

If he hadn't heard there was such a thing as love,
he would never have used the word.

He doesn't even know what love is.”

"Alexey Alexandrovitch,
really I don't understand,”
she said.

Define what it is you find...”

"Pardon,
let me say all I have
to say.

I love you.

But I am not speaking of myself;
the most important persons in this matter are our son and yourself.

It may very well be,
I repeat,
that my words seem
to you utterly unnecessary and out of place;
it may be tht they are called forth by my mistaken impression.

In that case,
I beg you
to forgive me.

But if you are consciious yourself of even the smallest foundation
for them,
then I beg you
to think a little,
and if your heart prompts you,
to speak out
to me...”

Alexey Alexandrovitch was unconsciously saying something utterly unlike what he had prepared.

"I have nothing
to say.

And besides,”
she said hurriedly,
with difficulty repressing a smile,
"it's really time
to be in bed.”

Alexey Alexandrovitch sighed,
and,
without saying more,
went into the bedroom.

When she came into the bedroom,
he was already in bed.

His lips were sternly compressed,
and his eyes looked away from her.

Anna got into her bed,
and lay expecting every minute that he would begin
to speak
to her again.

She both feared his speaking and wished
for it.

But he was silent.

She waited
for a long while without moving,
and had forgotten about him.

She thought of that other;
she picutrd him,
and felt how her heart was flooded
with emotioin and guilty delight at the thought of him.

Suddenly she heard an even,
tranquil snore.

For the first instant Alexey Alexandrovitch seemed,
as it were,
appalled at his own snoring,
and ceased;
but after an interval of two breathings the snore sounded again,
with a new tranquil rhythm.

"It's late,
it's late,”
she whispered
with a smile.

A long while she lay,
not moving,
with open eyes,
whose briliance she almost fancied she could herself see in the darkness.

Chapter 10 From that time a new life began
for Alexey Alexandrovitch and
for his wife.

Nothing special happened.

Anna went out into society,
as she had always done,
was particularly often at Princess Betsy's,
and met Vronsky everywhere.

Alexey Alexandrovitch saw this,
but could do nothing.

All his efforts
to draw her into open discussion she confronted
with a barrier which he could not penetrate,
made up of a sort of amused perplexity.

Outwardly everything was the same,
but their inner relations were completely changed.

Alexey Alexnadrovitch,
a man of great power in the world of politics,
felt himself helpless in this.

Like an ox
with head bent,
submissively he awaited the blow which he felt was lifted over him.

Every time he began
to think about it,
he felt that he must try once more,
that by kindness,
tenderness,
and persuasio there was still hope of saving her,
of bringing her back
to herself,
and every day he made ready
to talk
to her.

But every time he began talking
to her,
he felt that the spirit of evil and deceit,
which had taken possession of her,
had possession of him too,
and he talked
to her in a tone quite unlike that in which he had meant
to talk.

Involuntarily he talked
to her i his habitual tone of jeering at any one who should say what he was saying.

And in that tone it was impossible
to say what needed
to be said
to her.

Chapter 11 That which
for Vronsky had been almost a whole year the one absorbing desire of his life,
replacing all his old desires;
that which
for Anna had been an impossible,
terrible,
and even
for that reason more entrancing dream of bliss,
that desire had been fulfilled.

Hestood before her,
pale,
his lower jaw quivering,
and besought her
to be calm,
not knowing how or why.

"Anna! Anna!”
he said
with a choking voice,
"Anna,
for pity's sake!...”

But the louder he spoke,
the lower she dropped her once proud and gay,
now shame-stricken head,
and she bowed down and sank from the sofa where she was sitting,
down on the floor,
at his feed;
she would have fallen on the carpet if he had not held her.

"My God! Forgive me!”
she said,
sobbing,
pressing his hands
to her bosom.

She felt so sinful,
so guilty,
that nothing was left her but
to humiliate herself and beg forgiveness;
and as now there was no one in her life but him,
to him she addressed her prayer
for forgiveness.

Looking at him,
she had a physical sense of her humiliation,
and she could say nothing more.

He felt what a murderer must feel,
when he sees the body he has robbed of life.

That body,
robbed by him of life,
was their love,
the first stage oftheir love.

There was somethng awful and revolting in the memory ofwhat had been bought at this fearful price of shame.

Shame at their spiritual nakedness crushed her nad infected him.

But in spite of all the murdererr's horror before the body of his victim,
he must hack it
to pieces,
hide the body,
must use what he had gained by his murder.

And
with fury,
as it were
with passion,
the murderer falls on the body,
and drags it and hacks at it;
so he covered her face and shoulders
with kisses.

She held his hand,
and did not stir.

"Yes,
these kisses--that is what has been bought by this shame.

Yes,
and one hand,
which will always be mine--the hand of my accomplice.”

She lifted up that hand and kissed it.

He sank on his knees and tried
to see her face;
but she hid it,
and said nothing.

At last,
as though making an effort over heself,
she got up and pushed him away.

Her face was still as beautiful,
but it was only the more pitiful
for that.

"All is over,”
she said;
"I have nothing but you.

Remeber that.”

"I can never forget what is my whole life.

For one instant of this happiness...”

"Happiness!”
she said
with horror and loathing nad her horror unconsciously infected him.

"For pity's sake,
not a word,
not a word more.”

She rose quickly and moved away from him.

"Not a word more,”
she repeated,
and
with a look of chill despair,
incomprehensible
to him,
she parted from him.

She felt that at that moment she could not put into words the sense of shame,
of rapture,
and of horror at this stepping into a new life,
and she did not want
to speak ofit,
to vulgarize this feeling by inappropriate words.

But later too,
and the next day and the third day,
she still found no words in which she could express the complexity of her feelings;
indeed,
she could not even find thoughts in which she could clearly think out all that was in her soul.

She said
to herself:

"No,
just now I can't think of it,
later on,
when I am calmer.”

But this calm
for thought never came;
every time the thought rose of what she had done and what would happen
to her,
andwhat she ought
to do,
a horror came over her and she drove those thoughts away.

"Later,
later,”
she said--"when I am calmer.”

But in dreams,
when she had no control over her thoughts,
her position presented itself
to her in all its hideous nakedness.

Once dream haunted her almost every night.

She dreamed that both were her husbands at once,
that both were lavishing caresses on her.

Alexey Alexandrovitch was weeping,
kissing her hands,
and saying
“How happy we are now!”
And Alexey Vronsky was there too,
and he too was her husband.

And she was marveling that it had once seemed impossible
to her,
was explaining
to them,
laughing,
that this was ever so much simpler,
and that now both of them were happy and contented.

But this dream weighed on her like a nightmare ,and she awoke from it in terror.

Chapter 12 In the early days after his return from Moscow,
whenever Levin shuddered and grew red,
remembering the disgrace of his rejection,
he said
to himself:

"This was just how I used
to shudder nad blush,
thinking myself utterly lost,
when I was plucked in physics and did not get my remove;
and how I thought myself utterly ruined after I had mismanaged that affair of my sister's that was entrusted
to me.

And yet,
now that years have passed,
I recall it and wonder that it could distress me so much.

It will be the same thing too
with this trouble.

Time will go by and I shall not mind about this either.”

But three months had passed and he had not left off minding about it;
and it was as painful
for him
to think of it as it had been those first days.

