by Leo Tolstoy
Levin entered the stall, looked Pava over, and lifted the spotted red calf on its long, tottering legs. The alarmed Pava began to low, but calmed down when Levin pushed the calf towards her, and with a heavy sigh started licking it with her rough tongue. The calf, searching, nudged its mother in the groin and wagged its little tail.
'Give me some light, Fyodor, bring the lantern here,' said Levin, looking the calf over. 'Just like her mother! Though the coat is the father's. Very fine. Long and deep-flanked. Fine, isn't she, Vassily Fyodorovich?' he asked the steward, completely reconciled with him about the buckwheat, under the influence of his joy over the calf.
'What bad could she take after? And the contractor Semyon came the day after you left. You'll have to settle the contract with him, Konstantin Dmitrich,' said the steward. 'I told you before about the machine.'
This one question led Levin into all the details of running the estate, which was big and complex. From the cowshed he went straight to the office and, after talking with the steward and the contractor Semyon, returned home and went straight upstairs to the drawing room.
XXVII
The house was big, old, and Levin, though he lived alone, heated and occupied all of it. He knew that this was foolish, knew that it was even wrong and contrary to his new plans, but this house was a whole world for Levin. It was the world in which his father and mother had lived and died. They had lived a life which for Levin seemed the ideal of all perfection and which he dreamed of renewing with his wife, with his
family-
Levin barely remembered his mother. His notion of her was a sacred memory, and his future wife would have to be, in his imagination, the repetition of that lovely, sacred ideal of a woman which his mother was for him.
He was not only unable to picture to himself the love of a woman without marriage, but he first pictured the family to himself and only then the woman who would give him that family. His notion of marriage was therefore not like the notion of the majority of his acquaintances, for whom it was one of the many general concerns of life; for Levin it was the chief concern of life, on which all happiness depended. And now he had to renounce it!
When he went into the small drawing room where he always had tea, and settled into his armchair with a book, and Agafya Mikhailovna brought his tea and, with her usual 'I'll sit down, too, dear,' took a chair by the window, he felt that, strange as it was, he had not parted with his dreams and could not live without them. With her or with someone else, but they would come true. He read the book, thought about what he had read, paused to listen to Agafya Mikhailovna, who chattered tirelessly; and along with that various pictures of farm work and future family life arose disconnectedly in his imagination. He felt that something in the depths of his soul was being established, adjusted and settled. He listened to Agafya Mikhailovna's talk of how Prokhor had forgotten God and, with the money Levin had given him to buy a horse, was drinking incessantly and had beaten his wife almost to death; he listened, read the book and remembered the whole course of his thoughts evoked by the reading. This was a book by Tyndall[39] on heat. He remembered |s disapproval of Tyndall for his self-satisfaction over the cleverness of his experiments and for his lack of a philosophical outlook. And suddenly a joyful thought would surface: 'In two years I'll have two Frisian cows in my herd, Pava herself may still be alive, twelve young daughters from Berkut, plus these three to show off - wonderful!' He picked up his book again.
'Well, all right, electricity and heat are the same: but is it possible to solve a problem by substituting one quantity for another in an equation? No. Well, what then? The connection between all the forces of nature is felt instinctively as it is ... It'll be especially nice when Pava's daughter is already a spotted red cow, and the whole herd, with these three thrown in ... Splendid! To go out with my wife and guests to meet the herd ... My wife will say: "Kostya and I tended this calf like a child." "How can it interest you so?" a guest will say. "Everything that interests him interests me." But who is she?' And he remembered what had happened in Moscow ... 'Well, what to do? ... I'm not to blame. But now everything will take a new course. It's nonsense that life won't allow it, that the past won't allow it. I must fight to live a better life, much better ...' He raised his head and pondered. Old Laska, who had not yet quite digested the joy of his arrival and had gone to run around the yard and bark, came back wagging her tail, bringing with her the smell of outdoors, went over to him and thrust her head under his hand, making pitiful little whines and demanding to be patted.
'She all but speaks,' said Agafya Mikhailovna. 'Just a dog ... But she understands that her master's come back and is feeling sad.'
'Why sad?'
