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, silver 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, for the first few minutes, broken up by meetings, 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 conversation 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 the same 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 of 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 public news, the theater, and scandal. It, too, came finally to rest on the last topic, that is, ill-natured gossip.

‘Have you heard the Maltishtcheva woman—the mother, not the daughter—has ordered a costume 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 your majolica and engravings. Come now, what treasure have you 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 the sauce 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 eighteen pence, 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 not always appropriately, as now, she said simple things with some sense in them. In the society in which 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 together, and turned 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. They 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 Grimm’s about a man without a shadow, a man who’s lost his shadow. And that’s his punishment for something. I never could 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 Alexandrovitch, 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’s 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 at the 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 ambassador’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 with the quiet manner with which one enters a room full of people from whom one has only just parted.

‘Where do I come from?’ he said, in answer to a question 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 hundred 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 the ambassador’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 the short space to her hostess, shook hands with her, smiled, and with the 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 of a 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, joking apart, that to know love, one must make mistakes and then correct them,’ said Princess Betsy.

‘Even after marriage?’ said the ambassador’s wife playfully.

‘‘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…of 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 would 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 the cause 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 heart, and that was why she was afraid of him.

‘What you spoke of just now was a mistake, and not love.’

‘Remember that I have forbidden you to utter that word, 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 anyone, 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, not what 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 it 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 chance before us of peace for me or for you. I see a chance 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 of that 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 be, 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 someone.

‘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 everyone 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 not diverted from the interesting discussion he had entered upon.

Noticing the disagreeable impression that was being made on everyone, Princess Betsy slipped someone 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 of what 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 should go home together. But she 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 escorted 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 of his hand where she had touched it, and went home, happy in the sense that he had got nearer to the attainment of his aims that evening than during the last two months.