He could not be at peace because after dreaming so long of family life,
and feeling himself so ripe
for it,
he was still not married,
and was further than ever from marriage.

He was painfully conscious himself,
as were all about him,
that at his years it is not well
for man
to be alone.

He remembered how before starting
for Moscow he ahd once said
to his cowman Nikolay,
a simple-hearted peasant,
whom he liked talking to:

"Well,
Nikolay! I mean
to get married,”
and how Nikolay had promptly answered,
as ofa matter on which there could be no possible doubt:

"And high time too,
Kinstantin Demitrievitch.”

But marriage had now become further off than ever.

The place was taken,
and whenever he tried
to imagine any of the girls he knew in that place,
he felt that it was utterly impossible.

Moreover,
the recolletion of the rejection and the part he had played in the affair tortured him
with shame.

However often he told himself that he wasin no wise
to blame in it,
that recollection,
like other humiliating reminiscences of a similar kind,
made him twinge and blush.

There had been in his past,
as in every man's,
actions,
recognized by him as bad,
for which his conscience ought
to have tormented him;
but the memory ofthese evil actions was far from causing him so much suffering as those trivial but humiliating reminiscences.

These wounds never healed.

And
with these memories was now ranged his rejection and the pitiful position in which he must have appeared
to others that evening.

But time and work did their part.

Bitter memories were more and more covered up by the incidents--paltry in his eyes,
but really important--of his country life.

Every week he thought less often of Kitty.

He was impatiently looking forward
to the news that she was married,
or just going
to be married,
hoping that such news would,
like having a tooth out,
completely cure him.

Meanwhile spring came on,
beautiful and kindly,
without the delays and treacheries of spring,--one of those rare springs in which plants,
beasts,
and man rejoice alike.

This lovely spring roused Levin still more,
and strengthened him in his resolution of renouncing all his past nad building up his lonely life firmly and independently.

Though many of the plans
with which he had returned
to the country had not been carried out,
still his most important resolutio--that of purity--had been kept by him.

He was free from that shame,
which had usually harassed him after a fall;
and he could look every one straight in the face.

In February he had received a letter from Marya Nikolaevna telling him that his brother Nikolay's health was getting worse,
but that he would not take advice,
and in cosequence of this letter Levin went
to Moscow
to his brother's and succeeded in persuading him
to see a doctor and
to go
to a watering-place abroad.

He succeeded so well in persuading his brother,
and in lending him money
for the journey without irritating him,
that he was satisfied
with himself in that matter.

In addition
to his farming,
which called
for special attentio in spring,
and in additon
to reading,
Levin had begun that winter a work on agriculture,
theplan of which turned on taking into account the character of the laborer on the land as one ofthe unalterable data of the question,
like the climate and the soil,
and consequently duducing all the principles of scientific culture,
not simply from the data of soil and climate,
but from the data of soil,
climate,
and a certain unalterable character of the laborer.

Thus,
in spite of his solitude,
or in consequence of his solitude,
his life was exceedingly full.

Only rarely he suffered from an unsatisfied desire
to communicate his stray ideas
to some one besides Agafea Mihalovna.

With her indeed he not infrequently fell into discussion upon physics,
the theory of agriculture,
and especially philosophy;
philosophy was Agafea Mihalovna's favorite subject.

Spring was slow in unfolding.

For the last few weeks it had been steadily fine frosty weather.

In the daytime it thawed in the sun,
but at night there were even seven degrees of frost.

There was such a frozen surface on the snow that they drove the wagons anywhere off the roads.

Easter came in the snow.

Then all of a sudden,
on Easter Monday,
a warm wind sprang up,
storm clouds swooped down,
and
for three days nad three nights the warm,
driving rain fell in streaMs. On Thursday the wind dropped,
and a thick gray fog brooded over the land as though hiding the mysteries of the transformations that were being wrought in nature.

Behind the fog there was the flowing of water,
the cracking and floating of ice,
the swift rush ofturbid,
foaming torrents;
and on the following Monda,
in the evening,
the fog parted,
the storm clouds split up into little curling crests of cloud,
the sky cleared,
and the real spring had come.

In the morning the sun rose brilliant and quickly wore away the thin layer of ice that covered the water,
and all the warm air was quivering
with the steam that roase up from the quickened earth.

The old grass looked greener,
and the young grass thrust up its tiny blades;
the buds of the guelder-rose and of the currant and the sticky birch-buds were swollen
with sap,
and an exploring bee was humming about the golden blossoms that studded the willow.

Larks trilled unseen above the velvety green fields and the ice-covered stubble-land;
peewits wailed over the low lands and marshes flooded by the pools;
cranes and wild geese flew high across the sky uttering their spring calls.

The cattle,
bald in patches where the new hair had not grown yet,
lowed in the pastures;
the bowlegged lambs frisked round their bleating mothers.

Nimble children ran about the drying paths,
covered
with the prints of bare feet.

There was a merry chatter of peasant women over their linen at the pond,
and the ring of axes in the yard,
where the peasants were repairing ploughs and harrows.

The real spring had come.

Chapter 13 Levin put on his big boots,
and,
for the first time,
a cloth jacket,
instead of his fur cloak,
and went out
to look after his farm,
stepping over streams of water that flashed in the sunshine and dazzled his eyes,
and treading one minute on ice and the next into sticky mud.

Spring is the time of plans and projects.

And,
as he came out into thefarmyard,
Levin,
like a tree in spring that knows not what form will be taken by the young shoots nad twigs imprisoned in its swelling buds,
hardly knew what undertakings he was going
to begin upon now in the farm work that was so dear
to him.

But he felt that he was full of the most splendid plans and projects.

First of all he went
to the cattle.

The cows had been let out into their paddock,
and their smooth sides were already shining
with their new,
sleek,
spring coats;
they basked in the sunshine and lowed
to go
to the meadow.

Levin gazed admiringly at the cows he knew so intimately
to the minutest detail of their condition,
and gave orders
for them
to be driven out into the meadow,
and the calves
to be let into the paddock.

The herdsman ran gaily
to get ready
for the meadow.

Thecowherd girls,
picking up their petticoats,
ran splashing through the mud
with bare legs,
still white,
not yet brown from the sun,
waving brush wood in their hands,
chasing the calves that frolicked in the mirth of spring.

After admiring the young ones of that year,
who were particularly fine--the early calves were the size of a peasant's cow,
and Pava's daughter,
at three months old,
was a big as a yearling - Levin gave orders
for a trough
to be brought out and
for them
to be fed in the padock.

But it appeared that as the paddock had not been used during the winter,
the hurdles made in the autumn
for it were broken.

He sent
for the carpenter,
who,
according
to his orders,
ought
to have been at owrk at the thrashing machine.

But it appeared that the carpenter was repairing the harrows,
which ought
to have been repaired before Lent.

This was very annoying
to Levin.

It was annoying
to come upon that everlasting slovenliness in the farm work against which he had been striving
with all his might
for so many years.

The hurdles,
as he ascertained,
being not wanted in winter,
had been carried
to thecart-horses’
stable;
and there broken,
as they were of light construction,
only meant
for folding calves.