'Don't I see it, dear? I ought to know my gentry by now. I grew up among gentry from early on. Never mind, dear. As long as you've got your health and a clear conscience.'
Levin looked at her intently, surprised that she understood his thoughts.
'Well, should I bring more tea?' she said, and, taking the cup, she went out.
Laska kept thrusting her head under his hand. He patted her, and she curled up just at his feet, placing her head on a stretched-out hind leg. And as a sign that all was well and good now, she opened her mouth slightly, smacked her sticky lips, and, settling them better around her old teeth, lapsed into blissful peace. Levin watched these last movements attentively.
'I'm just the same!' he said to himself, 'just the same! Never mind . . . All is well.'
XXVIII
Early on the morning after the ball, Anna Arkadyevna sent her husband a telegram about her departure from Moscow that same day.
'No, I must, I must go.' She explained the change of her intentions to her sister-in-law in such a tone as if she had remembered countless things she had to do. 'No, I'd better go today!'
Stepan Arkadyich did not dine at home, but promised to come at seven o'clock to see his sister off.
Kitty also did not come, sending a note that she had a headache. Dolly and Anna dined alone with the children and the English governess. Because children are either inconstant or else very sensitive and could feel that Anna was different that day from when they had come to love her so, that she was no longer concerned with them - in any case they suddenly stopped playing with their aunt and loving her, and were quite unconcerned about her leaving. All morning Anna was busy with the preparations for the departure. She wrote notes to Moscow acquaintances, jotted down her accounts, and packed. Generally, it seemed to Dolly that she was not in calm spirits, but in that state of anxiety Dolly knew so well in herself, which comes not without reason and most often covers up displeasure with oneself. After dinner Anna went to her room to dress and Dolly followed her.
'You're so strange today!' Dolly said to her.
'I? You think so? I'm not strange, I'm bad. It happens with me. I keep wanting to weep. It's very stupid, but it passes,' Anna said quickly and bent her reddened face to the tiny bag into which she was packing a nightcap and some cambric handkerchiefs. Her eyes had a peculiar shine and kept filling with tears. 'I was so reluctant to leave Petersburg, and now - to leave here.'
'You came here and did a good deed,' said Dolly, studying her intently.
Anna looked at her with eyes wet with tears.
'Don't say that, Dolly. I didn't do anything and couldn't do anything, often wonder why people have all decided to spoil me. What have I done, and what could I have done? You found enough love in your heart to forgive . . .'
'Without you, God knows what would have happened! You're so lucky, Anna!' said Dolly. 'Everything in your soul is clear and good.'
'Each of us has his skeletons in his soul, as the English say.' 'What skeletons do you have? Everything's so clear with you.'
'There are some,' Anna said suddenly and, unexpectedly after her tears, a sly, humorous smile puckered her lips.
'Well, then they're funny, your skeletons, and not gloomy,' Dolly said, smiling.
'No, they're gloomy. Do you know why I'm going today an
d not tomorrow? It's a confession that has been weighing on me, and I want to make it to you,' Anna said, resolutely sitting back in the armchair and looking straight into Dolly's eyes.
And, to her surprise, Dolly saw Anna blush to the ears, to the curly black ringlets on her neck.
'Yes,' Anna went on. 'Do you know why Kitty didn't come for dinner? She's jealous of me. I spoiled ... I was the reason that this ball was a torment for her and not a joy. But really, really, I'm not to blame, or only a little,' she said, drawing out the word 'little' in a thin voice.
'Ah, how like Stiva you said that!' Dolly laughed.
Anna became offended.
'Oh, no, no! I'm not like Stiva,' she said, frowning. 'I'm telling you this because I don't allow myself to doubt myself even for a moment.'
But the moment she uttered these words, she felt that they were wrong; she not only doubted herself, but felt excitement at the thought of Vronsky, and was leaving sooner than she had wanted only so as not to meet him any more.
'Yes, Stiva told me you danced the mazurka with him, and he ...'
'You can't imagine how funny it came out. I had only just thought of matchmaking them, and suddenly it was something quite different. Perhaps against my own will I...'
She blushed and stopped.
'Oh, they feel it at once!' said Dolly.
