Chương Chương 33 · 第33章

Alexey Alexandrovitch came back from the meeting of the ministers at

four o’clock, but as often happened, he had not time to 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 cousin 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, withdrew, 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 would 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 had not gone out

anywhere, and had spent the evening so well. She felt so light-hearted

and serene, 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 anyone 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 could 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 back

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 told her of the ovations he had

received in consequence of the act he had passed.

“I was very, very glad. It shows that at last a reasonable and steady

view of the matter is becoming prevalent among us.”

Having drunk his second cup of tea with cream, and bread, Alexey

Alexandrovitch got up, and was going towards his study.

“And you’ve not been anywhere this evening? 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 Lille, _Poésie 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 escorted 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 considered it his duty to

keep up with everything of note that appeared in the intellectual

world. She knew, too, that he was really interested in books dealing

with politics, philosophy, and theology, that art was 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 someone who had attacked 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.