Moreover,
it was apparent also that the harrows and all theagricultural implements,
which he had directed
to be looked over and repaired in the winter,
for which very purpose he had hired htree carpenters,
had not been put into repiar,
and the harrows were being repaired when they ought
to have been harrowing htefield.

Levin sent
for his bailiff,
but immediatley went off himself
to look
for him.

The bailiff,
beaming all over,
like every one that day,
in a sheepskin bordered
with astrachan,
came out of the barn,
twisting a bit of straw in his hands.

"Why isn't the carpenter at the thrashing machine?”
"Oh,
I meant
to tell you yesterday,
the harrows want repairing.

Here it's time they got
to work in the fields.”

"But what were they doing in the winter,
then?”
"But what did you want the carpenter for?”
"Where are the hurdles forthe calves’
paddock?”
"I ordered them
to be got ready.

What would you have
with those peasants!”
said the bailiff,
with a wave of his hand.

"It's not those peasants but this bailiff!”
said Levin,
getting angry.

"Why,
what do I keep you for?”
he cried.

But,
bethinking himself that this would not help matters,
he stopped short in the middle of a sentence,
and merely sighed.

"Well,
what do yu say?

Can sowing being?”
he asked,
after a pause.

"Behind Turkin tomorrow or the next day they might begin.”

"And the clover?”
"I've sent Vassily and Mishka;
they're sowing.

Only I don't know if they'll manage
to get through;
it's so slushy.”

"How many acres?”
"About fifteen.”

"Why not sow all?”
cried Levin.

That they were only swoing the clover on fifteen acres,
not on all the forty-five,
was still more annoying
to him.

Clover,
as he knew,
both from books and from his own experience,
never did well except when it was sown as early as possible,
almost in the snow.

And yet Levin could never get this done.

"There's no one
to send.

What would you have
with such a set of peasants?

Three haven't turned up.

And there's Semyon...”

"Well,
you should have taken some men from the thatching.”

"And so I have,
as it is.”

"Where are the peasants,
then?”
"Five are making compote
(which meant compost),
"four are shifting the oats
for fear of a touch of mildew,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch.”

Levin knew very well that
“a touch of mildew”
meant that his English seed oats were already ruined.

Again they had not done as he had ordered.

"Why,
but I told you during Lent
to put in pipes,”
he cried.

"Don't put yourself out;
we shall get it all done in time.”

Levin waved his hand angrily,
went into the granary
to glance at the oats,
and then
to the stable.

The oats were not yet spoiled.

But the peasants were carrying the oats in spaces when they might simply let the slide down into the lower granary;
and arranging
for this
to be done,
and taking two workmen from there
for sowing clover,
Levin got over his vexation
with the bailiff.

Indeed,
it was such a lovely day that one could not be angry.

"Ignat!”
he called
to the coachman,
who,
iwth his sleeves tucked up,
was washing the carriage wheels,
"saddle me...”

"Which,
sir?”
"Well,
let it be Kolpik.”

"Yes,
sir.”

While they were saddling his horse,
Levin again called up the bailiff,
who was handing about in sight,
to make it up
with him,
and began talking
to him about the spring operations before them,
and his plans
for the farm.

The wagons were
to begin carting manure earlier,
so as
to get all done before the early mowing.

And the bloughing ofthe further land
to go on without a break so as
to let it ripen lying fallow.

And the mowing
to be all done by hired labor,
not on half-profits.

The biliff listened attentively,
and obviously made an effort
to approve of his employer's projects.

But still he had that look Levin knew so well that always irritated him,
a look of hopelessness and despondency.

That look said:

"That's all very well,
but as God wills.”

Nothing mortified Levin so much as that tone.

But it was the tone common
to all the bailiffs he had ever had.

They had all taken up that attitude
to his plans,
and so now he was not angered by it,
but mortified,
and felt all the more roused
to struggle against this,
as it seemed,
elemental force continually ranged against him,
for which he coud find no other expressioin than
“as God wills.”

"If we can manage it,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch,”
said the bailiff.

"Why ever shouldn't you manage it?”
"We positively must have another fifteen laborers.

And they don't turn up.

There were some here today asking seventy roubles
for the summer.”

Levin was silent.

Again he was brought face
to face
with that opposing force.

He knew that however much they tried,
they could not hire more than forty--thirty-seven perhaps or thirty-eight - laborers
for a reasonable sum.

Some forty had been taken on,
and there were no more.

But still he could not help struggling against it.

"Send
to Sury,
to Tchefirovka;
if they don't come we must look
for them.”

"Oh,
I'll send,
to be sure,”
said Vassily Fedorovitch despondently.

"But there are the horses,
too,
they're not good
for much.”

"We'll get some more.

I know,
of course,”
Levin added laughing,
"you always want
to do
with as little and as poor quality as possible;
but this year I'm not going
to let you have things your own way.

I'll see
to everything myself.”

"Why,
I don't think you take much rest as it is.

It cheers us up
to work under the master's eye...”

"So they're sowing closver behind the Birch Dale?

I'll go and have a look at them,”
he said,
getting on
to the little bay cob,
Kolpik,
who was let up by the coachman.

"You can't get across the streams,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch,”
the coachman shouted.

"All right,
I'll go by the forest.”

And Levin rode through the slush of the farmyard
to the gate and out into the open country,
his good little horse,
after hs long inactivity,
stepping out gallantly,
snorting over the pools,
and asking,
as it were,
for guidance.

If Levin had felt happy before in the cattle pens and farmyard,
he felt happier yet in the open country.

Swaying rhythmically
with the anbling paces of his good little cob,
drinking in the warm yet fresh scent of thesnow and the air,
as he rode through his forest over the crubling,
wasted snow,
still left in parts,
and covered
with dissolving tracks,
he rejoiced over every tree,
wit hte moss reviving on its bark and the buds swelling on its shoots.

When he came out of the forest,
in the immense plain before him,
his grass fields stretched in an unbroken carpet of green,
without one bare place or swamp,
only spotted here nad there in the hollows
with patches of melting snow.

He was not put out of temper even by the sight of the peasants’
horses nad colts trampling down his young grass
(he told a peasant he met
to drive them out),
nor by the sarcastic and stupid reply of the peasant Ipat,
whom he met on the way,
and asked,
"Well,
Ipat,
shall we soon be sowing?”
"We must get the ploughing done first,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch,”
answered Ipat.

The further he rode,
the happier he bacame,
and plans
for the land rose
to his mind each bette than the last;
to plant all his fields
with hedges along thesouthern borders,
so that the snow should not lie under them;
to divide them up into six fields of arable and three of pasture and hay;
to build a cattle yard at the further end of the estate,
and
to dig a pond and
to construct movable pens
for the cattle as a means of manuring the land.

And then eight hundred acres of wheat,
three hundred of potatoes,
and four hundred of clover,
and not one acre exhausted.

Absorbed in such dreams,
carefully keeping his horse by the hedges,
so as not
to trample his young crops,
he rode up
to the laborers who had been sent
to sow clover.

A cart
with the seed in it was standing,
not at the edge,
but in the middle of the crop,
and the winter corn had been torn up by thewheels and trampled by the horse.

Both the laborers were sitting in the hedge,
probably smoking a pipe together.

The earth in the cart,
with which the seed was mixed,
was not curshed
to powder,
but crusted together or adhering in clods.