'But I'd be desperate if there were anything serious here on his part,' Anna interrupted her. 'And I'm sure it will all be forgotten, and Kitty will stop hating me.'
'Anyhow, Anna, to tell you the truth, I don't much want this marriage for Kitty. It's better that it come to nothing, if he, Vronsky, could fall in love with you in one day.'
'Ah, my God, that would be so stupid!' said Anna, and again a deep blush of pleasure came to her face when she heard the thought that preoccupied her put into words. 'And so I'm leaving, having made an enemy of Kitty, whom I came to love so. Ah, she's such a dear! But you'll set things right, Dolly? Yes?'
Dolly could hardly repress a smile. She loved Anna, but she enjoyed seeing that she, too, had weaknesses.
'An enemy? That can't be.'
'I so wish you would all love me as I love you. And now I've come to love you still more,' she said with tears in her eyes. 'Ah, how stupid I am
today!'
She dabbed her face with her handkerchief and began to dress.
Late, just before her departure, Stepan Arkadyich arrived, with a red and merry face, smelling of wine and cigars.
Anna's emotion communicated itself to Dolly, and as she embraced her sister-in-law for the last time, she whispered:
'Remember this, Anna: I will never forget what you did for me. And remember that I've loved and will always love you as my best friend!'
'I don't understand why,' said Anna, kissing her and hiding her tears.
'You've understood and understand me. Goodbye, my lovely!'
XXIX
'Well, it's all over, and thank God!' was the first thought that came to Anna Arkadyevna when she had said goodbye for the last time to her brother, who stood blocking the way into the carriage until the third bell. She sat down in her plush seat beside Annushka and looked around in the semi-darkness of the sleeping car[40] 'Thank God, tomorrow I'll see Seryozha and Alexei Alexandrovich, and my good and usual life will go on as before.'
Still in the same preoccupied mood that she had been in all day, Anna settled herself with pleasure and precision for the journey; with her small, deft hands she unclasped her little red bag, took out a small pillow, put it on her knees, reclasped the bag, and, after neatly covering her legs, calmly leaned back. An ailing lady was already preparing to sleep. Two other ladies tried to address Anna, and a fat old woman, while covering her legs, made some observations about the heating. Anna said a few words in reply to the ladies, but, foreseeing no interesting conversation, asked Annushka to bring out a little lamp, attached it to the armrest of her seat, and took a paper-knife and an English novel from her handbag. At first she was unable to read. To begin with she was bothered by the bustle and movement; then, when the train started moving, she could not help listening to the noises; then the snow that beat against the left-hand window and stuck to the glass, and the sight of a conductor passing by, all bundled up and covered with snow on one side, and the talk about the terrible blizzard outside, distracted her attention. Further on it was all the same; the same jolting and knocking, the same snow on the window, the same quick transitions from steaming heat to cold and back to heat, the same flashing of the same faces in the semi-darkness, and the same voices, and Anna began to read and understand what she was reading. Annushka was already dozing, holding the little red bag on her knees with her broad hands in their gloves, one of which was torn. Anna Arkadyevna read and understood, but it was unpleasant for her to read, that is, to follow the reflection of other people's lives. She wanted too much to live herself. When she read about the heroine of the novel taking care of a sick man, she wanted to walk with inaudible steps round the sick man's room; when she read about a Member of Parliament making a speech, she wanted to make that speech; when she read about how Lady Mary rode to hounds, teasing her sister-in-law and surprising everyone with her courage, she wanted to do it herself. But there was nothing to do, and so, fingering the smooth knife with her small hands, she forced herself to read.
