Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Seven/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
"Oblonsky's carriage! " cried the Swiss, in a portentous voice.
The carriage came up, and the two friends got in. Only as long as the carriage was still in the courtyard did Levin continue to experience the feeling of clubbish comfort, of satisfaction, and of indubitable decorum, which had surrounded him. But as soon as the carriage rolled out on the street, the jolting over the uneven pavement, the cries of an angry izvoshchik whom they met, and the sight of the red sign of a low public house and some shops lighted up, caused this impression to fade away, and he began to think over what follies he had committed, and to ask himself if he were doing right in going to see Anna. What would Kitty say? Stepan Arkadyevitch, as if he had divined what was passing in the mind of his companion, cut short his meditations.
"How glad I am," said he, "that you are going to know her! You know Dolly has been wishing it for a long time. Lvof goes to her house, too. Though she is my sister," continued Stepan Arkadyevitch, "I am bold enough to say that she is a remarkable woman. You will see it. Her position is very hard, especially just now."
"Why do you say 'especially now'?"
"We are negotiating with her husband for a divorce, and he is willing; but there are difficulties on account of the son; and this matter, which ought to have been settled long ago, is dragging on now these three months. As soon as the divorce is granted, she will marry Vronsky.—How stupid it is, this old habit of dizziness, 'Isaiah rejoice,' in which no one believes, and which destroys the happiness of people," exclaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch, interrupting what he was saying. Then he went on, "and then her position will become as regular as yours or mine."
"Where does the difficulty lie?"
"Akh! it is a long and tiresome story; everything is so undecided. But this is the point: she has been waiting three months for that divorce here in Moscow, where everybody knows her and him; and she does n't see a single woman but Dolly, because, don't you see, she does n't wish that any one should come to see her from pity. What do you think? That fool of a Princess Varvara left her because she considered it irregular. Any other woman than Anna would not have found resources in herself; but you shall see how she lives, how dignified and calm she is.—To the left, at the corner opposite the church," cried Oblonsky to the coachman, leaning out of the window. "Fu, how hot it is!" he added, throwing open his shuba in spite of twelve degrees of cold.
"Well, she has a daughter, hasn't she, to take up her time and attention?"
"You seem to imagine every woman to be only a setting-hen, une couveuse," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, "Why, yes, of course, she gives her time and attention to her daughter; but she does n't make any fuss about it. She is occupied mainly with her writing. I see you smile ironically, but you are wrong. She has written a book for young people. She has n't spoken of it to any one, except to me; and I showed the manuscript to Vorkuyef, the publisher .... you know he is a writer himself, it seems. He is up in such matters, and he says that it is a remarkable thing. Do you think that she sets up for a blue stocking? Not at all. Anna is, above all things, a woman with a heart, as you will see. She has in her house a little Enghsh girl and a whole family, and is looking after them."
"What? Some philanthropical scheme?"
"Here you are immediately trying to turn it into something absurd! It is not for philanthropy's sake, but because she loves to do it. They had—that is, Vronsky had—an English trainer, a master in his calling, but a drunkard. He did nothing but drink—delirium tremens—and abandoned his family. Anna saw them, helped them, got drawn in more and more, and now has the whole family on her hands. I don't mean merely by giving them money. She herself teaches the boys Russian, so as to fit them for the gymnasium; and she has taken the little girl home with her. Well, you shall see her."
At this moment the carriage entered a courtyard. Stepan Arkadyevitch rang at the door before which they had stopped, and, without inquiring whether the mistress of the house was at home, went into the vestibule. Levin followed him, more and more uneasy as to the propriety of the step he was taking.
He saw, as he looked at himself in the glass, that he was very red in the face; but he knew that he was not tipsy. He went up the carpeted stairs after Oblonsky. On the second floor a servant received them with a bow; and Stepan Arkadyevitch, as if he were a connection, asked him, "Who is with Anna Arkadyevna?" and received the answer:—
"Mr. Vorkuyef."
"Where are they?"
"In the library."
They passed through a small, wainscoted dining-room, and walking along on the thick carpet they came to the library, dimly lighted by a single lamp with a huge shade. A reflector-lamp on the wall threw its rays on a full-length portrait of a woman, which instantly attracted Levin's attention. It was the portrait of Anna, painted by Mikhaïlof in Italy. While Stepan Arkadyevitch went on, and the man's voice, which had been heard, ceased speaking. Levin stood looking at the portrait which shone down from its frame, and he could not tear himself away. He forgot where he was; and, not hearing what was said, he kept his eyes fixed on the wonderful portrait. It was not a painting, but a living, beautiful woman, with her dark, curling hair, bare shoulders and arms, and a pen- sive half-smile on her lovely lips, and gazing at him triumphantly and yet tenderly from her entrancing eyes. Only because it was not alive did it seem more beautiful than life itself.
"Ya otchen rada—I am very glad," said a voice, suddenly, behind him, evidently addressed to him,—the voice of the same woman whom he admired in the picture.
It was Anna, who had been concealed by a lattice-work of climbing plants, and who rose to receive her visitor. And in the dusk of the library Levin recognized the original of the portrait, in a simple dark blue gown, not in the same position, not with the same expression, but with the same lofty beauty which had been represented by the artist in the painting. She was less brilliant in the reality, but the living woman had a new attraction which the portrait lacked.