Seeing themaster,
the laborer,
Vassily,
went towards the cart,
while Mishka set
to work sowing.

This was not as it should be,
but
with the laborers Levin seldom lost his temper.

When Vassily came up,
Levin told him
to lead the horse
to the hedge.

"It's all right,
sir,
it'll spring up again,”
responded Vassily.

"Please don't argue,”
said Levin,
"but do as you're told.”

"Yes,
sir,”
answered Vassily,
and he took the horse's head.

"What a sowing,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch,”
he said,
hesitating;
"first rate.

Only it's a work
to get about! You drag a ton of earth on your shoes.”

"Why is it you have earth that's not sifted?”
said Levin.

"Well,
we crumble it up,”
answered Vassily,
taking up some seed and rolling the earth in his palMs. Vassily was not
to blame
for their having filled up his cart
with unsifted earth,
but still it was annoying.

Levin had more than once already tried a way he knew
for stifling his anger,
and turning all that seemed dark right again,
and he tried that way now.

He watched how Mishka strode along,
swinging the huge clods of earth that clung
to each foot;
and getting off his horse,
he took the sieve from Vassily and started sowing himself.

"Where did you stop?”
Vassily pointed
to the mark
with his foot,
and Levin went forward as best he could,
scattering the seed on the land.

Walking was a difficult as on a bog,
and by the time Levin had ended the row he was in a great heat,
and he stopped and gave up the sieve
to Vassily.

"Well,
master,
when summer's here,
mind you don't scold me
for these rows,”
said Vassily.

"Eh?”
said Levin cheerily,
already feeling the effect of his method.

"Why,
you'll see in the summer time.

It'll look different.

Look you where I sowed last spring.

How I did work at it! I do my best,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch,
d'ye see,
as I would
for my own father.

I don't like bad work myself,
nor would I let another man do it.

What's good
for the master's good
for us too.

To look out yonder now,”
said Vassily,
pointing,
"it does one's heart good.”

"It's a lovely spring,
Vassily.”

"Why,
it's a spring such as the old men don't remember the like of.

I was up home;
an old man up there has sown wheat too,
about an acre of it.

He was saying you wouldn't know it from rye.”

"Have yo been sowing wheat long?”
"Why,
sir,
it was you taught us the year before last.

You gave me two measures.

We sold about eight bushels and sowed a rood.”

"Well,
mind you crumble up the clods,”
said Levin,
going towards his horse,
"and keep an eye on Mishka.

And if there's a good crop you shall have half a rouble
for every acre.”

"Humbly thankful.

We are vey well content,
sir,
as it is.”

Levin got on his horse and rode towards the field where was last year's clover,
and the one which was ploughed ready
for the spring corn.

The crop of clover coming up in the stubble was magnificent.

It had survived everything,
and stood up vividly green through the broken stalks of last year's wheat.

The horse sank in up
to thepasterns,
and he drew each hoof
with a sucking sound out of the half-thawed ground.

Over the ploughland riding was utterly impossible;
the horse could only keep a foothold where there was ice,
and in the thawing furrows he sank deep in at each step.

The ploughland was in splendid condition;
in a couple of days it would be fit
for harrowing and sowing.

everything was capital,
everything was cheering.

Levin rode back across the streams,
hoping the water would have gone down.

And he did in fact get across,
and startled two ducks.

"There must be snipe too,”
he thought,
and just as he reached the turning homewards he met the forst keeper,
who confirmed his theory about the snipe.

Levin went home at a trot,
so as
to have time
to eat his dinner nad get his gun ready
for the evening.

Chapter 14 As he rode up
to the house in the happiest frame of mind,
Levin heard the bell ring at the side of the principal entrance of the house.

"Yes,
that's some one from the railway station,”
he thought,
"just the time
to be here from the Moscow train...Who could it be?

What if it's brother Nikolay?

He did say:

Maybe I'll go
to the waters,
or maybe I'll come down
to you.’
“
He felt dismayed and vexed
for the first minute,
that his brother Nikolay's presence should come
to disturb his happy mood os spring.

But he felt ashamed of the feeling,
and at once he opened,
as it were,
the arms of his soul.

andwith a softened feeling of joy and expectation,
now he hoped
with all his heart that it was his brother.

He pricked up his horse,
and riding out from behind the acacias he saw a hired three-horse sledge from the railway station,
and a gentleman in a fur coat.

It was not his brother.

"Oh,
if it were only some nice person one could toalk
to a little!”
he thought.

"Ah,”
cried Levin joyfully,
flinging up both his hands.

"Here's a delightful visitor! Ah,
how glad I am
to see you!”
he shouted,
recognizing Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"I shall find out
for certain whether she's married,
or when she's going
to be married,”
he thought.

And on that delicious spring day he felt that the thought of her did not hurt him at all.

"Well,
you didn't expect me,
eh?”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
gettign out of the sledge,
splashed
with mud on the bridge of his nose,
on his cheek,
and on his eyebrows,
but radiant
with health and good spirits.

"I've come
to see you in the first place,”
he said,
embracing and kissing him,
"to have some stand-shooting second,
and
to sell the forest at Ergushovo third.”

"Delightful! What a spring we're having! How ever did you get along in a sledge?”
"In a cart it would have been worse still,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch,”
answered the driver,
who knew him.

"Well,
I'm very,
very glad
to see you,”
said Levin,
with a genuine smile of childlike delight.

Levin let his friend
to the room set apart
for visitors,
where Stepan Arkadyevitch's things were carried also--a bag,
a gun in a case,
a satchel
for cigars.

Leaving him there
to wash and change his clothes,
Levin went off
to the counting house
to speak about the ploughing and clover.

Agafea Mihalovna,
always very anxious
for the credit of the house,
met him in the hall
with inquiries about dinner.

"Do just as you like,
only let it be as soon as possible,”
he said,
and went
to the bailiff.

When he cambe back,
Stepan Arkadyevitch,
washed and combed,
came out of his room
with a beaming smile,
and they went upstairs together.

"Well,
I am glad I managed
to get away
to you! Now I shall understand what the myserious business is that you are always abosrbed in here.

No,
really,
I envy you.

What a house,
how nice it all is! So bright,
so cheerful!”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
forgetting that it was not always spring and fine weather like that day.

"And your nurse is simply charming! A pretty maid in an apron might be even more agreeable,
perhaps;
but
for your severe monastic style it does very well.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch told him many interesting pieces of news;
especially interesting
to Levin was the news that his brother,
Sergey Ivanovitch,
was intending
to pay him a visit in the summer.

Not one word did Stepan Arkadyevitch say in reference
to Kitty and the Shtcherbatskys;
he merely gave him greetings from his wife.

Levin was grateful
to him
for his delicacy and was very glad of his visitor.

As always happened
with him during his solitude,
a mass of ideas and feelings had been accumulating within him,
which he could not communicate
to those about him.

And now he poured out upon Stepan Arkadyevitch his poetic joy in the spring,
and his failures nad plans
for the land,
and his thoughts and criticisms on the books he had been reading,
and the idea of his own book,
the basis of which really was,
though he was unaware of it himself,
a criticism of all the old books on agriculture.

Stepan Arkadyevitch,
always charming,
understanding everything at the slightest reference,
wasparticularly charming on this visit,
and Levin noticed in him a special tenderness,
as it were,
and a new tone of respect that flattered him.