The hero of the novel was already beginning to achieve his English happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna wished to go with him to this estate, when suddenly she felt that he must be ashamed and that she was ashamed of the same thing. But what was he ashamed of ? 'What am I ashamed of?' she asked herself in offended astonishment. She put down the book and leaned back in the seat, clutching the paper-knife tightly in both hands. There was nothing shameful. She went through all her Moscow memories. They were all good, pleasant. She remembered the ball, remembered Vronsky and his enamoured, obedient face, remembered all her relations with him: nothing was shameful. But just there, at that very place in her memories, the feeling of shame became more intense, as if precisely then, when she remembered Vronsky, some inner voice were telling her: 'Warm, very warm, hot!' 'Well, what then?' she said resolutely to herself, shifting her position in the seat. 'What does it mean? Am I afraid to look at it directly? Well, what of it? Can it be that there exist or ever could exist any other relations between me and this boy-officer than those that exist with any acquaintance?' She smiled scornfully and again picked up the book, but now was decidedly unable to understand what she was reading. She passed the paper-knife over the glass, then put its smooth and cold surface to her cheek and nearly laughed aloud from the joy that suddenly came over her for no reason. She felt her nerves tighten more and more, like strings on winding pegs. She felt her eyes open wider and wider, her fingers and toes move nervously; something inside her stopped her breath, and all images and sounds in that wavering semi-darkness impressed themselves on her with extraordinary vividness. She kept having moments of doubt whether the carriage was moving forwards or backwards, or standing still. Was that Annushka beside her, or some stranger? 'What is that on the armrest - a fur coat or some animal? And what am I? Myself or someone else?' It was frightening to surrender herself to this oblivion. But something was drawing her in, and she was able, at will, to surrender to it or hold back from it. She stood up in order to come to her senses, threw the rug aside, and removed the pelerine from her warm dress. For a moment she recovered and realized that the skinny muzhik coming in, wearing a long nankeen coat with a missing button, was the stoker, that he was looking at the thermometer, that wind and snow had burst in with him through the doorway; but then everything became confused again ... This muzhik with the long waist began to gnaw at something on the wall; the old woman began to stretch her legs out the whole length of the carriage and filled it with a black cloud; then something screeched and banged terribly, as if someone was being torn to pieces; then a red fire blinded her eyes, and then everything was hidden by a wall. Anna felt as if she was falling through the floor. But
all this was not frightening but exhilarating. The voice of a bundled-up and snow-covered man shouted something into her ear. She stood up and came to her senses, realizing that they had arrived at a station and the man was the conductor. She asked Annushka to hand her the pelerine and a shawl, put them on and went to the door.
'Are you going out?' asked Annushka.
Yes, I need a breath of air. It's very hot in here.'
And she opened the door. Blizzard and wind came tearing to meet her and vied with her for the door. This, too, she found exhilarating. She opened the door and went out. The wind, as if only waiting for her, whistled joyfully and wanted to pick her up and carry her off, but she grasped the cold post firmly and, holding her dress down, stepped on to the Platform and into the lee of the carriage. The wind was strong on the steps, but on the platform beside the train it was quiet. With pleasure she drew in deep breaths of the snowy, frosty air and, standing by the carriage, looked around the platform and the lit-up station.
XXX
The terrible snowstorm tore and whistled between the wheels of the carriages, over the posts and around the corner of the station. Carriages, posts, people, everything visible was covered with snow on one side and getting covered more and more. The storm would subside for a moment, but then return again in such gusts that it seemed impossible to withstand it. Meanwhile, people were running, exchanging merry talk, creaking over the planks of the platform, and ceaselessly opening and closing the big doors. The huddled shadow of a man slipped under her feet, and there was the noise of a hammer striking iron. 'Give me the telegram!' a gruff voice came from across the stormy darkness. 'This way, please!' 'Number twenty-eight!' various other voices shouted, and bundled-up, snow-covered people ran by. Two gentlemen with the fire of cigarettes in their mouths walked past her. She breathed in once more, to get her fill of air, and had already taken her hand from her muff to grasp the post and go into the carriage, when near her another man, in a military greatcoat, screened her from the wavering light of the lantern. She turned and in the same moment recognized the face of Vronsky. Putting his hand to his visor, he bowed to her and asked if she needed anything, if he might be of service to her. She peered at him for quite a long time without answering and, though he was standing in the shadow, she could see, or thought she could see, the expression of his face and eyes. It was again that expression of respectful admiration which had so affected her yesterday. More than once she had told herself during those recent days and again just now that for her Vronsky was one among hundreds of eternally identical young men to be met everywhere, that she would never allow herself even to think of him; but now, in the first moment of meeting him, she was overcome by a feeling of joyful pride. She had no need to ask why he was there. She knew it as certainly as if he had told her that he was there in order to be where she was.