The efforts of Agafea Mihalovna and the cook,
that the dinner should be particularly good,
only ended in two famished friends attackign the preliminary course,
eating a great deal of bread and butter,
salt goose and salted mushrooms,
and in Levin's finally ordering the soup
to be served without the accompaniment of little pies,
with which the cook had particularly meant
to impress their visitor.

But though Stepan Arkadyevitch was accustomed
to very different dinners,
he thought everything excellent:

the herb brandy,
and the bread,
and the butter,
and above all the salt goose and the mushrooms,
and the nettle soup,
and the chicken in white sauce,
and the white Crimean wine - everything was superb and delicious.

"Splendid,
splendid!”
he said,
lighting a fat cigar after the roast.

"I feel as if,
coming
to you,
I had landed on a peaceful shore after the noise and jolting of a steamer.

And so you maintain that the laborer himself is an element
to be studied and
to regulate the choice of methods in agriculture.

Of course,
I'm an ignorant outsider;
but I should fancy theory and its application will have its influence on the laborer too.”

"Yes,
but wait a bit.

I'm not talking of political economy,
I'm talking of the science of agriculture.

It ought
to be like the natural sceinces,
and
to observe given phenomena and the laborer in his economic,
ethnographical...”

At that instant Agafea Mihalovna came in
with jam.

"Oh,
Agafea Mihalovna,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
kissing the tips of his plump fingers,
"what salt goose,
what herb brandy!...What do yo think,
isn't it time
to start,
Kostya?”
he added.

Levin looked out of the window at the sun sinking behind the bare tree-tops ofthe forest.

"Yes,
it's time,”
he said.

"Kouzma,
get ready the trap,”
and he ran downstairs.

Stepan Arkadyevitch,
going down,
carefully took the canvas cover off his varnished gun case
with his won hands,
and opening it,
began
to get ready his expensive new-fashioned gun.

Kouzma,
who already scented a big tip,
never left Stepan Arkakyevtich's side,
and put on him both his stockings and boots,
a task which Stepan Arkadyevitch readily left him.

"Kostya,
vige orders that if the merchant Ryabinin comes...I told him
to come today,
he's
to be brought in and
to wait
for me...”

"Why,
do you mean
to say you're selling the forest
to Ryabinin?”
"Yes.

Do you know him?”
"To be sure I do.

I had had
to do business
with him,
positively and conclusively.’
“
Stepan Arkadyevitch laughed.

"Positively and conclusively”
were the merchant's favorite words.

"Yes,
it's wonderfully funny the way he talks.

She knows where her master's going!”
he added,
patting Leska,
who hung about Levin,
whining and licking his hands,
his boots,
and his gun.

The trap was already at the teps when they went out.

"I told them
to bring the trap round;
or would you rather walk?”
"No,
we'd better drive,”
said Stepan Arkadyevtich,
getting into the trap.

He sat down,
tucked the tiger-skin rug round him,
and lighted a cigar.

"How is it you don't smoke?

A cigar is a sort of thing,
not exactly a pleasure,
but the corwn and outward sign of pleasure.

Come,
this is life! How splendid it is! This is how I should like
to live!”
"Why,
who prevents you?”
said Levin,
smiling.

"No,
you're a lucky man! You've got everything you like.

You like horses--and you have them;
dogs--you have them;
shooting - you have it;
farming--you have it.”

"Perhaps because I refjoice in what I have,
and don't fret
for what I haven't,”
said Levin,
thinking of Kitty.

Stepan Arkadyevitch comprehended,
looked at him,
but said nothing.

Levin was grateful
to Oblonsky
for noticing,
with his never-failing tact,
that he dreaded conversation about the Shtcherbatskys,
and so saying nothing about them.

But now Levin waslonging
to find out what was tormenting him so,
yet he had not the courage
to begin.

"Come,
tell me how things are going
with you,”
said Levin,
bethinking himself that it was not nice of him
to think only of himself.

Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes sparkled merrily.

"You don't admit,
I know,
that one can be fond of new rolls when one has had one's rations of bread--to your mind it's a crime;
but I don't count life as life without love,”
he said,
taking Levin's question his own way.

"What am I
to do?

I'm made that way.

And really,
one does so little harm
to any one,
and gives oneself so much pleasure...”

"What! is there something new,
then?”
queried Levin.

"Yes,
my boy,
there is! There,
do you see,
you know the ype of Ossian's women...Women,
such as one sees in dreaMs. ..Well,
these women are sometimes
to be met in reality...and these women are terrible.

Woman,
don't you know,
is such a subject that however much you study it,
it's always perfectly new.”

"Well,
then,
it would be better not
to study it.”

"No.

Some mathematician has said that enjoyment lies in the search
for truth,
not in the finding it.”

Levin listened in silence,
and in spite of all the efforts he made,
he could not in the least enter ito the feeling of his friend and understand his sentiments and the charm ofstudying such women.

Chapter 15 The place fixed on
for the stand-shooting was not far above a stream in a little aspen copse.

On reachng the copse,
Levin got out of the trap and led Oblonsky
to a corner of a mossy,
swampy glade,
already quite free from snow.

He went back himself
to a double birch tree on the other side,
and leaning hs gun on the fork of a dead lower branch,
he took off his full overcoat,
fastened his belt again,
and worked his arms
to see if they were free.

Gray old Laska,
who had followed them,
sat down warily opposite him and pricked up her ears.

The sun was setting behind a thick forest,
and in th glow of sunset the birch trees,
dotted about in the aspen copse,
stood out clearly
with their hanging twigs,
and their buds swollen almost
to bursting.

From the thickest parts of the copse,
where the snow still remained,
came the faint sound of narrow inding threads of water running away.

Tiny birds twittered,
and now and then fluttered from tree
to tree.

In the pauses of complete stillness there came the rustle of last year's leaves,
stirred by the thawing of the earth and the growth of the grass.

"Imagine! One can hear and see the grass growing!”
Levin said
to himself,
noticing a wet,
slate-colored aspen leaf moving beside a blade of young grass.

He stood,
listened,
and gazed sometimes down at the wet mossy ground,
sometimes at Laska listening all alert,
sometimes at the sea of bare tree tops that stretched on the slope below him,
sometimes at the darkening sky,
covered
with white streaks of cloud.

A hawk flew high over a forest far away wit slow sweep of its wings;
another flew
with exactly the same motioin in the same direction and vanished.

The birds twittered more and more loudly and busily in the thicket.

An owl hooted not far off,
and Laska,
starting,
stepped cautiously a few steps forward,
and putting her head on the side,
began
to listen intently.

Beyond the stream was heard the cuckoo.

Twice she uttered her usual cuckoo call,
and then gave a hoarse,
hurried call and broke down.

"Imagine! the cockoo already!”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
coming out from behind a bush.

"Yes,
I hear it,”
answered Levin,
reluctantly breaking the stillness
with his voice,
which sounded disagreeable
to himself.

"Now it's coming!”
Stepan Arkadyevitch's figure again went behind the bush,
and Levin saw nothing but the bright flash of a match,
followed by the red glow and blue smoke of a cigarette.

"Tchk! tchk!”
came the snapping sound of Stepan Arkakyevitch cocking his gun.

"What's that cry?”
asked Oblonsky,
drawing Levin's attentiion
to a prolonged cry,
as though a colt were whinnying in a high voice,
in play.

"Oh,
don't you know it?

That's the hare.

But enough talking! Listen,
it's flying!”
almost shrieked Levin,
cocking his gun.

They heard a shrill whistle in the distance,
and in the exact time,
so well known
to thesportsman,
two seconds later--another,
a third,
andafter the third whistle the hoarse,
guttural cry could be heard.

Levin looked about him
to right and
to left,
and there,
just facing him against the dusky blue sky above the confused mass of tender shoots of the aspens,
he saw the flying bird.

It was flying straight towards him;
the guttural cry,
like the even tearing of some strong stuff,
sounded close
to his ear;
the long beak and neck of the bird could be seen,
and at the very very instant when Levin was taking aim,
behind the bush where Oblonsky stood,
there was a flash of red lightning:

the bird dropped like an arrow,
and darted upwards again.

Again came the red flash and the dound of a blow,
and fluttering its wings as though tryingto keep up in the air,
the bird halted,
stopped still and instant,
and fell
with a heavy splash on the slushy ground.

"Can I have missed it?”
shouted Stepan Arkadyevitch,
who could not see
for the smoke.

"Here it is!”
said Levin,
pointing
to Laska,
who
with one ear raised,
wagging the end of her shaggy tail,
came slowly back as though she would prolong the pleasure,
and as it were smiling,
brought the dead bird
to her master.

"Well,
I'm glad you were successful,”
said Levin,
who,
at the same time,
had a sense of envy that he had not succeeded in shooting thesnipe.

"It was a bad shot from theright barrel,”
responded Stepan Arkadyevitch,
loading his gun.

"Sh...it's flying!”
The shrill whistles rapidly following one another were heard again.

Two snipe,
playing and chasing one another,
and only whistling,
not crying,
flew straight at the very heads of the sportsmen.

There was the report of four shots,
and like swallows thesnipe turned swift somersaults in theair and vanished from sight.

The stand-shooting was capital.

Stepan Arkadyevitch shot two more birds and Levin two,
of which one was not found.

It began
to get dark.

VEnus,
bright and silvery,
shone
with her soft light low down in the west behind the birch trees,
and high up in the east twinkled the red lights of Arcturus.

Over his head Levin made out the stars of the Great Bear and lost them again.

The snipe had ceased flying;
but Levin resolved
to stay a little longer,
till Venus,
which he saw below a branch if birch,
should be above it,
and the stars of the Breat Bear should be perfectly plain.

Venus had risen above the branch,
and the ear of the Great Bear
with its shaft wasnow all plainly visible against the dark blue sky,
yet still he waited.

"Isn't it time
to go home?”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

It was quite still now in the copse,
and not a bird was stirring.

"Let's stay a little while,”
answered Levin.

"As you like.”

They were standing now about fifteen paces from one another.

"Stiva!”
said Levin unexpectedly;
"how is it you don't tell me whether your sister-in-law's married yet,
or when she's going
to be?”
Levin felt so resolute and serene that no answer,
he fancied,
could affet him.

But he had never dreamed of what Stepan Arkadyevitch replied.

"She's never thought of being married,
and isn't thinking of it;
but she's very ill,
and the doctors have sent her abroad.

They're positively afraid she may not live.”

"What!”
cried Levin.

"Very ill?

What is wrong
with her?

How has she...?”
While they were saying this,
Laska,
with ears pricked up,
was looking upwards at the sky,
and reproachfully at them.

"They have chosen a time
to talk,”
she was thinking.

"It's on the wing...Here it is,
yes,
it is.

They'll miss it,”
thought Laska.

But at that very instant both suddenly heard a shrill whistle which,
as it were,
smote on their ears,
and both suddenly seized their guns and two flashes gleamed,
and two gangs sounded at the very same instant.

The nipe flying high above instantly folded its wings and fell into a thicked,
bending down the delicate shoots.

"Splendid! Together!”
cried Levin,
and he ran
with Laska ito the thicket
to look
for the snipe.

"Oh,
yes,
what was it that was unpleasant?”
he wondered.

"Yes,
Kitty's ill...Well,
it can't be helped;
I'm very sorry,”
he thought.

"She's found it! Isn't she a clever thing?”
he said,
taking the warm bird from Laska's mouth and packing it into the almost full game bag.

"I've got it,
Stiva!”
he shouted.

Chapter 16 On the way home Levin asked all details of Kitty's illness and the Shtcherbatskys’
plans,
and thogh he would have been ashamed
to admit it,
he was pleased at what he heard.

He was pleased that there was still hope,
and still more pleased that she should be suffering who had made him suffer so much.

But when Stepan Arkadyevitch began
to speak of the causes of Kitty's illness,
and mentioned Vronsky's name,
Levin cut him short.

"I have no right whatever
to know family matters,
and,
to tell the truth,
no interest in them either.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled harly perceptibly,
catching the instantaneous change he knew so well in Levin's face,
which had become as gloomy as it had been bright a minute before.

"Have you quite settled about the forest
with Ryabinin?”
asked Levin.

"Yes,
it's settled.

The price is magnificent;
thirty-eight thousand.

Eight straight away,
and the rest in six years.

I've been bothering about it
for ever so long.

No one would give more.”

"Then you've as good as given away your forest
for nothing,”
said Levin gloomily.

"How do you mean
for nothing?”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch
with a good-humored smile,
knowing that nothing would be right in Levin's eyes now.

"Because the forest is worth at least a hundred and fifty roubles the acre,”
answered Levin.

"Oh,
these farmers!”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch playfully.

"Your tone of contempt
for us poor townsfolk!...But when it comes
to business,
we do it better than any one.

I assure you I have reckoned it all out,”
he said,
"and the forest is fetching a very good price--so much so that I'm afraid of this fellow's crying off,
in fact.

You know it's not timber'“
said Stpan Arkadyevitch,
hoping by this distinction
to convince Levin completely of the unfairness of his doubts.

"And it won't run
to more than twenty-five yards of fagots per acre,
and he's giving me at the rate of seventy roubles the acre.”

Levin smiled contemptuously.

"I know,”
he thought,
"that fahion not only in him,
but in all city people,
who,
after being twice in ten years in the country,
pick up two or three phrases and use them in season and out of season,
firmly persuaded that they know all about it.

Timber,
run
to so many yards the acre.’

He says those words without understanding them himself.”

"I wouldn't attempt
to teach you what you write about in your office,”
said he,
"and if need arose,
I shoudl come
to you
to ask about it.

But you're so positive you know all the lore of the forest.

It's difficult.

Have you counted the trees?”
"How count the trees?”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
laughing,
still trying
to draw his friend out of his ill-temper.

"Count the sands of the sea,
number the stars.

Some higher power might do it.”

"Oh,
well,
the higher power of Ryabinin can.

Not a single merchant ever buys a forest without counting the trees,
unless they get it given them
for nithing,
as you're doing now.

I know your forest.

I go there every year shooting,
and your forest's worth a hundred and fifty roubles and acre paid dwon,
while he's giving you sixty by installments.

So that in fact you're making him a present of thirty thousand.”

"Come,
don't let your imagination run away
with you,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch piteously.

"Why was it none would give it,
then?”
"Why,
because he has an understanding
with the merchants;
he's bought them off.

I've had
to do
with all of them;
I know them.

They're not merchants,
you know:

they're speculators.

He wouldn't look at a bargain that gave him ten,
fifteen per cent profit,
but holds back
to buy a rouble's worth
for twenty kopecks.”

"Well,
enough of it! You're out of temper.”

"Not the least,”
said Levin gloomily,
as they drove up
to the house.

At the steps there stood a trap tightly covered
with iron and leather,
with a sleek horse tightly harnessed
with broad collar-straps.

In the trap sat the chubby,
tightly belted clerk who served Ryabinin as coachman.

Ryabinin himself was already in the house,
and met the friends in the hall.

Ryabinin was a tall,
thinnish,
middle-aged man,
with mustache and a projecting clean-shaven chin,
and promined muddy-looking eyes.

He was dressed in a long-skirted blue coat,
with buttons below the waist at the back,
and wore high boots wrinkled over the ankles and striaght over the calf,
with big goloshes drawn over them.

He rubbed his face
with his handkerchief,
and wrapping round him his coat,
which sat extremely well as it was,
he greeted them
with a smile,
holding out his hand
to Stepna Arkadyevitch,
as though he wanted
to catch something.

"So here you are,”
said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
giving him his hand.

"That's capital.”

"I did not venture
to disregard your excellency's commands,
though the road was extremely bad.

I positively walked the whole way,
but I am here at my time.

Konstantin Dmitrievitch,
my respects";
he turned
to Levin,
trying
to seize his hand too.

But Levin,
scowling,
made as though he did not notice his hand,
and took out the snipe.

"Your hnors have been diverting yourselves
with the chase?

What kind of bird may it be,
pray?”
added Ryabinin,
looking contemptuously at the snipe:

"a great delicacy,
I suppose.”

And he shook his head disapprovingly,
as though he had grave doubts whether this game were worth the candle.

"Would you like
to go into my study?”
Levin said in French
to Stepan Arkadyevitch,
scowling morosely.

"Go into my study;
you can talk there.”

"Quite so,
where you please,”
said Ryabinin
with contemptuous dignity,
as though wishing
to make it felt that others might be in difficulties as
to how
to behave,
but that he could never be in any difficulty about anything.

On entering the study Ryabinin looked about,
as his habit was,
as though seeking the holy picture,
but when he had found it,
he did not cross himself.

He scanned the bookcases and bookshelves,
and
with the same dubious air
with which he had regarded thesnipe,
he smiled contemptuously and hook his head disapprovingly,
as though by no means willing
to allow that this game were worth the candle.

"Well,
have you brought the money?”
asked Oblonsky.

"Sit down.”

"Oh,
don't trouble about the money.

I've come
to see you
to talk it over.”

"What is there
to talk over?

But do sit down.”

"I don't mind if I do,”
said Ryabinin,
sitting down and leaning his elbows on the back of his chair in a position of the intensest discomfort
to himself.

"You muyst knock it down a bit,
prince.

It would be too bad.

The money is ready conclusively
to the last farthing.

As
to paying the money down,
there'll be no hitch there.”

Levin,
who had meanwhile been putting his gun away in the cupboard,
was just going out of the door,
but catching the merchant's words,
he stopped.

"Why,
you've got the forest
for nothing as it is,”
he said.

"He came
to me too late,
or I'd have fixed the price
for him.”

Ryabinin got up,
and in silence,
with a smile,
he looked Levin down and up.

"Very close about money is Konstantin Dmitrievitch,”
he said
with a smile,
turning
to Stepan Arkadyevitch;
"there's positively no dealing
with him.

I was bargaining
for some wheat of him,
and a pretty price I offered too.”

"Why should I give you my goods
for nothing?

I didn't pick it up on the ground,
nor steal it either.”

"Mercy on us! nowadays there's no chance at all of stealing.

With the open courts and everything done in style,
nowadays there's no question of stealing.

We are just talking things over like gentlemen.

His excellency's asking too much
for the forest.

I can't make both ends meet over it.

I must ask
for a little concession.”

"But is the thing settled between you or not?

If it's settled,
it's useless haggling;
but if it's not,”
said Levin,
"I'll buy the forest.”

The smile vanished at once from Ryabinin's face.

A hawklike,
greedy,
cruel expression was left upon it.

With rapid,
bony fingers he unbuttoned his coat,
revealing a shirt,
bronze waistcoat buttons,
and a watch chain,
and quickly pulled out a fat old pocketbook.

"Here you are,
the forest is mine,”
he said,
crossing himself quickly,
and holding out his hand.

"Take the money;
it's my forest.

That's Ryabinin's way of doing business;
he doesn't haggle over every half-penny,”
he added,
scowling and waving the pocketbook.

"I wouldn't be in a hurry if I were you,”
said Levin.

"Come,
really,”
said Oblonsky in surprise.

"I've given my word,
you know.”

Levin went out of the room,
slamming the door.

Ryabinin looked towards the door and shook his head
with a smile.

"It's all youthfulness--positively nothing but boyishness.

Why,
I'm buying it,
upon my honor,
simply,
believe me,
forthe glore of it,
that Ryabinin,
and no one else,
should have bought the copse of Oblonsky.

And as
to the profits,
why,
I must make what God gives.

In God's name.

If you would kindly sign the title-deed...”

Within an hour the merchant,
stroking his big overcoat neatly down,
and hooding up his jacket,
with the agreement in his pocket,
seated himself in his tightly covered trap,
and drove homewards.

"Ugh,
these gentlefolks!”
he said
to the clerk.

"They--they're a nice lot!”
"That's so,”
responed the clerk,
handing him the reins and buttoning the leather apron.

"But I can congratulate you on the purchase,
Mihail Ignatitch?”
"Well,
well...”

Chapter 17 Stepan Arkadyevitch went upstairs
with his pocket bulging
with notes,
which the merchant had paid him
for three months in advance.

The business of the forest was over,
the money in his pocket;
their shooting had been excellent,
and Stepan Arkadyevitch was in the happiest frame of mind,
and so he felt specially anxious
to dissipate the ill-humor that had come upon Levin.

He wanted
to finish the day at supper as pleasantly as it had been begun.

Levin certainly was out of humor,
and in spite off all his desire
to be affectionate and cordial
to his charming visitor,
he could not control his mood.

The intoxication of the news that Kitty was not married had gradually begun
to work upon him.

Kitty was not married,
but ill,
and ill from love
for a man who had slighted her.

This slighte,
as it were,
rebounded upon him.

Vronsky had slighted her,
and she had slighted him,
Levin.

Consequently Vronsky had the right
to despise Levin,
and therefore he was his enemy.

But all this Levin did not think out.

He vaguely felt that there was something in it insulting
to him,
and he was not angry now at what had disturbed him but he fell foul of everything that presented itself.

The stupid sale of the forest,
the fraud practised upon Oblonsky and concluded in his house,
exasperated him.

"Well,
finished?”
he said,
meeting Stepan Arkadyevitch upstairs.

"Would you like supper?”
"Well,
I wouldn't say no
to it.

What an appetite I get in the country! Wonderful! Why ddin't you offer Ryabinin something?”
"Oh,
damn him!”
"Still,
how you do treat him!”
said Oblonsky.

"You didn't even shake hands
with him.

Why not shake hands
with him?”
"Because I don't shake hands
with a waiter,
and a waiter's a hundred times better than he is.”

"What a reactionist you are,
really! What about the amalgamation of classes?”
said Oblonsky.

"Any one who likes amalgamating is welcome
to it,
but it sickens me.”

"You're a regular reactionist,
I see.”

"Really,
I have never considered what I am.

I am Konstantin Levin,
and nothing else.”

"And Konstantin Levin very much out of temper,”
said Stepna Arkadyevitch,
smiling.

"Yes,
I am out of temper,
and do you know why?

Because--excuse me--of your stupid sale...”

Stepan Arkadyevitch frowned good-humoredly,
like one who feels himself teased and attacked
for no fault of his own.

"Come,
enough about it!”
he said.

"When did anybody ever sell anything without being told immediately after the sale,
It was worth much more'?

But when one wants
to sell,
no one will give anything...No,
I see you've a grudge against that unlucky Ryabinin.”

"Maybe I have.

And do you know why?

You'll say again that I'm a reactionist,
or some other terrible word;
but all the same it does annoy andanger me
to see on all sides the impoverishing of the nobility
to which I belong,
and,
in spite of the amalgamation of classes,
I'm glad
to belong.

And their impoverishment is not due
to extravagance--that would be nothing;
living in good style - that's the proper thing
for noblemen;
it's only the nobles who know how
to do it.

Now the peasants about us buy land,
and I don't mind that.

The gentleman does nothing,
while the peasant works and supplants the idle man.

That's as it ought
to be.

And I'm very glad
for the peasant.

But I do mind seeing the process of impverishment from a sort of--I don't know what
to call it - innocence.

Here a Polish speculator bought
for half its value a magnificent estate from a young lady who lives in Nice.

And there a merchant will get three acres of land,
worth ten roubles,
as security
for the loan of one rouble.

Here,
for no kind of reason,
you've made that rascal a present of thirty thousand roubles.”

"Well,
what should I have done?

Counted every tree?”
"Of course,
they must be counted.

You didn't count them,
but Ryabinin did.

Ryabinin's children will have means of livelihood and education,
while yours maybe will not!”
"Well,
you must excuse me,
but there's something mean in this counting.

We have our business and they have theirs,
and they must make their profit.

Anyway,
the thing's done,
and there's an end of it.

And here come some poached eggs,
my favorite dish.

And Agafes Mihalovna will give us that marvelous herb-brandy...”

Stepan Arkadyevitch sat down at the table and began joking
with Agafea Mihalovna,
assuring her that it was long since he had tasted such a dinner and such a supper.

"Well,
you do praise it,
anyway,”
said Agafes Mihalovna,
"but Konstantin Dmitrievitch,
give him what you will--a crust of breat--he'll eat it and walk away.”

Though Levin tried
to control himself,
he was gloomy and silent.

He wanted
to put one question
to Stepan Arkadyevtich,
but he could not bring himself
to the point,
and could not find the words or the moment in which
to put it.

Stepna Arkadyevitch had gone down
to his room,
undressed,
again washed,
and attired in a nightshirt
with goffered frills,
he had got into bed,
but Levin still lingered in his room,
talkin 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 opeing his mouth.

"Does he know,
or doesn't he,
that I did make an offer?”
Levin wondered,
gazin 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 aristorcrat,
don't you know,
and his future position in society,
had an influence not
with her,
but
with her mother.”

Levin scowled.

The humiliatio of his rejectio 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 aristrocracy of Vronsky or of anybody else,
beside which I can be looked down upon?

You consider Vronsky an aristorcrat,
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 any one,
never depended on any one
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 may 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 awayre 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 bacame as he had been in the morning.

"You're not angry
with me,
Stiva?

Please don't be angry,”
he siad,
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 unually 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 rgiment,
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 abilityies,
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 wasaware 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 thetwon;
every one 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 ist 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 distractio 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 wasonly 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 aborad,
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 inerview
with her at his cousing 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,
lifitng 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 htem
to have out the carriage and three horses as quick as they can,”
he said
to theservant,
who handed him thesteak 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.

See 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 officers,
he went up
to Vronsky.

"Ah! here he is!”
he cried,
bringing his big hand down heavily on his epaulet.

Vronsky looked round angrily,
but hsi face lighted up immediately
with his characteristic expression of genial and manly serenity.

"That's it,
Alexey,”
said the captain,
in his loud baritone.

"You must just eat a mouthful,
now,
and drink only one tiny glass.”

"Oh,
I'm not hungry.”

"There go the inseparables,”
Yashvin dropped,
glancing sarcastically at the two officers who were at that instant leaving the room.

And he bent his long legs,
swatched in tight riding breeches,
and sat down in thechair,
too low
for him,
so that his knees were cramped up in a sharp angle.

"Why didn't you turn up at the Red Theater yesterday?

Numerova wasn't at all bad.

Where were you?”
"I was late at the Tverskoys',”
said Vronsky.

"Ah!”
responded Yashvin.

Yashvin,
a gambler and a rake,
a man not merely without moral principles,
but of immoral principles,
Yashvin was Vronsky's greatest friend in the regiment.

Vronsky liked him both
for his exceptional physical strength,
which he showed
for the most part by being able
to drink like a fish,
and do without sleep without being in the slightest degree affected by it;
and
for his great strength of character,
which he showed in his relations
with his comrades and superior officers,
commanding both fear and respect,
and also at cards,
when he would play
for tens of thousands and however much he might have drunk,
always
with such skill and decision that he was reckoned the best player in the English Club.

Vronsky respected and liked Yashvin particularly because he felt Yashvin liked him,
not
for his name and his money,
but
for himself.

And of all men he was the only one
with whom Vronsky would have liked
to speak of his love.

He felt that Yashvin,
in spite of his apparent contempt
for every sort of feeling,
was the only man who could,
so he fancied,
comprehend the intense passion which now filled hiswhole life.

Moreover,
he felt certain that Yashvin,
as it was,
took no delight in gossip and scandal,
and interpreted his feeling rightly,
that is
to say,
knew and believed that this passion was not a jest,
not a pastime,
but something more serious and important.

Vronsky had never spoken
to him of his passion,
but he was aware that he knew all about it,
and that he put the right interpretation on it,
and he was glad
to see that in his eyes.

"Ah! yes,”
he said,
to the announcement that Vronsky had been at the Tverskoys';
and his black eyes shining,
he plucked at his left mustache,
and began twisting it into his mouth,
a bad habit he had.

"Well,
and what did you do yesterday?

Win anything?”
asked Vronsky.

"Eight thousand.

But three don't count;
he won't pay up.”

"Oh,
then you can afford
to lose over me,”
said Vronsky,
laughing.

(Yashvin had bet heavily on Vronsky in the races.)
“No chance of my losing.

Mahotin's the only one that's risky.”

And the conversation passed
to forecasts of the coming race,
the only thing Vronsky could think of just now.

"Come along,
I've finished,”
said Vronsky,
and getting up he went
to the door.

Yashvin got up too,
stretching his long legs and his long back.

"It's too early
for me
to di